The Cure

The Surface Lies

Back in the lab, I was still haunted by the coral I’d brought up from the trench. It wasn’t like anything we’d seen before—alive, complex, and utterly fragile. If we couldn’t replicate the deep-sea environment it thrived in, the samples would die, and with them, our best chance to understand its mysterious properties.

That meant building a vessel—a pressure-stabilized habitat that could recreate the crushing weight, the near-freezing temperature, the unique chemistry of the Mariana Trench. My lab had no such capability. I needed Tim.

Timothy Goddard, Head of Research and Conservation at Monterey Bay Aquarium, was a whiz with living marine systems. Coral nurseries, endangered species recovery, ecosystem balance—he was the man. But engineering a habitat to mimic 1,000 atmospheres of pressure? That was uncharted territory, even for him.

Still, he was the closest thing I had to a collaborator.

I called him up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Timmy.” I purred.

I can feel the smirk he’s wearing. “Darling, you know I’m gay. Save the sweet talk.”

“I need your help. I’ve got this coral from the trench. It’s unlike anything we know. If we can’t keep it stable, it dies. I need a habitat that can replicate the pressure, temperature, and chemistry—basically the whole trench environment.”

A long pause.

“Is this about Danny?” His voice softened.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. “Tia, if Carl finds out you’re dragging me into this, it could kill my involvement altogether.”

“Why? What’s your history with him?”

“Don’t ask. It’s messy. I made mistakes, and Carl never forgot.”

I let it sit. Then, “Tim, this isn’t just biology. We’re talking about building a pressurized chamber that can safely hold live coral at about 1,000 bars—that’s around 1,000 times surface pressure. My lab’s equipment isn’t designed for that.”

“Yeah, and that’s where I’m out of my usual lane,” he admitted. “My expertise is in conservation biology, not pressure vessel engineering. You have Luis on your team, I’m sure he can help…” He paused as he pondered that thought. “But I’ve worked closely with engineers on seawater systems and habitat controls. We’ll need to design a chamber, probably titanium or composite, tough enough to withstand that kind of force.”

“And we’ll need precise sensors—pressure gauges, pH monitors, salinity sensors—that can handle those extreme conditions and give us live data,” I said. “HMAGR makes depth gauges rated for deep-sea subs; maybe something like that can be adapted.”

Tim nodded. “We’ll need a layered design: an outer shell to handle the immense pressure, an inner habitat to maintain water chemistry, temperature, and circulation. Plus, a life support system to keep the micro-ecosystem stable—nutrient flow, dissolved oxygen, microflora balance.”

“Exactly. The coral’s survival depends on more than just pressure. It’s about replicating the whole trench microenvironment.”

“I can draft technical specs and connect you with marine engineers. But my name can’t appear anywhere. Carl’s watching.”

“I’ll keep you in the shadows.”

Tim sighed. “Promise me we do this right—no shortcuts on safety systems or emergency releases. If this vessel fails, we lose the coral and maybe the whole project.”

“No shortcuts,” I agreed. “This coral could be the key to everything.”

Hanging up, the challenge settled on me like a weight. This wasn’t just about science anymore. It was about engineering a living, breathing microcosm of the deep ocean—one that might hold a cure, or at least hope.

And Tim was going to help me build it, even if it pushed both of us far beyond what we’d ever done before.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

The boardroom hums with anticipation—or judgment. Twelve suits. One long table. Carl at the end, arms folded, scowl calibrated to lethal.

I begin.

“I’m Dr. Tia Manzano. What I’m proposing is ambitious—but it may be our only chance.”

Slides flicker to life: images of the trench, deep-sea organisms, and finally, the glowing coral.

“This organism has evolved biochemical defenses in response to extreme conditions—viruses included. It’s not just resistant. It adapts.”

Carl stares, but I see it: a flicker of recognition. Not of the coral—of a ghost.

Ten Years Earlier – Monterey, California

Night falls over the Monterey Marine Institute. Carl nurses a whiskey, staring down at the tanks below.

“You left the heater on in Tank C,” says a familiar voice.

Carl doesn’t turn. “I knew you’d check it.”

Tim joins him, dripping from a dive. Hoodie and shorts. Relaxed. Intimate.

“I’m not your assistant,” Tim says.

“You’re a flirt with boundary issues.”

“And you invited me to dinner,” Tim says with a smile.

Carl won’t meet his eyes. “This is complicated.”

Tim’s voice is quiet. “Only because you make it that way.”

Carl looks at him, finally. “I don’t want to ruin your career.”

Tim replies, “Then don’t. Just don’t pretend you feel nothing.”

Carl doesn’t answer.

Present Day – Boardroom I finish the pitch. Show viral mutation charts. Peptide stability graphs. Explain the simulation chamber proposal.

“I’ve partnered with the California Marine Research Lab. Their lead aquarist—Timothy Goddard—has agreed to consult.”

Carl’s jaw tightens. Pain flickers in his eyes. Not anger. Memory.

“I need funding,” I say. “This is bigger than interdepartmental rivalries. We’re fighting extinction.”

One board member nods. “I support a provisional partnership.”

“Seconded,” another adds.

Carl stays silent until I turn to leave.

“Tia,” he says softly. “Be careful.”

I pause.

“You can’t fix everything,” he adds.

I meet his eyes. “No. But I can try.”

And I walk out—proposal in hand, pressure chamber approved, and the ghosts of the past following me like shadows in deep water.

The hiss of the seal reminded Tia of descending in the sub. Same cold bite. Same feeling of finality.

Only this time, she wasn’t going down into the trench—she was bringing the trench to her.