I retrieve what I’ve nicknamed “mini-mixer” – a one-liter transparent chamber with ports for adding substances and sensors to track changes. I fill it with half a liter of the tainted wetland water. The liquid looks foreboding even in this small volume. Then I introduce a carefully measured aliquot of our algae culture from the lab, and a dash of our nanobots. I seal the chamber and start the gentle stirring and aeration.

  Immediately, I notice our nanobots, which are magnetic, cluster and move with more coordination than the Atlas ones. They seem almost eager, if a machine can be, homing in on the polymer particulates in the water. Our algae, bright green and healthy, mix with the sickly gray water. Within minutes, the monitors show a slight rise in oxygen levels – a sign the algae are photosynthesizing and perhaps beginning to work on the pollutants.

  Camila peers into the little reactor alongside me. “If only we could fast-forward this to the whole marsh,” she whispers.

  “Let’s see how it goes first,” I say, though I share the sentiment. It’s hard to be patient when help is in our grasp, but science demands proof.

  As the mini-mixer gurgles softly, I take another moment to glance around at the wetland itself. The agency folks are busy taking more samples and adjusting barriers. Devon is on a radio, likely updating his superiors. A couple of news vans have parked on a far-off road – telephoto lenses no doubt capturing shots of the devastation and of us. Camila will probably have to give a statement later.

  She follows my gaze and sighs. “They smell a story. At least we can hopefully give them a positive angle if this test works.”

  We both return our focus to the reactor. The algae are doing their job: nitrate levels dropping, toxin compounds reducing bit by bit. A smile tugs at my lips as numbers on my tablet creep in the right direction. This validation of our work is uplifting, even in this grim setting. It’s as if a small light is pushing back against the darkness of this water.

  Then, in the corner of the reactor, I spot a familiar glow – a pulsating green light. I blink. It’s our algae, inside the jar, starting to luminesce in that now-recognizable pattern. Surely not now… not here. But yes: flash flash flash, pause, flash flash, pause, flash, pause, flash flash flash, pause, flash flash... It’s longer now, running together more complexly. I count quickly and write it down furtively on my palm with a marker: 3-2-1-3-2. That’s the sequence I caught: three, two, one, three, two.

  Camila hasn’t noticed; she’s looking at the tablet. I subtly shift to block the reactor from the others’ line of sight in case they notice the light. This is perplexing – the algae are “talking” again, and the sequence changed with this real sample.

  3-2-1-3-2. If I add that to the previous ones: we had 3-2-2-3, then 3-2-3-3-2, now 3-2-1-3-2. Could these be pieces of a larger puzzle? Are they reacting to different scenarios (lab stimulus vs field water)? The presence of Atlas bots? The sequence with '1' in it stands out – a single flash which didn’t appear before.

  I have to concentrate not to look too obviously at it. I murmur to Camila, “The algae are… reacting.” I phrase it like a generic observation.

  She nods, assuming I mean in terms of detoxifying. “Yes, they seem to be working on the contaminants. Look, the pH in the jar is moving back to normal range.”

  I let out a breath, deciding not to explain the lights now. Not with others around, not without a full interpretation. But I feel a thrill of urgency – the algae are clearly responding to something specific in this environment, in a coded way. Maybe it is a warning or an alert to the presence of Atlas’s rogue nanotech.

  Devon approaches us, curiosity on his face at our little experiment. “How’s that going?” he asks.

  Camila, ever the diplomat, gestures for me to share the good news. I clear my throat. “Actually, it’s promising. In this small sample, our algae and nanobots are raising oxygen levels and breaking down the toxins. If scaled up, it might revive the wetland. But we’d have to be very careful and get approvals since it’s experimental.”

  Devon’s eyes brighten. “At this point, if you told me pixie dust would work, I’d ask how much to sprinkle. I know approvals are tricky, but the wildlife here is already devastated. The sooner we act, the better chance to save what’s left and prevent spread.”

  Camila nods gravely. “We understand. We’ll make our recommendation. Ultimately, it’s up to the environmental authority and our higher-ups. But having on-site data like this will help a lot.”

  We spend another hour collecting as much information as possible. I secretly document the algae’s flashing pattern with my tablet video when I pretend to be checking some readings. Meanwhile, Camila speaks on and off with CovTech HQ by phone, briefing them. There’s talk of an emergency deployment; I catch phrases like “liability waivers” and “government partnership” floating from her calls. She’s doing her magic to pave the way.

