I’m thinking of him as our enemy now. Not some faceless group of rival students. My own brother. I’ve fallen into a universe I don’t understand and don’t want to.

“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.