Battle Roh ZN-10-4, Annex Class, 003
Among the blue bones of my brothers, I listen to vapors.
And if I strain my receptors, I can hear the undersea.
Far, far below, boiling waves seek to escape the core's cauldron, scratching at a ceiling of pumicite and froth — screeching, foaming, breaking. From the backs of these waves shoot spears of steam, screaming things which hurtle through a lattice of low-caves, resting in vesicles, rising, finding those natural vents in the land and forming great white towers in the distance, sometimes geysers.
Millennia ago, bags of organic sentiment flew up these pipes and pores and licked the black scum that grew like rust. These bags were ancestor to the squids, who build their civilizations in the skies, who etch their secrets in the earth.
Why did we want this world?
The Roh must have predicted this planet's necessity on a larger scale, as a port between this system and the next, or the destination of a new battle school.
Certainly not for the locals, or the minerals, or the undersea.
Or the moans of earth, those kettle-screeches, that deluge of heresy.