  By noon, the sun is harsh and hot, and I’m feeling the fatigue of two nights of poor sleep plus the adrenaline crash. But we’re packing up to head back, and I know the real work is about to begin: presumably preparing for a large-scale response at Blue Harbor.

  As I stow the now-contaminated mini-reactor (sealed tight) into a biosecure case, I notice Camila standing by the water, staring out over the wasteland of a marsh. I walk over gently. “Hey,” I say softly, “we should get going. The team here has our contact if anything changes.”

  She doesn’t turn immediately. When she does, her eyes glisten just a little, though her expression remains composed. “I used to go bird-watching in a place like this when I was a kid,” she says unexpectedly. “Back in Brazil. My father took me. It was full of life – noisy, messy, wonderful life. I learned all the bird calls.” She chuckles, but it’s a sad sound. “Places like that… like this… they’re becoming ghosts.”

  I feel a lump in my throat. This is the most unguarded I’ve seen her in a long time. Without thinking, I reach out and squeeze her hand. “We’re going to fix this,” I say. “Maybe not today, maybe not completely. But we’re trying, Camila. It counts for something.”

  She squeezes back, then releases, straightening her shoulders. The moment passes, and the professional mask resumes, but I know I glimpsed the person beneath – someone who deeply, genuinely cares, beyond the corporate veneer. It makes her manipulations, her relentless drive, more understandable: it all comes from a place of passion and pain for what’s being lost.

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  The drive back is filled with strategy talk. CovTech has green-lit an emergency deployment at Blue Harbor pending governmental approval, which is expected by tomorrow. That means tonight we have to upscale our algae-nanobot cultures like mad, prepare the delivery systems, and run final safety checks. It’s going to be an all-nighter for the team. Camila will coordinate the logistics, and I’ll lead the scientific prep.

  Despite the daunting workload, a part of me is exhilarated. This is what we’ve been working for – a chance to put our solution to the test, to prove we can save an ecosystem on the brink. And yet, under that excitement, there’s fear. Because if it goes wrong, we could make things worse, or destroy the credibility of our approach entirely. And also because of the unknown element: the algae’s communications.

  Back at CovTech, the afternoon and evening blur into a frenzy. Meetings with engineers about dispersal mechanisms (drones or pumps?), quality control checks on the current algae stock (I make sure the batches we use are all descendants of the one I tested, the one showing that strange intelligence – I want that trait in the field, even if I don’t fully grasp it), and coordinating with our AI specialists to adjust nanobot programming for the specific pollutants found at Blue Harbor.

  Jill and the others work like inspired maniacs when they hear the news. This is what we all signed up for – to actually deploy our work to heal something broken. Even if it’s a trial by fire.

  Camila is everywhere and nowhere – I see glimpses of her with phone in hand, or huddled with legal advisors drafting agreements, then speaking to the press in measured tones about our “Ray of hope at Blue Harbor.” She’s in her element, though I know she must be running on fumes too.

  Late at night, as our lab techs tend to the giant vats of bubbling green solution (our “algae farm” scaled up to production volume), I retreat to a corner with my tablet to review the video I captured of the algae’s flashing in the field sample. It’s clearly visible. I write down the full sequence this time, with precise counts and timing. It was indeed 3-2-1-3-2.

  I now have three distinct sequences:

  ? A: 3-2-2-3 (from lab, initial)

  ? B: 3-2-3-3-2 (from lab with Atlas bots in sample)

  ? C: 3-2-1-3-2 (from Blue Harbor polluted water with our system)

  Is there a pattern? They all start with 3-2. Perhaps that’s like a header or identifier. The variations after might correspond to context. If I put them in order of complexity, B was longer than A, and C seems to incorporate a '1' that neither A nor B had.

  Could it be spelling something if concatenated? 3-2-2-3-3-2-3-3-2-3-2? That’s too long for my brain to parse in that format. What if I convert them to Morse assumption:

  ? 3 = S

  ? 2 = I

  ? 1 = E (if we follow Morse dot counts as letters)

  Then: A: S I I S? (3-2-2-3 would be S I I S) – nonsense as letters but interestingly symmetrical. B: S I S S I (3-2-3-3-2) – that spells “SISSI” maybe? Not helpful unless referencing a name or term. C: S I E S I (3-2-1-3-2) – “SIESI” also not an English word.

