by PK Hrezo
My feet are heavy beneath my sloppy gait. I glance upward at the stars, now blurred from the warm puddles in my eyes. Quincy was right. I should’ve come sooner—should’ve been smarter. I wanted to be a hero, wanted to save the unsalvageable. For what?
My body stiffens as my arms are pinned from behind me again. Holy hell, this is it. I’m found out. I’ll be tossed into cargo and go down with Titanic.
My lids fall closed and I squeeze them shut, waiting for the blow.
“Didn’t ye have a better plan than that, time traveler?” Quincy searches my face, his hands clutching my arms.
I exhale a breath of relief. “Quincy, oh damn, I thought I was a goner. Well, I guess that’s a given now … I … I thought they’d listen. But I’ve made it worse. The timeline’s already been altered. We will hit the berg sooner, harder. What was once a three hour evacuation will be even less now, depending on the damage to the hull.”
He tightens his hold, bringing me closer. “Yer lucky they didn’t call the Master at Arms. I convinced the bridge you’d be under my supervision til I found a better place for ye.”
I let my body slacken so he releases his grip slightly. “Promise me that whatever happens, you won’t tell anyone about me, or why I’m here. Okay? I had a plan when I came here, but if the ship still hits the berg, the plan won’t work. So now, it’s up to us to save our own lives.” I pause, searching the confusion now blazing in his amber-brown eyes. “Promise me you’ll get onboard a lifeboat when it happens.”
I might not be able to save the whole ship, but I can at least save one person.
Qunicy’s forehead creases beneath his hat, his dark brows slanting downward in a face full of sympathy, immediacy. “I don’t know who ye really are, or where yer really from, but I know something very bad is about to happen. I promise I’ll do what I can to help it. Because I can see it in yer face that that’s why yer here—to help whoever ye can.”
Goosebumps break out over my arms, so fast and hard, it’s almost painful.
His eyes bore into mine. “Ye’ve done all ye can for us. How do ye plan on saving yerself?”
I take a long slow breath, concentrating on his steady gaze—there’s a composure there, grounded in empathy and truth, and it warms me.
I nod. “I have to get back to my time-craft. But first, you have to promise to get on a lifeboat, and you have to promise to never mention my purpose here. Ever. Take it with you to the …” My voice catches in my throat. Bad choice of words.
“Yeah, I promise.”
I break my gaze away to check my watch. 1100hours. “The captain won’t order the lifeboats prepared til twenty-five minutes after impact—it will be disorganized and haphazard, and no one will believe the ship will really sink. You have to make sure every lifeboat is filled. And please, make sure the third class passengers aren’t locked down below. Most will never have a chance. Children, babies, entire families.”
Quincy shakes his head slowly, seemingly unable to grasp the idea. “Yer not making sense. This is insanity.”
“I know, I’m rambling … I’m nervous … and scared.”
“More’n than that ...” his voice has a hollow tone. “Ye act like ye’ve seen it all happen before.”
“In a way, I have.” I swallow hard. “This will all become a watery grave for over a hundred years. Later, parts of this ship will be brought to the surface and put in museums, and eventually, this bow will be recovered and refinished in a Smithsonian. Books will be written, movies will be made. It’ll fascinate people for decades. For some, the tragedy will burrow itself inside their very soul and haunt them til they feel like they know everyone onboard this ship.”
His gaze leaves mine in favor of the dark horizon and he’s quiet for what feels like too long. Finally, he says, “You know my fate.”
I wince, and more tears that I didn’t realize were at the edge of my eyes spill over. He glimpsed his death in my face. I am Death’s messenger. Holy hell.
I have no fitting response. “Remember what I told you about the Carpathia and Californian? Get the bridge to signal them sooner, with more desperation.”
He nods, still brooding over the ocean like a man who’s just been told he has only weeks to live. In this case, hours.
“Quincy,” I touch his arm, my teeth still chattering. “There’s no way to save everyone. People will die. But maybe not so many.”
Unless I can still initiate a parallel shift to an alternate universe and seal it off beforehand. Screw the DOT.
