The biolab smelled like nothing.
Four months in Antarctica and this still bothered Moss more than the light, more than the food, more than the face in the polished metal that was his face and was not his face. Smell was how you read a room. Smell told you if the bilge pump had failed or the salt pork had turned or the man beside you was frightened. Here the air was the same everywhere. Scrubbed. Filtered. Dead.
He sat on a bench that adjusted under him in tiny, constant movements — the surface reading his weight distribution, correcting his posture, doing something he had not asked it to do. He had stopped fighting the furniture. You could not win an argument with a chair in this place.
Surya stood beside him. She held her hands at her sides in that way she had — still, deliberate, every finger accounted for. She was translating for him today. The biolab team spoke Satya too quickly and used terms the pidgin could not carry. Moss understood perhaps one word in five without her. With her, he understood three in five. The remaining two he filled in from context, from the way people moved their hands, from the set of their shoulders. The body was a language older than any spoken one. That, at least, Antarctica had not optimized away.
Seven Antarctikans sat in a curved row behind a long bench. Three he recognized: the biologists who had drawn his blood, swabbed his gums, catalogued the contents of his gut in the weeks after he woke. They had been thorough. They had been polite. They had treated him the way a careful sailor treats an unfamiliar current — with respect and instruments.
The other four were Council members and senior scientists. He knew Priya. She sat at the left end of the row, her mesh displays already floating above her open palm, columns of data he could not read. She had voted to modify him. He did not hate her for it. She had been right — he would have died. That she had been right did not make the amber streaks in his eyes hers to claim. But she had been right.
A tall woman at the center of the row — Dr. Kavya, the lead biologist — stood and began to speak. Her voice carried the Antarctic cadence: measured, unhurried, every syllable placed like a tile in a mosaic. Moss watched her mouth. Then he looked at Surya.
"They studied your samples," Surya said. Low voice, close to his ear. "The ones taken before the modification. Your original biology."
Moss nodded. He remembered the samples. They had taken everything — blood, saliva, stool, skin scrapings, hair. They had frozen him before they changed him. The old him, bottled and stored. He had tried not to think about it. A man in a jar.
"They are presenting the results today," Surya said. "To a scientific review committee."
Dr. Kavya spoke for a long time. Surya translated in fragments, pausing when the terminology resisted conversion, choosing words carefully the way a helmsman chose a heading.
The gist: they had mapped his gut. Every microorganism. Every strain. Every chemical the bacteria produced. They had compared it against the Antarctic collective biome — the engineered microbial ecosystem that lived in every sealed human in this sealed world.
Moss waited. He was good at waiting. The ocean taught you that. You could not make wind. You could not speed the tide. You sat and you watched and you kept your hands ready.
Dr. Kavya brought up a display. It filled the air above the bench — a branching structure, dense as coral, each branch a different color. She pointed at a cluster near the base. Then she said a number.
Surya's hand tightened on the edge of her seat.
"Three thousand, two hundred and fourteen," Surya said. "Unique bacterial strains. In your original samples."
Moss looked at her. Her face had not changed — Antarctikans did not change their faces the way Continentals did, not because they had no feeling but because the mesh carried the weight that expressions carried for his people. But her hand was tight on the seat. Surya's body was honest even when her face was still.
"That is a lot?" Moss said.
"The Antarctic collective biome contains four hundred and twelve strains." She paused. "You carried eight times our total diversity. In your body alone."
Dr. Kavya was still speaking. She pulled up another display — a comparison chart, two columns. The left column was dense, crowded, chaotic. The right was sparse and orderly. Moss did not need Surya to tell him which was which.
"Of the two hundred and seventeen strains they identified before your modification — the ones flagged as absent from our population — forty-one produce enzymes that our systems have never been able to synthesize. They modeled these enzymes. They predicted their existence. But they could not make them."
"And now?"
"The preserved samples are alive. In cold storage. The strains can be cultured." She hesitated. "But that is not the finding."
The room had changed. Moss felt it the way he felt a shift in wind — not in the data, not in the words, but in the quality of the air between people. The four committee members who had been listening with professional attention were now sitting differently. Straighter. Stiller.
Priya spoke. She did not stand. She addressed the room from her seat, her mesh displays shifting to a new dataset — population models, curves that rose and fell across centuries, projections that narrowed like the neck of a bottle.
Surya translated. Her voice was careful now. Picking each word up and examining it before passing it to him.
"Antarctica has been losing microbial diversity for five hundred years," Surya said. "Every generation, the collective biome narrows. VEDA optimized it — removed strains that appeared redundant, consolidated function into fewer organisms, increased efficiency. The same process applied to everything else. Streamlining."
"And?"
