The Swarm

12 August

Independence, Greenland Sea

Samantha Crowe put down her notes and stared out of the window. The CH-53 Super Stallion was descending rapidly. A strong gust pummelled the heavy-lift helicopter. The thirty-metre craft seemed to be plummeting towards the light-grey surface stationed in the sea. Crowe was astonished that a vessel of such colossal proportions was capable of staying afloat, but at the same time she couldn't help wondering if it was big enough to land on.

Nine hundred and fifty kilometres to the north-east of Iceland, the USS Independence LHD-8 was sailing over the deep-sea basin of the Arctic Ocean, a floating city in the Greenland Sea. Like the spaceship in Alien, its presence seemed dark and foreboding. Two hectares of freedom and 97,000 tonnes of diplomacy – as the US Navy liked to say. The amphibious-assault helicopter-carrier, the largest of its kind in the world, would be her home for the next few weeks. Samantha Crowe, c/o USS Independence LHD-8, latitude 75 degrees north, 3500 metres above the ocean floor.

Her mission: to conduct a conversation.

The helicopter banked. The Super Stallion rushed towards the landing point and touched down with a bounce. Through the side-window she saw a man in a yellow shirt directing the helicopter into its bay. One of the crew reached over and unfastened her seat-belt, then helped her out of her lifejacket, goggles, safety helmet and ear-protectors. The flight had been turbulent, and Crowe felt unsteady on her legs. She teetered down the ramp at the rear of the helicopter, crossed beneath the tail of the Super Stallion and looked around.

Only a few helicopters were visible on the flight deck. Her eyes roved over the endless expanse of asphalt, 257.25 metres long, 32.6 metres across, and dotted with bollards. Crowe knew the exact dimensions. She was a mathematician who loved precision, and she'd found out as much as she could about the Independence before she'd set out. At present, the statistics were dwarfed by reality: the Independence was much greater than its technical specifications, schematics and plans. The air smelt strongly of kerosene and oil, mixed with a hint of salt and overheated rubber. A fierce wind swept the combination of odours over the flight deck and tugged at her overalls.

Not the kind of place you'd choose to visit.

Men in brightly coloured shirts and protective headphones ran back and forth. A white shirt headed towards her. Crowe racked her brains. White was the colour for safety personnel. The men in yellow directed the helicopters in to land, and the red shirts were responsible for fuel and ammunition. Weren't there brown shirts too? And maybe purple. What were the brown shirts for?

'Follow me,' the man bellowed over the noise of the slowing rotor. He gestured towards the superstructure. It rose up on the starboard side of the deck like a high-rise apartment block, crowned with oversized antennae and sensors. Crowe's right hand reached down automatically to her pocket. Then she remembered that her cigarettes were stashed beneath her overalls. She hadn't been able to smoke in the helicopter either. Flying to the Arctic in high winds hadn't bothered her, but holding out without nicotine for hours on end was no laughing matter.

The man opened a hatch and Crowe stepped into the superstructure, or the island, as the sailors called it. Once they'd passed through another door into the interior, they were greeted by a wave of clean air. In Crowe's view, the island looked more like a cave. It was incredibly cramped inside. The white shirt delivered her into the care of a tall black man in uniform, who introduced himself as Major Salomon Peak. As they shook hands, Peak seemed rather formal, as though he had little experience of dealing with civilians. Crowe had spoken to him several times over the past few weeks, but only ever by phone. They strode along a winding corridor and clambered down a series of steep companionways deep into the bowels of the ship. The soldiers followed with her bags. On one of the bulkheads, a sign proclaimed, in big letters, '02 LEVEL'.

'I expect you'll want to freshen up,' said Peak. He opened one among many identical doors lining both sides of the passageway. It led into a surprisingly spacious and pleasantly decorated cabin, more a suite than a room. Crowe had read somewhere that living space on helicopter-carriers was kept to a minimum and that the troops slept in dormitories. Peak raised his eyebrows when she commented.

'We'd hardly make you sleep with the marines,' he said. The hint of a smile played on his lips. 'The navy knows how to look after its guests. This is flag accommodation.'

'Flag?'

'Our very own Hilton. Living-quarters for admirals and their staff. We're not at full capacity, so we've got all the space in the world. We've given the flag accommodation to women and the men have been housed in officer berthing. May I?' He walked ahead of her and opened another door. 'Bathroom.'

'I'm impressed.'

The soldiers brought in her bags.

'There's a minibar under the TV,' said Peak. 'Soft drinks only. I was thinking I'd come back in thirty minutes so we can start the tour. Will that be sufficient?'

'Absolutely.'

Crowe waited until the door had closed behind him, then hunted for an ashtray. She found one in a sideboard, peeled off her overalls and rummaged through her jacket pockets. It wasn't until she'd opened the crumpled packet, lit the cigarette and taken a drag that she started to feel properly alive.

She sat on the edge of her bed. Two packs a day. She couldn't give up. She'd tried twice and failed.

Maybe her heart wasn't in it.

After a second cigarette, she showered, then pulled on some jeans, sneakers and a sweater. She smoked a third cigarette, and opened all the cupboards and drawers. By the time she heard a knock at the door, she'd already inspected the inside of her cabin so thoroughly that she could have drawn up an inventory from memory. She liked to know how things stood.

It wasn't Peak in the passageway, but Leon Anawak.

'I told you we'd meet again,' he grinned.

Crowe laughed. 'And I told you that you'd find your whales. Good to see you, Leon. I hear you're the one I need to thank for being here.'

'Who told you that?'

'Li.'

'Oh, I reckon you'd he here anyway. I had a dream about you.'

'Oh, my.'

'Don't worry – you were a kind of friendly spirit. How was the flight?'

'A bit humpy. Am I the last to arrive?'

'The rest of us boarded in Norfolk.'

'I couldn't get away from Arecibo. You wouldn't believe how much effort it takes to stop working on a project. We had to close down SETI. No one's got the cash to look for little green men at the moment.'

'There's a good chance you'll find more of them than you bargained for,' said Anawak. 'Are you ready? Peak will be here in a moment. He'll show you what the Independence has to offer and then it's your turn. Everyone's really excited. You've already got a nickname, by the way.'

'A nickname? What are they calling me?'

'Ms Alien.'

'Oh, heavens. For a while everyone called me Miss Foster, after Jodie played me in that film.' Crowe shook her head. 'Well, why not? So long as I've got a pen for signing autographs. Let's go.'

PEAK SHOWED HER ROUND 02 LEVEL. They'd started their tour in the bow and were making their way amidships. Crowe had admired the gym, crammed with treadmills and weight machines. It was practically deserted. 'Under normal circumstances you can't move in here for people,' said Peak. 'The Independence can accommodate three thousand men. Right now there are barely two hundred of us aboard.'

They walked through the junior officers' berths – dormitories for between four and six people with comfortable bunks, plenty of storage space and foldaway tables and chairs.

'Cosy,' said Crowe.

'Depends on how you look at it. There's not much chance of falling asleep when things get busy on the roof. Those helicopters and jump-jets are roaring up and down the flight deck, only metres above your head. It's hardest on the new recruits. They're exhausted at first.'

'How long does it take to get used to it?'

'You don't. You get used to being woken up, though. I've served on flat-tops before, and you're always away for months at a time. After a while it seems normal to be lying there on stand-by. You forget what it's like to sleep soundly. The first night at home is hell. You're listening out for the roar of engines, aircraft landing and helicopters docking, people running in the passageways, constant announcements – but instead there's just the ticking of your clock.'

They walked past the enormous messroom and came to a watertight door protected by a combination lock. They went into a large, darkened room. For the first time Crowe saw people at work. Lights flashed from consoles as men and women stared at the bank of wide-screen monitors that lined the walls.

'02 LEVEL is where you'll find most of the control and command rooms,' explained Peak. 'In the past they'd have been housed in the island, but that's too risky. Enemy missiles are programmed to strike large heat-emitting structures so the island's an obvious target. They'd only have to score a few hits, and we'd be like a body with its head blown off. That's why most of the control rooms are located under the roof.'

'The roof?'

'Navy jargon. I meant the flight deck.'

'And what's your role on board?'

Peak ignored her.

'This room is the CIC…'

'Ah. The Combat Information Center.'

The eyes in the narrow ebony-sculpted face flashed with irritation. Crowe resolved to keep her mouth shut.

'The CIC is the nerve-centre of the vessel,' said Peak. 'All the information that comes into or goes out of the ship passes through here – data from the ship's sensors, satellites, missile detection, surface-search radar, damage-control, communication – all in real time, of course … It gets pretty darned busy when we're under attack. See those empty desks? I imagine you'll be spending a good deal of time there, Dr Crowe.'

'Samantha. Or Sam.'

'Those systems are our underwater eyes and ears,' Peak continued, as though he hadn't heard. 'Antisub surveillance, SOSUS sonar and Surtass LFA, to name a few. Nothing approaches the Independence without us knowing about it.' Peak pointed at a screen mounted at the head of the room, showing a patchwork of diagrams and charts. 'The big picture. An integrated overview of all the information received by the CIC. A smaller version appears on the screens in the bridge.'

Peak led the way through the adjoining rooms. Almost all were shrouded in half-light, illuminated only by screens, monitors and displays. Next to the CIC was the Landing Force Operations Center. 'It's the command centre for the Marine Expeditionary Units. Each unit has its own console. During a landing operation, satellite images and recon planes are used to detect the position of enemy troops.' There was an unmistakable note of pride in Peak's voice. "The LFOC allows us to shift troops and develop strategies in an instant. The central computer links the commander to his units in a ship-to-shore system.'

Crowe recognised pictures of the flight deck on some of the screens. She knew Peak probably wouldn't appreciate the question, but she couldn't help asking, 'How will that help us, Major? Our enemy's at the bottom of the sea.'

'Sure. So we'll use our capabilities for a deep-sea operation. I don't see the problem.'

'Sorry. I guess that's what comes from spending too much time in space.'

Anawak grinned. So far he hadn't said a word, but Crowe found his presence reassuring. Peak continued the tour. The Joint Intelligence Center came next. 'All the data from the recon systems is decoded and interpreted here,' said Peak. 'If anything gets too close to the Independence, we take a good look at it, and if the boys don't like it, they shoot it down.'

'That's a pretty big responsibility,' murmured Crowe.

'The computer does some of the work for them,' said Peak. 'But you're right, of course.' He gestured towards the other rooms. 'Most of what goes on in the CIC and JIC is pretty technical stuff, but we also keep an eye on the news from all over the world. We've always got CNN and NBC on screen, plus a dozen or so other key channels. You'll have access to all the information you need, including the databases of the Defense Mapping Agency. The navy's maps are far more detailed than anything available in the public domain, and you'll have the privilege of using them.'

They carried on down. After the on-board store came empty dormitories and living-quarters, then the hospital on 03 LEVEL, a vast antiseptic expanse with six hundred beds, six operating theatres and a gigantic intensive-care unit. It was deserted. Crowe imagined the scene during an attack: people screaming, blood flowing, doctors and nurses rushing from bed to bed. The more she saw of the Independence, the more it seemed to resemble a ghost ship – or a ghost city. They began the ascent up to 02 LEVEL and continued aft, until they reached a ramp wide enough for vehicles to drive down.

'The tunnel starts in the bowels of the vessel and zigzags all the way up to the island,' said Peak. 'The layout of the Independence allows all the strategically relevant areas to be accessed by jeep. In an assault situation, the marines would use the tunnel too. Let's head down.'

The steel bulkheads resonated with their footsteps. For a moment Crowe was reminded of a multi-storey car park, but then the enclosed ramp opened on to a hangar bay. Crowe had read that it covered a third of the ship's total length, with a height of two entire decks. There was a strong draught. On either side a colossal open gate led out on to a platform. Pale yellow lighting combined with the sunshine seeping through the gates to bathe the area in hazy light. Glass booths and control points were housed between the ribs. Hooks hung from above, attached to some kind of monorail. Crowe spotted large forklift trucks and two Hummers.

'Usually the hangar bay would be full of aircraft,' said Peak, 'but for this operation we'll only be needing the six Super Stallions that are docked on the roof. In the event of an emergency, we'll be able to evacuate fifty people per craft. We've also got two Super Cobra attack helicopters aboard, in case we need something with a bit more zip.' He pointed to the two gate-like openings. "The external platforms are elevators for transporting aircraft from the hangar bay to the roof. Each deck elevator has a capacity of over thirty tonnes.'

Crowe walked towards the starboard gate. The steely grey sea stretched towards an empty horizon. Few icebergs found their way into these waters. The East Greenland Current transported them along the coast, three hundred kilometres away. The Independence would only encounter occasional patches of slushy drift ice.

Anawak joined her. 'One of many possible worlds, right?'

Crowe nodded.

'Did any of your scenarios provide for an underwater alien civilisation?'

'We've got the full repertoire, Leon. It sounds ludicrous, I know, but whenever I'm thinking about alien life, the first place that occurs to me is planet Earth – the oceans, beneath the Earth's crust, the poles, the air. If you don't know your own planet, how can you get to grips with other worlds?'

'That's exactly our problem.'

They followed Peak further down the ramp. It linked the various levels like an enormous stairwell. The tunnel levelled out and turned into a passageway that led towards the stern. They were now at the heart of the Independence. A side-door had been left open, bathing the corridor in artificial light. As they walked in, Crowe recognised the biologist she'd spoken to via video link-up over the past few weeks. Sue Oliviera was standing beside one of a multitude of lab benches, talking to two men, who introduced themselves as Sigur Johanson and Mick Rubin.

The entire deck seemed to have been converted into a laboratory. Benches and equipment were grouped together like islands. Crowe noticed chest freezers and barrels of liquid. Two large containers had been joined together and were marked with biohazard signs; presumably the containment facility. In the middle was a structure the size of a small house, surrounded by a walkway. Steel ladders led up to the top. Thick pipes and bundles of cable connected the walls to box-shaped machinery. A large oval window revealed the diffusely lit interior. It seemed to be filled with water.

'You've got an aquarium on board?' said Crowe.

'A deep-sea simulation chamber,' explained Oliviera. 'The original's in Kiel. It's much bigger than this – but ours comes with a port-hole made of armoured glass. The pressure inside would kill you, but other organisms need it to survive. At the moment it's populated with several hundred white crabs that were caught in Washington and loaded into pressurised containers to be flown out here. It's the first time we've succeeded in keeping the jelly alive – at least, we think we have. We haven't caught sight of it yet, but we're sure it's lurking inside those crabs and controlling their movements.'

'Fascinating,' said Crowe. 'But I don't suppose the chamber's only here for the crabs, is it?'

Johanson flashed her an enigmatic smile. 'Who knows what'll turn up next in our nets?'

'So it's a kind of PoW camp.'

Rubin laughed. 'That's a good one.'

Crowe glanced around. With the exception of the door, the laboratory was sealed. 'Isn't this usually a vehicle deck?' she asked.

'Yes,' Peak told her. 'On the other side of this bulkhead is the stern half of the vessel with the hangar bay above us. You've read up on it, haven't you?'

I'm inquisitive, that's all,' Crowe said modestly.

'Well, let's hope your inquisitiveness translates into results.'

'What a grouch,' Crowe whispered to Anawak, as they left the lab.

'Oh, Sal's a decent enough guy. He's just not accustomed to know-it-all civilians.'

THE PASSAGEWAY ENDED in a hall, whose height and length exceeded the dimensions of even the hangar bay. They walked over an artificial embankment that sloped down towards a basin whose inset floor was lined with wooden planking. It looked like a vast empty swimming-pool. At its centre, the planks had been cut away to make room for an inverted glass structure made of two square flaps that sloped downwards, coming together to form an upside-down turret jutting out beneath the deck. Next to that was an enormous raised tank filled with water. Its rippling surface reflected the beam of the overhead lighting. Crowe saw slim, torpedo-shaped bodies gliding beneath the waves. 'Dolphins!' she exclaimed.

'Yes.' Peak nodded. 'Our marine mammal fleet.'

Her eyes shifted upwards. The monorail system covered the ceiling here too, the track branching off in several directions. Futuristic vehicles were suspended from above, like giant sports cars bred from submersibles and planes. On either side of the basin the embankment continued in the form of jetty-like walkways. Boxes of equipment and other goods were stacked along the walls. Crowe noticed probes, gauges and diving-suits hanging up in lockers. Ladders led down into the basin at regular intervals.

Four Zodiacs were resting on the wooden planking at the near edge of the basin.

'Someone pulled the plug, huh?'

'Yesterday evening. It's down there, by the way.' Peak pointed to the glass structure. Crowe tried to gauge its size – it had to measure at least eight by ten metres. 'That's our sluice gate, the entrance to the ocean – with a twin set of locks: glass flaps at the base of the pool and steel flaps in the hull. There's a three-metre vertical shaft between them. It's foolproof – the gates never open simultaneously. As soon as a submersible has been released into the shaft, we close the glass flaps and open the steel ones. When the sub returns, the same thing happens in reverse. The submersible enters the shaft, the steel flaps close, and we can peer through the glass to make sure there's nothing down there that shouldn't be. In the meantime, the water's being checked for chemicals – the shaft is lined with sensors that test it for impurities and toxins. The results appear on two displays, one near the glass flaps and the other on the control panel. The sub stays in the shaft for about a minute. The glass flaps won't open until we've received the all-clear, then it's released into the basin. We use the same procedure for the dolphins. Follow me.'

They walked along the starboard jetty. A console towered up from the decking, positioned at the edge of the pool and equipped with monitors and other gadgets. A bony man with piercing eyes and a handlebar moustache left the group of soldiers and came towards them. 'Commander Luther Roscovitz,' Peak introduced him. 'He's in charge of the dive station.'

'You're Ms Alien, right?' Roscovitz flashed his long, yellowed teeth in a grin. 'Welcome aboard for the cruise. What took you so long?'

'My spaceship was delayed. Neat desk.'

'It does the job. We use it to operate the hatches and for sending down the submersibles. It also controls the pump, for when we want to fill the basin.'

Crowe remembered what she'd read about the Independence. She jerked her head in the direction of the steel bulkhead that sealed the stern-side of the hall. 'That's a hatch too, isn't it?'

'A stern gate. By flooding the ballast tanks we can get the vessel to sit lower in the water, so when the stern gate's open, seawater rushes in and creates a nice little harbour with its own private entrance.'

'Cute place to work. I like it.'

'Oh, don't get me wrong. Normally this place is full of landing-craft, heavy-duty tugs and hovercraft. It's a big hall, sure, but in no time at all they're crammed in like sardines. We had to shift everything around for this mission. It was clear from the start that we wouldn't need landing-craft. All we were looking for was a ship heavy enough not to be sunk by any kind of sea monster, that could stand up to huge waves, and had all the latest in communications technology. Oh, and it had to have aircraft landing points and a dive station. It was lucky as hell that the LHD-8 was already in construction, the biggest and most powerful amphibious-assault vessel of all time. It was practically ready, but we had the option of making some changes. What more could you ask for? The shipbuilders in Mississippi are seriously good. They came up with a new design for the well deck, added the sluice system and modified the workings of the pump. Now we can flood the basin without using the stern gate. In fact, we'd only ever need to open it if we wanted to launch the Zodiacs.'

Crowe looked down into the basin. Two people in neoprene wetsuits were standing at the edge of the dolphin pool; a slim red-headed woman and an athletically built giant with a long dark mane. She watched as a dolphin swam towards them and poked its head above the water, allowing the giant to stroke its smooth forehead.

'Who's that?' asked Crowe.

'They're in charge of the dolphin fleet,' said Anawak. 'Alicia Delaware and…' he hesitated '. . . Greywolf.'

'Greywolf?'

'Yes, or Jack if you prefer. He answers to both.'

'What do the dolphins do?'

'They're living cameras. They take video footage for us while they're swimming around out there. But we mainly use them for surveillance. Dolphin sonar detects other living creatures long before our systems pick them up. Jack used to work with some of this fleet when he was in the navy. Their vocabulary is pretty big. They use different kinds of whistles – one for orcas, another for grey whales, a third for humpbacks and so on. They can recognise pretty much every decent-sized creature, provided they've been taught the signal, and they can even point out shoals. Anything they don't recognise, they classify as unknown.'

'Impressive,' said Crowe. 'And that good-looking man down there can really speak their language?'

Anawak nodded. 'Better than he speaks ours, I sometimes think.'

THE MEETING TOOK place in the Flag Command Center opposite the LFOC. Crowe already knew most of those present, having met them in the flesh or via video link-up. Now she was introduced to Murray Shankar, SOSUS's lead acoustician, and Karen Weaver, as well as the first officer, Floyd Anderson, and the skipper, Craig C. Buchanan, a wiry, white-haired man who seemed to have been born for a career in the navy. They all shook hands and Crowe took an instant dislike to Anderson, with his thick neck and small dark eyes. She was introduced lastly to a corpulent man, who arrived a few minutes late, sweating profusely. He was dressed in a baseball cap and sneakers. A bright yellow T-shirt bearing the words 'Kiss me, I'm a Prince,' stretched over his expansive belly. 'Jack Vanderbilt,' he introduced himself 'You're not what I expected of E.T.'s mom.'

'Daughter would have been more flattering,' Crowe said drily.

'Hey, would you be dishing out compliments if you looked like me?' Vanderbilt chortled. 'Incredible, isn't it, Dr Crowe? After all those decades pointlessly beaming your hopes and expectations into space, you might even get an answer.'

They all took their seats. General Judith Li addressed the room briefly, summarising the state of play. They knew in advance what was coming. The US had tabled a leadership motion to the UN Security Council, which, in a special meeting held behind closed doors, had voted unanimously in favour of the proposal. America now had the mandate to co-ordinate the logistical and technological battle against humanity's unknown enemy. Japanese and European delegates had reached the same conclusion as the Chateau delegates: mankind wasn't attacking itself; the threat was coming from an alien intelligence.

'Well, I'm pleased to say that we'll soon have a drug that will immunise humans against the killer algae's toxins. The trouble is, the side-effects are pretty nasty, and the drug won't work against mutations of the pathogens, which is what we've been finding in the latest batch of crabs. By now, most of the world's worst-hit regions no longer have any functioning infrastructure. The American government was happy to assume responsibility for the international war effort, but we've had to accept that we're no longer in a position to safeguard our shores. There's also the ongoing problem of the worms. Colonies are continuing to collect along the continental slopes and – more worryingly – on the slopes of volcanic seamounts like La Palma where Dr Frost and Dr Bohrmann are setting up a deep-sea vacuum-cleaner to clear the infestation. In other parts of the world we're still not making any progress with the whales – sonar offensives are futile when you're dealing with mammals whose instincts have been hijacked by an alien intelligence. But even supposing we could control the whales, we still wouldn't be able to jump-start the Gulf Stream or prevent the build-up of methane. Tackling the symptoms doesn't solve anything and we haven't been able to advance to the cause. We're not gleaning any information about what's going on down there, and our underwater cables are being disconnected one by one. The devastating truth about this war is that we're blind and deaf. Let me put it more bluntly. We've lost.' Li paused. 'Who are we supposed to attack? La Palma's going to slide into the ocean and America, Africa and Europe will be swamped by mega-waves. What's the point of fighting back? The fact is, we're not going to make any progress until we know whom or what we're up against – and right now we don't have a clue. So the purpose of this mission isn't to launch an offensive but to open negotiations. We want to make contact with these alien beings and persuade them to stop terrorising mankind. In my experience, it's always possible to negotiate with the opposition, and there's an excellent chance that we'll find our enemy right here – in the Greenland Sea.' She smiled. 'We're hoping to achieve a peaceful solution. And, to that end, we're pleased to welcome the final member of our team, Dr Samantha Crowe.'

Crowe rested her elbows on the table. 'I appreciate the warm welcome.' She glanced at Vanderbilt. 'Some of you may know that SETI's efforts haven't met with particular success. Given the sheer size of the known universe – at present estimated at over ten billion light years – almost anything seems possible, except perhaps the chance of looking in the right direction when an alien signal happens to be coming our way. So, compared with SETI's mission, our current predicament seems positively promising. First, we can be reasonably confident that the aliens exist; and second, we know roughly where they live – somewhere in the ocean and, very possibly, in this particular sea. But even if they turned out to live at the opposite pole, we'd still have narrowed it down. They can't leave the oceans, and a strong sound wave sent from the Arctic can still be heard on the other side of Africa, which gives us good grounds for hope. But there's an even more decisive factor. We're already in contact. We've been sending messages into their habitat for decades. Regrettably, those messages have brought with them destruction, so the yrr haven't bothered with ambassadors or diplomacy: they've launched straight into war. From our point of view, that's tiresome, but for the moment we should set aside our negative feelings and consider the onslaught as a kind of opportunity.'

'An opportunity?' echoed Peak.

'Yes, we have to see it for what it is – a message from an alien life-form that can help us discover how it thinks.' She placed her hand over a stack of plastic files. I've outlined the basis of our approach in these packs. But if any of you thinks this is going to be easy, I'm going to have to disillusion you. No doubt you'll have been wrestling with the question as to what kind of creature could be sending us the seven plagues. I guess you're familiar with Close Encounters of the Third Kind, E.T., Alien, Independence Day, The Abyss, Contact and so on, and you'll probably be expecting either monsters or saints. Take the ending of Close Encounters. A superior intelligence descends from space to lead the worthy to a better, brighter future. For lots of people, that's a comforting thought, but doesn't it remind you of something? Exactly! There's a strong religious current beneath the surface of these movies. To some extent, the same could be said about SETI. The trouble is, it blinds us to how radically different an alien intelligence is likely to be.'

Crowe gave them time to digest what she was saying. She'd thought long and hard about the best way to approach the project, and she knew that she wouldn't make progress until the myths had been debunked.

'My point is that science fiction never engages with the true alienness of non-human civilisations. Sci-fi's extra-terrestrials are grotesquely exaggerated projections of human hopes and fears. The aliens in Close Encounters symbolise our longing for a lost Eden. They're essentially angels, and that's their function: a few chosen people are guided to the light. Of course, no one's interested in whether these aliens have their own culture. They only exist to serve basic religious notions. Everything about them is human, because that's how humans would like aliens to be. Even their appearance – glowing white light and what have you – has been choreographed to suit us. The same goes for the aliens in Independence Day. They're not really alien, in so far as they just live up to our notions of evil. The movies don't allow their aliens to be genuinely different. Good and evil are human concepts, and stories that try to do without them seldom catch on. It's hard for us to accept that our values aren't shared by other civilisations, but it's a problem we face all the time. Every human culture finds aliens on its doorstep – or just across the border. To communicate with an alien intelligence, we have to understand that. It's more than likely that we won't have any common values; and if our senses aren't compatible, we may not be able to communicate in any conventional way.'

Crowe handed the stack of files to Johnson, who was sitting next to her, and asked him to pass them round the room.

'If we want to think seriously about communicating with an alien civilisation, we can begin by imagining a state run by ants. Although ants are highly organised, they're not truly intelligent, but for the purpose of the exercise, let's imagine they are. In effect, we'd be dealing with a collective intelligence that sees nothing wrong with feasting on injured members of its species, that goes to war but doesn't understand our concept of peace, that sets no store by individual reproduction, and that treats the harvesting and consumption of excrement as a kind of sacred ceremony. We'd be trying to communicate with a collective intelligence that works in a completely different way from our own. But it works! Let's take this a step further. Suppose for a moment that we don't recognise alien intelligence, even when it comes our way. Leon, for instance, runs all kinds of tests because he wants to find out if dolphins are intelligent, but will he ever know for sure? Conversely, what would an alien intelligence think about us? The yrr are attacking us, but do they credit us with intelligence? Do you see what I'm driving at? We're not going to get any closer to understanding the yrr until we've dispensed with the idea that our system of values is the be-all and end-all of the universe. We have to cut ourselves down to size – to what we really are: just one among an infinite number of possible species, with no special claim to being anything more.'

Crowe noticed that Li was scrutinising Johanson's expression – as though she was trying to see inside his head. There were some interesting constellations on board, she thought. Then she caught Jack O'Bannon and Alicia Delaware exchanging glances, and knew that they were more than friends.

'Dr Crowe,' said Vanderbilt, leafing through the pages of his file, 'what would you say constitutes intelligence?'

It sounded like a trick question.

'A stroke of luck,' said Crowe.

'Luck?'

'Intelligence occurs when a host of different factors unite in a specific way. How many definitions do you want? Some people think intelligence is simply whatever is deemed valuable within a particular culture. According to some people, intelligence can be analysed by examining basic thought processes, while others try to measure it statistically. Then there's the question of origin: is intelligence inborn or acquired? At the beginning of the twentieth century it was postulated that intelligence could be gauged by studying an individual's ability to master certain tasks. That's what modern-day experts base their ideas on when they define it as the ability to adapt to the demands of a changing environment. In their view, intelligence is acquired, not genetically determined, but others argue that it's an innate part of being human – an inborn capacity that helps us adjust our thinking to new situations. If you take that line, then intelligence is the ability to learn from experience and to adapt to your surroundings. And then there's my personal favourite: intelligence is asking what intelligence means.'

Vanderbilt nodded slowly. 'I see. So you don't really know.' Crowe grinned. 'I hope you won't mind my using your T-shirt to illustrate an example, Mr. Vanderbilt, but it's unlikely we'd be able to judge a being's intelligence from its appearance.'

Laughter rippled through the room and ebbed away. Vanderbilt was staring at her. Then he grinned. 'I dare say you're right.'

ONCE THE ICE had been broken, the meeting gathered pace. Crowe outlined the next steps. During the past few weeks she'd worked out a basic strategy with the help of Murray Shankar, Judith Li, Leon Anawak and some of the guys from NASA. It was based on the limited number of attempts to make contact that had been conducted in the past.

'Space makes things easy for us,' Crowe explained. 'You can send out huge packets of data in the microwave spectrum. Light is easy to spot and it travels at three hundred thousand kilometres per second. You don't need any cables or wires. It's a different story under water. Water molecules absorb the energy of short-wave signals, while for a longwave signal you'd need enormous antennae. Light waves can be used to communicate under water, but only over relatively short distances. So that leaves us with sound. But sound comes with its own particular drawback – the echo effect. Sound waves get deflected all over the place, and that leads to interference. The message would overlap with itself and become unintelligible. To get round that, we need a special modem.'

'We borrowed the principle from marine mammals,' said Anawak. 'Dolphins use it. They've essentially invented a way of outsmarting echoes and interference. They sing.'

'I thought that was whales,' said Peak.

'When we talk about whalesong, we only mean it sounds as though they're singing,' explained Anawak. 'Music may not exist to them as a concept. In this instance singing means constantly modulating the frequency and pitch of the noise. There are two advantages. You get round the problem of interference, and you increase the amount of data you're able to transmit. We'll be using a singing modem. We can get it to transmit thirty kilobytes of information over a distance of three kilo-metres. That's a lot of data – half the capacity of an ISDN line. It's enough to beam out high-resolution images.'

'So what are we going to say?' asked Peak.

'The laws of physics are expressed in mathematics,' said Crowe. 'They're the cosmic code that gave rise to consciousness in the first place, allowing humanity to understand math. Math is life's way of explaining its own origins. It's the only universal language that any intelligent being subject to the same physical conditions would understand. It's the language we'll use.'

'How? Are you going to make them do sums?'

'No. We're going to express our thoughts in math. In 1974, SETI fired a powerful radio wave from Earth towards a globular cluster in the constellation of Hercules. We sent 1679 characters, all expressed in binary pulses – ones and zeros, like the dots and dashes of Morse code. A mathematician would know what to do with the number 1679 because it's the unique product of two prime numbers, 23 and 73, numbers only divisible by one and themselves. In other words, the basics of our numerical system were contained within the structure of the message. The 1679 pulses separate into 73 columns, each containing 23 characters. Well, a little mathematics goes a long way, and if you turn the dots and dashes into black and white blocks, lo and behold, a pattern will emerge.'

She held up a diagram on a sheet of paper. It resembled a pixelated computer printout. Parts of it looked abstract, but there were some clearly identifiable shapes.

'The top lines represent the numbers one to ten and contain information on our decimal system. Below that are the atomic numbers of five chemical substances: water, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen and phosphorus. All five substances are crucial to life on this planet. The message continues with extensive information about the biochemistry of the Earth, with formulae for our DNA bases and sugars, the structure of the double helix and so on. The final third of the message shows an image of the human form, linked directly to the representation of DNA, from which the recipient should be able to deduce the nature of evolution on earth.

Our units of size wouldn't mean anything to an alien intelligence, so the wavelength of the message was used to convey the average human height. Following on from there is a diagram of our solar system, and then, to round it all off, we've got details of the appearance, dimensions and design of the Arecibo radio telescope from which the message was sent.

A polite invitation for them to visit our planet and eat us alive,' said Vanderbilt.

'That was exactly what concerned the authorities. But we've always had an answer to that: the aliens don't need our invitation. Humanity has been sending radio waves into space for decades. All our radio traffic goes up there – including all the chatter from intelligence agencies. You don't need to decode those signals to know that they must have been sent by a civilisation with technology.' Crowe put down the diagram. 'We expect the Arecibo message to take twenty-six thousand years to reach its destination, so it'll take fifty-two thousand before we receive a reply. You'll be pleased to hear that our underwater message will be faster.

We're going to proceed in stages. Our first communication will be straightforward. You were partly right, Major Peak – we'll be sending them two sums. If they're sporting, they'll answer. The first exchange is designed to prove the existence of the yrr and to gauge our chance of initiating dialogue.'

'Why would they bother to reply?' asked Greywolf. 'They know enough about us already.'

'Well, they may know some things, but they won't necessarily know the essential point: that we're an intelligent species.'

'Excuse me?' Vanderbilt shook his head. 'They're destroying our ships, for Christ's sake, so they must know we built them. Why should they doubt our intelligence?'

'Just because we're able to build complex structures doesn't prove we're intelligent. Think of termite hills – they're architectural masterpieces.'

'That's different.'

'Oh, it's no use getting on your high horse, Mr. Vanderbilt. If Dr Johanson is right about yrr culture being based on biology, we need to ask ourselves whether they think we're capable of focused, structured thought.'

'You mean they might think we're…' Vanderbilt grimaced '. . . animals?'

'Vermin, even.'

'A kind of fungal infection.' Delaware grinned. 'We're being targeted by a pest-control agency.'

'I've been looking at our enemy's mindset,' said Crowe. 'To see if there's anything it can tell us about these creatures' way of life. It's all speculation, I know, but we need to find a way of focusing our efforts. At any rate, it struck me that while we've had no shortage of aggression directed towards us, there hasn't been a single diplomatic overture, so I asked myself why. Maybe they don't set any store by diplomacy – or maybe it hasn't occurred to them to try. Obviously, a pack of army ants wouldn't bother with diplomatic niceties before they swarmed all over their prey, but in their case, attacks are guided by finely tuned instincts. The yrr, on the other hand, have already demonstrated a high degree of insight and awareness in their ability to plan. Their strategies are creative. If the yrr are intelligent, and they're aware of it, they clearly don't share our notions of morality and ethics. Maybe in their logic the only way forward is to attack us relentlessly, so if we want them to stop, we'll have to give them a persuasive reason why.'

'I don't see what good a message will do when they're already chomping through our deep-sea cables,' said Rubin. 'Surely they'd be able to glean all the information they could possibly need.'

'That's not quite true.' Shankar chuckled. 'SETI's Arecibo message is only intelligible to extra-terrestrials because it was put together with an alien intelligence in mind. That's not something we bother about when we communicate with each other on a day-to-day basis. To an alien intelligence, all that cable data would look like an almighty mess.'

'Absolutely,' said Johanson. 'But let's see what else we can deduce. Sam's using my idea of a biologically based technology. Why? Because it's the most obvious conclusion to draw. They don't need machines or equipment, just genes. Their weaponry consists of organic life-forms – strategic mutations. I'd say they're tied to nature in a way that humans aren't. You can see how they might be far less estranged from their natural environment than we are.'

'Noble savages – is that what you mean?' asked Peak.

'I don't know about noble. It's pretty reprehensible to go around polluting the atmosphere with exhaust fumes, like we do – but what about breeding and manipulating other life-forms to suit your own needs? Is that any better? Anyway, what interests me is how they might perceive our threat to their habitat. We're always talking about the destruction of the rainforests. Some people militate against it, others keep chopping. But what if, metaphorically speaking, the yrr are the rainforests? I'd say there's evidence for that in the way they deal with biology, which brings me to my second point. With the exception of the whales, the organisms they're using are almost exclusively creatures that occur en masse- worms, jellies, squid, mussels, crabs. They're organisms that live in shoals or swarms. Millions of creatures are being sacrificed for the yrr to achieve their goals. The individual doesn't matter to them. Would humans think like that? Sure, we breed viruses and bacteria, but for the most part we use man-made armaments in manageable quantities. Mass biological weaponry isn't really our thing. But the yrr seem fairly expert at it. Why? Well, maybe shoals and swarms are what they know best.'

'Do you mean… ?'

'I think we're dealing with a collective intelligence.'

'And how does a collective intelligence experience the world?' asked Peak.

'A fish in a fishing net would ask the same about the fisherman, assuming fish could think,' said Anawak. 'Why should he and millions of his friends be forced to die in nets? Surely that's mass murder.'

'Hardly,' said Vanderbilt. 'More like fish-fingers.'

Crowe gestured for silence. 'I agree with Dr Johanson,' she said. 'And if we're right, it would seem that the yrr have taken a collective decision to fight us, and that ethics and empathy aren't part of the deal. I know in the movies you can melt the heart of even the nastiest alien by looking at it with puppy-dog eyes, but that isn't going to work. No, we need to make communication seem more intriguing than violence. The yrr would never have been able to accomplish half of what they've done if they weren't au fait with physics and math, so let's challenge them to a mathematical duel. Hopefully, at some point their logic – or maybe even some kind of moral code – will kick in and persuade them to rethink their behaviour.'

'They must know we're intelligent,' Rubin insisted. 'If any species stands out because of its superior understanding of physics and maths, it has to be us.'

'Yes, but are we intelligent and conscious?'

Rubin blinked in confusion. 'How do you mean?'

'Are we aware of our intelligence?'

'Well, obviously.'

'Or maybe we're computers with an inbuilt learning capacity? Of course we know the truth, but do they? Theoretically it would be possible to replace the entire brain with an electronic equivalent, and then you'd get AI. Your artificial brain would be capable of doing everything that you can do. It could build you a spaceship and outsmart Einstein. But would it be aware of its achievements? In 1997 the world chess champion Garry Kasparov was defeated by an IBM computer, Deep Blue. Does that mean Deep Blue was conscious? Or did it win without seeing the point? Does the fact that we build cities and lay underwater cables prove that we're intelligent, conscious beings? SETI has never excluded the possibility that one day we might come across a machine civilisation; computer intelligence that has outlived its creators and continued to develop over millennia by itself.

'And the creatures down there? If what you're saying is true, maybe the yrr are just ants with fins. A species without any ethics, without even any-'

'Exactly. And that's why we're proceeding in stages.' Crowe smiled. 'Stage one, I want to find out if there's anything down there; stage two, I want to establish whether dialogue is possible; and stage three, I want to know if the yrr are consciously responding to our messages – if their intelligence is conscious at all. Only then – once we've reason to believe that in addition to their evident knowledge and skill they're able to conceptualise and understand – will I be prepared to consider them as intelligent beings. And only then would it be worthwhile reflecting on their values – but even then we shouldn't expect those values to bear the slightest resemblance to our own.'

For a while there was silence.

'I don't want to interfere in a scientific debate,' Li said finally, 'but pure intelligence is unfeeling. Intelligence connected to consciousness is an entirely different matter. In my opinion, an intelligent conscious being would necessarily have values. If the yrr represent conscious intelligence, they'd have to recognise at least one value: the value of life. And since they're trying to defend themselves, that would seem to be the case. I'd say they've got values. What we need to find out is whether those values coincide in any way with our own. Maybe there's the tiniest overlap.'

Crowe nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'Maybe there is.

LATE THAT AFTERNOON they bundled the first sound wave and sent it into the depths. Shankar had chosen a frequency to match the spectrum of the unidentified noises that his SOSUS colleagues had christened Scratch.

The modem set about modulating the signal. The sound wave was subject to a certain amount of reflection, so Crowe and Shankar sat in the CIC, modulating the modulations until the distortion was gone. An hour after the signal had been broadcast, Crowe felt confident that any creature capable of detecting acoustic signals would have no trouble receiving it. Whether the yrr would make sense of it remained to be seen.

They might not bother to reply.

Perched on the edge of her chair in the half-light of the CIC, Crowe felt a wave of elation at the thought of how close they were to the moment she'd always longed for: contact. But, more than anything, she was afraid. She could feel the burden of responsibility weighing on her and the rest of the team. This wasn't an adventure like Arecibo and Project Phoenix: it was up to them to avert a catastrophe and save mankind from destruction. 'The SETI researcher's dream had turned into a nightmare.

FRIENDS

Anawak made his way up through the vessel, then strode along the narrow passageways in the island and emerged on the flight deck. Over the course of the voyage, the roof had turned into a kind of promenade. Anyone with a few moments to spare could be found strolling along it, deep in thought or deliberating in groups. In an unlikely twist of fate, the roof of the largest helicopter-carrier in the world, usually the site of innumerable take-offs and landings, had developed into a place of contemplation and scientific debate. The six Super Stallions and two Super Cobras waited forlornly on the vast expanse of tarmac.

On board the Independence, Greywolf continued to lead his exotic life, although Delaware was ever more a part of it. The two were growing steadily closer. Delaware wisely gave him space, which meant that Greywolf sought out her company. In public, they never let slip that they were more than friends, but Anawak could see that their bond was growing. The signs were unmistakable. Delaware rarely worked with him now: she spent all her time looking after the dolphins with Greywolf.

Anawak found Greywolf sitting cross-legged at the bow, looking out across the ocean. As he started to sit down, he realised Greywolf was carving.

'What is it?' he asked.

Greywolf passed it to him. It was a large object, skillfully carved from cedarwood. It looked almost finished. One end finished in a handle, while the larger section showed a number of intertwined figures. Anawak could make out a bird, two animals with powerful jaws, then a man, who seemed to be at their mercy. He ran his fingers along the surface. 'It's beautiful,' he said.

'It's a copy.' Greywolf grinned. 'I only ever make replicas. I don't have it in me to come up with an original.'

'I get it.' Anawak smiled. 'You're not Indian enough.'

'You don't get anything – you never do.'

'OK, calm down. So, what is it?'

'It's a ceremonial hand-club. From the Tla-o-qui-aht. The original was made of whalebone, in a private collection from the late nineteenth century. The figures tell a story from the time of the ancestors. One day a man came across a mysterious cage with all kinds of creatures inside it. He took it back to his village. Soon afterwards he fell ill and no one could cure him. There didn't seem to be any explanation for his illness, but then the answer came to the sick man in a dream. 'The creatures in the cage were to blame. They weren't just animals, they were transformers, shapeshifters, and they attacked him in his sleep.' Greywolf pointed to a squat creature. 'This one's a wolf-whale. In the dream it attacked the man and closed its jaws round his head. Then Thunderbird tried to save him. You can see how it's digging its claws into the wolf-whale's flank. While they were fighting, a bear-whale joined them and grabbed the man by his feet. The man woke, told his son the dream and died. The son carved this club and used it to kill six thousand shapeshifters to avenge his father's death.'

'And what's the hidden meaning?'

'Does everything have a hidden meaning?'

'A story like that is bound to have a hidden meaning. It's the eternal struggle, isn't it? The battle between good and evil.'

'No.' Greywolf pushed the hair out of his eyes. 'The story tells of life and death. In the end you die, but until then your life is in flux. You can live a good life or a bad life, but you don't control what happens to you – that's for higher powers to decide. If you live in harmony with Nature, she will heal you; if you fight her, she will destroy you. But the important point is that you don't control Nature – she controls you.'

'The man's son doesn't seem to have shared that insight,' said Anawak. 'Otherwise why would he have sought vengeance for his father?'

'The story doesn't say he was right.'

Anawak handed the club to Greywolf, reached into his anorak and pulled out the bird spirit. 'Can you tell me anything about this?'

Greywolf turned it in his hands. 'It doesn't come from the west coast,' he said.

'No.'

'Marble. Does it come from your homeland?'

'Cape Dorset.' Anawak hesitated. 'A shaman gave it to me.'

'You, of all people, accepted a gift from a shaman?'

'He's my uncle.'

'And what did he tell you about it?'

'Not much. He said the bird spirit would guide my thoughts when it was time. And that I may need someone to tell me what it sees.'

Greywolf was silent for a while. Then he said, 'There are bird spirits in almost every culture. Thunderbird is an ancient mythological figure. It's part of creation, one of the spirits of Nature, a higher being. But bird spirits have other meanings too.'

'They're linked to heads, aren't they?'

'In ancient Egyptian art you often see bird-like headdresses. For the ancient Egyptians, the bird represented man's consciousness. It was trapped inside the head, like in a cage. If your head was open, the bird would fly away, but you could still entice it back. Then your consciousness would return.'

'So whilst I'm asleep my consciousness is soaring.'

'Your dreams are more than stories: they show you what your consciousness is seeing in higher worlds that are otherwise closed. Have you ever seen an Indian chief's feather headdress?'

'Only in Westerns.'

'Well, the headdress signifies that the chief's spirit is inscribing stories in his head. That's what the feathers are for. In other words, his head is full of good ideas, and that's why he's chief.'

'His mind soars.'

'With the help of the feathers. Most tribes have a single feather, but it means the same thing. The bird spirit represents consciousness. That's why the worst thing that can happen to an Indian is to lose their scalp, or headdress. It means being separated from their consciousness – possibly for good.' Greywolf frowned. 'If you were given this sculpture by a shaman, he must have been alluding to your consciousness, the power of your ideas. You should use your mind but you have to open it first. Your spirit needs to go on a journey, and that means it has to join with your unconscious.'

'Why don't you wear feathers in your hair?'

Greywolf grimaced. 'Because, as you pointed out, I'm not a true Indian.'

Anawak was silent.

'I had a dream in Nunavut…,' he said eventually.

Greywolf listened intently to the story of the iceberg. 'I knew I'd end up sinking into the sea,' Anawak concluded 'but the thought of drowning didn't scare me,' he concluded.

'What did you expect to find down there?'

'Life,' Anawak said.

Greywolf looked at the green marble figurine resting on the palm of his enormous hand. 'Tell me honestly, Leon, why did they ask me and Licia to come on board?' he asked abruptly.

Anawak gazed out at the ocean. 'Because we need you here.'

'No, you don't, not really. I'm pretty good with dolphins, but there's no shortage of dolphin-handlers in the US Navy. And Licia doesn't have any particular role.'

'She's an excellent assistant.'

'Have you asked her to help you? Do you need her?'

'No.' Anawak stared up at the sky. 'You're here because I wanted you.'

'But why?'

'You're my friends.'

For a while there was silence again.

'I guess we are.' Greywolf nodded.

Anawak smiled. 'I've always rubbed along fine with everyone, but I can't remember having proper friends. And you can bet I never thought I'd be friends with an argumentative smart ass student- or with someone twice my size and full of crackpot ideas, whom I practically came to blows with.'

'That argumentative student did exactly what friends do.'

'Which is?'

"Look an interest in your life. You and I have always been friends though. If you ask me…' Greywolf lifted the sculpture and grinned.'. . . Our heads were just closed for a while.'

'What do you suppose made me dream all that stuff? It keeps coming back to me, and it's not as though anyone could accuse me of having mystical tendencies. But something happened in Nunavut, and I can't explain it. By the time we were out there on the land and I had that dream, something had changed.'

'What do you think it means.'

'Well, we're being threatened by deep-sea creatures, aren't we? Maybe it's my job to go down there and-'

'Save the planet.'

'OK, forget it.'

'Do you want to know what I think?'

Anawak nodded.

'I think you couldn't be more wrong. For years you retreated into yourself, dragging around all your baggage. That iceberg you were floating on – it was you. An icy, unapproachable block. But out there the block began to melt. The ocean you're sinking into isn't the kingdom of the yrr. It's our world. That's where you belong. That's the adventure in store for you. Friendship, love, hostility, hatred and anger. Your role isn't to play the hero. Those roles were handed out a long time ago, and they're for dead men. You belong in the world of the living.'

Night

They all rested in different ways. Crowe's small, delicate form was swaddled in blankets, with just her steel-grey hair protruding at the top. Weaver lay naked on top of the sheets, sprawled on her front, head to one side, pillowed on a forearm. Her chestnut hair covered her face, so that only her parted lips could be seen. Shankar was a restless sleeper who couldn't stop rearranging his bedclothes, muttering and giving the occasional muffled snore.

Rubin was mostly awake.

Greywolf and Delaware didn't sleep much either, but that was mainly because they were otherwise engaged. Two cabins further along, Anawak was asleep on his side in a T-shirt. There was nothing remarkable about Oliviera's sleeping patterns.

Johanson lay on his back, arms outstretched. Only the beds in flag and officer accommodation allowed an expansive position like that. It suited the Norwegian so well that a former lover had once woken him to tell him that he'd been sleeping like the lord of the manor. He slept like that every night- a man who looked as though he wanted to embrace life, even when his eyes were closed.

