Fog billowed, bone gray in the gas lamps. Behind the brick walls the desperate drank, tears upon each other's shoulders, drunken promises soon to be broken, last goodbyes upon Erin's shore. Madda Tulgon tried not to listen. A gibbous moon peeked above the rows of Queenstown's block houses, but she didn't dare enter the tavern and risk revealing herself. A single glance earlier had confirmed her prey was within, but the reek of tobacco and the press of bodies was too much to endure. Shaking, she had hurried back into the chill night and cowered behind a heap of slowly rotting trash in the alley behind the dockside pub.
A crack of light, the swoosh of voices and song momentarily louder as the side door opened, then swung closed again. A woman, her figure hidden beneath a drab, confining dress and shawl, stood a moment in shadow. Hardly more than a girl, she pulled her shawl tighter, paused and glanced down the alley. Madda's heart skipped as she recognized Elizabeth Cobb from the ancient photograph she had been given. This was her target, the reason she haunted the chill April night.
"Don't back out now," she told herself. Somehow, she had expected the dullness in her soul to lift, if only for a moment, but instead it only settled deeper. The drugs that eased the pain in her skull were as quick to steal the revulsion she should have felt, irony's last cruel taunt. Her mind flipped again back to the interview now centuries away.
"Ms. Tulgon?" the wall asked, the avatar pleasantly bland. "Have you understood our terms of service?"
"Yes."
"And your medical condition is terminal?"
"Yes."
"Have you discussed treatment options with your medical team?" "Yes. Damn it, yes."
The wall paused, the human operator nestled somewhere within the vast, floating compound no doubt conferring with others. At length, the avatar spoke again. "You realize that by accepting our terms, you will be asked to take another human being's life? If you have moral issues about killing, even for humane purposes..."
"I don't," Madda had cut the voice off with her blunt reply. It had seemed so easy then, so right. Now, she only felt cold, her feet numb as she quietly gave chase.
Alone, Elizabeth Cobb turned the corner and started south. Madda followed, keeping a discreet distance. It wouldn't do for her to be seen, not yet. The police could easily find reason to detain her if she was not careful, and she hadn't jumped two hundred years to rot in prison while disease stole her reason and left her a drooling husk. Absently, her right hand slipped into the sleeve of her dress, identical to the one the girl wore, and found the blade secreted within. One quick thrust was all it would take, the poison mercifully swift. Elizabeth Cobb would feel little before she passed out of this life. Madda sighed as she caught another glimpse of the woman's face. She was plain, her mouth too broad, her nose slightly hawkish. Only the wealth of russet hair that framed her face lent any grace. A quick shudder raced through Madda's chest. Within hours of death, the nanytes in the poison would have dissolved even that trace of the girl. Only the ticket in her pocket would survive. That, Madda needed.
Without it, she couldn't board the Titanic.
The girl quickened her pace. Unlike most of the women who had booked steerage passage aboard the liner, Elizabeth Cobb was alone, a runaway from a dirty Welsh coal town. Madda had no idea what had driven her to such lengths, but had spun a web of romantic foolery to salve her own conscience. Madda Tulgin was a reluctant hunter, a gentle soul trapped in a dying mind. A year, two at the best, the doctors had assured her until her brain function deteriorated to the point she could no longer function. In a day and age when death could be postponed indefinitely, the disease unleashed within her was a slow invitation to hell.
An unfamiliar noise echoed behind her, the clip-clop of hooves and iron rimmed wheels against cobblestone. Elizabeth Cobb ducked into a doorway and waited for the carriage to pass. Madda waited as well, but stepped out sooner, taking advantage of the delay to close the distance between them. From her sleeve she withdrew the blade and held it point forward, the steel dull gray in the moonlight. Madda felt herself lighten, the blood in her ears a faint roar, her only thought now how best to strike. Her fingers tightened around the hilt, poised for a quick and deadly thrust.
An unseen hand grabbed her wrist. Without warning, a second hand, smelling of tanned leather and neat's-foot oil, clamped across her mouth.
"Don't struggle," a man's voice whispered in her ear. "There's been a change of plans."
#
Madda tried to scream.
