The truck moved between two broad streams of crushed coral. In the distance, other streams widened and merged, the fingers of reef-rock between them narrowing then vanishing, until the land around us was more than half sludge. The part-digested coral grew coarser, the surface of the channels less even; glistening pools of water began to appear. I noticed occasional streaks of color surviving within the bleached limestone—not the muted trace minerals of the city's masonry, but vivid, startling reds and oranges, greens and blues. The truck already stank of the ocean, but soon the breeze—which had been carrying the scent away—began to compound it.
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.
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
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?"