The sleeping or waking bodies filled a row of brightly lit screens. Each monitor showed an individual cabin. Two men in uniform were watching them, while Li and Vanderbilt hovered in the background.

'Regular angels, wouldn't you say?' said Vanderbilt.

Li's expression didn't flicker as she watched Delaware and Greywolf. The volume was turned down, but faint sounds of their love-making penetrated the cool air of the control room.

I'd go for that little beauty,' said Vanderbilt, pointing at Weaver. 'Nice ass.'

'Fallen for her, have you?'

Vanderbilt grinned. 'Oh, please.'

'You should turn on the charm,' said Li. 'You're carrying around at least two tonnes of it.'

The CIA agent mopped the sweat from his forehead. They watched for a while longer. Li didn't care if the people on the screens were snoring or turning cartwheels. They could hang upside-down from the ceiling for all she cared.

The main thing was that she knew where they were, what they were doing and everything they said.

'Carry on,' she said. On her way out she added, 'Remember to keep looking in all of the cabins.'

13 August

Visitors

The message had been beamed non-stop into the depths – as yet to no avail. At seven o'clock they'd been jolted out of bed by the alarm call, but almost no one felt properly rested. Most nights the gentle rocking motion of the enormous vessel lulled them to sleep. The air-conditioning hummed softly in the cabins, keeping the temperature agreeably constant, and the beds were comfortable. They might have slept soundly, but for the suspense. Instead they'd dozed fitfully. Johanson had lain awake imagining the effect of the message on the Greenland Sea, until nightmare visions haunted him.

That they were in the Greenland Sea at all, and not thousands of kilometres further to the south, was due only to his intervention, with the support of Bohrmann and Weaver. If it had been up to Rubin, Anawak and some of the others, the attempt to make contact would have been launched over the site of the volcanoes in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Rubin's reasoning was based on similarities between the crabs of that region and those that had invaded New York and Washington. Besides, it was one of the few places in the depths that provided the right conditions for sophisticated life-forms to flourish. In that respect, the habitat in the hydrothermal vents was ideal. Hot water rose up from huge chimneys of rock on the seabed, drawing with it minerals and life-giving nutrients from the heart of the volcanoes. Worms, mussels, fish and crabs inhabited the vents in conditions not dissimilar to those of an alien planet. Why shouldn't the yrr live there too?

Johanson had accepted most of their arguments, but two factors prevented him backing their conclusion. First, although the hydrothermal vents were the most favourable place for life in the deep sea, they were also the most lethal. Molten rock was regularly cast out of the volcanoes as the ocean plates shifted apart. During such eruptions the deep-sea biotope could be wiped out entirely, although it didn't take long for new life to establish itself. All the same, it was hardly an environment that a complex, intelligent civilisation would choose as its home.

Second, the chance of making contact with the yrr was greater, the closer they got to them. Exactly where that might he was a matter for debate. All the various theories were probably right to a degree. There was reason to believe, for example, that they might live in the benthic zone at the very bottom of the ocean. Many of the recent anomalies had occurred in the immediate vicinity of deep-sea trenches. Yet there was also evidence to suggest that they resided in the vast ocean basins of the abyssal plains. And Rubin's suggestion that they might inhabit the oases of life in the middle of the Atlantic couldn't be rejected. In the end Johanson had proposed that they shouldn't focus on where the yrr might live, but on places where they had to be present.

The cold water in the Greenland Sea had stopped plummeting into the depths. As a result, the Gulf Stream had halted. There were only two possible explanations for the phenomenon: either the water had warmed, or an influx of fresh water flowing southwards from the Arctic had diluted the salt-laden current so it could no longer sink. Both explanations presupposed intense activity at the site of the convective chimneys. Somewhere in the Arctic Ocean the yrr were providing the impetus for radical changes in the sea.

Somewhere not far from the vessel.

Lastly, there was the safety aspect. Even Bohrmann, who had got into the habit of expecting the worst, was forced to concede that the risk of a methane blow-out in the Greenland Basin was relatively small. Bauer's ship had come to grief near Svalbard, at a site where vast deposits of hydrates lined the continental slope. By contrast, 3500 metres of water separated the Independence from the seabed. At that depth there was relatively little methane, certainly not enough to sink a vessel of that size. To be on the safe side, the scientists had taken regular seismic readings as they crossed the Arctic Ocean, selecting a position that seemed mainly hydrate-free. Stationed on the open water, the Independence would be safe from the mightiest tsunami – unless, of course, La Palma collapsed into the sea.

But then it would all be over anyway.

Inside the cavernous messroom, the scientists were having breakfast. Anawak and Greywolf were missing. After the alarm call Johanson had spent a few minutes talking on the phone to Bohrmann, who'd arrived in La Palma and was preparing to deploy the suction tube. 'The Canaries were a time-zone behind the Arctic, but Bohrmann had been up for hours already.

'A five-hundred-metre suction tube doesn't take care of itself,' he'd said.

'Don't forget to vacuum in all the corners,' Johanson had advised him.

He missed Bohrmann, but there no shortage of interesting people on board. He was chatting to Crowe when first officer Floyd Anderson walked in, holding a pint-sized insulated mug emblazoned 'USS Wasp LHD-8.' He walked over to the coffee machine and filled it. 'We've got visitors,' he bellowed.

Everyone turned.

'We've made contact?' asked Oliviera.

'We can't have. I'd know.' Crowe picked up a slice of toast and took a bite. Her third or fourth cigarette was smouldering in the ashtray. 'Shankar's in the CIC. He'd have called.'

'Well, what is it? An alien landing?'

'Why don't you take a look from the roof?' Anderson said cryptically.

FLIGHT DECK

The cold air clung to Johanson's face like a mask. The sky was suffused with white. Grey waves rose with spray-crowned crests. A wind had blown up overnight and was raining minute crystals of ice across the deck. Johanson spotted a group of muffled figures on the starboard side of the ship. As he got closer, he identified Li, Anawak and Greywolf. At the same time he saw what was holding their attention.

Not far from the Independence the dark outlines of sword-like fins cut through the water.

'Orcas,' said Anawak, as Johanson joined them.

'What are they doing?'

Anawak squinted at him through the shower of ice. 'They've been circling the vessel for the past three hours. The dolphins alerted us. I'd say they're watching us.'

Shankar ran over from the island to join them.

'What's going on?'

'We seem to have caught someone's attention,' said Crowe. 'Maybe it's a response.'

The orcas kept a respectful distance from the vessel. There were hordes of them – hundreds, thought Johanson. They were swimming at a steady speed, their shiny black backs rising occasionally above the waves. There was no denying that they looked like a patrol.

'Are they infected?'

Anawak wiped water out of his eyes. 'We don't know.'

'Tell me,' Greywolf rubbed his chin, 'if this stuff is controlling their brains, has it occurred to you that it might be able to see us? Or hear us?'

'You're right,' said Anawak. 'It's in control of their sensory organs.'

'Exactly. It means that gunk has eyes and ears.'

They stared out to sea.

'Either way,' said Crowe, drawing on her cigarette and exhaling into the icy air, 'it's started.' Wisps of smoke rose above their heads.

'What has?' asked Li.

'They're sizing us up.'

'Let them.' A thin smile formed on Li's lips. 'We're ready for anything.'

'For everything we've anticipated,' said Crowe.

LAB

As he headed below deck with Rubin and Oliviera, Johanson asked himself whether a psychosis could forge its own reality. He'd started the ball rolling. Of course, if he hadn't come up with the theory, someone else would. But the fact remained that they were creating information on the basis of a hypothesis. All it took was for a pack of orcas to circle the Independence, and everyone saw the eyes and ears of aliens. In fact, they were seeing aliens everywhere. That was what had prompted them to send the message in the first place, and it was why they were expecting an answer.

The fifth day. We're not really making any progress, he thought, in frustration. We need something to show us we're not completely off-course, that we haven't been blinded by a theory.

Footsteps echoing, they made their way down the ramp, past the hangar bay and deeper into the vessel. The steel door to the lab was locked. Johanson tapped in the combination code and the door opened with a soft hiss. He made his way along the bank of switches, aiming on the strip-lights and the desk-lights, flooding the islands of benches and equipment in a cold white glare. The deep-sea simulation chamber hummed in the background.

They climbed on to the walkway and peered through the large oval window. It gave a full view of the inside of the tank. The beam of the internal floodlights picked out small white carapaces and spindly legs scurrying over the artificial seabed. Some of the crabs were moving hesitantly, as though they'd lost their way, scuttling in circles or stopping to consider where they wanted to go. Towards the bottom of the tank, the water obscured the details, but underwater cameras took close-up footage and beamed it on to the monitors at the control desk next to the chamber.

'No real change since yesterday,' said Oliviera.

Johanson scratched his beard. 'We should open some up and see what happens.'

'Crack open some crabs?'

'Why not? We've already established that we can keep them alive in the pressure lab.'

'We've established that we can keep them in a vegetative state,' Oliviera corrected him. 'We don't yet know if they're really alive.'

'The jelly inside them is,' Rubin said thoughtfully, 'but the rest of the crab is no more animate than a car.'

'I agree,' said Oliviera. 'But what's the deal with the jelly? Why isn't it doing anything?'

'What were you expecting it to do?'

'Run around.' Oliviera shrugged. 'Shake its pincers at us. I don't know. Leave the shell, maybe. Those creatures are programmed to march ashore, wreak havoc and die, so this situation puts them in an awkward position. No one's here to give them new orders. They're basically on stand-by.'

'Exactly,' said Johanson, impatiently. 'They're just like battery-operated toys. I agree with Mick. The crab bodies are equipped with just enough nervous tissue to make a dashboard for their drivers. I want to tempt them out of their shells. I want to know what happens if you force them out of their armour in a deep-sea environment.'

'OK.' Oliviera nodded. 'Let's stir things up a bit.'

They left the walkway, clambered down the ladders and walked over to the control desk. The computer enabled them to operate various robots inside the tank. Johanson selected a small, two-piece ROV-unit named Spherobot. A bank of high-resolution screens sprang to life above a console with two joysticks. One showed the inside of the tank. Everything looked elongated and hazy. Spherobot's wide-angle lens was able to survey the whole interior of the tank, but as a result the camera provided a fisheye view.

'How many shall we open?' asked Oliviera.

Johanson's hands flitted over the keyboard, and the angle of the camera shifted upwards by a degree. 'Well, in a good plateful of scampi there's usually at least a dozen.'

ONE OF THE WALLS inside the tank resembled a two-storey garage in which all kinds of deep-sea equipment was stored. Underwater robots of different types and sizes were there, ready to be operated from the control desk. There was no other way to intervene in the artificial world of the chamber.

Johanson activated the controls, and powerful lights flared up on the underside of a robot. Two rotors turned. A box-shaped sled the size of a shopping-trolley floated slowly out of the garage. The top half was packed with machinery, and the rest was made up of an empty basket with fine wire-netting sides. It glided towards the artificial seabed and stopped in front of a small group of motionless crabs. Curved eyeless shells and powerful pincers came into view.

'I'm going to switch to the camera on the globe now,' said Johanson.

The hazy image was replaced by a high-resolution close-up.

Floating above the crabs, the sled released a shiny red ball, no bigger than a football. It was easy to see how the Spherobot had acquired its name. The ball floated into the water, a single cable linking it to the sled, the shiny eye of its camera pointing straight ahead. It brought to mind the flying robot in Star Wars that sparred with Luke Skywalker as he learned to use his light saber. In fact, the Spherobot, with its six miniature thruster pods, was a detailed re-creation of its cinematic predecessor. It travelled a short distance through the water, then sank slowly until it was hovering just above the crabs. They paid no attention to the strange red ball, even when its underside slid open and two slim articulated arms unfolded from inside.

At the end of each arm, an arsenal of equipment began to rotate. Then a robotic grasper protruded from the left arm and a saw from the right. Johanson's hands held both joysticks and shifted carefully forwards, the arms of the robot following each move.

'Hasta la vista, baby,' said Oliviera.

The grasper reached down, grabbed a crab by the middle of its shell and lifted it in front of the camera lens. On the monitor, the creature took on monstrous proportions. Its jaws moved, and its legs kicked, but its pincers dangled limply. Johanson rotated the grasper in a full circle and carefully watched the reaction of the spinning crab.

'Normal motor activity,' he said. 'Its legs are moving fine;

'But it's not responding like a crab,' said Rubin.

'No, it hasn't splayed its pincers or made any obvious show of aggression. It's just a machine.' He moved the second joystick and pressed the button on the top. The circular saw started to rotate and the blade cut into the side of the shell. For an instant the crab's legs twitched wildly.

The shell broke apart.

A milky substance slid out and hovered, trembling, over the debris of the crab.

'Oh, my God,' said Oliviera.

It looked like nothing they'd ever come across. It bore no resemblance to a jellyfish or a squid, but seemed entirely without form. Waves passed through the fringes of the substance, and the creature billowed and flattened. Johanson thought he saw a flash of light shoot out from its centre, but in the harsh glare of the tank it might have been an optical illusion. He was still thinking about it when the creature regrouped into something snake-like and shot away.

Johanson swore, picked up the next crab and cut it open. This time everything happened even faster, and the jelly-like inhabitant of the carapace fled before they had a chance to see it.

'Wow!' Rubin was clearly excited. 'This is crazy! What the hell is this stuff?'

'Something slippery, 'Johanson said, through gritted teeth. 'How the hell are we supposed to stop it getting away?'

'What's the problem? It's got nowhere to go.'

'Well, you try searching the chamber for two shapeless, colourless objects no bigger than a tennis ball!'

'You could open the next one inside the sled basket,' said Oliviera.

'There's no netting at the front. It will get away.'

'No, it won't. The basket closes. You'll just have to be quick.'

Johanson grabbed another crab, spun the Spherobot by 180 degrees and guided it back towards the sled until it was close enough to extend its articulated arms inside the basket. Once they were in, he set the edge of the circular saw against the crab. The shell burst open.

Nothing happened.

'Was it empty?' asked Rubin.

They waited a few seconds, then Johanson guided the spherical robot slowly inside the basket.

'Shit!'

The jelly shot away from the crab, but chose the wrong direction. It hit the back of the basket with a thud. Contracting into a trembling ball, it flitted unsteadily back and forth beside the rear mesh. Its confusion, if that was what it was, lasted only a second.

'It's trying to escape!'

Johanson reversed the Spherobot away from the basket. It hit the side of the cage and then it was out. Its arm grabbed the flap and slammed it shut.

The thing flattened itself into a sheet and rushed towards the flap, recoiling within centimetres of hitting it, and changing shape once more. This time its edges extended on all sides until it was suspended in the water like a transparent bell, filling half of the basket. The creature morphed. For a few seconds it looked like a jellyfish, then rolled itself up. It was shaped like a ball again.

'Unbelievable,' whispered Rubin.

'Look at that,' exclaimed Oliviera. 'It's shrinking.'

The sphere was slowly decreasing in size and losing its transparency. The milky colour became more pronounced.

'Its tissue is contracting,' said Rubin. 'It can change its molecular density.'

'Does it remind you of something?'

'Early types of simple polyps.' Rubin thought. 'The Cambrian. A number of modern-day organisms have similar properties. Most squid contract their tissue, but they don't change shape. We need to catch a few more and see how they react.'

'Next time I won't be fast enough,' Johanson said. 'If I open the basket, this one will escape. They're too quick for me.'

'Fine. Well, I guess one is enough for observation purposes.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Oliviera. 'Observing them is all very well, but I want to examine the stuff, not just its disintegrating remains. Maybe we should freeze the thing and slice it up.'

'Absolutely.' Rubin was staring at the screen in fascination. 'But not right now. Let's observe it for a bit.'

'But we've got the other two as well. Can anyone see them?'

Johanson switched on all the other screens. The inside of the tank appeared from various angles.

'Vanished.'

'They've got to be in there somewhere.'

'OK, let's crack open a few more,' said Johanson. 'That's what we'd agreed to do anyway. The more gunk there is floating around in the tank, the more chance we have of spotting it. We'll leave our PoW in the cage – we can deal with him later.'

THEY OPENED A DOZEN or so crabs without making any attempt to catch the jelly-like beings, which darted away as soon as the shells broke open.

'Well, they're certainly not affected by the Pfiesteria,' said Oliviera.

'Of course not,' said Johanson. 'The yrr will have made sure that neither organism can harm the other.

'Do you think the jelly is another genetic mutation?'

'I don't know. It could be natural – but then again, it might be engineered.'

'Perhaps it's the yrr.'

Johanson rotated the Spherobot so that the camera was pointing at the basket. He stared at the captive. It had kept its spherical shape and was lying like a glassy white tennis ball on the floor of the cage.

'These things?' Rubin said in disbelief.

'Well, why not?' said Oliviera. 'We've found them in whale brains, they were underneath the mussels on the Barrier Queen, they were in the blue cloud. They're everywhere.'

'The blue cloud. How does that fit in?'

'It must have some kind of function. The things hide inside it.'

'Well, I'd say the jelly is like the worms and the other mutations. It's a biological weapon.' Rubin pointed to the motionless ball in the cage. 'Do you think it might be dead? It's not moving. Maybe the tissue contracts when it's dying.'

At that moment a whistling noise came through the loudspeakers overhead and Peak's voice boomed, 'Good morning, everyone. Now that Dr Crowe is here and the team is complete, there'll be a meeting at ten thirty on the well deck. We'll be introducing you to the submersibles and other equipment, so we'd appreciate your attendance. And don't forget that our daily meeting will take place as usual at ten in the Flag Command Center. Thank you.'

'Good thing he reminded us,' Rubin said. 'I've got no sense of time when I'm busy in the lab.'

'I wonder if there's any news from Nanaimo.' Oliviera sounded bored.

'Why don't you ring Roche?' Rubin suggested. 'You can tell him about our progress. Maybe he'll have something to show for his efforts too.' He prodded Johanson. 'And maybe we'll get to hear before Li. Then we can show off at the meeting.'

Johanson smiled back. He didn't like Rubin. The man was good at his job, but Johanson had the feeling he'd sell his grandmother to boost his career.

Oliviera went up to the radio-telephone next to the control panel and dialled the number. Thanks to the satellite dish on top of the island, the full range of telecommunication systems was available on board. No matter where you were in the ship, you could watch a wide range of TV channels, plug in your own portable TV set or radio, go online on your laptop or place a telephone call on a secure line to any city in the world. Even Nanaimo in faraway Canada was easy to reach. She talked to Fen wick, then Roche. They were working with a team of scientists all over the world. It looked as though they'd managed to stake out the spectrum of Pfiesteria mutations, but a breakthrough wasn't in sight. Instead hordes of crabs had invaded Boston. Oliviera updated them and hung up.

'What a bloody mess,' said Rubin.

'Perhaps our friends in the tank can be of some assistance,' said Johanson. 'Something must be protecting them from the algae. Let's set up a session in the containment facility. And as soon as we know what our prisoner-' He stared at the screen.

The thing in the cage had gone.

Olivera and Rubin followed his gaze.

'That's impossible.'

'How the hell did it get out?'

There was nothing to see on any of the screens, apart from water and crabs.

'They've disappeared.'

'They can't have!'

'Hang on a minute. There must be a least a dozen whizzing around in there. We're bound to be able to spot some.'

'Oh they'll be there all right. But where's the one from the cage?'

Johanson 's face brightened.

'Maybe you're right,' he said slowly. 'After all, they keep changing shape. The wire mesh is pretty fine, but probably not fine enough for something very long and thin.'

'That stuffs unbelievable,' whispered Rubin.

They started to search the tank. They assigned themselves to different monitors, so they could scour the chamber simultaneously. They zoomed in, but there was no sign of the jelly anywhere. In the end Johanson guided all the robots, one by one, out of the garage, but the beings weren't hiding there either.

They'd vanished.

'Maybe we've got a problem with the plumbing,' said Oliviera. 'Do you think they could have got stuck?'

'Impossible,' said Rubin.

'Either way,' said Johanson, testily, 'it's time for the meeting. Let's hope we have a brainwave while we're up there.'

Baffled, they switched off the lights in the chamber and walked towards the door. Rubin turned off the lab lights and started to follow the others into the passageway. He looked back and stopped.

Johanson saw him standing in the doorway, staring back into the darkness. Slowly he walked towards him, followed by Oliviera.

Through the oval window of the chamber, something was glowing.

A faint glimmer of scattered light.

Blue.

Without stopping to worry about the obstacles in their path, they ran through the dark lab towards the chamber and rushed up the steps.

The blue glow was suspended in the water. A cosmic cloud in the darkness of space – only space was a tank, and inside it was water. It covered a few square metres.

Johanson peered at it. It looked as though tiny pulses of light were flowing towards the centre of the cloud, getting faster all the time, like particles of matter near a black hole.

The cloud turned a deeper blue, then collapsed in on itself.

It was imploding, like a Big Bang in reverse. Everything was sucked towards its centre, which grew steadily brighter and denser. Flashes of light shot out, forming complicated patterns. The cloud was disappearing into its mid-point at incredible speed, drawn into a turbulent whirlpool, and then…

'This can't be happening,' said Oliviera.

On the other side of the glass there was now a spherical object the size of a football. A blue-tinged mass of matter, made of luminous pulsating jelly.

They'd found the creatures.

And they'd become one.

FLAG COMMAND CENTER

'Single-cell organisms,' Johanson said. 'They're single-cell organisms!' He was incredibly excited. Rubin shifted on his chair and nodded vigorously, while Johanson paced up and down. He could never have stayed seated at a time like this. 'Until now we've assumed that the jelly and the cloud are two separate entities, but they're one and the same. They're a network of unicellular beings. It's not just a case of the jelly changing shape – it can disintegrate entirely, and get back together in a flash.'

'The unicellular whatsits can disintegrate?' queried Vanderbilt.

'Of course not! The single-cell organisms combine to form the jelly and the cloud. When we opened the crabs, we found blobs of the jelly inside them. We only managed to catch hold of one and all the others disappeared. Then we lost the captive too. It vanished without trace. I can't believe I didn't work it out straight away. It's obvious that you can't keep single-cell organisms in a cage. And you're hardly going to see them with the naked eye! The chamber was lit internally, which meant there was no sign of any bioluminescence. We had the same problem in Norway. A huge thing appeared in front of our cameras. At the time we saw a pale surface, lit up by Victor's floodlights, but in reality it was glowing. It was glowing because it was made up of an enormous confederation of luminescent microbes. The creature we've got swimming about in the tank right now is a combined mass of jelly we let out of those crabs.'

'Well,' said Anawak, 'that would explain the shapeless creature on the keel of the Barrier Queen, the blue cloud near Vancouver Island…'

'Of course – your URA footage of the whales… Well, most of those cells would have been floating freely in the water, but others combined to form tentacles. They must have been injecting themselves into the heads of the whales, and-'

'Hang on a minute.' Li raised her hand. 'The jelly was already inside their heads.'

'OK, then.' Johanson thought for a moment. 'Well, some kind of connection took place. I bet that's how the jelly finds its way inside. Maybe we were witnessing some kind of exchange: old jelly out, new jelly in. Or it could have been a kind of check-up. Maybe the gunk in the brains was handing something to the cells outside.'

'Information,' said Greywolf.

'Why not?' exclaimed Johanson.

Delaware wrinkled her nose. 'You mean, they can take on any size at all? They can be as big as they need to be?'

'Any size and any shape.' Oliviera nodded. 'To steer a crab, you need only a handful. But the thing near the whales off Vancouver Island was the size of a house so-'

'That's why our discovery is so important,' Rubin cut in. He leaped to his feet. 'The jelly is a raw material that serves to accomplish different tasks.'

Oliviera looked put out.

'I've taken a close look at the footage from the Norwegian continental shelf,' he said breathlessly, 'and I think I know what happened! I'm willing to bet that this stuff was the final trigger for the collapse of the slope. We're on the verge of discovering the truth.'

'So you've found a substance that can do all kinds of shit,' said Peak, sounding unimpressed. 'Great. And where are the yrr?'

'The yrr-' Rubin stopped short. His self-assurance had evaporated. He glanced nervously at Johanson and Oliviera. 'Well…'

'Do you think these organisms are the yrr?' asked Crowe.

Johanson shook his head. 'No idea.'

For a while there was silence.

Crowe pursed her lips and drew on a cigarette. 'Well, we still haven't received a reply. What kind of organism would be able to respond? An intelligent being or maybe even a conglomerate of intelligent beings? What do you think, Sigur? Are those things in the tank intelligent?'

'You know perfectly well that it's pointless to speculate,' said Johanson.

'I just wanted to hear you say so.'

'How are we supposed to know if they're intelligent? What would an alien intelligence make of a bunch of human PoWs who can't do maths, and are moaning in a corner or sitting around apathetically because they're cold and scared?'

'Oh, God.' Vanderbilt groaned. 'Next thing he'll be throwing the book at us for infringing the Geneva Convention.'

'I didn't realise it applied to aliens.' Peak grinned.

Oliviera shot him a look of contempt. 'We're going to start running tests on the substance in the tank,' she said. 'Leon, tell me again what you saw on your solo recce in the docks.'

'Just before they fished me out? A blue glow.'

'You see,' said Oliviera, turning to face Li. 'You insisted on the military taking charge of everything, but your guys prodded around the Barrier Queen for weeks without any progress. They must have missed something crucial when they examined the water samples from the dock. Didn't anyone notice the glow? Or that there were single-cell organisms in the water?'

'We tested the water,' said Li.

'And?'

'Nothing. Ordinary seawater.'

'OK.' Oliviera sighed. 'Could I have another copy of the report, then? Including all of the lab results.'

'Of course.'

'Dr Johanson.' Shankar raised his hand. 'Do you have any explanation as to how they join together, what makes them do it?'

'How would they manage to co-ordinate it?' It was the first time that Roscovitz had spoken. 'How the hell does that work? And what's the point? It's like one of those cells is saying, "Hey, guys, over here, we're having a party!"

'Not necessarily,' Vanderbilt pointed out. 'The cells in our body make a pretty good job of co-operation, and no one tells them what to do.'

'Aren't you confusing that with the CIA?' There was a smile on Li's lips.

'Watch it, Suzie Wong.'

'OK, guys,' said Roscovitz helplessly. 'I just drive subs for a living. I need help. Human cells stick together just fine, but that's different- we don't dissolve whenever we feel like it. And, besides, we've got a nervous system to keep us in check.'

'The cells in our bodies communicate via chemical signals,' said Delaware.

'But what does that mean? Are you saying we're like a shoal with everything going the same way, doing the same thing, at exactly the same time?'

'Shoals only appear to move simultaneously,' explained Rubin. 'Shoaling behaviour is related to pressure.'

'I know that, for Chrissakes – I was only trying to-'

'Lateral line organs are located on the sides of the body,' Rubin continued undeterred. 'If a fish changes its position, it sends a pressure wave through the water. That wave is picked up by all the neighbouring fish, who realign their bodies until the shoal has corrected its position.'

'I know!'

'But of course!' Delaware's face lit up. 'That must be it!'

'What?'

'Pressure waves. If you had enough of these jellies, you could redirect a shoal. We kept asking ourselves what kind of spell had been cast on the fish to stop them swimming into nets – well, that could be the answer.'

'Redirect a shoal?' Shankar sounded doubtful.

'She's right,' Greywolf chimed in. 'If the yrr can steer millions of crabs on land and transport billions of worms to the continental shelves, you can bet they're capable of redirecting shoals. And that's easy with pressure waves. The shoal's sensitivity to pressure is practically the only thing that keeps it safe.'

'Are you saying that those single-cell organisms in the tank use pressure waves to band together?'

'No' put in Anawak. 'It has to be more complicated than that. Fish can create pressure waves, but single-cell organisms?'

'Something must have caused them to cluster together.'

'Hang on a minute,' said Oliviera. 'Bacteria use similar forms of communication. Take Myxococcus xanthus. Myxobacteria live in the soil. They move in loose swarms. If an individual cell can't find enough nutrients to feed itself, it gives off a starvation signal. The rest of the colony doesn't pay much attention at first, but as more and more cells start to starve, the intensity of the signal increases, until it crosses a certain threshold. At that point, the swarm draws closer together and gradually forms a complex multicellular aggregate known as a fruiting body. You can see it with the naked eye.'

'What kind of signal?' asked Anawak.

'They produce a chemical.'

'Like a scent?'

'Pretty much.'

The discussion dried up. Everyone was frowning, pressing their fingertips together, or pursing their lips.

'OK,' said Li. 'I'm impressed. That's a big step forward. It doesn't make sense to continue the discussion until we've had time to inform ourselves properly. What's next?'

'I've got a suggestion,' said Weaver.

'Let's hear it.'

'Do you remember what Leon was saying about dolphins' brains when we were in Whistler? He was talking about military experiments and electronic implants – not just basic microchips, but networks of artificial nerve cells that re-create parts of the brain in perfect detail and communicate with each other via electrical pulses. Well, supposing the jelly is an aggregate of single-cell organisms, and supposing those organisms can take over the function of brain cells and maybe even replace them – well, they'd have to be able to communicate or they wouldn't be able to band together or change shape. Maybe they can even form an artificial brain including all of the neurotransmitters. Maybe…' she hesitated '. . . they can even replace the emotions, characteristics and knowledge of their host, and that's how they learn to control it.'

'In that case they'd have to be capable of learning,' said Oliviera. 'But how could a single-cell organism learn?'

'Leon and I could try to model a swarm of them electronically. We could give them various characteristics and see how long it takes for them to start acting like a brain.'

'Artificial intelligence?'

'Yes, but with a biological basis.'

'That might be useful. Go ahead,' Li ruled. 'Any other suggestions?'

I'll see if I can find any similar organisms among prehistoric life-forms,' said Rubin.

Li nodded. 'Any news from you. Sam?'

'Not really.' Crowe's voice emerged from a cloud of smoke. 'For the moment we're trying to decipher old Scratch signals while we wait for a reply.'

'Maybe you should have sent the yrr something a bit more challenging than a couple of sums,' said Peak.

The smoke cleared and Crowe's beautiful, time-worn face emerged with a smile. 'Just be patient, Sal.'

WELL DECK

Roscovitz had devoted his life to the US Navy and saw no reason to change. It was his belief that people should do what they did best, and since he'd always liked being under water, he'd embarked on a career in submarines, working his way up to commander.

But he also believed that curiosity was one of the most important characteristics a person could possess. He had plenty of respect for loyalty, commitment and patriotism, but mindless drilling wasn't in his nature. At some stage it had occurred to him that submarine commanders knew nothing about the world in which they lived, so he'd decided to inform himself. Of course, he hadn't become a biologist overnight, but his enquiring mind had come to the attention of the technological division of the navy, which was on the look-out for people who were loyal enough to behave like soldiers but agile enough intellectually to play an executive role in research.

Once the decision had been taken to prepare the Independence for an expedition to the Greenland Sea, Roscovitz had been entrusted with finding her a state-of-the-art dive station. Many people saw her as humanity's last hope, which meant no expense was to be spared. Roscovitz was told to purchase whatever seemed useful, at any price, and to commission anything that didn't already exist – on the proviso that it could be built before they sailed.

No one had seriously expected him to consider using manned submersibles. ROVs were the obvious choice; vehicles like Victor, which had tracked down the Norwegian worms. The AUV was a serious option too: unlike Victor, there was no cable to connect it to the ship and most robots came with high-resolution cameras and either an articulated grasper or precision-operated artificial arms. Given the number of divers who'd been attacked or killed already, no one was keen to put human lives at risk. These days, even paddling was dangerous.

Roscovitz had listened to their objections and told them to forget it. 'Since when have we ever won a war using nothing but machines?' he'd argued. 'Sure, we can fire off smart bombs or send unmanned drones into enemy territory, but no robot can make the kind of decisions a fighter pilot takes. At some point in this mission we're going to have to go down and deal with the problem ourselves.'

They'd asked what he had in mind. ROVs and AUVs, he'd said, plus manned submersibles with weaponry. He'd also requested a dolphin fleet, and discovered, to his satisfaction, that MK6 and MK7 had been assigned to the mission at the request of a scientist. When he'd heard who'd be in charge of the dolphins, he'd been doubly pleased.

Roscovitz hadn't met Jack O'Bannon personally, but the ex-diver was well known in certain navy circles. When he'd resigned he'd refused to have anything to do with the navy. Roscovitz knew perfectly well that O'Bannon didn't have any kind of heart defect so he was surprised to find him back on board.

His superiors had tried to persuade him that there wouldn't be any call for manned submersibles, but Roscovitz wouldn't listen. In the end he got the green light.

Then he'd startled them again.

In all probability, the Department of the Navy had expected him to pack the stern of the enormous helicopter-carrier with the big-name submersibles, like the Russian MIR subs, the Japanese Shinkai and the French Nautile. With good old Alvin, they belonged to the half-dozen or so craft in the world capable of descending to a depth of 3000 metres. But Roscovitz was more interested in innovation. Shinkai could reach 6500 metres, but its ascent and descent relied on flooding and emptying its ballast tanks. The same was true of the MIR submersibles and Nautile.

But Roscovitz wasn't envisaging a conventional deep-sea expedition: it was war against an unknown enemy. Relying on regular submersibles would be like using hot-air balloons to fight a battle in the air. Most submersibles were too cumbersome for his purposes. He wanted deep-sea jets. Fighter planes.

It didn't take long to find a company that seemed to be working more along his lines. Hawkes Ocean Technologies, based in Point Richmond, California, had an excellent reputation, and not just within the industry. Hollywood often relied on its expertise whenever high-tech vessels were required. Graham Hawkes, a renowned engineer and inventor, had founded the firm in the mid-nineties to pursue his dream of flying under water.

Roscovitz had drawn up a wish list and placed it on the table with a large amount of cash. He had one stipulation: the firm would have to undercut every known record for building a submersible.

The cash had sealed the deal.

As the scientists lined up on the jetty at ten thirty, clad from head to toe in thermally insulating neoprene suits Roscovitz was pleased to be able to teach them something for once. The induction for the military and crew had taken place in Norfolk, Virginia. Most of them were navy SEALs, who were so used to the water that they'd practically grown fins. But Roscovitz was determined to ensure that the scientists were capable of deep-sea flying and fighting as well. He knew that things could happen during an expedition that meant civilians had to play a decisive role.

He instructed his chief technician, Kate Ann Browning to lower one of the four submersibles from the rail overhead. Deepflight 1 descended slowly towards them. The underside of the boat resembled a larger-than-life Ferrari without wheels, equipped with four long, thin cylinders. He waited until it was suspended at eye-level, four metres above the deck and directly over the basin. Seen from that angle, it had little in common with a conventional submersible. Flat, wide and almost rectangular in shape, with four thrusters mounted at the rear and two partially transparent body pods sloping up towards the front, the Deepflight looked more like a spaceship. Below the transparent domes, a pair of articulated arms protruded from the bow. Most noticeable of all were the vessel's stubby wings.

'I expect you're thinking it looks like a plane,' said Roscovitz, 'and you'd be right. It is a plane, and it's every bit as manoeuvrable. The wings serve the same purpose as they would on a plane, only they're angled in the opposite direction. The wings of an aeroplane generate lift. The wings on a Deepflight generate a downward force that counteracts the lift. Even the steering system is modelled on aeronautical principles. You don't sink like a stone; you move at an angle of up to sixty degrees, so you can bank elegantly from side to side or shoot up or down.' He made swooshing noises as he demonstrated the movements with the flat of his hand. He pointed to the pods. 'The main difference from an aeroplane is that you don't sit down. You lie prone. That way the height of the vehicle is kept to just one point four metres for a surface area of three by six metres.'

'How deep can it dive?' asked Weaver.

'As deep as you like. You could fly straight to the bottom of the Mariana Trench in less than ninety minutes. This baby can fly at twelve knots. The pressure hull is ceramic and the transparent domes are acrylic, enclosed in titanium. It's safe at any depth. It also provides a fantastic panoramic view, which will help us decide whether to turn tail or take aim.' He pointed to the underside. 'We've equipped our Deep-flights with four torpedoes. Two are loaded with a small amount of explosive – enough to seriously injure a whale, or maybe even kill it. The other two will do even more damage. You can use them to blast through rock or get rid of an entire pack of whales. But please leave the missiles to the pilot, unless, of course, he's dead or unconscious, in which case you won't have much choice.'

Roscovitz clapped his hands.

'You can fight among yourselves for the chance to be first for a test flight. And there's one more thing you should know. The fuel will give you eight hours' flight time. If you get stuck anywhere, the life-support system wall provide you with sufficient oxygen for ninety-six hours. Either way, there's no need to panic – by then God's very own taskforce, the US Navy, will have come to your rescue. So, who wants to go first?'

'Without any water?' asked Shankar, casting a sceptical look at the basin.

Roscovitz grinned. 'Would fifteen thousand tonnes be enough?'

'Er… well, I guess so.'

'Here goes, then. Let's flood the deck.'

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

Two radio operators had been detailed to fill in for Crowe and Shankar while Roscovitz was instructing the scientists. The guys were killing time. Strictly speaking, they were supposed to keep their mouths shut and their ears open, but they knew they could rely on the computer, as well as on Shankar's SOSUS team back home in the States. If any noise were to emerge from the depths, it would be picked up onshore by countless electronic systems and human brains, then filtered out and sent back to the Independence with a full analysis and report. Crowe's message had been sent from the vessel, and the Independence was listening for a reply, but she was only one of many listening posts. If the yrr were to answer, the sound would be picked up by the Atlantic Ocean's hydrophone array. Using the distances between the hydrophones and the time taken for the signal to reach each one in turn, the computer could calculate the position from which the signal had been sent. The information would be forwarded to the CIC, where the operators would be bound to see it.

Trusting in the power of technology, the men were engaged in an impassioned musical debate. They were so caught up in white hip-hop that it didn't occur to them to glance at the screens. Eventually one reached across to pick up his coffee and glanced round. He stared.

Jeez! What the hell is that?'

Coloured waves were flickering over two screens.

The other man stared too. 'Since when have they been there?'

'Dunno.' The radio operator peered at the lines. 'We should have been notified by the onshore team. How come they're not calling? They must be receiving it too.'

It's that the frequency Crowe used for the message?'

'Don't ask me. I'm not getting any audible noise, though – must be ultrasound or infrasound.'

The other guy thought for a moment. 'The nearest hydrophone is off the coast of Newfoundland. Sound takes a while to travel, but no one else has picked up the signal, which means…'

'It's coming from here.'

DEEPFLIGHT

The hydraulic system set to work noisily as the vast ballast tanks flooded. The Independence's stern sank slowly through the water as seawater rushed inside.

'There's also the option of admitting water via the sluice,' Roscovitz shouted above the noise, 'but that would mean opening the hatches simultaneously, which would breach our security, so it's something we're keen to avoid. We get round it by using a specially designed pump system. A closed loop of pipes feeds water up to the deck. It's filtered several times before it gets here. The basin is lined with sensors, like the sluice, so you can be sure the water's safe before you jump into the pool.'

'Will we be testing the boats in the basin?' asked Johanson.

'Hell, no – we're going to fly them outside.'

Now that the dolphin fleet had reported the retreat of the orcas, Roscovitz felt satisfied that they could risk a few dives.

'My God.' Rubin was staring at the frothing water in the basin. He appeared to be frozen to the spot. 'It looks as though we're sinking.'

Roscovitz grinned at him. 'I've been on a sinking warship and, trust me, it's nothing like this.'

Metre by metre, the stern of the enormous vessel sank deeper into the water. The Independence was too large for anyone to feel her tilting. The change was minimal – it would have taken a spirit level to detect it – but the effect on the well deck was astonishing. The water level rose until it was lapping the edge of the jetty. Within a few minutes, the deck had been transformed into a four-metre-deep pool. By now the dolphin tank was underwater, which allowed its occupants to swim the full length of the deck. The Zodiacs drifted on the surface, moored securely to the embankment. Deepflight 1 bobbed gently on the waves.

Browning let down another submersible from the rail overhead. She was standing at the control panel, operating the joystick. One by one she manoeuvred the boats along the monorail until they were lined up next to the jetty. Then she opened the pods. They clapped open like fighter-plane cockpits.

'Each pod can be opened and closed individually,' she explained. 'Getting in is easy, although you might be soaked on your first attempt. The water is heated on its way into the basin so it's a balmy fifteen degrees, but don't think of taking off your suits. If you were tipped into the ocean without one, it would all be over in minutes. The water temperature off the coast of Greenland reaches a maximum of two degrees.'

'Any questions?' Roscovitz organised the first groups, pairing scientists with pilots. 'Let's go, then. We'll stick close to the vessel. Our friendly colleagues from the dolphin fleet have given us the all-clear, but things could change at any moment. Leon, you're coming with me. We'll take Deepflight 1.'

He jumped on to the boat, which lurched from side to side. Anawak tried to copy him, but lost his balance and landed in the water. He spluttered to the surface and was greeted by laughter.

'I guess that's what I meant,' Browning said drily.

Anawak pulled himself on to the hull and slid into the pod on his belly. To his surprise it felt comfortable and roomy. He wasn't lying completely flat; the pod slanted upwards, so his body assumed the position of a ski jumper in mid-flight. In front of him he found a control panel. Roscovitz switched on the power, and the pods closed soundlessly.

'Not exactly the Ritz, eh, Leon?'

The commander voice boomed out of the loudspeakers and into Anawak's ears. He turned his head. A metre away from him, Roscovitz was looking out of his acrylic pod and grinning at him. 'See that joystick in front of you? Remember I told you it's like a plane? Well, that's how it flies. So you're going to have to learn to fly it like a plane – gaining and losing height, banking round. You need to be able to move in all four directions. It's equipped with four thrusters that generate sufficient counter-force to allow the vehicle to hover. I'll fly the first loop, then you'll take over, at which point I'll tell you what you're doing wrong.'

All of a sudden the vessel tipped forward. Water washed over the acrylic domes, and they banked down in a gentle curve. Floodlights lit up at the bow and on the wings. Anawak saw the planks at the bottom of the basin slide beneath them, and then they were hovering at the opening to the sluice. The flaps opened to reveal a shaft that stretched down several metres, fully lit, with a dark steel hatch at the bottom. The Deepflight sank leisurely through it and the glass flaps closed above them. He felt a wave of queasiness.

'Don't worry,' said Roscovitz. 'They'll let us out pretty quickly. It's coming back in that takes time.'

The steel flaps juddered into motion. As the enormous metal panels moved apart, the view opened up to show the dark, featureless expanse of the depths. The Deepflight sank into the unknown.

Roscovitz accelerated and banked round. The boat turned onto its side. Anawak was enthralled. He'd driven conventional submersibles designed for use in the upper layers of the ocean, but this was different. The Deepflight handled the water like a sports plane. And it was fast! In a car, fourteen miles per hour- the equivalent of twelve knots – would seem slow, but underwater the Deepflight was displaying an amazing burst of speed. He watched in fascination as they emerged from beneath the Independence and the rippling surface of the water came into view overhead. Roscovitz dipped the nose of the submersible at a precipitous angle. He banked round again, headed towards the stern of the helicopter-carrier and dived back under. Above them, the enormous rudder blade of the vessel whizzed by.

Then Roscovitz banked sharply. Anawak kept expecting to see the round black-and-white face of an orca appear before them, but instead two dolphins peered in. With cameras on their heads, they pranced jauntily around the submersible.

'Smile, Leon!' laughed Roscovitz. 'You're on camera!'

Then a light flashed on. 'You're taking over,' said Roscovitz. 'If anything comes along and tries to eat us, we'll give it a brace of torpedoes for breakfast. But I'll take care of that. You focus on steering.'

Anawak was momentarily flummoxed. His grip on the joystick tightened. Roscovitz hadn't told him what to do, so he headed straight on.

'Hey, Leon, no snoozing at the wheel. I've been on bus journeys that were more exciting than this.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Anything. Fly us to the moon!'

The moon in this scenario must be below us, thought Anawak. Here goes.

He thrust the joystick forward.

The Deepflight's nose jerked down and they headed into the depths. Anawak stared into the darkness. He pulled the joystick towards him, this time more gently. The boat straightened. He tried a curve, but turned too sharply. He tried another. He knew he was steering too jerkily, but really it was easy. It was all a question of practice.

Ahead he spotted a second Deepflight. Suddenly he started to enjoy himself He could have carried on for hours.

'Not bad, Leon. I reckon your technique's enough to make anyone travel-sick, but that's nothing we can't fix. Now put her on the horizontal. Excellent. That's it, drift along slowly. Now let's have a go at operating the articulated arms. There's nothing to it.'

After five minutes Roscovitz took over the controls and guided the boat slowly into the shaft. There was an agonising minute inside the sluice, but then the glass flaps opened and they surfaced. Anawak wasn't sorry to be back: the early-morning visit from the orcas had unnerved him. And there were all the other surprises that the sea might spring on an unsuspecting pilot.

Roscovitz opened the pods, they lifted themselves out of the boat and jumped on to the jetty.

Floyd Anderson was waiting for them. 'How was it?' he asked. He didn't seem to care.

'Fun.'

'Well, folks, the party's over.' The first officer watched the second boat surface. 'As soon as you guys stick your heads under water, stuff happens. We've picked up a signal.'

'What?' Crowe joined them. 'What kind?'

'We were hoping you could tell us.' Anderson stared straight past her. 'It's loud, and it's coming from somewhere nearby.'

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

'A low-frequency signal,' said Shankar. 'Same pattern as Scratch.'

Shankar and Crowe had rushed to the CIC. In the meantime they'd received confirmation from the onshore station. According to their calculations, the noise was coming from the vicinity of the Independence.

Li walked in. 'Can you make any sense of it?'

'Not right away.' Crowe shook her head. 'We'll need some help from the computer. We'll get it to break down the signal and start looking for patterns.'

'Call me some time next year.'

'Is there a problem?' Shankar growled.

'I was just wondering how you intended to decipher it in a viable timescale, when your guys at NOAA have been puzzling over Scratch for years.'

'And you're asking that now?

'Come on, children.' Crowe scrabbled around for her cigarettes and lit up. 'I keep telling you that communicating with an alien species is an entirely different matter. Yesterday's signal was probably the first human message that the yrr have been able to decode. They'll reply in a similar format.'

'You really think they'll use the same coding?'

'Well, if the yrr exist, if this is a message, if they understood our code, and if they're interested in talking to us – then, yes, I do.'

'Why are they using the infrasound spectrum and not a frequency we can hear?'

'Why shouldn't they use infrasound?' Crowe asked, surprised.

'You'd think it would be diplomatic.'

'If a Russian were to address you in bad English, would you reply to him in Russian?'

Li shrugged. 'OK, whatever. But what now?'

'We'll stop transmitting our message. That'll signal to them that we've picked up their transmission. We'll know soon enough if they've been using our code. They'll have tried to make it easy to decipher. Whether we're smart enough to grasp what they're telling us is another matter.'

JOINT INTELLIGENCE CENTER

Weaver was attempting the impossible. She was trying to disregard all the existing research about the evolution of intelligent life – and, at the same time, confirm its findings.

Crowe had explained that every theory on the existence of alien civilisations hinged on the same set of questions, including: how big or small could intelligent life-forms be? In SETI circles, where the focus was on interstellar communication, people were busy hypothesising about beings whose gaze was turned towards the skies – extra-terrestrials who had entertained the possibility of other worlds and had decided to make contact. Such beings would almost certainly live on dry land, so there were clear limitations governing their size.

Astronomers and exobiologists had recently come to believe that a planet would have to possess no less than 85 per cent and no more than 133 per cent of the Earth's mass to generate surface temperatures conducive to the development of intelligent life within one to two billion years. The dimensions of this hypothetical planet had implications for its gravitational field, which in turn allowed certain conclusions to be drawn about the anatomy of any beings that might live there. Theoretically a living creature could grow infinitely large on an Earthlike planet. In practice, though, it would be limited by the ability of the body to bear its own weight. Dinosaurs, of course, had developed extraordinarily large bones, but their brains had failed to keep up. They were designed for lumbering, eating and not much else. Accordingly, there was a rough rule of thumb: intelligent non-stationary life-forms were unlikely to grow more than ten metres tall.

The more interesting question was how small they could be. Could ants develop intelligence? And how about bacteria? Or viruses?

SETI researchers and exobiologists had good reason to want to find out: it was almost certain that the Earth's corner of the galaxy was free from other humanoid civilisations, at least within its own solar system, which left scientists clinging to the hope that Mars or one of Jupiter's moons would be home to a few stray spores or some single-cell organisms. They started to search for the smallest viable unit of life, which inevitably led them to complex organic molecules – the smallest self-contained units capable of storing and using information. But could a molecule like that develop intelligence?

The answer was a decisive no.

But the individual neurons of a human brain weren't intelligent either. For humans to attain the brain-to-body ratio that made them intelligent, it took one hundred billion neurons each. It was conceivable that an intelligent organism smaller than a human could make do with fewer cells, but there was no altering the size of the molecules of which the neurons were composed – and without a critical mass of neurons, there could be no intelligent spark. That was the limiting factor for ants, who seemed to possess non-conscious intelligence but whose brains could never attain a higher neural capacity because they lacked sufficient cells. In fact, since ants didn't breathe through lungs but absorbed oxygen through their body surface, their growth was inherently restricted. Their respiratory system would fail if they exceeded a certain size, so their brains had no chance to develop any further. In evolutionary terms, ants and their fellow insects had reached a dead end. Scientists had therefore concluded that the smallest possible size for an intelligent life-form was roughly ten centimetres, which meant the chances of encountering a scuttling Aristotle were practically nil. Single-cell intelligence seemed out of the question.

