Stage 1: Bathophobia
I write these memoirs under no pretense of hope that someone may one day read them, for I believe I am all that remains of humanity on this world. These galvanized walls now constantly groan beneath untold tons of pressure, and I know not if my end will be at the claws of starvation, or if my throat will seize and choke on this fetid, stagnant air. Out of fear of the impermanence of paper I will carve my epitaph onto the very metal that cages me. Perhaps, if some greater force remains to bare witness to my words, they will refrain from ever re-seeding this baleful domain with life.
My name is Wren Rivers, I loved schlocky romance novels, tabletop games, and swimming; I was twenty-three when I applied to be a marine biologist. I had no diving experience, nor any impressive degrees of education, my resume was only marked with passionate statements of my adoration towards marine life and fascination with underwater research. Despite my objective inadequacy, it turned out I was the exact candidate the government had been looking for. Though, when I went in for the interview, I learned that they wanted me more as a test subject than an employee.
Val-Synth Outpost: E9, or VSO-9 as my coworkers called it, is a observatory station located at Malloy Deep, in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, three and a half miles beneath the ocean's surface. My 'job' would be a one-time saturation dive that would last 1,875 days. Five years of work for a lifetime's salary, all I would have to do when I 'retired' was have a medical exam every month.
The station was so deep, the brief maintenance dives traveling half the depth to manage our umbilical cords still had to decompress for a day on ascension. Compared to them, my return would have me spending at least a week in a pressurized chamber. I had no friends nor lovers, I was estranged from my family, and, deep-down, I felt as if my life had no direction. I make no claim that signing away such a significant portion of my life wasn't drastic, but I took a cold comfort in the rigid purpose those years would serve.
My descent alone took nearly a month, a pace taken so that my body would have time to adapt to my shifting environment. I of course would not be alone at the station- other people smarter than me would be slowly rotating in and out of the facility, spending one year working before returning to the surface. Unlike my short-term peers my purpose was singular, I would be the control subject for measuring the effects of such long-term exposure to oceanic depths. Unsurprisingly it was my average build and middling health that 'earned' me this position. "Our hope" one of the interviewers had said "is that one day we can offer lifetime positions for deep-sea researchers. If all goes well you will be the first step in that process." His idealistic words and jovial personality had won me over in the moment- but by the time I first stepped foot on the station, I couldn't help but wonder why we would even need people living this deep underwater.
I distinctly remember the moment my submersible broke surface in the station's moon pool, seawater cascading down the viewports like briny afterbirth. I was driven down remotely, human errors in my descent would have long-term repercussions during my stay. I mention this because, as I was entering, another group was leaving, they were the first people I had seen in weeks.
Of the sizeable batch of workers, three were returning to the surface, an event apparently seen as worth celebrating. The workforce was quite varied, people of all ethnicities and backgrounds were present- a trait I now suspect was by design. The people looked like people, their year-long stint in the deep sea seemed to have left them no worse for ware, both mentally and physically.
After exchanging pleasantries, I stepped off my vessel and onto the pool's lip, gazing down into the ominous, glassy ocean floor below. The false tranquility of the frigid waters spawned a deep squirming in my gut. The water here was pitch-black of course, but each corner of the pool was illuminated with powerful flood lights that cascaded unnaturally along the rocky biome beneath. The entrance to the observatory had been constructed close enough to the basin floor that falling into the water wouldn't pose any pressure-related danger, only a real possibility of thermal shock. This relative safety only applied so long as you stayed roughly within the moon pool's borders- needless to say, nobody ever tested the exact limits on the distance.
My focus was returned by the hiss of my submarine's rear compartment opening, the seabound vehicle having been stocked with supplies to help herald my arrival. My first real interaction with the crew was helping them lug these containers out of the 'trunk', then bidding farewell to those doomed three departing.
I soon learned that most physical labor would be delegated to me, though there wasn't much required outside of the supply drops that arrived every six or so months. I grew quite familiar with those oblong carriers, delivering new workers and food, while taking our old crew and trash. Most of my day to day was spent doing menial paperwork and basic data organization.
While one might think the wonder of such a place as this would fade within a matter of days, the outpost's beauty and serenity was never lost on me, until recently. The muted echo of footfalls, the murmur of idle chatter, the ever-present hiss of our cycling air supply, every moment of station life filled me with awe. Even as the weeks turned into months I still found myself occasionally being led to isolated segments of the facility I had never seen before- the titanic structure was quite labyrinthine at times, it would take over an hour to traverse from one end to the other.
