Going Under

by Jack Dann

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  Fictionwise Publications

  www.fictionwise.com

  Copyright (C)1981 by Jack Dann

  First published in Omni, September 1981

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  She was beautiful, huge, as graceful as a racing liner. She was a floating Crystal Palace, as magnificent as anything J P Morgan could conceive. Designed by Alexander Carlisle and built by Harland and Wolff, she wore the golden band of the company along all nine hundred feet of her. She rose 175 feet like the side of a cliff, with nine steel decks, four sixty-two foot funnels, over two thousand windows and side-lights to illuminate the luxurious cabins and suites and public rooms. She weighed 46,000 tons, and her reciprocating engines and Parsons-type turbines could generate over fifty thousand horse-power and speed the ship over twenty knots. She had a gymnasium, a Turkish bath, squash and racquet courts, a swimming pool, libraries and lounges and sitting rooms. There were rooms and suites to accommodate 735 first-class passengers, 674 in second class, and over a thousand in steerage.

  She was the R.M.S. Titanic, and Stephen met Esme on her Promenade Deck as she pulled out of her Southampton dock, bound for New York City on her maiden voyage.

  Esme stood beside him, resting what looked to be a cedar box on the rail, and gazed out over the cheering crowds on the docks below. Stephen was struck immediately by how beautiful she was. Actually, she was plain-featured, and quite young.

  She had a high forehead, a small, straight nose, wet brown eyes that peeked out from under plucked, arched eyebrows, and a mouth that was a little too full. Her blond hair, though clean, was carelessly brushed and tangled in the back. Yet, to Stephen, she seemed beautiful.

  “Hello,” Stephen said, feeling slightly awkward. But colored ribbons and confetti snakes were coiling through the air, and anything seemed possible.

  Esme glanced at him. “Hello, you,” she said.

  “Pardon?” Stephen asked.

  “I said, ‘Hello, you.’ That's an expression that was in vogue when this boat first sailed, if you'd like to know. It means ‘Hello, I think you're interesting and would consider sleeping with you if I were so inclined.’"

  “You must call it a ship,” Stephen said.

  She laughed and for an instant looked at him intently, as if in that second she could see everything about him—that he was taking this voyage because he was bored with his life, that nothing had ever really happened to him. He felt his face become hot. “Okay, ‘ship’, does that make you feel better?” she asked. “Anyway, I want to pretend that I'm living in the past. I don't ever want to return to the present, do you?"

  “Well, I..."

  “Yes, I suppose you do, want to return, that is."

  “What makes you think that?"

  “Look how you're dressed. You shouldn't be wearing modern clothes on this ship. You'll have to change later, you know.” She was perfectly dressed in a powder-blue walking suit with matching jacket, a pleated, velvet-trimmed front blouse, and an ostrich feather hat. She looked as if she had stepped out of another century, and just now Stephen could believe she had.

  “What's your name?” Stephen asked.

  “Esme,” she answered. Then she turned the box that she was resting on the rail and opened the side facing the dock. “You see,” she said to the box, “we really are here."

  “What did you say?” Stephen asked.

  “I was just talking to Poppa,” she said, closing and latching the box.

  “Who?"

  “I'll show you later, if you like,” she promised. Then bells began to ring and the ship's whistles cut the air. There was a cheer from the dock and on board, and the ship moved slowly out to sea. To Stephen it seemed that the land, not the ship, was moving. The whole of England was just floating peacefully away, while the string band on the ship's bridge played Oscar Strauss's The Chocolate Soldier.

  They watched until the land had dwindled to a thin line on the horizon, then Esme reached naturally for Stephen's hand, squeezed it for a moment, then hurried away. Before Stephen could speak, she had disappeared into the crowd, and he stood looking after her long after she had gone.

  * * * *

  Stephen found her again in the Café Parisien, sitting in a large wicker chair beside an ornately trellised wall.

  “Well, hello, you,” Esme said, smiling. She was the very model of a smart, stylish young lady.

  “Does that mean you're still interested?” Stephen asked, standing before her. Her smile was infectious, and Stephen felt himself losing his poise, as he couldn't stop grinning.

  “But mais oui,” she said. Then she relaxed in her chair, slumped down as if she could instantly revert to being a child—in fact, the dew was still on her—and she looked around the room as though Stephen had suddenly disappeared.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “That's French, which no one uses anymore, but it was the language of the world when this ship first sailed."

  “I believe it was English,” Stephen said smoothly.

  “Well,” she said, looking up at him, “it means that I might be interested if you'd kindly sit down instead of looking down at me from the heights.” Stephen sat down beside her and she said, “It took you long enough to find me."

  “Well,” Stephen said, “I had to dress. Remember? You didn't find my previous attire as—"

  “I agree and I apologize,” she said quickly, as if suddenly afraid of hurting his feelings. She folded her hands behind the box that she had centered perfectly on the damask-covered table. Her leg brushed against his; indeed, he did look fine, dressed in gray striped trousers, spats, black morning coat, blue vest, and a silk cravat tied under a butterfly collar. He fiddled with his hat, then placed it on the seat of the empty chair beside him. No doubt he would forget to take it.

