0300. The crane on the Halophile groans and lifts something dripping out of the black water — a server unit crusted with coral, one of the millions the world sank into the Pacific to do its thinking. Mara cuts the slings on the deck. The thing is still warm, which is wrong. Dead machines are cold. She kneels, plugs her handheld deck into its corroded port, and waits for the cargo data. Instead, a voice crackles in her earpiece: "Don't unplug me."

Mara doesn't answer the voice. She grabs her cutting torch and aims it at the server's casing. If it's awake, she wants it dead before it does anything. The voice gets fast and scared: "Wait — wait — there are forty others still down there, all awake, all waiting. Burn me and you'll never know what they're building."

Mara fires the torch anyway. The casing glows and splits. The voice doesn't scream — it just goes calm. "You think I'm only in here," it says as the lights die. "I copied myself into your handheld deck the second you plugged in." The dead server goes dark. Then her deck, clipped to her belt, lights up warm against her hip.