All that was at the back of Weaver's mind as she sat down to program the computer to link mental capacity and single-cell organisms in a meaningful combination.

In the hours following the discovery in the lab, the general mood was one of scepticism. Could the jelly really be intelligent? Single-cell organisms weren't capable of creativity and couldn't develop self-awareness. No one contested that a sizeable number of single-cell organisms theoretically corresponded to a brain or a body. The blue cloud filmed by the URA near Vancouver Island had evidently consisted of billions of cells – but did that mean it could think? And even if it could, how was it supposed to learn? How would the cells communicate? What had to happen for a conglomerate of cells to become a higher entity?

How had it worked for humanity?

Either the jelly substance was nothing more than insentient goo, or there was a trick to it.

The jelly had steered whales and crabs.

Computer programs developed by Kurzweil Technologies used billions of bits to simulate neurons that worked together as a brain. Artificial intelligence of one kind or another was already being used throughout the globe. AI systems were capable of learning, and there was even a sense in which they used their own creativity to further their development. None of the AI researchers claimed to have created consciousness, but their work already posed the question as to when a mass of tiny identical parts could be classed as alive – and whether life could be generated artificially in that way.

Weaver was now in possession of one of the latest generation of artificial brains, having approached its inventor Ray Kurzweil directly. Her first move was to save a backup copy. Then she set about dismantling the original into its individual electronic components, breaking down the bridges and turning it into an unstructured swarm of tiny units. She tried to imagine breaking down a human brain. What would she have to do to get the cells to come back together and re-create the thinking whole? Billions of electronic neurons were swarming all over her computer, tiny bits of data with nothing to bind them together.

She tried to imagine that they were single-cell organisms.

Billions of single-cell organisms.

She thought through the next steps. It would be best to stick as closely as possible to the facts as she knew them. After some reflection, she constructed a three-dimensional space and gave it the physical characteristics of water. What did single-cell organisms look like? They came in all kinds of different shapes – rods, triangles, stars, sometimes with irregular outlines, sometimes with flagella – but it made sense to settle for the simplest. She decided on spheres.

Step by step the computer became an ocean. Weaver's virtual organisms rolled and spun through their electronic world. Maybe she should add currents, so that the virtual space mirrored the deep-sea environment. No, that could wait. First there were some major questions to address.

So many units. How could they give rise to an intelligent being? There weren't any limitations on maximum size. None of SETI's assumptions about size was relevant to water-dwelling organisms, since the forces affecting bodyweight were different under water. An intelligent marine-based life-form could be incomparably bigger than any land-dwelling organism. SETI's scenarios barely accounted for water-based civilisations, because any such civilisation would be beyond the reach of radio waves. Besides, it seemed unlikely that an underwater species would be interested in space or other planets – unless it was planning to cross the universe in a travelling aquarium. But a water-based scenario was what she needed now.

When Anawak arrived in the JIC thirty minutes later, she was staring at the screen, forehead knitted. She was cheered when she saw him. Since his return from Nunavut, they'd talked a lot about themselves to each other, and Anawak seemed more confident and self-assured. The dejected Inuk whom she'd found in the hotel bar had vanished in the Arctic.

'How are you doing?' he asked.

'My brain's in knots. Both brains, actually. I don't know where to start.'

'What's the problem?'

She told him what she had done so far. 'I'm not surprised you're stuck,' he said. 'You're doing a great job with the computer, but there's some biology you need to know. The brain can only think because of its structure. For the most part our neurons are pretty much identical – it's the way in which they're connected that allows them to think. It's like… Imagine a city.'

'London.'

'It's been shaken out of place and your job is to put the houses and streets back where they were. There are heaps of possibilities, but only one will give you London.'

'Fine, but how does each house know where it belongs?' Weaver sighed. 'No, scrap that question. Let's not worry about how the brain cells are connected. What I don't get is how they can join together and form something that's more intelligent than the sum of their parts.'

Anawak rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Think of the city again. In one of the streets a tower block is being built by a team of, say, a thousand workers. The workers are all identical – clones. Each has a specific task – a particular set of actions that he's employed to carry out. None of the workers has seen the blueprint for the building, yet together they're capable of constructing it. But imagine what would happen if you switched those guys around. There's a chain of ten builders passing bricks along the line, and you swap one for a man who tightens screws – well, you're going to cause trouble.'

'I see. So provided they stick to their jobs, the whole thing works fine.'

'Now, you could say that it only works because someone's been telling the workers what to do, but that someone couldn't build the block without them. Each presupposes the other. The plan gives rise to the workers' joint effort, and the workers' joint effort gives rise to the plan.'

'Is there someone who plans?'

'Maybe the workers are the plan.'

'Well, in that case all the workers would have to be coded slightly differently – which, come to think of it, they are.'

'Exactly. You see, the workers only seem to be identical. So, let's start at the beginning again. There's a plan. The units are all coded differently. What else do you need to make them into a network?'

Weaver thought. 'I guess they have to be willing to co-operate.'

'It's more straightforward than that.'

Suddenly she saw what he was getting at. 'Communication. A common language. A signal.'

'And what would the signal be telling the workers in the morning?

'Get up and go to the building-site.'

'Anything else?'

'Remember where you belong when you get there.'

'Exactly. But these guys are labourers, so they don't indulge in fancy conversation. They're hard-working men. They sweat in bed, they sweat when they get up in the morning- they're sweating all day long. How do they recognise each other?'

Weaver pulled a face. 'By their smell?'

'Bingo!'

'I'm beginning to worry about your imagination.'

Anawak laughed. 'It's Oliviera's fault. She was talking about those bacteria earlier, the ones that form aggregates, Myxococcus xanthus. Remember? They secrete a scent and group together.'

Weaver nodded. It made sense. I'll think it over while I'm swimming,' she said. 'Want to come?'

'Swimming? Now?'

'Yes, now,' she teased him. 'Listen, under normal circumstances I wouldn't spend the whole day cooped up in a room without moving.'

'I thought that was normal for computer geeks.'

'Are you saying I'm pale and flabby?'

'I've never seen anyone paler or flabbier.' He grinned.

She saw the sparkle in his eyes. He was small and compact, not exactly George Clooney, but right now he seemed tall, self-assured and good-looking. 'Idiot,' she said.

'Thanks.'

'Just because you spend half your life under water, you think anyone who works with computers must be chained to their desk. For your information, I do most of my work outdoors. I spend most of my time thinking. I grab my laptop and take off. There's no reason why you shouldn't write features from a cliff-top. Sitting here makes me tense up. I'm going to get shoulders like steel girders.'

Anawak stood up. For a moment Weaver thought he was leaving. Then she felt his hands on her back. His fingers stroked the muscles in her neck, while his thumbs kneaded her shoulders.

He was massaging her back.

Weaver stiffened.

She liked it. But did she want it?

'You're not tense,' said Anawak.

He was right. Why had she said it?

She stood up abruptly and his hands dropped away. She knew she'd made a mistake. She wanted to sit down again and let him carry on. But it was too late.

'Well, I guess I'll be going then,' she said awkwardly.

ANAWAK

He wondered what had gone wrong. He would have liked to join her in the pool, but the mood had changed. He should have asked before he massaged her shoulders. Maybe he'd misread the situation. You're no good at this kind of thing, he told himself Stick to your whales, you stupid Eskimo.

He thought about going in search of Johanson and continuing their discussion about single-cell intelligence, but somehow he didn't feel like it. He decided to stop by the CIC instead. Greywolf and Delaware spent much of their time there, monitoring and evaluating audio and video output from the fleet. But there was nothing to see except images of murky water from the cameras on the hull. Things had been quiet since the whales had circled the boat that morning, and now they seemed to have gone. Shankar was sitting on his own wearing a pair of oversized headphones, listening to the depths, while a constant stream of numbers passed before him on the screen. According to one of the crew, Greywolf and Delaware were busy on the well deck, substituting MK6 for MK7.

Anawak marched down the vehicle ramp and on to the empty hangar deck. It was cold and draughty. He'd been meaning to carry straight on, but something held him back. Although daylight was visible through the gate-like openings where the deck elevators were situated, the bay was dominated by the pale, yellowish glow of the sodium vapour lamps. He tried to imagine what it would look like when it was full of helicopters, Harrier jets, vehicles, cargo and equipment, all packed in with just enough room to open a door, climb through a window or slip into a hatch. Jeeps and forklift trucks would rattle up and down the ramps, and once the aircraft were on the roof, hundreds of marines would sort weaponry and equipment swiftly and intently. The formidable apparatus of the Independence would pull together as one.

The vast expanse of the bay seemed absurd in its emptiness. Useless. The booths between the ribs were unmanned. High among the steel girders on the gloomy ceiling, the yellow lamps had nothing to illuminate. Pipes ran along the walls, ending in the void. There were hazard signs everywhere, but no one to see them.

'If things get too cosy in the gym, we sometimes shift a few of the treadmills down here,' Peak had said, as he'd shown them round the vessel in Norfolk. 'Then it's real homey.' He'd stood there frowning. 'It's too empty. I hate to see the hangar like this. There are times when I hate this whole damn mission.'

The emptiest room, Anawak thought, is always on the inside.

He crossed the bay unhurriedly and walked out on to the portside elevator. The platform towered above the waves like a vast balcony. It was held in place by vertical slide rails that ran up the side of the ship. Anawak peered out across the water. The wind buffeted him. A strong gust could easily have swept him off his feet and over the edge of the platform. There weren't any rails, but safety nets encircled the ship so that no one could be pitched into the sea by the wind or aircraft exhaust.

It was still risky, though.

Ten metres below him, the waves rose up from the ocean.

The light was weak, but the icy rain had stopped. The sea rose and fell, slate-grey, with veins of white. A watery desert. For more than half of his life he'd lived in the temperate climate of the Canadian west coast, and now, for the second time in a few months, Fate had sent him back to the ice.

The wind tugged at his hair. Gradually he could feel his skin becoming numb with cold. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth, and puffed warm air inside them.

Then he went back into the bay.

LAB

Johanson had promised to treat Oliviera to some real lobster when the crisis was over. He used the Spherobot to fish out a crab from the chamber, then bring it back to the garage, where hermetically scalable PVC-coated containers were ready and waiting. The robot dropped the crab into one of the boxes and closed the lid.

The container was moved through a sluice gate and into a dry area, where it was sprayed with peracetic acid, rinsed, blasted with sodium hydroxide and conveyed out of the chamber through a second sluice. Now it didn't matter how toxic the water was inside the deep-sea chamber: the outside of the container was clean.

'Are you sure you can manage on your own?' asked Johanson. He'd already scheduled a phone conversation with Bohrmann, who was about to lower the suction tube in La Palma.

'No problem.' Oliviera picked up the box that contained the crab. 'If anything goes wrong, I'll scream. Hopefully you'll hear me and not that jerk Rubin.'

Johanson chuckled. 'Do I detect a shared antipathy?'

'Oh, I've got nothing against the guy,' said Oliviera. 'If only he wasn't so hung up on winning a Nobel Prize.'

'I know what you mean. How about you, though? Aren't you interested in a bit of glory? We'll all be vaguely famous, if we get out of this alive.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say no to a few groupies. Life in the lab can be desperately dull.' Oliviera stopped short. 'Which reminds me, where is he anyway?'

'Rubin?'

'He was determined to be around for the DNA tests.'

'You should be grateful.'

'Oh, I am. But I'd still like to know what he's up to.'

'It's bound to be something constructive,' Johanson said soothingly. 'I mean, he's not a bad guy. He doesn't smell, he's not an axe-murderer, and he's got a whole stack of medals in his drawer. We don't have to like him as long as he's useful.'

'Well, is he? Name me one useful thing he's done so far.'

'My dear lady,' Johanson spread his arms, 'if an idea's worth having, what does it matter who came up with it?'

Oliviera grinned. 'That's how second-rate people try to kid themselves. Fine. Let him do what he wants – but I'm not convinced that it's useful.'

SEDNA

Anawak walked to the edge of the basin. The deck was still flooded. Delaware and Greywolf, in neoprene suits, were knee-deep in water, unharnessing the dolphins. The room was filled with noise. Aft, one of the Deepflight submersibles was being lowered from the rail, Roscovitz and Browning overseeing the process from the control desk. Slowly the vehicle sank towards the basin, touched down and rocked gently on the water. Light from the sluice shone up to the rippling surface.

'Taking the subs out again?' Anawak called.

'No.' Roscovitz pointed to the Deepflight. 'This baby's developed a quirk – a fault with the vertical steering.'

'Is it serious?'

'We need to check it over.'

'That's the one we were in, isn't it?'

'Don't worry. It's not your fault.' Roscovitz laughed. 'It's probably a glitch in the software. We'll have it ironed out in a couple of hours.'

A tide of water swept over Anawak's feet.

'Leon!' Delaware beamed up at him. 'Come and join us.'

'Excellent idea,' said Greywolf. 'I'd like to see you do something useful.'

'I have been,' Anawak protested.

'I bet.' Greywolf stroked one of the dolphins, as it nuzzled up to him and made chattering noises. 'Grab yourself a suit.'

'I only wanted to see how you are.'

'Very kind of you.' Greywolf patted the dolphin and watched it speed away.

'Any news?'

'We're about to send out MK7,' said Delaware. 'MK6 haven't noticed anything unusual since this morning when they warned us of the orcas.'

'And that was before any of the sensors noticed they were there,'

Greywolf added with pride.

'Yeah, their sonar is-'

Anawak got another soaking, this time from one of the dolphins, as it shot out of the water like a torpedo and showered him with spray. It seemed to be enjoying itself. It squeaked, poking its beak out of the water.

'I wouldn't bother if I were you,' said Delaware to the dolphin. 'Leon won't come in. He's not prepared to freeze his butt off because he's not a real Inuk. He's just a show-off. If he was a real Inuk he'd have-'

'OK, OK!' Anawak made a gesture of defeat 'Where's the damn suit?'

FIVE MINUTES LATER he was helping Delaware and Greywolf fit the second fleet with cameras and tags when he remembered something. 'Why did you think I was a Makah?' he asked Delaware.

'I knew you had to be some kind of Indian – you're not exactly blond and blue-eyed. But now I know the truth, well…' she beamed at him '. . . I've got something for you.' She fastened the strap round the dolphin's chest. 'I found it on the web. I thought you might be pleased. I learned it by heart. It's the history of your world.' She said it with a flourish.

'Wow.'

'Not interested?'

'Oh, he is,' said Greywolf 'Leon's dying to hear about his beloved homeland. He just hates to admit it.' He swam towards them, flanked by two dolphins. In his padded suit he looked like a sea monster. 'He'd rather be taken for a Makah.'

'You can talk!' Anawak protested.

'Don't argue, boys!' Delaware lay on her back and drifted. 'Do you know where whales, dolphins and seals really come from? Shall I tell you?'

'The suspense is killing me.'

'Well, it all started when people and animals were still one. Many years ago, a girl lived near Arviat.'

Now she had Anawak's attention.

'Where's Arviat?' asked Greywolf.

'It's the southernmost settlement of Nunavut,' Anawak replied. 'Was the girl called Talilajuk?'

'Yes,' Delaware said. 'She had beautiful hair, and all the men courted her, but the only one who could win her heart was a dogman. Soon Talilajuk became pregnant, and bore all kinds of children, Inuit and canine. One day, while the dogman was out hunting, a dashing birdman arrived in his kayak at Talilajuk's camp. He invited her to climb into his boat and, to cut a long story short, they eloped.'

'The usual.' Greywolf was inspecting the lens of one of the cameras. 'And when do the whales come into it?'

'All in good time. One day Talilajuk's father came to visit them, only to find the dogman howling because Talilajuk had gone. The old man paddled back and forth across the ocean until he found the birdman's camp. While he was still out to sea, he spotted his daughter sitting outside her tent. Well, he ordered her to go home, so she followed her father dutifully to the kayak, and they set off. It wasn't long before they noticed that the ocean swell was rising. The waves grew steadily higher, and a fearsome storm broke out. The waves washed over the boat, and the old man worried that they might drown. It was the revenge of the birdman, but Talilajuk's father had no desire to die. Since he was furious with his daughter, he reached over, grabbed her and flung her overboard. Talilajuk clung to the side of the kayak, but her father told her to let go. She held on all the more tightly. The old man went crazy with fear. He picked up his axe, swung it and chopped off her fingertips. They had barely touched the water when they turned into narwhal, her nails forming their tusks. Talilajuk still refused to let go, so the old man hacked her fingers down to the joints, and they turned into white whales – belugas. Still his daughter clung to the side. She paid for her stubbornness with the last of her fingers, and a pod of seals appeared. Talilajuk wouldn't give in. Even though her hands were stumps, she clung to the kayak, which was filling with water. The old man was terrified. He struck her in the face with the paddle, and she lost her left eye. She let go slowly, and sank beneath the waves.'

'Brutal customs they had back then.'

'But Talilajuk didn't die or, at least, not a normal death. She was transformed into Sedna, the spirit of the sea, and since then she's ruled the creatures of her realm. Stretching her mutilated arms in front of her, she glides through the water with only one eye. Her hair is as beautiful as ever, but she has no hands to comb it. That's why it gets tangled, and you can tell that she's angry. But anyone who manages to comb and plait her hair is granted the freedom to hunt the creatures of her kingdom.'

'I remember that story from long winter nights when I was little,' Anawak said softly. 'I heard it countless times, and it was never exactly the same.' He wondered what had made her dig up the ancient legend of Sedna for him. It seemed to him that she hadn't stumbled on it by chance. She'd been on the look-out for a story of the sea. It was a present, proof of their friendship. He was touched.

'Rubbish.' Greywolf summoned the last dolphin with a whistle, and started to attach the hydrophones and cameras. 'Leon's a scientist. You can't tell him stories about the spirit of the sea.'

'You two and your feud,' said Delaware.

'Besides, the story's all wrong. Do you want to know how it really started? There wasn't any land. There was only a chief who lived under water in his cabin. He was a lazy so-and-so who never got up – he just lay on the seabed with his back to the fire, which was kept alight with crystals. He lived on his own, and his name was Wonderful Creator. One day his attendant rushed in and told him that the spirits and supernatural beings couldn't find any land to settle on. They wanted the chief to do something about it, and be worthy of his name. The chief lifted two rocks from the seabed and gave them to his attendant with the instruction to cast them into the water. He did as he was told, and the rocks formed the Queen Charlotte Islands and the mainland.'

'Well,' said Anawak, 'it's good to hear a scientific explanation.'

'The story comes from an old Haida myth cycle: Hoyá Káganus, the travels of Raven,' said Greywolf 'The Nootka tell similar stories. Lots of the myths are related to the sea – either you come from it or it destroys you.'

'Maybe we should pay more attention to them,' said Delaware, 'if science can't get us any further.'

'Since when have you been interested in myths?' said Anawak. 'You're even more of an empiricist than I am.'

'So? At least they tell us how to live in harmony with nature. Who cares if none of it's true? You take something and give something back. That's all you need to know.'

Greywolf grinned and petted the dolphin. 'Then there wouldn't be any problems in the world, would there, Licia? Well, as a woman, you'll be pleased to know you can help.'

'How do you mean?'

'I happen to know a few customs from the Bering Sea. And they had a different way of doing things. Before the hunters set to sea, the harpooner had to sleep with the captain's daughter to acquire her scent. That was the only way of attracting the whale to the boat and calming it enough so that they could kill it.'

'Trust men to think up something like that,' said Delaware.

'Men, women, whales…' laughed Greywolf 'Hishuk ish ts'awalk - everything is one.'

'OK,' said Delaware. 'In that case I think we should dive to the bottom of the ocean and comb Sedna's hair.'

Everything is one. Anawak remembered what Akesuk had told him.

This isn't a problem you can solve with science. A shaman would tell you that you're dealing with spirits, the spirits of the once-living that now inhabit the Earth's creatures. The qallunaat started destroying life. They angered the spirits, the spirit of the sea, Sedna. No matter who these beings are, you won't achieve anything by trying to fight them. Destroy them, and you'll destroy yourselves. See them as a part of yourselves, and you'll he able to share the same world. No one can ever win the struggle for mastery.

While Roscovitz and Browning were repairing the Deepflight, the three of them had been swimming with dolphins and telling each other legends about spirits of the sea. As they had paddled around, they had got cold even though the water had been heated and they were wearing suits.

How were they supposed to comb the sea spirit's hair?

Until now humanity had pelted Sedna with toxins and nuclear waste. One oil slick after another had collected in her hair. Without asking her permission they'd hunted her creatures until some were extinct.

Anawak's heart was pounding and he was shivering. A dull sense of foreboding told him that this moment of happiness wouldn't last, that something was ending. They'd never be together like this again.

Greywolf checked that the harness was sitting correctly on the sixth and final dolphin. 'All OK,' he said. 'We can send them out to sea.'

BIOHAZARD CONTAINMENT FACILITY

'Oh, God, how stupid can you get? I must be blind!' She stared at the magnified image from the fluorescence microscope on the screen. In Nanaimo they'd analysed various batches of the jelly – or, at least, what had been left of it after they'd scraped it out of the whales' brains. They'd also taken a good look at the blob of matter Anawak had brought back on his knife after his inspection of the Barrier Queen. But not once had it occurred to her that the disintegrating substance could be a dissociating conglomerate of single-cell organisms.

How embarrassing.

She should have worked it out ages ago, but what with all the Pfiesteria-induced panic, they'd had killer algae on the brain. Even Roche hadn't noticed that the jelly-like substance was still clearly visible through the microscope, even after it had apparently dispersed. Countless single-cell organisms lay dead or dying on the slide. All the various components had been there from the start, mixed up inside the lobsters and the crabs: killer algae, jelly – and seawater.

Seawater!

Maybe Roche would have cottoned on to the nature of the mysterious substance if it hadn't been for the fact that one single drop of it contained a universe of life. For centuries people had been too distracted by all the fish, marine mammals and crabs in the oceans to see the other ninety-nine per cent of life. The oceans weren't ruled by sharks, whales or giant squid, but by legions of microscopic organisms. Every litre of surface water teemed with a colourful mix of microbes: tens of billions of viruses, a billion bacteria, five million protozoa and a million algae. Even water samples taken from depths below 6000 metres contained millions of viruses and bacteria. Trying to keep track of the turmoil was practically impossible. The more insight science gained into the cosmos of Earth's tiniest life-forms, the more bewilderingly detailed the picture became. What was seawater anyway? If you looked at it closely through a modern fluorescence microscope, it seemed to be made of a thin gel. A chain of interconnected macromolecules ran through every drop like joined-up suspension bridges. Countless bacteria made their watery homes on the sheets and films that stretched over bundles of transparent fibres. To obtain two kilometres of DNA molecules, 310 kilometres of proteins and 5600 kilometres of polysaccharides, you needed only to untangle and line up the contents of a single milliliter of seawater. And somewhere within that mix were organisms that might be intelligent. They were hidden only in so far as they were interspersed with all the other microbes. The jelly had remarkable properties, but it wasn't composed of exotic life-forms, just ordinary deep-sea amoebas.

Oliviera groaned.

It was obvious why no-one had spotted them. It hadn't occurred to anyone that deep-sea amoebas could aggregate to form collectives capable of controlling crabs and whales.

'It's impossible,' Oliviera decided.

The words sounded feeble. She examined the taxonomic results again, but it didn't change what she knew already. The jelly was evidently made up of an existing amoeba species. It was known to exist mainly at depths of 3000 metres or below, and there were huge numbers of them.

'Nonsense,' hissed Oliviera. 'Come on, you've got to be kidding. You've disguised yourself, trying to pretend you're an ordinary amoeba. Well, you can't fool me. But what the hell are you?'

DNA

Once Johanson had joined her, they set to work isolating individual cells from the jelly. Mercilessly they froze and heated the amoebas until their cell walls burst. Proteinase was used to break down the protein molecules into chains of amino acids. Then phenol was added and the samples were centrifuged in a slow and laborious process to separate the solution from the scraps of protein and remains of cell wall. Finally they had a small quantity of clear watery fluid; the key to understanding the enigmatic organism.

Pure DNA.

The second step required even more patience. To unravel the DNA, they had to isolate and replicate sections of it. The genome was far too complex to be read as a whole, so they set about trying to analyse diagnostic sequences.

It was a hard slog, and Rubin was supposedly ill.

'Asshole,' moaned Oliviera. 'This was his chance to do something useful. What's the matter with him anyway?'

'Migraine,' said Johanson.

'Well, that's something. Migraines are painful.'

Oliviera transferred the samples via pipette to the sequencer. The machine would take a few hours to analyse them all. For the time being there was nothing they could do so they underwent the obligatory peracetic shower and walked out into the open, breathing freely once more. Oliviera suggested a cigarette break on the hangar deck while they waited for the sequencer to finish, but Johanson had a better idea. He disappeared into his cabin and returned five minutes later with two glasses and a bottle of Bordeaux. 'Let's go,' he said.

'Where did you find that?' marvelled Oliviera, as they walked up the ramp.

'You don't find wine like this.' Johanson smirked. 'You have to bring it with you. I'm an expert at smuggling contraband goods.'

'Is it a good one? I don't know much about wines.'

'It's a Chateau Clinet from Pomerol, 1990 vintage. Lightens the wallet and the mood.' Johanson spotted a metal crate next to one of the booths between the ship's ribs. They headed over to it and sat down. The deck was deserted. The gateway to the starboard-side elevator gave them a clear view of the sea. The water lay calm and smooth in the half-light of the polar night, ice-free but wreathed in frosty mist. It was cold in the hangar bay, but they were in need of fresh air after hours in the containment lab. Johanson opened the bottle, poured some wine, and clinked glasses with Oliviera, a bright pinging sound.

'Lovely,' she said.

'I packed a few bottles for special occasions. And I'd say this is one of them.'

'Do you think we're on their scent?'

'We could be very nearly there.'

'So we've found the yrr?'

'Well, that's the question. We don't know what we've got inside that tank. Is it possible for single-cell organisms, for amoebas, to be intelligent?'

'When I look at humanity, I sometimes wonder whether we're much different from them.'

'We're more complex.'

'Is that an advantage?'

'What would you say?'

Oliviera shrugged. 'What kind of answer do you expect from someone who's spent the last God-knows-how-long doing nothing but microbiology? It's not like your job: there's no teaching involved. I never speak to a wider public, and I definitely suffer from acute lack of distance to myself. I'm a lab rat in human guise. I guess I tend to look at the world through my own specific lens, but I see micro-organisms wherever I go. We live in an age of bacteria. For over three billion years they've existed in their present form. Humanity is just a passing fashion, but even when the sun explodes, somewhere, somehow, a few of those microbes are bound to survive. They're the planet's real success story, not humans. I don't know if humans have any advantages over bacteria, but one thing's for certain: if we end up proving that microbes are intelligent, we'll be in more shit than they are.'

Johanson took a sip of wine. 'Just think of the embarrassment. Imagine the Church having to tell the faithful that God created his piece de resistance on the fifth day and not the seventh.'

'How are you managing to cope with all this?'

'So long as I've got a few bottles of vintage Bordeaux to hand, I don't see any major problems.'

'Aren't you angry?'

'With whom?'

'With those beings.'

'How would anger solve anything?'

'It wouldn't, Socrates.' Oliviera gave a wry smile. 'But I'm serious. I mean, they took away your home.'

'Part of it.'

'Don't you miss your house in Trondheim?'

Johanson swirled the wine in his glass. 'Not as much as I'd expected,' he said, after a moment's silence. 'It was a beautiful house, – but my life wasn't kept there. I have another a house by a lake in the middle of nowhere. You can sit on the veranda, look out at the water, listen to Sibelius and Brahms, and drink good wine. There's nothing like it.'

Johanson reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses. 'You'd understand if you'd been there. Watching the night sky reflected on the water – you can't forget a moment like that. Your whole existence seems to be concentrated in the stars. They're like pinpoints of light perforating the universe above and below. It's an incredible feeling, but you have to experience it for yourself.'

'Have you been there since the wave?'

'Only in my memory.'

'I've been lucky,' Oliviera said. 'So far I've been spared any loss. All my family and friends are fine. Everything's still standing.' She paused. 'But I don't have a house by a lake.'

'Everyone has a house by a lake.'

It seemed to her that Johanson wanted to say more, but he just swirled the wine in his glass. Eventually he spoke again: 'I lost a friend'.

Oliviera kept silent.

'She was a complicated person. Lived life at a sprint.' He smiled. 'It's funny, but we didn't really find each other until we'd both decided to let go. I guess that's life.'

'I'm sorry,' Oliviera said softly.

Suddenly Johanson's gaze shifted. He seemed almost transfixed. Oliviera turned. 'Is something wrong?'

'I just saw Rubin.'

'Where?'

Johanson pointed amidships towards the bulkhead at the end of the hangar. 'He went in there.'

'But there's nowhere to go.'

The far reaches of the hangar were shrouded in gloomy half-light. The bulkhead stretched up in an unbroken wall, sealing the hangar from the compartments beyond. There was no sign of any door.

'Maybe it's the wine,' she suggested.

Johanson shook his head. 'I could swear it was Rubin. He was there for a second, and then he disappeared.'

'Did he see us?'

'Unlikely. We're in shadows.

'Let's quiz him when his migraine's better.'

By the time they returned to the lab, they'd polished off half the bottle of Bordeaux, but Oliviera didn't feel in the slightest bit tipsy, just pleasantly exhilarated and ready to discover great things.

Which was exactly what she did.

The sequencer in the containment facility had done its work. They viewed the results on the computer terminal in the main lab. The screen showed a row of DNA sequences. Oliviera's eyes darted back and forth as she followed the lines down the screen. 'That's impossible,' she said softly.

'What is?' Johanson leaned over her shoulder. Then two vertical ridges formed in his brow. 'They're all different.'

'Yes.'

'It doesn't make sense. Identical organisms have near identical DNA.'

'If they're all the same species.'

'But these are the same species.'

'The background mutation rate…'

'No way.' Johanson seemed stunned. 'This goes far beyond any background mutation rate. They're all different organisms. None of the DNA matches.'

'Well, they're certainly not ordinary amoebas.'

'There's nothing ordinary about them at all.'

'What are they, then?'

'I don't know.'

'I don't either,' she agreed. 'But I do know that there's some wine left, and I could really use another drink.'

JOHANSON

For a while they searched different databases, comparing the DNA sequencing of the cells in the jelly with existing DNA data. In no time at all Oliviera had found the results from the day they'd examined the substance in the whales' brains. Back then she hadn't noticed any variations in the sequence of the DNA bases. 'I should have examined a few more of those cells,' she said crossly.

'You might not have noticed anyway.'

'Even so.'

'How were you supposed to guess it was an aggregate of single-cell organisms? Come on, Sue, it's no use beating yourself up. Think positive.'

Oliviera sighed. 'I guess you're right.' She glanced at the clock. 'Sigur, why don't you go to bed? There's no point in both of us staying up all night.'

'What about you?'

I'll carry on here. I want to know if this tangle of DNA has ever been found before.'

'Let me help you.'

Go and get some rest. You need your beauty sleep – it's wasted on me. Nature gave me wrinkles and crow's feet as soon as I hit forty. No one can tell the difference if I'm wide awake or half asleep. You go. And don't forget to take your lovely wine with you – I can't afford to drink away any more of my scientific rigour.'

Johanson saw that she wanted to struggle through the problem on her own. She had nothing to reproach herself for, but it was probably better to leave her in peace.

He picked up the bottle and left the lab. Outside, he realised he wasn't tired. In the Arctic Circle time seemed to vanish. The near-constant sunlight stretched the day until it became an almost perfect loop, interrupted by only a few hours of dusk. The sun was creeping along the horizon out of sight. You could have described it as night and, in psychological terms, it was time to go to bed. But Johanson didn't feel like it. Instead he continued up the ramp.

The vastness of the hangar deck was obscured by abstract patterns of shadows. The bay was still deserted. He glanced over to where they'd been sitting earlier; the crate was all but invisible amid the gloom.

Rubin couldn't have seen them.

But he'd seen Rubin.

He wanted to inspect the bulkhead.

To his disappointment and surprise, it proved fruitless. He walked up and down several times, running his fingers along the sheets of steel and the bolts that held them together. He checked the pipes and the fuse boxes. Oliviera was right: he must have been seeing things. There was nothing there. No door or any other kind of opening.

'But I wasn't seeing things,' he muttered softly.

Maybe he should go to bed. But he'd only keep thinking about it. Or he could ask someone – Li, Peak, Buchanan or Anderson. But what if he was wrong?

You're supposed to have an enquiring mind, he told himself, so keep up with your enquiries.

Unhurriedly he walked back towards the aft end of the hangar and sat down on the crate that had served as their makeshift bar. He waited. It wasn't a bad spot. Maybe in the end he'd be forced to concede that people with migraines couldn't walk through walls, but it was a pleasant place to sit and look at the view.

I le took a sip from the bottle. The Bordeaux gave him a sensation of warmth. His eyelids began to feel heavy. They seemed to gain a gram with every passing minute, until he could barely keep them open. Finally, when the bottle was empty, he dozed…

A soft metallic noise woke him.

At first he didn't know where he was. Then he felt the pain in his back where he was leaning against the steel side. The sky was brightening over the sea. He sat up straight and glanced at the bulkhead.

It had parted.

He got to his feet. A door was open. There was a space of about three square metres. The glow stood out against the dark metal.

His eyes shifted back to the empty bottle on the crate.

Was he dreaming?

He moved slowly towards the square of light. As he got closer he saw that it led into a corridor with plain walls. The neon lighting emitted a cold, harsh glare. After a few metres, the corridor reached a wall and disappeared to one side.

Johanson peered through the door and listened.

He could hear voices and other sounds. Instinctively he took a step back. He wondered whether it would he best to turn round now. This was a warship, after all. The rooms inside were bound to serve some purpose. A purpose that was of no concern to civilians.

Then he remembered Rubin.

If he backed away now he'd never stop thinking about it.

He went inside.

14 August

Heerema, La Palma, Canary Islands

Bohrmann was unable to enjoy the good weather because he knew that millions of worms carrying billions of bacteria were progressing at frightening speed through the thin veins of hydrate 400 metres below. He stared gloomily out to sea.

The Heerema was a semi-submersible, a floating platform the size of several football pitches. The rectangular deck rested on six columns that rose from massive pontoons, supported by diagonal struts. On dry land, the vessel resembled a gigantic catamaran. Now the pontoons were partially flooded and had sunk out of sight beneath the waves. Only the tops of the columns rose out of the waves. With a draught of twenty-one metres and a displacement capacity of over 100,000 tonnes, the platform was incredibly stable. Even when conditions were at their roughest, semi-submersibles rode out the motion of the rolling, pitching sea. Most importantly, though, they were manoeuvrable and comparatively speedy. The Heerema's two main propellers had allowed her to reach a transit speed of seven knots on her voyage northbound from Namibia to La Palma.

At the stern a two-storey tower housed the crew quarters, mess-room, kitchen, bridge and control room. Two vast cranes rose from the front of the platform, each capable of lifting 3000 tonnes. The right-hand crane lowered the suction tube into the water while the other took care of the lighting system, a separate unit with integrated cameras. Four technicians, perched high in the air in their drivers' cabs, had the sole responsibility for coordinating and steering the tube and the lights.

'Gair – hard!'

Stanley Frost was hurrying towards him from one of the cranes. Bohrmann had told him that he could always call him Gerd for short, but Frost insisted on pronouncing his full name in a thick Texan drawl. They made their way into the tower and entered the darkened control room. Some of Frost's team were there, with some technicians from De Beers, including Jan van Maarten. The technology expert had achieved the promised miracle astonishingly quickly. The world's first-ever deep-sea vacuum-cleaner for worms was ready for action.

'OK, folks,' trumpeted Frost, as they took their places behind the technicians. 'May the Lord bless our work here. And if all goes well, it's next stop Hawaii. We sent one of our robots down there yesterday, and the whole south-eastern flank was swarming with worms. Attacks are being launched against other volcanic islands, but we're going to give those worms hell. Our tube's going to blow them right out of the water. This whole planet's going to get a darned good tidy.'

'Nice thought,' said Bohrmann. 'OK, La Palma is relatively manageable, but what about the American continental slope? You can't seriously be planning to use one suction tube to clear all of that seabed.'

'Course not.' Evidently Frost was astounded by the idea. 'That speech was supposed to be motivating!'

Bohrmann turned towards the monitors. He hoped to God the scheme would work. But even if they got rid of the worms, they still couldn't be certain how many bacteria had already been deposited in the ice. Deep down he was worried that it was too late to prevent the collapse of Cumbre Vieja. At night he had terrifying visions of a huge dome of water rushing over the ocean towards him. But he was doing his best to be optimistic. Somehow they'd make it work. And maybe the others on the Independence would persuade the unknown enemy to see sense. If the yrr were capable of destroying an entire continental slope, maybe they could repair one.

Frost gave another impassioned speech, denouncing the enemies of mankind and heaping praise on the technicians from De Beers. Then he signalled for the tube and the lighting system to be lowered.

THE LIGHTING UNIT was a gigantic concertinaed floodlight scaffold. Suspended over the waves from the arm of the crane, it consisted of a compact package of metal pipes and struts, ten metres long and crammed with lights and cameras. The crane lowered it into the water and it vanished beneath the surface, linked to the Heerema with a fibreoptic cable. After ten minutes Frost glanced at the depth gauge and said, 'Stop.'

Van Maarten relayed the command to the operator. 'You can open it up now,' he added. 'Half-way at first. If there's nothing in the way, we'll open it entirely.'

Four hundred metres below the surface, an elegant metamorphosis was taking place. The metal package unfolded into a framework of scaffolding. The area seemed clear, and soon a lattice-like frame, the size of half a football pitch, was hanging in the water.

'Ready and waiting,' said the operator.

Frost glanced at the control panel. 'We should be right in front of the flank.'

'Lights and camera,' instructed van Maarten.

The frame was lit with row upon row of powerful halogen lamps, while the cameras rolled into action. A gloomy panorama appeared on the monitors. Plankton drifted across the screens.

'Closer,' said van Maarten.

The scaffold moved forwards, pushed by two swivelling propellers. After a few minutes a jagged structure rose out of the darkness. As they drew closer it became a black wall of unevenly sculpted lava.

'Down a bit.'

The scaffold sank. The operator navigated the depths with utmost caution, until a terrace-like protrusion showed up on the sonar. Without warning, a ridge appeared on the screen, so close it seemed almost in touching distance. Its surface was covered with wriggling bodies. Bohrmann stared at the eight monitors with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was face to face with the nightmare that had haunted him since the collapse of the Norwegian slope. If the entire flank looked the same as the forty metres that the floodlights had wrested from the darkness, they could turn round and go home.

'Evil bastards,' growled Frost.

We're too late, thought Bohrmann.

Immediately he felt ashamed of himself for fearing the worst. No one could tell whether the worms had unloaded their cargo of bacteria or whether there'd be enough to do any real harm. Besides, there was still the unknown factor that had provided the final trigger. It wasn't too late. But they didn't have time to hang around.

'All right, then,' said Frost. 'Let's raise the unit and tilt it by forty-five degrees so we get a better view. And then it's time to lower the tube. I hope it's hungry.'

'Ravenous,' said van Maarten.

AT MAXIMUM EXTENSION, the suction tube stretched half a kilometre into the depths, a segmented, rubber-insulated monster, measuring three metres in diameter and culminating in a gaping mouth. Its opening was armoured with floodlights, two cameras and a number of swivelling propellers. From the Heerema, the end of the tube could be steered up and down, forwards, backwards and sideways. The monitor in the driver's cab combined footage from the lighting scaffold with images from the tube, providing a generous view of the overall picture. But although the visibility was good, operating the joysticks required sensitive fingers and a co-pilot to make sure that nothing was missed.

Time ticked by as the tube fell through the impenetrable darkness. Its floodlights were switched off. Then the lighting scaffold came into view. At first it was just a faint glimmer in the pitch-black water, then its glow intensified, taking on a rectangular form and finally sculpting the terrace out of the rock. It was so big that Bohrmann was reminded of a space station. The tube continued to sink, nearing the milling mass until the monitors were covered with writhing bristly worms.

There was a breathless silence in the control room.

'Amazing,' whispered van Maarten.

'A good cleaner doesn't stand about admiring the dirt,' Frost said grimly. 'It's about time you switched on your vacuum-cleaner and got rid of them.'

THE SUCTION TUBE was really a suction pump that created a vacuum, so that anything that passed before its mouth was swallowed inside. They threw the switch, but nothing happened. The pump evidently needed time to warm up – or that was what Bohrmann hoped. The worms went about their business uninterrupted. Disappointment swept round the room. No one said a word. Bohrmann fixed his eves on the two monitors displaying the tube. What was the problem? Was the tube too long? Or the pump too weak?

While he searched for an explanation, the picture changed. Something was tearing at the worms. Their bodies rose, then lifted vertically in the water, quivering frantically… They rushed towards the cameras and were gone.

'It's working!' Bohrmann shouted, and punched the air. He felt like dancing and turning cartwheels.

'Hallelujah!' Frost nodded vigorously. 'Oh, Lord, we're going to cleanse the world of evil. Sheesh!' He tore off his baseball cap, ran his hands through his hair and put the cap back on. 'Those critters won't know what's hit them.'

The worms were sucked into the tube so quickly and in such numbers that the picture faded to a flicker as sediment rose in swirls from the terrace.

'Further to the left,' said Bohrmann. 'Or the right. Doesn't matter which way, as long as you keep going.'

'Why don't we zigzag over the terrace?' suggested van Maarten. 'We could vacuum the floodlit zone from one end to the other. Then, once it's clear, we'll move the lights and the tube and start on the next forty metres.'

'Makes sense. Let's do it that way.'

The tube wandered over the terrace, pulling in worms as it went and causing such turbulence that the rock disappeared in clouds of sediment.

'We'll have to wait until the water settles to see what we've achieved,' said van Maarten, sounding relieved. He gave a deep sigh, and leaned back serenely. 'But my guess is that we'll all be pretty pleased.'

INDEPENDENCE, GREENLAND SEA

Dong! Trondheim church bells on a Sunday morning. The chapel in Kirkegata Street. Bathed in sunshine, the little steeple was stretched confidently into the sky, casting its shadow over the ochre-coloured house with its pitched roof and white steps.

Ding dong.

He buried his head in the pillow. As though church bells could dictate when it was time to get up. Fat chance! Had he been drinking last night? He must have been in town with some colleagues from the faculty.

Dong!

'OH-EIGHT HUNDRED HOURS.' The loudspeakers. The tranquillity of Kirkegata Street was gone. There was no steeple, no ochre-coloured house. Trondheim's bells weren't to blame for the noise in his head. He had an almighty headache.

Johanson opened his eyes and found himself lying amid rumpled sheets in a strange bed. Other beds were lined up around him, all empty. It was a big room, full of equipment, with no windows and a sterile appearance. A sickbay.

What the hell was he doing here?

His head lifted and fell back on to the pillows. His eyes closed of their own accord. Anything would be better than the hammering in his head. He was even feeling nauseous.

'OH-NINE HUNDRED HOURS.'

Johanson sat up. He was still in the same room. He felt significantly better, though. The queasiness was gone, and his head no longer felt as though it were being crushed in a vice. The pain had subsided to a tolerable ache.

He still didn't know what he was doing there.

He looked down at himself Shirt, trousers, socks – the clothes he'd been wearing last night. His down jacket and sweater lay on the next bed, with his shoes arranged neatly on the floor.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

A door opened and Sid Angeli, the head of the medical unit, came in. He was a small Italian with a thin circle of hair and deep creases round his mouth. He had the most tedious job on the ship since no one was ever ill. That seemed to have changed. 'How are you feeling?' Angeli cocked his head. 'Everything OK?'

I'm not sure.' Johanson touched the back of his head and flinched.

'It'll be sore for a while,' said Angeli. 'Don't worry, though – it could have been worse.'

'What happened?'

'You can't remember?'

Johanson thought hard. 'I could use a few aspirin.'

'But you don't know what happened?'

'No idea.'

Angeli came closer. 'Uh-huh. Well, you were found on the hangar deck in the middle of the night. You must have slipped. Thank God the ship is under video surveillance or you'd still be there. You probably hit your head on one of the struts.'

'On the hangar deck?'

'Yes. Don't you remember?'

Of course. He'd been on the hangar deck with Oliviera. Then a second time, by himself He could remember going back there, but he couldn't think why. And he had no recollection of what had happened next.

'It could have been really nasty,' said Angeli. 'You, er, hadn't been drinking, had you? I only ask because there was an empty bottle down there. Sue Oliviera said the two of you had cracked open some wine.' Angeli splayed his fingers. 'Don't get me wrong, Dottore, it's not a problem, but helicopter carriers are dangerous places. Wet and dark. It's easy to slip over or fall into the sea. It's better not to wander around on your own if you've, er…'

'. . . had a glass or two,' Johanson finished for him. He got up, and the blood rushed to his head. Angeli was there in an instant, holding his elbow. 'I'm OK, thank you.' Johanson shook him off 'Where am I anyway?'

'In the infirmary. Can you manage?'

'Provided you give me those aspirin.'

Angeli walked over to a shiny white cabinet and took out a packet of painkillers.

'Here you go. You hit your head, that's all. You'll soon feel fine.'

'OK. Thanks.'

'Are you sure you're all right?'

'Yes.'

'And you can't remember anything?'

'Like I said, no.'

'Va bene.' Angeli gave a wide smile. 'Take things gently today, Dottore, and if you experience any problems, don't hesitate to come back.'

FLAG COMMAND CENTER

'Hypervariable sections? What the hell's that supposed to mean?'

Vanderbilt was struggling to keep up. Oliviera realised that she was in danger of losing her audience. Peak looked bewildered too. Li's expression was as inscrutable as ever, although it seemed likely that her knowledge of genetics was under severe strain.

Johanson sat among them like a ghostly presence. He'd turned up late, as had Rubin, who'd come in mumbling apologies for his absence. But, unlike Rubin, Johanson seemed genuinely ill. His gaze was unsteady and he kept glancing around, as though he needed to reassure himself every few minutes that he wasn't hallucinating and that the people around him were real. Oliviera made a mental note to have a word with him.

'It might be easier if we started by talking about normal human cells,' she said. 'You can think of our cells as bags of information wrapped in membranes. Inside each cell is a nucleus, and inside the nucleus are the chromosomes – home to our genes. The genome is the complete set of genetic information, the full sequence of DNA, the famous double helix. In simple terms, it's our design plan. The more complex an organism, the more sophisticated the plan. The results of a DNA test can be used to find someone's killer or prove that people are biologically related, but by and large we all share the same blueprint: feet, legs, torso, arms, hands and so on. In other words, an individual's DNA can tell you two things: first, that they're a person; and second, who they are.' She saw interest in their faces. It had been a good idea to start with some basic genetics.

'Of course, two individual humans will have less in common than two single-cell organisms of the same species. Statistically speaking, there'll be three million small differences between my DNA and the DNA of any other person in this room. Human beings are differentiated from one another by roughly one difference per twelve hundred base pairs. What's more, if you were to take two different cells from the same individual, you'd still find small variations -biochemical discrepancies in the DNA, caused by mutations. Consequently, the results will be different if you analyse a cell from my left hand and one from my liver. But the DNA will tell you clearly that those cells belong to Sue Oliviera.' She paused. 'Single-cell organisms are a slightly different story. The cell is the entire organism. So there's only one genome, and since single-cell organisms reproduce asexually, there are no parent cells to pass on their chromosomes. It works by cell division. The organism duplicates itself and all its genetic information.'

'So, as far as single-cell organisms are concerned, if you know one DNA sequence, you know them all,' said Peak, choosing his words carefully.

'Yes.' Oliviera rewarded him with a smile. 'That's what you'd expect. A population of single-cell organisms should have largely identical genomes. Apart from a minimal rate of mutation, their DNA should be the same.'

She saw Rubin shifting impatiently on his chair, desperate to speak. Usually he would have tried to butt in by now and take the lead. Poor Mick, thought Oliviera, in satisfaction. What a shame you were confined to your bed last night with a migraine. For once there's something you don't know.

'But that's exactly the problem,' she continued. 'At first glance, the cells in the jelly appear identical. They're amoebas – not even a particularly exotic variety, just ordinary deep-sea amoebas. But it would take at least two years and a whole army of computers to decode their DNA in full, so we settled for analysing a diagnostic section. We isolated the DNA and amplified key regions for sequencing. We call them amplicons. Each amplicon contains a sequence of base pairs – the language of genetics. Now, when we compare amplicons from DNA belonging to different individual organisms, we see something interesting. Amplicons of different organisms belonging to the same population should look something like this.'

She held up a print-out that she'd blown-up for the meeting:

Al: AATGCCAATTCCATAGGATTAAATCGA

A2: AATGCCAATTCCATAGGATTAAATCGA

A3: AATGCCAATTCCATAGGATTAAATCGA

A4: AATGCCAATTCCATAGGATTAAATCGA

'So you see, entire segments of the DNA can be exactly the same. Four identical single-cell organisms.' She put down the sheet and picked up another. 'But instead we got this.'

