by Dayle, Harry
The vibrations from the huge engines starting up had made this delicate operation much more difficult than it should have been. Lucya would have preferred to wait for things to settle down, but she would be missed on the bridge, and she didn’t want to bother Jake with what she was doing. There was no point getting his hopes up, it was probably never going to be useful anyway.
She closed up all but one of the crates and put them back on the shelves, then cleared away a soldering iron, solder, and various lengths of wire and some unused connectors. All that remained was a bright orange buoy, a little larger than a football. A flap had been cut into the side. She peered through it and looked at the modified search-and-rescue transmitter now installed inside. A flashing green LED told her it was working. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper that had been sealed inside a plastic bag, and placed it inside the buoy with the electronics. Finally she closed the flap, took the silicone gun, and squeezed the trigger, forcing out a long, thin trail of sticky substance with which she sealed the plastic.
Lucya put the silicone gun back in its crate, and then lowered the crate under the bench. She slid it into place alongside the four other buoys she had already prepared but not yet sealed.
A speaker in the corridor outside crackled into life.
“All bridge officers report to the bridge, all bridge officers to the bridge.”
“Perfect timing,” Lucya said to herself in Russian. She grabbed the ring at the top of now closed buoy, lifted it from the table, and left the room.
Thirty
“STACEY, THIS IS Dave Whitehall, he’s our navigation officer. He reports to Lucya, and will be helping make sure we stay on course. And over there is Pedro Sol. He’s our lookout and, because we have a reduced bridge crew, is also our helmsman. He steers the ship and makes sure we don’t hit anything. Today, I’ll be getting us underway and then Pedro will take over,” Jake said.
“It doesn’t seem like a lot of people to drive such a big ship. Why is the bridge so large if there are so few people?”
“That’s mainly because it has to span the width of the vessel so that we have a good visual lookout all around. Nowadays the computers do the driving, as you call it. We’re really just here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Stacey nodded. “So Pedro won’t be driving for long, the computer will take over? Like an autopilot on a plane?”
“Actually, no, not today. The computers use GPS, but it seems from our readings that the asteroid took out some of the GPS satellites. If it had hit just a few we’d be okay, but we’re not able to get a proper fix on our position so we can’t risk it, except for the most basic stuff. We’ll get underway manually, and once we’re on the right heading, the computer will keep us pointing in the right direction. When it comes to knowing when to change heading, and by how much, we’re going to do this the old-fashioned way. Dead reckoning, some celestial navigation, and once we get closer to land, we can use the radar to help out. That is if Lucya and Dave can remember how to use that antique equipment they’ve got out over there.” He pointed to the map table upon which were sat charts, compasses, a sextant, and a pile of navigation books. ”
“Hey, this was state of the art once!” Lucya called back.
The phone nearest Jake rang. He picked it up.
“Bridge.”
“Anchors are up, sir,” came the voice on the other end of the line.
“Thank you.” He replaced the handset.
“Well then,” Jake drew a deep breath, “let’s get this ship turned round and get out of here.”
He stepped up to a control console near the middle of the bridge, flipped some switches, and took hold of a small joystick. As first officer, he rarely got to pilot the ship anymore, and he felt a thrill as, with the deft movement of fingers, he sensed the vibration of the engines powering up, and the gigantic bulk of the vessel start to move under his control. Turning around a ship of this size was not a rapid operation, and Stacey’s excitement at seeing how the bridge operated soon turned to boredom as the slow pace of the manoeuvres became clear. She retired to a chair near a window and settled in, hoping Melvin would be back soon so that she could go and do something more interesting.
• • •
“So, this is your guy? Older than I was expecting,” Max said, looking the man in front of him up and down. He was in his mid-fifties, had an unusually red face, and was just the wrong side of average weight. What Max’s ex-wife would have called “comfortably rounded”.
“Flynn is ex-army. I know most of your men are ex-navy types, but I think Flynn is just what you’re looking for.” Melvin was trying to sell it, and wasn’t entirely sure why. Flynn had been helpful in getting him onto the bridge, his planning had been meticulous, and his instincts spot on. Even so, Melvin didn’t feel he owed him anything. Yet there was something compelling about the guy. He had the sort of personality that made you feel like you’d known him forever, that he was looking out for you, that you could trust him. Melvin thought that was a good trait, and wished he shared some of that charisma and instant likability; it would be useful when it came to elections, when he would need to beat Jake in being the people’s choice to run the ship.
“And is he able to speak for himself?” Max raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, Mr Mooting, sir,” Flynn said.
“No need to call me sir; not yet, at least. So, what’s your background? What makes you think you’d be useful on my security team?”
“I was in the United States Army for eighteen years. Led fifty men into battle on three separate campaigns, only lost two men in all.”
“Why did you quit? And how?”
“Honourable discharge. I felt I had done my duty by my country. It was time for me to move on and put my time into my own projects”
“What sort of projects? What do you do now? Apart from cruising the Arctic, I mean.”
