Neverland rushed to Atlantis to save Utopia. The brightness of the wild fleet felt like hope itself when my tracker showed them approaching the froth-white epicenter. We on the coast were trapped, but they came from the west, where the tsunami crests were but one more ripple on the belly of the sea. The Seaborn nation-strat loved Atlanteans like bas’sibs, and knew every current of the Mediterranean, and the dangers of the human bloodstream, too, which was the survivors’ true enemy as eddies bore them surfaceward. Houseboats, racing yachts, schooners, ferries, silverjacks, spitting hydrofoils, and tiny runabouts all knew their parts as the voice of Graylaw Tribune Jay Sparhawk and the salt-white sails of the Ahab’s Folly led the rescue. Dragons and griffins flocked to them, and robots sparkling against the broad jewel of the sea. Utopia’s static-bright vanguard alighted on the boats and deferred to the instructions of those who know waves as we know sidewalks. People were hauled from the sea, the drowning given breath, the dying dignity. Then explosions ricocheted across the seascape, white and savage. I still don’t know what they were: mines, time bombs, leftovers, some accident of pressure as further infrastructure burst below, but I saw one explosion claim a brave water taxi, another a shimmering milliwing, another a schooner whose planks shattered in the blast, and then the medical alert told me that Mycroft was unconscious, then that their blood oxygen was dropping, dropping, and the pressure rising, rising, and then the heartbeat stopped. I shrieked, begged, attacked a nurse and stole their hoverbed and started out, and Achilles marshaled a ship, and Papa barked orders from HQ, and MASON sent a special force, and Huxley let the Sea Knights know, and the Nemo Watch, and O.C.E.A.N.U.S., and all that time the heartless tracker kept on making us watch a green line fall as Mycroft’s blood grew stiller and more toxic, and the pressure gauge ticked off meter by meter the sinking of the corpse.