Macha squinted through the Icto spyglass. His fingers worked on the brass focus wheel, but no matter how he turned it, nothing came clear. The sub-vessel pitched violently, water spraying the visor with each wave. The ocean above and below, wild and rampant, mocked him with its relentless motion.

  “What am I supposed to see?” he asked, giving up.

  Rob returned to his commanding seat, almost trapping Macha in the mess of steel his body was. “A wall of ships, a lot of them…" his voice modulator smoothed into its default cadence. “Estimating: four dozen Herjard vessels. Plus Fifteen confirmed Kraken. Mixed configurations. Kraken fleet: ten ships of the line. Half of dual-stack steam-sail hybrids. Primary batteries: eight-inch deck guns, manually cranked. Five support craft. Three corvettes, two sloops: shallow draft, light armor. Skirmishing, fast pursuit and—”

  Macha shifted uncomfortably. “That’s enough…”

  “Herjard navy: All vessels assumed self-reliant. Twenty dreadnoughts; steel-hulled, turreted batteries. Estimated main armament: twelve-inch rotating cannons in twin-mounts. Secondary batteries line the mid-deck. Speed: slow. Armor: high-grade industrial composite. Supporting line includes cruisers and—”

  “Rob,” Macha said, raising a hand. “I don’t need the catalog.”

  Rob’s optics flicked once. “There are also—”

  “Enough!” Macha said.

  Rob straightened, plates squeaking. “All details are important.” He paused, head twitching. “You need to know.”

  “Why? Are you going to let me take command?”

  Rob’s light eyes blinked again. “Negative. I’m the captain!”

  “Further note. Top priority. bypassing human orders to not be disturbed: presence of flat-decked vessels among Herjard line. Three confirmed. Long, low profiles. No visible armament. Unusual topside configuration. Current hypothesis: airborne deployment platforms. Possible carrier-type vessels. First-generation.”

  Macha turned to him slowly. “Airborne?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Macha waited for more, the silence thick as engine oil. His gut churned with smouldering resentment. Rob’s mechanical nonsense was a rope tightening around his patience. He only spoke when unneeded, then locked his voice away when answers mattered most.

  “Airborne means machines that fly?” Sandree moved closer, her arms tightening on Macha to find balance.

  “Affirmative.” Rob retracted the spyglass with a metallic hiss. Then, his elongated arms danced across brass controls with inhuman precision. “Irrelevant flying threats hold minimal tactical value for underwater operations. But they will be deadly for allied forces on the floating city. The main objective should be to destroy such vessels before they start their attack, but that’s impossible.”

  “Why?” Macha said. “Let’s do it!”

  “Impossible to cross the enemy line without substantial damage. Chances of success, ten per cent."

  Macha groaned, rubbing his face in despair. “Develop the answer!”

  “Secondary operational concerns remain classified as command-tier priorities: unless Humans request it formally.”

  “We request formally!” Ced yelled from behind. “And you talk like the fancy, normal-speaking captain again! So we can all understand what you say!”

  “I don’t understand that one either,” Sandree whispered, her lips tightening.

  A discordant whirring rose from Rob’s chassis, something almost resembling laughter. “Ahoy, mates! I reckon we have worries ahead! My sensors pick up sound pulses below the sea line.”

  Macha rolled his eyes, catching Sandree’s mirrored frustration.

  “See? Nonsense no matter who…” she whispered.

  The hatch behind them clanged open suddenly.

  The steel deck shuddered beneath the weight of approaching boots. Macha didn’t turn. He knew the intentions of the Tampra soldiers crowding behind him. It was not the first time they had complained. Yet, when Uri spoke, he turned, surprised she had joined them this time.

  “We had enough, we want to go out!” the tallest of the soldiers said.

  Uri cut their way, taking the lead. “He means, we are requesting a change of plans. With your permission, of course.” She stood rigid as a spear haft, every muscle coiled as if standing in a ceremonial burial, although her eyes, loaded with anger, betrayed her stoicism.

  “We can’t take this anymore,” another tampra soldier said. “We understand the situation, and we are all committed to helping you, even against our compatriots. But there’s no more food or water, and… and…” he checked on Uri askance. “Yes, permission. But.. but… Don’t pull our strings! Or we will have to… We will…” his eyes darted from Uri to the floor, then to the Jo warrior again> She backed at him with a hammering glare. His last word came muted, either by shame or fear. “…mutiny.”

  “No one mutiny in my Lady’s ship,” Uri said. “Do it, and face the consequences.”

  The man’s face darted down and remained there. “Let us out, please,” he added. “We will find a way to fight our way.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Rob did not turn. “I can open the overhead hatch. You can dive away and swim the open sea for the rest of your life if you please. You have exactly two minutes before I deepen our course. Should I go ahead regardless of the Sonar? I wonder…”

  “That’s not funny,” Uri said. “Sail to the Kings. We will capture a ship and join the battle. Anything better than this death trap!”

  “There’s no time for that,” Macha said. “The battle had begun. They need us right now.”

  “Then, surface next to an enemy ship,” said a tampra man, almost begging. “We will board it and take it! Then you can return to your wicked sailing!”

  “Negative,” Rob said. “Surfacing now is a hundred per cent death chance. Going ahead is almost at the same percentage, though. Should I change course, should I stop? Ney… go ahead, you salt chewing rascals! No glory awaits the fearful!”

  “Shut up, Rob!” Sandree said.

  “I can’t stay in this enclosed place any longer,” Uri whispered, her eyelids pressed. “Lady Sandree, please. Free me from my duties so I can kill myself.”