“Personal…” he paused, unsure how much he should say, “…building projects.”
“Ah, home renovation? Yeah, I can understand why you’d need time for that. Do you keep yourself in shape, Mr Bakeman? Do you think you can keep up with my guys?”
“Absolutely. I run at least three miles a day. I’ve been in the gym every day we’ve been on the ship, until yesterday of course.”
“I see,” Max said. He was starting to think that maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Having an outsider on the team might help keep his own men honest. “And tell me, how do you see the role of security officer?”
“First and foremost, to keep the peace. To offer protection and reassurance to everyone on the ship.”
“Protection from what?”
“Mainly from themselves.”
That did it; Max was impressed. “Well, Mr Bakeman, it looks like you got yourself a new job. Welcome aboard, metaphorically speaking.” He shook Flynn’s hand enthusiastically.
Flynn smiled at Melvin, giving him a quick wink when he was sure Max wasn’t looking.
• • •
Progress was painfully slow. Although the Spirit of Arcadia was now facing away from the icebergs and heading south, a quick look behind through a rear-facing window showed just how far they had not come.
Melvin returned to the bridge. Stacey tried to introduce him to Dave and Pedro, but she’d already forgotten their names so she simply said that they were involved in “the driving”. With her task out of the way she disappeared quickly, hoping to be first in the queue for the lunchtime service.
Melvin toured the bridge as if he were invigilating an exam. Hands clasped behind his back, taking large, quiet strides, he made his way up and down in front of each row of consoles, peering over. He paid particular attention to the map table, and asked a number of questions of Dave. Lucya was all too happy to let her subordinate do the talking. As far as she was concerned the less time she spent around Melvin, the better.
Silvia appeared at lunchtime. With the help of one of her staff she brought
up trays of food for the crew. Claude and his team had managed to whip up salt cod and potatoes cooked in milk. It was rich and delicious but, like breakfast, the serving could have been bigger. The bridge crew ate mostly in silence, everyone too involved in their jobs to talk about anything else. Lucya and Dave worked away at calculations, constantly updating their assumed position on the chart. Pedro had taken the helm and was steering a steady course through a flat calm sea. Jake oversaw the operation, checking in with each post regularly. This was his day job and he felt at ease here. Although he was working, it was a true rest from the responsibilities of captain. He longed for things to go back to how they were before. The job wasn’t so bad, he told himself. One last cruise and he would have been free to go to Africa. Now though, even once he was done being temporary captain, he realised he was probably going to be required on the bridge indefinitely, given he was the best qualified and most experienced officer of the watch on board.
A ringing telephone broke his train of thought. He answered it casually.
“Bridge.”
“Jake? Martin. We may have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Lucya and Melvin both looked up. Jake cursed to himself. He knew he should have spoken more quietly.
“Fuel. We’re keeping an eye on it, and the rate of consumption is higher than we anticipated.”
“By much?”
“Not a lot, but over twelve hours or so it’s going to make a difference.”
“Are we talking never going anywhere else ever again difference, or won’t be able to keep as many lights on difference?”
We’re probably going to have reserves for one less full day’s cruising than we thought.” Martin couldn’t hide the disappointment from his voice, and there was something else there too. Shame, Jake realised. He was ashamed they’d got the calculations wrong.
“Okay, keep an eye on it and keep me appraised.” He hung up the phone and saw all eyes were on him. “Nothing to worry about, just Martin being extra cautious.” The bad news could wait until later. He had a feeling there was going to be more of it when they saw land.
Another phone rang. Lucya answered it, spoke a few words, and hung up. “That was Claude, they finished serving lunch half an hour ago. The restaurants have emptied everyone out, sent them back to their cabins and closed up.”
“Right then, time to call curfew,” Jake announced.
Thirty-One
LARISSA KNOCKED AT the door to cabin 854. She carried a wide bag over her left shoulder, and a folder under her right arm. The arm was aching from writing, and she decided that whoever was inside 854 was going to fill in the form themselves.
There was a click of a bolt turning, and the door opened inwards.
“About bloody time,” the man inside said.
Larissa closed her eyes for a second, telling herself to remain calm. “Good afternoon, I’m Larissa, I’m here to complete the passenger census.”
“Well get a bloody move on will you. We’ve been stuck in this cabin for four bloody hours. Just as this ship starts to go somewhere, we’re stuck in here.”
“Give it a rest, Ken,” a woman’s voice called from inside. “The poor girl has probably had just as long an afternoon.”
Larissa walked into the cabin. It was one of the larger ones, a full suite. She was standing in the sitting room. Opposite her was a huge balcony with a spectacular view of the ocean. There was a plush sofa and two arm chairs, arranged around a low mahogany coffee table. Larissa had polished that table on many occasions; it seemed strange for her to be here in another capacity.
“Do sit down, dear, and I apologise for my husband. It’s not as if he can’t appreciate the view from here.”
