CHAPTER 4
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Berkeley, California: August 3, 2022

“The mermaid.”

The slide showed an elegant woodcut of a woman, naked from the waist up, scaled from the waist down, sitting on a rock and staring toward a city on the nearby shore. Her face was turned away from the viewer, but she was lovely, with long, flowing hair and gently sloping breasts.

“The earliest entries into the mermaid monomyth were recorded in ancient Assyria, twenty-five centuries before the Common Era, when the goddess Atargatis supposedly flung herself into the sea in grief over the death of her human lover, a shepherd, whose name has been lost to antiquity. The theme of human women being transformed by the combination of grief and drowning continued in the myth almost to the present day.”

The slide changed to a shot of Disney’s iconic little mermaid, hair blazing red and enormous blue eyes turned toward the distant surface. The longing implied in the woodcut was fully realized here: the animated princess yearned, ached, for whatever was above her, straining toward the forbidden.

“When Hans Christian Andersen wrote ‘The Little Mermaid’ in 1836, he inverted the old mermaid stories. No longer were women going to the sea: instead they wanted to leave it, to explore the clearly superior wonders of human society. The majority of mermaid stories written after this fable took root have shown this same sensibility—the idea that somehow life on land is superior. Please note that I said ‘the majority.’ I’ve been teaching this class for some time now, and I can assure you that I’ve seen every exception to the rule. Writing and self-publishing a novel to prove me wrong is a viable use of your time, but you should be aware that six people have gotten there before you for specifically that reason.”

Laughter swept the darkened lecture hall, some of it sincere, some of it nervous. The room, which could seat three hundred, was full, with TAs and interested auditors standing against the back wall. The lecture was being streamed into another two hundred homes, for the sake of the distance learners and the students who were unable, for one reason or another, to attend.

It would have been nice if they’d all been there to witness her genius. Dr. Jillian Toth knew that most of them were there to see the village fool dancing naked in the square. She was a quack, having been written off by everyone outside her admittedly specialized field—sirenology being an offshoot of marine biology, with aspects of physiology and cetology mixed in—and regarded as the scientific equivalent of a tabloid reporter. But she kept speaking, and she kept working, and someday, she was sure, she would show them.

She would show them all.

It was hard for the audience to see her with the lights as low as they were; she was a shadow, a silhouette, a conversation that began and ended in comfortable darkness. Even when she’d been held in higher regard by the academic community, Dr. Toth had never been inclined to seek the spotlight. Instead she kept to her podium, her online forums, and her growing body of essays, which many dismissed as the ramblings of a woman whose crackpot theories could thrive only in academia, where concept and execution were sometimes so divorced as to bear no relation to one another.

In the light, she was a tall, strongly built woman of mixed English and Hawaiian descent who managed to seem angular and rounded at the same time. From her father she had inherited strong legs, brown skin, dark hair that required little more than regular brushing, and an absolute conviction that those who challenged the sea would eventually get what was coming to them. From her mother she had inherited a tendency to freckle a darker shade of brown, a certain emotional distance from the people around her, and pale green eyes, like chips of sea glass that had somehow missed the shore and washed up in her face instead. Her admirers said she was beautiful, confident, and clever. Her detractors said she was fat and loud and took up too much space. All of them were, within their limited spheres, correct.

The slide changed again, this time to a screenshot every person in the class recognized. That didn’t stop the vague murmurs of discontent as people realized what they were looking at.

In the picture, the creature—the mermaid—was facing away from the camera, pulling itself along the Atargatis deck with clawed hands. Its tail was broad and flat, more like an eel’s than a dolphin’s, and while the substance growing from its scalp could have passed for hair under the right light, it was clearly something… else.

“The Atargatis, 2015,” said Dr. Toth. “This picture was taken prior to the disappearance of all hands on board. People have spent the last seven years with this image and the others like it, devoting their time to the effort to discredit the so-called ‘mermaid mystery.’ Apparently, it’s more believable that the Atargatis had a complete special effects lab manipulating the film as it was created than it is to say that perhaps mermaids—or something terribly like them—are real.”

“The film could have been manipulated after it was taken but before they were lost,” said a voice. The speaker didn’t yell, but his voice carried surprisingly well in the silence left by Dr. Toth’s last statement.

