Now there’s a Dev-size void in the world and no way I can fill it. Luca and Ophelia weren’t planning on me being here, maybe ever. My presence is a sign that something terrible has happened.

I need to tell Luca the bad news: Dev is dead. Harding-Pencroft is gone.

My vocal cords refuse to make a sound.

I’m saved from answering when Ophelia returns from the sick bay. She marches over to us with Ester, Top, and Rhys Morrow at her heels. Ester’s face is puffy and red from crying. Rhys plays counselor, whispering to her in a reassuring tone.

“Pancreatic cancer,” Ophelia tells me. Her gaze is as steely as her hair and her glasses. “Theodosius was a fool.”

My rib cage tightens. “Was?”

“No, no, he’s still alive. Your friend Franklin is administering one of our experimental treatments right now. I just meant Theodosius should’ve sought medical help months ago. What was he thinking, coming out here in his condition with a crew of freshmen?”

She scowls at me, waiting for answers I don’t have.

Top pads over to the couch. He sniffs Jupiter’s toes. Jupiter just looks down at the dog, pulls a cookie from the pocket of his apron, and gives it to Top. Another friendship secured.

“I…” My voice falters. I’ve been trying to hold myself together for three days. I can’t break down now, not in front of my whole crew.

Gem gets up from the couch. He and Nelinha both gravitate to me, as if sensing that I need backup.

“How about we sit and talk?” Gem suggests to our hosts, gesturing to the dining table. His calm tone reminds me that Sharks are trained to be diplomats as well as soldiers.

“Good idea,” Nelinha says. That makes twice this week she has publicly agreed with Gem, which probably means doomsday is nigh. “The rest of the crew can secure the Varuna, maybe get themselves cleaned up. Right, Ana?”

I nod, grateful for the help. It’s better than me dissolving into ugly sobbing.

“You could all use showers,” Ophelia concedes.

I guess after three days at sea, rationing our fresh water, the twenty of us don’t smell so great.

Ophelia makes a clicking sound at the side of her mouth, like she’s encouraging a horse. Two mechanical dragonflies buzz into the room and hover at her shoulders.

“The drones will show your crew the facilities,” she says. “They’ll also keep any naughty children from straying into restricted areas and getting themselves killed.”

“I’ll get the espresso and biscotti.” Luca’s smile turns fragile, as if he suspects it might break under the weight of our story. “I have a feeling we might need a predinner pick-me-up.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It never gets easier, talking about what happened to Harding-Pencroft.