I wish I could help, but that’s not our mission. There’s nothing we can do for Lincoln Base.

“Helm, set course due south,” I say. “Full speed. Whatever that is.”

“Course due south, full speed, aye.”

“Dive, make our depth…” I blink, trying to clear my head. I check the holosphere above Lee-Ann’s console. “Make depth twenty-five meters.”

“Twenty-five meters, aye,” Lee-Ann says.

In the pit of my stomach, I feel the sub start to accelerate and descend.

“Captain,” Nelinha’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker. “I think maybe we should back off the speed. I’m getting some weird readings from—OH, THAT’S NOT GOOD.”

The Nautilus shudders. Over the intercom, I hear the Cephalopods yelling. Behind us, down the corridor, more crew members shout with alarm.

“Weapons room!” Dru’s voice comes over the comm. “I’ve got green slime coming out of the ductwork!”

“Galley!” The voice is Brigid Salter’s. Behind her, I can hear an upset orangutan whooping and grunting. “There’s some kind of sludge pouring from the air vents. It’s spraying all over Jupiter’s pots and pans, and he is NOT okay with it!”

“Engine room!” Nelinha yells. “Main engines are down! We’ve got goo! I repeat, we’ve got goo!”

Halimah bangs her fist against the nav console. “Captain, we’re dead in the water.”

I curse under my breath. I remember the wad of putrefied seaweed that Luca pulled from the wiring compartment my first time on board. I imagine a flood of that foul-smelling Victorian-era sewage spewing from every duct and crevice around the ship, forced into circulation by the demands we’re putting on this old bucket of nemonium. What was I thinking, treating the Nautilus like a functioning submarine?

“Nelinha,” I call through the comm, “we need propulsion. Can you repair?”

The only answer is static and garbled shouting in the background.

“I’ll go.” Jack Wu charges off again.

“Oh…” Gem steps away from his console. “No, no, no.”

I assume goo must be leaking out of his console, but that’s not the problem. On Gem’s tactical display, the Aronnax has changed course. The base’s remaining turrets continue to fire on her, but the Aronnax doesn’t bother to shoot back. She veers east, making her way around the edge of the atoll.

“What is she doing?” Lee-Ann mutters.

“They’ve spotted us,” I say.

“How?” Halimah demands. “Our camouflage reads as operational.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Virgil says. “It could’ve gone down with propulsion. Or maybe the Aronnax is picking up our thermal variations, like Ophelia said—”

“It doesn’t matter right now,” I say. “In less than a minute, they’ll have a direct line of fire. I need options.”

“There’s the skiff,” Gem says. “I could pilot it out, maybe draw their fire and buy you time. If I can get close enough to the Aronnax with conventional weapons—”

“No, that’s suicide,” I tell him. “Do we have any shieldy things?”

“Shieldy things…” Gem frowns at his console. “Um, I don’t—”

“NAUTILUS.” The voice booms from our speakers so loudly I jump. “THIS IS THE ARONNAX. SURRENDER OR BE DESTROYED.”