Daughter of the Deep(48)

His eyes gleam. ‘Since the beginning. We were recruited because of my ancestor’s work on internal combustion.’

Nelinha’s expression of interest dials up a few notches. ‘Wait, your ancestor was Eugenio Barsanti? The guy who created the first internal-combustion engine?’

Luca spreads his hands. ‘Many famous families have been associated with HP for generations. The school needed the best minds to replicate Nemo’s technology! But surely this is no surprise. Your class has a Harding, a Dakkar …’ He glances at Gem. ‘Your surname is Twain, isn’t it? Wasn’t there a famous American author –?’

‘No relation,’ Gem mutters. ‘Anyway, that guy’s real name was Clemens.’

‘I see.’ Luca sounds vaguely disappointed, like he had wanted an autograph. ‘At any rate, each generation must prove its own worth at HP, as I’m sure you will!’

Around the table, my classmates’ expressions turn glum. I imagine they’re thinking the same thing I am. How can we prove our worth if HP no longer exists?

Maybe we would have made house captains some day. Maybe we would have found love among our peers, the way Luca and Ophelia did (though, frankly, I have a hard time imagining that). Maybe we would’ve had brilliant careers.

There’s no way to know. Four days ago, our futures were blasted off the side of a cliff.

Ophelia picks up on the change of mood. She sighs in exasperation. ‘Ah, Barsanti.’

Luca looks confused. ‘What did I do?’

I get the feeling Luca is the type of guy who would cheerfully skip through a minefield and somehow come out unharmed on the other side, while Ophelia would tear her hair out and chide him for being careless. I have no trouble imagining them being friends with my parents. They are just the right combination of caring, adventurous, brilliant and eccentric.

‘If we’re done eating,’ Ophelia continues, ‘perhaps our guests can help us clean up. Jupiter does the cooking, but he does not do dishes.’

She puts us to work. Nothing like scrubbing lasagne pans to put your problems in perspective. After the kitchen and dining area are spotless, most of the crew heads back to the Varuna for the night. The ship has been cleaned and resupplied, so my classmates will be comfortable enough. Besides, the base doesn’t have enough beds for everyone. I’d prefer to go back with them, but Luca and Ophelia have asked me to stay in the base’s guest room. It has two sets of bunk beds: enough space for Nelinha, Ester and me. Nelinha brings my go bag ashore along with her own.

Gem looks torn, like he wants to take the fourth bunk so he can guard me.

Yeah … That’s not going to happen.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell him. ‘Take care of the crew on the Varuna, okay? We’ll see you for breakfast.’

He hesitates. ‘Just be careful.’

I’m not sure if he doesn’t trust our hosts, or just doesn’t trust life in general. After our recent experiences, I can’t blame him either way.

Ophelia shows us to our room: a simple stone chamber with the bunk beds and not much else. I try not to dwell on how much it looks like a holding cell. For the first time since leaving HP, I sleep in a room that doesn’t rock and sway.

This only makes my nightmares worse.





I dream of drowning, which isn’t like me.

I’m trapped with Dev in the Harding-Pencroft security office, deep beneath the administration building. On multiple monitors, we watch torpedoes racing towards the base of the cliffs. Dev yells into the PA system, ‘Major threat. Need everyone to EVACUATE. I –’

The room crumbles around us. The floor breaks like a sheet of ice. Monitors and control panels explode. The ceiling collapses. We tumble into oblivion.

We sink beneath the bay, trapped in an air pocket amid a shifting tomb of wreckage. We scream and beat our fists against slabs of broken concrete. Salt water pours in. Dev reaches out to take my hand as my head goes under. My lungs fill with brine and sediment.

I wake in a cold sweat.

For a few shaky breaths, I don’t know where I am.

I hear Ester’s puff-puff-snore from the next bed over. In the bunk above me, Nelinha grumbles in her sleep. Maybe I’m back at Harding-Pencroft, and everything is fine …

Then I remember. Lincoln Base. My old life is gone. There’s a reason I’m dreaming about wreckages …

I sit up, shivering. At least my period cramps have started to subside. That’s a major blessing.

I check my dive watch: 5:30 a.m.

I know I’ll never be able to get back to sleep. I slip out of bed as quietly as I can and grab a swimsuit from my bag. When you dream of drowning, there’s only one thing to do: get in the water as soon as possible.

I encounter no one as I retrace my way through the main room and out to the pier. The Varuna rests dark and silent at her moorings.

As dawn breaks, the lagoon turns to turquoise-and-pink glass. I plunge into the warm clear water. Immediately, I’m surrounded by a tornado of angelfish. I free dive through the reefs. I wave good morning (from a safe distance) to a viper moray who’s peeking out from his crevice. I admire a fourteen-foot nurse shark cruising through the sea grass.

After a while, Socrates finds me. He introduces me to his local dolphin friends. We swim together until the sky is full of light.

By the time I pad back into the base, I’m feeling refreshed. The smell of baking pastries raises my spirits even more. Jupiter waddles around the dining table, setting out baskets of croissants, muffins and Danish pastries in anticipation of the morning rush. I can’t believe one orangutan baked so much in such a short amount of time.