  But if I look at SISSI and SIESI… what if it’s not English? Or an anagram? Or just gibberish if taken as letters.

  Alternatively, maybe 3,2,1 pulses correspond to long, medium, short pulses of a single message. Perhaps I should consider them as parts of one continuous code where 3 might be a dash, 2 a dot, 1 maybe a break? But no, they were separated by distinct pauses in groupings, which I interpreted as those numbers.

  Alternatively, consider if they correspond to numeric values or pH or something? Unlikely.

  Another angle: Could “3-2-1-3-2” be a countdown of sorts (3-2-1) embedded in it? That sequence has a 3-2-1 in the middle. Countdown to what? Or a sequence like steps.

  Or maybe coordinates or references: e.g., sequence C 3-2-1-3-2 could be read as 32.132 (if concatenated), which could be a latitude (32.132° maybe) or a code. 32.232, 32.332 from others? Possibly not consistent.

  Let’s see: A as decimal: 3223 B: 32332 C: 32132 If those were zip codes or years? No.

  Perhaps I should not over-crack it now. The crucial thing might be that they are indeed communicating something aware of context: A base signal (A) that they can do, a modified one when they “talk” to Atlas bots (B), and another when in actual contaminated environment (C). Could it be distress signals, essentially? Like: A: initial contact or hello, B: foreign tech present, C: urgent danger present (since environment was deadly).

  If that’s the case, maybe the algae are acting like an environmental sensor net, flagging conditions. If only I knew how to interpret it definitively. There’s no manual for deciphering possibly intelligent algae.

  “Earth to Polo, come in.” Jill waves a hand in front of my face, startling me. I realize I was staring at the tablet lost in thought. Around me, the lab is humming with late-night energy, people moving around me with purpose.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “Miles away.”

  She offers a tired smile. “We’re about as ready as we can be. How about you? You’ve been working harder than anyone. You should catch at least an hour of sleep before dawn. We need you sharp out there when we release these little guys.”

  I look at the time: 3:30 AM. We plan to be back at Blue Harbor by 6 AM to begin deployment at first light, pending the final go-ahead. The algae cultures are essentially done – we have drums of them, and drone sprayers prepped. The nanobots are calibrated and mixed in. I’m essentially done with what I can do now.

  “I might take you up on that,” I concede. “What about you?”

  She laughs. “After this is over. I’m running on sheer excitement and two energy drinks. But someone’s gotta babysit these pumps till morning.”

  I nod, appreciating her dedication. I find a quiet corner in a storage room with a cot (we keep them for overnight shifts) and lie down.

  I think of Camila – she likely hasn’t slept at all either, doing a million things I don’t even see. We make quite a pair: the scientist and the crusader, both a little obsessed, both burning the candle at both ends.

  I think of the algae – no, not just as lab specimens, but almost as characters in this story too. It strikes me that, unintentionally, we may have created or awakened something new. A new form of life? Or a conduit for something bigger? The supernatural implication that nags at me is: could these algae be vessels for some Gaia-like consciousness? The rational side counters: or just the emergent property of combining biological networks with AI (the nanobots). Perhaps our creation is essentially an AI spread across living cells – which could seem like a “spirit” of the ecosystem.

  Either way, they’ve been trying to communicate. And like a fool, I still haven’t decoded it. Perhaps the real understanding will come when I see them in full action during the wetland restoration. Maybe there, amid a real ecosystem, they’ll show something unmistakable.

  Before I drift off, one more troubling thought surfaces: Camila. She’s been nothing but supportive lately, but I know her goal-oriented mindset. If she knew the algae were “alive” in a new way, would she publicize it to boost our project’s profile, or hide it to avoid complicating the mission? Would she see it as a miracle or just another tool to harness? Part of me fears that even between us, this could become a point of contention. For now, though, I push that aside. We’re a team, and a good one.

  I set an alarm for an hour. Even as I close my eyes, I feel the weight of responsibility settle on me. Tomorrow, we play god – in the gentlest, most well-intentioned way, we will breathe life back into dead water. I only hope we truly are as ready as we think, because a god’s work is never simple, and consequences are real.

  My last drowsy thought is of those green pulses of light, like a guiding beacon in the dark water. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the world whispering to us in the only language it has left. And if so, I silently promise whoever or whatever is listening: I’ll do my best to listen and to act.

  With that vow echoing in my weary mind, I let sleep finally take me, the murmur of bubbling algae cultures lulling me like an ocean’s tide.