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‘Can’t be,’ says Kiya Jensen, another Shark. ‘The grid was up. Anything coming through would’ve been neutralized.’

My legs tremble. ‘This morning, Dev and I …’

Grief bubbles up in my throat, threatening to choke me.

Oh, god, Dev. His lopsided, squinty grin. His rascally brown eyes. His ridiculous pillow-flattened hair. Seeing him every day, I could hold on to the memory of what our father looked like. I could tell myself that our parents weren’t completely gone. But now …

Everyone is staring at me. They’re waiting, desperate for understanding. I force myself to continue. I describe the strange flicker I saw in the lights of the grid.

‘Dev was going to report it,’ I say. ‘He was probably in the security office right when …’

I gesture north. I don’t make myself look again, but I can feel the gaping hole in the landscape where Harding-Pencroft used to be. It’s like a dull ache in my jaw where a tooth has been pulled.

‘One torpedo?’ Tia Romero, the House Cephalopod prefect, shakes her head. ‘Even with multiple warheads, there’s no way a single missile could do that kind of damage. To trigger a landslide of that magnitude …’

She looks at her Cephalopod housemates. They start whispering among themselves. Cephalopods are problem-solvers. It’s what they do, like me reading lips. Dump a box of Legos in front of them, tell them to construct a working supercomputer out of the pieces, and they won’t rest until they’ve figured out a way. Only Nelinha stands apart, keeping silent watch over Ester.

‘It doesn’t matterhowit happened,’ Gem decides. ‘We need to go back and search for survivors.’

‘Agreed,’ I say.

On any other day, this would be headline news. Gem and I haven’t agreed on anything since we started at HP almost two years ago.

He nods grimly. ‘Everybody, back on the –’

‘No.’ Dr Hewett hobbles forward, cradling his tabletcomputer in one arm. Sweat patches have soaked through his shirt. His complexion is the colour of frozen custard.

Behind him, Bernie kneels and opens the supply case. Inside, nested in foam, are a dozen silver drones the size of hummingbirds.

Hewett taps the screen of his control pad. The drones buzz to life. They rise from their foam cradles, gather overhead in a swarm of blue lights and tiny propellers, then zip along the coastline, heading towards HP.

‘The drones will run surveillance.’ Hewett’s voice shakes with anger, or grief, or both. ‘But I warn you not to expect survivors. Land Institute has launched a pre-emptive strike. They mean to eliminate us. I have been fearing an attack like this for two years.’

I touch the black pearl at my throat.

Why is Hewett talking about LI and HP as if they’re sovereign nations? Land Institute couldn’t just destroy a chunk of the California coastline andkillover a hundred people.

Top’s tailwhops against my leg. He buries his head in Ester’s lap, demanding affection, trying to get her out of her dark place.

‘Dr Hewett …’ Franklin Couch, House Orca prefect, looks ready to crawl out of his skin. ‘We might have wounded friends back there. People buried in rubble. We have a duty –’

‘Do NOT speak!’ Hewett roars.

Suddenly I am back in my first day of TMS, when Daniel Lekowski – who washed out later in the year – dared to ask what good theoretical marine science was. I remember how terrifying Hewett can be when he gets angry.

Bernie stands behind the professor. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence seems to bring Hewett’s rage down to DEFCON 5.

‘We continue to San Alejandro,’ Hewett says in a more even tone. ‘All of you, listen to me carefully. You may be all that remains of Harding-Pencroft. We must not fail. Trials arecancelled. Instead, you will learn what you must know on active duty. As of this moment, we are at war.’

Twenty freshmen stare back at him. They look just as scared as I feel. We have been trained in military tactics, yes. A lot of HP graduates go on to the best naval colleges in the world: Annapolis, Kuznetsov, Dalian, Ezhimala. But we aren’t marines or Navy SEALs. Not yet, anyway. We’re not even graduates. We’re kids.

‘We will continue to the docks,’ Hewett says. ‘Once we are safely at sea, I will give you further instructions. In the meantime, Gemini Twain?’

‘Sir.’ Gem steps forward. He’s ready for orders, ready to be put in charge of our class. Military command is what Sharks train for.

‘Standard weapons are stored in the bus’s hold?’ Hewett asks.

‘Yes, sir.’