  “Now,” she said, “don't you feel better?"

  Stephen was completely taken with her; this had never happened to him before. He found it inexplicable. A tall and very English waiter disturbed him by asking if he wished to order cocktails, but Esme asked for a Narcodrine instead.

  “I'm sorry, ma'am, but Narcodrines or inhalors are not publicly sold on the ship,” the waiter said dryly.

  “Well, that's what I want."

  “One would have to ask the steward for the more modern refreshments."

  “You did say you wanted to live in the past,” Stephen said to Esme, and ordered a Campari for her and a Drambuie for himself.

  “Right now I would prefer a robot to take my order,” Esme said.

  “I'm sorry, but we have no robots on the ship either,” the waiter said before he turned away.

  “Are you going to show me what's inside the box?” Stephen asked.

  “I don't like that man,” Esme said.

  “Esme, the box ..."

  “It might cause a stir if I opened it here."

  “I would think you'd like that,” Stephen said.

  “You see, you know me intimately already.” Then she smiled and winked at someone four tables away. “Isn't he cute?"

  “Who?"

  “The little boy with the black hair parted in the middle.” She waved at him, but he ignored her and made an obscene gesture at a woman who looked to be his nanny. Then Esme opened the box, which drew the little boy's att
ention. She pulled out a full-sized head of man and placed it gently beside the box.

  “Jesus,” Stephen said.

  “Stephen, I'd like you to meet Poppa. Poppa, this is Stephen."

  “I'm pleased to meetcha, Stephen,” said the head in a full, resonant voice.

  “Speak properly, Poppa,” Esme said. “Meet you."

  “Don't correct your father.” The head rolled his eyes toward Stephen and then said to Esme, “Turn me a bit, so I can see your friend without eyestrain.” The head had white hair, which was a bit yellowed on the ends. It was neatly trimmed at the sides and combed up into a pompadour in the front. The face was strong, although already gone to seed. It was the face of a man in his late sixties, lined and suntanned.

  “What shall I call, uh, him?” Stephen asked.

  “You may speak to me directly, son.” said the head. “My given name is Elliot."

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Stephen said, recouping. He had heard of such things, but had never seen one before.

  “These are going to be all the rage in the next few months,” Esme said. “They aren't on the mass market yet, but you can imagine their potential for both adults and children. They can be programmed to talk and react very realistically."

  “So I see,” Stephen said.

  The head smiled, accepting the compliment.

  “He also learns and thinks quite well,” Esme continued.

  “I should hope so,” said the head.

  The room was buzzing with conversation. At the other end, a small dance band was playing a waltz. Only a few Europeans and Americans openly stared at the head; the Africans and Asians, who were in the majority, pretended to ignore it. The little boy was staring unabashedly.

  “Is your father alive?” Stephen asked.

  “I am her father,” the head said, its face betraying its impatience. “At least give me some respect."

  “Be civil, or I'll close you,” Esme said, piqued. She looked at Stephen. “Yes, he died recently. That's the reason I'm taking this trip, and that's the reason for this ...” She nodded to the head. “He's marvelous, though. He is my father in every way.” Then, mischievously, she said, “Well, I did make a few changes. Poppa was very demanding, you know."

  “You ungrateful—"

  “Shut up, Poppa."

  And Poppa simply shut his eyes.

  “That's all I have to say,” Esme said, “and he turns himself off. In case you aren't as perceptive as I think you are, I love Poppa very much."

  The little boy, unable to control his curiosity any longer, came over to the table, just as Esme was putting Poppa back in the box. In his rush to get to the table, he knocked over one of the ivy pots along the wall. “Why'd you put him away?” he asked. “I want to talk to him. Take him out, just for a minute."

  “No,” Esme said firmly, “he's asleep just for now. And what's your name?"

  “Michael, and please don't be condescending."

  “I'm sorry, Michael."

  “Apology accepted. Now, please, can I see the head, just for a minute?"

  “If you like, Michael, you can have a private audience with Poppa tomorrow,” Esme said. “How's that?"

  “But—"

  “Shouldn't you be getting back to your nanny now?” Stephen asked, standing up and nodding to Esme to do the same. They would have no privacy here.

  “Stuff it,” Michael said. “And she's not my nanny, she's my sister.” Then he pulled a face at Stephen; he was able to contort his lips, drawing the right side toward the left and left toward the right, as if they were made of rubber. Michael followed Stephen and Esme out of the cafe and up the staircase to the Boat Deck.

  The Boat Deck was not too crowded; it was brisk out, and the breeze had a chill to it. Looking forward, Stephen and Esme could see the ship's four huge smokestacks to their left and a cluster of four lifeboats to their right. The ocean was a smooth, deep green expanse turning to blue toward the horizon. The sky was empty, except for a huge, nuclear-powered airship that floated high over the Titanic—the dirigible California, a French luxury liner capable of carrying two thousand passengers.

  “Are you two married?” Michael asked, after pointing out the airship above. He trailed a few steps behind him.

  “No, we are not,” Esme said impatiently. “Not yet, at least,” and Stephen felt exhilarated at the thought of her really wanting him. Actually, it made no sense, for he could have any young woman he wanted. Why Esme? Simply because just now she was perfect.

