“EJECT!” I yell, before I have time to process why.

Dev’s skiff is waiting for us. A millisecond after I register it on the LOCUS, I see it with my own eyes: a black wedge bristling with weapons like the spines of a porcupine fish. It faces us from only fifty feet away, and behind its transparent front view shield, in the pilot’s seat, is my brother.

Maybe it’s something in his face, or just my instincts. I punch the emergency eject: simultaneously killing our engine, blowing the roof, and launching Gem and me out of our seats. It’s a good thing we’re already in dive suits. We hurtle forward, driven by momentum and our jet boots over the top of Dev’s submersible as he fires a projectile at our now-abandoned skiff. The silver harpoon impales the seat where I was sitting a moment before, discharging a fractal lacework of blue lightning.

We sail over Dev’s stern. Before Dev can turn to face us, Gem shoulders his Leyden rifle and fires two rounds straight into the submersible’s propulsion system. Green flashes illuminate the engine casing. The propeller freezes. Deprived of power, Dev’s sub lists to port and begins to sink.

“Should we pull out the crew?” Gem asks.

I am shaking with rage and adrenaline. Part of me wants to pry my brother from that heavily armed shoebox just so I can kick him in the groin. He wasn’t wearing a dive suit when I glimpsed him through the window of his sub. It will take him and his boarding party time to either restore power or gear up and abandon ship, but I’m sure they’ll survive. Dev is resourceful.

“The hostages are more important,” I say. “We keep going.”

We jet through the lagoon, stirring up clouds of luminous phytoplankton in our wake. As the dock’s pylons come into view, gunfire rains down from above, the bullets punching white funnel clouds into the water before the drag and density stop them cold.

At five meters deep, we’re safe from just about any kind of conventional ammo fired from the dock. On the other hand, we can’t fire up at them with any success. Land Institute must know this. They’re just sending us a message. We’re here, we know you’re there, and if you try to surface, you’re dead.

“Under the dock,” I suggest. “Come up behind them.”

“Got it,” Gem says.

But Land Institute saves us the trouble. Apparently, they’re feeling like kids on Christmas morning. We’re their presents, and they want to open us right now. The gunfire stops. Two divers plunge feet-first into the water, right on top of us, engulfing us in a tornado of bubbles.

Underwater hand-to-hand combat is the worst.

It’s like trying to fight someone to the death while wearing one of those inflatable sumo-wrestler costumes. Your movements are slow, cumbersome, and ridiculous. You can’t get any muscle behind your punches and kicks. But since we can’t zap our enemies point-blank underwater without zapping ourselves, Gem and I don’t have much choice.