“And all copies of the unmodified footage were somehow successfully wiped from the Atargatis systems, to the point that the navy’s computer science experts have been unable to retrieve them?” Dr. Toth turned to face the room. If she was perturbed about being interrupted, she didn’t show it; she still sounded effortlessly calm, almost sedate. “If the Imagine Network had released this footage as one of their television specials, I’d be right there with the skeptics, arguing that this couldn’t possibly be real—if we can’t figure out how the trick was done, it simply means they’ve been stepping up their game. But they didn’t. The Imagine Network fought the release of this footage tooth and nail. They wanted it to disappear. The United States Navy started the leak. Without them this might be a tragic footnote, forgotten by all except for the families of the victims. The film is too comprehensive, too complete, and too flawed to be anything but real.”

“Shouldn’t flaws make you question more, not less?” The voice sounded amused now, like it had found the weakness in her entire thesis.

Dr. Toth wasn’t taking the bait. “Some flaws create questions. Why does the monster have a zipper; why did the ghost of Lover’s Lane wait until new construction was announced before attacking. Some flaws are the key to a Scooby-Doo mystery. Other flaws are necessary for a thing to be realistic. The film from the Atargatis is internally consistent. Objects do not appear or disappear without cause. People talk in a realistic way, repeating themselves, stuttering, stumbling over their own words. There are individuals we only know by name from the passenger roster, because they are never called by name on film. Reality is much less convenient than fiction. People don’t introduce themselves every time they see someone that they already know. Mascara doesn’t magically reapply itself between takes. The flaws in the Atargatis video are the flaws that appear in reality.”

“So you’re saying perfection is the enemy of the truth.”

“I’m saying this is my classroom, and you’re disrupting it. The veracity of the Atargatis footage is not up for discussion at this time. Please hold any further questions until the end of the lecture.”

“Why did the navy release the footage?”

For the first time, Dr. Toth stopped cold. For the first time, she actually looked displeased. Then she took a breath, and the world resumed.

“The Atargatis was captained by a woman named Jovanie Seghers. Her father, Lieutenant John Seghers, was retired navy. He had contacted his former colleagues as soon as his daughter stopped responding to his messages, asking them to check up on her. Without him the Atargatis might not have been found for substantially longer, if it was found at all. Someone on the ship which found the Atargatis also found some or all of the footage. They watched it, realized that Imagine was likely to bury it, and released it before any official cease and desist could be issued. Imagine was still cleared of all charges. The footage was deemed both falsified and illegally released. So far as I am aware, the only person to suffer actual consequences was the seaman who chose to upload it.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“That is not your concern. Now.” Dr. Toth cleared her throat. “The Mariana Trench has long been considered a likely spot for the existence of ‘real’ mermaids. Deep, isolated, and on several historical shipping lanes—”

She was still talking as the shadowy figure of a man detached from the wall and walked up the stairs to the door. She continued talking as he made his exit, and it was anyone’s guess whether she saw him go.

It was no real surprise when, after the lecture concluded, Dr. Jillian Toth returned to her office to find a well-groomed, remarkably forgettable man sitting in the chair she kept for visiting students. She walked past him, shaking her head, to drop the thumb drive holding the day’s lesson into a fishbowl filled with similar drives in varying sizes and colors. All were labeled in her private shorthand, making it virtually impossible for anyone else to make sense of her filing system.

“I thought I told you not to come here,” she said. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“I believe your exact words were, ‘Damn you, Theo, unless you’ve convinced that boss of yours to send another boat, don’t even bother talking to me,’” said Blackwell. He looked at her fishbowl of thumb drives, allowing one corner of his mouth to twitch upward. “I see you’ve been busy. I remember when you could fit them in a saucer.”

“Yeah, well, the field of mermaid science is booming, in that ‘she’s clearly insane but the students love her and she works for peanuts’ sort of way. I may not have any credibility, but I have tenure, and that’s more than I can say for you.” Jillian opened the fridge next to her filing cabinets, withdrawing a bottle of violently red liquid. “Are you planning to leave like a nice little corporate shill, or do you need me to contact security? Because I’d love to contact security. You never need to get me another birthday present if you make me contact security.”

“You’ve returned every birthday present I’ve given you in seven years.”

“I wouldn’t return this one. I would treasure it.” She opened the bottle and took a long drink of the contents. They smelled of fruit punch and hibiscus.

Blackwell waited for her to finish. When she lowered the bottle, he said, “We’re sending another boat. By your own terms, I believe that means I’m allowed to be here.”

