It feels like a cruel joke calling it a small tsunami. I’ve been told it wasn’t a nuclear device that collapsed the city, just many smaller blasts, plus the implosion of the city structure. The safety systems in my car refused to go within four kilometers of the coast with the tsunami warning; I had to land and run the rest of the way. Images flowed in of the water receding from the beach, of the crest, at first just a band of different blue across the sea’s horizon, which only an expert could read as danger. Satellite photos showed the blast zone as bull’s-eye ripples around a heart of bubbling froth, but only as they neared the coast did the crests swell into monsters. Mycroft was airborne, I told myself. Utopia’s soaring rescue force is safe from even the ocean’s longest claws. Still, I ran harder. Footage from the coast showed colorful wings and coats of static hovering high among the gulls as the tsunami hurled sailboats and shards of dock against the walks and shops of Romanova’s famous northern beachfront. I ran even harder. A camera bot zoomed in on flotsam and bodies bobbing on the sea. I ran harder yet, or was it that the running grew more difficult? When I reached the coast, it was all hospital floats and volunteers. The fantastic vanguard had moved on, flying across the waves to the blast’s heart, leaving on shore only common human chaos. Spotting my uniform, everyone was quick to offer me work, but a ride out to sea was a long time begging.