He stood on the launch platform, his pressure suit humming with recycled air. Above him, the sky of Kepler-186f was a bruised purple. Below him, seven kilometers of vertical shaft plunged into the planet’s crust—a natural fissure lined with ancient, crystalline growths that the science team called "singing glass."
Six kilometers. His heads-up display flickered. Pressure warnings blinked yellow, then orange. The singing glass here was black as obsidian, and silent. Dead. That was wrong. Every sample from the upper shaft had sung. Why were these dark? ten789
"Remember the objective: retrieve one intact singing glass fragment and ascend. No deviations. The pressure at depth will fog your cognitive clarity inside thirty seconds. You will feel euphoric. You will want to stay. That’s the crystal singing to your nervous system. Ignore it." He stood on the launch platform, his pressure
Ten. Seven. Nine. The numbers had become his mantra, his heartbeat, his religion. His heads-up display flickered
He didn't answer. He was counting.