Ice-Driller let out more ballast to slow the ascender. They detected the bottom of the ice shelf earlier, but their pings returned no reply.

Ice-Driller sent more pings out.

Here was the roof of the ocean, the layer of the living universe between death and life. To their society, Universe was a multi-layered egg. The thick ice shell enveloped all life from the ravages of Nullworld. Similarly, the seafloor was hard rock, which insulated life from the Inner Fire. To everyone with any sensibility, their universe was an egg. Anyone who willfully pierced the membrane of a decapod fertilized egg shell was guilty of crime. Similarly, those who swam to the ice were viewed as strange in the populace’s mind. Oddities. But those who drilled it? Suspicious deviants akin to those who vivisected eggs of growing paralarvae. The research scientists might as well drill into a magma chamber.

“Does this sound familiar?” Ice-Driller asked.

Study-Up came over to listen with a sound cone.

The ice shell had small amounts of drift, the cause of which was still debated, but they assumed the currents and tides caused it. Over the timeframe of a million sleeps, this research station might drift all the way to another city-state. But a million sleeps was long after their lifetimes. A million was prehistoric, hundreds of thousands of tides ago. They did not have an estimate on the drift rate because cartographers had only mapped for one generation.

“I hear something.” Study-Up said.

Ice-Driller sent out another few clicks of sound and waited for a faint echo to return. Much clearer now, the top of the ocean. The shell of their universe.

“There’s a vertical shaft.”

The research station was at the bottom of a long crack of ice that rose almost to Nullworld.

Both decapods bobbed their heads to gain minute differences which filled their mind with stronger spatial sense. A faint reply greeted them from off in the distance.

“Did you hear that?” Study-Up asked.

“Yes. Over there to the side.” With several turns of valves by his adroit arms, Ice-Driller halted the ascent, trimmed the ballast and bow planes, and angled the ascent craft towards the faint sound.

Another location ping. They pinged back. And within dozens of moments, they could visualize the exterior of the research station. At the lowest was the open-bottomed room called the hangar. It was spacious enough to accommodate five ascenders, of which two were parked. The room was a rounded rectangle at least twenty-five lengths wide and seventy lengths long. Along the middle, an oval hole existed, connecting the hanger to external storage and the rest of the station.

Farther on, they could sense the ice. Nearby, strange fish floated idly and grazed on the chemotroph bacteria that coated the underside of the ice.

A smaller open-bottomed room was attached to the hangar. Here the domesticated creatures they used were tied up, one fat multi-finned baleen-fish, which were used to move heavy loads, and two darter-squids. All creatures were more rigid and tolerated the low pressures better than decapods. Thus, any rider ascending rapidly would lose consciousness long before their mount suffered any ill effects. Small boxes were placed over their gills to regulate the oxygen, which was more abundant here.

Thwack.

The ascender struck the top of the hanger. Muffled greetings and bangs from other decapods greeting them in response.

A deckhand came over, tied up the ascender, and banged the ‘all-clear.’

Still at a pressure difference, Ice-Driller and Study-Up stayed in their wraps, but left the coral hard-suits.

Next, both of them put on their oxygen regulators; simple devices that recirculated exhaled water over their gills to reduce the oxygen concentration. For reasons still unknown to the decapods, the highest zone of ocean had more oxygen. Combined with lower pressure, oxygen toxicity occurred, but it was a long-term problem. Long-term or not, since it affected their nervous system, they wore them preventively even for their short-duration swims. Medical research on living Decapods was still a taboo subject, but life by the ice had taught hard lessons over the many tides of exploration.

“Ready?” Study-Up asked?

“Is anyone ever ready for this cold, toxic water?” Ice-Driller equalized the pressure, and they exited the craft via the small round hatch.The cold water hit them.

“Got into some trouble, I see.” The deckhand said.

“Only one.” Ice-Driller flashed various colors at the deckhand, most of which were occluded by the wraps they wore.

