The ice caps had vanished long ago, their frozen crowns melting into a single, endless ocean that now covered every continent. The world had become a boundless sheet of water, dotted only by the rag‑tag flotillas of people who had learned to survive on the surface. In this new age the seas were both highway and prison, and among the countless wanderers there was one who had earned a reputation for his resourcefulness: the Mariner.  He lived aboard a three‑hull craft that looked as if it had been cobbled together from the debris of a thousand shipwrecks. The hulls were patched with corrugated metal, old timber, and the occasional sail‑cloth that had once belonged to a cargo barge. Between the hulls, a lattice of ropes and salvaged pipework supported a small, humming contraption that turned the Mariner’s own waste into drinkable water. Each morning, after a quick drink of seawater, he would relieve himself into a dented tin can, pour the contents into the machine, and watch as the liquid filtered, clarified, and finally dripped into a brass basin. The water was not for him—he could still find fresh rain in the clouds—but for a single lime tree that clung to the middle deck, its roots tangled in a pot of reclaimed sand.

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