He squints at me now, something like doubt flickering across his face. “Ye need to warm up ‘fore ye freeze. C’mon.”
Crossing the deck, we say nothing. At the promenade, he opens the door, where a swath of warmer air embraces me and causes my body to shiver. Quincy doesn’t step inside, but remains at the door. “I won’t pretend to understand any of this, but I’ll make ye that promise. God speed, time traveler.”
I nod, words eluding me.
And then he’s gone. Just like that. Leaving me in the golden-hued illumination of the toasty promenade.
A rustle nearby draws my attention. A few passengers are moving about, drunk by the looks of them. My brain is a cauldron of impulses and ideas about to boil over. I know more about what’s about to happen than anyone here—even the captain and ship designer. But I’m nobody. Only a transient stowaway with no business giving orders. Focus, Bianca. I have to find Tristan, get to the time-craft. If we leave now, there may still be time enough to seal off the time tunnel—maybe it would cause a diversion big enough to move the iceberg from the ship’s course.
I check my watch: 2314hours. And the ship is still full steam ahead. I wanted my moment so badly, but now … everything’s changed. Titanic wasn’t supposed to speed up. I can’t risk a parallel shift when Tristan’s and my life are at stake. My heart plunges to my stomach.
In a beeline for the stairwell, I weave around a couple of oblivious cigar smoking men and leap onto the steps. Ascending to the top deck, cold air stings my cheeks when I reach the doorway and pommel through it. My heart is thrumming like a heavy bass guitar. If Tristan isn’t at the time-craft, I don’t know what I’ll do. The time window closes in less than an hour. And at this rate of acceleration, who knows when impact will be. Either way, Titanic is regrettably, irrefutably on her own.
More stewards flash me a strange look as I pass by, obviously wondering why there is a maid on the top deck at this hour, and why she’d have stars on her upper right cheek. If they only knew the truth—that a spunker chick from the future like me cares as much about making a statement in her own day as she does being able to travel to days gone past.
I pass the lifeboats and a stark chill shimmies through me—they’re still waiting in the silent cold, empty and unnoticed. Soon, they’ll be all that separates passengers from their icy, liquid tombs. Part of me clings to the faintest of hopes that the first officer will heed my warning after all, and the ship will start turning, veering left and slowing its engines. But the burn of the wind on my already chapped cheeks reminds me that neither course nor speed has changed.
Dodging a nearby deck steward, I climb the ladder to the platform at the second steam funnel, holding my breath. Tucked beside it, is the rippled light of Essence’s cloaking device—an effect only a trained eye would notice. The tension in my neck eases at the sight of her. But then returns even quicker, with more vengeance.
Tristan isn’t here.
Chapter Seventeen
My nostrils burn with the threat of sobs. The thought of Tristan being anywhere else but here was too much to consider before—when all I was concerned with was myself, my moment. How easy it would be to climb in Essence and depart right now.
Wind lifts the hair around my face. The funnels to either side of me cough thick steam into the air, eclipsing the stars overhead. We’re moving too fast. Quickly, I scan the perimeter of the top deck for Tristan, but there’s nothing. Only a couple of stewards and some passengers below m
e toward the stern.
Okay, think, Bianca. Tristan knows the time window ends in one hour, and he knows 2340hours is impact. But at the rate of speed we’re now going, the timeline has already changed. Events will be sped up. There’s no time for mistakes. And I know I could never let Tristan go down with Titanic.
Last I saw Tristan was in the foyer of the first class dining room. Maybe he’s hobnobbing with the celebrities—just because he can. I wouldn’t put that past him. But that means I have to get down to the dining room again, and he had to have seen me be escorted out. Damn this primitive era with no cellular signal or Wi-Fi. I have no way to reach him.
What if they put him in the cargo hold? What if he’s—
A bell rings, fast and loud, from the direction of the bow.
The bell.
The alert! My hands grip the railing in front of me and I lean forward, peering as far as I can off starboard, but too many obstacles obstruct my line of view.
Cruuuunch.
