“Coding’s not useless in the apocalypse. We’d probably need someone to hack ex-Soviet nuclear plants and shut them down safely. Do you think you could do that?”

  “Me?” Selah puffed out one cheek, thinking. “I could give it a bloody good go, yeah. I speak a bit of Russian.”

  “We could probably find a translator.”

  “We?” said Selah. “Are you running the global consortium of apocalypse survivors in this scenario?”

  Right, then. Go big or go home. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to do it, but I’d rather I did it than anyone else.”

  Selah barked out a laugh. “I see why you like her. Alright. You hungry? I’m starving. Let’s get some dinner.”

  Later, although she’d told herself she’d try to remember every moment, Zhen couldn’t really recall a great deal of the conversation over dinner. This was partly because she’d drunk quite a lot of the deceptively soda-like champagne. But mostly because Martha Einkorn had a way of smiling where a tiny peep of pink tongue licked the very center of her curved top lip. And because when Zhen tentatively brushed the tips of her fingers along Martha’s thigh under the table, this apparently fairly wealthy and powerful woman did not move away. In fact, she touched the top of Zhen’s hand lightly with her own fingers. Who could be expected to remember a conversation in circumstances like those?

  The only part she really remembered was about the inevitable arrival of the apocalypse.

  Selah Nommik had leaned across the table and said: “So, you’re an expert. What’s your survival plan in the event of bug invasion, Zhen?”

  “Bug invasion? Like giant mutant bugs or killer bacteria?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “You serious?” Zhen looked quizzically at Martha. Whose fingertips were even now lightly stroking the fine hairs on Zhen’s forearm. Zhen was a mess of desire.

  “Dead serious.” Martha grinned. “Maybe you wouldn’t really survive a bug invasion. Maybe you’ve got no game.”

  “Oh, I’ve got game.”

  “So demonstrate your game,” said Selah.

  Zhen moved her arm away from Martha under the table. Thinking and sex were not parallel-process activities.

  “OK, so both giant bugs and bacteria together would be problematic, because the strategies that’ll keep you alive in the event of a sudden macro-predator—which by the way that’s not going to happen, that’s a sci-fi movie—would involve working in huge packs with any humans left. But if there’s a killer infection, your best idea is to separate off as quickly as possible into a small, self-contained group.”

  “How would you do that?” Selah said.

  “Seriously?” Zhen said.

  Selah tipped her glass and raised an eyebrow.

  “Alright, first, get out of the city. Obviously,” said Zhen.

  “Obviously,” said Martha, as if she knew a secret.

  “Bunkers aren’t great—too many people. I’d go deep woods. Or an island, if I could get to an island.”

  “An island,” Selah said. “Interesting.”

  “Yeah, but a lot of people will be trying that. It’d need to be uncomfortable living. A good tent, set traps, hunt with a crossbow, prepare to lose some weight. A small community, just a few people who really have each other’s backs.”

  “Not going it alone?”

  “Individualism is a fool’s game in this scenario. You cut yourself and get an infection, there’s no one to scavenge antibiotics, you die. You fall down a ravine, there’s no one to find you, you die.”

  “You’re not worried about infighting?”

  “Try to mitigate it. Focus on the future.”

  “What about if you had a ton of money and you could pay soldiers to look after you?”

  “I mean… how quickly does your bug kill people?”

  Martha exchanged a look with Selah and wrinkled her nose. “Seventeen-day incubation. You’re infectious the whole time. Then a five-day illness, then fifty percent of people die.”

  “Oh, wow. OK. That’s good. I mean, that’s terrible. Look, soldiers are no use in that scenario. Money rapidly ceases to have value and then what have you got to offer them? You’re just a body taking up resources. Even if you have the code to the food stores or something, they lock you up and torture you until you give it to them.”

  “Shit.”

  “Right.”

  Martha poured more wine. It was golden and sweet but not too sweet. It tasted like money. It was getting late. Had Martha Einkorn really invited Zhen to dinner with Selah Nommik and felt Zhen up under the table so they could all talk?

