Within minutes, the landscape was transformed. Vast banks of living coral, inundated with ocean water, surrounded narrow, winding causeways. The reefs were dazzling, polychromatic; the algal symbionts living within the various species of coral-building polyps employed a rainbow of distinct photosynthetic pigments—and even from a distance I could make out wild variations of morphology between the mineralized skeletons of each colony: pebbled aggregates, riots of thick branched tubing, delicate fernlike structures—no doubt a pragmatic exercise in diversity for the sake of ecological robustness, as well as a deliberately opulent display of bioengineering virtuosity.
The truck stopped, and everyone else clambered off—except for the two people I’d seen shifting crates onto a freight tram back at the terminus.
I hesitated, then followed the crowd; I had further to go, but I didn’t want to attract attention.
The truck moved on. Most of the other passengers were carrying masks, snorkels, flippers; I wasn’t sure if they were tourists or locals, but they all headed straight for the reefs. I wandered along with them, and stood for a while, watching, as they stepped gingerly out onto the half-protruding coral, heading for deeper water. Then I turned and strolled north along the shoreline, away from the divers.
I caught my first glimpse of the open ocean, still hundreds of meters ahead. There were a dozen small boats moored in the harbor—one of the six armpits of the giant starfish. The view from the air came back to me, fragile and exotic. What exactly was I standing on? An artificial island? An ocean-going machine? A bioengineered sea monster? The distinctions blurred into meaninglessness.
I caught up with the truck at the harbor; the two workers loading it glanced at me curiously, but didn’t ask what I was doing here. My idleness made me feel like a trespasser; everyone else in sight was shifting crates or sorting seafood. There was machinery, but most of it was very low-tech: electric forklifts, but no giant cranes, no vast conveyor belts feeding processing plants; the reef-rock was probably too soft to support anything heavy. They could have built a floating platform out on the harbor to take the weight of a crane, but apparently no one felt it was worth the investment. Or maybe the farmers simply preferred it this way.
There was still no sign of Kuwale. I moved away from the loading bay and wandered closer to the water’s edge. Biochemical signals diffusing out from the rock kept the harbor free of coral, and plankton transported sediment to the reefs where it was needed; the water here looked bottomless, deep blue-green. Amidst the froth of the gently breaking swell, I thought I could discern an unnatural effervescence; bubbles were rising up everywhere. The outgassing from the pressurized rock, which I’d seen—second hand—on the underside of Stateless, was escaping here to the surface.
Out on the harbor, farmers were winching aboard what might have been a fishing net bursting with produce. Gelatinous tendrils embracing the bounty glistened in the sun. One worker stretched up and touched the top of the “net” with something on the end of a long pole, and the contents abruptly spilled onto the deck, leaving the slack tendrils quivering; within seconds, when the last scraps had fallen, the translucent creature was almost invisible. I had to strain my eyes to follow it, as they lowered it back into the ocean.
Kuwale said, “Do you know what non-renegades pay Ocean Logic for a harvester like that? All its genes were taken straight from existing species—all the company ever did was patent them, and rearrange them.”
I turned. “Spare me the propaganda. I'm on your side—if you’ll give me some straight answers.”
Kuwale looked troubled, but said nothing. I spread my arms in a gesture of frustration. “What do I have to do to convince you to trust me as much as you trusted Sarah Knight? Do I have to die for the cause first?”
“I'm sorry you were infected. The wild type’s bad enough; I know, I’ve had it.” Ve was wearing the same black T-shirt I’d seen ver in at the airport, flickering with random points of brightness. It suddenly struck me again just how young ve was: little more than half my age—and in at the deep end.
I said, begrudgingly, “That wasn’t your fault. And I'm grateful for what you did.” Even if saving my life wasn’t the point.
Kuwale looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if I’d just showered ver with undeserved praise. I hesitated. “It wasn’t your fault, was it?”
“Not directly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? The weapon was yours?”
“No!” Ve looked away, and said bitterly, “But I still have to take some responsibility for everything they do.”
“Why! Because they’re not working for the biotech companies? Because they’re technoliberateurs, like you?” Ve wouldn’t meet my eyes; I felt a small surge of triumph. I’d finally got something right.
Kuwale replied impatiently, “Of course they’re technoliberateurs.” As if to say: isn’t everyone? “But that’s not why they’re trying to kill Mosala.”
A man was walking toward us with a crate on his shoulder. As I glanced in his direction, red lines flashed up across my vision. He kept his face half-turned away from us, and a wide-brimmed hat concealed half of the rest, but Witness—reconstructing the hidden parts by symmetry and anatomical extrapolation rules—saw enough to be convinced.
I fell silent. Kuwale waited until the man was out of earshot, then said urgently, “Who was it?”
“Don’t ask me. You wouldn’t give me any names to go with the faces, remember?” But I relented, and checked with the software. “Number seven in your list, if that means anything to you.”
“What kind of swimmer are you?”
“Very mediocre. Why?”
Kuwale turned and dived into the harbor. I crouched by the edge of the water, and waited for ver to surface.
I called out, “What are you doing, you lunatic? He’s gone.”
“Don’t follow me in yet.”
“I have no intention—”
Kuwale swam toward me. “Wait until it’s clear which one of us is doing better.” Ve held up vis right hand; I reached down and took it, and began to haul ver up; ve shook vis head impatiently. “Leave me in, unless I start to falter.” Ve trod water. “Immediate irrigation is the best way to remove some transdermal toxins—but for others, it’s the worst thing you can do: it can drive the hydrophobic spearheads into the skin much faster.” Ve submerged completely, dragging me in up to the elbow, almost dislocating my shoulder.
When ve surfaced again, I said, “What if it’s a mixture of both?”
“Then we’re fucked.”
I glanced toward the loading bay. “I could go and get help.” In spite of everything I’d just been through—no doubt thanks to a passing stranger with an aerosol—part of me still flatly refused to believe in invisible weapons. Or maybe I just imagined that some principle of double jeopardy meant that the molecular world had no more power over me, no right to a second attempt to claim me. Our presumed assailant was walking calmly off into the distance; it was impossible to feel threatened.
Kuwale watched me anxiously. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Except you’re breaking my arm. This is insane.” My skin began to tingle. Kuwale groaned, a worst-expectations-come-true sound. “You’re turning blue. Get in.”