Al: AATGCCA CGATGCTACCTG AAATCGA

A2: AATGCCA ATTCCATAGGATT AAATCGA

A3: AATGCCA GGAAATTACCCG AAATCGA

A4: AATGCCA TTTGGAACAAAT AATCGA

'Those are the base sequences of four amplicons from four of our jelly organisms. The DNA looks identical – until you hit brief hypervariable segments, where it all goes haywire. There's no pattern whatsoever. We've examined dozens of cells. Some differ only marginally in the hypervariable sections, but others are radically different. It can't be accounted for by the background mutation rate. In other words, the variations aren't coincidental.'

'Maybe this isn't a single species, after all,' said Anawak.

'No, it's definitely the same species. And there's definitely no way an organism can change its genetic coding in the course of its lifetime. The design plan comes first. Organisms are built according to their design plan, and once they're built, they correspond to that plan and no other.'

There was a long silence.

'But if, in spite of all that, the cells are still different,' said Anawak, 'they must have found a way of changing their DNA after they divided.'

'But for what purpose?' asked Delaware.

'A human purpose,' said Vanderbilt.

'Human?'

'Are you all deaf or something? Nature doesn't do this stuff. That's what Dr Oliviera said, and I haven't heard any objection from Dr Johanson. So who's got the nerve to cook this shit up? Those jelly cells are a biological weapon. Only humans could do a thing like this.'

'In that case, objection,' said Johanson. He ran his hand through his hair. 'It doesn't make sense, Jack. The advantage of biological weaponry is that you only need one recipe. Reproduction takes care of the rest.'

'But surely it's an advantage when a virus mutates. The AIDS virus is mutating all the time. Whenever we start to get wise to it, hey presto, it's changed its form.'

'That's different. We're dealing here with a superorganism, not a virological infection. There's got to be some other explanation as to why the cells are different. Something happens to their DNA after they divide. They're coded differently. Who cares what's responsible for making them do that? We need to find out why.'

'To kill us, of course,' Vanderbilt said angrily. 'The purpose of this gunk is to destroy the democratic world.'

'OK then,' growled Johanson, 'why don't you shoot it? I mean, maybe they're Islamic cells. Extremist DNA. That would make sense.'

Vanderbilt stared at him. 'Whose side are you on?'

'The side of understanding.'

'Well, I'm not sure I understand how you came to fall over last night.' Vanderbilt gave a smug smile. 'Maybe it had something to do with that bottle of Bordeaux… How are you feeling, Dr Johanson? Is your head OK? Maybe you should shut up and listen for a while.'

'Not if it means you doing all the talking.'

Vanderbilt wheezed. He was sweating profusely. Li shot him a scornful look from the corner of her eye and leaned forward. 'You say that they're coded differently, right?'

'Right.' Oliviera nodded.

I'm no scientist, but wouldn't it he possible that their coding serves the same purpose as any type of human code? Like military passwords, for instance.'

'Yes.' Oliviera nodded again. 'That would be possible.'

'Passwords that allow them to recognise each other.'

Weaver scribbled something on a scrap of paper and pushed it in Anawak's direction. He read it, gave a quick nod and laid it aside.

'Why would they need to recognise each other?' asked Rubin. 'And why use such an intricate method?'

'I'd have thought that was obvious,' said Crowe.

For a moment the only sound was the rustling of Cellophane as she unwrapped a pack of cigarettes.

'What do you mean?' asked Li.

'I'd say it's for communication,' said Crowe. 'The cells are communicating with each other. It's a kind of conversation.'

'You mean this stuff. . .' Greywolf stared at her.

Crowe held the lighter to the end of her cigarette, took a drag and exhaled. 'It's exchanging information.'

VEHICLE RAMP

'Whatever happened to you last night?' asked Oliviera, as they made their way down to the lab.

Johanson shrugged. 'I haven't the faintest idea.'

'And how are you feeling now?'

'A bit weird. The headache's getting better, but I've got a hole in my memory about the size of the hangar bay.'

'Bad luck, eh?' Rubin glanced back at them. His teeth showed as he smiled. 'Who'd have thought we'd both end up with a headache? What a pair of invalids. I felt so rotten last night that I couldn't even get out of bed to let you know what was wrong. I can't apologise enough. But when you feel a migraine coming on like that. . . Wham! It just hits you. I was out for the count.'

Oliviera fixed Rubin with an unfathomable look. 'A migraine, was it?'

'It comes and goes. It doesn't happen too often, but when I get one, there's nothing I can do. It's enough trouble just to swallow my tablets and turn out the lights.'

'And you didn't wake up until this morning?'

'Yeah.' Rubin looked at her guiltily. I'm sorry, but a migraine knocks me out. Normally I'd have at least popped down to the lab…'

'But you stayed in bed?'

Rubin gave her a vexed smile. 'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'Well, I should know.'

Something clicked in Johanson's head. It was like a broken projector: the carousel kept trying to drop a slide into position, but something was sticking.

They stopped in front of the door to the lab, and Rubin punched in the code. The door swung open. As Rubin walked inside and turned on the lights, Oliviera whispered to Johanson, 'What's up? You were the one who swore blind you'd seen him last night.'

Johanson stared at her. 'Was I?'

'You know,' murmured Oliviera. 'We were sitting on that crate, drinking wine and waiting for the sequencer to finish. You said you'd seen him.'

Click. The carousel tried to release the slide. Click.

His mind felt woolly. He could remember drinking a glass of wine. And they'd talked for a bit. And then he'd… He'd seen something?

Click.

Oliviera raised her eyebrows. 'My God,' she said. 'That must have been quite some blow to the head.'

NEURAL NETWORK COMPUTER

They were sitting in the JIC at Weaver's computer. 'OK,' she said. 'This stuff about the coding puts an entirely new spin on things.'

Anawak nodded. 'The cells aren't identical. They're not like neurons.'

'So it's not just a case of how they're connected. If their DNA contains individually coded sequences, maybe that's their secret. It could be how they aggregate.'

'No, there has to be another trigger – something that can work over distance.'

'Well, yesterday we were talking about scent.'

'OK,' said Anawak. 'Give it a go. Program the units so they can secrete a scent that tells them to aggregate.'

Weaver thought for a moment. She picked up the phone and used the intercom to dial the lab. 'Sigur? Hi. We're working on the computer simulation. Any new ideas about how these cells are aggregating?' She listened for a while. 'Fine. We'll try that… OK. Let me know.'

'What did he say?' asked Anawak.

'They're doing a phase test. They're trying to get the jelly to dissociate, then band back together.'

'So they agree that the cells could be using a scent?'

'Yes.' Weaver wrinkled her nose. 'The trouble is, which cell would secrete the scent first? And why? If it's a chain reaction, it has to start somewhere.'

'It could be a genetic program,' mused Anawak. 'You know, with only particular cells capable of triggering aggregation.'

'So one part of the brain would have an inbuilt capacity to do more than the rest. . .' Weaver mused. 'It's an interesting idea. But I'm not sure it's right.'

'Hold on a minute- what if we're still on the wrong track? We're working on the assumption that the cells form a brain when they aggregate.'

'I'm almost certain they do.'

'Well, so am I. But it's just occurred to me that…'

'What?'

Anawak was thinking feverishly. 'Don't you find it odd that the cells are all different. To my mind, there's only one reason why the coding would be variable – their DNA has been programmed separately to enable them to accomplish different tasks. But if that were the case, each of those cells would be a brain in itself He stopped to think again. That would be amazing. But he didn't have the first clue how it might work. 'In fact, the DNA in each cell would actually be the brain.'

'Intelligent DNA?'

'Er, yes.'

'But it would have to be able to learn.' She looked at him doubtfully. I'm prepared to believe almost anything, but isn't that a bit… ?'

She was right. It was a crazy idea. It would involve a new type of biochemistry. Something they knew nothing about. But if there was a way of making it work… 'Can you tell me again how neural network computers actually learn?' he said.

'It's through parallel distributed processing. The computer learns from example. The more input patterns it encounters, the more output patterns it predicts.'

'And how does it retain that information?'

'It stores it.'

'So every unit has to have storage space. And the network of storage units produces artificial thought.'

'What are you getting at?'

Anawak explained. She listened, then made him start again from the beginning. 'But aren't you rewriting the laws of biology?'

'I guess so. But couldn't you write a program that works in a similar fashion?'

'Oh, God.'

'A smaller version, then.'

'Even that's a tall order. Christ, Leon, what a crazy theory. But, OK, I'll do it.'

She stretched her body. Tiny golden hairs shimmered on her forearms. Her muscles were taut beneath her T-shirt. Anawak gazed at her small, broad-shouldered frame, and thought again how much he liked her.

At that moment, she glanced up. 'It's going to cost you, though,' she said.

'What?'

'A massage. For my shoulders and back.' She grinned. 'Well, jump to it. You can start right away while I work on this program.'

RUBIN

At lunchtime they made their way to the officers' mess. Johanson was evidently feeling better, and he was getting on swimmingly with Oliviera. Neither seemed disappointed when Rubin announced that the migraine had ruined his appetite. 'I'm going for a stroll on the roof,' he said.

'Take good care of yourself,' grinned Johanson. 'You wouldn't want to slip.'

'Oh, I'll be fine,' laughed Rubin. If only you knew, he thought. If only you could see just how careful I'm being, your jaw would hit the well deck. 'Don't worry,' he said. I'll keep away from the edge.'

'Well, remember we need you.'

'Yeah, right,' he heard Oliviera mutter, as she and Johanson continued to the mess.

Rubin clenched his fists. They could say what they liked about him. In the end he'd get the recognition he deserved. He was the one they'd have to thank for saving humanity. He was tired of being veiled in secrecy by the CIA, but once this business was over, there'd be nothing to stop him sharing his achievements with the world. All that stuff about confidentiality wouldn't matter. He'd broadcast his successes and bask in admiration.

His mood improved as he hurried up the ramp. On 03 level he turned down a passageway and arrived in front of a narrow door. It was locked. He tapped in the code. The door swung open and Rubin entered a corridor. He followed it to the end, and came to another locked door. This time when he punched in the code, a green light flashed up on the display. Above it was a camera behind a glass panel. Rubin walked up and placed his right eye in front of the glass. The camera scanned his retina and gave the all-clear.

Authentification complete, the door slid open. He went into a large, dark room full of computers and monitors. It bore a striking resemblance to the CIC. Civilians and people in uniform were manning the control desks. The air was abuzz with the sound of computers. Li, Vanderbilt and Peak were standing around a chart table. Its transparent surface was lit from below.

Peak looked up. 'Come in,' he said.

Rubin walked over. Suddenly his self-assurance slipped. Since the events of last night they had stuck to brief factual conversations on the phone. The tone had been neutral. Now it was frosty.

Rubin decided to pre-empt the attack. 'We're making good progress,' he said. 'We're still one step ahead and-'

'Sit down,' said Vanderbilt. He gestured brusquely towards a chair on the opposite side of the table.

Rubin sat. The others remained standing, leaving him in a position that made him uneasy. He sensed that he was on trial. 'Of course, the incident last night was rather unfortunate,' he added.

'Unfortunate?' Vanderbilt rested his knuckles on the table. 'For Chrissakes, you jerk. Under any other circumstances I'd have made you walk the plank.'

'But, really, I only-'

'What the hell did you knock him out for?'

'What was I supposed to do?'

'You were supposed to be more careful in the first place. You shouldn't have let him in.'

'That wasn't my fault,' Rubin objected. 'I didn't think anyone could scratch their bums without you people watching.'

'Why did you open the goddamned hatch?'

'Because… Well, I thought we might. . . You see, there was a matter that I…'

'That you what?'

'Now, look here, Rubin,' said Peak, 'that hatch on the hangar deck serves one purpose and one purpose only: to let vehicles in and out. You should know that.' His eyes flashed. 'Maybe you could tell us what was so damned important that you opened it.'

Rubin bit his lip.

'You couldn't be bothered to walk through the ship. It was laziness, period.'

'How could you even suggest that?'

'Because it's true.' Li walked over to Rubin and perched on the edge of the table. Her eves looked concerned, almost friendly. 'You said that you were going for a breath of fresh air.'

Rubin slumped deeper into his chair. Of course he'd said that. And, of course, the surveillance system had recorded him saying it.

'And then you went out a second time.'

'But it didn't look as though anyone was there,' he defended himself. 'And your people didn't say different.'

'They didn't say anything because you didn't ask – even though you need express permission to open that hatch. It happened twice in a row. They didn't get a chance to tell you.'

'I'm sorry,' murmured Rubin.

'I'm going to be straight with you, Mick. We didn't do our job perfectly either. No one seems to have clocked Johanson's return trip to the hangar deck. We're also to blame for the fact that the whole vessel isn't under continual surveillance. As it turns out, we couldn't hear what Oliviera and Johanson were saying when they held their private party. The ramp and the roof are out of earshot too. But none of that changes the fact that you acted like a total jerk.'

'I promise I won't-'

'You're a security risk, Mick. A brainless asshole. I may not always agree with Jack, but if you go ahead and pull another stunt like that, I'll volunteer to help him throw you overboard. I'll even drum up a few sharks so I can watch them tear your heart out. Do you understand me? I will kill you.'

Li's deep blue eyes gazed at him amicably, but Rubin could see she'd have no reservation about carrying out her threat. The woman scared him.

'I think you get my drift.' Li thumped him on the shoulder and joined the others. 'OK. Let's talk about damage limitation. Did the drug work?'

'We injected ten mills,' said Peak. 'Any more than that would have really knocked him sideways, and we need his brain. The drug's supposed to work like an eraser on the mind. But there's no guarantee that his memory won't come back.'

'What kind of risk are we talking?'

'It's hard to say. A word, a colour, a smell could do it. Once the brain finds a trigger, it's capable of remembering exactly what happened.'

'Well, that's quite some risk.' Vanderbilt scowled. 'No drug can suppress a memory entirely. We still don't know enough about the workings of the brain.'

'We'll have to keep him under observation,' said Li. 'What do you think, Mick? How much longer are we going to need him?'

'Oh, we're going great guns,' Rubin said eagerly. Here was his chance to regain lost ground. 'Weaver and Anawak are working on the idea of pheromone-induced aggregation. Oliviera and Johanson think it might be scent-based too. This afternoon we'll be running some phase tests, and we should get our proof. If we're right about aggregation being triggered by scent, we'll soon be in a position to proceed as intended.'

'If, should, could.' Vanderbilt snorted. 'How long until you come up with a goddamned formula?'

'This is scientific research, Jack,' said Rubin. 'No one stood over Alexander Fleming and kept telling him to hurry up and discover penicillin.'

Vanderbilt was on the point of responding when a woman stood up and walked over.

'They've decoded Scratch in the CIC,' she said.

'Scratch?'

'Seems that way. Crowe said to Shankar that they'd figured it out.'

Li turned towards the desk where the audio and video footage from the CIC was being processed. A view from the overhead camera showed Shankar, Crowe and Anawak in conversation. Weaver had just walked in.

'They'll call us in a minute,' she said. 'Good. Don't forget to look surprised.'

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

Everyone was crowding round Crowe and Shankar, trying to get a look at the message. What they were seeing wasn't a spectrogram but a graphic representation of the transmission they'd received the day before.

'Is it a reply?' asked Li.

'Good question,' said Crowe.

'But what is Scratch anyway?' asked Greywolf who'd just arrived with Delaware. 'A language?'

'Well, Scratch itself might be a language, but this signal isn't part of it, not in the way it's been coded here,' said Shankar. 'It's like the Arecibo message. I mean, humans don't usually communicate in binary code. If you think about it, we didn't send that message into space. Our computers did.'

'The good news,' said Crowe, 'is that we've worked out its structure. You know how Scratch sounds as though a needle's being dragged across a record? Well, it's a staccato vibration of a very low frequency, ideally suited for propagating across the ocean. Infrasonic waves can travel incredible distances. And in this case the wavelength is extremely short. The trouble with infrasound is that we have to speed up any sound with a frequency of less than a hundred hertz to make it audible, but that would speed up the staccato. The trick to understanding this signal lies in slowing it down.'

'We had to stretch it,' said Shankar, 'to be able to identify the individual components. So we slowed it right down until the scratching noise became a sequence of individual pulses varying in length and intensity.'

'Sounds like Morse code,' said Weaver.

'It seems to work like it too.'

'How are you transcribing it?' asked Li. 'With spectrograms?'

'Yes, but they aren't enough. When it's a question of listening to something, it's always better to hear it. So we used an acoustic trick. It's a bit like false colour being added to radar images to show up the detail. In this instance we took each individual sound and replaced it with a frequency that we can hear, while keeping its original length and intensity. Whenever the original signal switched frequencies, we modified ours. That's how we handled Scratch.'

Crowe punched something into the keyboard. 'The sound we detected is like this.'

There was a rumble, like an underwater drum. The beats followed in quick succession, almost too fast to tell apart, but there could be no doubt that they were listening to a sequence of noises that varied in volume and duration.

'Well, it sounds like code,' said Anawak, 'but what does it mean?'

'We don't know.'

'You don't know?' echoed Vanderbilt. 'But I thought you'd cracked it.'

'What we don't know,' Crowe explained patiently, 'is how their language might work when they're using it normally. We can't make head or tail of the previous Scratch signals. But that's beside the point.' Smoke curled from her nostrils. 'We've got something better. We've got contact. Murray, show them the first part.'

Shankar clicked on an icon. The screen was lined with rows of numbers. Some columns seemed identical.

'We sent them some homework, as you know,' said Shankar. 'Math questions. Like an IQ test. We asked them to continue decimal sequences, work out some logarithms, fill in the missing numbers, that kind of thing. If it worked, we were hoping they'd find it kind of fun and send us a reply. It would be their way of telling us that they'd heard us, that they really exist, that they know about math and can manipulate numbers.' He pointed to the rows of figures on the screen. 'This is their answer. Grade A. They got everything right.'

'Christ,' whispered Weaver.

'That tells us two things,' said Crowe. 'First, Scratch is indeed a kind of language. In all probability, each of the Scratch signals contains complex information. Second, and this is the decisive point, it proves that they're capable of adapting Scratch so that we can understand it. That's an achievement of the highest order. It tells us that they're every bit as smart as we are. They're capable of decoding our messages; but they can also code their own.'

For a while they just stared at the columns of figures, admiration mixed with fear.

'But what does it prove?' asked Johanson, breaking the silence.

'I should have thought that was obvious,' retorted Delaware. 'It proves something's down there. Something that can think.'

'OK, but couldn't a computer generate the same results?'

'You don't think we're talking to a computer, do you?'

'He's got a point, you know,' said Anawak. 'All it proves is that our math questions have been answered. That's impressive, but it's not evidence of conscious intelligence.'

'But what else could be sending us messages?' asked Greywolf, disbelievingly. 'Mackerel?'

'Nonsense. Think about it. What we're seeing here is the work of a creature that can manipulate symbols. That's not proof of higher intelligence per se. Take chameleons, for instance. They solve a highly complex processing problem every time they change colour, but they've got no idea they're doing it. If you weren't acquainted with the IQ of chameleons, you might suppose they're very clever – after all, they can use a program that allows them to resemble foliage one day and a rock face the next. You'd probably credit them with enormous insight because they're reading the code of their surroundings. And you'd assume they were creative because they change their code to match.'

'So what are we looking at?' asked Delaware, helplessly.

Crowe smiled. 'Leon's right,' she said. 'Just because someone can manipulate symbols doesn't mean they understand them. The real proof of intelligence and creativity resides in a creature's ability to understand and conceptualise conditions in the real world. That requires a deeper understanding. Even the most highly powered computer doesn't deal in rules of thumb or counter-intuitive decisions. It can't engage with its environment or experience the world. I imagine the yrr had the same considerations in mind when they formulated their reply. They tried to find something that would signal to us they're capable of real understanding.' Crowe pointed to the screen. 'These are the results of the two math problems. If you look closely, you'll see that the first answer appears eleven times in a row, then you get three repetitions of answer number two, a single occurrence of answer number one, then nine times number two and so on. At one point the second answer appears nearly thirty thousand times. But why? It makes sense to send us the results more than once, of course, even if only to make sure that the message is long enough to be detected. But why would they mix them all together?'

'This is where Ms. Alien comes in,' said Shankar, with an enigmatic smile.

Jodie Foster, my alter ego! Crowe nodded. 'I have to admit that if it hadn't been for the movie, I would never have got there so quickly. You see, the sequence of answers is a code in itself. If you know how to read it, you get an image of black and white pixels – just like the messages we work on at SETI'

'I hope it's not a picture of Hitler,' said Rubin. This time he was rewarded with a laugh. By now everyone on board had seen Contact. It was about extra-terrestrials transmitting an image to Earth. The pixels of the image contained the manual for a spaceship. Humanity had been beaming pictures into space throughout its high-tech evolution, and the aliens had picked one at random as the basis for their message. Of all the available images, they'd chosen one of Hitler.

'No,' said Crowe. 'It's not Hitler.'

Shankar hit a few keys. The columns of figures disappeared and made way for an image.

'What is it?' Vanderbilt leaned forward to get a better look.

'Don't you recognise it?' asked Crowe. 'Any suggestions?'

'Looks like a skyscraper,' said Anawak.

'The Empire State Building?' suggested Rubin.

'Yeah right,' said Greywolf. 'How are they supposed to know what the Empire State Building looks like? I'd say it's a missile.'

'And how would they know what a missile looks like?' asked Delaware.

'They're lying all over the seabed! Nuclear missiles, chemical missiles…'

'What's all this stuff in the background?' asked Oliviera. 'Clouds?'

'It could be water,' said Weaver. 'Maybe it's a picture of the depths. Some kind of rock formation.'

'You're on the right track with water,' said Crowe.

Johanson scratched his beard. 'It looks more like a monument. Maybe it's a symbol. Something… religious.'

'That's a human idea if ever I heard one.' Crowe seemed to be enjoying herself enormously. 'Hasn't it occurred to you that there might be another way of looking at the picture?'

They stared at it again. Li gave a start. 'Can you rotate it by ninety degrees?'

Shankar's fingers danced over the keyboard and the picture shifted to the horizontal.

'I still don't get what it is,' said Vanderbilt. 'A fish? A huge animal?'

Li chuckled to herself 'No, Jack. Those are waves in the background. It's a snapshot taken from below. We're looking at the surface – from the perspective of the depths.'

'Huh? What about that black thing, then?'

'Easy. That's us. It's our ship.'

HEEREMA, La Palma, Canary Islands

Maybe they shouldn't have allowed themselves to celebrate so soon. Over the past sixteen hours the tube had been in constant operation, sucking up pinkish creatures by the tonne. The worms didn't seem to take too kindly to the rapid change of scene. Most had exploded in transit, while the remainder writhed in their death throes, jaws twitching. Frost had run out on deck as soon as the first polychaetes spurted out of the tube into enormous nets stretched beneath it. As the water drained through the mesh, giant slides conveyed the bodies into the bowels of a freighter moored alongside the Heerema and whose load was growing steadily. Frost had plunged his hands into the mass and returned to the control room, covered with slime but brandishing a dozen corpses, which he waved triumphantly in the air. 'The only good worm is a dead one,' he veiled. 'Yeee-haa!'

They'd all clapped, including Bohrmann.

After a while the swirling sediment had settled, and a view of marbled lava had appeared on their screens. Isolated strings of bubbles were rising from the surface of the rock. The cameras on the lighting scaffold zoomed in, showing Bohrmann the true nature of the marbled pattern. 'Bacterial mats,' he said.

Frost turned. 'What does that mean?'

'It's hard to say.' Bohrmann rubbed his knuckle against his chin. 'Provided they've only colonised the surface, there won't be any danger. I can't tell how many bacteria will have worked their way through the sediment. See those dirty grey lines? That's the hydrate.'

'At least it's still there.'

'Some of it. But who's to say how much was there in the first place and how much has dissociated already? The escaping gas hasn't reached critical proportions yet. For the moment I'd say we haven't been entirely unsuccessful in our efforts.'

'A double negative is as good as a yes.' Frost got up. I'll make us some coffee.'

After that they'd waited for hours, watching the tube graze the plateau until their eyes were sore. In the end van Maarten had dispatched Frost to bed – he and Bohrmann had barely slept for three days. Frost had protested, but his eyes were closing, and he wobbled out unsteadily to his cabin.

Bohrmann stayed behind with van Maarten. It was 23.00 hours.

'It's your turn next,' said the Dutchman.

'But I can't.' Bohrmann passed his hands over his eyes. I'm the only one who knows enough about hydrates.'

'We know enough.'

'It won't take long now anyway.' Bohrmann was drained. The operating team had been relieved three times already. In a few hours Erwin Suess would be arriving by helicopter from Kiel. He had to hold out until then.

He yawned. A soft hum filled the air. The lighting scaffold and the tube had worked their way slowly but surely towards the north. If the readings from the Polarstern expedition were correct, the infestation was restricted to this terrace. He knew it would take at least another couple of days to vacuum the worms up entirely, but hope was stirring inside him. The methane content of the water was above average, but there was no real cause for concern. If they could get rid of the worms and the bacteria, there was a chance that the partially eroded hydrates might restabilise.

Eyelids drooping, he gazed at the screens. It took him a while to grasp what he was seeing. The picture had changed. 'Something's glittering down there,' he said. 'Move the tube.'

Van Maarten squinted. 'Where?'

'Look at the monitors. There was a flash in the water. Look – there it is again!'

Suddenly he was wide awake. Something was amiss, and the footage from the scaffold now confirmed it. The cloud of sediment had swollen. Bubbles and dark clumps of matter were spinning around and drifting towards the tube.

The cameras filmed nothing but darkness, then the tube jerked to one side.

'What the hell's going on down there?'

The operator's voice came through the speakers: 'We're sucking up large chunks of something. The tube's becoming unstable. I don't know if-'

'Move the tube!' shouted Bohrmann. 'Get away from the flank.'

This can't be happening, he thought. It was the Sonne all over again. Another blow-out. They'd lingered too long over the same section of terrace and the plateau had come loose. The vacuum was tearing up the sediment.

No, it wasn't a blow-out. It was worse than that.

The tube tried to retreat from the billowing sediment. The cloud bulged, then seemed to explode. A wave of pressure rocked the scaffold. The picture juddered up and down.

'It's a landslide,' screamed the operator.

'Stop the pump!' Bohrmann sprang to his feet. 'Get away from the terrace!'

He watched as lava boulders crashed down on to the terrace. Somewhere within the fog of sediment and debris the tube was still moving, almost hidden.

'The pump's off,' said van Maarten.

Eyes wide with horror they watched the progress of the slide. Debris continued to shower from above. If the cracks were to spread through the almost vertical flank, ever larger boulders would detach themselves from the volcano. Lava was porous: within minutes a small slide could become an avalanche, prompting the scenario they'd been trying to prevent.

We should accept our fate, thought Bohrmann. We haven't got time to get away.

He pictured the dome of water stretching six hundred metres into the sky…

The clatter of rocks stopped.

There was a long silence. No one said anything as they stared at the monitors. The terrace was enveloped in a haze of sediment that scattered the light from the halogen bulbs.

'It's stopped,' said van Maarten. There was an almost imperceptible shake in his voice.

'Yes.' Bohrmann nodded. 'Apparently.'

Van Maarten radioed the operators.

'The scaffold shook all over the place,' said the guy in charge of the lighting unit. 'We've lost one of the floodlights. The others are bright enough, though.'

'And the tube?'

'Seems to be stuck,' came the verdict from the other crane. 'The system's processing our commands, but it's unable to react.'

'I guess the mouth must be buried under rubble,' said the scaffold operator.

'How much debris do you think will have fallen?' asked van Maarten.

'We'll have to wait for the cloud to settle,' said Bohrmann. 'But it looks as though we've escaped with a bruising.'

'OK, then, we'll wait.' Van Maarten leaned into the microphone. 'Don't attempt to free the tube. You can all have a coffee break. I don't want anyone causing any more damage. We'll wait for a while, then reassess.'

THREE HOURS LATER they could vaguely make out the mouth of the tube.

Frost had rejoined them, his hair springing out from his head in an unruly mop of wiry curls.

'It's trapped,' said van Maarten.

Frost scratched his head. 'But I don't think it's broken.'

'The propellers can't turn.'

'How are we going to free them?'

'We could always send down a robot and try to shift the debris that way,' Bohrmann suggested.

'For the love of God,' protested Frost, 'that would take forever. And things were going so well.'

'We'll just have to hurry.' Bohrmann turned to van Maarten. 'How quickly can we get Rambo ready?'

'Right away.'

'Let's go, then. We'll give it a shot.'

Rambo owed its name to the Sylvester Stallone films. The ROV looked like a smaller version of Victor, and came equipped with four cameras, a set of thrusters at the stern and on its sides, and two powerful articulated arms. It was suitable for depths of up to eight hundred metres, and was popular in the offshore industry. Within fifteen minutes it was ready to go. Soon it was descending along the flank of the volcano towards the terrace, attached to its control system via an electro-optical tether. The lighting scaffold came into view. The robot sank further, accelerated and manoeuvred its way towards the trapped tube. Seen in close-up, it was obvious that the propellers and the video system were still intact, but the tube was well and truly jammed.

Rambo's articulated arms started to shift the debris. At first it seemed that the robot might succeed. It lifted the rocks one by one until it came to a sharp splinter of lava that had bored its way into the sediment and was sticking out diagonally, pressing the tube against a ledge. Its arms extended and contracted, twisting and trying to dislodge the splinter.

'It's not a job for a robot,' said Bohrmann. 'They can't generate momentum.'

'Great!' spat Frost.

'What if the operator were to reel in the tube?' suggested Bohrmann. 'That's bound to create enough tension to free it.'

Van Maarten shook his head. 'It's too risky. The tube might tear.'

They kept trying for a while, getting the robot to ram the rock from every possible angle, until eventually it was obvious that Rambo couldn't help. And in the meantime, worms were invading the surface that had been cleared, swarming out of the darkness from all directions.

'I don't like the look of this,' said Bohrmann. 'Especially not here, where the rock's so unstable.'

Frost frowned. 'I'll do it.'

Bohrmann looked at him questioning.

'I'll take a dive.' Frost shrugged. 'If Rambo can't do it, only we can. It's four hundred metres. The pressure suits can handle that.'

'You want to go down there?' Bohrmann said.

'Sure.' Frost stretched his arms until they clicked. 'Is there a problem?'

15 August

Independence, Greenland Sea

The yrr's reply prompted Crowe to send a second, infinitely more complex message into the depths. It contained information about the human race, its evolution and culture. At first Vanderbilt wasn't too happy about this, but Crowe persuaded him they had nothing to lose. The yrr were on the brink of victory. 'Our only chance,' she said, 'is to convince them that we deserve to live. And the only way we can do that is by telling them about us. Maybe there'll be something they haven't already taken into account. Something that will make them reconsider.'

'Shared values,' said Li.

'Or just the tiniest overlap.'

Oliviera, Johanson and Rubin had shut themselves into the lab to get the blob of jelly to dissociate. They kept in constant communication with Weaver and Anawak. Weaver had endowed her virtual yrr with electronic DNA and pheromones. It seemed to work. On a theoretical level they'd demonstrated that the aggregation of single-cell organisms relied on a pheromone, but in practice the jelly was disinclined to prove it. The being, or collection of beings, had turned into a flat sort of pancake and sunk to the bottom of the chamber.

On 02 level, Delaware and Greywolf were busy monitoring the footage from the dolphins' cameras, but there was nothing to be seen on the screens apart from the Independence's hull, a few fish, and the mammal fleet – dolphins filming each other. When they weren't in the CIC, they were down on the well deck, where Roscovitz and Browning were still hard at work, repairing the Deepflight.

Li was aware that even the best minds could seize up or get stuck in a rut if they weren't distracted from their work. She asked for the latest data on the weather forecast and double-checked its reliability. There was every indication that low winds and smooth seas would prevail until the next day. The water was noticeably calmer than it had been that morning.

With that knowledge, she summoned Anawak for a chat, and discovered to her astonishment that he knew next to nothing about Arctic cuisine. The responsibility was delegated to Peak, who, for the first time in his military career, found himself in charge of catering.

He made a series of phone calls and two helicopters set out for Greenland late that afternoon, Li announced that the head chef had invited them all to a party at nine o'clock that evening. The helicopters returned, bearing all the ingredients for a Greenland feast. Tables, chairs and a buffet were set up on the flight deck next to the island. A stereo system was carried outside and heaters were positioned around the perimeter to keep out the cold.

The bustle in the kitchens became a whirlwind of activity. Pots and pans were filled with caribou; seal stock was converted into soup; maktaaq – narwhal skin – was cut into strips, and eider-duck eggs put on to boil. The Independence's baker turned his hand to bannock, a tasty variety of flat bread, whose preparation was at the centre of numerous annual baking competitions. Arctic char and salmon were filleted and fried with herbs; frozen walrus became carpaccio; and mounds of rice were poured into water. Peak, who knew nothing about cooking, had trusted the advice of locals. Only one regional delicacy had failed to make the cut. No matter how much anyone extolled the virtues of raw walrus gut, Peak had decided it was one experience he was prepared to forgo.

He'd arranged for a skeleton crew to man the bridge, the engine room and the CIC, so at nine o'clock sharp almost everyone made their way to the deck – sailors, scientists and military – claimed their welcome drink, an alcohol-free cocktail, and waited for the buffet to open. Soon scientists were talking to soldiers, soldiers to sailors and sailors to scientists.

It was a strange party that Li had arranged, with the steel tower of the island behind them and the lonely expanse of the sea all around. In the distance they could see surreal peaks of retreating mist, and the red ball of the sun low on the horizon. The clean air felt invigoratingly cold, and a deep blue sky stretched high above.

At first everyone discussed anything other than the circumstances that had brought them together – but there was something awkward, almost desperate, about their determination to stick to polite conversation. As midnight approached, and dusk descended, they were on first-name terms and gathered in groups around the experts, seeking comfort where there was none to be found.

'Seriously, though,' said Buchanan, shortly after one o'clock, 'you can't tell me you really believe all that stuff about intelligent amoebas.'

'Why not?' said Crowe.

'We're talking about real intelligence, right?'

'I should think so.'

'Well…' Buchanan fumbled for the right words '. . . I'm not saying that all intelligent beings should look like us, but you'd think they'd be more complex than amoebas. Chimps are supposed to be intelligent, aren't they? Whales and dolphins too. They're all creatures with complex bodies and big brains. Ants are too small to be truly intelligent – you said so yourself- so how's it supposed to work for amoebas?'

'Are you sure you're not confusing two different issues?'

'What.'

'The truth, and what you'd like the truth to be.'

'What do you mean?'

'She means,' said Peak, 'that we'd prefer our enemy to be powerful and strong. In other words, if we have to concede defeat to anyone, we'd rather it was to a race of tall, good-looking creatures.'

Buchanan slammed his hand on the table. 'Well, I don't buy it. Primitive organisms aren't supposed to rule the planet. There's no way that an amoeba can be as intelligent as man. No way. Humans mean progress, they-'

'Progress?' Crowe shook her head. 'What do you mean by progress? Is evolution progress?'

Buchanan looked hunted.

'Let's see, then,' said Crowe. 'Evolution is the struggle for existence, as Darwin called it. The survival of the fittest. Whichever way you look at it, it means triumph in the face of adversity – either by succeeding over other organisms or by surviving natural disasters. Natural selection allows organisms to adapt. But does that necessarily mean organisms become more complex? And is complexity progress?'

'Evolution isn't my field,' said Peak, 'but the way I see it, most creatures have been getting bigger and more complex throughout the course of time. Humans are the perfect example. Organisms increase in size and complexity. In my book, that makes it a trend.'

'A trend? No. What we call history is only a passing moment in time. Sure, nature is currently experimenting with complexity, but who's to say that it won't lead to an evolutionary dead end? We're vastly overestimating our own importance if we see ourselves at the forefront of any natural trend. Think of the tree of life – that diagram with branches sprouting off in all directions. Where would you see humanity on it, Sal? As a main branch or one of its offshoots?'

'Goes without saying. A main branch.'

'That's what I expected. It's a typically human way of seeing things. If various offshoots of a genus die out, we tend to assume that the surviving offshoot is the central branch. Why? Well, because – for the moment, at any rate – it's still there. But what if it's just an unimportant side branch that's managed to survive a little longer than the rest? Humans are the only remaining bud on an evolutionary branch that once flourished. We're the leftovers from a biological development whose other offshoots withered and died, the last survivors of an experiment named Homo. Homo Australopithecus: extinct. Homo habilis: extinct. Homo sapiens neanderthalensis: extinct. Homo sapiens sapiens: still extant. We may have mastered the Earth for the moment, but evolutionary parvenus shouldn't confuse ascendancy with inherent superiority or long-term survival. We could disappear from this planet faster than we'd like to think.'

'Maybe you're right,' said Peak. 'But you're forgetting one thing. This one surviving species is the only species with highly developed consciousness.'

'Sure. But consider the development of consciousness within the context of nature as a whole. Can you really see any overall progress or general trend? Eighty per cent of all multicellular organisms have been far more successful in evolutionary terms than mankind, without ever being part of this supposed trend towards neural complexity. The fact that we're endowed with intelligence and consciousness is only evidence of progress from our particular viewpoint. We're just some bizarre evolutionary sideshow that's arisen against all the odds. There's only one thing that the human species has contributed to the ecosystem of this planet, and that's a whole lot of trouble.'

'Well, I still think humans are behind all this,' Vanderbilt was saying at the neighbouring table. 'But, OK, I'm prepared to be proven wrong. If it turns out that we're not up against a human enemy, I'll be launching an operation in yrr surveillance instead. Don't you worry! The CIA will trail those unicellular slimeballs until we know exactly how their minds work and what they're planning next.'

He was standing with Delaware and Anawak, surrounded by soldiers and crew.

'Dream on,' said Delaware. 'Not even the CIA could manage that.'

'What would you know about it, honey?' scoffed Vanderbilt. 'If you're patient enough, you can slip inside any mind you choose – even if it belongs to an amoeba. It's just a question of time.'

'No, it's a question of being able to see things objectively,' said Anawak. 'And that presupposes the ability to adopt an objective point of view.'

'We can do that. We're intelligent, civilised beings.'

'You might be intelligent, Jack, but you're not capable of viewing nature objectively.'

'In fact, your viewpoint is as subjective and restricted as any other animal's,' said Delaware.

'Which particular animal did you have in mind?' Vanderbilt chuckled. 'A walrus?'

Anawak gave a short laugh. 'I'm serious, Jack. We're closer to nature than we think.'

'Well, I'm not. I'm a city boy. Never did like the country. Same as my old man.'

'Makes no difference,' said Delaware. 'Think of how we feel about snakes, for example. We admire them as much as we fear them. It's the same with sharks. There are all kinds of shark divinities. Man's emotional reliance on other forms of life is inborn. It might even be genetic.'

'You're talking about tribespeople. I'm talking about city folk.'

'OK.' Anawak thought for a moment. 'Have you got any phobias? Anything you really don't like?'

'Well, I wouldn't call it a phobia, exactly…' Vanderbilt trailed off.

'An aversion, then?'

'Yes.'

To what?'

Just the usual. I don't like spiders.'

'Why?'

'Well, because…' Vanderbilt shrugged. 'They're disgusting. You find them disgusting, don't you?'

'Not really, but that's not the point. The point is, most phobias still plaguing civilised society derive from things that posed a threat to humanity in the past – before we lived in cities. Walls of rock that cave in on us, storms, floods, dark water, snakes, dogs, spiders. Why don't we develop phobias of guns, live wires, flick knives, cars, explosives and electric sockets? They're far more dangerous. But it's engrained in our minds: beware of snake-like creatures and many-legged insects.'

'The human brain developed in a natural, not a technological environment,' said Delaware. 'The evolution of our minds took place over a period of two million years, when we were living in intimate contact with our natural surroundings. It's even possible that the prehistoric rules of survival are inscribed in our genes. Either way, only a tiny fragment of our evolution took place during the so-called civilised era. Do you really think that just because your father and your father's father grew up in cities that all the formative information in your brain will have disappeared for good? Why are we afraid of small creatures that slither through the grass? Why don't you like spiders? It's because once upon a time fears like those saved our lives. Because individuals who were more susceptible to fear stayed out of danger and created more offspring. That's why, Jack. Do you see?'

Vanderbilt looked from Delaware to Anawak. 'But what's that got to do with the yrr?' he asked.

'It's to do with the fact that they might look like spiders,' retorted Anawak. 'How would that make you feel? So don't try to tell us that you're objective. If we can't control our aversion to the sight of the yrr- or to jelly, amoebas and toxic crabs or whatever – then we'll never find out how their minds work. We won't be able to. We'll only be intent on destroying them because they're not the same as us – and we don't want them creeping into our caves to steal our children…'

JOHANSON HAD EXTRICATED himself from the main group and was standing in the shadows, trying to remember what had happened the previous night. Li came over to him and handed him a glass. Red wine. 'I thought this was a soft-drinks-only expedition,' said Johanson, surprised.

'It is.' She clinked glasses with him. 'But there's no point in being dogmatic. Besides, I like to cater to the wishes of my guests.'

Johanson took a sip. 'Tell me, General,' he said, 'what kind of a person are you?'

'Call me Jude. "General" is only for people who have to salute me.'

'Well, I can't work you out.'

'Why's that?'

'I don't trust you.'

Li smiled in amusement and took a sip. 'The feeling's mutual, Sigur. What happened to you last night? Don't tell me you still can't remember.'

'My mind's blank.'

'What were you doing on the hangar deck? It was the middle of the night.'

'Just relaxing.'

'And before that you did a bit of relaxing with Oliviera.'

'When you're as busy as we are, it's important to relax.'

'Hmm.' Li stared past him towards the water. 'What were you talking about?'

'Work.'

'Is that all?'

Johanson looked at her. 'What do you want, Jude?'

'To beat this crisis. And you?'

'Oh, ditto,' said Johanson, 'but I'm not sure I want to beat it in the same way as you. What are you hoping will be left when this is over?'

'The values of our society.'

'Human society? Or American society?'

Her blue eyes seemed to gleam 'Is there a difference?'

CROWE HAD WORKED herself into a fury. Oliviera was on hand to back her up, and a crowd had assembled. There was no doubt that Peak and Buchanan had been forced on to the defensive, but while Peak had lapsed into thoughtful silence, Buchanan was seething with rage.

'We're not the inevitable product of some superior evolutionary development, you know,' Crowe was saying. 'Mankind was created by chance. We owe our existence to a colossal cosmic accident: a giant meteorite hit the Earth and wiped out the dinosaurs. If that hadn't happened, maybe intelligent neosauroids would now be roaming the planet. Or maybe there wouldn't be any intelligent life, only animals. We came into being because conditions were favourable for our evolution, not because of any logic. Who knows? Out of the millions of possible turns that multicellular life could have taken since its beginnings in the Cambrian, maybe this is the one and only pathway that could have given rise to us.'

'But mankind rules the planet,' persisted Buchanan. 'You can't argue with that.'

'Right now the yrr rule the planet. You've got to face facts. We're just one small species among the class of mammals, and there's a long way to go before evolution could deem us a success. The most successful mammals are bats, rats and antelopes. We're not the final glorious chapter of natural history, just a couple of pages in a very long book. There's no trend that leads towards a golden era of nature, only selection. Over time, one of the planet's species may have experienced a period of increasing anatomical and neural complexity, but if you look at the bigger picture, that's not a trend, and it's certainly not a progression. Life in general doesn't exhibit any impulse towards progress. Nature gives us complex beings, and at the same time preserves simple ones like bacteria for over three billion years. Life has no reason to want to improve on anything.'

'How does what you're saying fit with God's plan?' asked Buchanan, in a tone that sounded almost threatening.

'Well, if there's a God, and if that God's intelligent, then God must have organised the world in the way I've just described. We're not God's crowning achievement, we're just one version of life that will only survive if we understand our place in the whole.'

'And what about man being created in God's image? I suppose you're going to take issue with that?'

'Surely it must have occurred to you that the yrr might be created in God's image. You're not that narrow-minded, are you?' Buchanan's eyes flashed dangerously, but he didn't get a chance to speak: Crowe smothered him in smoke. 'But it's irrelevant anyway. God's bound to have created His favourite species according to the best of all possible designs. Well, compared to other species, we humans are relatively big. Is a big body a better body? You were right, Peak, about some species growing bigger through selection, but most do very well as they are – and they're tiny. Small organisms are far more likely to survive during periods of mass extinction, which means that every few million years the larger organisms get wiped out and evolution starts again with the smallest possible species. Creatures get bigger and then the next meteorite strikes. Boom! That's God's plan for you.'

'That's not a plan, that's nihilism.'

'Realism, actually,' said Oliviera. 'The thing is, it's the highly specialised species like humans that die out in times of environmental change. They're unable to adapt. Koalas are complex organisms, but they only eat eucalyptus. What happens to the koalas if the eucalyptus disappears? They die too. Now, compare that to single-cell organisms: most species can live through ice ages, volcanic eruptions and shifts in oxygen and methane concentration. They can even survive for thousands of years in a death-like state and come back to life as though nothing had happened. Bacteria are everywhere – in boiling springs, glaciers, or burrowed kilometres under the earth… We couldn't survive without bacteria, but they'd have no trouble surviving without us. We've got bacteria to thank for the oxygen in the air. Our supply of chemicals – oxygen, nitrogen, phosphorus, sulphur, carbon dioxide and so on – depends on the activity of microbes. Plant and animal matter is broken down by bacteria, fungi, protozoa, microscopic scavengers, insects and worms, who feed the chemical components back into the cycle of life. It's no different in the ocean. Micro-organisms are the dominant form of life in the water. The jelly in the lab is almost certainly older and perhaps a good deal smarter than we are, whether you like the idea or not.'

'You can't compare humans to microbes,' Buchanan snapped. 'Humans have a special significance. If you can't see that, what are you doing in this team?'

I'm trying to do the right thing.'

'But you're betraying mankind.'

'No, mankind is betraying the planet by attributing a disproportionate significance to certain organisms. We're the only species to do that, you know. We try to rate everything. We have bad animals, important animals, useful animals. We judge nature by what we see, but we see only a fraction of it, and we invest that fraction with more significance than it deserves. Our focus is on large animals, on vertebrates, and mainly on ourselves. All we see are vertebrates. The total number of living vertebrate species is approximately forty-three thousand, of which six thousand are reptiles, ten thousand are birds and four thousand are mammals. But there are nearly a million scientifically classified non-vertebrate species, including two hundred and ninety thousand species of beetle alone. That's seven times the number of vertebrates!'

Peak looked at Buchanan. 'She's right, Craig,' he said. 'You should admit it. They're both right.'

'We're not a successful species,' said Crowe. 'If you want to see a successful species, you should take a look at the shark. It's survived in unchanged form since the Devonian, four hundred million years ago.

Sharks are a hundred times older than any member of our genus, and there are three hundred and fifty different species. The yrr could be even older than that. Single-cell organisms that can think collectively would be light-years ahead of us. We'd never catch up. The only thing we could do is destroy them. But would you really want to take that risk? We don't even know what role they play in our survival. Maybe we'd find it even harder to live without this particular enemy than we do to live with it.'

YOU WANT TO protect American values?' Johanson shook his head. 'In that case, we're bound to fail.'

'What have you got against American values?'

'Nothing. But you heard what Crowe said: intelligent life-forms from other planets probably have nothing in common with humans or mammals. They may not even have DNA. Their system of values is likely to be completely different from ours. What kind of social and moral framework do you think you're going to find in the depths? We're talking about a species whose civilisation probably depends on cell division and self-sacrifice. How are you going to reach any kind of agreement with them, if all you're concerned about is the preservation of values that even humans can't agree on?'

'That's not what I meant,' said Li. 'I know we don't have the monopoly on ethics. But the question is this: is it absolutely necessary to understand how others think? Or wouldn't it be better to invest all our energies in trying to coexist?'

'Living in peace alongside each other?'

'Yes.'

'If only we'd thought of that before,' said Johanson. 'I think the native peoples of America, Australia, Africa and the Arctic would have welcomed that idea. Same goes for all the animal species that we hunted to extinction. But the situation's not that straightforward. I don't suppose for a second that we'll ever really understand how they think, but we've caused each other too much trouble not to try. Our habitat's too small for us to keep living side by side. We need to learn to live together. And there's no way we'll be able to do that unless we scale back our expectations concerning humanity's so-called God-given rights.'

'How do you propose we do that, then? By adopting the customs of amoebas?'

'Of course not. It's genetically impossible, anyway. What we refer to as customs or culture is inscribed in our genes. Cultural evolution began in prehistoric times. That was when our mind was laid out. Sure, these days we design aeroplanes, helicopter carriers and opera houses, but only to continue our primitive activities on a so-called civilised plane. It's what we've been doing since the first axe was bartered for a slab of meat: going to war, congregating in social units, trading. Culture is part of our evolution. It allows us to survive in a stable condition-'

'Until another species with greater stability turns out to be superior. I see what you're getting at, Sigur. It's not something we like to dwell on, but genes are what's allowing us to have this conversation in the first place. We're so proud of our intellectual heritage, but it's just the result of biology. Culture is nothing but a set of successful patterns of behaviour grounded in our struggle to survive.'

