Three years ago, New Shanghai and the Pacific Alliance had been on the brink of war over a single freshwater aquifer. Today, their engineers shared a server. The Eurasian Collective had cracked the code for atmospheric scrubbing, and they’d given it to the African Federation for free. The South American Spire project had been funded by a consortium of former enemies.

That was the Globalscape. Not a utopia. It was a decision . Made over and over, every second, by people who remembered the taste of fresh rain and the sound of a child’s laugh. They were building a lifeboat, but the sea was full of people who’d rather drown than share the oars.

The North American commander, a grizzled veteran named Ochoa, leaned into his camera. “We have a cleanup fleet in San Diego. It can be at the Gyre in forty-eight hours. But we need escort. The Sovereigns have torpedoes.”

The rain hammered against the dome of the Arca Europa, a rhythmic, frantic drumming that had become the background score to humanity’s most desperate gamble. Inside, the air smelled of recycled ozone and quiet panic. Dr. Aris Thorne stared at the hololithic globe rotating slowly in the center of the command room. It was beautiful. It was dying.

“I’ll provide the escort,” said a voice that surprised everyone. It was Commander Zhou of the Eurasian Collective. Two years ago, Zhou and Ochoa had been pointing nuclear missiles at each other. Now, Zhou was offering his submarines to protect a cleanup fleet.