“It’s the sheer mass of the ice sheet. The pressure squeezes oxygen and nitrogen molecules trapped in the ice below and releases them into the lake. Vostok has been experiencing this gas exchange for millions of years. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found pockets of atmosphere. Of course, if there are any organisms alive down there, they would have adapted to this unique oxygen—”

“Enough already, you’re wearing my brain out. I’m popping one of Ming’s pills. Wake me when we get there.”

He was snoring less than ten minutes later.

The slush washing against the bow settled into a soothing rhythm. Curling on my side, I closed my eyes…

The wind whipped through the Great Glen, lapping white water across Loch Ness’s foreboding surface.

True helped me with the dive suit, a heavy contraption that seemed more suited for space. “I’m beggin’ ye, Zachary, don’t go down there. Jist marry my sister and leave the Highlands behind ye forever.”

“The creature’s trapped, True. I need to free it or kill it. It’s the only way to get these night terrors to stop.”

“All right, then. Find the entrance to that underground river and use yer explosives before that thing gets a whiff of ye.” True double-checked my dive suit, then peered into my helmet. “For a runt, ye got big balls. Better grab hold of ’em.”

He disconnected my support cable, and down I went, dropping through Loch Ness’s frigid waters like an anchor. The beam from my forward light cut through the darkness, revealing a tea-colored world, but everything seemed to be spinning.

“Speak to me, Zachary.”

“Dizzy, I’m just a little dizzy.”

“That’s because yer spinning on yer cable. Look inside yer headpiece. Just below yer lower jaw you’ll see a set of gauges. Check yer compass, it’s in orange. It shows direction and course, sort of like a submarine. Press on your thrusters and come to a complete stop. Then call out yer depth to me.”

“Two hundred thirty feet.”

“Have ye stopped spinning?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now ease off the thrusters and continue descending while callin’ out yer depth.”

“Four-sixty. Five hundred feet. Five-forty—”

“Don’t get cocky. Keep it slow and steady. What do ye see?”

“Not much. Even using my light, visibility’s less than fifteen feet. Outside the beam, the water’s pitch-black. I just passed seven hundred feet. The water temperature’s a chilly thirty-eight degrees, but I’m fine. I can see the bottom. It’s a muddy, flat expanse littered here and there by petrified clumps of Scotch pine. The trees are embedded in the soot, belching streams of gas. Their branches are covered in plankton. They’re reaching out for me like the rotting arms of Loch Ness’s dead…

“Jesus, what am I doing down here?”

“Jesus, Zach, whit are ye doing down there?”