by PK Hrezo
I search Bloomsdale’s face, noticing the flawlessness of his complexion, the pronounced muscle where his jaw meets his cheek bone. There’s a quiet strength about him, and a warmth in his eyes. I sense his integrity, but I have nothing to offer that doesn’t sound contrived and ridiculous. Is this stage fright? Over the years, I’ve rehearsed possible lines to the captain a thousand times, but right now, staring at Bloomsdale’s unwitting face, I can’t think of a single one.
That’s when it hits like an electric pulse and I’m riddled with dread down to my toes. I know him. His face, his name—Quincy Bloomsdale. Even his fate. He is one of few stewards who drowns tonight. It’s a knowledge so crippling, my throat tightens in on me with a pressure that threatens to steal oxygen right from my lungs.
“What’s yer name?” Bloomsdale asks again, but he’s not forceful. Instead there’s intrigue in his tone, and behind the light in his eyes, almost as if he’s in tune to my thought waves.
I maintain his gaze, squaring my shoulders and standing tall. “I’m a traveler … through time. I live in the future, almost two hundred years from now, and before you scoff at the idea, just listen. I came here to warn you, save you. In less than an hour this ship will hit an iceberg. 1500 lives will be lost, and it will go down in history forever. We can stop that from happening.”
No going back now. Tonight, I initiate a parallel shift.
He regards me, his lips parting as if to speak, then closing again with hesitation.
My gaze is fixed on Bloomsdale’s profile as he stares out at the horizon, then slowly he raises it to the star-filled sky, as though he’s examining the possibility, or listening for a clue in the wind. And in this moment, I know he’s not like the others here, which is why my chest presses in. I can’t let him die here.
“Quincy, that’s your name, right?” I say, lightly touching his sleeve. “I know how this sounds. I’ve rehearsed this moment more than you could know—how to warn the crew here, how to convince the captain. Titanic will hit an iceberg tonight.”
His eyes remain on the horizon. “Lookouts know their job, they’ll warn us.”
I plead for his attention on me again. “The Lookouts won’t see it because of an optical illusion on this part of the ocean. It’s a scientific phenomenon called the Shimmer Effect—the clear air acts as a lens, bends the light waves. When the warmer air of the water meets the colder air above it creates a layer. That’s the vapor you see between the sky and ocean. It distorts everything, like a mirage.”
Quincy stares at me now, eyes widening, the muscle at his jaw pulsing. “How do ye know this?”
I hesitate, the cold air forcing a violent shiver down my spine.
“You asked what my name is—it’s Bianca Butterman. I come from the year 2069, from a family of time travelers. My life’s goal has been to save Titanic from sinking …” I pause. “Save 1500 people from drowning.”
An eerie flash of unspoken communication passes between us. I don’t want to tell him he’ll die—it’s too much knowledge for a person to bear. The way his face softens for the briefest of moments sends a jolt of possibility through me. All isn’t lost yet. He wants to believe, I can see it in the glint of his eye, the angle of his brow.
Pulling up my sleeve, I check my watch. 2246hours. Less than an hour before impact. I look up to see Quincy staring at my wrist, a brow arched.
“Time is running out,” I say. “At approximately 2340hours Titanic will hit the iceberg in the right starboard bow. The jagged ice beneath the water’s surface will slice through the hull, water will fill all five compartments, leaving three hours to unload passengers into lifeboats before this entire vessel breaks in half and sinks.”
Quincy’s head shakes back and forth, his hand at his chin.
“Are you listening? You have to get them to slow the engines, veer left off course. The sooner the better.”
His head inclines. “And what’s not to say more icebergs won’t be to the left?”
I’m about to reply when I stop, mouth open to speak. He’s right. Who’s to say there’s not more ice on a different path?
Richards appears before us. “No reports, nothin’ but a child’s missing doll.”
I continue as if he isn’t there, but lowering my voice toward Bloomsdale. “We can’t get sidetracked with “what ifs” or we’ll lose the objective. The fact is that we know a huge iceberg will be on the right. Titanic only needs to shift to the left by twenty degrees. We can get word to the helmsman right now—”
“Ye can’t just walk on the bridge and give orders,” he says. “I don’t care who ye are.”
