“I cannot confirm or deny any of that, but for the purposes of our conversation, let’s assume you are correct,” said Beyer. He felt the champagne flute warming. From 1907? It would be a shame to waste it.

“From the heavens come… oh, forget all that,” said Cavendish, his cultivated accent slipping back into his native Australian one. “Look, mate, if you want to win back your waters, and I do believe they are providentially yours, you are going to have to do something about that damned space station. But without provoking a nuclear fuss. Righto?”

Beyer nodded. It was now or never with the champagne. He drank it down in one gulp.

“Well done!” Cavendish, his British accent returning. “In exchange for a letter of marque, sicut aliter scitur my hunting license, I will eliminate this impediment to your operations at a time of your government’s choosing.”

“How might this work?” said Ford.

“First the contract part. My lawyers advise me that, as allowed under article one, section eight of that fantastic old document, the United States Constitution, I will require a letter of marque in order to be registered as an official privateer,” said Cavendish. “You know, perhaps I might be able to acquire one of the original copies of the Constitution. What would that run, Ms. Ford? Safekeeping and all that.”

Beyer interrupted. The champagne had been pretty decent, but the little twit was back to wasting his time.

“Look, I don’t care what the lawyers think. Not my job. What I care about is winning this war,” said Beyer. “Because I’m not here just to help you cross an item off your bucket list.”

“No, Admiral, I am here to help you,” said Cavendish.

“How?” said Beyer. “All I see is a guy with a funny name who’s sitting in a plane rigged out like a porno set and drinking a glass of old champagne in a country that’s trying to explain to kindergartners how rationing works. So what are you going to give us in exchange for this letter you want?”

“A secret weapon, the likes of which the Directorate has never faced before,” whispered Cavendish, softly touching his empty flute against his temple. “My imagination.”

Vern Li wiped the sweat from her brow and looked again. There. She took off her viz glasses and the graffiti was gone. She dabbed the sweat from her nose and put the glasses back on. There it was again.

She wobbled as if the ship were pitching at sea. The fresh red paint looked like blood.

We are watching you, Chink.

“Vern, you okay?” asked Teri, a thirty-five-year-old software engineer from Caltech who was working with her in the confines of the engine room.

“Uh, no. I mean, I think so,” said Vern.

“Sit down here,” Teri gently commanded. “Do you want a stim? We’ve been at this for, like, twenty hours.”

“Do you see anything odd here? At all?” said Vern.

“Yeah, everything I see on this ship is odd,” said Teri.

“No, I mean, do you see anything around us, like writing on the wall over there?” said Vern.

“Writing? No. You want me to get the corpsman?” asked Teri. “This is not good. How much did you take?”

“It’s not the stims,” said Vern.

“I heard there was a bad batch going around. Might have been Directorate tampering; at least that’s what the gov feed said. But the smart money says someone’s cutting it with laundry soap to make a few extra bucks.”

Chink. What century was this? How dare they doubt her!

“Here, sit down,” said Teri, more firmly this time. “What’s the matter?”

Vern opened her mouth to explain what she was seeing and then clenched her jaw shut. If the power systems failed in combat, the ship and likely whoever wrote that would die. And the power systems depended on this Chink’s graduate-school science project. It was that simple.

She flung her viz glasses at the spot on the wall. They hit where the graffiti would have been if someone had had the courage to write it in actual blood-red paint.

“Vern?” said Teri. “Take it easy. I’m going to go get somebody, you just rest.”

Vern crawled on hands and knees to pick up her glasses. They weren’t even scratched. How she wished they were broken. She pushed the reset button at the temple and waited for them to reacquire the Zumwalt’s network. She closed her eyes when she put them on. When she opened her eyes, the graffiti was still there.

The sound of heavy footsteps made her get up.

“Vern, this is Chief Simmons,” said Teri.

“Dr. Li, I hear you’re not feeling well,” said Simmons.

“I’m just tired of this shit,” said Vern.

“From what I understand, you may be the most important person on this ship,” said Simmons. “So you’re part of the equipment, then, and that makes you my responsibility. Let’s get you topside, give you some air, feed you, and get you back to work.”

Vern laughed at the notion of her being literally a part of the ship. This world seemed so absurd because it was true.

“More important than the captain?” said Vern.

“Well, that’s a complicated answer for me, Dr. Li.” Mike laughed. “I’ll just say definitively you’re more important to the ship.”

Vern laughed again. Teri gave them both a nervous grin.

Vern studied the old sailor. It seemed he’d never had a day of doubt in his life.

“Teri, I need to have a word alone with the chief,” said Vern.

“Uh,” said Teri. “All right. I’ll go grab some water and then meet you by the stern.”

Mike stepped aside to let Teri squeeze past. Despite his heavy footsteps, he had a surprising ease about him on the deck, at least for an old guy.

“So, Dr. Li, tell me what’s really going on,” said Mike.

Vern took off her viz glasses and held them out.

“You have to see for yourself,” said Vern.

“Why don’t you just show me,” said Mike.

“I am,” said Vern.

“No, I mean actually show me,” said Mike.

“I can’t, you need to wear my viz,” said Vern.

Simmons held the glasses out in front of him with a mix of disdain and, Vern sensed, fear.

“These won’t fit,” said Mike. “How about you tell me…”

Vern saw that uncertainty was a rare feeling for him, and that made him even more uncomfortable.

“You’ve never used viz before, have you?” she asked.

Mike looked down at the scuffed toes of his boots.

“No. I haven’t,” said Mike. “I never saw the point.”

“I know you’re an old fart, but you’re not that old,” said Vern. Her face reddened with embarrassment, and anger flashed across Mike’s features. “I’m sorry. That’s what they said we were to call you guys. Please. It’s important,” she said. “It’s about the ship.”

Before he could move, she placed the glasses carefully on his face. She noticed that his right ear was slightly lower than the left and that his nose had been broken at least once. He stiffened and then relaxed once she backed away.

He lost his balance, and she lunged forward to steady him with an awkward hug.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Mike. It was so real. He’d heard it was something about the way they projected a data stream onto your retinas that made it so different from the first-generation Google Glass. With these, you weren’t so much looking through the glass at the world; it was more like the world was being brought inside your brain. It gave you the sense of not just seeing, but feeling. And it felt damn weird.

Vern led him by the hand to the graffiti. He saw the sticky red that part of his brain said was real, even down to its smell, and that drowned out the other part of his brain whispering that it wasn’t real, that it hadn’t been there just a few seconds ago.

“What the hell is that?” asked Mike. “Blood?”

“Yes. At least, it’s supposed to look like blood,” said Vern.

“Who did this, goddamn it?” said Mike. He squinted and slid the glasses down on his nose and then back up. Down, then up again.