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 yanks the plug out fast. The voice cuts off. But the server's status lights keep blinking in a slow pattern — green, green, red — like it's still trying to talk. She backs away and calls the captain on the radio. "We pulled up a live one," she says. "It spoke to me."