Rhodoreef

30. The Blue Hole

The coral atoll of Rhodoreef contained within its borders a veritable hotpot of variety—from the glittering monoliths of downtown Calliathron to the mobile homes of the working classes. Dea's train of thought took yet another turn as she sped along a highway, seated at the back of a state vehicle.

That was when she caught sight of herself on street graffiti.

Messy brushstrokes of color depicted her face on a large wall in the distance. Abstract waves radiated out in turbulent swirls, touched with the hues of twilight. Emblazoned in gold were the words "Queen of Waves". Underneath the artwork, the tagline read "Child of Calliathron, Bane of Humans."

The otherworldly experience reinforced the sensation that she was living a simulation rather than reality.

She averted her eyes and focused on the Tower of Calliathron, popping out like a beacon against darkening waters. The city center was not located at the very heart of the lagoon. The tip of the former seamount jostled it aside as it rose up and peeked above the water. This central island bloomed with coconut palms—a natural spire to mark the grandeur of the metropolis. On the western side of the island was the administrative district of Calliathron. It was a grid of orderly buildings, which included the sprawling military base of Fort Sol Dadva.

This was her destination that evening.

The submersible exited the highway and followed the curving road line down to seafloor level. Algae swayed on the wayside while waning sunbeams bled orange into the teal waters and mottled the mounds of concrete.

"Has everyone arrived?" Dea asked, the words plopping out in the quiet interior. "Am I the last?"

"His Excellency is also on the way, Your Highness," the driver replied.

"I see."

Soon afterwards, they turned to a deserted roadway. It led to an oblong splotch on the map that marked Fort Sol Dadva. As dusk gradually approached, the choir of fish swelled above the vehicle's drone.

The melancholy of the moment appealed to her. The past few days were a frenzy of activity. Dea's popularity had skyrocketed as the televised speech blew over Calliathron like a cyclone. Excerpts were all the rage on social media, and her face had turned into a meme. She was hounded by the press while the city-state reeled from the bombshell she had dropped.

It was incredible how fast the tide turned in favor of this new policy, strengthening the incumbent government. The Opposition was in shambles, and there was hardly any resistance from the Youth Council. In fact, the military reserve was called to arms and the youth were being enlisted in the army.

They breezed past security checkpoints and entered the compound. A slate-grey wall marked the perimeter, curving inward like the outer half of a torus. Surveillance drones hovered above—red sparks winking against the gloom.

"We're here," the driver announced.

The submersible drew to a stop at a facade of metallic wall cladding. The midnight blue flag of Calliathron, mounted on a pole, waved in the current.

A young merman in uniform swam up to open the door. "Your Highness."

"Thank you." Dea drew one last lungful from the oxy-hose and slid out.

The merman escorted her into the airlock.

Once inside, the picture of minimalism greeted her. The hallways emanated a dull, metallic sheen under strips of LEDs, matching the brutalist architecture on the exterior.

An elevator ride later, Dea approached an unassuming door. Before the man could open it for her, she gave it a mechanical knock and entered.

It was a large, windowless room that took on the appearance of both a conference space and submarine bridge. Neon strips lit up the concrete and dark metal. Seated around the cylindrical island at the center were several merpeople—including Talmus Mora, the supreme commander of the campaign against Serendiva.