Shadows Below Decks

You catch her among the crates of spare aether coils, lantern light flickering across her drawn face. In her gloved palm pulses an amulet of dark glass — humming, you realize, in perfect rhythm with the spectrometer's alarms above.

"Don't shout," she whispers, raising her free hand. "I am not your enemy. I belong to an order older than the Admiralty, older than any flag. We have watched the thing beyond Mercury for nine generations, waiting for the day it stirred." Her eyes glisten. "That day is now. Help me, and we may yet save the sun. Betray me, and the Captain will sail us straight into its mouth."

The amulet pulses brighter, as if listening.