Mac hugged herself tightly and watched them blur the line where wave met sky in a spectrum of heaving gray and black. Where she stood, outside Pod Six, the mid-afternoon sun scoured to a hard-edged gleam every section of mem-wood walkway, every rail, every ripple of ocean surrounding them all. It did nothing to expose an invisible foe. “They worried they’d have to stop looking at dusk,” Trojanowski announced. “Then someone volunteered to rig lights.” He’d removed his coat and cravat sometime in the last hour, pressing the mem-fabric of his shirt sleeves to hold them above his elbows. Mac hadn’t seen him put his hands into the water, but they dripped on the walkway as he approached her. As “they” referred to a cobbled-together team of enthused students and supervisors using skims and whatever diving gear was at hand to search the water within and around the pod, Mac was less than impressed. “You told me yourself there’s no point,” she protested, pressing her lips together.