“Thank you. This won’t take long, there are only a few questions.”
The three of them sat down, Ken taking the sofa. Larissa opened the thick file she had been carrying and split the papers inside into two piles. One pile, slightly dog-eared and untidy, went back into the folder. The other pile comprised blank sheets. She peeled off the top two sheets and handed one each to the couple. From the shoulder bag she produced two black ballpoint pens which she set down on the table.
“I need you to fill in your full names, dates of birth, nationality, country of residence, and occupation, all in the boxes as shown. Underneath, please fill in any skills you may have, and anything else you think might be useful to the community if” — even after repeating the instructions countless times throughout the afternoon, she still found herself hesitating at this point — “if this community is all that survives of mankind and we have to start over.”
“Don’t you worry, dear, we’re on the move again, look!” The woman pointed to the balcony and the ocean beyond. “The captain says we’re going to find a safe harbour.”
“Oh, Tracy, you know as well as I do that’s just lip service. We’re heading for land alright, and when we get there we’re going to see what everyone knows full well: that the bloody asteroid has destroyed everything.”
Tracy blinked away tears. “I don’t believe it, Ken. I won’t believe it.”
“Um, if you could just fill out the forms?” Larissa was growing impatient. She had seen this same scene played out in countless cabins. In nearly every family or couple she had visited, most were in denial. Most couldn’t accept the fact the world had ended, that this was all that was left. The “community” question promoted the same argument, time after time. She just wanted this to be over.
For a few minutes the only sounds were the scratching of pens on paper and the sound of water crashing against the side of the ship, clearly audible through the open balcony door.
“Well, I don’t think I have anything to offer in the way of skills.” Ken was sitting back, sucking on the end of his pen.
“You’re pretty good at painting and decorating,” Tracy said.
“That’s hardly a skill, is it? Anyone can do a bit of painting and decorating. I think they’re looking more for carpenters, stone masons, people who can build a town.”
“Actually, painting and decorating would be great. If you’ve done any of that, please, write it down.” Larissa wanted to scream out to put anything down, just hurry up and finish.
Ken scrawled a few words, considered what he had written, and handed back the page.
“What are you writing? You haven’t got that many skills!” Ken snorted at his wife.
“I have many hidden talents, Kenneth. Mind you, not as many as you. Like being able to pay for a luxury suite on a cruise liner on a teacher’s salary.”
“Yes, well, we’re not here to talk about that.”
“Sorry, teacher?” Larissa’s ears pricked up. “Could you list the subjects you teach? That would be very useful.” She handed back the paper and pen.
Ken sighed heavily and started writing once more. Tracy handed her page to Larissa, who scanned through it quickly, then folded over the bottom and tore it off carefully. She rifled through the folder and extracted a page on which were written a long list of numbers. One of the numbers corresponded to that on the slip of paper she had torn off. Against it, she wrote “Tracy Frampton”.
“This is your meal ration voucher.” She handed the paper back to Tracy. “You’ve been assigned to the Nautilus restaurant for your meals, second sitting. You’ll need to present the voucher at each service. Please don’t lose it; no voucher means no meal.”
“My mum used to tell me stories about rationing during the war.” Tracy looked wistful. “I never thought I’d experience it first-hand.”
Ken finished his list and handed back his page. Larissa repeated the same exercise, returning his voucher to him.
“Second sitting, pah!” He didn’t look impressed. “So we get the leftovers. Probably cold ones, at that.”
“Everyone gets the same rations, Mr Frampton. There’s no preferential treatment for the first sitting, I can assure you.” Larissa got to her feet. “Thank you for your time. If you could remain in your cabin until an
announcement is made, it will make our job much easier.”
“So we don’t have to stay? We’re free to leave?” Ken jumped to his feet.
“I can’t force you to stay here, but it really will make things go a lot quicker if you do.”
Larissa went to let herself out. At the door, she took one last look at the plush suite. A thought ran through her head. If they were all doomed to live on this ship because the planet was scorched, why should people like Ken get to live in such luxury? He’d paid for a cruise, for sure. But what gave him the right to stay here, in this room, in another week’s time, when the cruise was supposed to have finished? And another week after that? And after that? What right did anyone have to any particular accommodation anymore, if they were now a “community” of survivors?
Thirty-Two
“THIS IS THE captain. I would like to personally thank everyone on board for their cooperation during the census this afternoon. The survey has been completed, and you are free to leave your cabins. Dinner service first sitting will be beginning shortly. Thank you.”
Jake replaced the handset and walked over to Lucya’s station. She was deep in discussion with Dave, both intensively studying a chart.
“How long until we see land?” Jake asked.
Lucya looked up. “I think we should already be able to see something. Dave thinks I’m wrong.”
“If you’re not wrong, then why can’t we see anything?”
“Because I think we’re in the wrong place.”
Jake looked confused. Lucya put her hand on his back and steered him round the table to better see the map.