“Then get Captain Smith.”
“Captain Smith is in bed. How d’ye think he’ll respond if I call him up here ‘cause some crew impersonator thinks we’re in danger?” His eyes search mine, before angling his head toward Richards. “Any warnings from the crow’s nest yet?”
“Not a one,” Richards says, his tone self-satisfied. “Right as rain, it is.”
“You talked to them?” Bloomsdale asks.
“They just changed shifts,” he says. “Archie’s on the bridge now, see for yerself. He ain’t seen nothing.”
“Who’s up there now?”
“Fleet and Lee.”
“Have the bridge call up. Tell Fleet to use the telescope.”
“They won’t see it til we’re right up on it,” I say. “It’ll appear out of nowhere.”
Richards scoffs. “See what? Quincy, yer still listening to this foolishness?”
“I gave ye an order,” Quincy says, waiting for Richards to head back to the bridge.
“If I’m right, would you want to risk it?” My voice sounds weak and it makes the backs of my eyes sting with the threat of tears.
Quincy’s stiff jaw slackens, his expression changing to one of amusement, complete with a little snicker. “Ye got some nerve, ye know that? Comin’ here from wherever ye did, expecting people to believe ye. Ye say yer here to save us, so why didn’t ye come sooner? Why wait til now, when there’s only an hour left? Why didn’t ye come yesterday? Or the day before? Or before we even left port?”
My eyes well now, tears puddling but not ready to fall. I’m afraid to answer—afraid of what lies buried deep inside me that I’ve always tried to ignore, to justify. It was always about this day. April 14, 1912. It was always about …
“You came here to be a hero.” Quincy’s burning glare seems to shrink everything around us.
“I—”
Richards ambles up again. “Fleet says it’s all clear.”
I blink back my tears. He and Quincy exchange a long glance, and it occurs to me I could run. Back to the time-craft, where Tristan is probably freaking out, waiting so we can make our exit before the time-window and get off this ship before it goes down. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m here now. And once I make them understand, I can get back to Essence and seal off the time string.
“The horizon will seem clear,” I say. “But it’s an illusion. A hoax of Nature. Any objects on the water’s surface won’t be visible because of the layer of haze between warm and cold air.”
They stare at me again like I’m speaking in Arabic.
Finally, Quincy lets out a long sigh. “Have the bridge call the captain in his quarters, tell him we have a problem.”
“It’s yer arse taking the heat, not mine,” Richards points a gloved finger at Quincy. “Ye can take that to the bank.”
“Fine, just have them notify the captain.” Quincy takes a step closer to Richards. “I’d rather take a reprimand from the captain than make a mistake that could be the death of everyone around us.”
Richards backs up two steps, his back stiffening, then turns toward the bridge again with a sneer, the hot breath from his lips lingering as steam in front of him.
I blow out my own gust of fog, rubbing my bare hands together for warmth. “Thank you.”
Quincy’s motionless beside me. “Yer not dressed to be out here. Ye’ll freeze
.”
There’s another silent, awkward moment, before he begins unbuttoning his navy coat.
I realize what he’s doing and lay a hand on his arm. “No. Keep it. You’ll need it more than I will.”
He meets my gaze in a way that looks like he’ll object, but instead searches my eyes, before dropping his hands to his sides and peering out toward the bow. “I don’t like that look in yer eyes. I’ve seen it before, in me ma’s eyes, ‘fore I left …” He pauses. “It’s the look of someone burdened with a secret. She had a bad feelin’ ‘bout this, said she wanted to be proud of me first voyage as a regular crewman, but had a gut feelin’ she’d never see me again.”
Gut feeling. I swallow hard, let out a shaky breath. Evangeline Butterman’s words from Woodstock echo through my head: What you call a gut feeling or spontaneous idea is the CCL speaking to you subliminally.
Nothing I can say right now would even come close to making sense. And not Quincy, or his mother, or anyone around could know his fate. He has to believe he has a chance to live tonight. No matter what, he has to try. He has to.