The hand over her mouth clamped tighter as she was dragged backwards. She had no time to struggle before a bright, electric glow, blinded her. When her vison returned, she was no longer on the foggy street, but instead within a small but tastefully apportioned room. A fire crackled in an open hearth, the heat welcome after the chill.
"Let's put this someplace safe, shall we?" Her abductor took the knife from her hand, then, released her and stepped back. Madda spun around, her surprise changing swiftly to anger. A balding man with a neatly trimmed beard and deep-set hazel eyes stood an arms length away, an almost boyish smile on his face. "Sorry about the rough handling, but something drastic came up."
"Who are you?" It took Madda a moment to realize they were speaking Anglish, but not the archaic dialect she had quick-learned prior to the jump.
"I'm from Merciful," the man said. "My name is Bredt Lar."
He drew a padded case from his jacket, placed the poisoned knife within it and snapped it shut. Still smiling, he held the case out toward Madda. She took it from his hand.
"Why did you stop me?"
"We made a mistake. Seems Elizabeth Cobb never boarded the Titanic. She lost her nerve the night before the ship sailed and stayed in Ireland, but the pursers never removed her name from the passenger list." He crossed the room to a walnut bureau and lifted the crystal decanter that sat upon it. "Brandy?"
Madda took the offered glass but didn't drink. Her eyes swept the room. It was antique, most likely a rented suite somewhere in the past. The man downed his brandy and poured another.
"What happens to her?" Madda took a cautious sip, the aromatic warmth strong on her tongue. "To Elizabeth Cobb, I mean?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, your target. We don't have all the details, but it appears she became a prostitute in Dublin and died from tuberculosis prior to the end of the First World War."
"The poor girl." Madda had spent enough time studying this century to understand what a cruel fate lay ahead of Elizabeth Cobb. "You should have let me kill her tonight." "That's not for us to say." Lar shook his head sadly. "To give someone a swift and painless death when we know exactly how they will perish - in Miss Cobb's case drowning in the North Atlantic - is a fine thing. Even a noble thing. But we must be cautious never to change the timeline."
"What about me? I paid good money to take her place."
"Be assured, Merciful, Incorporated will reimburse you."
"Reimburse?" Her fingers tightened around the tumbler. "I don't want money. I came here to die while I still had presence enough of mind to do it. You promised me a chance to end my life with dignity. That's what I want."
"In that case," Lar's smile returned but his eyes remained filled with melancholy. He held out a stiff, paper ticket, White Star Lines printed along the upper edge in exaggerated script. "We have an alternate target. But, you'll have to hurry. You only have a few hours until Titanic sails."
#
Cool air washed over her, the brackish scent strange in her nostrils. The black water frightened her, the unseen depths terrifying. She forced herself to look over the rail at the choppy waves so far beneath, but the sight of the roiling wake left her dizzy and she quickly stepped back. Doubt crept into mind. Once, it made perfect sense, a way to cheat the horrors of the disease stealing her reason. Now, faced with the certainty of death in that icy sea, she began to tremble.
"Miss?"
She turned. A young porter stood nearby, a look of concern on his face. She forced a smile. "Yes?"
"You'll have to go back to the Second Class area. This is for First Class patrons, only."
"Sorry." Madda fumbled for words, her accent far from perfect, but if the porter suspected anything he showed no sign. Instead, he guided her to a staircase which led downward. The thick aroma of fresh paint and oil assailed her, the broad corridor crowded with other passengers. The walls seemed to close around her, the tumult overwhelming. Heart pounding, she ducked through an open doorway.
A linen closet lay on the other side. It was warm within, the scent of fresh cotton and starch comforting. Madda leaned against the wall and took a long, calming breath.
"Stop it," she scolded herself. "This is what you have to do."
Methodically, she withdrew the black and white photograph Lar had given her. A man's face stared at her from the stiff sheet of glossy paper. Dark hair, sweeping mustache, a derby tipped rakishly above his left eye. He was handsome, almost pretty, the sort of person Madda would have avoided at any cost in her old life. She sighed. The idea of killing him coiled in her stomach.