A jolt. Sudden, and harsh. Then a muffled noise, like steel grinding over glass, deep and distant. So haunting, it doesn’t seem real, and stretched out for what feels like minutes of Titanic moaning into the night from pain.
My knees wobble. I have to see. I have to!
Swiftly, I descend the ladder and bolt for the railing on the starboard side, just beside a lifeboat. There!
Only, it’s not at all what I expected.
A lone pyramid of ice protrudes from the water’s surface, as tall as this ship … but not the ominous villain I dreamed it would be. Just an inglorious chunk of ice. Ginormous, and unapologetic, floating innocently in the waters it calls home.
We are the intruders here.
In seconds it’s upper portion is at my fingertips, the ship’s side carving into it with a grating blow. Hunks of it crumble off and splatter onto the deck, at my boots. And all I can do is stare in fascination at the frozen monster responsible for so many deaths.
Too fast. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, logic is screaming to me. The bell only just rang. There should’ve been time for the ship to turn—that’s how it’s supposed to happen. And history says the impact was hardly noticeable. Everyone onboard had to have noticed this.
I watch as the iceberg recedes into the shadowy distance. Already, the timeline is changing. Because of me. What have I done?
For the first time since impact, I notice voices and commotion around me. Passengers are emerging from the promenade and decks below. Stewards and crew are bustling about, with panicked voices erupting from every direction. How long do we have now before the ship goes down? What if I never find Tristan?
I can’t dwell on that now. Must move fast.
Heading for the staircase to A-Deck, I dodge inside the promenade. The ship has stopped moving, the engines have shut off. It’s a cold, blatant silence, interrupted by anxious demands and babies screaming, which is gut-wrenching enough, but not nearly as unbearable as what interrupts the quiet next.
From beneath the deck, somewhere in the bowels of this magnificent vessel, the unnatural bellows of bending steel and popping rivets echo throughout the night. Ominous and foreboding, punctuating the night and the timeline for all of history. Titanic’s already splitting in two. Oh my …
Breathing rapidly through my nose now, I scramble down the stairs and into the corridor toward the grand staircase and first class dining room. Passengers emerge from their cabins, maids and stewards pacing through the hallways handing out boxy white lifebelts. Passengers take them, some still dressed in their evening finery, but alarm and concern plastered on all their faces. No doubt everyone onboard felt the impact this time.
“Not to worry,” a man tells his sleepy-eyed son in his striped pajamas. “It’s only a precaution til they figure out the next step.” The man pats the white wall of the corridor. “This ship can’t sink, I tell you that. Not to worry at all.”
More passengers cluster in, making any kind of quick exit challenging. Men are calling out, demanding answers. There are none, only curt nods and brisk commands.
Almost at the far end, I push past an older woman with a beaded tiara on and she harrumphs. A steward shoves a handful of lifebelts at me, knocking the wind from my lungs.
“What’re you doing?” he asks me, glaring down his nose. “Got work to be done. Start handing these out. Make sure every person and child has one.”
Damn I forgot I’m still dressed like a maid. I try to sidestep him, but he blocks me from the stairwell that leads to the dining room and calls out.
“Everyone up on deck once you get your lifebelt,” he yells. “That’s it. Everything’ll be just fine. Just a precaution, that’s all.”
But no one appears to believe him. How could they? With that crunch and the ship’s belly still moaning into the night?
I turn, facing the constant stream of bobbing heads in the narrow corridor. I’ll have to get back through to the other end. There—just at the corner where the corridor splits, is the closet I changed in earlier. Using the lifebelts as a barricade between myself and anyone in my way, I ram my way back through the corridor, shoving past women, men, children, and other crew, who move when they see me coming. Stopping at the closet, I duck in, search for my clothes.
Nothing. I can only hope Adelaide saved them, is wearing them now. They could be the difference in saving her life. Outside of the closet, I continue my beeline, lifebelts in front of me. Voices and commotion surrounds me, but I focus on the goal. I can’t let this moment get to me, or I’ll never make it back to the time-craft.
