Daughter of the Deep(9)

Top’s tail whops against my leg. He buries his head in Ester’s lap, demanding affection, trying to get her out of her dark place.

‘Dr Hewett …’ Franklin Couch, House Orca prefect, looks ready to crawl out of his skin. ‘We might have wounded friends back there. People buried in rubble. We have a duty –’

‘Do NOT speak!’ Hewett roars.

Suddenly I am back in my first day of TMS, when Daniel Lekowski – who washed out later in the year – dared to ask what good theoretical marine science was. I remember how terrifying Hewett can be when he gets angry.

Bernie stands behind the professor. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence seems to bring Hewett’s rage down to DEFCON 5.

‘We continue to San Alejandro,’ Hewett says in a more even tone. ‘All of you, listen to me carefully. You may be all that remains of Harding-Pencroft. We must not fail. Trials are cancelled. Instead, you will learn what you must know on active duty. As of this moment, we are at war.’

Twenty freshmen stare back at him. They look just as scared as I feel. We have been trained in military tactics, yes. A lot of HP graduates go on to the best naval colleges in the world: Annapolis, Kuznetsov, Dalian, Ezhimala. But we aren’t marines or Navy SEALs. Not yet, anyway. We’re not even graduates. We’re kids.

‘We will continue to the docks,’ Hewett says. ‘Once we are safely at sea, I will give you further instructions. In the meantime, Gemini Twain?’

‘Sir.’ Gem steps forward. He’s ready for orders, ready to be put in charge of our class. Military command is what Sharks train for.

‘Standard weapons are stored in the bus’s hold?’ Hewett asks.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Arm your team,’ Hewett says. ‘Weapons hot until further notice.’

Gem snaps his fingers. The four other Sharks run to get their gun cases.

A cold sense of reality starts to pull me back into my body. When the Sharks are allowed to arm themselves, I know we are in serious, serious trouble.

‘Prefect Twain,’ Hewett continues. ‘You have a new standing order.’

Gem’s eyes gleam. ‘I understand, sir.’

‘No,’ Hewett says. ‘I’m not sure you do. As of this moment, you are responsible for one life above all others. You will not leave her side. You will protect her with your dying breath. You will make sure she stays alive, no matter what happens.’

Gem looks confused. ‘I … Sir?’

Hewett points at me. ‘Ana Dakkar must survive.’





I don’t need this.

My school has been destroyed. My brother is probably dead. Now we’re back on the bus, heading towards San Alejandro as if nothing has happened. And, on top of everything, I have Gemini Twain as a personal bodyguard.

Why me?

I’m not Ester, who’s descended from one of the school’s founders. My family isn’t rich or powerful or famous. The Dakkars have been at HP for generations, yes, but so have a lot of families. I’m not the only one in the group who may have lost a sibling in the attack, either. Brigid Salter’s brother is – was a junior. Kay Ramsay had a sister a year older than us. Brigid and Kay look like a gentle breeze would be enough to make them both topple right now, but neither of them has a bodyguard.

Dr Hewett sits in the front row, staring at his control pad. The sweat blotches on his dress shirt have expanded into alien continents.

I can only hope his drones find survivors at HP.

I had no luck texting Dev. That doesn’t surprise me. The whole area is still a cellular black hole, but I had to try. Now Hewett has confiscated our phones and locked them in a strongbox, which makes me feel like I’m trying to function with one arm duct-taped behind my back.

Hewett assures us his drones will alert local emergency services. I keep waiting for ambulances, police cars and fire trucks to scream past us on the way to HP. This is the only road they could take. So far, nothing. The school is so isolated that unless Hewett calls the authorities, it could be hours before anyone notices a giant chunk of the countryside has disappeared into the sea.

I have been fearing an attack like this for two years.

Then why didn’t he warn us?

Maybe it’s a coincidence that two years ago, my parents died on a scientific expedition for Harding-Pencroft. A tragic accident, the administrators told us. Whenever I asked for details – why Tarun and Sita Dakkar were on that expedition for HP, what they were looking for – the faculty at HP seemed to get selective amnesia. I assumed they were trying to spare my feelings, letting me work through my grief with Dr Francis.

Now I’m not so sure.

I have a sudden image of Amelia Leahy, my house captain, Dev’s girlfriend, lounging in the sunlit quad this morning. She smiled and wished me good luck.

Amelia was so excited about graduating. She had big plans: the US Marine Corps, fast track to comm school at Twentynine Palms. In her five years at HP, she’d learned twelve languages. She could break linguistic codes that stumped our professors. Her goal was to become the youngest intelligence commander in corps history. Now she’s gone.

I try to keep the oxygen going in and out of my lungs. I’m not doing a great job with it.

I start to cry. I’m shaking with anger. Why is it that I can keep myself together when thinking about Dev, but I break down at the thought of his girlfriend dying? What is wrong with me?