Daughter of the Deep(41)

I remind myself to breathe.

I imagine ballistic missiles hurtling over the horizon, zeroing in on our position. I remember the trident-shaped wake lines of the torpedoes that destroyed our school. I picture a full complement of alt-tech sonic fish burrowing through the water towards our hull.

Nothing happens.

Then, suddenly … still nothing happens.

Five more minutes pass. More nothing.

The minutes turn into an hour. Funny how that happens when you put sixty of them together.

The afternoon sun slants through the forward windows. This turns the bridge into an Easy-Bake Oven. Sweat trickles down my neck. Ester’s face is the colour of a boiled crab. Even Nelinha’s perfect make-up is starting to melt. Top finishes his second bowl of water and continues panting like crazy. (I don’t think he understands water rationing.)

Outside, Dru and Kiya man the Leyden cannon. They look miserable in their life vests and tactical gear.

The sea ahead remains flat and empty, except for Socrates, who leads the way like a pilot fish. Occasionally he leaps out of the water, turning as he breaches. He looks back at us with his sideways smile. I imagine him thinking, Come on, guys! If you get blown up or whatever, it’s fine! I’ll be safe!

‘We’re still alive,’ Ester notes. ‘That’s good. Maybe we passed the test.’

I hope she’s right. I was sort of hoping for confirmation, though. A giant glowing smiley face on the LOCUS display would’ve been sufficient. Or confetti. The silence is unnerving.

The sun is just touching the horizon when I order engines to a full stop.

The weather is clear. If there was an island anywhere close to us, we should be able to see it. This was supposed to be our destination. There’s nothing here.

My mouth feels like rice paper.

‘Send the message again,’ I tell Nelinha.

This time, she doesn’t call me babycakes. Everyone on the bridge wears a grim expression.

The second transmission has no obvious effect.

We float in the calm of the sunset. Out on the foredeck, Dru and Kiya stare to the west, their cannon forgotten.

I curse myself for believing in Dr Hewett’s pseudoscience map. I actually thought I could safely captain a 120-foot training yacht with a crew of freshmen into the middle of the Pacific and find a place that doesn’t exist on any nautical chart.

I think about what to tell the crew. With no food or water, how long can we last? If we put out an SOS, will anyone hear us? Will anybody reach us in time?

I mentally kick myself for not preparing a Plan B. I’ve sentenced us all to death.

‘Guys …’ I’m not sure what to say to my bridge crew. How do you apologize for such a massive failure?

‘LOOK!’ Ester yells.

Directly off our bow, the air ripples. It’s as if a mile-wide curtain of mirrors has been reflecting the sea. Now the curtain shatters.

The island takes my breath away.

The central volcanic peak rises three hundred feet, jagged and crumbly like a heap of burnt brown sugar. Surrounding it is a turquoise lagoon, ringed by an atoll maybe a mile in diameter, with sandy white beaches hugging a spine of thick vegetation. Off our starboard side, a break in the atoll forms a natural gateway into the lagoon.

No dynamic camouflage in the world should be good enough to render this island invisible at point-blank range. Yet here it is.

‘We did it,’ Gem marvels.

A woman’s voice crackles over our intercom. ‘Varuna, this is Lincoln Base.’

She sounds a bit cranky. ‘Your visit was not scheduled. Stand by for harbour drone guidance. Make any sign of aggressive intent, and you will be destroyed. If we do not see Ana Dakkar aboard, safe and unharmed, you will be destroyed.’

Okay. Maybe she sounds a lot cranky.

A garbled noise comes over the feed, as if someone else is speaking to her in the background.

‘Fine,’ the woman growls slightly off mic. Then to us: ‘You will advise the drone how many will be joining us for dinner. Jupiter is baking lasagne. Lincoln Base out.’





Given the choice between destruction or lasagne, I will choose lasagne every time.

Whoever Jupiter is, I hope he can cook enough for twenty extra people. (Dr Hewett makes twenty-one, but his diet is presently being administered through an IV.)

I scan the lagoon entrance for the pilot drone. I guess I’m expecting something large, like a tugboat. I don’t even see the drone until it buzzes past my ear and settles on the navigation console.

An alt-tech dragonfly flutters its copper-and-crystal wings. Its segmented eyes gleam like tiny Fabergé eggs. I’m glad no one tried to swat it. I’m pretty sure that would count as a sign of aggressive intent.

Top barks.

The drone turns its head and makes a pop of static electricity between its front legs. Top whimpers and hides behind Ester.

‘Hi, there,’ I tell the dragonfly. I try to sound calm, like I talk to mechanical bugs every day. ‘I’m Ana Dakkar. As you can see, I’m safe and unharmed. We have a crew of twenty for dinner, please. Also, we need urgent medical care for Dr Hewett. He’s comatose in the sickbay.’

The dragonfly wriggles its antennae. A copper thread unspools from its mouth and snakes its way into our auto-nav console.

‘Okay,’ Tia Romero mutters. ‘I’m sure that’s fine.’