Daughter of the Deep(13)

Tia is piloting. Franklin hovers fretfully over Dr Hewett, who’s sprawled in the captain’s chair, wheezing like he’s just run a 10K.

‘Sir,’ Franklin says, ‘at least let me take your blood pressure.’

What’s wrong with the professor? I wonder. This seems like more than a stress reaction …

‘I’m fine.’ Hewett waves him aside. Then the professor struggles to his feet and hobbles to the chart table. ‘Gather round, you four.’

Tia Romero looks uneasy about this, since she’s officer of the watch. She checks the autopilot and the ECDIS one more time before joining us at the table. I wish she could stay at the helm. I want her pushing the boat to maximum speed so we can get away from whatever Dr Hewett saw on his control pad. It’s driving me crazy to not know what we’re running from.

On the laminated surface of the table sits a gold-level box. If Gemini Twain keeps breathing down my neck, I’m thinking the box might be large enough for me to stuff his body into if I can fold him over enough times.

‘Normally,’ says Dr Hewett, ‘the information I’m about to give you would be revealed in stages. This weekend’s trials were meant to be your first exposure to Harding-Pencroft’s true mission.’

‘True mission?’ Franklin brushes his streak of blue hair behind his left ear. He’s always struck me as a bit of a follower, but I do like that one rebellious gesture against our dress code. ‘Isn’t the school mission to prepare us for careers at sea?’

‘Partially,’ Hewett says. ‘Having our graduates in positions of power helps us in many ways. But we intend to prepare you for much more than that.’ He scowls at me in particular. ‘You are meant to become the custodians of Harding-Pencroft’s secrets, the agents of its great agenda. It is a heavy responsibility. Not every student succeeds.’

This talk of secrets and agendas makes the hair stand up on the nape of my neck. I don’t know what he means, but I can’t shake the feeling that when he says not every student succeeds, he means survives. I wonder what Dev thought of this ‘great agenda’.

I glance at the other prefects. They look just as confused as I am.

Hewett sighs, the way he does when he passes back our graded essays. ‘And now you require a crash course. Dakkar, open the case.’

My lower back muscles clench. I’ve been warned for two years: try opening a gold-level case as an underclassman and you’ll get expelled, assuming the attempt doesn’t kill you. I guess Hewett wouldn’t order Gem to protect my life at all costs if he was just going to kill me with a booby trap. Still …

I press my hand against the biometric pad. The lid pops open like it’s been waiting.

Inside, nested in black foam, are four of the strangest-looking guns I’ve ever seen.

‘Oh, wow!’ Gem says. This is the strongest exclamation I’ve ever heard from him. His eyes gleam like a kid in front of a Christmas tree. He glances at Dr Hewett. ‘May I?’

Hewett nods.

Carefully, Gem extracts one of the guns. The weapon is too big to be a pistol, too small to be a shotgun. Some kind of miniature grenade launcher? An oversize flare gun? Whatever it is, it’s been meticulously handcrafted. Its leather grip is tooled with a wave design. The golden barrel looks electroplated with some kind of copper alloy. Wires run along the outside like braided vines. The stock-loaded magazine is too short and thick for any sort of ammunition I can think of. It’s plated with the same alloy, which someone has gone to the trouble of engraving with the HP logo.

There’s no way these guns can be functional. They’re too ornate, like nineteenth-century officers’ swords or duelling pistols – works of art not meant to be used. I’ve never said this about any kind of firearm before, but they’re strangely beautiful.

‘This is a Leyden gun,’ Gem marvels.

The name doesn’t ring any bells. I look at Franklin, our Orca rep. House Orca knows all the obscure historical facts and weird bits of trivia. Their members could destroy anyone on Jeopardy! They excel at other things, too, but we jokingly call them House Wikipedia.

Franklin nods. ‘Jules Verne.’

Hewett curls his lip, like the author’s name is an unpleasant but necessary fact of life. ‘Yes. Well. Shockingly, he reported a few things correctly.’

I remember now. The summer before our chum year, we had to read Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and The Mysterious Island, the first science fiction novels about marine technology. I’d assumed the point of the assignment was Let’s expand our minds with some ‘fun’ (air quotes) reading about the sea! Honestly, I found the books an annoying slog. The plots were slow. The language was super dated. The characters were a bunch of harrumphing Victorian-era gentlemen I didn’t care about.

Two of the main characters in The Mysterious Island were Harding and Pencroft, men with the same surnames as the founders of our school. At the time I’d thought, Okay, that’s a little weird. Later in the book, when the crazy sci-fi submarine commander Captain Nemo revealed that his real name was Prince Dakkar, I admit I got a shiver down my back. But the books were just fiction. Seeing as the most important building at HP was Verne Hall, I supposed the school’s founders must have been hardcore Jules Verne fanboys. Maybe they recruited my family generations ago as an elaborate inside joke, because they liked our surname.