Jillian paused before putting the cap back on the bottle and returning it to the fridge. Then she stopped, hand grasping the handle, eyes on the faded snapshots taped to the freezer door. Someone with a good eye for skeletal structure might have been able to recognize the laughing, black-haired man with his arm around her shoulders as Theodore Blackwell; he had the same ice-blue eyes, like chips out of a living glacier. But the man in the picture was at ease, casual, relaxed. The man in her office now didn’t look as if he knew what relaxation was.

“Don’t toy with me, Theo,” she said, addressing the picture, like she trusted the man she’d known more than the man she knew now. In a very real way, that was true. The Theodore Blackwell who’d protested whaling practices with her, surfed with her in the waters off Hawaii, and proposed to her on Oahu, that man was dead and gone and surrendered to the sea. This man, this virtual stranger… he was something different. Something dangerous.

The best predators always learned how to masquerade as things that wouldn’t seem threatening. That was how they got close enough to strike.

A glimmer of what sounded like genuine offense slipped into Blackwell’s voice as he said, “I can’t believe you’d think that of me.”

“What, that you’d use me to promote your own agenda? Or that you’d tell me lies? Or wait, that you’d dangle something you knew I wanted solely for the sake of convincing me to go with you?” Jillian turned to face him. “You did all those things when you still loved me more than you loved your work. I forgave you then, because my love for you was stronger than my sense of self-preservation. I grew up.”

“We have a vessel. A research ship, larger than the Atargatis. Every luxury, every amenity. Hulls designed to stand up to torpedo impacts, shields and supports and a hundred other safety features. Built-in electrical systems capable of supporting radar arrays like you’ve never had access to. We can detect motion hundreds of meters down.” Blackwell stood. “We’re ready.”

“Really? Because that sounds like a lot of untested technology in the hands of a media corporation. How many of those systems actually work?”

Blackwell ignored her. “We can pinpoint a single jelly drifting on a submerged current. We have some of the best scientists in the world ready to sail with us. But we don’t have a sirenologist.”

“I hate that word,” said Jillian.

“You didn’t hate it when you were doing the talk show circuit, talking about everything Imagine had done wrong on their first voyage. I believe I have video of you defining the term. Several times. ‘A marine biologist who specializes in the scientific study of mermaids, their feasibility and probable reality,’ wasn’t that your line?”

Jillian broke eye contact first, glancing down at her sensible shoes. “That was a long time ago. We all did things in the wake of the tragedy that we aren’t necessarily going to be proud of now.”

“Yes, I suppose we did.” Blackwell looked at her calmly. “You told me if we ever sent out another ship, you would be on board.”

“I didn’t go out with the Atargatis because Imagine demanded too much ownership of my research.” And because she’d been afraid. Afraid that they would find exactly what she’d said they’d find; afraid that when faced with the reality behind her theories, she would learn that she’d been right. About everything.

And she had been.

Blackwell, who knew the truth behind her words almost as well as she did, let the pretty fiction stand. “The terms are different this time. Any research you conduct will belong to you, completely. Imagine requests only that they retain right of first publication of proof of the existence of mermaids. They guarantee publication within six months of returning to shore, and will place the entire Imagine media engine behind you to promote your findings. They have their own publishing wing, you know. You wouldn’t have to go out on submission if you didn’t want to. Their standard terms are quite generous.”

“They’d have to be, if they want to lure in authors who could as easily go elsewhere,” said Jillian. She was starting to sound dazed, like she couldn’t quite wrap her head around what was happening. “They would have to acknowledge the footage of the original trip.”

“If we find proof, they will.”

“I’d want that in writing.”

“You’ll have it.”

If the Atargatis footage was conclusively proven not to be a hoax—if it was acknowledged by the corporation as real—everything would change. All those questions finally answered; all those grieving families allowed to find their peace. All her research… “Are you serious? Imagine is funding a second expedition? What in the world could convince them to take that sort of risk? I know you didn’t talk them into it.”

“It wouldn’t have been my place,” said Blackwell, tone cooling. “The initial motivation behind this second voyage is above my pay grade, and frankly, I’m glad. There’s always the potential for something to go wrong. The Atargatis taught us that.”

“Not just the Atargatis,” muttered Jillian.

Blackwell ignored her. “If something should happen, God forbid, I need to be able to say, without fear of perjury, that the motives behind the trip were pure. So far as I’m aware, they are. Technology has advanced. We have better tools, and we know what we’re looking for. Scientists have been analyzing the Atargatis footage for seven years. While there’s much about the biology of these creatures that we can’t know for sure without getting our hands on one, we are so much better prepared than we were.”

