The Pohnpei mist was unlike the Seattle rain; it was thick, cloying, and smelled of ancient basalt and rotting hibiscus. Nan Madol rose from the turquoise waters of the Pacific like a skeletal city of the gods, a labyrinth of ninety-two artificial islets constructed from massive columnar stones that defied the laws of primitive engineering.
Lila stood at the bow of the *Aletheia II*, the black "Tear of Mnemosyne" drive gripped so tightly in her palm that the edges bit into her skin. Beside her, Marcus checked the action on his pulse-rifle, his eyes scanning the dark water between the stone canals.
"The locals call this the 'Venice of the Pacific,' but they don't come here after sunset," Marcus whispered, his voice barely audible over the low thrum of the yacht’s electric motor. "They say
