Shipbuilder

by Dotterer, Marlene

  "I've no doubt they'll put some blame on White Star and possibly myself, since we chose not to heed all of your warnings, son," Lord Pirrie told him. "I expect that poor Captain Smith will take the brunt. But when it comes down to the finish, the real blame will rest with the Board of Trade and the shipping industry as a whole. Your final speech to them was right on mark, Tommy. Already, every line has added more lifeboats to their ships. Bruce plans on sending the Olympic and other ships back to the yard to be fitted with a second skin, and certainly the Britannic will be built with it. You'll have to handle that, Tommy. It will be a huge job. There are other rules to be changed as well. It will all happen, son. I'm sure of it."

  "It's a start, Uncle Will." Tom moved his uncle's empty tray to the bedside table and stretched the kinks out of his back.

  His uncle watched him with concern. Tom seemed to look much older than his thirty-nine years. Lines etched around his mouth, the skin around his eyes puffy and drooping, new gray speckled his hair. He was subdued, somehow, as if the joy he usually carried with him had been misplaced. Perhaps he just needed more time to put this all behind him. It would do him good to get home, too.

  Lord Pirrie reached for Tom's hand and patted it. "There's a lot to do, lad, but take some time when you get home. I imagine your wife has been through hell these last few weeks. She's a good girl, Tommy. Take care of her for awhile."

  Tom's soft smile touched his eyes as he returned the hand pat. "I'll do that, Uncle Will. You follow your doctor's orders and get better, all right? I'll take care of things at the yard."

  Chapter 44

  May 1915

  Tom watched as George signed off on the final paper turning the Britannic over to White Star Line. She was every bit as beautiful as her sisters had been. George was confident she would perform well. Despite the Titanic tragedy, he was looking forward to heading the guarantee group on this voyage. Handing Tom copies of the reports, he raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Sure you don't want to come along?" he asked, only half joking. "We could use your expertise."

  Tom laughed a little, holding up both hands as if to ward him off. "Now you know my wife would have my head if I left on that ship. Not only that, I honestly don't want to go." He reached over to shake George's hand. "She's as safe as we can make her, George. The workers are confident, but even more, I think the world is confident about that. No other ship has been watched as closely as this one has been during her construction, yet she's going off with nearly every berth full."

  "They must think we did something right," George agreed, "thanks to all the rule changes since the inquiry. Listen, I appreciate you looking in on Susan while I'm gone. I know you and Casey can understand her nervousness."

  "Indeed we do. We'll have her and the children over as often as they want to come. We'll keep her occupied."

  The "all ashore!" whistle blew and Tom gathered his papers. "Good voyage, George."

  "Thanks, mate. See you soon."

  Tom walked down the gangway, meeting Ham at the bottom and handing off the reports. Saxon joined them, as they watched the Britannic make her slow way to the river and on to Southampton, before the three of them went back to their duties. Tom sent off a telegram to Lord Pirrie, informing him the ship was off without a hitch.

  Back in his office, he pulled out his time travel journal and entered the information, staring thoughtfully at the page as he finished. After a few minutes, he continued writing.

  So many changes. Fourteen hundred people that died in another timeline, still walk the earth, still building their dreams, because Sam and Casey chose to act. We now have shipping rules in place that reflect both the reality of the ships we build, and the dangers that nature can throw at us. World War I, as Sam and Casey call it, has been vicious, but is already contained. Sam insists the differences there are enormous. Was it because of someone on Titanic who lived instead of died?

  Sam's 'inventions' have begun to appear everywhere, even among the poor. His work to harness the sun's energy is remarkable. I'm going to talk to Uncle Will about using his solar sails in the next ships we build. Sam thinks we're ready to try that. He says if this is the primary energy source for the world, the changes from his future will be astronomical. He's convinced it's a good thing, and I believe him.

  We are making real progress in keeping the various factions of Ireland talking to each other. Despite the effort it takes, Sam and I both want to concentrate on bringing our Ireland in this timeline to a peaceful existence, without all the bloodshed that occurred before. There are no guarantees, but ever since that letter, people have been insisting we live together in peace, and they're voting like they mean it. I suspect we won't be part of the UK much longer, but once again, Sam has helped with that. Ireland is the world's technological leader, and we can deal with England from a position of strength, so breaking off will not beggar us. We can make it worthwhile for England, too.

  From my point of view, these things are amazing, but I don't see the future as changed. I am just living, with life going along as it always has, except for outside knowledge from a couple of future time travelers.

  Tom smiled slightly, at the joy he always felt when thinking of one particular time traveler. His pen continued to move.

  I am willing to just let life be. It's good this way.

