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The pirates had taken complete control of the Coralie now, retying sails, regaining the brig’s maneuverability. Because it was far more powerful and more impressive than their sloop, they would no doubt repair the three-masted ship and make it one of their own vessels.

As the ships sailed away from him, Nemo knew he could never catch up, no matter how fast he swam. Devastated now, still reeling from the horror he had seen but now yet acknowledging the even worse straits in which he now found himself, Nemo clung to the wreckage that had spilled from the Coralie’s cargo hold.

He screamed after the pirates, but they either did not hear him, or ignored his pitiful shouts. But Captain Grant had taught him to be resourceful. Nemo looked around at the splintered wood, the broken spars, and the few casks and crates of supplies. Perhaps he could construct some sort of a temporary raft. But he had to act quickly, for every moment the flotsam dispersed more and more. He could not lose vital resources now. Every scrap might make the difference between his survival or his death.

All around, the water was stained purplish from spilled blood. Corpses floated facedown like tiny islands, their gaping wounds washed clean by sea water. Somewhere in the distance, the body of Captain Grant lay among them.

The two ships dwindled to tiny specks, farther and farther away, until there was nothing else but the sea. Nemo was adrift and alone, lost and helpless.

Soon, the sharks would come.

vi

Even before the still-smoking Coralie and the pirates’ sloop disappeared into the distance, Nemo realized how alone he was out in the South China Sea. To stand even the slimmest chance of surviving, he would have to rely on his own wits and everything he had learned. He thought of Captain Grant -- and then Jules Verne, and Caroline Aronnax, and he strove for some way to keep himself alive.

Alert for the circling razor fins of sharks, Nemo paddled toward the nearest crate. If he could assemble the drifting junk, he might find enough worthwhile components. Kicking hard with sore and exhausted legs, he pushed it closer to one of the others. Then, with the tangled end of a burned rigging line, he lashed them together into a crude raft. Next, breathless but refusing to think about his exhaustion or fear, he swam over to fetch a barrel bobbing in the waves. Hoping it would contain water or beer, he was dismayed to find that the keg held only damp black powder.

He did find a dead chicken, drowned inside its cage, already planning for when he would need food. Not knowing how long he might remain adrift, or what items he might require, he grabbed a waterlogged scrap of canvas from a torn sail, a long piece of wooden rail with a splintered end, a tangled mass of rigging rope, and someone’s bloodstained shirt. He still had the waterlogged journal that had saved his life from the pirate captain’s sword thrust, and he even kept the battered cage from the drowned chicken. Anything might prove invaluable.

Soon, he saw shark fins cutting the surface, circling and approaching the floating bodies. Many of the fresh corpses were slain pirates, and he wanted nothing more than to see them devoured by the aquatic predators. But other human forms floating here -- like Captain Grant himself -- had been his mates aboard the Coralie. These brave men, his friends, his teachers, were now nothing more than fish food. Nemo hoped they gave the sharks indigestion. . . .

With so many sharks in the water, he didn’t dare leave his meager refuge on the tilted crates. Using a broken slat of wood, he paddled his cumbersome raft away from the scene of carnage. For hours, he watched as the voracious sharks fought over the floating casualties of the battle. Standing above the water, he shouted his rage and helplessness at them, but they ignored him. . . .

All that night Nemo huddled on the raft, knees drawn up against his chest in a darkness lit with silver light from