“Or destroy the world,” Ophelia counters. “Imagine a world government monopolizing that power. Even worse, a corporation.”

That sends a shiver down my back. “You’re saying the secret to cold fusion is here on this base.”

“That secret,” Luca agrees, “and many others. But we cannot unlock them or study them, much less reproduce them, because Nemo keyed his masterpiece to his own family’s blood—your blood.”

The ball of anger in my chest begins to cool and shrink, creating its own little cold-fusion reaction. “Nemo’s masterpiece…” I say. “You don’t mean the base. You mean the Nautilus.”

Luca and Ophelia remain silent.

I shake my head in disbelief. “But it’s a wreck.”

I think about photos I’ve seen from the resting place of the Titanic: a broken metal shell covered with rusticles, slowly crumbling to dust. And that ship went down something like fifty years after the Nautilus. “There can’t be much left. It was sitting on the bottom of the ocean for a century and a half.”

“No, my dear.” Luca sounds melancholy, like this news is even worse than the destruction of Harding-Pencroft. “Your parents found the Nautilus intact. Tomorrow, we will introduce you.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

How to make twenty freshmen hyperactive:

1. Give them access to an espresso machine.

2. Offer them a safe haven after seventy-two hours of running from death.

3. Feed them a home-cooked meal made by an orangutan.

4. Tell them that tomorrow, they will get to see a make-believe submarine from the 1800s that is actually not make-believe.

Luca insists that we will not talk any further about the Nautilus until the morning. Even though I am burning with questions, I suppose that’s just as well. My head already feels like it is going to explode from too much impossibility.

How could a submarine survive intact underwater for over 150 years? And what does Luca mean by intact? The shell is recognizable? The inside wasn’t completely flooded? Most of all, what does he mean about “introducing” me to the sub? He makes it sound almost like…No, I’m not going to follow that line of thinking. It’s crazy.

During dinner, only ten of us can fit around the dining table. The rest of the crew spreads out through the main room. They sit wherever they can, though nobody is brave enough to try Jupiter’s tire swing.

The volume of conversation increases. I hear occasional laughter. My classmates joke with one another, looking as relaxed and happy as I’ve seen them since before our world was destroyed. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe I’m back in the Harding-Pencroft cafeteria on an average school night.

My melancholy starts spiraling out of control, until Jupiter places a steaming plate of lasagna in front of me. He’s added a beautiful mixed salad on the side, along with two slightly burnt pieces of garlic bread.