He never told anyone about it. It was sharp as a razor, chiseled and rubbed to an edge just the way they used to do when he was a kid. They would make knives from shells sometimes, attaching them to a wooden handle with wire or string. It had looked like that, but without a handle.

It was like something a human would make.

And it was a murder weapon. He threw it into the sea because he knew if it were found, they would say he had done the killing. It would be their proof. He knew he was going to spend months in jail. He knew there would be beatings. But there was still a chance he could escape the worst of it, at least.

And he did. He escaped the murder charge, and he told no one about the shell he had found.

So why did the woman deserve to know? She didn’t. The secret was his.

He floated with his eyes closed, head tilted back, letting the sun turn the world behind his eyelids into an explosion of reds and yellows.

It was a little hum or buzz that caused him to open his eyes. At first it sounded like a motor. But when he looked up, he saw the insect hovering over him, silvery in the sun. He lazily swiped at it, but as he did so it darted down and landed on his neck. He felt a small pinch, and smacked at it, but missed. It buzzed away.

For several minutes, Da Minh watched the sun from underwater, only dimly aware of drowning.

Chapter 14

There are many levels of consciousness here on earth. Many animals are self-aware, to one degree or another. But culture, not consciousness, is what we are searching for. Not other minds, or other selves—which are everywhere—but other societies.

—Dr. Ha Nguyen, How Oceans Think

14

FOR THIS TASK, Altantsetseg did not need to immerse herself in her connective bath: gloves were enough. The gloves were of gray material that to Ha looked like shed snakeskin, loose and translucent, wrapping Altantsetseg’s arms to above the elbows, like the accessories to a strange ball gown.

Evrim had waited until after noon to summon the security officer, giving her plenty of time alone with her coffee. But Altantsetseg still did not look herself. Her shrapnel scars stood out starkly, black pits against a pallid background, a negative image of constellations in a sky.

On-screen, live, the submersible descended through plankton-moted water, its headlamps illuminating streak-forms of fish. The aperture of its camera blurred as it attempted to catch a passing object, or rapidly focused on some bit of eyestalked plankton gaping stupidly at the intruder as it drifted past.