“Imagine is finally taking the position that the mermaids on those tapes are real.”

“Officially, Imagine’s position remains the same as always—for now. But you’re not blind, you’re not stupid, and you’re the one who told them what they were looking for. You knew those things were real the second you saw the recording. Even if Imagine had wanted to make up a monster story to cover for the loss of a very real group of people, they wouldn’t have been able to do such a good job in such a short amount of time. CGI ages poorly. That technology, too, has marched on. If there was something in those tapes for the world to discredit, it would have happened already. The fact that it hasn’t should be proof enough of what happened on the Atargatis, no matter what Imagine says to the media. It wasn’t a stunt, it wasn’t a mistake, and there’s been no cover-up. The world just doesn’t like the answers we’ve been able to provide.”

“So why is Imagine going out there again?”

“Because we want closure.” Blackwell squared his shoulders, a small, almost unconscious gesture that most people would have taken for formality.

Jillian frowned. “Is your back bothering you?”

“My back’s always bothering me, Jillian.”

“Dr. Toth.”

“Dr. Toth, then. Yes. My back is bothering me. Nerve damage doesn’t go away simply because one takes a desk job. I need your answer. Will you sail with the Melusine, and help Imagine provide answers to the people who’ve been waiting for the last seven years?”

“The Melusine.” Jillian snorted. “That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“If we’re successful, there will be a documentary. My employers are very good at managing the details.”

“That’s true.” She sobered. “I’ll need a copy of the contract. I’m willing to sign an NDA, but I need time to review both the NDA and the contract with my lawyer.”

“The contract will be provided after your lawyer has approved the NDA. I assume you’ll be using William?”

“He still represents me.”

“Excellent. He’s as unbiased as anyone you pay can possibly be. We sail in two weeks. Can you be ready?”

Jillian’s smile was sharp and full of teeth. “I’ve been ready to make amends for my past sins for seven years, Theo. What’s a few weeks on top of that?”

Theodore Blackwell walked calmly across the visitors’ parking lot. He did not hurry. He seemed to be a man with only one speed, a ground-eating pace that was nonetheless slightly stilted, like something was out of sequence with itself. He also did not look back. He knew he presented an odd sight on a campus like this one, a liberal school, ecologically minded and populated by young radicals who truly believed their generation would somehow repair the damage done by all the generations before them. They were bright eyed and ambitious and looking toward the future, and if there was anything in the world that he envied anyone, it was their confidence that they’d succeed.

(That was a generalization, of course; he knew anxiety and uncertainty bred in this new generation just as prolifically as it had in his own. Perhaps even more so. Each new wave of humanity found itself crashing onto a beach that was a little more cluttered from what had come before, a little more damaged from the carelessness of others. If these students seemed motivated and determined, it was because they’d seen the writing on the wall. Earth would survive whatever humanity did to it. Humanity might not. These children, and their children, were making the last-ditch effort to bring the planet back from the brink. He wished them well in their fight, even as he was grateful that his time on the front lines was over. He was a clerical worker now, support staff at best, and he would never be a warrior again. Circumstances had seen to that.)

By the time his car came into view, he had lost all feeling in his right thigh. He kept walking, using that practiced stride to get him through the process of unlocking the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. The car’s autopilot wasn’t good enough to trust on unmapped surface streets, but the university routes had been among the first programmed into the commercial models; it could get him back to the highway, and from there it would be fine. Relieved, he flipped the switch to give the car total control, pressed the button to inform local law enforcement that the driver was medically impaired and unable to reclaim control of the vehicle, and reached for his briefcase.

The damage to his spine was extensive. In another time, before medical science caught up with human need, he would have been paralyzed from the waist down. Advances in nerve regeneration—ironically, partially due to compounds isolated from certain jellyfish, which did not age, did not die of natural causes, and seemed to hold the key to immortality—had allowed doctors to regrow and reconnect portions of his spinal cord, coaxing them through fused bones and shattered pathways. He could stand. He could walk. He’d never be a runner, but then, he’d never been a runner to begin with.

The constant pain was a side effect he could live with, given the alternatives. Most of the time, it was manageable, save when the damaged and regrown nerves began firing wildly, sending messages of agony shooting along his spine. Sadly, those periods were unpredictable; sometimes he could be fine for days, dealing with the sort of low-grade pain that would have been unimaginable once, but was now merely the cost of doing business. Other times, he’d be unable to stand without screaming.