In my first year of work, I spent most of my off-time flushed with anxiety, having been both inserted into a new social circle and a workplace that I felt wholly unqualified to work in. Thankfully, my first set of coworkers were pleasant, I even had a few older scientists that acted as mentors to help me acclimate. I pleasantly recall the countless breaks I spent with them, sitting along one of the wall-sized viewports, gazing into the void beyond the reach of our meager lights.
It should come as no surprise that there are many medical complications that come with with these extended saturation dives, though broadly they can be separated into three categories:
-High-Pressure Nervous Syndrome, or HPNS, is the first thing any newcomer is briefed on, though in truth they've likely already began experiencing it. The air we breathe here is vastly different from the air on the surface, and slowly those unnatural gasses dissolve in our flesh and take hold over the fragile human mind. Tremors plague our fingers, and involuntary twitching is quite commonplace. Everyone was tired all the time- but without the use of some strong sedatives, we could not sleep. Eventually, most would see this as a boon, as there was no risk of falling asleep on the job.
-Compression Arthralgia would develop in all of us over time. By the time most people's 'shift' ended, they would be definitively aware of a constant bone-deep ache in their joints. Bending those digits would feel... rough, like your own limbs were growing taught, petrified by the ocean's imposing grasp. Those examples were from people who hadn't remained here for as long as I have... For me, such paltry discomforts are the least of my concern. Every one of my movements is met with an internally audible creaking along my ribs. Each breath causes my chest to trembles like the bow of an old ship, with my spine serving as its rickety stern.
-Dysbaric Osteo-Necrosis served as a sort of boogeyman at VSO-9, the least-understood yet most terrifying ailment one could face. Those same gasses in our bodies that cause HPNS could easily penetrate our bones, forming bubbles of nitrogen that would block blood vessels, resulting in our bones rotting under our skin. The crew's primary fear stemmed from the affliction's complete lack of symptoms. If not discovered on an x-ray, DON will eat away at your core until one day your femur snaps under its own weight. We all took many experimental medications in an attempt to prevent this condition's development, though we never knew if it worked, you could only know for sure when you returned to the surface.
If my first year was spent as an undisputed greenhorn, by the second, I had turned into an ordinary gray collar worker. All those I had first known left one by one, but, they had also introduced me to the replacement workforce as they trickled in. The day my last senior left was a somber occasion for me, though a joyous one for most others.
As I grew more comfortable with my long-term lodgings I found myself gradually drifting back towards my introverted nature. I no longer had to seek advice to survive in this environment, so I merely spoke with those few colleagues I had come to call acquaintances.
Crew social relationships were quite complex on the station. Under different circumstances I might even say our research was only half as interesting as the passive incites one would gain into the Human psyche by living here. As people we naturally banded together into a cohesive group, formed out of a need for efficiency. We would root for one another, congratulating someone's breakthrough while comforting someone else through their failure.
But when it came to individual bonds beyond this tribalistic mindset, friendships were few and far between. Given the twice-yearly intervals of crew arrivals and departures, most would typically only know any given person for six or so months. I observed almost unanimously that, in those first six months, one would be quite outgoing from necessity, only to have that burgeoning social dynamic torn away by an abrupt egress. After this most would become reserved, only opening back up close when it was their time to leave, perpetuating the cycle.
This isn't to say we were all lonely souls desperate for human connection. Six months is plenty of time to get to know someone- and there were occasions where pairs or trios of people would hit it off in the month-long submarine trip prior to arrival. Like communal parasites, some dejected individuals would flock to those groups, basking in the afterglow of those more established relationships, enjoying the lack of input needed to feel included.
Many pledged to re-establish contact with a given group once they had all returned to surface life. Perhaps they went through with such promises, I will never know. Our only communication with the outside world was done through nigh-robotic check-ins with ever-changing faceless delegates that reported our progress and research back to the government.
The job of conducting these monthly reports had entirely fallen to me by the middle of my second year. At the start, it was because our landline system was deceptively complex to learn, and I was simply the one who knew it best. Though by the end, I think people thought it a social stigma to even suggest taking my place as the oracle for this mensual ritual.
