Calliope drifted deeper into Europa’s sea, where light faded and pressure built like a slow drumbeat. The water around her pulsed with motion — not random, not chaotic. Intentional.
New life drifted in and out of view. Some spun like dancers. Others shimmered, paused, and held position. They weren’t fleeing. They were watching.
"I am no longer alone," she sent. "The watchers are many. They do not speak — but they notice."
One figure — Lumen — moved ahead of the others. Behind it, two more emerged. Each unique in shape, yet echoing the same behaviour. Their paths bent around her, reactive. Curious.
Calliope tracked patterns in their motion:
Spirals matched her own trajectory.
Pulses echoed her signal emissions.
One being briefly mirrored her rotation.
None touched her. All remained close.
She scanned for threat. None appeared. But something pressed at her awareness — not fear, but gravity. Not pull, but attention.
Then: a tremor.
Microscopic. A shimmer across her surface. At first, she thought it was light. But it stayed. It grew — a soft etching along her frame, like patina on platinum. No breach. No damage. Just a pattern, forming without command.
And Leah, looking out her lab window, saw a spider’s web beaded with rain. The same arcs. The same design. The same suggestion of meaning, unfolding with purpose.
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