The car pulled smoothly out of its slot and moved at a measured pace toward the exit. Autonomous cars stuck precisely to the speed limit in the absence of other vehicles, and used the prevailing speed of traffic to determine a safe rate when other drivers were present. Initially they’d been too safe, adhering to traffic laws with a precision that made them dangerous to the humans on the road. A certain amount of lawlessness had been necessary to make them ready for wide distribution.

Even an autonomous car could break the law. But under most circumstances, no tickets would be issued, especially in the case of someone like Theo, who would have been a genuine threat to himself and others if he’d tried to take the wheel. With shaking hands, he opened the briefcase and withdrew a small leather case. The numbness in his leg was temporary; if he didn’t move quickly, it would transition into shooting pain that could make it difficult to inject the medication he needed with any degree of accuracy.

The numbness was beginning to take on a burning tingle as he withdrew a syringe and snapped an ampule of medication into it. It would have been cheaper to measure and mix his doses one at a time, but given how narrow the window between onset and injection often was, he was happy to pay for the security of knowing he wasn’t going to accidentally kill himself. The surface ampule was clear, showing the reassuring golden tint of the liquid inside. Botulism toxin, mixed with a blend of sea snake and cone snail venom, along with other, synthetic ingredients. It was a noxious cocktail, fatal in large doses. It didn’t impair his senses—not that his doctors had ever been able to determine—but he was still considered legally intoxicated for fifteen minutes following a dose.

Theodore slid the syringe into the meat of his burning thigh, barely noticing the sting, and pressed the plunger home. The ampule emptied into his flesh with a familiar biting, chilling sensation, like he was being swarmed by ants dipped in liquid nitrogen. He closed his eyes, counting backward from ten.

By the time he reached five, the pain was down to a manageable level.

By the time he reached zero, the pain was gone. He opened his eyes, taking a gasping breath as he tried to settle back into his own skin. The syringe still protruded from his leg. Gingerly, he pulled it free and went through the process of removing the needle and spent ampule, placing both in the biohazard bag in his passenger-side foot well. It wouldn’t do to need to go through the needle-replacement process while hurting; he attached a fresh needle to the syringe before replacing it in the medical kit and returning the whole thing to his briefcase.

With the car on automatic, it was safe to get back to work. He withdrew a headset from his pocket and attached it to his left ear. “Dial Mr. Golden,” he said.

“Dialing,” said a female voice. The word was followed by several neutral chimes, less aggressive than ringing or beeping, designed to soothe the nerves of the caller.

Theodore had no nerves. He couldn’t feel a thing.

“Blackwell,” said the voice of James Golden, founder of Imagine Entertainment and still CEO, despite multiple attempts to oust him from his position. His age was catching up with him; his voice shook in a way it hadn’t only a few years prior, a way that would have been unthinkable before the Atargatis incident. His time in the golden seat was coming to an end. The Melusine expedition was his last attempt to secure a legacy built on more than terrible science fiction movies and rumors of deaths at sea.

The poor fool didn’t realize that nothing was ever going to eclipse the Atargatis in the public consciousness, no matter how compelling. Prove that mermaids were real and the conspiracy theorists would swarm out of the woodwork to paint the lost voyage as a sacrifice in the name of greater ratings, holding up the old footage and screaming about how it had been buried under the label of “hoax” and “special effect,” conveniently ignoring the fact that their hands had been the ones to hold the shovel. Prove that mermaids weren’t real, and well…

That simply didn’t bear thinking about. “Here, sir,” said Theodore.

“Well? Is your batty ex in?”

Jillian wasn’t his ex; the divorce papers had never been signed, by either one of them. And she wasn’t “batty.” The loss of the Atargatis alone would have been proof of that. Everything else was merely support of the fact that her theories had been right from the beginning.

Theodore took a deep breath, shoving those thoughts to the bottom of his consciousness, and said, “I believe so, yes. She had the conditions we’d anticipated and prepared for.”

“Good. We need her.”

And Jillian needed Imagine. Her presence would convince the cryptozoological and skeptic communities that there was no hoax, while also allowing the more legitimate scientists taking part in the voyage to excuse their involvement as an opportunity for a free cruise; once the existence of mermaids had been proven, her inclusion in the process would validate her life’s work to the people who’d been writing her off as a crank for the past decade. Everyone would benefit from Jillian being on the ship.

“She raised some valid questions about the Melusine. The shutters are still unreliable, sir. They failed in three of the last five tests.”