The deckhand, acclimated to this height, wore only the barest of insulation and flashed back humored yellow-green.

Ice-Driller and Study-Up swam to the base, into a small room which doubled as a pressure room and to keep the interior water warm.There were few comforts. And the volume smaller than the ascender. The walls had raised lettering that any decapod could read with sonar or with touch. A few supply crates and storage bins were tied down. Some were filled with pressure wraps, insulating clothes, and coral hard-suits. There they waited for the pressure and warmth to equalize. In the corner were three insulated hutches to sleep in.

From the other side of the door, they heard greetings from their colleagues and Ice-Driller relayed all that had happened. As he spoke, he twisted up several of his limbs as he told the bad news. “War is unavoidable. All research here is to be stopped. The city will arrive shortly and stop all our work.”

Many decapods chimed in from behind the door. Some were indifferent. “I was near sabbatical, anyway.” Others wanted alternate funding: “Perhaps a neutral city-state will support this research.” A few were exasperated. They had yet to find conclusive data to back up their theories, and would return empty armed to seafloor colleagues.

“We’re from Hotsmoke. What about us?” One researcher asked through the wall. “What is your city planning on doing with us?”

“Rift-Drop,” Ice-Driller said. “Leave now. You will be prisoners for trade. You would be more useful with your own city trying to convince them to stop the war.”

“Will do. I give you my peace. We’re all trying to discover an alternate path to war.” Rift-Drop said, then left the wall.

Muffled conversations swished through many other topics, but Ice-Driller tried to focus on his goals. He looked at the timer and gave orders to two assistants. The bustle was heard bustle through the walls. Clangs, pings, shouts, orders lit up the next room. Every decapod, regardless of their city, had a common belief: a better existence could emerge from science; it did not have to be an eat-or-be-eaten universe.

But that dream was dying (and had been killed many times in the past). There were only so many hot vents on the seafloor. Ruins from prehistoric vents showed ages of brutal warfare. Democidal warfare had disappeared in recent time, in their metal age. Even prior, in the feudal age, war and death had become more civilized. Lords built castles over the vents, protecting the warmth from above and on every side. From these fortified locations, better aquaculture evolved, supporting more citizens, more specialization, more craftsmanship. A virtuous cycle that continued into their ‘modern’ age, as they called it.

But now that cycle was wearing away like a silt into gears. Every energy source had been exploited. Cold seeps, methane lakes, brine pools. All populated and tapped out. Political classes now reverted to primordial philosophies for hope. Us versus them. Eat or be eaten.

He despaired, but held off psychological collapse. There had to be hope. Anything.

Eventually, he fell into a light sleep. Not as deep as torpor, but still energy efficient.

There was a from the timer, and then the wait was over.

Ice-Driller opened up the door into the research station and Study-Up followed.

Salutations and flashes of color greeted them.

Embraces from colleagues, arms entwined with others connecting to worried minds. Colors of dread and anxiety flashed across other’s skin.

The main room was big enough to hold everyone, and as the commotion spread, more decapods came.

Ice-Driller had to change the mood in the room. He could see fear and panic spreading across everyone’s skin.

“Scientists, technicians, workers, listen up!” Ice-Driller called to everyone in the research base, his voice reverberating through the different rooms and audible to the dozen in other rooms. “I have no intention of stopping my research. What I feared, and warned you about before I left, is happening. They will shut down.” He swam to a more central point and flashed an request to those nearest to him and they flashed back their unique bioluminescent patterns. “Most bottom dwellers are happy with the progress science has brought them: abundant food, material progress, predator extinction. Though we have captured the imagination of what is beyond the ice, there are some who believe we are going to endanger society with our research. That we’ll pierce the nothingness and all our water will shoot out.” This statement elicited a few squeals and gurgles of laughter.