“Was she right?” he asks, still transfixed by the starry sky. His handsome face seems so naïve, so childlike in the slight illumination of the nearby lantern.
I can almost glimpse the little boy he used to be, holding his mother’s hand, looking up to her for reassurance that life was full of potential and promise. And I have to be the bearer of dreadful news, seizing his hope like a crooked burglar on the run? No, that’s not my purpose here.
“I’m not a fortune teller,” I say quietly. “I only know what happens to this ship can be prevented, and you have the power to do that.”
“No, the captain does. And he’ll need reason to believe us.”
On impulse, I grab Bloomsdale’s arm, squeeze it. “Then you believe me?”
“I believe you believe it.” He frowns, gaze shifting to the tats on my upper right cheek. “And I believe Death has a messenger.”
My heart plunges to my stomach, my lids falling closed for only a second, before I force them open again. “No. I can fix this.” I shake my head. “We can fix this. Right now.”
I pull up my sleeve, hold up my arm so my black wrist watch shows. “The captain will believe this.” Programming my watch, I project the ship’s holographic schematic. “But there’s more to it than steering the ship off course. I have to be able to get back to my time-craft and depart—it’s the most important element of my mission. Even if Titanic is saved, I have to seal the time string.”
I know he hasn’t a clue what I mean, but he doesn’t admit it, he resorts to inspecting the holograph, his expression placid. “Yer an alien.” His voice is barely a whisper.
I whet my lips that have gone crackly dry from the cold air. “I’m as human as you are. From Alaska. From the future.”
He swallows so hard I can hear it, his eyes fixed on the schematic of the very boat his feet are planted on. “You said how many die here tonight?”
“1500.” A twinge in my chest that must be empathy makes my breath hitch. I can’t give him too much information or it will overwhelm him. “There aren’t enough lifeboats to save everyone. Some will go out half full. No one will be prepared.”
His fingers trace over the hologram, his eyes widening as it glows neon blue beneath his touch. “No one rescues us?”
“Two ships are in the vicinity—the Carpathia and the Californian. But they won’t get here in time to save everyone.” I touch his arm and it’s strong beneath my fingers. “Many will make it out alive. More if we can change course now.”
The engines grow louder beneath our feet. We both look up, pausing to understand what’s happening. Steam pumps faster from the funnels above our heads, filling the night with dark gray billows. Ocean wind slaps my cheeks even harder.
We’re accelerating.
Chapter Sixteen
My head jerks toward the bridge. “What are they doing?”
As if on the same cue, Quincy and I beeline for the helm, stopping midway inside, where a uniformed skipper has his hands on the large wooden steering wheel. Another crewman is speaking into a receiver at the wall behind him, but his words aren’t clear.
“We’re speeding up?” Quincy asks the helmsman.
The man nods. “Aye. Captain’s orders.”
“But the captain’s not here.” Quincy says.
Movement from the ship pulses beneath my feet. My eyes have found the front of the bow now, on the horizon—a clear stretch of open water with nothing but darkness and glittering stars. There’s no moon tonight. Another one of Nature’s shenanigans. Moonlight might’ve illuminated the berg sooner—broken the illusion.
The crewman at the back hangs up the receiver and hones in on us, his hands on his hips. “What’s this? Bloomsdale?”
“Why’re we speeding up?” Quincy asks. “Are you changing course?”
The crewman makes a little noise. “Changing course?”
“We’re speeding up, we need to veer left. Right away.” His gaze is pointed, unbreakable.
Maybe it was a mistake to tell him—he doesn’t outrank an officer on the bridge. He can’t come in here and give orders.
An officer in a white hat steps on the bridge, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. The aroma is comforting and I have the urge to wrap my cold hands around it. I can barely control my teeth from chattering, and I’m not sure if it’s only because of the temperature.
“What’s this all about?” The officer examines us, but maintains a polite tone of voice.
I want to tell this guy everything all in one big rambling sentence, but I hesitate, silently prompting Qunicy to respond.
