Charlie nodded, having already considered this objection. "Of course not. You are a space yacht. You would not have the information. But your existence is validation enough. And the fact that you fell through the White-White Sea to this level—" He paused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "—that suggests the boundaries between layers are not as impermeable as we believe."
His index finger pierced the suspended light of the projections, anchoring his declaration with unyielding gravity.
"These formations do not merely exist; they are constructed using a foundational cryptography—a primal syntax that governs physical reality," he stated. "Observe how this mathematical architecture dictates the planetary strata. The oceanic depths, the partitioned seas, the skyward territories—every geographic elevation is rigidly bound by this exact geometric cipher. The consequence is absolute: unlocking these patterns doesn't just explain the environment. It unearths the deliberately erased chronology of our civilization. It is the operating mechanism of the globe."
He continued, gesturing as if he was a professor teaching a class. "This architecture—these stepped pyramids, these circular observatories—they're built according to a specific system. A system of correspondences. The same system we've found carved into stones buried beneath the earth and hidden in the depths of the sea."
Galit's brow furrowed. "What kind of system?"
Charlie's eyes gleamed with scholarly fervor. "A system of keys. Keys that unlock the layers of our world. The White-White Sea above. The Blue Sea we sail. The deep places beneath the waves where the lost continent rests. Each layer corresponds to a different application of this ancient knowledge—a way of understanding how the world was structured, how it was divided, how it was... arranged."
He gestured dramatically at the holographic images, his hands sweeping across the stepped pyramids and circular observatories. "These structures weren't just buildings. They were markers. Anchors. Points where this knowledge was applied to the very fabric of the world. They were built to maintain the separation between layers, to keep the boundaries intact."
Galit's eyes narrowed. "Maintain the separation? You mean—"
"I mean the calamity," Charlie interrupted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Something happened. Something that broke the original structure. The world was divided—flooded, submerged, separated—and these structures were built to hold the divisions in place. To keep the layers from collapsing into each other."
He pointed at the carvings on the observatory walls, his voice carrying the weight of revelation. "The keys are still here. Hidden in plain sight. Embedded in the architecture of the World Government, the remnants scattered across the world. They're the key to understanding what happened. Why the world was divided. And how it might be—"
He paused, his voice catching in his throat.
Galit leaned forward, his voice flat. "How it might be what?"
Charlie's eyes met his, and for a moment, the scholarly enthusiasm was replaced by something deeper—something that looked almost like fear. "How it might be undone."
Galit stroked his chin, his voice a low murmur. "What other secrets is the World Government hiding?"
Charlie opened his mouth to respond—
And everything went dark.
The bridge plunged into absolute blackness, the hum of the systems dying to a whisper. The holographic images flickered and vanished, leaving only the faint glow of emergency lighting that barely penetrated the shadows.
Galit cursed, his hand finding the edge of the console. "What the—"
His transponder snail crackled to life, and Bianca's voice emerged, bright and unapologetic. "So, like, I had to, like, kill the power and stuff. But I should, like, have it up and running in, like, a bit. Maybe an, like, an hour. Maybe less. Probably more. But, like, definitely not more than—"
Charlie rushed over, his hands gripping the transponder snail in Galit's hand. In desperate urgency, his scholarly enthusiasm was replaced by something that sounded almost like panic.
"Biancaaaaa! I had just made a momentous discovery! I have to have power! The holographic images—the architecture—the—"
Bianca's voice cut through, flat and unimpressed. "Like, whatever. I will, like, have it up in, like, an hour or so. Maybe less. Maybe more."
Charlie's voice rose to a desperate whine. "But Bianca—"
The transponder snail went silent.
Charlie stared at the dead snail in his hands, his face a mask of despair. "She hung up. She actually hung up on me."
Galit's voice was flat, unamused. "She's fixing the ship."
"She's destroying history!" Charlie wailed. "That information—those images—they could have changed everything! They could have—"
"They're still there," Galit interrupted, with pragmatic reassurance. "The information is still in the system. It will still be there when the power comes back."
Charlie blinked, his face slowly shifting from despair to cautious hope. "You're right. You're absolutely right. The data is stored. It's not lost. It's just—"
"Temporarily inaccessible."
Charlie nodded slowly, with the = weight of a man who had just been pulled back from the edge of a cliff. "Temporarily inaccessible. Yes. That's—that's acceptable. I can wait. I can be patient. I am a scholar. Patience is—" He paused, his voice cracking. "—I am not patient. I hate waiting. I hate waiting so much."
Galit's voice was flat, unimpressed. "Get in line."
Charlie slumped against the console, his face a mask of theatrical suffering. "This is the worst day of my life. The absolute worst. And I've had some pretty bad days. Like that time I fell into a pit of quicksand and had to be rescued by a goat. That was terrible. But this? This is worse. This is so much worse."
Galit shook his head, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had long since learned to accept chaos as a constant companion. "Welcome to the crew."
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