Daughter of the Deep(42)

The ship’s engines rumble to life.

Pilot Bug steers us to starboard and guides us into the lagoon.

We have arrived in a heavily weaponized paradise.

Along the perimeter of the atoll, turret guns peek from the brambles. They swivel to follow our progress. Targeting lasers wink and flicker along our hull. Whatever projectors control the island’s impressive camouflage system, I imagine they are also hidden in the vegetation.

I’ve spent the last three days struggling to believe this place could exist. Now that we’re here, I still can’t believe it.

Socrates, fearless as usual, leads the way into the lagoon. Two local dolphins swim over to meet him. Within moments, they are leaping around together, chattering happily. So much for my friend being a loner.

The water is so clear that I can see a labyrinth of jagged reefs below the surface. Schools of tropical fish swirl through the evening light like jets of coloured paint. I want to dive in that lagoon so badly I can feel the ache in my teeth.

We cruise towards the central volcanic isle. It has no shore to speak of – just dark cliffs that plunge straight into the lagoon. The only sign of habitation is a single wooden dock, with a small shack anchored at the base of the rocks. The structure looks so flimsy I imagine it would break off in the first strong storm. It certainly doesn’t look big enough for twenty people.

Nevertheless, Pilot Bug guides us towards it. Twenty feet out, it cuts the engines.

‘Tia, make ready the moorings,’ I say. ‘Pilot Bug, permission to come ashore?’

The drone retracts its wire tongue, spits another spark of electricity and flies away. I decide to take that as a yes.

The crew ties off the Varuna. I’m the first one off the ship, followed by Gem, Ester and Top.

On the pier, I have the same sense of disorientation I always get when I go ashore. My legs try to compensate for the lack of rolling and rocking. It’s disconcerting. Solid land … I’ve never trusted it. I definitely don’t after what happened to HP.

Gem’s hands hover over his holsters. ‘What now?’

The shack’s door flies open with a bang! I step in front of Gem to keep him from drawing his guns.

A tall, slender, dark-skinned man steps into the light. His white skinny jeans and vertically striped soccer shirt accentuate his spindly limbs, making him look like an anime character – maybe one of the pirates from One Piece. His close-cropped black hair is flecked with grey. His hands, sheathed in oven mitts, hold a steaming pan of bread that smells of butter and garlic.

My mouth starts watering.

‘Ana Dakkar, yes?’ He has a friendly smile. ‘You look just like your parents.’

I’ve been told this a million times before, but after the stress of the last few days, and what happened with Dev, the comment hits me in the gut. It takes me a second to find my voice.

‘I – Yes. This is the freshman class of Harding-Pencroft. We have some bad –’

‘Freshman class?’ The bread pirate laughs. ‘What in the world!’ I can’t quite place his accent until he says, ‘I’m Luca Barsanti.’

I switch to Italian. ‘Piacere.’

‘Ah, parli la lingua del bell’paese!’

‘Certo, sono un Delfino.’

‘Ottimo! Prego, entrate tutti! Anche povero Hewett, portatelo. La mia prossima pagnotta di pane sta bruciando!’

He plunges back inside.

‘Um … What just happened?’ Gem asks.

‘He says come on in, and bring Hewett,’ I translate. ‘His next loaf of garlic bread is burning.’





I send the Orcas to get Dr Hewett from the sickbay.

Moving him will be risky. I’m not sure what kind of medical facilities this secret base has, but Barsanti said to bring him. I hope their cutting-edge tech can do more than camouflage the island and bake garlic bread.

‘No aggressive moves,’ I tell the rest of the crew.

The Sharks look at me like, Who, us?

It hits me that I just gave an order to my classmates, and they took me seriously. Three days ago, they would have laughed or ignored me, or at the very least teased me for acting like an authority figure. A lot has changed. I’m not sure if that’s good.

I lead the way into the shack, which turns out to be nothing but a sort of foyer. The rubber welcome mat reads BLESS THIS MESS. Against the left wall is a stand-up shower. Against the right is a rack of dive masks, tanks, fins and spearguns. A security camera peers down at us from the ceiling. At the back of the room, a tunnel has been bored straight through the volcanic rock, leading into the heart of the mountain.

I glimpse Barsanti’s silhouette up ahead in the gloom. His voice echoes back to us. ‘I have turned off the lasers, so they should not cut you in half! Please, come!’

At Ester’s side, Top sniffs the air. He doesn’t look worried – more like he’s hoping for some of that bread. Top is usually a pretty good judge of danger. I forge onward, following the scent of garlic butter.

After about a hundred feet, the corridor opens into a large rectangular space like an artist’s loft. More corridors branch off in different directions. How big is this place?

The ceiling is lined with ventilation ducts and big industrial light fixtures. The polished stone floor glistens like melted chocolate. Worktables overflow with bits of disassembled alt-tech.