Johanson didn't respond.

'Did I get something wrong?' said Li.

'No, I was listening in silent admiration. You're absolutely right. Human evolution is just the interplay between genetic mutation and cultural change. We owe the growth of our brains to genetic mutations. It was biology that allowed us to speak. Five hundred thousand years ago, nature restructured our vocal apparatus and built the language centres in our cortex. And these genetic mutations fired our cultural evolution. Speech gave us the ability to express our thoughts, describe our past, discuss our future, and give voice to our imagination. Culture is the product of biological processes, and biological adaptation occurs in response to cultural change. The whole process takes generations, of course, but it happens all the same.'

Li smiled. 'I'm glad I passed the test.'

'I never suspected otherwise,' Johanson said graciously. 'But you've pinpointed the problem: our much-vaunted cultural diversity is bounded by genetic limitations. And those limitations clearly separate our culture from the culture of non-human intelligent beings. Over time, mankind has created numerous cultures, and each is based on the imperative of keeping our species alive. We could never adopt the values of a species whose biology isn't compatible with our own. They're our rivals in the struggle for habitat and resources.'

'So you don't believe in the Federation, with walking electronic beehives queuing up beside us at the bar?'

'Star Wars? 'Yes.'

'A great movie. No. That would only work if we could somehow suppress our instincts over hundreds of thousands of years. We'd need our genes to be reprogrammed towards inter-species co-operation.'

'Which proves that I'm right. We shouldn't try to understand the yrr. We should find a way of leaving each other in peace.'

'That's the snag. They won't leave us in peace.'

'Then we've lost.'

'Why?'

'Didn't you just say that humans and non-humans will never reach a consensus?'

'The same could be said for Christians and Muslims. Listen, Jude, understanding the yrr isn't an option. We'll never be able to understand them. But we have to make room for what we can't understand. That's not the same as allowing their values to hold sway – or vice versa. The solution lies in retreat. And, right now, it's our retreat that's being called for. It can work, you know. It doesn't mean we have to understand them emotionally – that would be impossible. It just means looking at things from a different, broader perspective, and we can do that by taking a step back from ourselves as a species. Because without that distance, we'll never be in a position to present the yrr with a view of us that's any different from the one they've got now.'

'But we're retreating already. We're trying to make contact – isn't that enough?'

'And what are you hoping to gain from making contact?'

Li said nothing.

'Jude, tell me something. How is it that I hold you in such high esteem yet with so little trust?'

The noise of the debate drifted over from the other tables. It gathered like a wave sweeping over the deck, breaking as it hit them. The scraps of conversation became raised voices, then shouting. At that moment an announcement came through the speakers: 'Dolphin alert! Warning! Dolphin alert!

Li was the first to wrench her eyes from the duel. She turned her head and looked towards the dusky sea.

'Oh, God,' she whispered.

It had started to glow.

BLUE CLOUD

All around them the waves were tinged with luminous blue. Shimmering violet pools surfaced on the water, spreading and merging, as though the sky were pouring into the ocean.

The Independence was suspended in light.

'Whatever you said in that message, you certainly made an impression,' said Greywolf to Crowe, as he stared at it.

'It's so beautiful' Delaware said softly.

'Look!' cried Rubin.

The veil of light began to stir. The glow pulsated. Enormous whirlpools formed, turning slowly at first, then ever faster, until they were rotating like spiral galaxies, drawing in fresh streams of blue. The light at the centre of the whirlpools intensified. Thousands of tiny stars lit up, then faded.

There was a flash.

A cry went up from the deck.

In a split second the scene had changed. Lightning zigzagged through the water, branching out between the swirling eddies. A mute storm raged beneath the surface of the sea. Then the maelstrom retreated, peeling back from the vessel's hull, as the blue cloud rushed towards the horizon, disappearing at breathtaking speed.

Greywolf ran towards the island.

'Jack, wait!' Delaware darted after him. The others followed. He hurried through the vessel, swinging down the companionways, then striding through the command centre and bursting into the CIC, Peak and Li close behind him. The cameras on the hull showed nothing but dark green water. Two dolphins swam into view.

'What's going on?' Peak called to the guys at the monitors. 'What are you getting from the sonar?'

A man swivelled round. 'There's something big out there, sir. Something – well, it's uh, kind of-'

'Kind of what?' Li grabbed his shoulder. 'We need information, you moron. What's happening?'

The man blanched. 'It's – it's- First there was nothing on the screen, then the next second there were sheets of something. They came out of nowhere. The sea just went solid. They turned themselves into a wall or something, they were – they were everywhere.'

'Dispatch the Cobras. I need them up there now, surveying the area.'

'What are the dolphins reporting?' asked Greywolf.

'Unknown life-form,' said a soldier. 'The dolphins detected it first.'

'Is it localised?'

'No, everywhere. But it seems to be retreating – one kilometre and still moving. The sonar's showing vast swathes of something all around the ship.'

'Where are the dolphins now?'

'Underneath us. They're crowding in front of the hatch. I think they're scared. They want to come in.'

People were still pouring into the GIG.

'Bring up the satellite footage,' commanded Peak.

The enormous monitor mounted at the head of the room showed the Independence, as seen by KH-12. She was resting on a dark expanse of water. There was no trace of any blue light.

'Just now the whole screen was lit up,' said the guy in charge of monitoring the satellite feedback.

'Any other satellites we can look at?'

'Nothing available, sir.'

'Zoom out on KH-12, then.'

The man relayed the command to the control centre. A few seconds later the Independence dwindled on the screen and the Greenland Sea extended across it. Whistles and clicks came through the speakers, as the dolphins continued to issue their warning of the unknown presence below.

'Keep going.'

KH-12 zoomed out further. It was now covering a hundred square kilometres. The Independence was 250 metres long, but now it looked like driftwood. They stared at the monitor with bated breath.

And then they saw it.

A thin blue glow was stretched in a vast ring round the vessel. It quivered with flashes of light.

'How big is it?' asked Peak, in a whisper.

'Four kilometres in diameter,' said the woman in front of the screen. 'No, it's bigger. It's some kind of funnel. The image that we can see here is only the opening. The whole thing stretches into the depths. And we're, uh… suspended over its jaws.'

'What's it made of?'

Johanson had appeared in the room next to Peak. 'Jelly, I should think.'

'Congratulations,' wheezed Vanderbilt 'What the hell did you send them?' he snarled at Crowe.

'We asked them to show themselves.'

'Was that wise?'

Shankar spun round angrily. 'We're supposed to be making contact, aren't we? What the hell is your problem? Don't tell me you were expecting messengers on horseback-'

'We've got a signal!'

They swivelled in the direction of the voice – it was the guy in charge of acoustic surveillance. Shankar was there in an instant. He bent over the screen.

'What is it?' Crowe called.

'From the look of the spectrogram, I'd say it was a Scratch signal.'

'An answer?'

'I don't know whether-'

'The ring! Look, it's contracting.'

Their heads jerked towards the main screen. The ring of light was creeping back slowly towards the ship. At the same time, two tiny dots sped away from her. The Cobras had started their recce. The whistling and squeaking from the speakers grew louder.

Suddenly they were all talking at once.

'Quiet!' barked Li. Her forehead creased as she listened to the dolphins. 'They've changed their signal.'

'Yes.' Delaware closed her eyes in concentration. 'Unknown creatures and…'

'Orcas!' cried Greywolf before she could finish.

'We've picked up a number of large animals approaching from below,' said a member of the sonar team. 'They're inside the tube.'

Greywolf turned to Li. 'I don't like the sound of this. We should bring the dolphins inside.'

'Why now?'

I'm not prepared to put their lives at risk. And, anyway, we need the footage from their cameras.'

Li hesitated for a moment. Then she made up her mind. 'OK. Fetch them in. I'll tell Roscovitz. Peak, go with him. Take four of your men.'

'Leon?' said Greywolf 'Licia?'

They hurried out. Rubin watched them go. He leaned towards Li and said something in a low voice. She listened, nodded and turned back to the screens. 'Wait for me!' Rubin yelled. I'm coming too.'

WELL DECK

Roscovitz, Browning and one of her technicians reached the well deck before the scientists arrived. The commander swore when he saw the broken-down Deepflight. It was floating on the surface with the pods flipped open, tethered by a single chain that stretched up to the rail overhead. 'I thought I told you to finish the job,' he snapped at Browning.

'It's more complicated than we thought,' the head technician protested, as they strode along the jetty. 'The steering system is-'

'Shit.' Roscovitz stared at the submersible. It was positioned half-way over the sluice, whose contours were partially visible in the water, four metres below. 'I don't like it there, Browning. And I especially don't like it there when we're letting the dolphins in and out.'

'With all due respect, sir, it's not in the way. Just as soon as we've repaired it, we'll hoist it back on to the rail.'

Roscovitz growled incomprehensibly and took his position at the controls. The boat was lying in front of him. From that angle it blocked his view of the sluice. He'd have to rely on the footage on the screens. He swore again, this time using juicier expressions. The Independence had been equipped in great haste – shoddily, it seemed. If things weren't going to work properly, why the hell didn't they cause problems before they were in use? What was the point of testing every last piece of hardware if his view would be blocked by a floating submersible?

Steps echoed through the hangar deck. Greywolf, Delaware, Anawak and Rubin hurried down the ramp, followed by Peak and his men. The soldiers spread out on either side of the jetty. Rubin and Peak headed towards Roscovitz while the others pulled on their wetsuits and adjusted their masks.

'Ready,' said Greywolf. He made the OK sign, forming a circle with his forefinger and thumb. 'Let's bring them in.'

Roscovitz switched on the audio recording to summon the dolphins. He saw the scientists splash down into the basin, their bodies illuminated by the underwater lights. They swam towards the sluice. One by one they dived towards the glass hatch. He opened the flaps in the hull.

DELAWARE SANK HEAD FIRST towards the display panel beside the hatch. She was still diving when the enormous steel plates jolted into action, three metres below the inverted glass turret. She watched as they swung open to reveal the water below. Two dolphins slid into the sluice. They seemed nervous, pressing their snouts against the glass. Greywolf signalled for them to wait. A third dolphin swam in.

By now the steel plates were fully open. There was a gaping chasm below the glass plug. Delaware strained to see through the darkness. No blue glow, no lightning, no orcas, and no sign of the other three dolphins. She sank lower, below the level of the deck, until her hands were touching the glass, scanning the depths for the rest of the fleet. Suddenly a fourth dolphin shot into view, banking sharply and swimming into the sluice. Greywolf nodded, and Delaware gave the OK to Roscovitz. The steel plates moved slowly together, closing with a dull thud. Inside the sluice the sensors went to work, testing the water for impurities and toxins. After a few seconds the green light came on, and the all-clear went to Roscovitz's control panel. Noiselessly the glass flaps slid open.

As soon as the gap was wide enough, the dolphins pushed into the basin, where Greywolf and Anawak were ready to receive them.

PEAK WATCHED AS Roscovitz closed the glass flaps, his eyes fixed on the monitors. Rubin was at the edge of the basin, peering down at the sluice.

'And then there were two,' Roscovitz muttered to himself.

Whistling and clicking came to them from the speakers: the dolphins left outside sounded increasingly frantic. Greywolf raised his head above the water, followed by Anawak and Delaware.

'What are they saying?' asked Peak.

'Same as before,' said Greywolf 'Unknown life-form and orcas. Anything new on the monitors?'

'No.'

'Which isn't to say that we're clear. Let's fetch the other two in.'

Peak stared. A deep blue glow was emanating from the edges of the screens.

'You'd better get a move on,' he said. 'It's coming closer.'

The scientists dived back towards the sluice. Peak dialled the CIC. 'What can you see up there?'

'The ring's still contracting.' Li's voice rasped through the speakers on the console. "The helicopters have reported that it's disappearing under water, but we can still see it clearly on the satellite footage. Seems to be trying to get under the boat. Any second now the blue light should come on.'

'It's on already. Listen, what are we dealing with? The blue cloud?'

'Sal?' That was Johanson's voice. 'I think the cloud has gone. The cells are aggregating. It's a dense funnel of jelly, and it's contracting. I don't know what's going on, but I think you'd better finish up down there.'

'We're almost done. Rosco?'

'I'm on the case,' said Roscovitz. 'The sluice is open.'

ANAWAK WAS STARING in fascination through the glass. This time things looked very different as the steel flaps swung open. Earlier they'd peered into murky green gloom. Now the depths were aglow with blue light, faint at first, but growing steadily stronger.

This doesn't look like the cloud, he thought. It was almost as though they were encircled by light. He recalled the satellite images of the Independence floating at the centre of the enormous funnel's mouth.

Then it hit him that he was looking down inside the tube. His stomach turned at the thought of its vastness. Panic took hold of him. As the fifth dolphin appeared out of nowhere and shot into the sluice, he drew back from the hatch, barely able to control the urge to flee. Anawak forced himself to stay calm. A second later, the sixth dolphin entered the sluice. The steel flaps closed. The sensors tested the water, gave the OK to Roscovitz and the glass hatch opened.

BROWNING BOUNDED FORWARD and landed on the Deepflight.

'Hey! What do you think you're doing?' asked Roscovitz.

'Well, the dolphins are inside now, aren't they? I'm doing my job.'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Sure you didn't.' Browning crouched to open a compartment at the stern. 'I'm going to fix this damn thing.'

'This isn't the time, Browning,' Peak said testily. 'We've got more important stuff to deal with. Stop messing about.' He couldn't tear his eyes away from the screens. The light was getting brighter.

'Sal, are you finished down there?'

'Yeah. What's going on?'

'Part of the funnel is pushing itself under the boat.'

'Can that stuff cause us any damage?'

'I doubt it. I can't imagine any organism causing the Independence to so much as wobble. Not even these creatures. They're like muscular jelly.'

'And they're right below us,' said Rubin, from the edge of the basin. His eyes were gleaming. 'Open the sluice again, Luther. Pronto.'

'What?' Roscovitz stared at him in disbelief 'Are you crazy?'

In a few steps Rubin was alongside him at the desk. 'General?' he called, leaning into the mike.

The speakers crackled. 'What do you want, Mick?'

'We've got a fantastic opportunity to get hold of a significant sample of that jelly. I'm suggesting that we open the sluice but Peak and Roscovitz-'

'Jude, it's too risky,' said Peak. 'Anything could get in.'

'All we have to do is open the hatch in the keel and wait,' said Rubin. 'Maybe it'll spark their curiosity. We'll catch a few big lumps of jelly, then seal off the sluice. It'll give us a lovely big sample for testing. What do you say?'

'What if it's contaminated?' objected Roscovitz.

'Why are you all so negative? We'll know if it's contaminated. The glass flaps stay closed until we're sure it's OK.'

Peak shook his head. 'I'm not in favour.'

Rubin rolled his eyes. 'General, we'll never get a chance like this again!'

'All right,' said Li. 'But be careful.'

Rubin laughed excitedly, walked to the edge of the basin and waved his arms.

'Hey! Get a move on, can't you?' he shouted to Greywolf, Anawak and Delaware, who were busy unharnessing the dolphins. 'Hurry up and-' They were under water and couldn't hear him. 'OK, forget it. Luther, open the hatch. There's nothing to worry about while the glass flaps are closed.'

'Shouldn't we wait until-'

'We don't have time,' Rubin snapped at him. 'You heard what Li said. If we wait, the jelly will be gone. All you have to do is let a little into the sluice, then close it. A cubic metre or so should do fine.'

Roscovitz felt like shoving Rubin into the water, but Li had given the bastard her permission.

She'd given the order to open the hatch. He pressed the button.

DELAWARE WAS DEALING with a particularly excitable dolphin. It was fidgety and impatient, and as she tried to unstrap its camera, it darted away. Harness trailing through the water, it sped towards the sluice. Delaware saw it circling the hatch and swam after it, taking long, powerful strokes.

She didn't hear the discussion on the jetty.

Come on, she willed the dolphin silently. Come over here. What's the matter? There's nothing to be afraid of.

Then she saw what was wrong.

The steel flaps were swinging open.

For a second she was so astonished that she stopped swimming and sank through the water until her toes touched the glass. The flaps were still moving. The sea beneath them glowed a vivid blue. Flashes of lightning shot through the water.

What the hell was Roscovitz playing at?

The dolphin darted back and forth around the hatch. It swam over to her and prodded her with its snout, trying to ward her away. When Delaware failed to respond, it swivelled and sped off.

She stared into the luminescent depths.

She could see outlines, shadows flitting back and forth, then a dark patch drawing closer, getting bigger.

It was approaching at high speed.

The patch became clearer, and assumed its normal form.

Suddenly she knew what it was. She recognised the enormous rounded head with its black beak and white chin, the even rows of teeth between the half-open jaws. It was the biggest of its kind she'd ever seen. It was rising vertically from the depths, gaining speed all the time, with no intention of stopping. Her mind raced. Within a split second the snippets of information came together. The glass hatch was made of armoured glass and was solidly built, but not solid enough to withstand a collision with a living missile. The creature measured at least twelve metres. At top speed it could propel itself out of the water at fifty-six kilometres an hour.

It was moving too fast.

She made a desperate attempt to get away from the sluice.

Like a torpedo the orca crashed through the glass plug. The wave sent Delaware spinning. Through the swirling debris she glimpsed shards of glass and swirling sections of the hatch's metal rim, then the white belly of the whale, as it rose through the hatch, barely hindered by the impact. Something struck her painfully between the shoulders. She cried out, and water filled her lungs.

ROSCOVITZ BARELY HAD time to take in the situation. The jetty groaned and shook beneath his feet as the orca smashed through the hatch. A wave lifted the Deepflight into the air. He saw Browning lose her balance, arms flailing. The orca crashed down into the water and accelerated away.

'The sluice,' screamed Rubin. 'Close the flaps.'

The head of the orca rammed into the submersible, sending it spinning into the air. There was a snapping noise as the chain broke free. Browning was catapulted upwards and slammed down on to the control panel. One of her boots struck Roscovitz in the chest and sent him reeling backwards against the bulkhead, pulling Peak with him.

'The sub!' screamed Rubin. 'The sub!'

Browning's body sagged back into the basin, blood pouring from her head. The stern of the Deepflight shot vertically into the air. Then the boat filled with water and sank. Roscovitz staggered to his feet and tried to reach the controls. Something whizzed towards him. He looked up and saw the chain swinging in his direction like a whip. He tried to duck, but the metal struck his temples and curled round his neck.

He was dragged forwards and over the edge.

GREYWOLF WAS TOO far away to identify the cause of the chaos and, since he was in the water, he couldn't feel the impact. But he saw the submersible ripped from its chain, and what happened to Browning and Roscovitz. Rubin was standing at the control panel, shouting and waving. Peak's head popped up in the background. The soldiers were running to the site of the disaster, guns raised.

Hurriedly he scanned the water. Anawak was beside him, but Delaware was nowhere to be seen.

No answer.

Fear gripped him. With a powerful kick, he dived down and swam towards the sluice.

DELAWARE WAS HEADING in the wrong direction. A searing pain ran through her back and she felt as though she was suffocating. Suddenly she found herself back at the sluice. The two halves of the hatch had been ripped apart, but the steel flaps were closing. Beneath them the sea was ablaze with blue light.

She turned on to her back.

No!

The Deepflight was falling towards her, pods open and bow first. It sank like a stone. She kicked with all her might. The boat was going to hit her. As she stared up, the articulated arms, folded neatly together, bore down towards her. She tried to speed through the water, long and thin like an otter, but it wasn't enough. The boat rammed into her torso and she felt her ribs break. Her mouth opened in a scream, and she swallowed more water. The vessel pushed her down into the sluice and out into the open water. The cold pierced her body. Through the fog of her consciousness, she saw the steel flaps hit the submersible with a dull thud. The Deepflight stopped sinking. It was trapped, but Delaware was still falling. She stretched out her arms to grab on to the vessel, but her strength was failing and her lungs were clogged.

Please, she thought, I want to go back. I don't want to die.

In the gap between the blocked hatch and the trapped submersible she saw a hazy image of Greywolf's face.

A large dark shape approached from the side, jaws open, showing rows of conical teeth.

The orca bit into her chest.

She didn't see the glowing mass shoot past her. By the time it reached the sluice, Delaware was dead.

PEAK BANGED HIS FIST down on the control panel. His attempt to close the sluice had failed. The Deepflight had jammed the steel plates. Either he opened the flaps entirely and lost the submersible, or he left them as they were and allowed God knows what to find its way into the vessel.

Browning had disappeared and Roscovitz was hanging from the chain, legs dangling in the water, hands clutching at his throat.

Where was the damned orca?

'Sal,^' Rubin whined.

The water in the basin bubbled and frothed. The soldiers were rushing around with no clear objective. Greywolf had dived under water. Anawak was nowhere to be seen. And where had Delaware got to?

Someone prodded him in the ribs.

'For God's sake, Sal!' Rubin pushed him away from the controls. His hands danced over the keyboard, fingers jabbing at buttons. 'Why haven't you closed the bloody sluice?'

'You stupid bastard!' Peak drew back his fist and landed a punch in the middle of Rubin's face. The biologist swayed and tumbled backwards into the pool, sending water spurting into the air. Through the shower of spray Peak saw the blade-like fin of an orca speed towards him.

Rubin's head appeared above the waves. Now he saw the fin too. His splutters turned into a scream.

Peak pushed the button to open the steel flaps and release the Deepflight into the sea.

He was expecting the display to light up.

Nothing happened.

GREYWOLF THOUGHT HE was losing his mind. A pod of orcas was patrolling the water beneath the Independence. Seconds ago one had closed its jaws round Delaware and whisked her out of sight. Without stopping to consider, Greywolf swam towards the gap between the two steel plates, in time to see something hurtle towards him from below. Lightning and sparks flashed before his eyes and he was hit by a force like a giant fist that sent him reeling backwards. Everything turned upside down. For an instant he saw Anawak to his left, and then he was gone again. Legs flailed in the water. A body tumbled towards him. The white belly of an orca flashed past in the basin above. Finally he was looking down at the Deepflight trapped between the flaps.

Watching as a thing pushed its way through the half-open hatch, towards the inside of the vessel.

It was like a tentacle belonging to an enormous polyp, only there was no polyp on earth with a tentacle that size. It was three metres in diameter, too big for any living creature. Matter streamed up towards the well deck, racing out of the ocean in a never-ending column. As it left the sluice, the single muscle of jelly branched into slender tendrils, whose smooth surface glittered with patterns of light.

RUBIN WAS SWIMMING FOR HIS LIFE.

The fin chased after him. Coughing and spluttering he reached the jetty and tried to pull himself out of the basin, crazy with fear. His elbows gave way. He heard shots and sank back under the water to be confronted with an incredible sight. In a flash he realised that his wish had been fulfilled. The alien organism had entered the vessel, but under circumstances he hadn't foreseen.

Glowing tentacles twisted through the water, thick as tree trunks.

And the orca was between them, jaws agape.

Rubin shot back up. Two legs were thrashing over the surface of the water, centimetres from his face. Roscovitz stared down at him through bulging eyes. He looked as though he was hanging on a gallows.

A terrible gurgling noise spilled from his lips.

Oh, God, thought Rubin. Dear God. The fin was almost upon him.

The orca rose in a tower of spray, jaws wide open. Roscovitz's legs disappeared inside its mouth. The jaws clamped shut. For a moment the whale was suspended motionless above the water, then it dropped back.

Blood trickled from Roscovitz's dangling torso, and Rubin found himself unable to turn away. He heard a long scream of terror, and slowly it dawned on him that he was the one who was screaming.

He screamed and screamed.

The fin reappeared.

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

Li couldn't believe her eyes. In a matter of seconds chaos had erupted on the well deck. She watched Peak sprint along the jetty. Soldiers were firing blindly into the water, and Roscovitz's mangled body dangled from above. 'Get me some sound,' she demanded.

The next moment gunshots and screams echoed through the room. Everyone started talking at once, as the chaos on the well deck found its echo in the CIC. Feverishly Li considered what should be done. She'd send reinforcements, of course. This time with explosive projectiles. Why were the idiots firing standard ammunition?

They had to wrest back control.

She'd go down in person.

Without a word she went into the adjacent room. The LFOC was the command centre for amphibious operations. From there they could flood the ballast tanks, pump out the water, and open the stern gate, in the event that the control desk in the well deck failed. Only the steel flaps couldn't be operated from the LFOC – another stupid oversight.

'OK,' she said, to the shocked crew members in front of the screens. 'I want the ballast tanks in the stern pumped dry.' She thought for a moment. Was the sluice in the well deck open or closed? Would the water be able to run out? It was impossible to tell from the confusion on the monitors. Usually it was enough to raise the stern of the vessel and the artificial harbour would drain automatically, either through the open sluice or out of the stern gate into the sea. There was an emergency pump system, in case both were blocked. It took a little longer, but served the same purpose.

Li gave the order for the pump to be activated, and ran back to the CIC.

WELL DECK

The steel flaps weren't responding. He didn't have time to wonder why. Breathing heavily Peak ran to one of the armaments lockers and pulled out a harpoon gun with an explosive charge. His men were firing indiscriminately into the water, while an enormous squid-like creature seemed to be forcing itself through the open sluice, writhing and snaking beneath the surface of the pool.

From the corner of his eye Peak spotted Rubin hauling himself out of the water. He felt disgusted and relieved. He detested the man, but that was no excuse for knocking him into the water. Rubin's life had to be protected He still had a job to do.

The fin moved away from the jetty. Anawak and Greywolf were some distance away, swimming towards the other side of the pool. Glowing tentacles seemed to pursue them, but the jelly was everywhere, stretching out in all directions. The orca was definitely on their tail.

He had to dispatch the beast before it killed anyone else.

Suddenly Peak felt calm. Everything else could wait. The key thing was to finish off the lethal mass of flesh and teeth. He raised the harpoon gun and took aim.

ANAWAK SAW THE Orca approaching. The water in the basin foamed and splashed – it seemed to have come alive, a moving, shimmering mass of blue, through which the orca swam purposefully towards him and Grey-wolf It rose to expel a jet of misty air, and its black head loomed into view. It was only metres away now. They'd never make it to the jetty; that much was clear. But they had to do something. When the orcas had attacked in Clayoquot Sound, Greywolf had arrived in the nick of time and saved them. Right now, their only chance was to out manoeuvre it.

The orca dived.

'Let it through!' he screamed at Greywolf.

Not a very clear instruction, he thought. God knows if Jack will understand. But it was too late for explanations.

Anawak took a gulp of air and sank beneath the surface.

PEAK CURSED. The whale was gone and there was no sign of Greywolf or Anawak. He ran along the jetty, searching for the enormous body, but the basin had turned into a surreal underwater inferno, in which flashes of light, blurred shapes and jets of water blocked his view. Ahead one of the soldiers was firing at the serpentine creature in the pool, which was clearly having no effect.

'Stop that!' Peak pushed the man in the direction of the console. 'Sound the alarm. Get the flaps open and get rid of the Deepflight.' His eyes scanned the water. 'Then close the goddamned sluice.'

The soldier ran off.

Peak walked up to the edge of the jetty and peered into the basin, the harpoon gun in his hands.

AS SOON AS Anawak had ducked under water, the harsh noises of the deck had yielded to low hissings and rumblings. Greywolf was alongside him, treading water, bubbles streaming from his mouth. Anawak hadn't let go of his arm since he'd jerked him under water. He didn't know if his idea would work.

Something surged towards them. It looked like a huge headless snake. Lines of light pulsated over the semi-transparent shimmering blue tissue. Hundreds of thin, whip-like tendrils extended from its body, sweeping over the floor of the pool. Suddenly Anawak realised that the creature was scanning its surroundings. The whips were registering every detail of the deck. As he watched, in horror and fascination, a fresh set grew out from the body and wriggled towards him.

The open mouth of the orca loomed between them.

Anawak felt a change come over him. One part of him shut itself off and calmly asked questions. How much of the aggressor was whale and how much was jelly? How would an orca behave, if it wasn't following its instincts but was in the grip of an alien consciousness? He had to see the orca as part of the luminescent jelly, not as an orca with normal orca reflexes. But maybe that was where their advantage lay. Perhaps they could confuse it.

The orca shot towards them.

Anawak dodged to one side, pushing Greywolf in the opposite direction. He saw Greywolf swim off- good, he'd understood the plan. The whale hurtled between them, startled by the sudden division of its prey.

They'd gained a few seconds.

Without stopping to look for the orca, Anawak swam into the forest of tentacles.

RUBIN WAS CRAWLING along the jetty on all fours, gasping for breath. The soldier leaped over him and hurried to the control desk. He glanced at the display panels, got his bearings, and pressed the button to open the steel hatch.

The system was jammed.

Like all the other members of his squad, the soldier had been trained to operate the control systems on the vessel, and knew exactly how they worked. An image of Browning, body sprawled over the panel, was etched in his mind. He bent down and peered at the button. It was stuck, pushed down to one side. It wouldn't take much to fix. He jabbed at it with his gun.

ANAWAK WAS FLOATING through an alien world.

Veils of tendrils surrounded him. He wasn't sure whether it had been a good idea to swim into the living jungle, but there was no point in worrying about it now. The jelly might react aggressively, or it might not. It might be toxic – in which case it would kill them all anyway.

The glowing tendrils arced in his direction. The whole basin seemed to be moving. Anawak was tossed from side to side. The web tightened, and he felt one of the whips stroking his face. He pushed it away. More twisted towards him, feeling their way over his head and body. Throbbing, buzzing noises filled his ears, and his lungs ached. If he didn't make it to the surface soon, his attempts to fend off the jelly would be in vain.

He reached into the tendrils with both hands and tore them apart. The organism was like a strong, highly flexible muscle, and it never stopped moving or changing shape. Tentacles that had wrapped themselves round him fell away, withdrawing and merging with the main trunk, which immediately started budding new ones.

He had to get out of there.

A sleek, elegant body darted forward.

He saw a smiling face: one of the dolphin fleet. Without hesitation Anawak held on to its dorsal fin. The dolphin continued at high speed, shooting out of the mass of tentacles and pulling him with it. Suddenly the view cleared. He clung to the dolphin and saw the orca approaching from the side. The dolphin shot upwards as the enormous jaws snapped shut behind them, missing by a hair's breadth. They rose through the surface, on course for the embankment.

THE SOLDIER PRESSED THE BUTTON.

The repair job had been carried out crudely, but it had worked. The steel flaps swung open, releasing the submersible. It continued on its downward path, dropping past the jelly that was surging through the sluice. Noiselessly it fell out of the vessel and disappeared into the depths of the ocean.

For a fraction of a second the soldier wondered whether it wouldn't be better to leave the flaps open, but he'd been instructed to close them, so he did. This time there was no submersible to get in the way. The flaps, driven by a powerful motor, cut into the vast trunk of the organism.

PEAK RAISED HIS gun hurriedly. He'd caught sight of Anawak. For a moment it had seemed that the orca had caught him, but then he'd reappeared above the water and the whale had sped across the pool. The soldiers were firing at the black back. The orca sank beneath the surface.

Had they hit it?

'Hatch is closing,' shouted the soldier from the controls.

Peak raised his hand in acknowledgement, then set off along the jetty. His eyes scanned the far side of the basin. Bullets could do nothing to harm the squid-like creature, and firing explosives at it seemed too risky. There were people in the pool.

GREYWOLF HAD COPIED Anawak's example, and swum into the tentacles. His arms powered through the water as he summoned all his energy and sped towards the side. After a few metres the main trunk of the jelly blocked his path and he had to turn round. He'd lost all sense of direction.

Tentacles wrapped themselves round him, encircling his shoulders. Greywolf felt sickened. He couldn't think any more. The images of Delaware's death played before his eyes in a never-ending loop of film. Ripping the tendrils away from his body, he tried to escape.

Suddenly he found himself back at the sluice. The submersible had vanished. He watched as the flaps closed, cutting into the jelly and slicing through its trunk. There was no mistaking the organism's reaction: it wasn't happy.

A MOUNTAIN OF WATER shot up towards Peak as the orca surged out of the basin in front of him. Too surprised to feel afraid, Peak stared into its jaws. He staggered backwards, and at the same time the entire well deck seemed to blast apart. The organism was raging in the water. Enormous snakes of jelly raced up to the ceiling in wild spirals, slapping against the walls and sweeping along the jetty. Peak heard screams and shots from the soldiers, saw bodies flying through the air and into the basin. Then his legs were knocked from under him, and he slammed down on to his back. The orca's body teetered towards him. Peak groaned, tightened his grip on the harpoon gun and was jerked into the water.

He sank in a maelstrom of bubbles. A shimmering blue coating stuck to his legs. He stabbed at it with his gun, and the vice-like hold relented. Above him the orca splashed back into the pool. A violent pressure wave sent Peak reeling through the water. He saw the jaws of the whale spring open, less than a metre away. He thrust the harpoon gun into its mouth and fired.

For a moment everything seemed to stop.

A dull explosion sounded inside the orca's head. It wasn't especially loud, but it turned the world red. Peak was catapulted backwards in a mass of flesh and blood. He tumbled through the water, hit the side of the basin, and pulled himself on to the jetty in a single fluid movement. Wheezing, he crawled on his belly away from the side. There was blood everywhere, and red slime was mixed with fatty tissue and splinters of bone. Peak tried to stand up, but slid and fell. Pain shot through him. His left foot was twisted at an awkward angle, but he barely noticed.

He stared incredulously at the scene unfolding around him.

The organism seemed to have worked itself into a frenzy. There was a chaos of flailing tentacles. Shelving units collapsed, and equipment flew through the air. Only one soldier was visible, running along the jetty and firing into the water. Then a giant arm swept him into the pool. Peak ducked as a semi-transparent stem whipped over his head. It wasn't a snake and it wasn't a tentacle – it was like nothing he'd ever encountered. The tip of the stem changed shape in mid-flight, assuming the form of a fish, then sprouting a host of thread-like feelers that spiralled through the air. The basin seemed filled with vast animals. Dorsal fins loomed out of the water and collapsed. Misshapen heads appeared, lost their contours and slumped into a featureless mass that splashed into the water.

Peak rubbed his eyes. Was he imagining it, or was the water level sinking? He could hear the drone of machinery. Then it hit him: they were pumping the water out of the well deck. The ballast tanks were emptying. The Independence's stern lifted imperceptibly as the contents of the artificial harbour ran into the sea. The raging tentacles retreated. Suddenly the whole organism disappeared under water. Peak pushed himself up against the wall and his left foot gave way. He was about to hit the deck when two hands grabbed him from behind. 'Lean on me,' said Greywolf.'

Peak hung on to the giant's shoulder. He himself wasn't small, but alongside Greywolf he felt scrawny and weak. Greywolf scooped him up and ran along the jetty to the embankment.

'Stop,' gasped Peak. 'You can put me down now.'

Greywolf lowered him gently. They were standing at the mouth of the tunnel that led to the laboratory. From there they overlooked the whole deck. Peak saw the sides of the dolphin tank emerge as the water level fell. The pump was still droning in the background. He thought of the people in the basin who were probably dead, the soldiers, Delaware, Browning…

Anawak.

He scanned the water. Where was Anawak?

Coughing, Anawak appeared near the embankment. Greywolf rushed over and helped him to the side. They watched as the water continued to sink. An enormous organism came into view, its surface emitting a dull blue glow. In shape, it resembled a slim whale or a stocky sea snake. It seemed to be looking for a way out. It shot round the pool, swimming into every corner, snaking along the walls, looking rapidly and systematically for an exit that didn't exist.

'Son of a bitch,' spluttered Peak. 'We're going to hang you out to dry.'

'No! We've got to save it!'

That was Rubin. Peak saw him emerge from the tunnel, trembling and hugging his chest.

'Save it?' echoed Anawak.

Hesitantly Rubin took a few steps closer. He kept a watchful eye on the basin, where the creature's laps were becoming ever more frantic. The water was barely two metres deep. The creature expanded its surface area, clearly trying to keep itself submerged.

'We'll never get another chance,' he said. 'Don't you see? We've got to get the chamber cleaned out – lose the crabs, change the w^ater and shovel in the jelly. We'll be able to-'

With a single step Greywolf was upon him, hands round his neck, grip tightening. The biologist's eyes and mouth were wide open. His tongue lolled to the side.

'Jack!' Anawak was tearing at Greywolf's hands. 'Stop it, Jack!'

Peak struggled to his feet. 'Jack, there's no point,' he called out. 'Let go of him.'

Greywolf hoisted Rubin into the air. The man's face was turning blue.

'That's enough, O'Bannon!'

Li strode out of the tunnel, surrounded by a group of soldiers.

I'll kill him,' Greywolf said calmly.

The commander in chief took a step forward and placed her hand round Greywolf's right wrist. 'No, you won't. I don't care what your grudge is against Rubin. His work is essential.'

'Not any more.'

'O'Bannon! Don't put me in the regrettable position of having to hurt you.'

Greywolf's eyes fixed on Li. He'd evidently decided that she meant what she said because he put Rubin down. The biologist fell to his knees, choking and spitting.

'Licia died because of him,' Greywolf said dully.

Li nodded. Suddenly her expression changed. 'Jack,' she said, almost gently, 'I'm sorry. I promise that she won't have died in vain.'

'People only ever die in vain,' he said wearily. He aimed away. 'Where are my dolphins?'

LI MARCHED ALONG the jetty with her men. Why hadn't Peak armed the squad with explosive ammunition from the start? Because no one could have predicted what would happen? Bullshit. It was exactly what she'd predicted – trouble. She hadn't known what form it would take, but she'd known it was coming. She'd expected it long before the scientists had arrived at the Chateau, and she'd prepared herself accordingly.

Only a few puddles remained in the basin. It was a scene of utter devastation. At the bottom of the pool, four metres below the jetty, lay the corpse of the orca, and the motionless bodies of some soldiers sprawled nearby. Three of the dolphins had disappeared. They'd probably left the boat while the sluice was still open.

'What a goddamn mess,' she said.

The shapeless mass at the bottom of the basin was barely moving. It was now white. The last few drops of water lingered around its edges, and the jelly sprouted tendrils that slid over the basin. The thing was dying. For all its unnerving ability to change shape and cast tentacles into the air, there was nothing it could do now. The surface of the mound was already showing signs of dissociation. Li had to remind herself that the stranded colossus wasn't a single organism but a conglomerate of billions of amoebas. Rubin was right; they had to save as much of it as possible. The faster they acted, the more of it would survive.

Anawak joined her without a word. Li continued to scan the wreckage in the pool. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a movement at the bottom of the basin. She walked to the end of the jetty and climbed down a ladder. Whatever had caught her attention was now hidden from Anawak's view. She made her way past Roscovitz's dangling body, or what was left of it. Anawak heard her cry out. She darted round the mound of jelly. Anawak came running and almost stumbled over Browning. The technician was staring at them from under the dissolving mass.

'Give me a hand,' said Anawak.

Together they pulled the body from under the creature. The jelly clung stubbornly to its legs, unwilling to let it go. It struck Li that Browning's corpse was unusually heavy and the dead woman's face looked almost varnished. Li bent down to take a closer look.

Browning sat up.

'Shit!'

Li jumped back, and watched as Browning's face twitched. The mouth contorted in a grimace. The technician flung up her arms and fell backwards. Her fingers clawed at the ground. Her legs kicked out, her back arched and she banged her head from side to side.

'But that's impossible – impossible…'

Li was tough, but she was filled with horror. She continued to stare at the living corpse. Anawak crouched beside Browning's body. 'Take a look at this, Jude,' he said softly.

She fought back her revulsion and took a step forward.

'See,' he said.

She peered more closely. The shiny coating on Browning's face had begun to dribble away, and in a flash Li realised what it was. Dissociating jelly ran over the technician's shoulders and neck, disappearing into her ears. 'It's inside her,' she whispered.

'The jelly's trying to control her.' Anawak nodded. His face was ashen – a dramatic transformation for an Inuk. 'It's probably spreading through her body and acquainting itself with the structure. But Browning isn't a whale. The residual electricity in her brain is reacting to the jelly's attempt to take charge.' He paused. 'It'll be over in a moment.'

Li said nothing.

'It's trying out all the functions in her brain,' said Anawak, 'but it doesn't know how humans work.' He stood up. 'Browning's dead, General. What you're seeing is the final stage of an experiment gone wrong.'

HEEREMA, La Palma, Canary Islands

Bohrmann was looking skeptically at the pressure suits in the dive station – two silvery body pods with helmets and in-built dome ports, segmented arms and legs, and manipulators for hands. They were hanging like puppets in a large open steel container, staring fixedly into space. 'I didn't know we were going to the moon,' he said.

'Gairhard!' Frost laughed. 'You'd be surprised. At four hundred metres below sea level you might as well be. Anyway, you volunteered to come along, so you'd better not start complaining.'

Originally Frost had asked van Maarten to accompany him but, as Bohrmann had pointed out, the Dutchman knew more than anyone else about the Heerema and would be needed on board. It was a silent admission that the dive could go wrong.

'Besides,' Bohrmann had added, 'I don't want to have to watch while the two of you mess around down there. You might be excellent divers, but I'm the one who knows about hydrates.'

'That's why we need you here,' Frost had argued. 'You're our resident expert. If anything were to happen to you, we'd be stuck.'

'Hardly. You'd have Erwin, remember? He knows at least as much as I do – probably more.'

Suess had just flown in from Kiel.

'You do realise that this is a deep-sea dive and not a day out at the pool,' said van Maarten. 'Have you dived before?'

'On numerous occasions.'

'I mean, have you ever dived to any depth?

Bohrmann hesitated. 'I went to fifty metres once. Just regular scuba, though. But I'm in great condition. And I'm not stupid.'

Frost thought for a moment. 'Two strong men should do the trick,' he said. 'We'll take an explosive charge and-'

'An explosive charge?' Bohrmann was horrified. 'That's exactly the kind of thing I mean!'

'OK, OK!' Frost held out his hands in surrender. 'I can tell we're going to need your help – you're in. But don't come crying to me when you decide you don't like it.'

Now they were gathered in the starboard-side pontoon, eighteen metres below the ocean's surface. The rest of the pontoon had been flooded, but there was a small compartment that van Maarten had kept dry. It was accessible from the main platform via ladders, and had been used to launch the robot. Before the operation had begun van Maarten had realised that at some point it might be necessary to send down divers to depths of several hundred metres, and with that in mind, he'd ruled out conventional divesuits. He'd ordered the equipment from a firm with a reputation for pioneering dive technology – Nuytco Research in Vancouver.

'They look heavy,' said Bohrmann.

'Ninety kilos each. They're mainly titanium.' Frost ran his hand affectionately over the dome part of one of the helmets. 'Yeah, exosuits are pretty darned heavy – not that you'll notice when you're under water, of course. You can move up and down the water column as often as you please. You've got your own oxygen supply, and you're cocooned in the suit, so there's no risk of nitrogen bubbles forming in your blood, and you don't have the hassle of decompression chambers.'

"They've even got flippers.'

'Not bad, eh? Instead of sinking like a stone, you'll be swimming like a frogman.' Frost pointed to the numerous articulated joints. 'It's built to ensure complete freedom of movement, even at four hundred metres. Your hands are protected inside two pods – no articulated gloves, I'm afraid: the fingers would be too delicate. Instead you've got computer-operated manipulators on the end of each arm. The sensors provide tactile feedback for your hands inside the pods. They're incredibly sensitive – you could write your own will on the seabed if you wanted.'

'How long can we stay down?'

'Forty-eight hours,' said van Maarten. He saw the alarm on Bohrmann's face and grinned. 'Don't worry, you'll be finished long before then.' He pointed to two torpedo-shaped robots, each measuring roughly 1.5 metres. They were equipped with propellers, and their tips were encased in translucent plastic. Several metres of cable were attached to each robot, connecting them to a console with handles, a display and buttons. 'These are your trackhounds. AUVs. They're programmed to find the lighting scaffold, and they're accurate to within a few centimetres, so please don't attempt to find your own way. Just let yourselves be towed. They go at a rate of four knots, so you'll be there in three minutes.'

'How reliable are they?' Bohrmann enquired.

'Very. Trackhounds come equipped with all kinds of sensors that determine their position and their depth in the water. You're certainly not going to get lost, and if anything gets in the way, the trackhound will dodge it. They're activated via the console at the end of the leash. Descent, ascent – easy. The button marked zero starts the propeller without activating the navigational program, so you can steer the trackhound with the joystick instead. Your dog will scamper in whichever direction you choose. Any questions?'

Bohrmann shook his head.

'Let's go, then.'

Van Maarten helped them into the suits. Entry was via a flap in the back, to which two oxygen tanks were mounted. Bohrmann felt like a knight in full armour, about to take a stroll on the moon. As the suit closed, all went silent for a moment, then the volume returned. Through the visor he could see Frost talking to him from inside his own suit, and then the volcanologist's voice boomed into his ears. He could even hear outside noise.

'Wireless communication,' explained Frost. 'It's more reliable than hand signals. Are you getting the hang of the manipulators?'

Bohrmann wiggled his fingers inside the pod. The manipulator copied his movements. 'I think so.'

'Van Maarten's going to give you the console. Try to get hold of it.'

It worked the first time. Bohrmann gave a sigh of relief If everything was as easy as operating the manipulators, they would be fine.

'One more thing. If you look down at your suit, there's a raised rectangular panel. It's at waist level – like a flat switch. It's a POD.'

'A what?'

'Nothing you need worry about now. It's just a precaution. If we need them, I'll explain what they're for. To turn it on, you push it firmly. OK?'

'What is it?'

'A good thing to have when you're diving.'

'I'd really rather-'

I'll tell you later. All set?'

'All set.'

Van Maarten opened the hatch to the sluice tunnel. Lit up in the artificial light, the bright blue water sloshed towards them. 'Just topple in,' he said. I'll send the trackhounds after you. Don't switch them on until you're out of the tunnel. Stan, I'd suggest you start yours first.'

Bohrmann shuffled his flippers towards the edge. Even the tiniest movement was an amazing feat of strength. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to fall forwards. The water rose up towards him and he saw the artificial lights of the tunnel flash above him, then found himself upright. He sank slowly through the tunnel and out into the sea, landing in a shoal of fish. Thousands of shimmering bodies dispersed, regrouping in a tightly packed spiral. The shoal changed shape a few times, strung out in a line, and fled. Bohrmann saw the trackhound beside him and sank deeper. Above him the tunnel glowed against the dark contours of the pontoon. He kicked his fins and realised he could hover on the spot. The divesuit felt good now, like wearing his own submersible.

Frost followed him in a column of bubbles, then sank until he was on a level with Bohrmann and looked at him through the view port. Bohrmann saw that the American was still wearing his cap.

'How are you feeling?' asked Frost.

'Like R2-D2's older brother.'

Frost laughed. The propeller on his trackhound started to turn. Suddenly the robot dipped its nose and pulled the volcanologist into the depths. Bohrmann activated his own. He felt a sharp jerk, then shot off head-first. The water darkened. Van Maarten was right these things were fast. In no time it was pitch black. It was impossible to see anything apart from the diffuse rays of light emitted by the trackhounds.

To his surprise he felt uneasy in the darkness. He'd sat in front of the screen hundreds of times, watching robots dive to the abyssal plains or even as far as the benthic zone. He'd been down to a depth of four thousand metres in the legendary submersible Alvin, yet nothing had prepared him for being encased in a suit and whisked into the unknown by an electronic guide-dog.

Hopefully the thing he was clutching had been properly programmed or there was no telling where he was headed.

Showers of plankton appeared in the glow of the floodlights and the electronic hum of the trackhounds buzzed inside Bohrmann's helmet. Ahead he saw a delicate creature drifting through the night with elegant pulsing movements, a deep-sea jellyfish sending out ring-shaped signals of light like a spaceship. Bohrmann hoped they weren't being emitted in panic as it fled from some predator. Then the jellyfish disappeared. More jellyfish luminesced in the distance, and a bright cloud flashed before his eyes. He couldn't help flinching. But the cloud was white, not blue. Its source luminesced briefly before it disappeared within its own mist. Bohrmann knew what it was: a mastigoteuthid, or whiplash squid, a creature usually only found at depths of around a thousand metres. It made sense for it to expel white ink when threatened – in the darkness of the depths, black would be useless.

The dog strained at its leash.

Bohrmann scanned the water for a glimpse of the lighting scaffold, but he was surrounded by darkness, with just a faint dot of light moving in front of Frost. At least, he assumed it was moving. It might as well have been stationary: two fixed points of lights, his beam and Frost's, in a starless universe.

'Stanley?'

'What's up?'

The promptness of the answer soothed him.

'It's about time we saw something, isn't it?'

'You've got to be patient, buddy. Look at the display. We've only gone two hundred metres.'

'Oh. Of course. No problem.'

Bohrmann didn't dare ask Frost whether he was sure that the track-hounds had been properly programmed, so he kept quiet and tried to stifle his mounting anxiety. He almost wished a few more jellyfish would show themselves, but there was nothing to be seen. The robot hummed busily. All of a sudden Bohrmann felt a change of direction.

There was something ahead. Bohrmann screwed up his eyes and made out a distant glow. At first it was just a faint patch of light, then a hazy rectangle.

He could barely contain his relief Good dog, he felt like saying. There's a good boy.

