The thought saddened me. Sliding my forearm between Dharma’s breasts, I pulled her closer, nuzzling the back of her neck. She responded by grinding her buttocks into my groin and we made love for perhaps the last time—the last two humans on Earth.

*   *   *

It took us nearly three hours to trek west through the cave. Oscar handled the brunt of the labor, carrying two tightly woven baskets made from ilala palm fronds, water grass, reeds, and the bark of banana trees. A rigid, bottle-shaped basket held several gallons of water; a larger basket, woven with alternating closed and open weaves allowed air to circulate to keep the food within fresh while keeping the insects out. Decorative, waterproof, and extremely durable, the cephaloped had surpassed the basket weaving skills of the African Zulu.

Dharma pointed out the intricate patterns of emerald green dye (acquired from fermented dung) that encircled a distorted red-orange figure intended by the artist to represent the moon. “According to the cephalopeds, this is what will happen tomorrow night as the moon passes over the South Pole. It does not tell us much.”

“ABE was able to calculate the lunar orbit based on the extended length of the moon’s cycle. Tonight’s event is a perigee full moon, meaning its near side will move closer to Earth than usual—approximately thirteen thousand miles closer—making it appear even bigger and brighter. As far as those green patterns on the basket—I have no clue. To me, it looks like some sort of nuclear explosion.”

The thought caused Dharma to grab my wrist. “Ike, do you think ABE intends to use the plutonium available in Oceanus’s reactor to create a nuclear bomb?”

Before I could respond, my bio-chip cut me off internally.

CONSTRUCTING A NUCLEAR WEAPON IS NOT FEASIBLE. THE PROCESS OF SPLITTING ATOMS IN ORDER TO GENERATE A NUCLEAR CHAIN REACTION REQUIRES PLUTONIUM-239, AN ISOTOPE WITH A HALF-LIFE OF 24,100 YEARS. THE PLUTONIUM-239 ABOARD THE OCEANUS REACTOR CEASED RADIATING HEAT TWELVE MILLION, ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FIVE THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SIX YEARS AGO.

“Apparently, the plutonium aboard Oceanus lost its kick long ago.”

Oscar was waiting for us in the chute, a final sixty-degree, thousand-foot descent that would take us down to the beach. Coiling each of us within a pair of its powerful tentacles, the big male cephaloped climbed down in controlled lurches, using me and Dharma as counterweights to the baskets.

The wind greeted us halfway down, howling full force by the time our feet touched sand. Following the narrow cavern, we exited among boulders into daylight, greeted by an ominous gray sky and a seemingly endless stretch of beach, pockmarked by holes. They were easy enough to avoid, randomly situated at roughly four to six per acre.

In the distance, perhaps a mile to the northwest, was Oceanus.