Swimming over to it takes approximately ten seconds and thirty million years. There's another horrible metallic screech and the Seamoth is released, to dangle sadly in a halo of debris and spurting gas a hundred metres off. Whatever it is, it's so big that I can't see all of it. Turning, I glimpse the vessel's headlights spinning wildly through the blackness, and in the glare from those headlights, a corkscrew motion and the flash of dense, milky-white flesh. I've barely aimed my repair gun at the sub when there is an almighty crunch and it vanishes. Besides, I've got two health packs left, and a fancy thermo survival knife that cooks anything you hit with it. In hindsight, the absence of larger fauna really ought to have set a few alarm bells ringing, but all I can think of are the scratches on my Seamoth's lovely yellow finish. The sea floor ahead is thick with towering ferns that provide cover for a species of coyote-like predator, whereas right here I can see nothing save schools of fish the size of my thumb, twisting in the dark like flurries of snow. The sub - a chubby, whirring frisbee with a bubble cockpit - has taken a few knocks while rooting through the trenches, and in a moment of great wisdom, I hop out to perform some repairs. I'm on my way back to base from a salvaging trip, hold packed with lithium from shale deposits on the edge of the reef. "Not unless you're going all the way." It turns out this is just as true of a submarine, and especially at night, 300 metres below the surface. "Never get out of the boat," says Captain Marlowe in Apocalypse Now. An oppressively beautiful portrayal of an undersea environment, and a well-wrought survival game with a vaguely eco-friendly message.
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