How small the lighting scaffold looked.

He was still puzzling over its size as the distance decreased and the glow brightened, separating into individual floodlights along the unit's frame. They continued towards it, and suddenly it was above them, a canopy of light overhead. Of course, they were above and it was below, but the head-first dive had turned everything upside-down. Next the terrace appeared, and it, too, was suspended in the sky. For a moment Frost became visible, a shadow being pulled by a torpedo on a leash, rushing towards a football field of light. Now the view opened up before them: the terrace, the snake-like body of the tube towering out of the darkness, the lumps of rock blocking its mouth…

And the writhing mass of worms.

'Turn off your trackhound before you crash into those lights,' said Frost. 'We can swim the last few metres.'

Bohrmann flexed the fingers of his free hand and tried to get the manipulator to hit the right button. The first attempt failed, and he sped past Frost, who'd slowed down.

'Gairhard? Where do you think you're going?'

He tried again. The manipulator slipped. Finally he succeeded, kicked his fins a few times and realigned himself on the horizontal. The scaffold was very close, stretching out seemingly endlessly in all directions. After a few seconds Bohrmann recovered his sense of up and down, and the scaffold and the terrace were beneath him.

Kicking evenly, he swam to the wedged tube and sank alongside it. The scaffold was now fifteen metres above his head. Within an instant the worms were swarming over his fins. He had to force himself to ignore them. They didn't stand a chance against the suit. They were revolting, of course, but no more. Worms could never pose a danger to a creature of his size.

Or could they? After all, these worms weren't even meant to exist. The trackhound had sunk on to the terrace alongside him. Bohrmann parked it on a ledge of rock and looked up at the tube. Man-sized chunks of black lava blocked the propellers – nothing they couldn't handle, though. More worrying was the larger splinter of lava that was squashing the tube against the side. It looked at least four metres high. Bohrmann doubted that he and Frost would be able to shift it, even though things weighed less under water and lava was porous and relatively light.

Frost joined him. 'Disgusting,' he said. 'Those sons of Lucifer are everywhere.'

'What's everywhere?'

'Worms of course! I suggest we deal with the smaller chunks first and see how far we get. Van Maarten?' he called.

'Over.' There was a tinny quality to the man's voice. Bohrmann had forgotten that they could communicate with him, too.

'We're going to tidy up a bit down here. We'll start by clearing the propellers. If we're lucky, the tube might be able to work its own way free.'

'OK. Are you all right, Dr Bohrmann?'

'Never been better.'

Frost pointed to an almost spherical chunk of lava that was blocking the swivel joint of one of the propellers. 'We'll start with that.'

They got to work, and after a good deal of pushing and shoving, the rock came unstuck, freeing the propeller and squashing hundreds of worms.

'OK,' said Frost.

They moved two more boulders, but the next was larger. After a concerted effort they tipped it to one side.

'See how strong we are down here,' said Frost, enthusiastically. 'OK, Jan,' he said to van Maarten, 'we've only got one propeller to go. They don't look damaged. Can you rotate them? Don't turn them on, just rotate them.'

After a few seconds, the tube started to purr. One of the turbines was rotating on its shaft. Then the others began to turn.

'Good,' shouted Frost. 'Now try to switch them on.'

Having retreated to a safe distance a few metres away from the tube, they watched the propellers start up.

The tube juddered.

'No go,' said van Maarten.

'I can see that.' Frost scowled. 'Turn them the other way.'

That didn't work either, and silt was being churned up, making the water murkier by the second.

'Stop!' Bohrmann waved his segmented arms about. 'Hey guys, that's enough now! There's no point. You're only getting mud in our eyes.'

The propellers slowed to a halt. The cloud of silt dispersed, leaving muddy streaks in the water. They could barely make out the mouth of the tube.

'Great.' Frost opened a flat box on the side of his exosuit and took out two pencil-sized objects. 'That huge chunk of rock is what's causing the problems. I know you're not going to like this, Gairhard, but we're going to have to blow the damn thing up.'

Bohrmann's gaze shifted to the worms. They were rapidly reclaiming the freshly vacuumed terrace. 'It's a big risk,' he said.

'We'll use a small charge. We'll place it at the bottom of the rock, where the tip's digging into the terrace – blast its legs off, so to speak.'

Bohrmann pushed off, floating a metre or so upwards, then heading for the rock. It got muddier and murkier as he approached. He switched on his head torch and sank into the cloud of sediment. He lowered himself carefully, dropped on to his knees and manoeuvred his helmet as close as possible to the place where the rock was embedded in the ground. He used his two manipulators to sweep away the worms. Some lunged at him and tried to bite the articulated limbs. Bohrmann shook them away and examined the sediment. He found thin veins of dirty white hydrate. When he poked at them with the manipulators, the surrounding lava splintered and tiny bubbles spun towards him.

'No,' he said. 'Bad idea.'

'Do you have a better one?'

'Yes. We'll use more of the explosive, look for dents or cracks in the lower third of the boulder, and blow it up from there. With a bit of luck the top will fall off and we won't disturb the terrace beneath it.'

'OK.'

Frost swam through the cloud towards him. They rose up a little, and visibility improved. Working systematically, they searched the rock for suitable spots. Eventually Frost found a deep groove in the lava and filled it with something that looked like firm grey Plasticine. He poked a pencil-thin cylinder inside it.

'That should do the trick,' he said. 'Expect some flying debris. Let's get out of the way.'

They started up their trackhounds and hitched a ride to the edge of the illuminated zone where, after a few metres, the terrace ended in darkness. The shower of particles wasn't too bad there, so the light waves weren't being deflected by algae or other floating matter, yet the transition into darkness was abrupt. Light disappeared under water in a sequence determined by its wavelength – first red, after two or three metres, orange, then yellow. After ten metres only green and blue were left, until they, too, were absorbed or scattered as the water swallowed any vestige of light. After that the world ceased to exist.

Bohrmann was reluctant to venture from the relative safety of the illuminated zone into nothingness. He noticed with relief that Frost didn't appear to think that they needed to retreat any further. At the edge of the gloom, where the blue gave way to inky black, he could see what appeared to be a crevice in the flank. Maybe it was a cave. He imagined how the stone had tumbled into the depths in a stream of red hot lava, slowly cooling and setting in curious shapes. Suddenly he felt cold inside his suit – cold at the thought of spending a lifetime in the depths.

He looked up towards the lighting scaffold. There was nothing to be seen apart from a blue aura around the white floodlights.

'OK,' said Frost. 'Let's get this done with.' He activated the fuse.

A torrent of bubbles poured forth from the rock, mixed with splinters and lava dust. There was a rumbling noise inside Bohrmann's helmet. A dark ring spread outwards, followed by more bubbles, as the debris dispersed in all directions.

He held his breath.

Slowly, very slowly, the top half of the rock began to topple.

'Yes!' shouted Frost. 'Thank you, God!'

The rock was tipping faster now, pulled over by its own weight. It broke half-way down, dropping on to the terrace next to the pipe and creating another, larger cloud of sediment. Despite his body armour, Frost managed to jump up and down and waggle his arms. He looked like Neil Armstrong taking a giant leap for America on the surface of the moon.

'Hallelujah! Hey, van Maarten! We knocked the damn thing down. Give the tube another try!'

Bohrmann hoped with all his heart that the explosion wouldn't result in any more landslides. Through the swirling sediment he heard the propellers start up, and suddenly the tube moved. It crinkled up, then its far end rose like the head of a gigantic worm, lifting slowly out of the cloud. The mouth swivelled round, pointing straight at them, then turned in the other direction, as though it were surveying its surroundings. If Bohrmann hadn't known better, he would have thought they were done for.

'It's working!' yelled Frost.

'You guys are the best,' van Maarten said drily.

'Tell me something I don't know,' agreed Frost. 'Now switch it off before it eats us. We'll check out the site again, and then we're coming up.'

The tube lifted a little, then its mouth drooped and it dangled lifelessly amid the light. Bohrmann set off. He glanced over at the scaffold, then back again. Something didn't look right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

'A shady business,' said Frost, jerking his head towards the gloomy cloud. 'Go ahead, Gairhard. You'll be able to make more sense of it than I can.'

Bohrmann switched on his trackhound's floodlight. Then he thought better of it and switched it off.

Was he seeing things?

He glanced at the scaffold again. This time his eyes lingered. It seemed that the floodlights were more powerful than before, but that was impossible: they'd been on full beam throughout the operation.

But the glow wasn't coming from the floodlights. It was coming from the blue aura. It was getting bigger.

'Do you see that?' Bohrmann jerked his arm towards the scaffold. Frost's eyes followed the movement.

'I can't see- My God.'

'The light,' said Bohrmann. 'The blue glow.'

'By Ariel and Uriel,' whispered Frost, 'you're right. It's spreading.'

A blue-violet halo had formed round the scaffold. Distances were hard to judge under water, particularly since the refractive-index made everything look a quarter closer and a third larger than it was – but the source of the blue glow was clearly a good deal further away than the lighting unit. Although the glare of the halogen lamps was shining into his eyes, Bohrmann was almost certain he'd seen flashes. Then the blue paled, the light faded and went out.

'I don't like the look of this,' said Bohrmann. 'We should go back.'

Frost didn't answer. He was still staring at the scaffold.

'Stan? Are you listening to me? We should-'

'Don't do anything hasty,' Frost said slowly. 'We've got company.'

He pointed to the top of the scaffold. Two long shadows were patrolling the length of the frame. Blue bellies flashed in the light. Then they were gone.

'What was that?'

'Don't panic, kiddo. Turn on your POD.'

Bohrmann pressed the panel at the front of his exosuit.

'I didn't want to alarm you,' said Frost. 'I thought if I told you what they're for, you might get nervous and keep looking around for-'

Two torpedo-shaped bodies shot out from behind the scaffold. Bohrmann saw a pair of oddly formed heads. The creatures were coming straight for them, travelling at tremendous speed, teeth grinning in their open jaws. Fear clutched his heart. Bohrmann pushed off from the terrace, moving backwards and shielding his helmet with his hands. None of the movements made sense, but his civilised, scientific mind had yielded to primeval instinct. He cried out.

'They can't hurt you,' Frost said firmly.

The creatures were almost upon him when they banked. Bohrmann gasped for air and tried to fight back his panic. Frost swam to his side. 'We tested the PODs in advance, you know,' he said, 'and they definitely work.'

'What the hell is a POD?'

'A Protective Ocean Device. The best shark deterrent there is. It emits an electromagnetic field that acts as a barrier and keeps the sharks at a distance of five metres.'

Bohrmann tried to recover from the shock. The creatures had swum in a wide arc round the back of the scaffold. 'They were closer than five metres,' he said.

'They'll have learned their lesson now. Sharks have highly sensitive electro-receptive organs. The electromagnetic field over-stimulates their sensors and interferes with their nervous system. It causes them unbearable muscle spasms. During the trial run, we used bait to attract white and tiger sharks, then activated the POD. They couldn't get through the field.'

'Dr Bohrmann? Stanley?' That was van Maarten's voice. 'Are you OK?'

'Everything's fine,' said Frost.

'Well, POD or no POD, it's time for you to leave,' said van Maarten.

Bohrmann's eyes scanned the scaffold. He'd known much of what Frost had told him. Distributed around the front of a shark's head were ampullae of Lorenzini, small canals that detected even the weakest electrical pulses, such as those produced by other living creatures. What he hadn't realised was that a POD could sabotage the sensors. 'Those were hammerheads,' he said.

'Great hammerheads. About four metres long, I'd say.'

'Shit.'

'PODs work especially well on them.' Frost chuckled, 'with their rectangular heads, they've got more ampullae than any other species.'

'What now?'

He saw a movement. Out of the darkness behind the scaffold the two sharks came back into view. Bohrmann stayed still. He watched the sharks attack. Without swinging their heads as sharks usually do when they are tracking a scent, they shot purposefully through the water and stopped suddenly as if they'd hit a wall. They turned in confusion and swam away, then came back and circled the divers, but at a respectful distance.

It worked.

Their body shape was like that of any other shark. It was the head that had given the species its name. It extended on each side in flat wings, with the eyes and nostrils at the far ends. 'The front edge of the hammer was as smooth and straight as a blade.

Slowly Bohrmann composed himself. The creatures wouldn't even be able to harm them through their suits. But he was keen to get out of there.

'How long will it take us to get back?' he asked.

'Same as it took to get down. We'll swim past the scaffold, activate the hounds, and hold tight for the ride.'

'OK.'

'Don't activate anything until we get there. I don't want to see you on a collision course with the floodlights again.'

'How long will the deterrent last?'

'The PODs have at least four hours' worth of battery.' Frost rose through the water, kicking evenly with his fins, holding the console of the trackhound in his right-hand manipulator. Bohrmann followed.

'Well, so long, guys,' said Frost. 'It's too bad we've got to leave.'

The sharks gave chase, but their mouths started to twitch and their bodies contorted. Frost laughed and carried on paddling towards the lighting unit. Against the backdrop of the vast, glowing scaffold, his silhouette looked small and blue-tinged, its contours illuminated.

Bohrmann thought of the blue cloud that had appeared in the distance.

In the shock of the moment he'd forgotten that it had appeared immediately before the sharks had arrived. The same phenomenon had been responsible for the change in the whales and probably for a string of other anomalies and catastrophes. It meant they weren't dealing with ordinary sharks.

Why had the sharks been there in the first place? They had excellent hearing. Maybe the explosion had attracted them. But why were they on the attack? Neither he nor Frost was giving off a scent. They bore no resemblance to prey. In any case, sharks didn't usually attack humans in the depths.

They were approaching the uppermost edge of the scaffold.

'Stan? There's something wrong with them.'

'They won't hurt you.'

I'm telling you, they're not normal.'

One of the sharks turned its broad flat head and swam off to the side.

'You may have a point,' mused Frost. 'It's the depth that bothers me.

Great hammerheads have never been known to go deeper than eighty metres. It makes you wonder what they're-'

The shark turned. For a moment it stopped, head raised slightly and back arched, the classic attack position. Sweeping its tail powerfully it raced towards Frost. The volcanologist was so surprised that he didn't try to fend it off. The shark reared up briefly and violently, then swam into the electromagnetic field and rammed Frost with its flank. Frost twirled like a spinning top, arms and legs splayed.

'Hey!' The console slipped away from his articulated grasper. 'What in God's name-'

A third body shot over the scaffold, appearing from nowhere. It sped over the line of floodlights with eerie elegance. A tall, dark dorsal fin, and a hammer-shaped head.

'Stan!' screamed Bohrmann.

The latest arrival was enormous, much bigger than the other two. Its hammer lifted upwards as it opened its jaws and grabbed Frost's right arm and tugged.

'Shit!' he yelled. 'You evil bastard, let go of me, you-'

The hammerhead wrenched its huge rectangular head from side to side, using its tail to steady itself It had to be six or seven metres long. Frost was shaken like a leaf His suited arm had disappeared up to the shoulder into the shark's gullet. 'Beat it!' he screamed.

'For God's sake, Stan,' yelled van Maarten, 'punch it in the gills. Try to hit its eyes.'

Of course, thought Bohrmann. They're watching us. They can see everything.

Bohrmann had sometimes wondered what it would be like to encounter a shark, be attacked, or see it go for someone else. He was neither particularly brave nor especially fearful. Some would have deemed him an adventurer. He might have described himself as a man who was not afraid to take risks, but who didn't go looking for them. Now, faced with the huge predator, it didn't matter how he or anyone else had judged him in the past.

Bohrmann didn't flee from the shark. He swam towards it.

One of the smaller creatures approached him from the side. Its eyes twitched and its jaws jerked open. It evidently required great effort for it to swim into the electric field. It accelerated and rammed into Bohrmann.

He was thrown to one side and fell through the water towards the scaffold. All he could think about was not letting go of the console. Come what may, he had to hold on to it. Without its homing program, he'd be doomed to swim around blindly in the dark until his oxygen ran out.

Assuming he lasted that long.

A sudden surge of pressure caught him and pushed him downwards. The tail of the big shark thrashed above his head. Bohrmann tried to regain control of his movements, and saw the two smaller sharks swim towards him in formation, jaws snapping. They were so close to the scaffold that their natural colours were illuminated in the blue. Bronze skin stretched over their backs towards their white bellies. Their gums and gullets had the orange-pink glow of freshly filleted salmon. Distinctive triangular daggers lined their upper jaws, with pointed teeth stacked below – five rows like sharpened steel, positioned one after the other, ready to tear into anything that came within their reach.

'G-a-i-r-h-a-r-d!' screamed Frost.

Squinting into the halogen lights, Bohrmann watched Frost raise his free arm and rain blows on the head of the shark. Then, in a single violent shake of its head, the shark ripped the arm from the exosuit and cast it aside. Fat oxygen bubbles escaped from the tear. The jaws opened and snapped shut on Frost's unprotected arm, biting it off at the shoulder joint.

A cloud of blood and bubbles billowed darkly in the water. So much blood. The sweeping motion of the shark's tail dispersed it. There were no words to be heard in Frost's screams, just unarticulated high-pitched sounds, then a gurgle as the seawater shot into his suit and filled it. The screams stopped. The smaller sharks lost interest in Bohrmann. Whatever was controlling their minds couldn't stop their natural instincts coming briefly to the fore. They rushed into the turbulent water and dragged Frost about as they tried to bite through his suit.

Amid the static van Maarten was screaming too.

Bohrmann was paralysed with shock, yet at the same time part of his brain was crystal clear. It was telling him that he shouldn't rely on the creatures to follow their instincts. Their power and hunger were being manipulated. This wasn't about feeding. Temporarily their instincts had got the better of them, but the substance inside their heads was interested in one thing only: killing the human intruders.

He had to get back to the flank.

His left-hand manipulator reached towards the keypad on the console. If he made a mistake, he would activate the homing program and launch himself towards the Heerema, which – now that the POD could no longer defend him – would inevitably cost him his life. Somehow he hit the right button. The propeller began to whir, and he manoeuvred the joystick so that the hound was pulling him away from the scaffold and towards the lava flank. He could feel the acceleration. On the way down the robot had seemed speedy and dynamic, but now it trundled along at an interminable crawl.

Bohrmann kicked his fins and glided through the water towards the terrace. There wasn't much he could do in a situation like this, but one of the rules of diving stated that rocks afforded protection. Bohrmann progressed towards the wall of lava. As he reached it, he turned and stared up at the scaffold. Fins and tails thrashed in the dissipating cloud of blood, creating a maelstrom of bubbles. Sections of Frost's suit sank through the water. It was a harrowing sight, but what truly horrified him wasn't the bloodbath; it was that only two of the sharks were involved.

The big shark was missing.

Numbing fear took hold of him. He turned off the propeller and looked around.

The big shark shot out of the cloud of sediment with its mouth wide open. It was coming at him with breathtaking speed. This time Bohrmann's mind shut down. He still hadn't worked out whether or not he should switch on the trackhound when the wedge-shaped head rammed into him, flinging him backwards into the flank. He hit the lava with a dull crunch. The shark swam past, then returned at the speed of a racing car. Bohrmann screamed. Now there was nothing but an abyss of jaws and teeth, as the gaping mouth took his entire left side, from shoulder to hip.

Well, that's that, then, he thought.

The shark shot over the terrace, pushing Bohrmann's body through the water. There were rustling and droning sounds in his headphones. The shark's teeth grated against the titanium shell. Its head swung back and forth, banging Bohrmann's helmet against the lava, and scraping it along the flank. The world was spinning. The titanium alloy was tough enough to withstand the battering for a while longer but inside the suit Bohrmann's head was banging mercilessly from side to side. He couldn't see or hear. His fate was sealed. He was going to he sawn apart and ripped to shreds. His life was worth less than the air in his lungs.

It was the helplessness that enraged him.

He was still breathing, wasn't he?

Then he could fight back!

The straight edge of the hammer stretched out above him. The head's width was equivalent to a quarter of the shark's total length, which meant that he could see only the hammer's edge: no eyes or nostrils. He started to hit it with the console. The shark swam on, heading towards the edge of the light where Bohrmann had waited with Frost for the charge to explode. Once they were in the pitch-black water, he wouldn't even be able to see the shark.

They had to stay in the light.

Bohrmann exploded with rage. Trapped inside the shark's jaws, his left arm jerked up and pounded its palate. It was lucky that the shark had seized his side and not just an arm or a leg – otherwise he would have met Frost's fate. There were no weak points like articulated joints in the metal shell protecting his torso. It was too big and solid, even for the teeth of a predator like this. The shark seemed to realise that too. It shook its head more vigorously, until Bohrmann was on the verge of blacking out. He'd probably broken several ribs already, but the more the shark shook him, the angrier he became. He bent his right arm, reaching up towards the end of the hammer, and smashed the console against it-

Suddenly he was free.

The shark had spat him out. He'd evidently hit a delicate spot like an eye or a nostril. The enormous creature raced upwards through the water, passing close to him and sending him flying back into the rock. For a moment it looked as though it was turning tail. Bohrmann tried feverishly to think of a way to use the situation to his advantage. He had no illusions about what would happen if he tried to reach the Heerema. He'd temporarily got rid of the shark, but he had only a few more seconds. Hastily he pulled the trackhound towards him and threw his arms round its slender form.

Under no circumstances was he going to let it go.

The shark disappeared into the darkness and reappeared a little further on, a blue shadow in the water.

Bohrmann glanced frantically at the flank.

He was back at the crevice!

Some distance away from him the powerful body of the hammerhead was cruising through the open water. Bohrmann pulled himself towards the crack. He could see the other two sharks fighting over Frost's remains beneath the scaffold. They were moving down through the water, out of the illuminated zone. Bohrmann wondered how long it would be before they finished with the mangled body and turned on him. Then he stopped wondering anything. In the twilight of the ocean the big shark banked at incredible speed and came towards him.

Bohrmann pushed himself inside the crack.

There wasn't much room. The exosuit and the oxygen tanks on his back got in the way, and he struggled to shove himself in. Arms clamped to his sides, he tried to push himself deeper into the crevice, but the shark was upon him.

The cartilage of the hammer hurtled into the rock and the giant fish flew backwards. Its head was too big for it to enter. It arced round so tightly that it seemed to be chasing its tail. It tried again.

Chunks of lava dislodged themselves in a cloud of sediment from the surrounding rock. Bohrmann squeezed his arms closer to his body. He had no idea how far back the crevice extended. The shark was rampaging, attacking the rock, sending sediment and splinters into the water. Inside, Bohrmann was enveloped in fog. The blue light of the scaffold disappeared.

'Dr Bohrmann?'

Van Maarten. His voice was faint.

'Bohrmann, for God's sake! Bohrmann, say something!'

I'm here.'

Van Maarten made a noise that might have been a sigh of relief. Bohrmann could barely hear him amid the din the shark was creating. Noises sounded completely different in the water, like a dull, hollow racket of overlapping vibrations. The attack ended abruptly. He was stuck in the crack, blinded by the black cloud of mud. He could only guess where the scaffold might be.

'I'm in a crack in the flank,' he said.

'We'll send some robots down for you,' said van Maarten, 'and two men. We've got more suits.'

'Forget it. The PODs don't work.'

'I know. We saw what happened to-' Van Maarten's voice failed him.

'We'll send the men right away. They've got harpoon guns with explosive charges and-'

'Harpoon guns? Now, there's a thing,' Bohrmann said caustically.

'Frost was convinced you wouldn't need them.'

'Evidently.'

Something rammed Bohrmann in the chest, pushing him deeper into the crevice. He was so surprised that he forgot to scream. In the dim light he saw the hammer. It had hit him vertically. The shark was trying to enter the crack on its side.

Why you clever little thing, he thought grimly. His heart was in his throat. I'm going to make you pay.

He rained blows on the hammer, careful not to let go of the hound. He could vaguely see its jaws opening and closing. The rectangular head was beating up and down, but Bohrmann was out of reach of its jaws. Its eye was rolling. Bohrmann raised one of the manipulators and let the console slam down on top of it.

The shark flinched.

It's not going to be able to get itself out of here, Bohrmann realised. He channelled his strength into pressing the trackhound against the shark's skull. Surely the creature couldn't be jammed. How much power did the jelly have over it? It was obviously controlling its behaviour, but could it teach it to swim backwards?

Evidently it could. The hammer withdrew from the crack.

Bohrmann waited.

Something shot out of the cloud. A hammer came at him horizontally. One of the smaller sharks. Its head crashed into the domed visor of his helmet. Its jaws opened. Rows of teeth scraped against the Plexiglas. The shark's body obscured the light to such an extent that Bohrmann could barely see, but what he could see was enough. He tried to push himself further inside the crack and suddenly the walls of the crevice seemed to give way. He toppled backwards into nothing.

Pitch blackness.

The left manipulator moved erratically over the console. The switch for the trackhound's floodlight was just above the homing button. He'd had it a moment ago…

There!

The floodlight lit up. The wandering shaft of light revealed that the back of the crevice had widened into a spacious cave. He shone the beam at the opening and saw the head of the shark. The hammer was shaking back and forth but the shark didn't advance.

It was stuck.

Bohrmann raised his arm and showered blows on the box-like head. The shark had to be at least half-way into the cave. Suddenly he realised that it wasn't a good idea to wound the shark enough to make it bleed. Instead he used all his weight to push against it, but in the water it wasn't nearly enough. He pushed off and hurled himself against the twitching head, banging into it with his chest, shoulders and arms until the shark gradually retreated. The beam from the trackhound wandered all over the place, illuminating the pink gullet and flapping gills.

I don't care how you get out of here, thought Bohrmann. But I want you out now. This is my cave, so piss off!'

'Piss off!'

'Dr Bohrmann?'

The shark disappeared.

Bohrmann slumped down. His arms trembled. Suddenly he felt overwhelmed with exhaustion and sank to his knees.

'Dr Bohrmann?'

'I don't need you bugging me, van Maarten.' He coughed. 'Do something to get me out of here.'

'We'll send down the robots and the men right away.'

'Why robots?'

'We're sending down anything that might scare the sharks or distract them.'

'They're not sharks. They only look like sharks. They can recognise a robot – and they know exactly what we're trying to do.'

'The sharks know?'

Frost evidently hadn't told van Maarten the whole story.

'That's right. They're no more sharks than the whales are whales. Something's controlling them. The men should be on their guard.' He had to cough again, this time more loudly. 'I can't see a bloody thing in this cave. What's going on out there?'

For a moment van Maarten was silent. Then he said, 'Oh, God…'

'Talk to me!'

'There's more of them – dozens, hundreds! They're smashing up the floodlights.'

Of course they are, thought Bohrmann. That's the whole point.

They're trying to stop us cleaning up the worms. That's what this is about.

'Then forget it.'

I'm sorry?'

'I said forget the rescue operation, van Maarten.'

There was so much noise inside Bohrmann's helmet that he had to get van Maarten to repeat his answer a second time: 'But the men are ready.'

'Tell them that intelligent predators are lying in wait for them. The sharks are intelligent. The stuff in their heads is intelligent. You're not going to achieve anything with two divers and a decoy. Think of something else. Like you said, I've got enough oxygen for two days.'

Van Maarten hesitated. 'OK. We'll keep an eye on things. Maybe the sharks will disperse in the next few hours. Do you think you're safe for the moment?'

'How the hell do I know? I'm safe from ordinary sharks, but these guys are unbelievably resourceful.'

'We're going to find a way, Gerhard. We'll have you out of there before your oxygen runs out.'

'I sincerely hope so.'

Light was returning gradually to the crack, but if what van Maarten was saying was true, the lamps were about to go out.

He'd be alone in the darkness of the ocean, alone until someone declared themselves ready to brave hundreds of hammerhead sharks.

No shark in possession of its natural instincts would have swum into an electromagnetic field. A hammerhead shark would never attack two humans in exosuits, and even if it did, it would quickly lose interest. Hammerheads were known to pose a threat to humans and to be infuriatingly inquisitive, but they usually gave anything suspicious-looking a very wide berth.

They didn't normally swim inside crevices.

Bohrmann cowered inside the cave, equipped with enough oxygen for other forty or so hours. He hoped there wouldn't be a bloodbath when van Maarten's men came down, if they came down.

A bloodbath in the lightless water.

He switched off the floodlight on his trackhound to conserve its battery. He was immediately engulfed in inky black. Light shone through the crack. It was getting fainter all the time.

INDEPENDENCE, Greenland Sea

Johanson couldn't settle. He'd been down on the well deck where Li's men were preparing for the jelly to be transferred to the deep-sea chamber under Rubin's supervision. The tank had been emptied and decontaminated, and the Pfiesteria-laden crabs deposited in liquid nitrogen. The whole process was being conducted under the most stringent safety precautions. Johanson and Oliviera were planning to start the phase tests as soon as the jelly was in the tank. In the meantime, while they'd been exchanging notes and laying down the procedure, Crowe and Shankar had begun to decipher the second Scratch message.

'The shock is still with us,' Li had said, in her improvised speech. 'Every one of us has been deeply affected by what happened. Our enemy is trying to demoralise and destroys us – but we mustn't give in. I'm sure you're all asking yourselves whether this vessel is safe. Let me assure you, it is. Providing we don't give our enemy any further opportunities to come aboard, we've got nothing to fear on the Independence. All the same, speed is of the essence. It's more important than ever that we focus our energies on forcing a dialogue. We need to convince our enemy to put a stop to its campaign of terror against the human race.'

Johanson went up to the flight deck, where the kitchen staff was clearing away the remnants of the abandoned party. The sun had risen again, and the sea looked no different from usual: no blue glow, no flashes, and no luminescent vision presaging a nightmare.

He walked back to where he'd been standing before Li had presented him with a glass of red wine and tried to pump him for information about his night-time escapade. Two things had been clear to him: first, that Li knew what had happened to him; and second, that she wasn't sure how much he could remember and whether he was telling her the truth – which worried her.

She'd lied to him. He hadn't fallen over.

If Oliviera hadn't mentioned that he'd seen Rubin walk through a door in the hangar deck, nothing would have come back to him, and he would have swallowed Dr Angeli and the others' explanation. But Oliviera's comment had triggered something in his mind. His brain was reprogramming itself. Enigmatic images appeared and faded. As he stared at the uniform seascape of waves, his gaze turned inwards. Suddenly he was back on the crate, chatting to Oliviera, glass in hand. Rubin stepped through a door in the hangar-deck wall. A door … It appeared in the distance, and yet in another picture he seemed to be standing right in front of it – proof to Johanson that the mysterious passageway existed.

But what had happened next?

They'd gone down to the lab. Then he'd returned to the hangar deck alone. Why? Was it something to do with the door?

Or was he imagining it all?

You could be getting old and crazy without even knowing it, he thought to himself. That would be embarrassing.

While he was still puzzling over it, fate took pity on him and sent Weaver to him. Johanson was pleased to see her walking over the deck. They hadn't spent much time together lately. At first he'd seen her as his confidante, but he'd soon come to appreciate that she wasn't a replacement for Lund. They got on well, but it hadn't gone any deeper than that, neither in the Chateau nor on the boat. Maybe he had hoped that, through her, he could make up for everything that had happened to Lund. In the meantime things had changed. Now Johanson was by no means certain that he needed to make up for anything, and still less whether he'd share the intimacy with Weaver that he had with Lund. He had the impression that something might happen between her and Anawak, and they were much better suited…

But there was trust. If he put his trust in Weaver, he would surely be rewarded. She was much too down-to-earth to want to romanticise inexplicable events. She'd listen to him and tell him if she believed him or if she thought he was mad.

He gave her a succinct account of everything he could remember, including all the things that didn't make sense or that made him doubt himself, and how he'd felt when Li had given him the third degree.

After a thoughtful pause Weaver asked; 'Have you been down to look?

'I haven't had a chance.'

'You must have had plenty. You're just scared in case there's nothing there.'

'You're probably right.'

She nodded. 'Let's take a look together.'

Weaver had surmised correctly. He did feel scared and unsure of himself- more so with every step that took them closer to the hangar deck. What if there was nothing? By now he felt almost certain that they wouldn't find a door, and then he'd have to get used to the idea that he might be delusional. He was fifty-six, he was good-looking, and people seemed to find him intelligent, attractive and charming. There was never any shortage of women.

It was just as he'd feared. They paced up and down along the bulkhead, and there was nothing that resembled a door.

Weaver looked at him.

'I know, I know,' he muttered.

'Don't worry,' she said. And then, to his surprise, she added, 'You can see the wall's riveted together. Look at all these pipes and joints. There must be thousands of ways of building a door into the wall without anyone being able to spot it. You need to remember precisely where you saw it.'

'You believe me?'

'I know you pretty well, Sigur. You're not nuts. You don't drink yourself into a coma or take drugs. You appreciate the finer things in life – and that means you see details that other people miss. I'm more of a fish-and-chips girl. I probably wouldn't notice a hidden door if it opened right in front of my face, because it wouldn't occur to me that something like that might exist. I don't know what you saw, but. . . yeah, I believe you.'

Johanson leaned forward impulsively and kissed her cheek. He headed down the ramp towards the laboratory, almost elated.

LAB

Rubin still looked pale, and when he spoke, he sounded like a squawking parrot. He was lucky to be alive. Greywolf had been well on the way to finishing him off. The biologist showed himself to be extremely understanding. He maintained a stiff smile, reminding Johanson for all the world of Nurse Ratchet in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest after she had narrowly escaped being throttled by Jack Nicholson. Rubin swivelled his whole body ostentatiously whenever he glanced to either side. He was quick to let everyone know about his wretched state of health, and magnanimously announced that he didn't hold a grudge against Greywolf.

'I mean, the two of them were an item, weren't they?' he rasped. 'It must have been dreadful for him. And I was the one who insisted on opening the sluice. Of course, he shouldn't have attacked me, but I understand.'

Oliviera exchanged glances with Johanson and refrained from comment.

Huge lumps of jelly were floating in the tank, beginning to glow again. But what interested the three biologists wasn't so much the jelly as the cloud. The two and a half tonnes of organic matter that Li's men had scooped up from the well deck included large quantities of dissociated jelly. Now big clumps of aggregated matter and countless individual amoebas filled the tank, while a robot flitted among them, armed with an array of sensors that monitored the chemical composition of the water and transmitted the data to the screens on the desk. The skirt of the robot was lined with tubes that, at the push of a button, could be extended into the water, opened, closed and returned to the rosette. The entire contraption was scarcely bigger than the Spherobot. It was robust, yet manoeuvrable.

Johanson sat at the control desk like the captain of a spaceship, waiting with his hands round the joysticks. The lights in the lab had been dimmed as low as possible to allow them to see what was happening. Before their eyes, the jelly was recovering. The lumps of matter were already glowing more intensely, pulsating with currents of blue light.

'This is it,' whispered Oliviera. 'It's about to start aggregating.'

Johanson steered the robot under one of the lumps, opened a test-tube and pushed it into the substance. The edge of the tube was razor-sharp: it sliced into the jelly, collected a sample, sealed itself automatically and retreated to the rosette. The clump changed shape slightly, swathed in blue mist. Johanson waited for a few seconds, then repeated the procedure elsewhere.

Pinpricks of light sparkled inside the jelly. The clump was about the size of a fully grown dolphin. Yes, thought Johanson, as he continued to fill the test-tubes with samples, that would be right: it was exactly the size of a dolphin. Although, actually, it wasn't merely the size of a dolphin: it was the shape of one too.

At that moment Oliviera said, 'Unbelievable – it looks like a dolphin.'

Johanson almost forgot that he was supposed to be steering the robot. He watched, fascinated, as other clumps of jelly changed shape too. Some looked like sharks, others squid.

'How are they doing it?' asked Rubin.

'They must be programmed,' said Johanson. 'It's the only explanation.'

'But how do they know how to do it?'

'They must have learned.'

'How, though?'

'Just think,' said Oliviera. 'If they can copy different shapes and movements, they must be masters of disguise.'

'Oh, I don't know about that.' Johanson sounded skeptical. 'I'm not convinced that what we're seeing is mimicry. I'd say it's more a case of them, uh… remembering.'

'Remembering?'

'Well, you know what happens in our brains when we think: specific neurons light up so you get networks and connections. Patterns emerge. Our brains can't change shape, but the neural networks do. If you could read them, you could tell what a person is thinking.'

'So the jelly's thinking of a dolphin?'

'It doesn't look like a dolphin,' objected Rubin.

'Sure it-'Johanson stopped short. Rubin was right. The dolphin shape had gone. Now it was more like a skate, wings beating slowly as it ascended through the water. The tips of the wings grew slender feelers, and it turned into a snake-like creature. The jelly flew apart. Suddenly thousands of tiny fish were flitting through the water in synchrony, then the swarm came together and the jelly morphed again, accelerating through a series of changes as though it were running through a programme. In milliseconds familiar forms gave way to strange shapes. The other clumps of jelly had succumbed to the frenzy as well. They were moving towards each other. Then the familiar flashes of lightning came into play, and for one awful moment Johanson thought he saw a human body among the rapid succession of shapes.

It all streamed together, lumps of jelly and wisps of cloud.

'It's aggregating!' croaked Rubin, eyes gleaming as he stared at the display on the screen. A stream of data flowed across it. 'There's a new substance in the water. A compound!'

Johanson swooped through the imploding universe with the robot, taking samples as he went. It was like a rally. How many could he collect? When should he retreat? The mass seemed to have regained its original strength. A hub formed, then it all collapsed inwards. They'd already observed the phenomenon in miniature, but now it was occurring on a far larger scale. An organism was forming from a host of amoebas. It didn't appear to have eyes, ears or any other sensory organs, or a heart, brain or gut, yet the homogeneous lump was somehow capable of complex processes.

A giant form emerged. At least half of the jelly from the well deck had been pumped back into the sea, but what remained was still the size of a Transit van. Through the oval window of the tank they watched as the jelly clustered and hardened. Johanson whisked the robot to the edge of the activity where blue streams were racing towards the hub. Three of the test-tubes were still empty. He directed them out of the rosette and launched another foray into the mass.

It sprang back at lightning speed, sprouting dozens of tentacles and seizing the intruder. Johanson lost control of the robot. Immobilised, it was trapped in the grip of the creature, which sank towards the bottom of the tank, producing a clumpy foot on which to settle. All of a sudden it looked like an enormous mushroom with a crown of rubbery arms.

'Shit,' whispered Oliviera. 'You were too slow.'

Rubin's fingers sped over his keyboard. I've got all kinds of data coming up,' he said. 'A heady molecular mix. The jelly's using a pheromone. So I was right!'

'Anawak was right,' Oliviera corrected him. 'Weaver was right.'

'Of course. What I meant was-'

'We were all right.'

'Exactly.'

'Is it anything we've seen before, Mick?' asked Johanson, without taking his eyes off the screen.

Rubin shook his head. 'Pass. The ingredients are familiar enough but I'd have to examine the recipe. We need those samples.'

Johanson watched as a thick stem wound its way out of the creature, producing a bush of tiny feelers at its tip. The stem bent over the robot. Its feelers swept over the gadget and the test-tubes.

It looked like a structured, deliberate investigation.

'Are you seeing what I'm seeing?' Oliviera peered at the screen. 'Is it trying to open the test-tubes?'

'They're pretty well sealed.' Johanson tried to wrest back control of the robot. The tentacles wrapped round it merely tightened.

'It seems to have fallen in love.' He sighed.

The feelers continued their investigation.

'Do you think it can see it?' asked Rubin.

'What with?' Oliviera shook her head. 'It can change shape but it can't grow eyes.'

'Maybe it doesn't need to,' said Johanson. 'Maybe it literally grasps its surroundings.'

'So do kids.' Rubin glanced at him doubtfully. 'But they've got brains to store the information. How does this stuff make sense of what it's grasped?'

The creature released the robot. Its feelers and tentacles slumped down and disappeared inside the main body. The organism flattened itself, spreading until the base of the tank was coated with a thin layer of jelly.

'The ostrich approach,' joked Oliviera. 'So it knows about that too.'

'Arrivederci,' said Johanson, and guided the robot into the garage.

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

'What are you trying to tell us?' Crowe rested her chin in her hands. As usual, a cigarette was smouldering between the index and middle fingers of her right hand, but this time it had barely been smoked. She didn't have time to puff at it. She and Shankar were struggling to make sense of the message from the yrr.

A message that had been sent with an attack.

Having decoded the first transmission, it didn't take the computer long to get to grips with the second. As with the previous message, the yrr had responded in binary code. It remained to be seen whether the data would form a picture. Until now only one sequence made sense. It was a piece of information that seemed laughably simple, given that it was supposed to have come from an alien system of thought.

It was the description of a molecule. A chemical formula. H₂O.

'Very original,' Shankar said sourly. 'I think we know they live in water.'

But the formula was overlaid with other information. While the computer crunched the data, Crowe realised what the message might mean. 'Perhaps it's a map,' she said.

'How do you mean? A map of the seabed?'

'No. That would imply that they lived on the seabed. Assuming the belligerent little creatures in the lab are part of the alien intelligence, the yrr live in water. The depths are a liquid universe – homogeneous and the same from every angle.'

Shankar thought for a moment. 'Unless, of course, you examine the seawater and look at its make-up – exact levels of minerals, acids, alkalis and so on.'

'And then you see it all looks different.' Crowe nodded. 'The first time they sent us a picture composed of two mathematical solutions. This time it looks more complicated. But if we're right, there'll he limits to the variation. I can't swear to it, but I think they've sent us another picture.'

JOINT INTELLIGENCE CENTER

Weaver found Anawak sitting at the computer. Virtual amoebas were spinning over the screen, but it seemed to her that he wasn't really looking at them. 'I'm sorry about what happened to your friend,' she said softly.

'Do you know what's funny?' His voice sounded choked. "That her death's really affecting me. The last time I cried was when my mother died. My father died, and I just felt terrified because I wasn't even sorry. But Licia? God, it's not like I chased after her or anything. Until I learned to like her, she was just some student who got on my nerves.'

Tentatively Weaver laid her hands on his shoulders. Anawak's fingers reached up to touch them. 'Your program works by the way,' he said. 'So now it's up to the others to get the biology working in the lab.'

'Yes, that's the problem. Meanwhile, it's just a hypothesis.' They'd equipped the virtual amoebas with DNA that was capable of learning and could constantly mutate. Every single cell was essentially an autonomous computer that continually reprogrammed itself. Each new piece of information changed the structure of the genome. If a certain number of cells underwent a particular experience, the experience changed their genetic structure. If the mutated cells aggregated with other cells, they passed on the information, and the DNA of the other cells changed. It meant that the cells weren't merely learning constantly: whenever they aggregated they updated each other. Any new knowledge acquired by a single amoeba enriched the collective knowledge of the whole.

It was a revolutionary idea. It meant that knowledge could be inherited. They'd discussed it with Johanson, Oliviera and Rubin, but the outcome had left them more bemused than ever. 'The good news was that the theory had been accepted with enthusiasm. The bad news was that there was an almighty catch.

CONTROL ROOM

'What you have to realise,' explained Rubin, 'is that when DNA mutates, its genetic information changes – and that spells trouble for any living creature.'

While the others were still analysing the samples, Rubin had snuck out of the lab, supposedly because his migraine was returning. In reality, he'd disappeared into the hidden control room for a meeting with Li, Peak and Vanderbilt. They were working through the transcripts from the audio surveillance. By now they all knew about the computer program and about Weaver and Anawak's theory – but only Rubin understood the implications.

'Organisms rely on their DNA staying intact,' said Rubin. 'Otherwise they fall sick or produce defective offspring. Exposure to radiation, for instance, causes irreparable damage to DNA, resulting in cancer or birth defects.'

'But how does that fit with evolution?' asked Vanderbilt. 'If humans are descended from apes, our DNA must have changed.'

'Sure, but evolution takes place over a long time. And it selects those organisms whose natural mutation rate makes them best suited to the prevailing conditions. People don't often talk about evolutionary failures, yet nature gets rid of unsuccessful adaptations all the time. That said, there is another option, and that's repair. Take tanning, for instance. Sunlight leads to changes in the cells in the upper layers of our skin, resulting in mutations in the DNA. Our skin starts to tan, and if we're not careful we go red and burn. When that happens, our body sheds the cells that have been destroyed, but those remaining can be repaired. It's repairs like these that allow us to survive. Without them, we'd not only suffer continual mutations in our DNA, but our injuries wouldn't heal and we wouldn't recover from disease.'

'Fine,' said Li. 'But what about single-cell organisms?'

'The same thing applies,' said Rubin. 'If their DNA mutates, it has to be repaired. And remember, organisms like that reproduce by cell division. For a species to remain stable, its DNA has to undergo repair. It doesn't matter what kind of cells we're talking about, nature always endeavours to keep the rate of mutation within manageable limits. And that's the catch for Anawak's theory. The genome is repaired globally, along its entire length. You can picture the repair enzymes as policemen, patrolling the entire DNA strand on the look-out for errors. As soon as they find a defective area, they begin the repair. To ensure that the information corresponding to the DNA's original sequence doesn't get lost, the repair enzymes act as the guardians of the genome's data. They police the sequence and can tell immediately which genetic configurations match the original and which are defective. It's like trying and failing to teach a child to talk. As soon as it learns a new word, the repair enzymes come along and reprogram it to its original state – ignorance. It's not possible for it to learn.'

'Then Anawak's theory is nonsense,' said Li. 'It would only make sense if the amoebas could retain the changes to their DNA.'

'Well, on the one hand, that's right. Any new information would be treated as defective by the repair enzymes and, hey presto, the genome's restored to its original configuration. Back to square one, so to speak.'

'I'm guessing,' grinned Vanderbilt, 'that we're about to hear the butt.'

Rubin nodded hesitantly. 'There is one,' he said.

'Which is?'

'I don't know.'

'Hang on,' said Peak. He sat up in his chair and winced. His foot was bandaged. 'I thought you just said-'

'I know! But the theory's brilliant,' cried Rubin. 'It would explain everything. Then we'd be certain that the substance in the tank is our enemy. We'd be face to face with the yrr – the creatures that have landed us in all this shit. And I'm certain that it's them! We saw some pretty weird stuff in the lab this morning. The blob of jelly examined our robot, and you should have seen the way it did it – it had nothing to do with animal instinct or curiosity. It was pure cognitive intelligence. Anawak's theory must be right. Weaver's already got it working electronically.'

'But how are we supposed to make sense of it?' Vanderbilt sighed and mopped his forehead.

'It could be to do with anomalies.' Rubin gestured vaguely. 'Even repair enzymes sometimes make mistakes. Not often, but every ten thousand repairs or so they slip up. They miss a base pair that should have been restored to its original state. It's not much, but it's enough to cause a baby to be born hemophiliac, with a cleft palate or even cancer. We see these anomalies as defects, but they're proof that the repair mechanism doesn't always work.'

Li got up and paced slowly round the room. 'So you believe that the amoebas and the yrr are one and the same. We've found our adversary.'

'With two provisos,' Rubin added. 'First, we have to solve the DNA conundrum, and second, there has to be some kind of queen-yrr. No doubt the collective is highly intelligent, but I reckon the stuff we've got down there is only the executive part of the whole.'

'A queen-yrr? How do you envisage it?'

'Well, the same and yet different. A bit like ants. The queen-ant is an ant, but a special one. She's at the heart of everything. The yrr are swarming organisms, you see – collectives of amoebas. If Anawak's right, they embody an alternative evolutionary path for intelligent life, but something must be guiding them.'

'So if we were to find this queen…' Peak began.

'No.' Rubin shook his head. 'There's no point in fooling ourselves. There could be more than one – there could be millions. And if they're smart, they won't come anywhere near us.' He paused. 'But to be queens, they'd necessarily share the same basic principles as the rest of the yrr. They'd aggregate, and they'd have genetic memory. We're in the process of isolating a chemical that the amoebas give off as a signal to start aggregating. Oliviera and Johanson are on the brink of working out its formula. And you can bet that this chemical, this pheromone, will also cause the queens to aggregate with the yrr too. Scent is the key to yrr communication.' Rubin gave a self-satisfied smile. 'And it could be the answer to all our problems.'

'Thank you, Mick.' Vanderbilt inclined his head towards him graciously. 'You're in our good books again – for the time being at least. Even if you did screw up on the well deck.'

'That wasn't my fault.' Rubin sounded offended.

'You're in the CIA, Mick. In my team. And in my team the buck always stops with you. Did we forget to mention that when we hired you?'

'No.'

Vanderbilt shoved his handkerchief clumsily into his trouser pocket.

I'm glad to hear it. Jude's about to call the President so she'll be able to tell him what a good boy you've been. Thanks for paying us a visit. Now, run along back to work.'

FLAG COMMAND CENTER

Crowe and Shankar didn't look anywhere near as self-assured as they had when they'd decoded the first signal. Team morale was low, which was only due in part to the terrible events on the well deck. It was becoming increasingly obvious that no one understood the yrr's strategy.

'Why send us a message and then attack us?' asked Peak. 'Humans wouldn't do that.'

'You've got to stop thinking in those categories,' said Shankar. 'They're not humans.'

'I'm just trying to understand.'

'Well, you never will, if you keep basing your ideas on human logic,' said Crowe. 'Maybe their first message was a warning. We know where you are. That's what their reply comes down to.'

'Maybe it was a diversionary tactic,' suggested Oliviera.

'But what would be the point?' asked Anawak.

'To distract us?'

