I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and yawned as my bed shaking beneath me woke me up. Missions always left me so dog-tired, nothing but the whole bed shaking even worked anymore. I popped my vitamins and took some bisket and dried tofu for the journey I was about to participate in. I strapped on my typical work overalls, adjusted my headlight helmet, and pulled on my oxygen canisters, doing all the legally required tests.

For someone born on the floor I was, I was just lucky to have an apartment, versus what would almost certainly be slum dwelling elsewhere. Earth was at the center of an empire of thousands of systems, I was just a drone keeping the planet standing, quite literally. I take it, mysterious presence in my head, by your interest, that you aren’t aware of what’s happened to Earth recently.

As soon as “first contact” was established, our governments did what they had done to other humans, with the same justifications: genocide, enslavement, and assimilation. They were not stronger or smarter, but they were crueler, especially and even to their own people. Eventually, they united into a system that spanned thousands of systems, locating any habitable planets, enslaving the locals, or if they had some utility, making them second-class citizens.

I was a “lucky” one in that regard: as a human, I had exclusive rights to live on our home planet, Earth, along with one trillion other souls. Planet-wide towers and facilities, however, made “living” nearly impossible. On upper floors, it was rumored, the sun still shone brightly. Every day, in fact, since the drying up of the oceans made weather an impossibility.

Down here, fluorescent lights performed the role the sun did. Occasionally, someone claimed, you could just about make out a light from the far above. But how were we to believe that? I did the math once, based on my floor’s number and height. 4,000 kilometers. We were 4,000 kilometers below sun-level.

They had stopped building floors, if nothing else, because they were told the infrastructure at the bottom could only barely be maintained. The support beams, metal panels, that sort of thing? Over two thousand years, it does tend to fall apart. But who could do that? An impenetrable haze of carbon dioxide and sulfurous gasses dominated the air in the lower levels of the zone.

And that’s, I suppose, where I come in. Jehu’s the name. I used to have another, but down here, people don’t care about the name by which you were born. I’m called that because I drive the hover machines like a madman, and there’s an old book somewhere that says the same thing, or so Val, my old boss said. I still miss the guy, he succumbed to what most of us probably will, that haze.

When you survive in this business as long as I have, you run the ship, but you don’t own it. It’s technically owned by someone who is in turn owned by someone on a higher floor. Great system, I’m sure it helps wash our blood off their hands. It’s rumored that up there, they even still grow food. Can you believe that? Wealthy fucks.

So, as I’m walking out, I suppose I should mentally introduce you to my team. I’ve got four comrades: Roach, Salt, Swill, and Ace. All of ‘em named for something stupid they did. It’s a term of affection, really. I suppose it’d be easier for “narration purposes” for me to switch back to past tense, so we’ll do that.

I climbed in the cockpit, waiting for everyone else to arrive, performing some minor checks on the systems. It was almost like muscle memory to me, looking at the various electrical lines, checking how load bearing systems were handling things, the thrusters, making sure we were restocked on the proper amounts of all bolts and whatnot.

Ace was the first to arrive, as they usually were. I waved to them, them waving back with an expressionless face. They certainly weren’t the cheeriest when they first woke up. They were the onboard mechanic, so they would do all the bolt tightening and maintenance.

I, of course, did navigation, as captain. I knew the underfloors best of everyone here, even a few safe havens where if our oxygen ran out, we could at least survive until we could hire a rescue team. Ace sometimes gave me shit, but I reminded their snarky ass that I’d saved our lives once or twice with that knowledge, and when I inevitably died, they’d be first on the list to succeed me. That usually shut them up.

Salt and Swill soon climbed aboard, chatting with each other about the local football game. Apparently, someone had fallen down into the abyss after becoming a bit too enthusiastic about chasing after a catch. Gods rest their stupid soul. That’s why I didn’t play those games anymore, that and the ten years of this job had taken their toll on my joints.

Currently, we were assigned to bolt refastening on the lowest level. The job paid well, because it was treacherous. Almost no carbon dioxide, even, was present. Almost all sulfur dioxide, which would regularly set off alarms in our ship bay. Even with the protective gear we put on, we’d come back smelling something like shit with our eyes stinging for a few days afterwards.

Salt and Swill were my systems operators, working with the various electrical and tool systems onboard, keeping them in shape whenever possible, especially when Ace went out on the tether. When that happened, one of them was tasked with keeping it taut and staying firmly tied to the ship’s floor, just in case. I nursed a piece of bisket, smacking a little to prevent it from drying out my mouth too much. We needed this mission to pay for some water, and I wasn’t gonna waste it on a little bisket anyways, even if I was starving.

Finally, Roach, our gunnery expert arrived, carrying one of our packs of explosive rounds. They weren’t the best to put in a highly oxygenated pressurized cabin, but hey! It sure beat putting them outside where they’d corrode on the descent. Roach wasn’t by any means usually needed, but when she was, she did her job well. Blew up trench whales like it was no one’s business, and any other pesky flying beasts. And the occasional person from a lower floor trying to escape upwards on our ship. That was gruesome. No one complained about her and her work, for certain.

With the crew onboard, and all of us eager to return in a few hours, I cleared my throat and began basic instructions. “Alright, folks, we know the drill. Floor 2, maintenance on central and northern section cables and beam rivets. Should be a straight drop down, nothing else of note. Begin checks on your stations, report back if anything is abnormal. Beginning removal of carbon dioxide from cabin.”

The team got to work as I charted our course, making notes in the ship’s systems and my notebook about any obstacles foreseen. This journey was deeper than most of ours, but if anything, that was good. That meant less likelihood of higher-flying pit pests. And anything that was down there, well, it’d be big enough that Roach could shoot it.

One by one, my teammates cried “ready” and I traversed our ship to the central vent of our district. A giant, gaping hole with a stop door every ten livable floors to stop the poor bastards who fell into it from making a mess at the bottom, and to prevent others from climbing up, this was the long and boring part of the journey. As we made our way from one floor to

“I heard from some repairers in another district, they saw some big ‘ol trench whales down on floor four the other day,” Salt said, trying to strike up a conversation.

“How big?” Swill asked.

“One-hundred meters,” Salt said as he punctuated the end with a whistle.

“That’s some bullshit if I’ve ever heard it,” Ace replied, “there’s been nothin’ that big on Earth, even when there were real whales.”

“They ain’t from here, dumbass,” Salt replied, “they’re from up there!”

“Then how the fuck did they get down here?”

“I hear they keep all sorts of dumb pets in big cages up there, some rich brat probably let it fall all the way down there!”

“Well, shit, I don’t know if I’ll be able to kill something a hundred meters,” Roach said, chewing on some gum as she smirked, “so you better hope it’s a tall tale, Salt.”

Salt muttered something, then went silent. Finally, hitting the door at floor 50, we descended into the hadal depths. There was something eerie about the space down here, our ship’s floodlight catching glimpses of old graffiti, or clothes, or even apartments. No bones, though. The air ate through ‘em. At last, we reached the marker for floor 2, placed there who-knows how many years ago. I gestured to Ace, leading to them sighing as they began to put the protective hadonaut suit on. How hard could this be?