At the far end of the corridor where I entered, I step into the stairwell, placing a lifebelt around the neck of the last person I see—a young woman still dressed in her bathrobe, holding a screaming baby.
“Whatever you do, don’t let go of the belt,” I tell her, while the baby whines in my ear, sending a bloodcurdling shiver down my back.
It’s happening—I can feel it in my bones, along with the lump in my throat. Calamity and chaos. People aren’t supposed to walk around the Earth with the knowledge I secretly hold. Time is not a rough draft to be edited. And no one should ever have to be Death’s messenger. Maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe Buttermans shouldn’t get to play God, even if it’s only once.
Climbing the stairs to the promenade, I push my way back on the top deck. My fingers are crossed beneath the lifebelt that I shouldn’t be wearing.
I have to stop. My gaze wanders the scene unfolding, and I’m sickeningly spellbound. Here is a moment I’ve seen recreated in films and documentaries hundreds of times—a scene I’ve read about in numerous accounts of survivors’ recollections. None of it could ever prepare me for this reality. How naïve I was to believe I could show up here an expert and save the day.
Passengers file in from every doorway, crowding the area, calling out with both questions and demands, their faces contorted with bewilderment. Deck stewards yell in an effort to keep order, while lifeboats remain untouched, still hanging from their ropes.
Why aren’t they filling them already? And where is the music? The violins? The cello? The musicians are supposed to be here playing to keep passengers calm, invoke harmony. This is not at all like I imagined.
The timeline has been changed. Because of me.
Nauseated, I push past passengers who’re moving toward the stern like cattle, slow and crowded. A steward blocks my way at the stairs, holding up a hand. “Exit only, miss. If ye know what’s good for ye, ye’ll stay put.”
I turn, looking back toward the top deck. Babies whimper, women sob. I’m bumped from behind as people shove past from the staircase. The deck is filling so quickly.
Another agonizing bellow from Titanic’s bowels sends the deck into uproar. Wailing and fits of elbows come at me from every direction, everyone pushing to the sides of the deck where the stewards are calling out.
I check my watch. 2314hours. Still no Tristan. What if I’m forced to leave without him? He’ll drown. I couldn’t live with
that. I can only imagine my parents’ and Garth’s faces if I show up without Tristan. Not to mention the media scandal it will create.
Leaving him behind would alter both timelines for sure. My mind reels for solutions. I could still initiate a parallel shift and seal it off, but this vessel is already sinking—it’d only mean these people drown in another universe. Along with Tristan. My nerves seem to swirl up into an intestinal cyclone. I can’t lose him like that.
More lifebelt-clad passengers shove past me. I call to the steward who’s barking orders. “The third class passengers, are they locked below?”
“I couldn’t say,” he snaps. “Now get yerself back on deck. You don’t wanna be nowhere else but up there when those lifeboats are lowered.”
“Why aren’t they lowering them now?” I ask, but my question is forgotten when there’s another deep, penetrating rumble beneath our feet.
My stance tilts, along with everyone crowded beside me. The bow is beginning its nosedive, the ship no longer level. Water will be filling the compartments, and by the feel of it, much quicker than history claims.
Everything has changed.
Someone shoves me, knocking me sideways into the lanky woman from the foyer. She barely glances at me. An older woman at the wall calls for someone, crying out with tears streaming down her pudgy cheeks.
Panic spreads through me, feathering its plumes like a peacock inside my chest. I bank right for the other end of the deck, past the two center steam funnels where Essence hides, and toward the stern. One more round on the deck, before climbing the platform to the time-craft. I have to make a choice, and if leaving Tristan behind is the only way to make the alterations to the timeline less drastic, then it’s what I have to do. Both of us going down would be worse. My duty is to the timeline now.
People crowd in from every direction now, evacuating from below the ship in total disorder. Stewards and crewmen shout orders, shooting signals into the air in bursts of fiery embers. The lifeboats are being turned over and lowered, filling one person at a time from over the water, but with the incline and unsteadiness of the bow, it’s a slow, precarious process.
