Page 12 of Daughter of the Deep

Suddenly we’re surrounded by the containers. It’s like we’ve spent two years being told not to touch the artwork and now we’re tripping over Picassos. It’s unnerving that Hewett movedso much valuable school property to theVaruna, especially rightbeforeHP was wiped off the map …

It might be easier to guess what Hewett was thinking if I knew what was in the boxes. Dev never gave me the slightest hint. Whenever I pestered him, he’d say,You’ll find out soon enough.

Don’t think about Dev, I chide myself.

But that’s impossible. Simply getting through the day is like swimming through an underwater minefield. Tomorrow will be just as hard. And the next day. You might think the horror of losing my parents would have given me some coping strategies for dealing with this kind of tragedy. It hasn’t. If anything, it makes the stab to the chest even more painful.

I try to lock those feelings away in a gold box of my own. I have work to do. I check the comm-system batteries, the satellite dish, the VHF aerial and 3-D sonar transducer. Gemini tags along behind me, alternately giving orders to his Sharks and making sure I am not being accosted by any ninja sea lions.

We’ve barely pulled away from the pier when Hewett’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. ‘Prefects, report to the bridge.’

Franklin and Tia are already there when Gem and I arrive.

Tia is piloting. Franklin hovers fretfully over Dr Hewett, who’s sprawled in the captain’s chair, wheezing like he’s just run a 10K.

‘Sir,’ Franklin says, ‘at least let me take your blood pressure.’

What’s wrong with the professor?I wonder. This seems like more than a stress reaction …

‘I’m fine.’ Hewett waves him aside. Then the professor struggles to his feet and hobbles to the chart table. ‘Gather round, you four.’

Tia Romero looks uneasy about this, since she’s officer of the watch. She checks the autopilot and the ECDIS one more time before joining us at the table. I wish she could stay at thehelm. I want her pushing the boat to maximum speed so we can get away from whatever Dr Hewett saw on his control pad. It’s driving me crazy to not know what we’re running from.

On the laminated surface of the table sits a gold-level box. If Gemini Twain keeps breathing down my neck, I’m thinking the box might be large enough for me to stuff his body into if I can fold him over enough times.

‘Normally,’ says Dr Hewett, ‘the information I’m about to give you would be revealed in stages. This weekend’s trials were meant to be your first exposure to Harding-Pencroft’s true mission.’

‘True mission?’ Franklin brushes his streak of blue hair behind his left ear. He’s always struck me as a bit of a follower, but Idolike that one rebellious gesture against our dress code. ‘Isn’t the school mission to prepare us for careers at sea?’

‘Partially,’ Hewett says. ‘Having our graduates in positions of power helps us in many ways. But we intend to prepare you for much more than that.’ He scowls at me in particular. ‘You are meant to become the custodians of Harding-Pencroft’s secrets, the agents of its great agenda. It is a heavy responsibility. Not every student succeeds.’

This talk of secrets and agendas makes the hair stand up on the nape of my neck. I don’t know what he means, but I can’t shake the feeling that when he says not every student succeeds, he meanssurvives. I wonder what Dev thought of this ‘great agenda’.

I glance at the other prefects. They look just as confused as I am.

Hewett sighs, the way he does when he passes back our graded essays. ‘And now you require a crash course. Dakkar, open the case.’

My lower back muscles clench. I’ve been warned for two years: try opening a gold-level case as an underclassman andyou’ll get expelled, assuming the attempt doesn’t kill you. I guess Hewett wouldn’t order Gem to protect my life at all costs if he was just going to kill me with a booby trap. Still …

I press my hand against the biometric pad. The lid pops open like it’s been waiting.

Inside, nested in black foam, are four of the strangest-looking guns I’ve ever seen.

‘Oh, wow!’ Gem says. This is the strongest exclamation I’ve ever heard from him. His eyes gleam like a kid in front of a Christmas tree. He glances at Dr Hewett. ‘May I?’

Hewett nods.

Carefully, Gem extracts one of the guns. The weapon is too big to be a pistol, too small to be a shotgun. Some kind of miniature grenade launcher? An oversize flare gun? Whatever it is, it’s been meticulously handcrafted. Its leather grip is tooled with a wave design. The golden barrel looks electroplated with some kind of copper alloy. Wires run along the outside like braided vines. The stock-loaded magazine is too short and thick for any sort of ammunition I can think of. It’s plated with the same alloy, which someone has gone to the trouble of engraving with the HP logo.

There’s no way these guns can be functional. They’re too ornate, like nineteenth-century officers’ swords or duelling pistols – works of art not meant to be used. I’ve never said this about any kind of firearm before, but they’re strangely beautiful.

‘This is a Leyden gun,’ Gem marvels.

The name doesn’t ring any bells. I look at Franklin, our Orca rep. House Orca knows all the obscure historical facts and weird bits of trivia. Their members could destroy anyone onJeopardy!They excel at other things, too, but we jokingly call them House Wikipedia.

Franklin nods. ‘Jules Verne.’

Hewett curls his lip, like the author’s name is an unpleasantbut necessary fact of life. ‘Yes. Well. Shockingly, he reported a few things correctly.’

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