Daughter of the Deep: Chapters 9–20

I have time to yell “Incoming!” before scuba divers rocket to the surface on our starboard side, all on kickboard-size DPVs—diver propulsion vehicles—moving at twelve knots or more, faster than any I’ve ever seen.

By the time my crewmates and I have recovered from our confusion, our enemies have fastened grappling hooks to the starboard rail, discarded their DPVs and oxygen tanks, and begun climbing over our gunwale like they’ve been practicing this assault for months.

It’s a desperate move, but a melee with armed opponents is better than getting shot down one by one, and we seem to have numbers on our side.

“But stay behind me, please.” I bristle at his demeaning orders but obey as he yells to his remaining housemates.

Nevertheless, the Land Institute insignia is clearly emblazoned on the breast of each wetsuit: an old-fashioned harpoon in silver, its rope making a circle around the letters LI.

I wonder if this could be a ruse...some sort of training exercise. No. The destruction of HP was real enough.

This is too easy, I mutter to myself, though I doubt my unconscious classmates would agree. Six are now out of commission, some bleeding from nasty harpoon barbs.

A thousand tiny crabs scuttle down my back. It’s a feint.

I try to move my head. It lolls to one side.

I don’t like the way Hewett is talking about me—as if I’m a valuable commodity rather than a person. I wonder if he’ll start bargaining, maybe offer to split me in half so they can share the profits.

Well, Hewett may not be aiding and abetting the LI students, but he isn’t much help to me, either.

I take a gulp of air before my head goes under. My limbs are soggy noodles, but I manage to keep my chest upright for buoyancy.

Right next to us, a mass of sleek blue-gray flesh explodes out of the sea, and Caleb is body-slammed into oblivion under the weight of a six-hundred-pound bottlenose dolphin.

The rest of the LI attackers we strip of their weapons, constrain with zip ties, and set adrift in the pontoon.

They talk to one another breathlessly about specs and parameters like they’re discussing magic spells.

Dolphin language is infinitely more complex and nuanced than human languages.

After his altercation with Nelinha during our chum year, I decided I didn’t want to deal with him any more than I had to.

If we can’t go to the authorities, which Hewett seems adamant about, then our only hope is to run and hide.

When I see him, my anger tries to harden into a suit of armor, but I’m so exhausted it’s more like a worn-out sleep shirt. It keeps falling away, stretching into an amorphous mass of grief and shock.

This is how upperclassmen treat chum-year kids who prove inept at their assignments. They’re forced to wear pink duckies for an entire day.

Caleb scowls when he sees me, but he offers no snide comments. The duckies must have broken his spirit.

LI doesn’t coddle their students the way HP does.

Well, Socrates knows he always has a berth on the Varuna if he wants to travel with us.

Or is it possible he would have ended up a frustrated, dejected teacher like Hewett?

“They succeeded, Ana,” he tells me, his voice wistful, like he’s talking about Santa Claus.

“The parchment could be eel skin, or probably a lab-grown organic material derived from eel skin, because killing eels would be cruel. Nemo wouldn’t do that, would he?”

We’re provisioned for a weekend. If we ration carefully, we might make it with the supplies we have on board.

Clouds hang low and heavy, promising rain. Not the most auspicious weather for making a major decision.

He gives Kiya a curt nod.

She still looks shaky, like she’s emerged from a three-day bout with the flu, but her expression is hard as iron.

I might have Nemo’s DNA, but it did not come with any latent knowledge or a handy user’s manual.

She’s sitting on the corrugated steel floor, her legs in a V with a gold-level crate open in front of her.

She seems completely engrossed in sorting through wires and metal plates.

Finally, he nods and lopes off.

He did not think about collateral damage.

Nelinha wriggles her immaculately groomed eyebrows.

This LOCUS...it’s like something dolphins might engineer if they wanted to augment their natural senses.

The bay churns white and brown, frothy with debris.

But the trustees control my inheritance, and the school.

In the foreground, a drenched dog that looks very much like Top trembles alone on a tiny outcropping of rock.