Rhodoreef

10. The Dark Lair

The airlock depressurized, allowing water to gurgle down to nothing but a shallow pool. As the submersible held its position, the domed viewport protruded above the water. Dea held her breath while her eyes bored into the chamber's inner door. An excruciating minute crawled by.

The door slid open with a groan that made her jump.

A space akin to a small hangar met her stare. Clutter rose above the clear blue water in a festoon of beams, pipes and scaffolding. The gloom was pervasive, overwhelming the feeble glow of strip lights. Two submersibles, not much bigger than her own, stood tethered by the far wall—cheery baubles that popped out from the dereliction.

Nothing moved. A low drone filled her ears—lapping water and whirring electronics. Dea blew out a breath and held the joystick with a quivering hand. I'm inside the Witch's lair! She eased the Little Angler out of the airlock chamber.

All of a sudden, a dark figure emerged from the water and barred the way.

Dea unleashed a bloodcurdling scream.

The figure leveled a gun, its barrel glinting in the DSV's lights. "Get out of the sub!"

It was a brawny merwoman. Dea jerked back against the seat and goggled at her. A black mask concealed the woman's identity. Scrawled on it was a blue smiley face—though if it was meant to be non-threatening, it failed miserably. A shock of black hair hung down in coils like a goth sea anemone.

"Get. Out. Now." The resonant words made it clear that she wouldn't be repeating the command.

Dea found her voice, which issued in a quavering wail, "I'm not armed! I'm coming out!"

That was when she realized she had more company. Two half-submerged faces surveyed her from behind the merwoman while a drone hovered over a black beam overhead, its camera winking in the murk.

Without testing the formidable gunwoman's patience, Dea fumbled with the seat straps. "Bot, open the top hatch!"

The hatch clicked open, the sound carrying in the stillness. A second later, she hoisted herself off the inundated seat and clambered up the rungs. When she surfaced, many eyeballs trained their focus on her, sizing her up. She crossed her trembling arms and peered down at the masked figures.

"Get down here, you."

Dea started.

A scrawny boy, who appeared no older than sixteen, kept spyhopping on one side of the Angler. He squinted up through large glasses, which reflected the teal of the hangar's shallow waters.

"Why did you get out from the top hatch?" he inquired. "Think we'd pounce on ya?"

Yeah, that's exactly what—he's not wearing a mask like the others! Dea just stared at him.

"Damn you, Kelp," the woman growled. "You're gonna get us—"

"Oh, c'mon." He waved a hand in Dea's direction. "Look at her, Muda. She's not a spy."

"How would you know what a spy would look like?" a submerged head burbled. "She's obviously from Calliathron."

A gurgling cackle met the words, issuing from a female throat. Dea's head swiveled in its direction. It was the other submerged merperson behind Muda.

The cackle dwindled to a drawl, "She just swam in—too stupid for a spy. Maybe these privileged gullshits are getting bored up there."

Dea's temper boiled up like a black smoker.

The words, along with the condescending way they were uttered, rubbed her up the wrong way. She thought of the merpeople in her neighborhood, working hard to make ends meet. In fact, it was no different in her own household. Gramma could barely afford school supplies for her until she started working part-time.