Heart of the Deep

Chapter One

I've been dreaming about Thalassia for three years, and now that I'm staring at it through the transport shuttle's viewport, all I can think is that I'm going to throw up.

Not because it isn't beautiful. It is, impossibly so.

All blue-green ocean, not a single scrap of land breaking the surface, sunlight filtering through the atmosphere in shades of turquoise and aquamarine until the whole planet shimmers like something out of a fever dream.

It's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, and I've spent the last forty minutes dry-heaving into a paper bag because apparently my body has decided that the appropriate response to achieving my life's ambition is violent nausea.

I press my hand against the cold glass and try to breathe.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

The way Dr. Patel taught me back on Earth, in the sessions I told everyone were "yoga classes" because admitting your xenolinguist has anxiety attacks before every field assignment doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

"Dr. Cooper, Ambassador Vix needs to speak with you before we land."

I wipe my mouth, stuff the bag into a disposal chute, and make my way to the small conference room where the Centaurian ambassador waits. Vix has four ridges on her forehead and kind eyes. Right now, those kind eyes look worried, which does nothing for my stomach.

"Shannon." She gestures for me to sit. "I need to be honest with you about what you're agreeing to."

My stomach, already in open rebellion, drops another six inches. "What do you mean?"

"The Thalassian negotiation protocols are... intimate." She watches me carefully. "The king conducts all treaty discussions in their sacred ceremonial pools."

"I know. I've read everything about—"

"You'll be in the water with King Kael'thar. Touching him." Vix holds my gaze. "The Thalassians communicate through bioelectric pulses and shared sensation."

Heat creeps up my neck. "How close are we talking?"

"Very close." She leans forward. "Skin to skin."

"How long do the sessions last?"

"Hours. It will be very invasive."

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my temples. Vix watches me, and I can tell she's already mentally drafting the message to Earth explaining why their cultural liaison backed out at the last second.

"I won't judge you if this is too much," she says. "But I need to know now."

I think about the thousands of patients back on Earth who need Thalassian bioluminescent compounds.

About the three years I spent hunched over my desk at 2 AM, teaching myself to parse Thalassian sonar-glyph recordings while my colleagues published papers on "accessible" species, the ones that looked more human, that didn't make people uncomfortable.

About the six previous negotiators who failed because they couldn't hide their revulsion at being touched by something with tentacles.

And underneath all of that, underneath the duty and the professional justification, there's something else. A hum of anticipation that has nothing to do with diplomacy. I've spent three years falling in love with this culture from a distance, and now I'm being told I'll experience it myself.

"I can handle it," I say.

The words come out steadier than I feel. Which is good, because inside I'm a mess of terror and excitement and the lingering urge to throw up.

I close my eyes and remind myself that I wanted this. That I fought for this. That I wrote a two-hundred-page proposal arguing that I was the right person for this mission.

The shuttle lurches as we begin our descent into the ocean.

I move to the viewport and press my hand against the glass, watching as water closes over us.

It's clearer than I expected. Sunlight filters down in shifting rays, illuminating schools of fish that scatter as we pass.

The colors are extraordinary, blues and greens I don't have names for, shading into depths I can't see the bottom of.

We descend for what feels like forever. The light fades from turquoise to deep blue to something close to black. The pressure readout on the shuttle's display climbs steadily. Miles down now. My ears pop, and I swallow hard against the sensation.

Then, suddenly, everything changes.

The shuttle passes through something. I feel it before I see it, a tingle across my skin like walking through a static charge. The pressure gauge drops dramatically, stabilizes. And ahead, where there should be only darkness, there is light.

Not sunlight. Bioluminescence.

The pilot announces something, but I don't hear it. I'm pressed against the glass, my breath fogging the viewport, staring at a city that shouldn't exist.

It sprawls across the ocean floor in a vast network of structures that look grown rather than built, because they were, I know from my research.

Towers spiral upward, their surfaces alive with glowing organisms that pulse in slow waves of blue and green and purple.

Gardens of luminescent coral stretch between buildings.

And everywhere, Thalassians move through the water, their tentacles propelling them with a grace that makes human swimming look like flailing.

The palace dominates the center of the city.

It rises from the ocean floor like a coral cathedral, all sweeping curves and delicate spires, every surface glowing with patterns that shift and change.

Three thousand years of careful cultivation have made it into something that looks like it was dreamed into existence.

I've studied images of this place. Grainy recordings from satellites and drones. But those were like looking at a photograph of the sun compared to standing in its light. Nothing prepared me for the reality of Thalassia.

My nausea is completely gone.

The shuttle docks at a platform near the top of the palace. I step out on legs that tremble, from the descent, from the injection, from the sheer overwhelming reality of being here. The air is humid and warm, heavy with salt and minerals. Breathable, but thick, like the atmosphere has weight.

A Thalassian attendant leads me through corridors of mother-of-pearl.

They move on land differently than in water, not walking, but flowing, their tentacles rippling beneath them in a smooth glide.

I try not to stare and fail completely. Three years of study and I've never seen a Thalassian move in person. It's mesmerizing.

The walls respond to my touch when I reach out to steady myself.

Bioluminescent veins brighten under my fingers, then fade, like the palace is acknowledging my presence.

I pull my hand back, then touch the wall again.

Brighter. Fade. It's the most incredible thing I've ever felt, and I'm grinning like an idiot by the time the attendant stops at an archway carved with spiraling patterns.

They gesture ahead and leave.

I stand at the entrance to the ceremonial chamber, alone, and my grin fades.

This is it.