Milo took a breath. “Ready the submersible. Tell Cookie to pack for two weeks. And someone find me a better pair of boots.”
“You’re packing,” Milo observed.
The next morning, a fishing skiff from the surface drifted through the eastern tunnel—a miracle, given the camouflaging illusions. Aboard: two men in soaked tweed, one clutching a fragment of pottery. The symbol carved into it was not Atlantean.
“Milo.” Kida placed a cool hand on his. “The crystal does not read your equations. It reads the world. And the world is shifting.”
“I always pack,” Vinny said without looking up. “But this time? Kida asked for ‘non-standard’ ordinance. Explosive harpoons. Thermite spheres.” He finally glanced at Milo. “She said, ‘Pack for the war after the war.’”
“So it’s not a return to Atlantis,” he said slowly. “It’s a return from it.”