Marina Y171 Page

The inside of Y171 was a cathedral of calcified growth. Coral had crawled through the ventilation shafts, and blind, albino crabs scuttled over the navigation console. But the core—the ship’s neural matrix—was clean. A single, crystalline shard floating in a magnetic field, pulsing with a soft, pearl-white light.

“I have to go,” she said. “If you have any power left, boost my signal. Give me five minutes.” marina y171

With peace.