  “So,” said Selah with the air of someone making a serious proposition, “if you knew the end of the world was coming. And that you could get away. If you had the golden ticket that would keep you safe. Would you take it?”

  Zhen looked between the women. There was a meaning to this conversation, something she wasn’t party to.

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “No,” said Martha, “it’s not a trick question. It’s a moral question. You’ll live and be fine but everyone else will have to suffer through that plague. Would you take the golden ticket out?”

  “Obviously yes. I live for survival.”

  “Even if you knew everyone you loved was going to die horribly? Even if you knew taking it meant that you could never tell them what you had?”

  “I can’t share it? Most survival plans work better with a solid group.”

  “Not this one. The more people know, the less good it is,” said Martha.

  Selah gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  “Is that why you’re both here? And Lenk Sketlish and Zimri Nommik? Because there’s a golden ticket?”

  Selah said, “What makes you think Lenk and Zimri are here?”

  “Just because I don’t get invited to the demonstration on the roof terrace doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on.” Zhen shifted a shoulder. “I talk to catering staff. It’s not hard.”

  “She talks to catering staff,” said Selah.

  “That’s how you find things out,” said Martha.

  Zhen was nicely drunk by this point—but not so drunk as she seemed. Something was going on here. The same instinct that told her when she needed to get out of a situation also told her where there was a story. Something here was bigger even than a show-off drone weather demonstration. Her mind riffled through a set of possibilities. Anything she’d heard of here that might be big enough for Lenk Sketlish, Zimri Nommik, and—now she thought of it—Ellen Bywater to come in person to see, or have pitched, or buy. She blinked, thinking. And just then Martha’s hand brushed the very top of her thigh, by the groin. Oh. Just a second.

  “I just need to go to the restroom,” she heard herself saying, and stood up.

  In the bathroom, Zhen felt the slipperiness between her legs. There was a moment—there’s always a moment—of wondering whether to just leave. Something was going on here that was far above her level. And very possibly she was going to have a wild sex time with one, possibly two rich and powerful women, and while her vagina was voting yes, the rest of her had lived through a refugee camp and a forced relocation. So she always stopped, considered her options.

  She texted Marius. Never let a billionaire move you to a second location. At least not without letting someone know.

  Zhen: Martha Einkorn/Selah Nommik: know anything about them?

  Marius: Only what everyone knows. You doing a story?

  Zhen: Having dinner with them! They’re together. Why are they together? Also, ME has her hand on my thigh?!

  Marius: They want you for good publicity. Some story is coming. They want you spin it for them.

  Zhen: You’re such a cynic.

  Marius: You didn’t want cynic, you didn’t text me.

  Marius: Maybe you pissed them off and they want to bury you in deep grave in quiet woods.

  Zhen: Maybe they like me.

  Marius: Yes yes, maybe they want to marry you. Don’t send me invitation. I hate weddings.

  Well, that was Marius. Former Soviet bloc for life. She texted him the details of the room and a photo just in case she vanished without a trace, and he replied, Tell me if they try to kill you.

  Sitting on the toilet, Zhen allowed herself about forty-five seconds of daydreaming about what kind of wedding Martha Einkorn would arrange—probably in a castle of some sort. But she didn’t go on long, because she’d messed up relationships and herself before by imagining the future after the first date. Her therapist had explained that human beings long for certainty so much that we’re willing to even undermine and sabotage ourselves in the search for it. Worrying about whether you’ll get a second date? The easiest way to end your uncertainty is to be so weird and creepy with her that you definitely won’t get a second date. The urge to imagine the winter wedding is an urge to make it all crash and burn so you don’t have to think about it anymore.

  Looking for distraction, she scrolled her feeds.

  ›› Miami’s flood defenses had failed again and thirty-eight thousand people’s homes were underwater in the most literal sense.

  ›› Another storm was heading for Bangladesh; estimates were that more than thirteen thousand people would die in the next forty-eight hours.