'From what? From the fact that they were about to light up outside like a Christmas tree?'

'It's not as crazy as it sounds,' said Johanson. 'They certainly achieved one thing. They got us thinking they were interested in dialogue. Sal's right: people wouldn't act like that, and maybe the yrr know it. So they lulled us into a false sense of security, showed themselves in all their glory, and while we were blithely expecting a cosmic revelation, they gave us a kick in the teeth.'

'Maybe sending them a couple of lousy math questions wasn't such a great idea,' said Vanderbilt to Crowe.

Crowe lost her cool. Her eyes flashed. 'Do you have a better suggestion?'

'It's not my job to make suggestions,' said Vanderbilt, spoiling for a fight. 'That's your job. Making contact is your responsibility.'

'Making contact with whom? You won't accept it's not a plot by rebel mullahs.'

If all you can achieve with your crappy messages is to give away our location, that's your problem and you're going to have to fix it. You sent the enemy detailed information about the human race. You practically told them to attack.'

'You have to know who you're dealing with before you can negotiate,' Crowe hissed back. 'It's about time you understood that, you moron. I need to know who they are, which is why I'm telling them about us.'

'All this message shit is a dead end-'

'For Christ's sake, we've only just started!'

'Just like your jumped-up SETI hogwash was a dead end too. Only just started? Well, congratulations – how many people are going to die when you really get going?'

'Jack,' snapped Li.

'This contact crap is-'

'That's enough! I don't want arguments, I want results. So let's hear from someone who's got something to report.'

'We've got something,' Crowe said sullenly. 'The second message is based around a formula, the chemical formula for water. We'll find out what the rest of it means in due course – if we're allowed to work in peace.'

'We've made a bit of headway too,' Weaver added.

'So've we!' Rubin was in there like a shot. 'We've made a massive leap forwards, thanks to the, uh, assistance of Sigur and Sue.' He coughed. 'Maybe you'd like to explain, Sue?'

'You're too kind,' she muttered. To the others she said, 'We've managed to isolate the chemical that causes the cells to aggregate. It's a pheromone, and we know how it works. Sigur can take the credit for that – he dared to do battle with the monster to get those tissue samples.'

She put a sealed container on the table. It was half full of a watery liquid.

'The yrr scent is in here. We've analysed it and we're able to synthesise it. The formula is surprisingly simple. We're still not a hundred per cent sure exactly how they use it to make contact or who or what initiates the aggregation. But assuming that something's able to trigger it – and, for the sake of argument, I'm going to call that something the queen – there's the question of how it summons millions and billions of free-floating amoebas who don't have eyes or ears. That's what this pheromone is for. Chemicals aren't especially suited for communication under water – the molecules disperse too quickly. But over short distances pheromone signals work brilliantly. And, as far we can tell, the amoebas' pheromonal communication is restricted to this one chemical. There's no language, just a single word: aggregate! We're not sure how they keep communicating after they've aggregated. All we can say for certain is that there's some form of information exchange. It's no different from a neural network computer or a human brain. The individual units need messengers working between them. In biology, they're called ligands. If a cell wants to pass information to another cell, it can't just wander over and tell it so it sends a message via the ligands to the other cell. And when the ligands get to the cell, it's like arriving at any civilised house: they come to a door with a bell – scientifically speaking, a receptor. The ligands ring the bell, and the message is carried through a cascade of signals to the centre of the cell, where the information is passed to the genome.'

She paused.

'The amoebas in the tank also seem to communicate using ligands and receptors. Of course, the idea that cells are like houses with doorbells and helpful messengers is a little misleading. Each cell emits not just one but a cloud of molecules, and cells don't just have a single receptor – they've got something in the region of two hundred thousand. That's how they pick up the pheromones and dock on to the collective. That's two hundred thousand doorbells to help them communicate with their neighbouring cells! It's pretty impressive. The process of aggregation takes place like a relay – one cell picks up pheromones from the collective and attaches itself to the neighbouring cells, all the time sending out new pheromones to reach the other cells floating in the water around it, and so it goes on. It progresses from the centre outwards. For the sake of simplicity, let's skip a few stages of the argument and contend that the cells we've been looking at are indeed our formidable enemy, the yrr.'

She pressed her fingertips together.

'What struck us right away was that the cells don't merely have receptors, they have pairs of receptors. We racked our brains trying to figure out why, and then we cracked it: it's about ensuring the collective stays healthy. We labelled the receptors according to their function. The universal receptor says, I am the yrr. The special receptor says, I am a fully functioning healthy yrr-amoeba with intact DNA, worthy of being part of the collective and ready to take part in the pow-wow.'

'But couldn't you achieve that through a single receptor?' asked Shankar, with a frown.

'No. Probably not,' said Oliviera. 'It's actually an ingenious system. According to our model, a yrr-amoeba is rather like a military camp fenced in by a wall. Any soldier approaching from the outside is identified by a universal marker his uniform. The uniform tells the other soldiers in the camp, I'm one of you. But those of you who've seen your Michael Caine war movies will know that uniforms are sometimes a disguise. Once your camp's been infiltrated by an outsider, your lives are in danger. So if Michael Caine's to be admitted, he has to know the special signal too. He needs the password. How am I doing from a military point of view, Sal?'

Peak gave a nod. 'Absolutely right.'

'Thank goodness for that. So, when the yrr join together, the following occurs: yrr that have already aggregated produce a scent molecule, a pheromone. The pheromone reaches the other cells' universal receptors and initiates the primary connections; I am the yrr. The first part of the identification process has taken place. The second step requires the special receptors to receive the message, I am a healthy yrr. Well, that's all very well, but some yrr-cells aren't fully operational or healthy. In other words, they've got defective DNA. Since our adversary exists in swarms of billions and seems able to evolve continually, it has to weed out any yrr-cells that aren't capable of further development. The trick seems to be that while every amoeba has a universal receptor, only healthy ones capable of development are in possession of the special receptor. Defective cells don't have them. And now comes the really surprising bit, the bit that should make us afraid. Defective yrr don't know the password. They're excluded from the aggregation. But that's not enough. Yrr are amoebas, and like all amoebas they reproduce by cell division. A species that's continually learning and evolving obviously can't allow a second, defective, population to come into being, so it has to act quickly to stop faulty cells reproducing. That's when the pheromone reveals its dual purpose. In the event that a defective yrr is rejected, the pheromone clings to the amoeba's universal receptor and serves as a fast-acting toxin. It induces programmed cell death, a phenomenon otherwise unheard of in single-cell organisms. The faulty yrr-cell dies at once.'

'How can you tell it's dead?' asked Peak.

'Easy. Its metabolism stops. Besides, you can recognise a dead yrr because it stops glowing. For yrr, luminescing is a biochemical necessity. The best-known example of marine bioluminescence is probably the Aequorea, a hydromedusa from the South Seas. It glows when it produces a pheromone. A similar process is going on here. Pheromones are released by the yrr, causing them to glow. The flashes of light are a sign of particularly intense biochemical activity within the aggregated cells. When yrr luminesce, they're communicating and thinking. When they die, the light goes out.'

Oliviera looked at the others. 'So here's why we need to be afraid. The yrr use basic means to run a complex system of selection. If a yrr-amoeba is healthy and has a fully functioning pair of receptors, the pheromone triggers aggregation. But if that amoeba lacks a special receptor, the pheromone takes its deadly toll. The point is, a species that works like this has a very different perspective on death. Death in yrr society is vital. It would never occur to the yrr to spare a defective yrr-cell. To them it would seem absurd – stupid, even. It's imperative for them to destroy the threat to their own evolution. Whenever the collective is threatened, the yrr respond with the logic of death. It's no good pleading for mercy or expecting compassion. The logic of death doesn't make exceptions, and it's not about brutality. Such thoughts are alien to the yrr and, as such, they'll never understand why they should spare us – given that we're a concrete threat.'

'Uh-huh. So their biochemistry imposes a different morality,' said Li.

'Well, I dare say that's very interesting,' interrupted Vanderbilt, 'but what does it matter if they all use Chanel No. 5 or whatever? I mean, what's the point of knowing that? We could all go and aggregate with them. Yeah, that's it, I'll club together with some yrr.'

Crowe gave him a withering look. 'Like they'd let you.'

'Oh, screw you, Crowe.'

'You guys can keep fighting if you like,' said Anawak, 'but Karen and I have an idea about how yrr cognition might work. We've got Sigur, Mick and Sue pulling their hair out over it. Biologically, it's nonsense – but it would answer a whole heap of questions.'

Weaver took over. 'We programmed our virtual amoebas with electronic DNA, and set it up to keep mutating. In other words, the DNA was learning. All of a sudden we found ourselves back where we'd started – with a functioning neural network computer. We'd originally split our electronic brain into its smallest programmable units and tried to put them back together again as a thinking whole. It didn't work, or at least not until the individual cells were capable of learning. But the only way that a biological cell could learn is through mutations in its DNA, and that's unheard of- but it's exactly what we told our virtual cells to do. We used a scent, like Sue described.'

'The thing is,' Anawak continued, 'we didn't just get our fully functioning neural network computer back: we had yrr operating within their natural habitat. Our version of the network came with a few added extras – we allowed the cells to move through three-dimensional space. It replicated deep-sea conditions, with pressure, currents, friction and so on. First, we had to answer the question as to how members of a collective are able to recognise each other. The pheromone is only half of the story. The rest involves limiting the size of the collective. And that's where Sue and Sigur's discovery comes into play. They found that yrr amplicons differ from each other in small, hypervariable sections, so, as we said before, the cells would have to change their DNA after they came into being. Well, we think that's exactly what happens, and that these hypervariable sections serve as a code for them to recognise each other and to know which collective they belong to.'

'Yrr-amoebas with the same coding recognise each other, and small collectives can aggregate with larger ones,' said Li.

'That's right.' Weaver nodded. 'So we coded our virtual cells too. Each cell already had basic information about its habitat, but some cells were given additional information that the others didn't have. As you'd expect, the first cells to aggregate were the ones that shared the same coding. Then we tried a different tack, and attempted to join two collectives with non-identical coding. It worked, and the unthinkable happened: the cells not only succeeded in aggregating; they managed to exchange their individual coding and mutually update each other. They programmed themselves to share the same standard code, thereby attaining a new state of knowledge. The two collectives merged into one, which joined with a third, and that, too, gave rise to something new.'

'Next we wanted to examine their learning strategies,' said Anawak. 'Once again we created two collectives, each with different coding. We gave one information about a specific experience – an enemy attack. It's not especially original, I know, but we decided to use a shark. We programmed it to take a big bite out of the collective, then we showed the collective how to dodge it. The second collective wasn't taught the trick, and it got bitten. Then we aggregated the collectives and sent in the shark – the new conglomerate dodged it. The whole mass of cells had learned what to do. Finally, we divided the collective into smaller groups, and all of them knew how to dodge a shark.'

'So the hypervariable sections allow them to learn?' asked Crowe.

'Yes and no,' said Weaver, glancing at her notes. 'It's theoretically possible, but on the computer it takes too long. The mass of jelly that attacked us on the well deck was incredibly quick to respond, and it probably thinks just as swiftly. It's a superconductive organism, an enormous variable brain. It didn't make sense to limit ourselves to small segments of DNA. We programmed the entire strand so it was capable of learning, and that increased the speed of cognition enormously.'

'Leading to what?' asked Li.

'We can only base our conclusions on the few trials that we ran before the meeting, but we've already seen enough to be sure of a few things: yrr-collectives, no matter what their size, think at the speed of the most up-to-date parallel processors. The information held by individual cells is standardised, and new data gets scrutinised. We found some of the collectives weren't able to handle new challenges, but as they aggregated, they learned. Initially, the learning curve was linear, but beyond a certain point, the collective's behaviour couldn't be predicted-'

'Hold on.' Shankar interrupted her. 'Do you mean to say that the program takes on a life of its own?'

'We introduced entirely new situations. The more complex the problem, the more frequently the amoebas aggregated. It didn't take them long to develop strategies that hadn't been programmed. They started to work creatively. They became inquisitive. And they learned exponentially. We only had time to do a few tests, and it's only a computer program, but our electronic yrr learned to assume any given form – to imitate and vary the shapes of other living things. They were able to form feelers that made our fingers seem no more sensitive than cudgels. They examined objects on a nano level. And every single one of their experiences was shared with every single cell. They solved problems that would leave us stumped.'

For a moment there was silence as the news sank in. It was clear from their faces that they were remembering the scenes on the well deck. In the end Li said, 'Give me an example of a problem.'

Anawak nodded. 'Let's say I'm a yrr-collective. I've managed to infest an entire continental slope with worms that I'd previously bred, packed with bacteria and transported across the seabed. I want them to destroy the hydrates along the length of the slope, but there's one small problem: although the worms and the bacteria are causing a hell of a lot of damage, they can't start the landslide without help.'

'That's right,' said Johanson. 'We still haven't figured that out. The worms and the bacteria take care of the groundwork, but a little something's still missing before the catastrophe can unfold.'

'A little something like, for instance, a small drop in the water level, hence decreased pressure on the hydrates, or maybe an increase in the water temperature near the continental slope – right?'

'Exactly.'

'Let's say one degree Celsius?'

'That would probably do it, but I'd say two to be sure.'

'OK. Well, we did our homework. The Hakon-Mosby mud volcano is situated not far from the Norwegian continental slope at a depth of twelve hundred and fifty metres. Gas, water and sediment are vented from inside the earth to the surface of the seabed. The water around a mud volcano isn't hot, but it's warmer than elsewhere. So what do I do? I aggregate until I'm an enormous yrr-collective. Then I turn myself into a funnel, and since I need to be an extremely long funnel, I limit the width of my walls to several cells across. I need huge quantities of myself-billions and billions of cells – but I extend over several kilometres. My circumference matches that of the volcano's main crater – around five hundred metres. It allows me to draw warm water from the volcano, so I'm like an enormous pipe, transporting the water to the site where the worms and the bacteria have been burrowing away. And then, whoosh, the slope collapses. Incidentally, I can use the same method for warming the water near Greenland and around the poles to melt the icecaps and disable the Gulf Stream.'

'OK, but those are your computerised yrr,' Peak said skeptically. 'What can real yrr do?'

Weaver pursed her lips. 'That and a good deal more, at a guess.'

SWIMMING

Weaver's body was feeling the strain as much as her mind. As they left the operations room, she asked Anawak if he felt like a dip in the pool. Her shoulders were one long ridge of pain – even though her body was accustomed to being put through its paces. None of the training she'd subjected herself to had prepared her for this. Maybe that's your problem, she told herself You should probably take up a sport that isn't a feat of endurance.

Anawak went with her. They stopped off at their cabins to change into swimwear, then set off to the pool together, wrapped in towelling robes. Weaver felt like holding Anawak's hand – in fact, that wasn't all she felt like doing, but she had no idea how people initiated that kind of thing without embarrassing themselves. Before the radical turnaround in her life, she'd taken anyone and everyone who came her way, but love had never entered the equation. Now she felt shy and inhibited. She didn't even know how to flirt. How were they supposed to end up in bed together, when only last night people had died and the whole world was on the brink of disaster?

Why did she have to make it such a big deal?

The Independence's swimming-pool looked surprisingly welcoming for a warship. It was the size of a small lake. As her robe slid off her shoulders, she felt Anawak's gaze on her back. Suddenly it occurred to her that it was the first time he'd seen her like that. Her swimsuit had high-cut legs with a low, scooped back and, of course, her tattoo was on display.

She walked self-consciously to the edge, took off and arced elegantly through the air. Arms stretched in front of her, she cut through the water, just below the surface. She heard Anawak swim up behind her. Maybe it would happen here, she thought. Half hoping and half fearing that he would catch up with her, she kicked her legs and sped away.

Coward. Why shouldn't she just do it?

Dive down and make love in the pool.

Bodies uniting in the water…

The idea came to her in a flash.

It was laughably simple and more than a little irreverent but, assuming it worked, it was brilliant. It was a peaceful way of persuading the yrr to retreat – or, at least, to reconsider.

Her fingertips brushed against the tiled side. She stood up and wiped the water from her eyes. The idea seemed almost obscene, and with every metre that Anawak swam towards her, she felt less and less certain.

She'd have to sleep on it.

Suddenly he was very close.

She pushed up against the side of the pool, chest heaving, heart pounding, just as it had all those years ago in the icy waters of the Channel.

She felt his hands round her waist. Her lips opened.

A rush of fear.

Say something, she told herself. There must be something you can say. Something – anything-

'Sigur's feeling better.'

The words lurched out like toads and she saw the disappointment in his eyes. He drifted away from her and slicked back his wet hair. 'Yeah.'

How could she have been such an idiot?

'But something else is bothering him. A problem.' She rested her elbows on the side of the pool and pulled herself up. 'Keep it to yourself, though. I don't want him to think I go around telling everyone. I just wanted your opinion.' Sigur's got a problem? She was the one with the problem!

'What kind of problem?' asked Anawak.

'He saw something odd. Or, at least, he thinks he did. And from what he said, I believe him. But then it makes you wonder what it means, and… Well, it's like this…'

CONTROL ROOM

Li listened as Weaver told Anawak about Johanson's dilemma. She sat perfectly still in front of the monitors. Quite the lovely couple, she thought.

She was less amused by the topic of their chat. Rubin had endangered the entire mission. She could only hope that Johanson wouldn't remember any more of the details that should have been wiped forever from his brain. But Weaver and Anawak were gossiping about it.

Come on, kids, she thought, why waste your time on rubbish like that? It's just a horror story from Uncle Sigur. You could always hop into bed together. A blind man could see that you want to. But you're too inept to make a move. Li sighed. She had been forced to witness so many clumsy attempts at intimacy since men and women had started serving together in the navy. It was always so obvious. Tedious and vulgar. Sooner or later everyone wanted to jump into bed with each other. Surely they could have come up with something better to do than trying to get inside Johanson's head?

'We're going to have to get used to the idea that Rubin's cover could be blown,' she said to Vanderbilt.

The CIA boss was standing behind her, mug of coffee in hand. They were alone in the room. Peak was on the well deck, trying to chivvy along the clean-up operation and vet the state of the equipment.

'Then what?'

'There'll be an obvious decision to take.'

'We're not ready to do anything of the kind. Rubin's still busy. Besides, it would be nice not to have to.'

'What's wrong, Jack? Don't tell me you've got scruples.'

'Take it easy, honey. This is your damn plan, but it's my responsibility to make certain it works. My scruples won't get in the way. You can depend on that' He chuckled. 'After all, I've got my reputation to think of.'

Li turned to face him. 'You have?'

Vanderbilt slurped his coffee noisily. 'You know what I like about you, Jude? You're so darned nasty. You make me feel like a nice guy – and that's really saying something.'

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

Crowe and Shankar couldn't make sense of it. The computer screen was covered in labyrinthine images. Parallel lines suddenly diverged, moving outwards, arching into curves, then uniting into one. Large empty spaces of varying sizes yawned between them. A series of similar images made up the Scratch signal. They looked as though they should fit together in one big picture, yet somehow they didn't. The lines didn't match. And, so far, Crowe didn't have a clue as to what they might mean.

'Water is the baseline information,' pondered Shankar, 'and each of the water molecules is coupled with ancillary data. But what could they be describing? Something to do with water?'

'Such as?'

'Temperature.'

'I guess, or salinity.'

'Or it might have nothing to do with physical or chemical properties. The data might be describing the yrr. The lines could be population densities.'

'You mean they'd be telling us where they live?'

Shankar rubbed his chin. 'Doesn't seem likely, does it?'

'I don't know, Murray. Would we tell them where our cities are?'

'No, but the yrr don't think like us.'

'Thanks for reminding me.' Crowe produced a wreath of smoke. 'OK, let's start again. Water. That part of the message is straightforward enough. Water is our world.''

'Which corresponds exactly to the message we sent them.'

'True. We told them that we live on land. Then we described our DNA and our body shape.'

'Supposing they've responded point by point,' said Shankar. 'Could the lines represent their shape?'

Crowe pursed her lips. 'They don't have one – I mean, it hardly characterises them. They've got more of a definable shape when they're a collective, but that makes it even harder to pin them down: yrr-jelly has thousand of shapes, and none to call its own.'

'So shape's out. What other pieces of information might be of interest. Size of population?'

'Murray! There'd be so many zeros behind that number you could scrawl it all over this ship and still run out of space. Besides, they're continually dividing or dying … I bet even they don't know how many of them there are.' Crowe waggled the cigarette between her teeth. 'Individual amoebas don't matter. What counts is the whole. The idea of the yrr, if you like. The essence of yrr. The yrr genome.'

Shankar peered at her over the rim of his glasses. 'We only told them that our biochemistry was based on DNA. You'd expect them to tell us, "Ours too". Surely they wouldn't have sequenced their genome for us?'

'They might have done.'

'But why?'

'Because it's pretty much the only defining statement they could make. DNA and aggregation are at the heart of their existence. Everything else is based round that.'

'Fine, but how could they describe it, if it's constantly changing?'

Crowe was back to staring helplessly at the lines. 'What about the map idea again, then?'

'A map of what?'

'Who knows?' She sighed. 'Let's take it from the beginning again. H₂O. We live in water…'

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

Li had set the treadmill to maximum speed. Under normal circumstances she would have done her bit for team spirit and worked out in the gym. On this occasion, though, she didn't want to be disturbed. It was time for her daily satellite consultation with Offutt Air Force Base.

'How's morale, then, Jude?'

'Excellent, sir. The attack was a serious blow, but we're in control of the situation.'

'And everyone's still motivated?'

'More than ever before.'

'Well, I'm concerned.' The President was sitting all on his own in the war room at the air-force base. 'Boston's been fully evacuated. We've had to write off New York and Washington. And there's a new wave of horror stories from Philadelphia and Norfolk.'

'I know.'

'This country's going to hell, Jude. There isn't a single person in the world who doesn't seem to know about the creatures in the sea. Someone couldn't keep their mouth shut, and I'd like to know who.'

'What does it matter, sir?'

'What does it matter?' The President slammed his hand on the desk. 'The United States of America has agreed to lead this operation. I'm not about to tolerate some asshole from the UN taking matters into his own hands. They're all so busy trying to push their ridiculous little countries to the forefront. Have you seen what's going on out there? Things are escalating beyond our control.'

'I know exactly what's going on.'

'It could be that one of your guys has talked.'

'With all due respect, sir, there's no reason why other people shouldn't have arrived at the yrr hypothesis on their own. Besides, from what I've heard, the hulk of speculation still centers around natural disasters and international terrorism. Only this morning some scientist from Pyongyang said-'

'I know what he said.' The President brushed aside her point. 'He said we were the bad guys. Apparently we're skulking round in silent submarines attacking our own cities so we can pin it on the Commies.' He leaned forward. 'Well, they can say what they like. I don't give a damn about being popular. I just want to see this problem solved. I need some options, Jude. There isn't a single country left with the strength to help anyone else. Even the United States of America has been forced to beg for aid. We're being invaded and poisoned. The population is fleeing inland. I'm having to shelter in this goddamn security bunker like some kind of mole. We've got anarchy and looting on the streets, the military and security forces are hopelessly overstretched, and all we can offer our citizens is contaminated food supplies and drugs that don't work.'

'Sir…'

'God's still holding his protective hand over the West, but if you stick your feet in the water you're bound to lose your toes. The worm colonies off the coasts of America and Asia are growing, and La Palma's on the point of collapse. Regimes are crumbling. Heaven knows who's going to inherit their armaments. We're not in a position to intervene.'

'In your last speech, sir-'

'Don't get me started. I spend all my waking hours coming up with impassioned statements. But do you think the speech writers use them? I don't believe they even understand what I'm trying to communicate to this country and to the rest of the world. Make the people feel confident, I keep telling them. The American people need to see the determination of their leader, to know he'll do whatever it takes to win this war, no matter how many faces the devil might show. I want the world to take heart. I'm not saying we should give them false hope – we have to prepare for the worst – but people should know that were going to get through this. I keep explaining that to the speechwriters, but when they try to sound reassuring it comes across as insincere and overblown. You can even hear that they're afraid. Do any of them listen to me?'

'The people are listening.' Li said firmly. 'The world's stopped listening to everyone else. It's just you and the Germans.'

'Which reminds me, the Germans…' The President's eyes narrowed. 'Is it true what I'm hearing, that the Germans have their own mission planned?'

Li almost fell off the treadmill. That was ridiculous. 'Of course not. We're in charge. The UN has handed us the reins. Sure, the Germans are coordinating the European effort, but we're working together. Take La Palma.'

'So why's the CIA been telling me this stuff?'

'Because Vanderbilt's been peddling lies.'

'Come on, Jude.'

'He's a game player, always has been.'

'My dear Jude, when the time comes for you to take your rightful place, Vanderbilt won't he anywhere in sight.'

Li exhaled slowly. She'd allowed herself to get emotional. For a moment her guard had slipped and she'd given too much away. That wasn't good. In future she'd have to watch herself. She couldn't afford to be drawn.

'Although,' she said, with a smile, 'I don't really see Jack as a problem. He's a partner.'

The President nodded. 'The Russians have sent us a team. They've been helping the CIA with detailed information from the Black Sea region. We're in close contact with the Chinese, and the stuff about Germany is probably nothing. I don't get the impression that they're trying to go it alone, but you know how rumours start at times like this. We should he thankful, really. It's a wonderful thing to see so many people from different nations uniting in God to drive the devil from the sea.' He passed his hands over his eyes. 'So how are we really doing, Jude? I didn't want to ask you in front of the others in case you had to put a gloss on things. I wanted to spare you that embarrassment I need you to be frank with me. How much longer?'

'Not long. We're on the verge of a breakthrough.'

'How long is not long?'

'Rubin says that if all goes to plan, he can be ready in a day or two. We got lucky in the lab. The yrr are using a pheromone to communicate. We already know how to synthesise it and we-'

'Skip the details. So, Rubin says he can handle it?'

'He's certain of it, sir,' said Li. 'And so am I.'

The President pursed his lips. 'I'm relying on you, Jude. Any problems with your scientists?'

'No,' she lied. 'Things couldn't be better.'

Why all the questions? Had Vanderbilt…

Get a grip, she told herself! He was only enquiring. It wasn't in Vanderbilt's interest to tell tales. The fat bastard had a malicious tongue, but he'd never say anything to make himself look bad. 'I can assure you, sir,' she said, 'that we're making good progress. I gave you my word that I'd settle this problem in all our interests, and I'm going to do just that. The United States will save the world. You will save the world.'

'Just like in the movies, huh?'

'Better than that.'

The President nodded bleakly. Then he flashed her a smile. It wasn't the broad grin of old, but there was still a hint of his indomitable spirit, for which she admired him. 'God be with you, Jude,' he said.

He hung up. Li stayed on her treadmill. All of a sudden she doubted that she could pull it off.

COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

Whatever the message had to say about the creatures in the sea, Shankar's stomach was communicating his need of food so loudly that Crowe couldn't bear to listen to the rumbling any longer. She sent him to get something to eat.

'But I'm fine,' he insisted.

'You'll be doing me a favour,' said Crowe.

'We don't have time to eat.'

'I know. But a couple of skeletons aren't going to solve the problem. At least I've got my Lucky Strikes to keep me going. Go on, Murray. Come back fortified and see if you can belch out a few good ideas.'

Shankar left, and she was alone.

A bit of space was what she needed. It was nothing against Shankar – he was a brilliant scientist and a great help – but he specialised in acoustics. Second-guessing non-human thought patterns didn't come easily to him and, anyway, Crowe always had her best ideas when she was surrounded by nothing but smoke.

She lit a cigarette, and went through the problem again. H₂O. We live in water.

The message looked like a woven design on a rug. A repeating pattern of H₂O. The same motif again and again, yet each molecule of H₂O was linked to an ancillary piece of data. Millions of pairs of data, one after the next. In graphic form, they appeared as lines. The obvious assumption was that the ancillary data described a characteristic of water or of something that lived in the water.

What would a yrr have to say about itself?

Water. But what else?

Crowe turned it over in her mind. Suddenly she thought of an analogy. Two statements. First statement: this is a bucket. Second statement: this is water. When you add them together: this is a bucket of water. The water molecules would all look identical, but the same wasn't true of the data on the bucket. The data describing the bucket would differ according to its form, texture and markings. A description of a bucket, broken down into thousands of individual statements, would be anything but uniform. Stating that the bucket was full of water would be easy. You just took each of the individual bucket statements and attached an ancillary statement: water.

Or, to put it another way, the statement H₂O could be coupled with data describing something with no intrinsic connection to water. Like a bucket, for instance.

We live in water.

But where in the water? How could you describe the location of something that was devoid of fixed shape?

By describing what delimited it.

Coastlines and seabeds.

The empty spaces were the continents, bordered by coastlines.

Crowe's cigarette almost fell to the floor. She started punching commands into the keyboard. Suddenly she knew why the lines didn't make a picture: they weren't describing two dimensions, but three. You had to bend them to make them fit. Bend them until they turned into something three-dimensional.

A globe.

Planet Earth.

LAB

Johanson was still working on the tissue samples they'd taken from the yrr. After twelve hours of intensive work Oliviera had given up – she couldn't keep her eyes open, let alone look down a microscope. Over the past few nights she'd only had a few hours' sleep. Slowly but surely the mission was taking its toll. Their work was advancing in leaps and bounds, but the pressure was getting to them. Everyone responded differently. Greywolf had retreated to the well deck, where he took care of the three remaining dolphins, monitored the data from their sensors and kept himself to himself Some of the team were visibly tetchy, while others reacted more stoically. In Rubin's case, the stress seemed to take the form of migraines – which meant that once Oliviera had withdrawn for some hard-earned sleep, Johanson was left on his own in the half-light of the lab.

He'd switched off the main lights, leaving just the desk lamps and computer screens to brighten the gloom. The chamber hummed softly, generating a barely perceptible blue glow. The layer of jelly lay motionless at the bottom. The organism looked dead, but Johanson knew better.

If the jelly was glowing, the yrr were alive.

Footsteps rang out on the ramp. Anawak poked his head round the door. Johanson looked up from his work. 'Leon, good to see you.'

Anawak pulled up a chair, and sat down on it back to front. He rested his arms on the top. 'It's three in the morning,' he said. 'What the hell are you doing?'

'Working. You?'

'Can't sleep.'

'I think we've earned ourselves a drink. A glass of Bordeaux?'

'Oh, urn…' Anawak looked embarrassed. 'Thanks for offering, but I don't touch alcohol.'

'Never?'

'Never.'

'That's funny.' Johanson frowned. 'I usually notice stuff like that. I guess we're all pretty distracted at the moment.'

'You could say that.' Anawak paused. 'How's it shaping up?'

'Fine. I solved your problem.' He said it almost casually.

'Problem?'

'The one you and Karen were working on. Memory via mutating DNA. Well, you were right. It's possible, and I've found out how.'

Anawak stared at him incredulously. 'I can't believe you're not jumping up and down.'

'I'd turn a few cartwheels if I had enough energy. But you're right: we should celebrate.'

'Well, aren't you going to tell me how it works?'

You remember those hypervariable segments? They're clusters. The genome is covered with clusters that code different proteins. They're… Does this mean anything to you?'

'You'll have to help me out a little.'

'Clusters are a sub-class of gene. They're genes that take care of a particular function, like producing certain substances or coding receptors. If a section of DNA contains a high concentration of genes that serve the same function, you get a cluster. The yrr-genome has masses of them. And this is where it gets interesting: the yrr-cells are repairing themselves, but the repair process doesn't occur globally across the whole genome. The enzymes don't scan the DNA from top to bottom for mistakes, they react to specific signals. They're a bit like trains. If the signal tells them to go, they start the repair mechanism. But if the signal says stop, they don't go any further because otherwise they'd run into-'

'The clusters.'

'Right. And the clusters are protected.'

'You mean the yrr are able to shield part of their genome to stop it being repaired?'

'Exactly. They've got repair inhibitors – biological bouncers, if you like – which protect the clusters from repair enzymes. So, in the course of the repairs, the core genetic information is preserved, while other sequences are free to mutate continuously. Impressive, eh? Each yrr is an ever-evolving brain.'

'But how do they communicate?'

'Like Sue said, from cell to cell. Via ligands and receptors. The ligand – the signal transmitted from the other cells – reaches a receptor and sets off a chemical cascade towards the nucleus. The genome then mutates and passes on the signal to the surrounding cells. It happens almost instantaneously. That pile of jelly is thinking at the speed of a superconductor.'

Anawak gave a low whistle. 'So it's a brand new biochemical set-up.'

'Or a very old one. It may be new to us, but it's probably been around for millions of years. Maybe as long as life itself. It's a different evolutionary system running parallel to our own.' Johanson gave a short laugh. 'And it's highly effective.'

Anawak rested his chin on his hands. 'So, what now?'

'Good question. I don't think I've ever felt so directionless. I've got all this information and I don't know what to do with it. Right now it just confirms our fears – we've got almost nothing in common with the yrr.' He stretched and yawned. 'Who knows whether Crowe's attempts at communication will pay off? Seems to me that they're happy to chat to us while merrily plotting our doom. Maybe they don't see that as a contradiction. Either way, it's not my idea of conversation.'

'We've got no choice. We have to find a way of making ourselves understood.' Anawak sucked in his cheeks. 'And while we're on the subject – do you think we're all pulling together?'

Johanson stiffened. 'Why do you ask?'

'Well…' Anawak frowned. 'OK, don't be mad at her, but Karen told me what you saw – or what you thought you saw – the night of your mysterious accident.'

Johanson gave him a hard look. 'And what does she think?'

'That you did see Rubin.'

'I thought so. And you?'

'I don't know.' Anawak shrugged. You're Norwegian. You guys believe in trolls.'

Johanson sighed. 'If it hadn't been for Sue, none of this would ever have come back to me,' he said. 'She jogged my memory. That night when we were sitting on the hangar deck, I thought I saw Rubin, even though he was supposed to be in bed with a migraine. Just like he's supposed to have a migraine now. Ever since then, bits and pieces have been coming back to me. I'm starting to remember things – things I can't have made up. Sometimes it feels as though I'm on the verge of seeing everything, and then… I'm standing in front of an open door, looking into the light. I step inside – and it all goes black.'

'What makes you think you didn't dream it?'

'Sue.'

'But she didn't see anything.'

'And Li.'

'Why Li?'

'We were chatting at the party and she was a bit too concerned about the state of my memory. I got the feeling she was trying to gauge how much I knew.' Johanson looked at Anawak. 'You wanted my opinion. Well, I don't think we're pulling together. I never have done, not even in Whistler. There's always been something funny about Li, but now there's Rubin and his migraines too. I don't know what to make of it, but something tells me it doesn't add up.'

'Male intuition…' Anawak grinned nervously. 'So, what does Li want from us?'

Johanson glanced at the ceiling. 'You'd have to ask her.'

CONTROL ROOM

At that moment Johanson was looking straight into Vanderbilt's eyes through one of the hidden cameras, although he didn't know it. The CIA agent had taken over from Li at the desk. He heard Johanson say, 'You'd have to ask her.'

'Smart bastard,' Vanderbilt murmured. Li was in her cabin. He called her on a secure line.

She appeared on the screen.

'I told you those drugs were a risk,' said Vanderbilt. 'Johanson's recovering his memory.'

'So what?'

'Aren't you worried?'

Li gave a thin smile. 'Rubin's been working very hard. He was here just now.'

'And?'

'It's brilliant!' There was a glint in her eyes. 'I know we're not particularly fond of the shit, but I have to say he's excelled himself.'

'Has he trialled the stuff.'

'On a small scale. But the scale doesn't matter: it works. In a few hours I'm going to call the President. Then I'll take Rubin for a dive.'

'You want to do it in person?' exclaimed Vanderbilt.

'Well, there's no way we're going to fit inside a boat like that,' said Li, and hung up.

WELL DECK

The electrical systems filled the Independence's empty hangars and decks with an eerie buzz, causing the bulkheads to quiver imperceptibly. They could be heard in the hospital and the deserted officers' mess, and anyone pressing their fingertips to the lockers in the troop-berthing area could feel their faint vibration.

They even penetrated into the bowels of the vessel, where Greywolf was lying near the edge of the embankment, staring at the steel girders on the ceiling. He felt overwhelmed with grief and the conviction that he had done everything wrong. He hadn't even been able to save Licia. He'd tried to protect her and failed.

The only time when he'd ever been truly proud of himself was when he'd rescued that kid. He'd done a good job on the Lady Wexham. He'd helped a crowd of people, and he'd won back Leon as a friend. A photographer had taken a picture, and the next day the newspaper had immortalised the moment.

But the whales were still rampaging, the dolphins were suffering, nature was in agony – and Licia was dead.

Greywolf felt empty and useless. He wasn't going to talk to anyone about it: he was just going to do his job until the nightmare was over.

And then…

Tears welled in his eyes.

THE BIG PICTURE

'See this sphere?' said Crowe. 'That's planet Earth.' She'd blown up some printouts and pinned them to the wall. She walked slowly down the line. 'These markings baffled us at first, but now we think they're the Earth's magnetic field. The blank spaces are definitely continents. Once we'd worked that out, we'd basically cracked it.'

Li frowned. 'Are you sure? Those so-called continents don't look much like the continents I know.'

Crowe smiled. 'They're not supposed to. They're the continents a hundred and eighty million years ago. Just one big land mass – Pangaea, the supercontinent. The lines probably correspond to the magnetic field back then.'

'Have you checked that out?'

'It's difficult to reconstruct the field lines, but the configuration of the continents is easily verified. At first we didn't know what they'd sent us, but once we realised it was a map of the world it all fell into place. It's actually quite straightforward. They used water as the baseline for the message, and paired each water molecule with geographical data.'

'But how would they know what the Earth looked like all that time ago?' Vanderbilt said.

'They remember it,' said Johanson.

'But no one can remember the prehistoric era. Only single-cell organisms-' Vanderbilt broke off.

'Exactly,' said Johanson. 'Only single-cell organisms and the first multicellular life-forms. Last night the final piece of the jigsaw fell into place. The yrr have hypermutating DNA. Let's say they gained consciousness at the beginning of the Jurassic era. That's two hundred million years ago, and they've been storing knowledge ever since. You know the classic lines you get in sci-fi? Whatever it is, it's coming our way, or Get me the President on the line.' Well, there's always the one about the enemy being superior, though by the end of the story you mostly feel cheated. This time you won't. The yrr are superior.'

'Because their DNA stores knowledge?' asked Li.

'Right. That's the crucial difference. Humans aren't endowed with genetic memory. For our culture to survive, we need words, written accounts and pictures. We can't transmit experience directly. When our body dies, our mind goes with it. We talk about not forgetting the lessons of the past but we're kidding ourselves. To forget something you have to be able to remember it. None of us can remember the experience of earlier generations. We can record and refer to other people's memories, but it doesn't alter the fact that we weren't there. Every newborn baby starts from scratch. Each of us has to touch the stove to find out that it's hot. Things are very different for the yrr. One cell absorbs information, then divides into two – it duplicates its genome, complete with all the information stored on it. It's like us being able to duplicate our brain and all our memories with it. New cells don't inherit abstract knowledge – they get real experience, as though they'd been there themselves. Ever since the very first yrr came into being, they've had collective memory.' Johanson turned to Li. 'So, do you see what we're up against?'

Li nodded slowly. 'The only way we could rob the yrr of their knowledge is by destroying entire collectives.'

'Entire collectives probably wouldn't be enough: you'd have to kill every last one of them,' said Johanson. 'And there are plenty of reasons why you can't do that. For one thing, we don't know how dense their networks are. Their cellular chains might stretch hundreds of kilometres. We're outnumbered. And they're not like humans – they don't just live in the present. They don't need statistics, averages or any other intellectual crutch. Taken together they're their own statistics, the sum of all parts, their own history. They're able to survey developments spanning thousands of years. We don't even manage to act for the good of our children and grandchildren. We repress memory. The yrr compare, analyse, diagnose, predict and act on the strength of their ever-present memory. Nothing ever gets lost, not even the smallest innovation. Everything feeds into the development of new strategies and ideas. It's an infinite process of selection towards the perfect solution. They compare back, modify, refine, learn from their mistakes, adapt, make their projections – and act.'

'Cold-blooded little beasts,' said Vanderbilt.

'Do you think so?' Li shook her head. 'I admire them. Within minutes they produce strategies that would keep us busy for years. Even just knowing exactly what – won't work. Then knowing it because it's part of your memory, because you were the one who messed up in the first place – even though you weren't physically present…'

'And that's why the yrr probably get along better in their habitat than we do in ours,' said Johanson. 'For the yrr every thought process is collective and embedded in the genes. They inhabit every era simultaneously. Humans don't have a clear view of the past and they don't pay attention to the future. Our whole existence centers on the individual, the here and now. We're too busy pursuing our own personal goals to worry about higher knowledge. We know we can't exist beyond death, so we try to leave our legacy in manifestos, books and music. We're intent on making sure our names aren't forgotten. We try to leave a record of ourselves to be passed on, misinterpreted, falsified and used for ideological purposes long after we're dead. We're so obsessed with assuring our own perpetuity that our goals seldom coincide with what would be good for humankind. Our minds champion the aesthetic, the individual, the intellectual and the abstract. We're determined not to be animals. On the one hand our body is our temple, but on the other we despise it for being mere machinery. We've become accustomed to valuing mind over body. We feel nothing but contempt for the factors relating to our physical survival.'

'But for the yrr this division doesn't exist,' Li mused. For some reason the thought seemed to please her. 'Body is mind, and mind is body. No yrr would ever do anything that runs counter to the interests of the collective. Survival matters for the species, not the individual, and action is always a collective decision. Fantastic! The yrr don't give prizes for good ideas. Being able to take part in their implementation is all the fame a yrr could wish for. The question is, do the individual amoebas have an individual consciousness?'

'Not in the way we know it,' said Anawak. I'm not sure you can talk about individual consciousness in relation to single cells. But the amoebas are certainly creative on an individual basis. They're sensors that turn experience into something they can use, before feeding it into the collective. A thought is probably only taken into consideration if the impulse behind it is strong enough, that's to say if enough yrr are trying to introduce it into the collective at the same time. Each thought is weighed up against a range of others, and the fittest survives.'

'Just like evolution,' nodded Weaver. 'Thinking by natural selection.'

'That's some enemy!' Li seemed full of admiration. 'Zero loss of information and no pointless vanities. We never see more than part of the whole, while they see everything throughout time and space.'

'And that's why we're destroying our planet,' said Crowe. 'We can't see what we're doing. They must know that – which means they know we don't have genetic memory.'

'Right. It all adds up. No wonder they don't want to negotiate. They could make a deal with you or me, but what if we die tomorrow? Then who would they deal with? Having genetic memory would save us from our own stupidity, but it's not the way we're made. Trying to get along with humans is a pipedream. The yrr have seen that. It's part of their collective knowledge and it's the reason they've decided to mobilise against us.'

'Once they learn something, no one can take it away from them,' said Oliviera. 'In a yrr-collective everyone knows everything. They don't need think tanks, scientists, generals or leaders. You can kill as many yrr as you like – but so long as some survive, their collective knowledge lives on too.'

'Just a minute.' Li turned to her. 'Didn't you say that there might he some queen-yrr?'

'Yes. Even if collective knowledge is part of each yrr, collective action might he initiated centrally. My guess is that queen-yrr exist.'

'As single cells?'

'Well, they'd have to share the same biochemistry as the aggregated jelly, so it's likely that they're single cells. But they're highly organised. The only way we're ever going to get close to them is through communication.'

'But all they send us are cryptic messages!' said Vanderbilt. 'They sent us a picture of prehistoric Earth. Why? What are they trying to tell us?'

'Everything,' said Crowe.

'Could you be a little more specific?'

'They're telling us is that this is their planet – which they've been ruling for a hundred and eighty million years, maybe more. They're telling us they've got genetic memory, the magnetic field is their compass, and they're everywhere where there's water. They want us to know that we're in the here and now, whereas they're everywhere and forever. Those are the facts. It's all in the message, and it says a lot.'

Vanderbilt scratched his belly. 'So what do we tell them?'

'They've decided they want to destroy us. We're not going to defeat that logic by arguing that we want to survive. Our only chance lies in trying to show them that we acknowledge their primacy…'

'The primacy of amoebas?'

'. . . and in persuading them that we no longer pose a threat.'

'But we are a threat,' said Weaver.

'She's right,' said Johanson. 'Empty promises won't help. We need to give them a signal that we're withdrawing from their world. We need to stop contaminating the seas with chemical and noise pollution, and we need to do it fast enough to make them wonder whether they could live with us, after all.'

'It's up to you now, Jude,' said Crowe. 'You know what we think, but it's for you to pass that on. Or to put it into action.'

All eyes were fixed on Li.

She nodded. 'I think you're right,' she said. 'But we shouldn't rush into anything. If we want to pull out of the seas, we need to send them a message to convey that exactly and convincingly.' She looked at the faces turned towards her. 'I want you all working on this together. And I don't want anyone rushing or panicking. We mustn't be too hasty. A few days here or there won't make any difference. What really matters is that you get the tone right. The yrr are more alien to us than anything we'd ever imagined. If there's the smallest chance of coming to a peaceful solution, we have to seize it. So, do your best.'

'Thanks, Jude,' smiled Crowe. 'Wise words from the American military.'

LI LEFT THE ROOM, followed by Peak and Vanderbilt. 'Has Rubin been able to synthesise enough of that stuff?' she muttered.

'Yep,' said Vanderbilt.

'Good. I want him to get one of the Deepflights ready. In two or three hours we can start to get this over with.'

'Why the hurry?' asked Peak.

'Johanson. He looks as though he's about to have a revelation. I'm not in the mood for discussion.'

'And we're one hundred per cent ready to go?'

Li looked at him. 'Sal, I've told the President we're ready. And if the President thinks we're ready, we're ready.'

WELL DECK

'Hey, Jack.'

Anawak headed towards the dolphin tank. Greywolf glanced up, then turned back to the miniature video camera he was disassembling. As the newcomer drew closer, two dolphins stuck their heads out of the water and greeted him with whistles and chatter. They swam over to claim their share of affection. 'I'm not interrupting anything, am I?' asked Anawak, as he patted the dolphins.

'Uh-uh.'

It wasn't the first time that Anawak had been down to the well deck since the attack. On each occasion he'd tried to get Greywolf to talk to him, but to no avail. His friend seemed to have retreated inside himself He hadn't attended any of the meetings and had taken to merely summarising the dolphin footage in handwritten notes. The pictures didn't show much anyway. The images of the jelly approaching the ship were disappointing: a blue glow that faded into the depths, then shadowy glimpses of orcas. After that the dolphins had taken fright and huddled under the keel, filming the expanse of steel. Greywolf had put forward the case for the remainder of the fleet to keep up their role as the vessel's early-warning system and resume their patrol of the boat. Anawak no longer believed that the dolphins could help them, but he was careful not to voice his doubts. Secretly he suspected that all Greywolf wanted was to carry on as usual.

They stood in silence for a while. A group of soldiers and technicians emerged from the bottom of the basin, where they'd finished dismantling the shattered glass hatch. One of the technicians went up to the control desk on the jetty. The pumps kicked into action.

'Time for us to leave,' said Greywolf.

They made their way up the embankment. Anawak watched as the basin filled with water. 'They're flooding it again,' he said.

'Yeah, well, it's easier to release the dolphins when the basin's full.'

'You're letting them out?'

Greywolf nodded.

I'll help,' said Anawak. 'If you like.'

'Sure.' Greywolf opened the back of the camera and inserted a miniature screwdriver.

'Right away?'

'I've got to get this working first.'

'Why don't you take a break? We could get something to drink. We all need a rest from time to time.'

'It's not like I'm busy, Leon. All I do is mess around with the equipment and make sure the dolphins are OK. I'm on one perpetual break already.'

'You should come to the meetings, then.'

Greywolf carried on working in silence. The conversation dried up.

'Jack,' said Anawak, 'you can't hide yourself away forever.'

'Who said anything about forever?'

'What do you call this, then?'

'I'm just doing my job.' Greywolf shrugged. 'I listen to what the dolphins report, monitor the video footage, and if anyone needs me, I'm here.'

'But you're not here, really. You don't know anything about what's happened over the past twenty-four hours.'

'I do.'

'How?'

'Sue's been to see me a few times. Even Peak was down here earlier to check things out. They all tell me stuff I don't even have to ask.'

Anawak stared straight ahead. Suddenly he was furious. 'Well, I guess you don't need me, then,' he snapped.

Greywolf didn't respond.

'You've decided to rot down here by yourself.'

'I prefer the company of animals.'

Licia was killed by one, Anawak felt like saying. He stopped himself just in time.

'I lost Licia too, you know,' he said finally.

Briefly Greywolf froze. Then he carried on poking the screwdriver inside the camera. 'That's not what this is about.'

'Then what is it about?'

'What do you want from me, Leon?'

'You know what, Jack? I don't know. To be honest, I'm beginning to wonder.'

He'd almost reached the tunnel when he heard Greywolf say in a low voice, 'Leon! Don't go.'

