We understand the encoding of genetic sequences, the folding of proteins to construct the cells of the body, and even a good deal about how epigenetic switches control these processes. And yet we still do not understand what happens when we read a sentence. Meaning is not neuronal calculus in the brain, or the careful smudges of ink on a page, or the areas of light and dark on a screen. Meaning has no mass or charge. It occupies no space—and yet meaning makes a difference in the world.

—Dr. Ha Nguyen, How Oceans Think

4

IN THE MAKESHIFT KITCHEN, Altantsetseg sat eating a hard-boiled egg. The table was cluttered with the elements of a disassembled rifle, oil rags, several terminals, and various electronic components. Altantsetseg was in dark blue coveralls. There were Velcro strips for identification insignia or patches on the arms of the coveralls and above the breast pockets, but no patches. Her hair was cut close to her head. It was black, with streaks running through it here and there of gray. She could have been thirty-five, forty, or over that. Thick hands, swollen by weather and work. A scattering of dark spots along the hairline on the left side of her face. They might have been mistaken for moles, but Ha had known war veterans before. She knew the spots were shrapnel scars.

The smell of fresh coffee managed to push back the scent in the lobby of gun oil, ozone, mold, and neglect. An overcast early light came through the windows, along with the salt-flesh smell of the sea. Altantsetseg indicated a bowl of eggs and a stack of toast near the coffee machine with a flick of her chin.

“Thanks.” Ha poured coffee into one of a half dozen semi-clean mugs. The heating element under the pot was no good: the coffee was lukewarm. She drank it off in a gulp. She didn’t sit down, but grabbed an egg. Ha saw the translator unit on the table amid the still life of gear, eggshell, and crumbs.

“Team Lead?” Ha asked.

Altantsetseg squinted at her, then nodded, jerked a thumb in the direction of the terrace and beach.

“Good morning.”

Altantsetseg shrugged, said a phrase that sounded to Ha like, “Sign igloo,” and began rolling another egg on the table, breaking up the shell.

Ha reached into a small paper bag she was carrying and produced a macaroon. She placed it in front of Altantsetseg.

Altantsetseg regarded it, gave Ha a questioning look. Ha made exaggerated eating motions with her face.

“Macaroon.” She pointed at herself. “I made them. A gift.”

Altantsetseg stared at her with no change in her expression.

“Just kidding. I would never bake. I bought them in the Ho Chi Minh ATZ. But they are good.”

She left Altantsetseg sitting there regarding the golden brown bolus of coconut with suspicion.