  ›› For the fourth year, the Colorado River had failed to refill over the winter. There were calls to rename it the Colorado Gully.

  ›› A brief report on DEMOlition. The apocalypse industry was thriving. It was still boom times for the end times.

  OK. At least that was distracting. The normal apocalypse and disaster in the normal way. She’d been in here about four minutes. She could probably go to six minutes before it seemed weird. She checked her mentions.

  This was a mistake, because her mentions were a car crash. Several hundred people calling her… stupid, ignorant, a cocksucker, not even a cocksucker, anti-American—not that she was really, truly American—and the usual flotsam of people using epithets for “Asian,” epithets for “lesbian,” epithets for “woman.” A flood of adrenaline crashed through her body. Every possible fear happening all at once: the border guards telling her father they couldn’t come through, shots in the dark and the scent of burning kerosene while she shivered under her cot, her girlfriend telling her she’d been having an affair, her work turning out to be a terrible pile of crap, the moment of the explosion, the thing with the dog, all of it as if it were happening immediately right now. What the hell had happened? Her mind was searching through her worst deeds to see whether she could have done anything to deserve this.

  She clicked through the mentions, looking for the source. There it was. A three-second video of her saying “Didn’t Enoch go mental on the subway? Didn’t he threaten people and steal their wallets?” And then a lot of anger.

  A brief search confirmed that yes, in fact the Enochite community online was still fairly active. Enoch had considered himself a direct spiritual descendant of Abraham. The Enochite belief system centered on a theory called “pieces,” which said that the world was descending into fragmentation. Online they talked about “entering the Babble” to save souls from “pieces”—and there was some stuff about “foxes and rabbits” that Zhen didn’t understand except that it seemed to be saying we all ought to leave our houses and go back to hunting and gathering. Which none of them had actually done.

  The internet these days was full of so many subgroups and disparate voices that it was impossible to keep up with all of them. These guys weren’t her guys—they were survivalist adjacent but not her brand of tech survivalism. No one in her core audience would give a crap if some fundamentalists thought she was anti-religion. This was, in essence, unpleasant but not an actual problem. She turned her notifications off.

  Zhen walked out of the bathroom, full of adrenaline, realizing that she’d been in the toilet for approximately twelve minutes, which was too long and now it’d seem like she had some kind of terrible, unattractive stomach problem. She only realized precisely at this moment that the urge to check her notifications had also been an urge toward self-sabotage, which was also the urge toward certainty. Shit, her brain was a sneaky bastard.

  She was wondering what to say and whether to ask Martha about the Enochite situation when she heard the two women in the dining room whispering quietly to each other. And because this is how you survive, Zhen slowed down and listened.

  Selah Nommik said: “Zimri’s expecting me back soon. Your girl’s sharp. You haven’t mentioned our friend the prophet to her at all?”

  Martha said: “No.”

  “She might be useful.”

  “This is not for that.”

  “Everything’s for that. Some things are going to have to be put off. OK?”

  Zhen stepped around the side of the bookcase—who put a bookcase full of books in a hotel room?—just as Selah Nommik smiled, stood up, and said, “Right, I’ve got to be off. Great to meet you, Zhen. Be seeing you.”

  And Zhen smiled, shook her hand, thought, Prophet? Did she mean Enoch? And then she and Martha Einkorn were alone, and all she wanted was to know whether this moment, full of promise, was the thing that was going to have to be put off.

  Martha stood by the window, looking at the view. London, twinkling and dark, the Thames barriers raised again, the river full and deep. The snow falling thicker now, not quite melting, dusting the pavement with white. The buildings by the water’s edge—their facades of stone carved into curlicues and made to look like folded fabric—were protected by six layers of strengthened Perspex screens now, to keep them safe when the tides rose. The stories of imperial power the marble had been created to tell were long over. Now the lights and the flood defenses told a different tale: the water was coming, and London, like everywhere, would have to choose what to protect. Martha beckoned her over, and they stood together watching the whirring lights of the dronedoves darting between the buildings, the softly plashing water. From here, it looked like it would all be alright when it happened. Even beautiful. Even magnificent.