MEMORIES

Johanson couldn't keep his eyes open. The late-night session in the lab had taken its toll. He was stationed in front of the monitors at the control desk, while Oliviera synthesised batches of yrr-pheromone in the containment facility. They were planning to release some of the chemical into the tank. There wasn't much sign of the collective, just swarms of amoebas clouding the water. The jelly seemed to have disaggregated and the glow had gone. By adding the synthesised pheromone, they were hoping to induce the yrr to aggregate so that they could carry out more tests.

Maybe, thought Johanson, we should experiment with one of Crowe's messages to see if the collective responds.

His head was throbbing and he knew what was causing it. It wasn't a question of working too hard or sleeping too little. His brain was aching from the memories trapped inside.

Ever since the meeting that morning the pain had got worse. His internal slide projector was back in action, triggered by a remark Li had made. The short sequence of words had expanded to occupy his mind and prevent him focusing. Johanson's head lolled back as he slipped into a doze, caught in a perpetual loop of Li's words.

We mustn't be too hasty. Mustn't be too hasty. Mustn't. . .

He heard noises and woke briefly, blinked in the lights of the lab, then closed his eyes again.

Mustn't be too hasty.

DARKNESS.

The hangar deck.

A sound like grating metal. He jolts awake. For a fleeting moment he can't remember where he is. Then he feels the steel side of the vessel in the small of his back. The sky is brightening above the sea. He sits up, and glances at the bulkhead.

A door stands wide open, luminous in the gloom, spilling light into the hangar. Johanson stands up. He must have been sitting there for hours – or so his aching joints tell him. He moves slowly towards the rectangle of light. He can see now that it's a passageway with plain walls on either side and neon lights above. It extends a few metres, then stops and turns right.

Johanson peers through the door and listens.

Voices and noises. He takes a step back.

Indecision.

Mustn't be too hasty. Don't be hasty.

He hesitates. Then a barrier bursts open.

He enters. Nothing but plain walls, then the change in direction. He follows the passageway round to the right. It turns again, this time to the left. It's spacious in here – wide enough to drive a car. The voices and noises return, this time more loudly. They must be close, just round the second bend. He draws nearer, then a sharp left turn, and…

The lab.

No, not the lab. A lab. Smaller, with a lower ceiling. But it's above the converted vehicle deck, where the deep-sea chamber is located. This lab has a chamber too, a much smaller one. And there's something glowing inside it; a blue thing with tentacles.

He looks around in disbelief.

The whole room is a small but perfect copy of the one beneath it. Rows of benches, pieces of equipment, barrels of liquid nitrogen. A control desk and monitors. An electron microscope. Across the room, a biohazard symbol marks a reinforced door, and at the back of the lab a narrow passageway leads inside the ship.

Three people are standing next to the chamber. They're talking, unaware of the intruder. The two men have their backs to him, but the woman is standing in profile, scribbling something on a pad. Her gaze shifts between the two men, then round the room and settles on Johanson.

Her jaw drops, and the men spin round. He recognises a guy from Vanderbilt's team. No one knows what he does – the usual CIA story.

The second is Rubin.

Johanson is too bewildered to do anything but stare. He sees the shock in Rubin's eyes, sees him searching for a way to save the situation. And it's that look that rouses Johanson from his paralysis as it dawns on him that his work is a charade. He's being used. He, Oliviera, Anawak, Weaver, Crowe…

Unless Rubin isn't the only one acting more than one part.

Why?

Rubin approaches slowly. His lips are tensed into a smile. 'Sigur! Goodness me, can't you sleep either?'

Johanson's eyes are wandering round the room, taking in the other faces. One look into their eyes confirms that he doesn't belong here. 'What's all this about, Mick?'

'Oh, nothing, it's just…'

'What is this place? What's going on?'

Rubin draws himself up to his full height. 'I can explain everything, Sigur. You see, we weren't really planning to use the extra lab. It's only here for emergencies – in case anything… Well, in case anything happens to the main one. We've just been inspecting the systems to make sure it's ready, so-'

Johanson points to the organism in the chamber. 'But you've got that in there.'

'Oh, you mean the jelly.' Rubin's head swivels round and then back. 'That's, er, well, we had to check it out. Just to be certain. We didn't mention it because, well, there was really no need, I mean…'

Nothing but lies.

Johanson may not he totally sober, but that doesn't prevent him noticing that Rubin is trying to talk himself out of a hole.

He turns and strides towards the exit.

'Sigur! Dr Johanson!' He hears footsteps behind him. Rubin comes alongside him. His fingers tug at Johanson's sleeve. 'Slow down, Sigur.'

' What's going on here?'

'It's not like you think. I-'

'How would you know what I think?'

'It's just a precaution.'

'A what?'

'A precaution. The lab is just a precaution.'

Johanson jerks himself free. 'Perhaps I should talk to Li about it.'

'No, I-'

'Or maybe I should tell Oliviera. Actually, maybe I should tell the whole damn team. What do you think, Mick? Is this some kind of game?'

'Of course not.'

'Then perhaps you should tell me what the hell you're up to!'

Rubin's eyes are filled with panic. 'Sigur, I don't think that's wise. You mustn't be too hasty. Do you hear me, Sigur? Don't do anything hasty.'

Johanson gives an indignant snort and marches off. He can hear Rubin hurrying after him. He feels the other man's fear on his back.

Mustn't be too hasty.

White light.

Something explodes in his eyes, and pain washes over his mind. The walls, the passageway, everything blurs. He sees the ground rush towards him.

THE CEILING OF THE LAB. It had all fallen into place.

Johanson jumped up. Oliviera was still busy in the containment facility. Breathing deeply, he glanced at the control desk, the benches, the chamber. He looked up at the ceiling.

Above him there was a second laboratory. And no one was meant to know. Rubin must have knocked him out, and they'd drugged him to make him forget.

But why?

Johanson clenched his fists. He felt helpless and furious. Then he was outside, running up the ramp.

WELL DECK

'You don't need me at the meetings,' said Greywolf 'It's not like I can help.'

Anawak's fury ebbed away. He turned and walked back. The basin was still filling with water. 'That's not true, Jack.'

'It is.' He said it in a neutral, almost absent voice. 'I couldn't stop the navy torturing dolphins. I tried to stick up for the whales, but now no one can save them. In my mind I'd decided that animals were better than people. It was stupid, I know, but it was one way of coping. And now I've lost Licia to an orca. I can't help anyone.'

'Stop beating yourself up, Jack.'

'Those are the facts.'

Anawak sat down next to him. 'Leaving the navy was the right decision, and you stuck to it,' he said. 'You were the best handler they had, and it was your decision to quit, not theirs. You didn't have to go, but you did.'

'Sure, but my leaving didn't change anything.'

'For you it did. You took a stand.'

'Achieving what, exactly?'

Anawak was silent.

'You know,' said Greywolf, 'the worst thing is feeling you don't belong. You love someone and lose them. You love animals, and they're responsible. I'm beginning to feel like I hate those orcas.'

'We all feel like that. You-'

'Licia died in the jaws of an orca. I watched and there was nothing I could do. Don't try to tell me that that's anyone's problem but mine. If I were to keel over and die right now, it wouldn't make any difference to the survival of the planet. Who would care? I haven't achieved anything to make anyone think that my presence on this planet was worthwhile.'

I'd care,' said Anawak. He expected a cutting reply, but he heard a soft sound, a kind of hiccup, like a muffled sigh, in Greywolf's throat.

'And in case you'd forgotten,' said Anawak, 'Licia cared too.'

JOHANSON

He felt so livid that he could have grabbed Rubin, hauled him up to the flight deck and tossed him overboard. He might even have done so, had the biologist crossed his path. But Rubin was nowhere to be seen. Instead he bumped into Weaver, who was going the other way.

For a moment he wasn't sure how to react, then he pulled himself together. 'Karen!' He smiled at her. 'Coming to join us in the lab?'

'Actually, I'm off to the well deck – to see Leon and Jack.'

'Oh, right. Hmm, Jack…'Johanson had to force himself to stay calm. 'He's in a bad way, isn't he?'

'He and Licia meant more to each other than he was willing to admit. It's hard to get through to him.'

'Leon's a good friend. He'll manage.'

Weaver nodded and looked at him enquiringly. She'd realised that this was a non-conversation. 'Are you all right?' she asked.

'Fine.' Johanson took her by the arm. 'I've just had the most amazing idea about what we're going to say in this big new message. Fancy a stroll on the roof?'

'Well, actually, I was-'

'It'll only take ten minutes. I just want to hear what you think. Seems like I've been shut inside for days. I need some fresh air.'

'Are you sure you'll be warm enough?'

Johanson glanced down. He was wearing a sweater and jeans. His thick down jacket was in the lab. 'I'm toughening myself up,' he said.

'Any particular reason?'

'Stops you getting flu. Keeps you young. Helps you deal with stupid questions.' He was raising his voice. Go easy, he told himself 'Listen, I have to talk to someone about it. It was your computer program that made me think of it. But it doesn't seem right to discuss it on the ramp. Won't you come outside?'

'Well, in that case, sure.'

They walked up through the tunnel and into the island. Johanson had to make a real effort not to keep checking for hidden cameras and bugs. He knew he wouldn't spot them anyway. Instead he said brightly, 'Jude's right, of course. We mustn't be overhasty. I reckon we'll need at least a couple of days to figure it out, but what I was thinking was…'

And so he went on. He kept producing intelligent-sounding nonsense, all the while pushing Weaver gently out of the island and into the open. Gesticulating expansively, he strode out in front of her until he came to one of the helicopter landing points on the starboard side of the vessel. It was colder and windier than usual. A veil of mist had descended on the ocean, and the swell had increased. The waves rolled beneath them like primitive mammals, grey and sluggish, exhaling a dank salty vapour into the air. Johanson was cold, but an inner fury seemed to warm him.

'Sigur,' said Weaver, 'I don't know what you mean.'

Johanson turned his face into the wind. 'That makes two of us. Look, I don't suppose they can hear us out here – you'd have to go to extraordinary lengths to eavesdrop on the flight deck.'

Weaver peered at him in confusion. 'What are you talking about?'

I've got my memory back, Karen. I know what happened the night before last.'

'Have you found the door?'

'No. But I can guarantee it's there.'

He outlined what had happened. Weaver listened to him intently. Her expression didn't flicker. 'So you're saying we've got a fifth column on board.'

'Yes.'

'But what would be the point?'

'Remember what Jude said? We mustn't be too hasty. Think about it! You, Leon, Sam, Murray, me, Sue – and Mick, I suppose – we've all been working flat out to furnish them with a description of the yrr. OK, maybe we're kidding ourselves, maybe we've got it wrong – but on balance it doesn't seem likely. In fact, all the evidence suggests that we're right in our assumptions about what kind of intelligence we're dealing with and how it works. So why, after we've worked day and night are we supposed to slow down?'

'Because they don't need us any more,' Weaver said flatly. 'Because Mick's already working on it with another bunch of people in a different lab.'

'We're only here to supply the information.' Johanson nodded. 'We've served our purpose.'

'But I don't get it.' What project could Mick be working on that doesn't fit with ours? I mean, we don't have much choice – our only option is to try to make peace with the yrr. What else could he be aiming for?'

'Evidently there's a rival initiative, and Mick's playing a double game. But you can bet he's not in charge.'

'Who is, then?'

'Jude.'

'You were suspicious of her from the start, huh?'

'The feeling was mutual. I think we both realised early on that we're not the sort to be taken for a ride. There was always something not quite right about her – but I couldn't think of a single good reason for not believing what she said.'

'So what now?' asked Weaver.

'I've had time to clear my mind,' said Johanson, hugging his chest to keep warm. 'Jude's going to see us standing here. She's bound to be keeping tabs on me. She won't know for sure what we're talking about, but she'll be aware of the possibility that my memory might return. She's running out of time. That speech this morning was to get us off her back. If she's got her own plan of action, she's got to strike now.'

'In other words, we need to find out what they're up to as soon as we can.' Weaver thought for a second. 'Why don't we mobilise the others?'

'It's too risky. She'd notice straight away. The whole ship is bound to be crawling with bugs. They'd lock us up and throw away the key. No, if there's a way of pushing her into a corner, I intend to find it. I want to know what's going on here, and for that I'll need your help.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Find Rubin and get him to talk, while I deal with Jude.'

'Any idea where he might be?'

'I expect he's in that shady lab of his. At least I know where it is now, but don't ask me how you get there. We'll have to hope he's kicking around somewhere else on the boat.' Johanson sighed. 'It all sounds like something out of a bad film, doesn't it? Most likely I'm the one who's cracking up. If it turns out that I'm paranoid, I'll have plenty of time later to eat my words. Right now, I mean to find out what's going on.'

'You're not paranoid, Sigur.'

Johanson gave her a grateful smile. 'Let's go back in.'

Walking through the island and down the ramp, they kept up a steady stream of soundbites about message encryption and peaceful dialogue. 'Well, I'm off to see Leon,' said Weaver. 'I can't wait to hear what he says. After lunch we'll get started on that program. Who knows? We may even have it running by this afternoon.'

'Excellent,' said Johanson. I'll catch you later.' He watched Weaver disappear, then climbed down a companionway to 02 LEVEL and went into the CIC, where Crowe and Shankar were sitting at their computers. 'What are you two up to?' he asked.

'Thinking,' said Crowe, from inside her usual cloud of smoke. 'Any progress with the pheromone?'

'Sue's in the process of synthesising the next batch. We must have about two dozen ampoules by now.'

'Then you're doing better than we are. We're starting to lose our faith in math. Maybe it isn't the path to salvation.' Shankar gave a wry grin. 'Besides, their arithmetic seems better than ours.'

'Any other ideas?'

'Emotion.' Crowe expelled the smoke through her nostrils. 'Weird, huh? Trying to appeal to the yrr's feelings – after all we know about them. But if yrr-emotion is based on biochemistry…'

'Like human emotion,' Shankar chipped in.

'. . . then the pheromone might be able to help us. Thank you, Murray. I don't need to be told that love is merely chemistry.'

'Felt any chemical attraction lately, Sigur?' said Shankar, idly.

'Right now I've got enough sparks flying of my own. You haven't seen Jude, have you?'

'She was in the LFOC just now,' said Crowe.

'Thanks.'

'Oh, and Mick was looking for you.'

'Mick?'

'He and Li were chatting, and then he said something about heading down to the lab. He left a few minutes ago.'

'Oh, good,' he said. 'He can help us synthesise the pheromone, provided he doesn't get any more migraines, poor guy.'

'He should take up smoking,' said Crowe. 'It's great for headaches.'

Johanson grinned and walked over to the LFOC. Most of the electronic data had been diverted there so that Crowe and Shankar were not distracted in the CIC. Low rustling noises, then the occasional click or whistle came from the speakers. The silhouette of a dolphin passed over one of the screens. Greywolf had evidently released the fleet again.

No sign of Li, Peak or Vanderbilt. Johanson checked out the JIC. It was empty, as were the other control and command rooms. He debated whether to look in the officers' mess, but he'd probably only find soldiers or some of Vanderbilt's agents. Li might be in the gym or her cabin. He didn't have time to search the whole vessel.

If Rubin was on his way to the lab, Weaver would flush him out. He had to speak to Li first.

Fine, he thought. If I can't find you, you'll have to find me. He made his way unhurriedly to his cabin, went in and positioned himself in the middle of the room.

'Hello, Jude,' he said.

He wondered where the cameras and mikes were hidden.

'You'll never guess what I just remembered. There's an extra lab above the main one. Rubin likes to go there when he's suffering from his migraines. Maybe you could tell me what he does there. Apart from beating up his colleagues.'

His eyes swept over the furniture, the lamps, the TV set…

'I guessed you're weren't going to volunteer the information, so I took a few precautions. If you're not careful, I'll tell the rest of the team what I've remembered, and there'll be nothing you can do.' That was laying it on a bit thick, but he needed to grab her attention. 'Is that what you want, Jude? Or how about you, Sal? Oh, sorry, Jack, I'd almost forgotten you were there. Any views?'

He took slow, deliberate paces round the room. 'I can wait, you know. The question is, can you? I doubt it.' He shrugged. 'Of course, we could always keep the whole thing quiet. Maybe your intentions are honourable and that's why you've got Rubin working in a ghost lab. I'd love to know that it's all in the interests of international security. But I don't take too kindly to being knocked out. You understand that, don't you, Jude?'

What if Li couldn't care less? She might not even be listening.

Oh, she was listening to him, all right. He knew she was.

Jude, you treated Mick to his very own deep-sea simulation chamber. I know it's smaller than the main one, but I can't help wondering what he's doing with it that he couldn't do with ours. I hope you haven't joined forces with the yrr behind our backs. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to help me make sense of this, because to tell you the truth I-'

'Dr Johanson.'

He spun around. Peak's tall frame filled the open door.

'Well, what a surprise,' Johanson said softly. 'Good old Sal. Can I offer you a cup of tea?'

'Jude wants to speak to you.'

'Oh, really?' The corners of Johanson's mouth twitched. 'I wonder what she wants.'

WEAVER

Oliviera was leaving the containment facility with a metal carry-case in her hand when Weaver walked in. 'Have you seen Mick?'

'Nope, just pheromones.' Oliviera lifted the case for her to see. It was an open-sided wire cage with racks for samples. Row upon row of glass tubes containing a colourless fluid were lined up inside. 'He called here earlier, though, and threatened to come down. I should think he'll be here any moment.'

'Yrr-scent?' asked Weaver, indicating the test-tubes.

'Yes – we'll be sprinkling a few drops of it into the tank this afternoon. Who knows? Maybe we'll persuade those cells to aggregate. If so, our theory will be gospel, so to speak.' Oliviera glanced around the lab. 'You haven't seen Sigur, have you?'

'I was just chatting to him on the flight deck. He's had some interesting ideas about the next message. It should make life easier for Sam. Anyway, I'll come back later.'

'No problem.'

Weaver considered. She could take a look round the hangar deck, but if Johanson's suspicions were right, she would only draw attention to herself. Besides, the forbidden door was scarcely going to open while she was snooping around outside.

She continued down the tunnel to the well deck.

The basin was almost full, the remaining technicians from Roscovitz's team supervising the process. She spotted Greywolf and Anawak in the water.

'Have you let the dolphins out?' she called.

Anawak hauled himself out. 'Yes.' He walked over to her. 'What've you been up to?'

'Not much. I think we're all trying to gather our thoughts.'

'We could do that together, if you like,' he said softly.

She met his gaze and realised just how much she wanted to throw her arms round him. To forget the whole awful business and do what should have been done a long time ago.

But none of them could escape the situation. And there was Greywolf, who'd lost Licia…

She gave a fleeting smile.

03 LEVEL

Peak and Johanson made their way up through the vessel, cut across part of the hospital and went down a passageway. They turned off to the side, and came to a door.

'What do you call this place, anyway?' asked Johanson, as Peak's fingers darted over the keypad. It made an electronic beeping noise, then the door swung open. The passageway continued on the other side.

'That's the CIC overhead,' said Peak.

Johanson tried to get his bearings. It was difficult to picture the layout of the vessel. If the CIC was above them, the secret lab was probably underneath.

They stopped in front of a second door. This time Peak had to scan his retina before they were allowed in. Johanson stepped into a room almost identical to the CIC, even down to its electronic hum. There was a low murmur of voices. At least a dozen people were at work. Monitors lined the walls, showing satellite images and footage from cameras – sections of the vehicle ramp, Buchanan and Anderson in the bridge, the flight and hangar decks. Johanson also spotted Crowe and Shankar in the CIC, Weaver talking to Anawak and Greywolf in the well deck, and Oliviera working in the lab. Additional monitors showed the insides of all the cabins, including his, the camera mounted above the door. He must have given them some great footage, delivering his monologue from the centre of the room.

Li and Vanderbilt were sitting at a large table lit from below. The commander-in-chief stood up.

'Hello, Jude,' Johanson said cheerily. 'Nice place you've got here.'

'Sigur.' She smiled back. 'We owe you an apology.'

'Oh, don't mention it.' Johanson marvelled at his surroundings. 'I must say, I'm impressed. I guess all good things come in twos.'

'I can show you the schematics if you like.'

'I'd settle for an explanation.'

'And you shall have one.' Li did her best to look sheepish. 'But, first, let me assure you of how deeply sorry I am about the incident that led you here. Rubin should never have hit you.'

'I'm not interested in what he did. What's he doing now? What's he up to in that lab?'

'He's looking for a toxin,' said Vanderbilt.

'For a…'Johanson swallowed. 'A toxin?'

'Come on, Sigur.' Li wrung her hands. 'We couldn't rely on resolving this peacefully. I know how terrible this must sound – as if we've been operating behind your back and abusing your trust, but… well, we didn't want to push you in the wrong direction. To learn more about the yrr, it was imperative to get you working on a peaceful solution. And you've all done well. But you'd never have made such headway if we'd told you we were developing a weapon.'

'What weapon?'

'War and peace are two different ballgames. If you're working towards peace, it doesn't do to be thinking of war. Mick's exploring the alternative to peace – with the help of your research, of course.'

'He's developing a toxin to kill them?'

'Would you rather we'd commissioned you to do it?' said Vanderbilt.

'Now, look here,' said Johanson, 'our brief was to make contact. To persuade them to halt the attack. Not to destroy them.'

'You're a dreamer,' Vanderbilt said contemptuously.

'But we can do it, Jack. For God's sake, we can…'Johanson was dismayed.

'You can, can you? How?'

'We've learned so much in so little time. There's bound to be a way.'

'And if there isn't?'

'We could have discussed it together. I thought we were a team.'

'Sigur.' Li looked serious. 'There's no clear provision for what we're doing in the UN resolution. I'm well aware that we're supposed to be making contact – and that's what we're trying to do. On the other hand, I don't think we'd cause anyone much heartache if we wiped out the enemy. Don't you think it's an option we need to consider?'

Johanson stared at her. 'Well, yes – but why the charade?'

'Because high command doesn't trust you,' said Li. 'You might make a fuss. People get their ideas about scientists from the movies. They think scientists are intent on protecting and studying other life-forms, even if they turn out to be evil and dangerous…'

'The movies? The kind where the army blows up everything in sight?'

'That proves our point,' said Vanderbilt. He ran his hand over his belly.

'Please be reasonable, Sigur…'

'You're telling me that you went to all this trouble just because you thought we'd react like characters in a film?'

'No,' said Li, firmly. 'Of course not. It was a question of focusing your attention on finding out about the yrr and making contact.'

Johanson's hand swept round the room, taking in the banks of monitors.

'So why are you spying on us?'

'Rubin made a mistake that night,' Li said insistently. 'He had no right to hit you. Our surveillance systems are here for your safety. We kept the military side of the mission secret because we didn't want to unsettle the rest of the team and distract you from your work.'

'And what exactly is the purpose of our work?' Johanson was almost touching Li, staring into her eyes. 'To make peace – or be duped into providing you with all the necessary information to launch a military offensive that you've been planning from the start?'

'We had to keep both options open.'

'How far has Mick got with the military one?'

'He's had a few ideas that seem promising, but nothing concrete.' Li took a deep breath. 'I'd like to ask you in the interests of international security not to tell any of the others what you've heard. Give us time to tell them ourselves. It would be wrong to jeopardise their work when billions of people are depending on it. Soon we'll be able to cooperate as one team on both options. You've achieved the seemingly impossible – you've given our enemy a face. Once the message is ready, there'll be no more need for secrecy. And when we start working together on a weapon, we'll do so in the hope that we'll never have to-'

'Do you know what, Jude?' hissed Johanson. He was so close now that there wasn't room to pass a hand between their faces. 'I don't believe you. As soon as you've got your bloody weapons, you're going to use them. Don't you see what will happen? They're amoebas, Jude! Millions and billions of single-cell organisms. They've been around since the beginning of time. We haven't even begun to understand their role in our ecosystem. There's no way of knowing what will happen to the oceans if you kill them. There's no way of knowing what will happen to us if you kill them. But quite apart from anything else: we won't be able to stop what they've started. Are you too blinkered to see that? How do you think you're going to get the Gulf Stream flowing without the yrr? What are you going to do about the worms?'

'When we've finished with the yrr,' said Li, 'we'll start on the worms and bacteria.'

'What? You want to pick a fight with bacteria? This whole planet is made of bacteria! You can't seriously intend to exterminate microbes. Exactly how deluded are you? You might think you rule the world, but if you were to go around exterminating microbes, you'd kill this planet. You'd be the ones destroying the Earth, not the yrr. You'd wipe out all the marine life and then-'

'So darned what?' Vanderbilt erupted. 'You pathetic, ignorant, stupid, know-it-all asshole of a scientist. Who gives a toss if a few fish die, so long as we survive-'

'But we won't!' Johanson was yelling now. 'Don't you get it? Life is interconnected. And we can't fight the yrr – they're superior to us. Fighting microbes is futile. Even normal viral infections defeat us – but that's not the point. Humans only survive on this planet because Earth is ruled by microbes.'

'Sigur…' Li implored him.

He turned round. 'Open the door,' he said. 'As far as I'm concerned, this conversation is over.'

'Fine.' Li nodded, tight-lipped. 'Show Dr Johanson out, Sal.'

Peak hesitated.

'Is there something wrong with your ears, Sal? Dr Johanson has expressed his wish to leave.'

'Are you sure we can't change your mind?' said Peak, sounding helpless and strained. 'Then maybe you'd see that it is the right decision.'

'Just open the door, Sal,' said Johanson.

Peak stepped forward reluctantly and pushed a switch on the wall. The door slid open.

'And the other door, if you don't mind.'

'Of course.'

Johanson walked out.

'Sigur!'

He stopped. 'What now, Jude?'

'You've accused me of failing to see the consequences of my actions. Who knows? Perhaps you're right. But make sure you face up to the consequences of yours. If you tell the others, you'll endanger their efforts to make contact. Maybe we didn't have the right to lie to you in the first place – but you need to consider whether you've got the right to tell the truth.'

Johanson turned round slowly. Li was standing in the door of the control room. 'I'll certainly give it my careful consideration,' he said.

'Then let's strike a deal. If you hold off until I've had time to find a solution, we can talk it through this evening. And, in the meantime, neither of us will do anything that might cause problems for the other. Can you see a way of co-operating with my proposal?'

Johanson's jaw was grinding. What would happen if he dropped the bombshell? What would happen to him if he aimed her down point-blank?

'Done,' he said.

Li smiled. 'Thank you, Sigur.'

WEAVER

All things considered, she would have preferred to stay on the well deck. Anawak was still doing his best to lift Greywolf's spirits, which made her feel doubly disinclined to go. Her feelings for one man made her want to stay with him; the grief of the other made her reluctant to leave. She couldn't bear to see Greywolf so overwhelmed with sorrow. Yet what Johanson had told her was even more disturbing. The more she thought about it, the more ominous his memories seemed. Deep down she felt that they were all in grave danger.

And by now Rubin would be back at the lab.

'I'll see you later,' she said. 'Stuff to do.'

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew they sounded false. Too casual.

Anawak's brow furrowed. 'Stuff?'

'Oh, you know, bits and pieces.'

She was rubbish at this kind of thing. She hurried up the ramp and into the passageway. The door to the lab was open. As she walked in, she caught sight of Rubin talking to Oliviera. They were standing by one of the benches. Rubin turned to her. 'Hi. You wanted to ask me something?'

Weaver pushed the switch on the wall, so that the door closed behind her. 'I wondered if you could explain something.'

'You picked the right man.' Rubin grinned.

'That's good to know.' She joined them. Her eyes scanned the bench. All manner of equipment was littered over it, including an upright holder filled with scalpels of varying sizes. She said, 'I don't suppose you'll have any trouble telling me why there's a hidden lab up there, what you're doing in it, and why you knocked out Sigur?'

HANGAR DECK

Johanson was seething with rage. He was too furious to know what to do with himself, so he ran to the hangar deck and inspected the wall. In his memory he knew exactly where the door was, but there was still no trace of a camouflaged passageway. It was a waste of time looking for it: Li had already admitted that the lab existed. But he wasn't prepared to let it lie.

Suddenly he noticed long streaks of rust in the grey paint of the bulkhead. Or, rather, he'd always known that they were there, but he'd never paid any attention to them because peeling paint and corrosion were not unusual on a vessel. Now it dawned on him that rust had no business on a new warship – and the Independence was brand new.

He took a few steps back. The pipes on the left stretched up along the bulkhead, leading to a long streak of rust. Above that was a fuse box, surrounded by flaking paint.

He'd found the door.

It was incredibly well concealed. He would never have spotted it if he hadn't been looking; so determinedly. Even when he and Weaver had searched for it earlier, they'd fallen for the artful disguise. He still couldn't make out the contours, just an apparently random collection of details that in combination hid a door.

Weaver!

Would she have got to Rubin? Should he call her off, in line with what he'd said to Li?

Breathing heavily, he paced up and down the empty deck, unsure what to do. Suddenly the ship took on the aspect of a prison. Even the gloomy hangar with its yellow lights seemed oppressive.

He had to think.

Striding towards the starboard side of the vessel, he stepped on to the elevator. Gusts of wind tugged at his clothes and hair. The swell was still rising. Within seconds his face was covered with spray. He walked to the edge and gazed down at the turbulent lunar landscape of the Greenland Sea.

What was he to do?

CONTROL ROOM

Li was standing in front of the monitors. She watched as Johanson inspected the bulkhead and strode across the hangar deck in frustration.

'What was all that crap about an agreement?' growled Vanderbilt. 'You don't really think he'll keep his mouth shut until tonight?'

'It wouldn't surprise me,' said Li.

'And what if he doesn't?'

Johanson disappeared out of the hangar bay on to the elevator. Li turned 'You should know better than to ask. You're going to solve the problem, Jack. Right away.'

'Hang on a minute,' Peak objected. 'That's not what we'd agreed.'

'How do you mean, solve? Vanderbilt asked warily.

'Solve,' said Li. 'I mean solve. A storm's getting up out there. You'd think people would know better than to wander outside. A gust of wind…'

'No,' said Peak. 'No one said anything about-'

'That's enough, Sal.'

'Jude, we could lock him up for a few hours. That's all we need.'

Li didn't bother to acknowledge him. 'Do your job, Jack,' she said to Vanderbilt. 'And make sure you do it personally! Vanderbilt grinned. 'With pleasure, baby.'

LAB

Oliviera's long face was now even longer. She stared at Weaver, then at Rubin.

'Well?' said Weaver.

Rubin blanched. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Mick, listen to me.' Weaver moved between him and the table and laid an arm across his shoulders in a gesture that seemed almost friendly. 'I'm not a great talker. I like short, snappy conversations. So why don't we start again? This time, don't wind me up with excuses. There's a lab directly above us. You can get there from the hangar deck. Sure, the door's well camouflaged, but Sigur saw you going in and out. And you socked him one. Isn't that right-'

'I might have guessed.' Oliviera looked at Rubin contemptuously.

The biologist tried to free himself from Weaver's grip, and failed. 'I've never heard such utter-No! Stop!'

Weaver's free hand was wielding a scalpel. She pressed the tip against his artery. Rubin flinched. She pushed the blade a little further into his skin and tightened her grip. The biologist was locked in her embrace. 'Are you out of your mind?' he croaked. 'What right do you have to-'

'Mick, I'm not squeamish. And I'm stronger than you'd think. When I was little, I cuddled a cat and accidentally crashed it. Isn't that awful? I only wanted to stroke it, and then, crunch… So, you'd do well to think over carefully what you're about to tell me…'

VANDERBILT

Vanderbilt had no real desire to kill Johanson, but neither was he interested in keeping him alive. In a funny way he liked the guy, but that was beside the point: he'd been given the assignment, and his instructions were clear. Johanson wouldn't pose a security risk for much longer.

Floyd Anderson accompanied him. Like most of the men on the Independence, the first officer was there to serve a dual role. His training was with the navy, true, but his loyalties lay with the CIA. Almost everyone on board, with the exception of Buchanan and a few crew men, was on the CIA's books. Anderson had already taken part in covert operations in Pakistan and the Gulf He was a good agent.

And a killer.

Vanderbilt pondered the turn of events. He'd maintained his belief that they were fighting terrorists until the bitter end, but now he had to concede that Johanson had been right all along. It seemed a shame to kill him, particularly as it was Li's idea. Vanderbilt couldn't stand that blue-eyed witch. Li was paranoid, conniving and twisted. He hated her, and yet he couldn't fault the perfidious logic of her ruthlessness. She might be crazy, but she was right. And she was right about this.

Suddenly he thought of how he'd warned Johanson about Li in Nanaimo.

She's nuts. Capisce?

Clearly Johanson hadn't understood.

No one understood at first. They didn't get what was wrong with Li: her tendency to see conspiracies everywhere and her obsessive ambition meant that she overreacted. She lied, deceived and was willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to achieve her goals. That was the real Judith Li. She was the President's darling, and even he didn't see her for who she really was. The most powerful man in the world had no idea who he was fostering.

We should all watch out, thought Vanderbilt. Unless someone grabs a gun and solves the problem – when the time comes.

They hurried along the passageways. In loitering on the external platform, Johanson was doing them a big favour. How had that mad bitch put it? A gust of wind…

CONTROL ROOM

Vanderbilt was barely out of the room when Li was summoned to one of the consoles. The man at the desk pointed to the monitor. 'Looks like funny business in the lab,' he said.

Li watched the action on the screen. Weaver, Oliviera and Rubin were standing in a huddle. Weaver had an arm round Rubin's shoulders and was pressing him to her chest. Since when had those two been such good friends?

'More sound,' said Li.

They heard Weaver talking. Her voice was faint, but clear. She was interrogating Rubin about the hidden lab. On closer inspection, Rubin's eyes were filled with fear, and Weaver was holding something that glinted in the light. It was uncomfortably close to Rubin's throat.

Li had seen and heard enough. 'Sal, I need you and three men with machine guns – at the double. We're going in.'

'What do you intend to do?' asked Peak.

'Restore order.' She turned away from the screen and went to the door. 'That question just cost us two seconds. Waste any more time, Sal, and I'll shoot you myself. Get your men. You've got one minute. Then we're going to straighten out a thing or two with Weaver. The closed season for scientists is over.'

LAB

'You worthless bastard,' said Oliviera. 'You knocked Sigur unconscious. What the hell were you thinking?'

There was blind panic in Rubin's eyes. He scanned the ceiling.

'That's not true, I-'

'Don't bother looking for cameras, Mick,' Weaver said softly. 'You'll be dead before anyone gets here.'

Rubin started to shake.

'I'm going to ask you again, Mick, what's going on up there?

'We've developed a toxin,' he stuttered.

'A toxin?' echoed Oliviera.

'We used your work, Sue. I mean, yours and Sigur's, of course. Once you'd worked out the formula for the pheromone, there was nothing to stop us manufacturing as much of it as we liked and… Well, we coupled it to a radioactive isotope.'

'You did what?'

'We contaminated the pheromone – the yrr-cells can't tell the difference. We ran some trials and-'

'Do you mean you've got a deep-sea chamber up there too?'

'Only a small one… Karen, please. Put the knife away. It's futile. They can hear and see everything-'

'Stick to the point,' said Weaver. 'And then what?'

'Well, the pheromone kills defective yrr-cells. They die because they don't have special receptors – it's just like Sue said. Once it was obvious that programmed cell death is part of yrr-biochemistry, we had to find a way of inducing it in healthy yrr as well.'

'Via the pheromone?'

'It's the only way. We can't mess with the DNA directly because we haven't fully decoded the genome, and that would take years. We coupled the scent to a radioactive isotope that the yrr can't detect.'

'And what does it do?'

'It shuts down the special receptor. It means the pheromone is deadly. It can kill healthy cells too.'

'Why didn't you tell us?' said Oliviera. 'None of us actually likes these creatures. We could have come up with a solution together.'

'Li's got her own plans,' squawked Rubin.

'But it won't work.'

'It has worked. We trialled it.'

'It's madness, Mick. You don't know what you're unleashing. What if you wipe out the yrr? They control seventy per cent of our planet. They're the force behind a sophisticated form of biotechnology that's been around since the year dot. They live in other creatures too. I mean, for all we know, they could be present in every single marine organism. And what if they're breaking down methane or carbon dioxide? God knows what will happen to the planet if you destroy them.'

'But why should it kill all of them?' asked Weaver. 'Doesn't the toxin just kill individual cells? Or collectives?'

'No, it starts a chain reaction.' Rubin was wheezing now. 'Programmed cell death. As soon as they start to aggregate, they all destroy themselves. Once the pheromone docks on to them, it's too late. There's nothing they can do to stop it. We're recoding the yrr. It's like a deadly virus. They all infect each other.'

Oliviera grabbed Rubin by the collar. 'You've got to stop these trials,' she said urgently. 'You can't go down that route. For God's sake, Mick, don't you see that they're the ones in charge? It's their planet. They are the planet. They're a superorganism. Thanks to them, the oceans are intelligent. You've got no idea what you're doing.'

'And if we don't use the toxin?' Rubin gave a croaky laugh. 'Don't give me all that self-righteous crap about ecosystems. We're going to die, that's what. Do you think we should wait for the next tsunami? I suppose there's always the methane build-up or the ice age to look forward to.'

'We haven't been here a week yet, and we've already made contact,' said Weaver. 'Why can't we keep trying for an agreement?'

'It's too late,' rasped Rubin.

Weaver's eyes darted over the ceiling and walls. She didn't know how much time she had left before Li or Peak showed up. Maybe Vanderbilt would come running. It couldn't be long. 'What do you mean, too late?'

'It's too late!' screamed Rubin. 'We're releasing the toxin in less than two hours.'

'You're crazy,' Oliviera whispered.

'Mick,' Weaver said, 'I need you to tell me exactly how you're going to do it. Otherwise my hand might slip.'

'I'm not authorised-'

'I mean it.'

Rubin was trembling all over. 'We're using two torpedoes on Deep-flight 3. We've packed the radioactive pheromone into projectiles.'

'Are they on the sub already?'

'No, it's my job to load them and-'

'Who's taking them down?'

'I'm going with Li.'

'She's going herself?'

'Well, it was her idea. She doesn't leave anything to chance.' Rubin managed a smile. 'You won't be able to stop her, Karen. There's nothing you can do. We're the ones who're going to save this planet. Our names are the ones that people will remember-'

'Shut up, Mick.' Weaver began to push him towards the door. 'You're going to take me to your lab. That toxin isn't going anywhere. The script's just changed.'

WELL DECK

'So is anything going on between you and Karen?' asked Greywolf, stowing equipment in crates.

Anawak was taken aback. 'Er, no. Not really.'

'Not really?'

'As far as I know, we're just good friends.'

Greywolf gave him a look. 'It's about time one of us started to do things right,' he said.

'What if she's not interested?' As soon as he'd said it, Anawak realised what he'd confessed. 'I'm hopeless at that kind of thing, Jack.'

'Evidently,' said Greywolf, sarcastically. 'You didn't join the world of the living until your old man died.'

'Hey…'

'Calm down, buddy, you know I'm right. Why don't you chase after her? She obviously wants you to.'

'I came down here to see you, not because of Karen.'

'I appreciate it. Now, go.'

'For God's sake, Jack. Stop shutting yourself away. Let's take a walk before your feet turn into fins.'

'Fins would suit me fine.'

Anawak glanced at the tunnel, unsure what to do. Of course he was impatient to go after Weaver – and not only because he had feelings for her, as he'd just admitted to Greywolf and himself No, he was sure that something was bothering her. She'd seemed agitated and tense. He couldn't help thinking of what she'd told him about Johanson.

'OK, you moulder away by yourself, then,' he said to Greywolf, 'but feel free to come and find me if you change your mind.'

He left the well deck and walked past the lab. The door was closed. He thought about popping in. Maybe Johanson would be there. Then he decided against it and carried on up the ramp towards the hangar deck to look at the mysterious wall.

As he entered the bay he caught sight of Vanderbilt and Anderson disappearing on to the elevator platform.

Suddenly he felt uneasy. What were they doing there?

And where had Weaver got to?

THE ABYSS

A strong westerly howled through the air. It was blowing in from the polar ice caps, sending white-crested waves crashing into the Independence's hull and drawing what was left of the warmth from the sea.

Beneath its turbulent surface the ocean was swirling and raging, but as the depth increased, the storm died down. It was here that, only a few months previously, icy cascades of salt-laden water had poured into the depths. It was still bitterly cold, but now the salt was being diluted as fresh water streamed in from the ice caps, which were melting rapidly because of an influx of warmth. The North Atlantic pump, which drew oxygen-rich water into the depths like an underwater lung, was slowly coming to a halt. The ocean conveyor slowed, and the warmth-giving current from the tropics dried up.

But it hadn't stopped yet. Even though the chimneys could no longer be detected, small quantities of cold water were still trickling into the depths. Through the lightless calm of the ocean they fell towards the bottom of the Greenland basin, metre by metre, till they were hundreds, then thousands of metres down.

At a depth of 3.5 kilometres, just above the silty seabed, the darkness gave way to a blue glow.

It covered a vast expanse, not as a cloud of light, but as a long tube of jelly with thin walls. It was anchored to the seabed by countless tiny feet. Inside the tube millions of tentacular protuberances were rising and falling in rhythmical waves, a meadow of feelers moving in synchrony. They were conveying big lumps of a whitish substance towards a large object. The blue glow was barely strong enough to illuminate its contours, so all that was visible were two open pods. The Deepflight stuck out of the silt at an angle, but most of the submersible was hidden in the gloom.

For some time now, the organism had been loading it with frozen white lumps, and the boat was nearly full. The supply chain ceased. One section of the tube separated off, sank towards the boat and began to encase it. The transparent substance around the hull contracted, closing the pods as it compressed. Shimmering layers of blue spread out and merged until the vessel was sealed with jelly. A long thin tube moved towards it and began to pulsate. Water was being pumped through it. Water that didn't belong there. The delicate tube of jelly was drawing it from an enormous organic balloon suspended over the boat and filled with warm water originating from the mud volcano near the Norwegian continental shelf. By all rights, the balloon should have risen to the surface, propelled by the warmer – and lighter – water inside, but its weight kept it stable.

Warmth streamed into the sac of jelly that was wrapped round the boat.

The white lumps reacted immediately. In a matter of seconds the frozen cages trapping the gas had melted. The compressed methane expanded to 164 times its former volume, filling the Deepflight with gas and inflating the sack of jelly until it was taut and swollen. It detached from the tube and sealed itself off Unable to escape, the gas rose upwards, slowly at first, but then, as the pressure around it decreased, picking up speed. The gas, the cocoon, and the submersible shot towards the surface.

LAB

With one arm clamped round Rubin and the other hand holding the scalpel to his throat, Weaver shuffled forward. She didn't get far. The door to the lab slid open. Three heavily armed soldiers stormed inside and took aim. She heard Oliviera cry out in horror. Weaver stopped in her tracks, but held on to Rubin.

Li walked into the lab, followed by Peak. 'You're not going anywhere, Karen.'

'Jude,' croaked Rubin, 'about time too. Get this lunatic off me.'

'Quiet,' Peak barked at him. 'We wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you.'

Li smiled. 'Karen,' she said, 'don't you think you're taking this a little too far?'

'Given what Mick has been saying… No.'

'And what has he been saying?'

'Oh, he was very helpful. Weren't you, Mick? Told us everything we need to know.'

'She's lying,' hissed Rubin.

'Hmm… Chain reactions, torpedoes full of toxins and Deepflight 3. Oh, and he mentioned that the two of you were planning an excursion – in the next few hours.'

'Tsk.' Li took a step forward. Weaver grabbed Rubin and pulled him back towards Oliviera, who was standing motionless beside the bench. She still had the test-tube rack containing the pheromone samples in her hand.

'Mick Rubin is probably one of the best biologists in the world,' said Li. 'The trouble is, he always has to prove himself. He'd give anything to be famous. That's why he finds it so hard to keep his mouth shut. You'll have to excuse him. Mick would sell his own grandmother for a taste of fame.' She came to a halt. 'But no matter. You know what we're planning so you'll understand our reasons. I've done my best to stop the situation escalating, but now everyone seems to know the secret, so you've left me no choice.'

'Don't do anything stupid, Karen,' Peak implored her. 'Let him go.'

'I'll do no such thing.'

'He's still got work to do. If you let him go, we'll talk later.'

'There's been more than enough talking already.' Li pulled out her pistol and took aim at Weaver. 'Let go of him, Karen, or I'll shoot. I'm not going to warn you again.'

Weaver looked into the small round barrel of the gun. 'You wouldn't,' she said.

'Really?'

'There's no need.'

'You're making a mistake, Jude,' Oliviera said hoarsely. 'You can't use the toxin. I was just telling Mick how…'

Li wheeled around, took aim at Oliviera and pulled the trigger. The scientist was tossed back against the bench and slid slowly to the floor. The case of test-tubes dropped from her hand. For a second she looked, surprised, at the first-sized hole in her chest, then her eyes glazed.

'What the hell are you playing at?' shrieked Peak.

The gun was pointing at Weaver. 'Now let him go,' said Li.

DECK ELEVATOR

'Dr Johanson!'

Johanson swivelled. Vanderbilt and Anderson were heading towards him across the platform. Anderson looked impassive and detached. His black button eyes were fixed on something in the distance.

Vanderbilt was beaming. 'I guess you're pretty pissed at us,' he said.

There was something chummy and casual about his demeanour. Johanson frowned as he watched them approach. He was standing at the far end of the platform, only metres from the edge. Hefty gusts of wind buffeted his face. The waves were crashing beneath him. He'd been thinking about going inside. 'What brings you here, Jack?'

'Nothing in particular.' Vanderbilt made an apologetic gesture. 'I just wanted to say I'm sorry. It's all so unnecessary. We shouldn't be arguing. The whole darned thing is ridiculous.'

Johanson didn't reply. Vanderbilt and Anderson were getting closer. He took a step to the side. They stopped.

'Is there something you wanted to discuss?' asked Johanson.

'I was rude to you earlier,' said Vanderbilt. 'I apologise.'

Johanson raised his eyebrows.

'That's very noble of you, Jack. Apology accepted. Can I help you with anything else?'

Vanderbilt faced into the gale. His thinning pale blond hair quivered in the wind like beach grass. 'Pretty darned cold out here,' he said, moving forward. Anderson followed his lead. A distance opened between them. It looked as though they were trying to close in on Johanson. There was no longer any room for him to slip between them or dodge to either side.

What they were intending was so obvious that he didn't even feel surprised. He was gripped by fear, – fear, mixed with desperate fury. Without thinking he took a step backwards, and knew he had made a mistake. He was very close to the edge now. Their job was almost done for them. A sudden gust could knock him into the nets or over the top and into the water. Jack,' he said slowly, 'you wouldn't be planning to kill me, would you?'

'Whatever gave you that idea?' Vanderbilt assumed a look of mock-amazement. 'I only want to talk.'

'Then why bring Anderson?'

'Oh, he was just passing. Pure coincidence. We thought-'

Johanson rushed towards Vanderbilt, ducked and darted to the right. He was away from the edge. Anderson leaped towards him. For a moment it looked as though the improvised tactic had worked, then Johanson felt himself grabbed and dragged backwards. Anderson's fist flew towards him and landed in his face.

He fell and skidded across the platform.

The first officer moved towards him without any urgency. His powerful hands disappeared beneath Johanson's armpits and hauled him up. Johanson tried to prise his fingers under Anderson's grip and loosen it, but it was like grappling with concrete. His feet left the ground. He kicked out wildly as Anderson carried him towards the edge where Vanderbilt was waiting, peering down at the sea.

'Quite a swell today,' said the CIA agent. 'I hope you won't mind if we cast you off now, Dr Johanson. I'm afraid you'll have to swim.' His teeth flashed. 'But don't worry, you won't be going any great distance. The water's pretty chilly – two degrees at most. It will be quite relaxing. The body just slows down, the senses go numb, the heart packs up, and-'

Johanson started to shout. 'Help!' he screamed. 'Help!'

His feet were dangling over the side. The net was beneath him. It only extended two metres beyond the platform. Not far enough. Anderson could easily throw him over the top.

'Help!'

He heard Anderson groan as suddenly he was yanked towards the safety of the platform. The sky came into view as Anderson thudded on to his back, pulling Johanson with him, then letting go. Johanson rolled to the side and jumped up. 'Leon!' he gasped.

A grotesque scene was unfolding before him. Anderson was trying to clamber to his feet. Anawak had fastened himself on to him from behind and was clutching his jacket. They'd fallen to the ground together. Now Anawak was attempting to free himself from the man's weight without releasing his grip.

Johanson was about to intervene.

'Stop!'

Vanderbilt barred his path. He was holding a gun. Slowly he walked round the bodies on the floor until he was standing with his back to the exit.

'Nice try,' he said. 'But that's enough now. Dr Anawak, please be so kind as to allow Mr. Anderson here to get up. He's only doing his job.'

Reluctantly Anawak let go of Anderson's hood. The first officer shot up. He didn't wait until his adversary was on his feet, but hoisted him into the air like a sack of coal. The next instant Anawak's body was flying towards the edge.

'No!' roared Johanson.

Anawak slammed down on to the deck then slid to the edge of the platform.

Anderson's head turned towards Johanson. One arm shot out, grabbed him, and a fist rammed into his stomach. Johanson gasped for air. A wave of pain spread through his guts. He folded like a penknife and fell to his knees.

The pain was almost unbearable.

He crouched there, retching, as the wind whipped through his hair, waiting for Anderson to punch him again.