Quincy stares blankly for a second, as if he’s seen a ghost, which elicits a brow-raising expression from the officer, and it feels like the longest moment in the history of moments.
Finally, Quincy finds his voice. “Sir, we ‘ave reason to believe there’s danger ahead. There’ve been ice warnings, right?”
The officer’s face softens as if relieved it’s something so minor. “Affirmative, but that’s expected for the season. No reason to be alarmed. Now, if you’ll both kindly leave us—”
“No, there is,” I say, unable to contain myself longer. “I promise you that.”
“A massive iceberg, sir,” Quincy says. “The Lookouts won’t be able to see it ‘cause of the haze on the water.”
The officer seems to be weighing the words, but then cocks a condescending smile. “Icebergs are common in these waters. Cap’n Smith is well aware of the possibility. He gave the order to speed full steam ahead, so we reach New York even sooner.” He gives me a little nod, looking down his nose. “If you’re worried, miss, you can relax. Got my best Lookouts on duty. If there’s anything floating ahead, we’ll find it. Now, if that’ll be all?”
My brain is rattling in my head. “Please listen to me, sir. This ship is already going too fast—we’ll hit the iceberg even harder. You have to slow the engines. This isn’t a joke. Your Lookouts will not see the berg til it’s right in front of the ship.”
“I’m the officer in charge of this bridge, miss,” he says, a rigid tone to his voice. “I’ll decide what speed to operate it. And by the by, who are you?”
“This is Captain Smith’s command,” I say, stomping my foot. “Call him up here. He should hear this from us directly.”
“I will not disturb the captain because of—”
Bloomsdale holds up a hand. “Sir, what if she’s right? What if we’re in danger?”
“Then we’ll spot it a lot quicker now that we’re full steam,” the officer says, his gaze falling over me with a flicker of suspicion.
For a few seconds it feels like he’s on to me—about to accuse me of being the dining room fur thief. The thought sends a ripple of anxiety through my torso. If I’m arrested, I’ll go down with this ship, and then I’ll know exactly what it feels like to welcome death as a solace from the pain of hypothermia. And fear.
; “Now, if that’ll be all, Mr. Bloomsdale, I’ll bid you goodnight.” The officer moves in to the front of the bridge, sipping his coffee, watching the horizon. He adds, “I take it you’ll handle the maid appropriately.”
Quincy steps toward him. “Sir, with all due respect, even if we spot an iceberg sooner, we’ll have less time to steer away from it. The impact will be even harder. Won’t you even consider the possibility, for the sake of the lives onboard this ship?”
Silence.
I start to lift my sleeve, to show him my watch, then stop. If it’s confiscated, and I’m thrown in the cargo hold, the time string could be forever altered, not to mention I’d die. The reality of time travel would be introduced to this decade, which could prevent Butterman Travel from ever existing.
Instead, I call out, “I know about the fire in the engine room.”
The officer angles toward me, but doesn’t fully turn to meet my gaze, still sipping from his porcelain cup.
I continue. “That’s why you’re speeding up even more, isn’t it?”
He speaks to Quincy. “That is not a rumor we want circulating the ship. Captain’s orders. I don’t know who this maid is, but I suggest you take care of her immediately, or I shall be forced to relieve you from your post on deck. Is that clear?”
A long pause, then, “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it, sir.”
“See that you do.” The officer turns his back to us again.
My knees are so weak that I want to fall to them. Is this what hopelessness feels like? I bury my face in my hands. I’ve failed. In so many ways, I’ve failed. Failed the people onboard this ship, failed Tristan who’s probably scared shitless waiting for me to find him, failed Mom and Dad by going against their will and tampering with the timeline. I’d wonder how the hell I’m going to explain that to Garth and the DOT, but then I don’t even know if I’ll make it back, or how the future will be affected as a direct result of these changes.
Staggering forward, I break free from the bridge, swaying in the cold darkness, tears now streaming down my face. I can no longer hold them back. The ache inside my chest is like a prickly knot tightening and twisting against my lungs and heart. I have to get out of here. I have to find Tristan before it’s too late.