"The streamlining worked. For a while. But the biome is now too narrow. Their immune systems are adapted to a shrinking set of organisms. If a novel pathogen enters the habitat — a new bacterium, a mutated virus, anything their engineered microbiome has not encountered — there are not enough diverse immune responses in the population to guarantee survival."
Moss thought about this. He thought about it the way he thought about hull integrity — in terms of what holds and what fails and how many waves you have before the answer changes.
"They are fragile," he said.
"They are converging," Surya said. "Biologically. The same way they converged culturally. The same mechanism. Optimize, reduce, simplify. It works until the thing you cut away turns out to be the thing you needed."
Priya was speaking rapidly now. Her displays showed enzyme pathways — molecular structures Moss could not read, chains of symbols that meant nothing to him. But the reaction in the room meant everything. The tall biologist, Dr. Kavya, had stopped presenting and was listening to Priya with her hands flat on the bench. Two committee members were exchanging something through the mesh — their eyes unfocused, their attention elsewhere, in that private channel Moss could not enter.
Priya's voice rose. Not loud — Antarctikans did not do loud. But emphatic. The Satya equivalent of shouting, which was speaking slightly faster and dropping the usual courtesy particles.
Surya's translation came in short, blunt phrases. As though the precision of the Antarctic argument was collapsing into something Moss's language could carry better.
"She says this is not academic. She says your preserved microbiome contains strains essential for long-term immune adaptation in their population. Strains that produce enzymes necessary for nutritional processing under their metabolic architecture. Strains their germline engineers have been trying to synthesize for eighty years and cannot."
Priya pulled up a final display. A single curve. It started wide at the left — centuries ago — and narrowed steadily toward the right. The present was near the bottleneck. The future, on the current trajectory, was a line so thin it might as well be a wire.
"Without external biological input," Surya said, her voice flat and careful, "their models predict critical immune fragility within six to eight generations. Their system will become too specialized to respond to disruption."
Moss looked at the curve. He did not need to understand the axis labels. He knew what a bottleneck looked like. He had seen harbors narrow until the current through them could kill a man. Same principle. Squeeze the channel. Increase the pressure. Wait.
"She says it is existential," Surya added. Quietly. As though the word was heavy enough to require care in the handling.
The room was very still. The committee members were looking at Moss. Not at his face — at him. At his body. At the vessel that had carried, without knowing it, the thing their civilization could not build.
Dr. Kavya asked him a question. She addressed him directly for the first time, turning away from the committee and toward the bench where he sat. Her Satya was slow, enunciated, shaped for his benefit. He caught two words: sharira — body. Mahattva — importance.
Surya translated. "She asks if you understand what this means."
Moss understood.
He understood it the way a sailor understands the joke of the sea — the way a storm that nearly kills you pushes you into the current that saves you. The way the barnacles you curse for slowing your hull turn out to be the only thing holding the planks together when the caulking fails.
He had crossed an ocean. Eleven ships died. He had been cut open and rewritten and given amber eyes and muted taste and a body that did not feel like his own. He had been modified because his biology was incompatible with this place. His old body was the problem. His old body was too messy, too uncontrolled, too full of organisms that Antarctic precision had no use for.
And now they were telling him that the mess was the point.
The bacteria in his gut — the ones they had cleaned out and replaced, the ones that had made him sick in their sterile air, the ones that came from eating fish pulled from a poisoned ocean and drinking water that had never been filtered by anything more sophisticated than boiled cloth — those bacteria were what they needed. Not his mind. Not his knowledge of the sea. Not his languages or his stories or his ability to tie fourteen kinds of knot. His bacteria. The smallest, least considered part of him. The part no one on either side of the ocean had ever thought to value.
Moss laughed.
The sound came out of him like a wave breaking over a gunwale — sudden, uncontrolled, the kind of noise that happens when the body knows something before the mind finds words for it. He laughed because it was absurd. He laughed because Kael would have understood it instantly — the symmetry, the inversion, the glass-grinder's irony of a lens that only works when you look through it backward.
The room flinched.
Not all of them. Priya did not flinch. Dr. Kavya blinked rapidly, her pupils contracting, but held still. But two of the committee members pulled back in their seats — a small, involuntary motion, the body reacting to an unexpected stimulus. Laughter. Unscheduled, unmediated, unanticipated laughter. The sound of a man reacting without consulting anyone or anything about whether the reaction was appropriate.
Moss had not laughed since he arrived. He realized this as the sound left him. Four months. Not once. Not because he had not felt humor — he had, in small moments, in the absurdity of a chair that corrected his posture and food that tasted like the memory of food. But the laughter had stayed inside, tamped down by the weight of strangeness, by the effort of existing in a place where every response was calibrated and every noise had a purpose.
