An alt-tech dragonfly flutters its copper-and-crystal wings. Its segmented eyes gleam like tiny Fabergé eggs. I’m glad no one tried to swat it. I’m pretty sure that would count as a sign of aggressive intent.

Top barks.

The drone turns its head and makes a pop of static electricity between its front legs. Top whimpers and hides behind Ester.

“Hi, there,” I tell the dragonfly. I try to sound calm, like I talk to mechanical bugs every day. “I’m Ana Dakkar. As you can see, I’m safe and unharmed. We have a crew of twenty for dinner, please. Also, we need urgent medical care for Dr. Hewett. He’s comatose in the sick bay.”

The dragonfly wriggles its antennae. A copper thread unspools from its mouth and snakes its way into our auto-nav console.

“Okay,” Tia Romero mutters. “I’m sure that’s fine.”

The ship’s engines rumble to life.

Pilot Bug steers us to starboard and guides us into the lagoon.

We have arrived in a heavily weaponized paradise.

Along the perimeter of the atoll, turret guns peek from the brambles. They swivel to follow our progress. Targeting lasers wink and flicker along our hull. Whatever projectors control the island’s impressive camouflage system, I imagine they are also hidden in the vegetation.

I’ve spent the last three days struggling to believe this place could exist. Now that we’re here, I still can’t believe it.

Socrates, fearless as usual, leads the way into the lagoon. Two local dolphins swim over to meet him. Within moments, they are leaping around together, chattering happily. So much for my friend being a loner.

The water is so clear, I can see a labyrinth of jagged reefs below the surface. Schools of tropical fish swirl through the evening light like jets of colored paint. I want to dive in that lagoon so badly I can feel the ache in my teeth.

We cruise toward the central volcanic isle. It has no shore to speak of—just dark cliffs that plunge straight into the lagoon. The only sign of habitation is a single wooden dock, with a small shack anchored at the base of the rocks. The structure looks so flimsy, I imagine it would break off in the first strong storm. It certainly doesn’t look big enough for twenty people.

Nevertheless, Pilot Bug guides us toward it. Twenty feet out, it cuts the engines.

“Tia, make ready the moorings,” I say. “Pilot Bug, permission to come ashore?”

The drone retracts its wire tongue, spits another spark of electricity, and flies away. I decide to take that as a yes.

The crew ties off the Varuna. I’m the first one off the ship, followed by Gem, Ester, and Top.