  Epilogue

  August 1972, Belfast

  Avoiding the busy pedestrian traffic, 26-year-old Sam Altair parked in front of the house known as Dunallon, and waited a moment to gather his nerve, reflecting back over the strange invitation he'd received. He knew who Casey Andrews was, of course. Everyone in Ireland did. The widow of Thomas Andrews, the man who brought Harland & Wolff through the twentieth century with increasingly modern sailing ships, airplanes, and eventually space shuttles. He made Ireland a force in modern industry and gave her a real presence in space. The Andrews had been tireless advocates for a peaceful Ireland, and instrumental in bringing the warring factions together, even if they couldn't always keep them together. They were heroes a hundred times over. But he could not imagine what her interest was in him.

  Only one way to find out. He locked the car and approached the house, looking around him at the famous garden. A the door, he was greeted by a middle-aged woman who shook his hand, informing him she was Mrs. Andrews' secretary. She guided him through the parlor and into a library at the back of the house, pausing in the doorway. "Dr. Altair is here, Ma'am."

  An old woman balanced on a cane in the center of the room. She turned from her contemplation of a box of books. When she saw him, her face crinkled into what could only be described as a huge grin. She limped toward him, taking his hand and studying his face intently. Sam took the time to study her in return.

  He'd seen pictures of her as he was growing up and had even seen her on a television talk show once, but he wasn't prepared for how small she was. Her hair was white, the eyes a vivid green. She was pale and wrinkled, dressed impeccably, and stood straight, supporting herself with the cane. He knew she was nearly ninety, and he was impressed with her bearing. He gripped her hand with care, afraid of hurting her, and bowed briefly. "Mrs. Andrews. How do you do?"

  The smile widened. She shook her head as if amazed. "Incredible," she murmured, then gestured to the divan. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?"

  He acquiesced, as the tea service was already in place. She poured, her hand shaking a bit. As he took his cup, she sat back in her chair and looked at him. "This will all be very strange to you, Sam," she said, then blinked. "Excuse me, may I call you Sam? I know it seems forward, but it will make sense, shortly."

  He smiled at the old world formality and nodded, not without some confusion. "I have no objections, ma'am. I'm honored to meet you, but I don't understand what I can do for you."

  Her eyes were bright, as if tears had formed in them. "I read your Ph.D. thesis."

  He nearly choked on the tea. "My thesis? It's not even published, yet."

  Her smile was enigmatic
. "I have connections. I understand your hypothesis predicts time travel."

  He put the cup down. "Mrs. Andrews, my work is extremely esoteric, even among physicists. What is your interest in it?"

  Still that smile. "I'm going to do the same thing to you, that I did to my husband over sixty years ago. I'm going to tell you the bottom line, then we'll go back to fill in the details. I practically had to tackle Tom to keep him in the room after I told him. I'll beg a little more forbearance from you. I'm afraid my tackling days are over."

  He couldn't help returning her smile, deciding she was senile and harmless. He spread his hands in submission. "Consider me glued to the chair, ma'am."

  She laughed. "I'll remind you of your promise. You see, Sam, in the year 2006, you create an experiment in time travel, with unforeseen results. You end up moving yourself backwards through time to the year 1906. Along with a not very appreciative twenty-year-old American girl who had been attending school at Queens."

  He thought of his hypothesis and stared at her. "I know what my hypothesis predicts, but even I don't think that's possible, Mrs. Andrews."

  Her lips tightened and she gestured toward the boxes on the floor. "These journals are yours, Sam." She seemed to sense his alarm and smiled briefly. "I don't mean they were all written by you. Some of them were. Some were written by my husband, some by me. But they will be given to you, Sam. For your work."

  He shook his head. "I don't understand."

  She picked up the loose-leaf notebook on the table in front of her. It was very old, the binding cracked and torn, its pages yellow and crumbling. She made no effort to hand it to him.

  "This is the first one. I had my backpack with me when we went through time and Sam and I started keeping our notes on these pages. It was all an accident, you see. He couldn't get us back." She rubbed the binder, her expression sad. She looked up at him earnestly. "You must try to accept it, Sam. Try to understand. Read the journals. Sam and I kept a section for memories of our time. We wanted a record of what had happened in our history and of what our world was like in 2006. For comparison, you see."

  He shook his head again. "Comparison with what?"

  "We changed things, Sam. Some changes were inevitable, just because we existed in 1906. Some things, we changed deliberately. Other changes occurred as a result of the first changes, a domino effect. You realize we had almost no control."

  "I don't believe this."

