‘How long do we have?’ Gem asks. I understand his implication: until the prisoners are no longer useful.
I defer to Lee-Ann. She’s our best interrogator. I can no longer tell if her ears turn red, though, because they’re gift-wrapped by a ribbon of gauze around her head.
‘Depends on the captors’ patience level,’ she says. ‘Could be weeks. I imagine Dev – Land Institute is hoping we’ll come back. They’ll be waiting. It’ll be useful for them to have live captives.’
I think about the interrogation methods I learned at HP. We were always taught to avoid cruelty. That’s not our way. Still, some psychological techniques can be devastating, and I doubt Land Institute will take a light hand. Every day in captivity will feel like an eternity.
‘We can’t take weeks,’ I decide.
‘Also,’ Ester says, ‘we can’t stay here forever. As long as the reactor is online, we have limitless power, water and air. But in about seven days we’ll run out of food.’
Top rests his head on her thigh. I think he is reminding her that food is important and also it tastes good.
‘One week.’ Nelinha scratches the bandage on her forehead. ‘To do the impossible. Get engines back up and running.’
‘Get some of those torpedoes functioning,’ Dru adds.
‘Clean the slime out of the vents.’ Gem shudders. ‘So is that the plan, Captain? Return to Lincoln Base?’
I stand, trying not to wobble. ‘If anyone thinks we should do the sensible thing – running and hiding – speak now.’
No one advocates for the sensible thing.
I love my crew.
‘Okay, then,’ I say. ‘It’s a good thing we’re the best class Harding-Pencroft has ever seen. We get the Nautilus operational in one week. Then we return to Lincoln Base. And we show Land Institute they’ve messed with the wrong bunch of freshmen.’
After this inspiring speech, I eat cookies in the library.
Ester has ordered me to rest for at least one hour while the aspirin she found on board kicks in. （I think she wants to observe me to see if I actually turn into a fish.） While the rest of the crew scurries around, cleaning and repairing, carrying toolboxes and buckets of goop, I try to relax in a musty armchair, an original French copy of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea in my lap.
It feels very meta to be reading a fictional book about the Nautilus on board the actual Nautilus. I wonder if Nemo read the book before his death, and if the inaccuracies annoyed him. At any rate, it isn’t autographed To Nemo, Love, Jules. I checked.
Ester sits across from me in a love seat. Top snuggles next to her. Ester uses a library book as a lap desk, jotting down information on each note card, then tossing it onto Top before starting a new one. Judging from Top’s contented snoring, he does not mind being buried in information.
The fireplace glows cheerfully. I don’t know who started it, and I still don’t know how it works or where the smoke goes, but it does take some of the damp chill out of the air. I wouldn’t even know we were underwater except for the window looking out on the blue void, with the occasional silvertip shark swimming past.
I’m grateful for Ester’s company. I’m sure she has a million other things to do, but I imagine she also realizes that if she wasn’t watching me, I’d jump out of my chair and start working.
‘Relax,’ she chides me again.
It’s difficult to relax when someone keeps telling you to relax.
Only a few days ago, Ester and I sat in a different library, on board the Varuna, and I was trying to look after her. Now we’ve switched roles.
I flip the pages of the novel. I stop on an illustration of an underwater funeral. A dozen people in old-fashioned dive suits gather solemnly around a grave. I remember the scene – one of Captain Nemo’s crew members had died – but I don’t remember the details. I hope finding this picture isn’t an omen.
‘Why did Dev do it?’ I murmur. ‘How could he have …？’
I can’t even put his betrayal into words. He lied to me, put a tracker on me, collaborated with our enemies. He destroyed our school, killed our teachers and fellow students … all for the sake of a submarine.
Ester puts down her pen. She stares at a spot just above my head. ‘Why do you think he did it?’
Oof. I forgot Orcas train in psychology. Still, her question is a good one.
I trace my fingers across the funeral illustration. ‘Our parents’ death. He blamed Harding-Pencroft.’