My father erased my name from his Navy retirement ceremony because he said his

"She painted us," Grant said, his hands hovering over the countermeasure triggers. "Active frequency modulation. She knew we were here the moment we cleared the shelf."

"Hold fire," I ordered, holding up a hand. "If she wanted us dead, those fourteen escort subs would have flooded our sector with acoustic homing torpedoes five minutes ago. She wants this confrontation."

"Captain, it's a trap," Miller warned, his eyes darting to the depth gauge. "At this depth, if she takes out our drive, we don't have enough compressed air in the emergency blow tanks to reach the surface. We'll implode before we hit the bottom."

"She’s holding Thomas," I said, turning to look at my crew. "And she has the master launch codes for every severed communications terminal on Earth. We don't turn back. Chief, take us down to docking collars on the upper spine. Lock our magnetic clamps to the primary egress hatch."

"Locking clamps at eleven thousand feet?" Miller grunted, shaking his head. "God help us if the rubber gaskets don't hold."

Ten minutes later, the *Retribution* eased her black snout into the docking cradle of *The Sovereign Mother*.

The impact was gentle—a sickening, low vibration that reverberated through the soles of our boots as three-foot-thick magnetic locking pins engaged with our hull.

*CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.*

"Pressure equalization complete," the automated system announced. "External atmospheric pressure matched to facility standard: one-point-two atmospheres."

"Grant, Miller, you're with me," I said, strapping a tactical vest over my uniform and checking the chamber of my sidearm. "The rest of the crew stays aboard. If that docking collar loses seal, or if you see the launch sequence initiate on the board, you vent our ballast, sever the clamps, and you run for the surface. Do not wait for us."

"Maya," Miller said, his grizzled face softening for a split second. "Your father... he’s a hard man. But he loved your mother more than his own soul. Remember that when you look at that old devil on the throne."

"I know," I said.

The inner airlock of the *Retribution* hissed open.

Beyond it lay a massive, tubular gantry illuminated by cold white LED strips. Standing at the end of the corridor, unarmed, was an escort of six men wearing the clean, gray dress uniforms of the Sovereign Syndicate.

"Commander Maya Brooks," the lead officer said, executing a crisp, flawless naval salute. "Admiral Brooks is expecting you in the Grand Meridian Chamber. Please accompany us."

"Lead the way," I said, keeping my hand resting casually on the butt of my pistol.

We walked through the belly of the leviathan. It was like stepping fifty years into the future. The corridors were vast, lined with transparent acrylic panels showing the terrifying, crushing blackness of the ocean outside. Deep-sea predators—blind, pale creatures of the abyssal zone—drifted past the glass, drawn by the artificial lights of the empire my grandmother had carved from the seabed.

The escort stopped before a pair of towering double doors cast from solid brass, etched with the three anchors and the Latin phrase: *EX PROFUNDIS, IMPERIUM*—From the Depths, an Empire.

The doors parted with a low pneumatic hum.

The chamber inside was designed like an ancient naval wardroom, mixed with the high-tech command deck of an aircraft carrier. A massive mahogany table sat in the center, surrounded by twelve leather chairs.

Sitting in the chair at the head of the table was Admiral Evelyn Brooks.

She wore her black, collarless uniform, her scarred jawline glinting pale in the overhead lights. She was sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, her three-anchor signet ring catching the light.

And kneeling on the cold steel floor to her right, his hands bound behind his back with high-tensile plastic cuffs, was my father.

Vice Admiral Thomas Brooks looked like he had been dragged through hell. His uniform was torn, his left eye swollen shut and blackened, his knuckles bloody.