“Which means they succeeded in two. We’re not going to need them. This ship sails with the best security money can buy.”

In Theodore’s experience, money was not the thing that made good security. Neither was managing your hiring quietly and through a casting agency, with aesthetics taking a higher degree of consideration than actual experience. “Still—”

“We got the Abneys to sign on. Those damn fish won’t know what hit them.”

Theodore resisted the urge to sigh. “If you say so, sir.”

“And the Stewart girl? She’s prepared?”

“She understands the restrictions placed on her research, and is willing to abide by them in exchange for being able to answer her questions about what happened to her sister. She’ll be ready when we raise anchor.”

“Good. Good. She’s going to put our ratings through the roof.” Golden sounded almost reflective, like he was leaving the real conversation for a parallel conversation that existed only in his own mind. That had been happening more and more frequently of late. There were times when Theodore worried about senility, about Golden losing his grasp on the present and retreating into the past, when he’d been young and strong and the touch of scandal had never come anywhere near him. It had to be tempting.

Golden sighed. “I didn’t want to do this,” he said. His voice was still distant; he might not be continuing his retreat, but he wasn’t coming any closer to reality while he had any choice in the matter. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I do, sir. This was the best choice for the company.” That it would help others—giving Victoria Stewart the closure she needed, validating Jillian’s research, doing similar things for the dozens of other people who were to be included on the voyage, improving their lives in ways both great and small—was almost beside the point. Imagine was Golden’s legacy, and he’d do whatever he had to in order to protect it from the scolding eyes of time.

Everyone above a certain pay grade within the corporation knew that the Atargatis hadn’t been lost; she had been attacked. They knew that the video footage was real, and unaltered. Had Imagine been able to control its release, that might not have been the case. They could have added a few zippers, a few inappropriate shadows, and allowed people to assume that some half-finished horror film had been leaked under the wrong name, while the Atargatis had been the victim of some more normal incident at sea. But Imagine hadn’t been first on the scene. Imagine’s people hadn’t been the ones to find and view the footage, or the ones to release it. The United States Navy had done that. By the time spin control had been invited to the party, it had already been far too late.

Most people believed the footage to be false, which worked in the company’s favor: it painted them as monsters who had tried to capitalize on a maritime disaster, but not as incompetents who had sailed blithely into danger. It also prevented others from attempting to capitalize on a discovery that rightfully belonged to the corporation.

The creatures that wiped out the Atargatis were real. They were unknown to science, their presence indicated by folklore and mythology around the world, and now that the seas were changing and humanity was looking to them for the hope of salvation, the chances of those creatures being found again—found officially, on the record—were increasing by the day. Discovery was inevitable.

Imagine needed to control that process.

That was where Golden’s legacy would come into play: with an entertainment company so dedicated to the question of what had happened to its people that it was willing to risk another loss in order to bring about a greater discovery. Golden would get the honor of naming the creatures, of putting his stamp on the future, and he could die knowing he’d left Imagine in the best situation possible. The Melusine would sail because there was no other option. Perhaps there never had been.

“Everything is almost ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

“I am, sir.”

“I’m not sure you understand how important you are to the day-to-day operation of my office, Theodore. I am… concerned.”

“Jeanne is perfectly capable of taking over my duties on a short-term basis; I wouldn’t want to hand her the job indefinitely, but I’ve documented my tasks for the next quarter, and she has more than enough support to get her through my absence.” Theodore kept his voice calm, trying to sound as if his investment in this were purely professional. “It’s essential we have someone on the Melusine who understands the importance of this voyage, and who will guide the researchers to the correct paths.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“We’re not expecting a repeat of the Atargatis, sir. Everything will be fine.”

“When will you be back?”

“I should be in your office within the hour.”

“Good. We’ll discuss this further then.” The line went dead.

Theodore sighed. Working for a media mogul at the end of his career had proven more stressful than he’d expected—and he’d gone into this career change with his eyes open, expecting to work harder than he’d ever worked in his life. Going from the deck of a fishing vessel to a desk job was a change, and a necessary one. With his injuries, the sea was no longer his to claim.

Except for this one last time. The Melusine was going to sail, and he was going to sail with her, come Hell or high water. He owed that much to the man he’d been and the woman he still loved.

Closing his eyes, Theodore Blackwell surrendered to the numbing effects of the painkillers washing through his system. There’d be time to worry about the future soon enough. That was the thing about the future. It didn’t wait.

No matter how hard you tried to run, it always caught up with you in the end.

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