“But we all know this to be false. The ice is thin in spots, and has been broken many times. My father believed something truly remarkable out there. New energies just waiting to be felt. Other fires and magmas that we can use if we just learned more.” He held up one scared tentacle and passed it close to those in front of them to perceive sonically. It had regrown, but still carried a few scars. “We know there is a type of heat there, enough to burn you or I, or kill our bacterial mats placed high in the ice. But just below that, we know a strange animal grows. The ice-worm, which we theorize, eats some bacteria that uses this heat.”

“If we can convince everyone. In every seafloor town, in every house of science, in every military barracks, that there is sustenance up in the ice, then we have doubled our farmable world!”

Silence.

They were all up-to-speed on Study-Up’s experiment: growth of non-chemosynthetic bacteria, but even the most pliable of minds, did not jump to his conclusion.

“Even if that is optimistic, then half it, or take a tenth. There is still more than enough to go around.”

A little less silence. Even a tenth would be more than enough to feed a city if a vent went cold.“I know most of you have young to feed and old to care for. Please get your items ready. They’ll be here within a sleep and take you back to the city. But I will continue the research, and anyone who wants to follow me is welcome.”

And with that, he ended the speech, and he fled to a nearby storage room.

Study-Up stayed to answer and ask a few questions about her research.

The station director organized the decapods for their impending exit. Supportive of Ice-Driller, he tasked many with proselytizing the seafloor populace about the evidence, which was circumstantial. Opposed by contrarian minds on the seafloor—who had never in fact been to the ice—they’d chip away at the facts. Nearly every scientist was losing dozens of tides worth effort, and a few had been here over fifty. Any artifact, logbook, sound recording, or sample they could bring back might turn minds on to at least the plausibility of life near the top of the ice.

And ‘life’ meant food.

Every decapod that would return from the ice would become a fascinating person on the seafloor. A few would easily land teaching positions at the institutes of other city-states because of their experience, but most did not have secondary careers. They would need to join the militia or starve.

One of the other scientists came up to Ice-Driller. “I will come with you.” Thermal-Rock was one of the younger decapods and did not have any other work to fall back on. Although well connected through family ties, he threw that away for the high-risk-high-reward nature of the research station.

“Thanks Thermal-Rock, get these supplies outside and then go with Study-Up.”

The deckhand outside took his orders through the locks. He prepared the ascenders for descent mode, attaching ballast, etc. Then another hangar employee readied the darter squid for Ice-Driller.

Right before the new trio, Ice-Driller, Study-up, and Thermal-Rock, went into the lock with the provisions, another decapod approached them.

“Hello Sand-Stirrer, saying your goodbyes or coming along?”

“Coming with. Your research supports mine. My reputation would never recover unless I help you find proof.” Sand-Stirrer said. He was between Ice-Driller’s age and his father’s. His work was much less speculative and centered on finding the mysterious metal rocks that were embedded in the ice.

“And...” the older decapod said. “Ice-Gazer was one of my teachers, and I want to help his name, not just mine.”

Ice-Driller gave a simple sound of , (which was the image of a prostrate decapod) and replied, “Come.”

The sounds of busyness filled the station.

“Anyone else? Last call!” Ice-Driller said.

Other decapods stopped, sent out their goodbyes, and continued on with their activities. Ice-Driller couldn’t blame them. Most had the ordinary worries of life to be concerned about. Some had been the first in their families to pursue purely intellectual aims. The idea of getting kicked out of the Institute of Ice Sciences and dishonoring their family line was unthinkable.

The two newcomers wrapped themselves in insulating cloth and exited the research station.

Ice-Driller gathered them together with his arms. He tapped out the instructions so only the other three could perceive. Tap language was a private way to communicate without having everyone nearby hear. It comprised the few hundred most used words that percussion could communicate.

The past research site was the Blowout Crack. A location where a hundred tides ago they forced the ice-shell to break and observe the results. No one was surprised that the universe did not end.

Outside, they split up. Ice-Driller mounted a darter-squid. “I am off. See you three soon.”

“Good Luck.” Study-Up said.

The trio swam off, while Ice-Driller left the other direction.

The squid's raw speed thrilled him.