Think of your deepest fear. Your darkest, most disturbing nightmare.
Now imagine being trapped in it, under a hermetically sealed dome at the bottom of the ocean.
If you’re anything like me, then congratulations, you’re attending the billionaire destination wedding of the century.
“Welcome to Atlantis 1.0, Mr Pierrax,” a concierge dressed in a fish scale patterned uniform says, holding out a gold plated seashell. “This is your cabin key. Miss Whitmore is already checked in.”
I nod politely and start for the elevators, following the ‘Olivia & Jake’ arrow signs that some wedding planner spent way too much time designing in the shape of mermaid tails. I try not to gawk at the manta rays swimming in the ceiling.
‘What the flying fish, Conseil?’ I hiss into my in-brain commspiece. ‘We said separate rooms. How the fish am I supposed to work with that hag breathing down my neck all weekend?’
‘That is correct, Aron. I booked two separate rooms,’ Conseil’s synthetic voice chirps. ‘You are in cabin 117. Miss Whitmore is in cabin 117.’
I sigh and press the elevator button. Conseil has served me well in many jobs, but the hydrostatic pressure must be messing with his programming. I willingly ignore the fact that my escape from this fished up aquarium hinges on my seasick AI getaway driver and a janky submersible that may as well be from OceanGate’s yard sale.
At least Conseil’s fishing straight-to-brain profanity filter seems intact.
Lucretia Whitmore stands in the doorway, wearing an aquamarine bathrobe with “Team” and “Bride” embroidered on each side of her voluptuous boob job. “You’re not the boy from the catalog,” she says.
Ma’am, you’re not pulling off Jennifer Coolidge in The White Lotus all that well either, I bite my lip to avoid blurting out.
Before I can tell my rehearsed backstory of her original date for hire’s unfortunate seafood poisoning on the ferry sub, she shrugs and says, “Whatever, you’re more handsome anyway. I have to be at Bubbles With the Bridesmaids in twenty, but please, get comfortable…” She winks, motioning to the clamshell bed.
“I—uh… gotta get ready for the welcome cocktail,” I mumble, making a run for the bathroom and locking it from the inside.
“Na-uh, that’s only for B listers,” Lucretia shouts over the sound of the shower I’m performatively running. “We’re A list, baby. You’re going to the bachelor party.”
Dammit, Conseil.
“Remember, the dress code is Mermaids and Mermen. Then for tomorrow’s reception it’s Black Tie, of course.”
‘For fish’s sake, Conseil, you said White Tie! Where will I get a spyware-tapped black bowtie now? Or a fishing merman costume, for that matter?’
‘You have a point, Aron. Procuring spy tech equipment would be difficult at this stage. A merman costume, however, can be improvis—’ I mute him so I don’t smash the porthole mirror.
What is it with straight people going all campy at weddings, I wonder, chafing in the DIY merman toga I fashioned out of the shower curtain. All that’s missing in this Cocktails’n’Scales cabaret is a drag queen named Lana Del Mar lip-syncing “Kiss the Girl”.
Admittedly, groom Jake Marmara looks kinda hot in his Poseidon costume, minus the “Who’s Your Marman” sash.
I remind myself that he and his daddy-in-law are my primary targets. Stockton Whitmore, Lucretia’s brother and head of the Whitmore development empire, is partnering with Marmara Biotechnologies on a mysterious innovation that will supposedly revolutionize luxury real estate. They are expected to announce it at the reception.
My job is to steal the blueprints and deliver them to our client before the official media announcements. For that, I need to get closer to Marmara and his associates.
There are few things in life that terrify me more than a group of straight white Silicon Valley dudes running loose like zoo animals in the wild. Regardless, a job is a job, and in order to do mine successfully, I must join the circus.
My first objective is to secure an after party invite. For that, I have no choice but to debase myself with the sorts of activities that pass for a jolly good time with the boys among these specimens: smoking cigars and getting heated up over card game bets. The 1960s called and want their Mad Men script back.
“Hey man, Alan, is it?” After I’ve folded, Jake leans closer to show me his hand. “What do you say, should I raise?”
I scratch the nape of my neck and pretend to think. ‘Conseil?’ I call out to my partner through our mind link.
To be honest, I’m not even entirely sure what game we are playing, but Conseil has hacked into the CCTV. He can read everyone’s cards.
‘Yes, he should raise,’ Conseil says. ‘Nobody else has the Biden suit.’
Biding suit? Does he mean bidding?
Wait.
“I’d go all in,” I tell Jake with an air of authority. “I bet nobody else has the trump suit.” Fishing Conseil’s fished up programming.
“Damn, dude, you’re like my good luck charm or something!” Jake says after he wins the hand and collects everyone’s seashell chips. “You should come with us to The Naughtilus after.”
Bingo.
