Daughter of the Deep(32)

The drones show us our former campus from six different angles. The bay churns white and brown, frothy with debris. The cliff has been sheared away in a near-perfect crescent, like some god took an ice-cream scooper and helped himself to a giant serving of California. Nothing remains of Harding-Pencroft except the buckled asphalt of the main driveway leading to the now-abandoned gatehouse. None of the videos show any people. I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.

What happened to the guards at the gate? Is it possible some of the students got out before the buildings collapsed?

My gut tells me no. There wasn’t time. There probably wasn’t any warning, either. Everyone at HP is now at the bottom of the bay. Given what I’ve learned about marine decomposition, it may be a long time before any evidence comes to the surface.

Evidence. Oh, god. How can I think of my schoolmates as evidence?

I remember Dev smiling at me. You’re leaving for your freshman trials today. I wanted you to have the pearl for luck – just in case, you know, you fail spectacularly or something.

My mother’s black pearl feels like an anchor around my neck.

‘There’s – there’s this, too.’ Tia hits a button on the keyboard. All six screens switch to the same image: a dark triangular shape, floating underwater just inside the entrance of the bay. It’s hard to judge the object’s depth or relative size, but it looks massive, like a sunken stealth bomber. As we watch, it ripples and vanishes.

‘The Aronnax,’ I say.

‘It has dynamic camouflage,’ Nelinha notes.

Pressure builds in my throat. I need to howl. I need to throw things at the monitors. This is so wrong. And it’s way too much for me to handle. Somehow, I manage to push down my rage.

‘Anything else?’ I ask Tia.

‘Um …’ Her fingers tremble over the keyboard. ‘Yeah. Dr Hewett was recording satellite newsfeeds for a couple of hours after the attack. We made international headlines.’

The monitors switch to television reports from around the Pacific Rim: California, Oregon, Japan, China, Russia, Guam, the Philippines. On Seattle local news, a grim-faced reporter talks over the tagline MASSIVE LANDSLIDE CLAIMS SECONDARY SCHOOL IN CA: OVER 100 FEARED DEAD. On China’s state network, the news ticker reads in Mandarin CRUMBLING AMERICAN INFRASTRUCTURE CAUSES ANOTHER TRAGEDY. The anchor quotes ‘unnamed sources’ who believe faulty foundation work and lax building regulations may have led to the tragedy. None of the stories call the incident an attack.

‘How can they not see it?’ Virgil demands. ‘A landslide doesn’t leave a perfect semicircle!’

But the images on the news are different from the feeds recorded by Dr Hewett’s drones. By the time the media helicopters got to the scene, apparently hours after the attack, the edges of the landslide had crumbled and turned ragged, making it look more like a natural disaster.

Some of the news programmes cut to faces of weeping parents.

‘Turn it off,’ I say. ‘Please.’

The monitors go dark.

The bridge is silent for the space of two swells. The Varuna surges and plunges as we forge through the storm, leaving my heart at the crest of each wave. Looking out of the bridge’s windows, I can see the crew staggering around in rain gear, lines on, making sure our water collectors are open to harvest the downpour.

I look at Tia. ‘The others don’t need to see this footage right now. Everyone is already upset enough. I’m not saying we hide the information, but seeing those images …’

Tia nods. ‘It’s just … None of the reports mention our field trip. That means everybody probably assumes we’re dead. Our parents. Friends. Relatives.’

I know she’s thinking of her own family back in Michigan. She goes by Tia because she has three baby nephews and two nieces she adores. Her mom and dad, her aunts and uncles, her brothers and sisters … they all will be going out of their minds.

‘I get it,’ I say, though that’s kind of a lie. I have no one back home waiting for me, worrying about me. ‘The thing is, Land Institute knows we’re alive. The Aronnax is hunting us. If we break radio silence –’

‘We might be dead,’ Dru says.

A typical point-and-shoot Shark comment, but he’s right.

Virgil rubs his chin. ‘Bernie, our bus driver – he knows we’re alive, right? And those guards from the docks in San Alejandro. They’ll tell everybody we weren’t on campus when it collapsed, won’t they?’

‘If they’re still alive,’ Dru offers.

I remember Hewett’s orders to the guards. Buy us time.

‘For now,’ I say, ‘we keep going. We just have to hope …’

I’m not sure how to finish that thought. There are too many things we have to hope for. Right now, our supply of hope feels as limited as our food and water.

Top bumps against Ester’s leg. He makes a little whimper, looking up at her with his mournful Pet me eyes. That’s when I realize Ester has been silently crying. Top is really earning his dog biscuits.

‘Hey,’ I tell Ester. ‘We’ll get through this –’

She makes a noise somewhere between a sniffle and a hiccup. Then she rushes out of the bridge, Top right behind her.

‘I’ll go after her,’ Nelinha offers.