“All right, fine. I’ll play this game.” Ha felt irritated. Defensive. Again—how much does Evrim know? “You would need to have a creature that is long-lived, that is social, that raises its young, and can pass information from one generation to the next. An octopus that has developed a complex, symbolic system of communication. So—how might that happen? I go over this in my book. Let’s put forward the idea that evolution accelerates due to environmental pressures. The need to find new niches. Evolution is slow, but there are animals who adapt faster than others. This is especially true of the octopus: they can modify the protein processes in their bodies without recourse to DNA mutation.”

“Through RNA editing—swapping out one RNA base for another. They can produce molecular diversity quickly, particularly in their nervous systems. It’s an alternative engine for evolution,” Evrim said.

“You’ve read the literature. Good. Yes—RNA editing. It’s unique to cephalopods—and, admittedly, it’s fast. Much faster than DNA mutation. More responsive to its environment. It’s a massive advantage—allowing quick adaptation, in a comparative handful of generations, to new environmental challenges. So, if evolution accelerates due to environmental pressures, and the octopus adapts quickly via RNA editing to those pressures, it follows that you put an octopus species under pressure, it could change much more quickly than non-cephalopods…”

The door to the unit swung open. Altantsetseg filled the doorway, square and muscular in a technical T-shirt, the battered old translator at her throat.

“Surrender macaroon, robot.”

Evrim turned their calm face toward the door. “Excuse me?”

“Surrender macaroon cookie thing. Cookie is useless to you.”

“You are interrupting, Altantsetseg.”

“Give up macaroon, and I depart,” the neutral translator voice said over the baffling consonantal barrier of Altantsetseg’s own language.

“I will not,” Evrim said.

“Robots do not eat.”

“It was a gift to me, and I enjoy looking at it.”

“I will later pilfer it.” Altantsetseg turned and walked off, slamming the unit door behind her.

“She’s not the best communicator around,” Ha said.

Evrim shook their head. “No. But there are reasons.”

“The translator is faulty.”

“It’s not that. The translator is a wall for her to hide behind. She has a better translator. She won’t use it. She is a veteran of the Chinese-Mongolian Winter War. She bears her scars.”

Images came to Ha of the Chinese-Mongolian Winter War. Burned corpses lacquered in ice. Charred, frozen skeletons shattered like glass by concussion rounds. The fingerless hands of veterans.

“You were going to offer a theory,” Evrim said, “before we were interrupted. Environmental pressures.”