Jake leans in again and whispers, “They have sirens and sailors there, by the way. My best man swims both ways, if ya know whatta mean.
I look over at Marmara’s twink CFO, then at Jake’s hand on my bare knee. Maybe the tabloids aren’t lying for once, and Marmara’s marriage to Olivia Whitmore is a political sham.
Soon, I have another twink-adjacent problem on my hands.
Nay, in my lap.
“Aron Pierrax? Seriously? At this point, why not just call yourself Captain Nemo?” the male stripper giggles, toying with my name badge as he places his sailor cap on my head.
Edward fishing Vandersee. I’d recognize that six pack from 20,000 leagues away.
“Ned,” I say, gritting my teeth behind a fake smile. “I didn’t realize things at Nexus were so bad you needed a second job.” We used to be partners, until Vandersee left for another corp intel firm, snatching away half our clients with him.
“I’m not working with Nexus on this,” he says. “The fact that you thought I was is proof enough that you have no idea what’s really going on here.”
“Shot-shot-shot-shots, motherfishaaas!” Jake roars as two sirens bring a tray full of silvery liquids. “Time to see if y’all are sinkers or swimmers!”
Is it me or is Ned looking pale all of a sudden?
“Gimme this.” He snatches the shot glass out of my hand. Then, more composed, he flashes a mischievous grin, tilts my head, and pours its contents into my mouth.
From then on, I’m sinking.
blubblubblub
Jake is gurgling in my ear again.
slorpslorp~
Why are his hands so slimy?
“Come on, we need to go!”
Ned is dragging me somewhere.
THUNK!
Is that the CFO swimming in the ceiling?
What the actual fish…?!
I wake up naked and alone. I have a splitting headache, and my ears ring with ocean sounds as if I have pressed sea snail shells to them.
The clam-shaped bed frame is a different pearlescent shade than the one I thankfully avoided sharing with Lucretia, but I recognize the sailor cap and marinière lying on the floor next to the shower curtain.
Fish. I’m in Ned’s cabin.
I glance at the crab clock on the nightstand. Fish fish fish! It’s almost noon. The reception is starting!
I put on a hotel bathrobe and storm out.
I bump into Lucretia in the hallway. She’s giving Ursula from The Little Mermaid in her tentacled octopus gown. “Why aren’t you dressed?” she hisses.
Her neck gills look freakishly real.
I mumble an apology and lock myself in our cabin. I grab a scanner brush from my bag and run it furiously over my neck and shoulders. ‘Conseil, tell me you got Marmara’s DNA?’
‘Negative. We got it.’
‘You mean affirmative, you useless son of a ChatGPT!’
I sprint towards Marmara’s penthouse, sweating through my white tux and the black spy bowtie I pinched from Ned’s room.
Halfway through, I feel my dress shoes getting soaked. I look down and gasp. There’s a solid inch of water on the ground.
It’s rising.
At the penthouse door, Conseil cracks the lock’s encryption, making my own keycard work as a master key. Inside, I find Jake’s laptop and stick the DNA sample into the ID sensor.
I’m in.
I execute a script that queries for blueprints.
Atlantis-2-0.pdf
Bingo.
I feel the blood draining from my face as I scroll through the blueprints. It’s… the floor plans for Atlantis 1.0, but without the dome? And an anatomy sketch of a… fish man?
“The ocean floor is the new frontier,” a voice behind me recites in a TV marketer tone.
My heart skips a beat as I turn around.
It’s Ned.
“They’re lifting the dome as we speak,” he says. “Apparently, genetic mutation is way cheaper than hyper pressure resistant glass. I’m sorry I had to roofie you last night to stop you from drinking the metamorphosis formula, by the way.”
I stare at him in confusion. “Lifting the dome…? B—but… w—why?”
Ned shrugs. “Free buildable land. No regulations. Self-aggrandizement. The only problem is, they gotta keep the predator fish away. They’re dispersing them using sonic waves. Over time, it’s bound to cause mass extinctions.”
That must be the reason for Conseil’s blips!
“So… what is your plan?” I ask sheepishly.
“I’m working with Greenpeace. They located and deactivated the sensors an hour ago. It won’t be long till those billionaire shits-for-brains start getting eaten by sharks.”
“What about the staff?”
“Evacuated.”
“What about you?”
The water rises up to our knees.
“I came back for you, stupid,” Ned says. “Now what is your escape plan?”
I don’t wait for a second invitation. “Conseil, navigate us to the drysuits closet.”
“Fish!” I yell out loud. “Conseil, these are fishing wetsuits!!”
Ned bursts into laughter. “Okay, plan B, I guess. Marmara gave me the keys to the honeymoon sub.”
He dangles the ‘Just Marmarried!’ keychain in front of my face, and I can’t help but smile. I knew that bachelor party was gay as fish.