"It means," whispers Orin, the ancient, half-mad engineer, "that whoever went there never called for help. Because they forgot how."
They surface inside the remains of the cockpit. Outside: an endless, mirror-flat ocean under a bruised purple sky. No wind. No waves. No birds. The water is perfectly still, unnaturally clear, and utterly black beneath the surface.
Behind them, a column of light rises to the stars. The singing fades. The water grows still again, but now it looks... smaller. Diminished.
Orrin explains his theory: the ocean is a neural network of extinct aliens. When they died, their consciousness dissolved into the water. Now it survives by consuming memories, emotions, and eventually identity. It doesn't kill bodies—it erases souls.
Kaelen, the young, hot-headed navigator, points at a hologlobe. "There's a planet below. 98% water. No registered colonies. No rescue beacons."