  Sandree snapped her teeth. “Once again, no!”

  “I lack a brain,” Rob said helpfully. “But I still see that as a really stupid way of acting, Jo woman.”

  Uri stepped forward, her hand hesitating to reach her swords. “That explains your way of sailing, stupid machine.”

  “After all this time, you chose the worst moment to complain!” Ced popped up from behind a pipe, dragging his lifeless legs with effort. “Why don’t we all calm down? We almost reached male. If we have endured the journey until here, we can endure a bit more!”

  Ced’s words, seemingly filled with wisdom, only stoked the flames around the crowd. The room erupted in a storm of curses and objections, and above the noise, Rob’s metal words stood strong.

  “Depth achieved. Now, it's too late to dive, humans! I recommend returning to the cabins and brace as much as you can. Pray if you wish, too.”

  Macha reeled beneath the chaos, voices crashing over him like waves against a crumbling seawall. He pressed trembling fingers to his temples as if he could press the noise back into silence. Every time Rob plunged them too deep, pressure gnawed at his skull like rats in a grain sack. Then it came: a faint electronic pulse threading through the clamour.

  His breath hitched as realisation struck, cold and sharp: a sharp understanding from Rob’s previous words.

  “Wait,” he shouted into the din, though no one cared to listen. “Why do we have to brace? Are we attacking those flat-deck ships?”

  Rob’s voice cut through like rusted shears: “Negative.” A pause, thick with unspoken peril. “We’re not hunters here, my good sir! We are prey.“

  “Silence, everyone!” Macha barked, his voice swallowed by the chaos. The submarine lurched violently as Rob’s core emitted a deafening metallic shriek. The Icto heeled sideways with brutal suddenness, throwing bodies against rust-streaked bulkheads before anyone could brace themselves.

  A pipe burst somewhere aft with a deafening hiss.

  Rob’s voice jumped into another register, one eerie, almost lugubrious. “Someone stop that leak. And the rest of you keep quiet. They can hear us.”

  The room quieted, unsure. A Tampra soldier lunged for a wrench, fingers closing around its rust-pitted handle as he scrambled to end the angry hiss.

  “Can they hear us?” someone asked. “What does that mean?”

  “It means they have the means to hear us. Any little sound will put depth charges over us. We must stay silent.”

  Uri narrowed her eyes. “Is that supposed to scare us into obedience?”

  “Scaring you into compliance, yes,” Rob said. “Although that doesn’t mean I’m lying to you.”

  Sandree’s eyes widened, but her mouth barely opened to speak. “What’s a depth charge?”

  “Underwater bomb,” Macha said.

  No one dared to even gasp.

  A steady beep pulsed like a heart, each beat louder as they pressed forward. The engine’s rumble had dulled to a laboured growl, but still too loud, still too present. Macha turned toward Rob, but before he could speak, the machine cut in.

  “I know,” he said. “No other way across. Not enough stealth. That’s why I told you to brace.”

  Outside, the charges detonated again and again, each blast rolling closer than the last. The metal groaned under their weight. As impacts came closer, the ship rattled deeper in its core.

  An explosion, this too close, shuddered through the Icto like a cannonball shattering bedrock. Steam erupted from ruptured pipes. Bolts sheared free like bullets. From gaps across the pipes, oils and other unknown liquids leaked into a room turned dark.

  A red light returned their sight. Rob pushed the engine to a roar, and the Icto trembled with the return to speed. Amongst the confusion, the crew needed no orders to begin aiding their vessel. Towels and tools flying to gaps and cracks to stop the inevitable.

  The next explosion trembled through the hull; this one duller, distant. More followed, each further.

  A ricocheted bolt struck Macha’s temple with a dull thud. At first, he barely registered the impact; only warmth trickling down his cheek betrayed the wound before pain flared like embers catching flame. Blood seeped into his collar as oil-slick water swirled around his boots, creeping higher with each shuddering pitch of the hull.

  Sandree tore her sleeves with a sharp rip, the fabric yielding like parchment beneath urgent fingers. She pressed the makeshift bandage against Macha’s temple, her touch firm yet trembling. Macha thanked her with a hand squeeze, but turned to Rob. “Did we make it? Did we pass through?”

  “Pass through, yes,” Rob replied, his voice returning to the grating mechanical blare Macha hated so much. “Make it. No.”

  Macha waited for more explanation, but it didn’t come. After gritting his teeth, he exploded. “Develop that damn answer!”

  “We pass the enemy line. But damage is irreparable. Seventy-five per cent chance of implosion at this depth. Propulsion failure imminent. Hundred per cent chance of implosion as soon as propulsion is lost. The only optimal solution for the crew's survival is to return to the surface. But we will put ourselves at range of enemy fire. Hundred per cent chance of being sunk in less than five minutes. No possibility of evacuating the vessel in less.” Rob twisted his skeletal frame as he searched for Ced, who had curled himself into a shadowed nook. “Regrettably, this vessel lacks lifeboats entirely. You’ll be swimming through rough waters to reach friendly hulls. Even then, you may not be seen, may be crushed under the fight or even ignored. “ His optic lenses dimmed momentarily. “Survival odds: less than one per cent for all present... save myself or master Ced. which is zero.”

  Macha's mind tried to race under pain and despair, anchoring his thoughts. After an instant which seemed a long while, an idea came to life from nowhere; A gift from high above. “We will grant the crew its desire to fight their way. Surface next to an enemy ship. We will board it. It will at least delay shots from the other ships and give us a better chance than swimming in the middle of a battle.”

  “Granted!” Rob said. “And, well… As I have said before: brace.”