I also have to assume they took some damage from our first shot. I don’t expect them to surrender. Dev would never do that. But he might stall for time, giving his skiff a chance to return to the Aronnax. Until our cold-fusion reactor is back online, I’ll take all the time I can get.

When Dev speaks, he sounds ready to snap. “Nice try, sis. But right now, I’m the only one over here trying to keep you alive. The next shot won’t be to cripple. It’ll send you all to the bottom. Nautilus crew, you know who I am. I’m the senior Dakkar family member. That ship belongs to me. Stand down.”

The bridge crew looks to me.

“Gearr an líne,” I tell Virgil. Cut the line.

Gem turns. “They’re opening forward tubes. Four of them.”

My heart sinks into my gut. A spread of four torpedoes at this range—

“Leidenfrost shields,” I order. “Fire forward Leyden cannon. Helm, evasive maneuvers—”

But it’s too much to ask of the old choo-choo engine. A CLANG echoes through the ship like we’ve broken a crankshaft. The LOCUS displays flicker like candle flames in a breeze.

“Helm unresponsive!” Halimah says.

“Leidenfrost inoperative!” Gem adds.

“NO!” Nelinha comes on the comm, sharing a few choice curses in Portuguese. “I told you, Ana! I need more time!”

“We need more power!” I yell back.

But we don’t have either.

On Gem’s display, the purple triangle of the Aronnax looms closer. Dev’s skiff hovers a few hundred meters off our port side, waiting to loot the carcass of our ship. Then a string of four smaller blips appears from the Aronnax’s prow.

We are about to be dead in the water. Literally.

I have one last desperation play. I slam my hand against the armrest console and yell, “Nautilus, emergency dive! Forward vents!”

The ship must hear the urgency in my voice. With her final gasp of coal-powered energy, she jettisons ballast and spews aerated water over the prow, whiting out the windows.

An emergency descent is one thing submarines do very well. Rather like giving up and collapsing, it doesn’t take much energy. We sink like a rock.

On Gem’s LOCUS, the Aronnax’s four torpedoes sail straight over our heads—their guidance systems confused by the cloud of air and ballast.

I start to say, “Rig for—” when the chain explosion detonates a hundred meters beyond our stern.

I black out from the shock wave.

When my senses start working again, the bridge is dark except for an electrical fire at Virgil’s comm station. The LOCUS displays are dead. An acrid haze hangs in the air. Top is barking indignantly, still restrained in his doggy bed. Ester stumbles around, checking the bridge crew for injuries. Virgil sits dazed on the floor, his seat belt broken, a wisp of smoke curling from his hair. Gem has a trickle of blood glistening on the side of his face.