  Goose bumps rose on Zhen’s arms. This moment. The moment before you touch. When you want to. When all you have is guessing that the other person wants to as well. The gap between two bodies almost unbridgeable.

  Martha said, “So how come you’re single?”

  “I was in a long thing with my college girlfriend. She cheated, we broke up.”

  “Mmm. Sucks. She broke your heart?”

  “Yeah,” said Zhen.

  “You still miss her?”

  “I liked the idea that we might end up staying together forever. It felt… you know, neat. Elegant. Spare.”

  Martha touched Zhen’s bare arm, just brushing her fingertips over the skin. Zhen pulled away slightly, aching. Martha hesitated.

  Zhen said, “How did you… meet her? Selah Nommik?”

  “We have some stuff in common.”

  “Look,” said Zhen, “I’m OK with whatever the answer to this is, really. I mean, people do what they do and I’ll keep your secret. Cheating is a thing adults do and other people’s relationships aren’t always obvious. I just need to know for… I-don’t-cheat reasons, OK? I have casual sex if everyone knows the score, but I don’t cheat. Are you and Selah Nommik together?”

  Martha laughed—it was so obviously a real laugh, impossible to take it for anything else. Martha shook her head. “Sadly, Selah Nommik is totally, one hundred percent straight.”

  Zhen laughed too and then they were silent. It was the serious, almost grave silence that comes just before the opening to one another. Opening is dangerous, every single time. But that’s how we’re here.

  Martha ran her hand across Zhen’s shoulders. “You want this?”

  Zhen said, “I do.” Martha’s hand was sliding down her back toward her ass and Zhen was so turned on she could barely breathe.

  “It’s all signals,” said Martha, “sending and receiving signs. Hoping we interpreted them right. Meeting. Flirting. Fucking.”

  Zhen brushed the fingertips of her left hand against the side of Martha’s neck. Martha sighed softly. Zhen’s groin was heavy and aching.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “There’s no way to tell unless we make ourselves vulnerable.”

  Martha tipped her head to the side, looked at Zhen, and gave that halfway smile.

  Zhen leaned in and kissed her. And one thing went on to another.

  * * *

  There was—in total—three and a half days of fucking. Just enough for it to be achingly, terrifyingly obvious that they ought to fuck a lot more. A lot more. And for Zhen to think—This would be OK, I could quit all the apocalypse traveling, I could follow her around, I could be home somewhere when she’s home, I could figure this out. And for her to think—Enough, stop, just let this be what it is for now. But she had never been able to do that.

  She ran her tongue along one of the pale silvery-smooth stretch marks ribbing the skin of Martha’s shoulder like mackerel stripes. Between Zhen’s conference talks, between Martha’s meetings, between ordering room service dinner, Zhen asked Martha questions about Lenk, about Zimri Nommik, about previous girlfriends, and Martha Einkorn answered almost none of them. “I just want you to know,” said Zhen, “that if you’re holding out on me because of, like… erotic mystique… I am already extremely into you.” And Martha laughed and they started again. Because it was going to be nothing, Zhen told herself; it was going to be a story she’d tell her next actual girlfriend. Just keep believing you can control the future, that you know what’s coming and what’s coming is nothing good.

  At the end of the third day, just after 3 a.m., Zhen woke to the sound of Martha scribbling a note and pulling her boots on. The sound was soft and she had a diffuse midi-light shining from her thinscreen, just enough to see by. Zhen kept her breathing even. Martha touched her shoulder and she sighed and rolled over. Thinking all the time: Where the fuck are you going at 3 a.m.? Martha summoned the elevator, which arrived with an almost silent shhhhhh of the doors. As soon as the doors closed, Zhen was up, pulling on her jeans and T-shirt. She called the elevator back and—yes—through the glass tube she could just see which direction Martha was walking. Back toward the conference venue. She didn’t even know why she was following her, but there was something here. She knew it. All her instincts told her something was happening.