  “You're quite pretty,” Michael said to Esme.

  “Well, thank you,” Esme replied, warming to him. “I like you too."

  “Watch it,” said the boy. “Are you going to stay on the ship and die when it sinks?"

  “No!” Esme said, as if taken aback.

  “What about your friend?"

  “You mean Poppa?"

  Vexed, the boy said, “No, him", giving Stephen a nasty look.

  “Well, I don't know,” Esme said. Her face was flushed. “Have you opted for a lifeboat, Stephen?"

  “Yes, of course I have."

  “Well, we're going to die on the ship,” Michael said.

  “Don't be silly,” Esme said.

  “Well, we are."

  “Who's ‘we'?” Stephen asked.

  “My sister and I. We've made a pact to go down with the ship."

  “I don't believe it,” Esme said. She stopped beside one of the lifeboats, rested the box containing Poppa on the rail, and gazed downward at the ocean spume curling away from the side of the ship.

  “He's just baiting us,” Stephen said, growing tired of the game. “Anyway, he's too young to make such a decision, and his sister, if she is his sister, could not decide such a thing for him, even if she were his guardian. It would be illegal."

  “We're at sea,” Michael said in the nagging tone of voice children use. “I'll discuss the ramifications of my demise with Poppa tomorrow. I'm sure he's more conversant with such things than you are."

  “Shouldn't you be getting back to your sister now?” Stephen asked. Michael responded by making the rubber-lips face at him, and then walked away, tugging at the back of his shorts, as if his undergarments had bunched up beneath. He only turned around to wave good-bye to Esme, who blew him a kiss.

  “Intelligent little brat,” Stephen said.

  But Esme looked as if she had just forgotten all about Stephen and the little boy. She stared at the box as tears rolled from her eyes.

  “Esme?"

  “I love him and he's dead,” she said, and then she seemed to brighten. She took Stephen's hand and they went inside, down the stairs, through several noisy corridors—state-room parties were in full swing—to her suite. Stephen was a bit nervous, but all things considered, everything was progressing at a proper pace.

  Esme's suite had a parlor and a private promenade deck with Elizabethan half-timbered walls. She led him right into the plush-carpeted, velour-papered bedroom, which contained a huge four-poster bed, an antique night table, and a desk and a stuffed chair beside the door. The ornate, harp-sculpture desk lamp was on, as was the lamp just inside the bed curtains. A porthole gave a view of sea and sky. But to Stephen it seemed that the bed overpowered the room.

  Esme pushed the desk lamp aside, and then took Poppa out of the box and placed him carefully in the center of the desk. “There.” Then she undressed quickly, looking shyly away from Stephen, who was taking his time. She slipped between the parted curtains of the bed and complained that she could hear the damn engines thrumming right through these itchy pillows—she didn't like silk. After a moment she sat up in bed and asked him if he intended to get undressed or just stand there.

  “I'm sorry,” Stephen said, “but it's just—” He nodded toward the head.

  “Poppa is turned off, you know."

  * * * *

  Afterward, reaching for an inhalor, taking a long pull, and then finally opening her eyes, she said, “I love you too.” Stephen only moved in his sleep
.

  “That's very nice, dear,” Poppa said, opening his eyes and smiling at her from the desk.

  * * * *

  Little Michael knocked on Esme's door at seven-thirty the next morning.

  “Good morning,” Michael said, looking Esme up and down. She had not bothered to put anything on before answering the door. “I came to see Poppa. I won't disturb you."

  “Jesus, Mitchell—"

  “Michael."

  “Jesus, Michael, it's too early for—"

  “Early bird gets the worm."

  “Oh, right,” Esme said. “And what the hell does that mean?"

  “I calculated that my best chance of talking with Poppa was if I woke you up. You'll go back to bed and I can talk with him in peace. My chances would be greatly diminished if—"

  “Awright, come in."

  “The steward in the hall just saw you naked."

  “Big deal. Look, why don't you come back later, I'm not ready for this, and I don't know why I let you in the room."

  “You see, it worked.” Michael looked around the room. “He's in the bedroom, right?"

  Esme nodded and followed him into the bedroom. Michael was wearing the same wrinkled shirt and shorts that he had on yesterday; his hair was not combed, just tousled.

  “Is he with you, too?” Michael asked.

  “If you mean Stephen, yes."

  “I thought so,” said Michael. Then he sat down at the desk and talked to Poppa.

  “Can't we have any privacy?” Stephen asked when Esme came back to bed. She shrugged and took a pull at her inhalor. Drugged, she looked even softer, more vulnerable. “I thought you told me that Poppa was turned off all night,” he continued angrily.

  “But he was turned off,” Esme said. “I just now turned him back on for Michael.” Then she cuddled up to Stephen, as intimately as if they had been in love for days. That seemed to mollify him.

  “Do you have a spare Narcodrine in there?” Michael shouted.

  Stephen looked at Esme and laughed. “No,” Esme said, “you're too young for such things.” She opened the curtain so they could watch Michael. He made the rubber-lips face at Stephen and then said, “I might as well try everything. I'll be dead soon."