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Clair, Jesse, Gemma and Shannon emerged from the submarine at double-time and didn't linger to say farewells. By the time they stepped onto dry land, the sub was already gone. Brooklyn Heights was connected by bridge to the Manhattan archipelago and the neighbouring Fort Worth Peninsula. They took a moment to get their bearings under a gray morning sky, then headed off uphill for the War Memorial. My drone hovered several metres above them, monitoring their environment through all its senses.

"Any word from the Farmhouse?" Shannon asked me.

"I detect brush fires in its general vicinity." Confusion so dominated my thoughts that it was a relief to function on something uncomplicated as reading the data from a satellite.

"Is that a good sign?"

"Maybe," said Gemma. "If the farmers lit them, that'll keep the dupes busy."

Clair didn't seem to be hearing the conversation at all.

"You know the way we have to go, Q?"

"I can easily guide you."

"'So lead on, Macduff.'"

The text of Macbeth was one I knew well.

"'I would the friends we miss were safe arrived,'" I said.

"Is that the next line?"

"It is, and I've not misquoted it, either."

Clair wasn't in the mood to reminisce.

"Let's move. We've got quite a hike ahead of us."

"This is nothing," said Shannon. "When we get back to the Farmhouse, I'll take you boundary riding with me."

"And I walked the John Muir trail once," said Gemma. "Three hundred sixty kilometres in sixteen days."

"You're both insane. Q, where do we go from the memorial?"

"Manhattan Bridge," I told her. "You can't miss it."

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