  She didn't respond and he continued. "We don't know what travel backwards through time would do. Are there parallel time streams? Tangential time streams? I don't see how we can go back to the same time stream and create a loop, but maybe that's what happens. We just don't know!"

  She held out a hand. "You didn't know when it happened, either. We're pretty sure we started a tangential time stream. But we don't know. That's one of things you'll have to work on. But you see," she handed him the book; he wouldn't have taken it, but it was too heavy for her and he didn't want her to hurt herself, "your older self did not want you to waste time redoing his work. He wanted you to have this information so you could begin where he left off."

  He closed his eyes, hoping it would all be gone when he opened them. That didn't work, of course. When he opened his eyes, she was watching him. "Your husband was not from the future. I know about the Andrews family. Everyone does."

  Her smile was soft. "No, he wasn't. Tom Andrews was born in 1873. I met him in 1906. I loved him almost at once. I didn't know who he was, but Sam did." Her gaze was direct. "I could not have just let him die, Sam. I had to warn him about his future and Sam agreed. It's the first time we deliberately tried to change something."

  "Are you saying he died earlier in your history? Before 1961?" Sam struggled to keep up with the changing tenses and her confusing way of calling both him and this older self she said she knew, by the same name.

  She thought about it, looking at her hands for a moment, as they rested in her lap, before looking back up at him. "Read the journals. I'm not willing to actually give them to you, yet. I'd like to request that you leave them here for now, but you are welcome to spend as much time here as you wish. You can even move in, if that would help you." She stood, her gaze piercing. "There is a foundation established to provide you with funds for this work, should you decide to pursue it. There will be rules, particularly regarding my children and their descendants. I'm not willing for them to be hurt by this. I'll give you some time, now. Please, look them over."

  He stared at the notebook as she made her slow way to the door. His hypothesis predicted this, but it made no conjecture about the consequences. Nothing was in there about the people and the lives affected by time travel. Perhaps it was fitting that his own life was disrupted by this. He looked up to ask her a question, but she was gone, the door closed. His own hand shook a bit, as he reached to turn the cover of the book.

  About the Author

  Marlene Dotterer grew up as a desert rat in Tucson, Arizona. In 1990, she loaded her five children into the family station wagon, and drove north-west to the foggy San Francisco Bay Area. To stay warm, she tackled many enterprises, earning a degree in geology, working for a national laboratory, and running her own business as a personal chef. She is a frustrated gardener, loves to cook, and teaches natural childbirth classes. She says she writes, “to silence the voices,” obsessed with the possibilities of other worlds and other times.

  She is married to The Best Husband in the World, and lives in Pleasant Hill, California.

  Her website is http://www.marlenedotterer.wordpress.com

  Please visit for a peek at the next book in The Time Travel Journals series:

  BRIDGEBUILDERS

  Acknowledgements

  There is a wealth of Titanic information in the world. I spent over a year plowing through a lot of it. Shan F. Bullock's little book, "Thomas Andrews, Shipbuilder," was the source of my inspiration. M.A. Kibble's website, "Thomas Andrews, Builder of the Ship of Dreams," while not a new site, is still the definitive page for information about Thomas Andrews. The people at Encyclopedia Titanica are always ready for advice or debate, and always good for a laugh. The Titanic Inquiry Project, with every word of both the British and American inquiries scanned into the World Wide Web, is a wonder of the electronic age. The Belfast Titanic Society is a constant source of inspiration. And jealousy. I always wish I was there. I am grateful to all the people who contribute to these sites.

  Closer to home (sort of), I send humble thanks to the members of the Online Writers Workshop for Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror. Amy Raby, Jesse Bangs, David Fortier, Rhonda Garcia, and Greg Byrne deserve several pitchers of beer for their faithful reading of forty chapters and three revisions. You guys made a real writer of me.

  Special thanks to Daniel Hawkes, who never doubted I could do it, and whose thoughtful editing of the first version made it a book to be proud of. And also to Stefan Finsterle, who provided a review of the final draft that was the equal of any peer review given to a scientific colleague. You guys rock.

  My most heartfelt thanks, and all my love, go to Rick, "the Best Husband in the World.” He didn't know he married a writer, but he persevered when these strangers took up residence in our house via my obsessed mind, and I disappeared nightly behind my computer screen. For better or worse, indeed. I love you, darling.

  And finally, to Thomas Andrews, February 7, 1873 - April 15, 1912. He had no idea of the inspiration he would provide to so many people through the ages. He just lived his life with all the goodness and joy instilled within him by nature and a loving family. I wish he could have had a full span of years. I hope he would be pleased with my feeble attempt to give him another chance at life.

  Marlene Dotterer

  Pleasant Hill, California, 2011

 

 

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