Ha felt adrenaline coursing through her—felt herself coming more alive in this moment, as if every pore were drawing in the feeling-tone of this now, to store it for later.

It begins.

“No,” Ha said. “Stay here.”

Altantsetseg glared at Ha, and then cocked her head. “Infrared no. Is nothing, I think. Piece of trash, swimming wood in waves. Sorry for bother.”

Altantsetseg was halfway back to the hallway when the perimeter alarm went off again. She stopped and turned. “Must make presence inspect.”

Ha put up a hand. “No. Stop. Shut off the alarm.”

Another finger twitch by Altantsetseg silenced the Klaxon.

“What you are knowing?” Altantsetseg growled. “What game you are playing?”

“Not a game,” Evrim said. “A lure. You baited it. The submersible.”

“Yes,” Ha answered. “And now all I ask is that we stay here for a while. A quarter of an hour. Just fifteen minutes.”

“And what you are thinking?” Altantsetseg grunted. “It just walk through door?”

Ha looked at Altantsetseg, at her index finger extended along the trigger guard of the blunt, nasty little killing machine on its swivel-sling. “I hope not.”

Chapter 19

Evolution built advanced minds not once, but at least twice, gifting them not only to mammals and their kin, but also to cephalopods, and especially to the animal at the apex of ocean intelligence: the octopus.

These are animals so unlike us that most aliens we imagine in our fantasies about outer space have more in common with humans. But there is no denying their sentience. I believe the first aliens we encounter will rise to greet us from the sea.

—Dr. Ha Nguyen, How Oceans Think

19

HA TRIED TO CONVINCE ALTANTSETSEG not to go down to the beach with her, but she would not give in. In the end all three of them went, with Ha in the lead, Altantsetseg behind her, and Evrim taking up the rear. At Ha’s insistence, Altantsetseg left the gun behind at the hotel—but Ha knew that somewhere, overhead, there was at least one drone tracking their progress. Soundless, but capable of doing as much damage as the rifle, or more.

From the hotel’s terrace, concrete paths led left and right, winding through miniature palm and other tropical fantasy plants, none of them native to the island. They went down the path to their right, which led more directly to the beach. The hotel’s landscaping was a false jungle paradise—the amusement park version of “island vacation” that no real island ever quite lived up to. The trees and bushes were evenly spaced and composed of pleasant species without thorns or other inconveniences. But the time since the island had been abandoned had taken its toll. The path was overgrown with searching vines and wild grasses, fallen leaves and fronds. The headlamps they all wore turned the fake jungle, now becoming real jungle as the island reclaimed it, into a web of shadows.