The human body is an amazing and complex machine. There are over a hundred thousand different genes in the human genome, and one single gene may contain more than 2 million nucleotides. Our bony framework consists of 206 bones, most of which are in our hands and feet. Our heart and lungs are the power trains behind a circulatory system that supplies muscles and organs with blood, oxygen, and nutrients, all the while removing carbon dioxide and other waste products. Our nervous system and hormones control bodily functions. Our digestive and reproductive systems are marvels of engineering, our brains more complicated than any computer. In fact, the human body is akin to a combustion engine, producing the same amount of energy as a hundred-watt lightbulb.

Yet, for all its nanoscale complexity and metabolic sophistication, the human body is still composed of 70 percent water.

For eighteen months our colony had been consuming New Eden’s water. We were cooking with it, bathing in it, and consuming food supplies grown with it.

What we didn’t know was that it was affecting us … changing us, altering our genetic code.

As Bill Raby, I was among the plague’s first victims.

I remember it being an overcast day. Olive-gray storm clouds whipped above New Eden’s protective domes. Jude and I were on personal time, strolling along one of the artificial lakes, admiring the handiwork of our alien benefactors, when I was suddenly stricken with intense head pains, as if my brain was on fire. I crumpled in agony, screaming to Jude for help.

Mercifully, I blacked out.

I awoke three days later in a medical ward, quarantined with others like me.

The human brain floats in a self-contained sort of womb, surrounded by and filled with a watery substance called cerebrospinal fluid. Doctors informed me that pressure in this cavity had increased dangerously, causing a portion of my cerebrum actually to press against the inside of my skull. This alien form of hydrocephalus had stricken fifty-seven New Edeners besides me, and more cases were being reported every day.

Drugs were not working, and the pressure on my brain was increasing by the hour. Unless relieved, I would lose consciousness and die within three days.

In effect, it was a death sentence.

How does one take such a pronouncement? Jude fell apart. Bill Raby’s consciousness wept inside, while I … well, I just got angry. ‘Remove the tumor,’ I demanded.

‘It’s not a tumor,’ the resident surgeon said. ‘Your brain is swelling. Intracranial pressure has risen from 210 mm to 270, and it’s still climbing. There simply isn’t enough room in your skull to allow for any more growth.’

Within hours, I slipped into a coma.