He glances at his control pad. Whatever blood remains in his face seems to drain away. Gem catches his arm before he can fall sideways.

Gem frowns at the screen. He mutters a question I can hear just fine without lip-reading: “Sir, what is that?”

Hewett’s eyes have more life in them than the entire rest of his body. They’re incandescent with fear.

“Everyone on board,” he says. “We need to leave NOW.”

It’s not that simple.

With a 120-foot yacht, you can’t just turn on the ignition and speed away. Supplies have to be stowed, systems checked, moorings cleared. Over the past two years, we’ve worked on the Varuna half a dozen times. We know the ship, and we know our jobs. Still, it takes time to get ready.

It doesn’t help that we find ourselves stumbling over equipment we’ve never seen on board before. On deck, several metal crates the size of washing machines have been lashed down and covered with tarps. Belowdecks, the corridors are lined with smaller boxes that look like foot lockers—each fitted with a biometric fingerprint pad and labeled GOLD-LEVEL CLEARANCE.

I’ve seen boxes like these at school, but only from a distance. Usually they’re being transported to and from Verne Hall under armed guard. Whatever is inside is top secret. Only faculty and upperclassmen are allowed to work with them.

Suddenly, we’re surrounded by the containers. It’s like we’ve spent two years being told not to touch the artwork and now we’re tripping over Picassos. It’s unnerving that Hewett moved so much valuable school property to the Varuna, especially right before HP was wiped off the map….

It might be easier to guess what Hewett was thinking if I knew what was in the boxes. Dev never gave me the slightest hint. Whenever I pestered him, he’d say, You’ll find out soon enough.

Don’t think about Dev, I chide myself.

But that’s impossible. Simply getting through the day is like swimming through an underwater minefield. Tomorrow will be just as hard. And the next day. You might think the horror of losing my parents would have given me some coping strategies for dealing with this kind of tragedy. It hasn’t. If anything, it makes the stab to the chest even more painful.

I try to lock those feelings away in a gold box of my own. I have work to do. I check the comm-system batteries, the satellite dish, the VHF aerial, and 3-D sonar transducer. Gemini tags along behind me, alternately giving orders to his Sharks and making sure I am not being accosted by any ninja sea lions.

We’ve barely pulled away from the pier when Hewett’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Prefects, report to the bridge.”

Franklin and Tia are already there when Gem and I arrive.

Tia is piloting. Franklin hovers fretfully over Dr. Hewett, who’s sprawled in the captain’s chair, wheezing like he’s just run a 10K.

“Sir,” Franklin says, “at least let me take your blood pressure.”