This laugh had no purpose. It was the sound of a man who had just been told that the most advanced civilization on Earth needed his stomach.
"I am sorry," Surya said, automatically. To the room. On his behalf. Then she looked at him and something moved behind her gray eyes — not amusement, not quite, but the recognition of something she had no category for. "Why are you laughing?"
"Because," Moss said. He wiped his eyes. The amber-streaked irises caught the light as he blinked. "Because you changed me to save me. You took out my bacteria and gave me yours. And now you need the ones you took out."
He paused.
"It is a very good knot," he said. "Tied in the wrong order."
Surya translated. He watched the meaning land. Dr. Kavya's expression shifted — a small contraction around her eyes that might have been understanding. Priya's mouth pressed into a line that was not displeasure but the effort of absorbing a truth delivered in a format she had not expected.
The committee session lasted another hour. Moss sat through it. Surya translated less — the discussion became technical, dense with terms that had no pidgin equivalent, and she could only catch the current and relay its direction without every wave.
But the direction was clear enough.
Priya laid it out in the final minutes. She spoke to the committee but she was looking at the display — the bottleneck curve, the narrowing line. She pulled up a second dataset. Continental population estimates. The number sat in the air above her palm, blue against the lab's white surfaces.
Eight hundred million.
Surya leaned close. "She is asking the committee to consider the full scope. Your microbiome is one sample from one person. You are one of eight hundred million unmodified humans. Each one carries a different microbial ecosystem. Different strains. Different enzymes. Different genetic material."
Moss looked at the number. He thought of the coast — of the fishermen and the lens-grinders and the children who swam in water that would kill an Antarctikan in a day. All of them teeming with life they had never catalogued. All of them walking libraries of exactly the biology that this sealed, perfected world was slowly losing.
"The most valuable resource in Antarctica," Surya said, and her voice was strange — distant, as though she were hearing herself speak from the far end of a long corridor, "is not our technology. It is not VEDA. It is not our engineering or our medicine or our energy systems. It is the biological diversity of the Continental population."
Moss sat with this. He let it settle the way sediment settles in still water — slowly, in layers.
For five hundred years, these people had sealed themselves away. They had optimized their bodies, their food, their air, their children. They had engineered out the chaos. They had removed the noise. And now the noise was the signal.
The messy, unedited, unengineered, unoptimized biological chaos of eight hundred million ordinary people — people who got sick and recovered, who ate bad food and survived, who bred without licenses and carried in their guts the accumulated microbial heritage of a species that had spent a hundred thousand years adapting to every filthy, dangerous, uncontrolled environment the planet could throw at it — that chaos was the most valuable thing in Antarctica.
Not because it was better. Because it was different. Because it was wide where they were narrow. Because it was redundant where they were efficient. Because it carried, in its disorder, the raw material for adaptation that no amount of engineering could replace once it was gone.
Moss looked at his hands. They were lighter than they had been. The calluses were fading — the habitat's smooth surfaces wore nothing into your skin. He turned them over. These hands had hauled rope and gutted fish and held a dying woman's head above the waterline. These hands had carried bacteria that a civilization needed to survive.
He closed his fingers into fists. Opened them.
The meeting ended. The committee members stood and left in the Antarctic way — no chatter, no lingering, each person moving with purpose toward whatever the mesh told them was next. Priya stayed. She looked at Moss across the length of the biolab, and for a moment the pragmatism dropped and he saw what was underneath: a woman who had spent her career managing the fragility of a world that believed itself invulnerable, and who had just been shown that the crack she feared went deeper than she knew.
She said something to Surya. A single sentence.
"She says," Surya translated, "that she owes you an apology. Not for the modification. For the assumption behind it."
"What assumption?"
"That you were the one who needed to be changed."
Moss stood. The bench adjusted behind him, resetting to neutral, ready for the next body. He looked at Priya. He did not smile — he had learned that smiling here carried less weight than stillness.
"Tell her she was right to modify me," Moss said. "I would have died. She saved my life. And tell her — "
He stopped. He searched for the words. The pidgin was a small vessel for large cargo.
"Tell her the ocean does not care which direction the current runs. Only that it runs."
Surya translated. Priya listened. She did not respond. She closed her mesh displays, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at the place where the bottleneck curve had been, now empty air, the data dismissed but the shape of it still hanging in the room like the after-image of a bright light.
Moss walked toward the door. His body — his altered, lightened, amber-eyed, muted-taste body — moved through the scrubbed air of the biolab, carrying in its cold-stored past the most basic gift one branch of humanity could offer another.
Not knowledge. Not technology. Not ideas.
Life. Unedited, unoptimized, crawling with three thousand strains of bacterial chaos.
The cure for perfection was the thing perfection threw away.