"This is your target," Lar had instructed the night before. "Dennis Shaw, an itinerant miner from the Berra peninsula. He will be one of the unfortunates trapped below decks when the bow goes under." Lar had put his hand on hers. "Trust me, you'll be doing him a favor."
Outside, Madda heard footsteps and quickly tucked the photo into her sleeve beside the dagger. A startled girl in a maid's uniform stared as Madda darted out of the closet and rejoined the press of bodies. Even here, far from the luxury and excess of First Class, Titanic was an amazement. She hurried along the corridor, taking it all in. A patch of blue beckoned ahead, another stairwell leading topside. Madda practically ran up the short flight, the chill above decks a stark contrast to the cloying warmth below. A small crowd, mostly men, had gathered along the rail to smoke or simply stare out at the vast expanse of sky and sea. Again, Madda forced herself to the rail and looked down. Vertigo nipped at her. Dizzy, she stepped back but struck something behind her.
"Pardon me," a man's deep voice said, his Irish brogue so thick it seemed almost comedic.
Madda spun around too quickly and lost her balance. The tall man instinctively grabbed her. She stared at him, shocked to see the face from the photograph. Dennis Shaw smiled quizzically. His gaze drifted to the deck and his smile faded. Madda looked down. The photograph had slipped out of her sleeve and now lay face up at her feet. Too frightened to think cLarly, she snatched up the picture then dashed back into the belly of the doomed ship.
She ran, hampered by the flow of people. A heavyset man cursed at her in a language she didn't recognize as she jostled past. Down another stairwell, and along yet another corridor until she reached a locked gate. Unable to go further, Madda turned down a side passage.
The light in this section of the ship was dull, the lamps spaced further apart. The engine noise was stronger, a pounding, driving beat that mimicked her own panicked heart. Another corner, another passage. She ran faster, the uncomfortable square-toed shoes ill-suited for such exertions. A final corner turned into a cul-de-sac, her passage barred.
Behind her, the footsteps drew closer. She had little doubt who it was.
"You're doing him a favor," Madda whispered, echoing Lar's words. Slowly, she drew the dagger. A long shadow fell across the deck. Her fingers tightened around the hilt as Dennis Shaw turned the corner. Shocked, she stared at his right hand.
A dagger lay clutched in it. #
"Who are you?"
Shaw's face paled, his knuckles white around the hilt. No trace of his brogue remained. Madda's arm began to tremble.
"My name is Madda." Too late, she realized she had spoken Anglish, but to her surprise Shaw nodded. Dagger in hand, she stepped forward, but stopped as the man raised his blade defensively.
"Stay back." Impossible as it seemed, he was also speaking Anglish. He nodded at her right hand. "Where did you get that?"
"It doesn't matter." Suddenly, Madda recalled Lar's warning about changing the timeline. She pulled her shoulders back and hoped she look confident. Again in archaic English, she spoke. "Now, if you'll let me past, I'll be on my way."
"I don't think so. Not until you tell me how you happened to have my photograph."
"I found it on the stairwell," she lied quickly. Shaw's left brow rose in a disbelieving arc.
"Somehow, I doubt that."
"Are you implying that I'm a liar?" She tried to sound indignant.
"Let me show you something."
From a jacket pocket he withdrew an ivory cameo and with his left hand flipped the tiny lid open. As small as the image was, Madda had no difficulty recognizing her own face. With exaggerated slowness, he lowered the point of his dagger.
"Merciful told me you will be burned to death when the boilers rupture."
"They said you are going to be trapped below decks. Why did they lie to us?"
"I don't know," he said. "But I think it's time we found out."
#
Pale clouds scudded overhead as they returned into sunlight, the wind brisk. Madda pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders.
"Is there somewhere we can go to talk?" she asked quietly.
"I'm afraid my cabin isn't very private." Shaw shrugged apologetically. "What about your berth?"
"I..." Madda stopped in mid-sentence. In her rush to get aboard she had failed to realize she had no cabin. Lar, or whatever the man's real name was, had sent her onto the ship as little more than a stowaway. "Damn him, he expected you to kill me first."
Shaw led her to a small, unoccupied table and pulled out her chair for her. Normally, she would have found the gesture annoying, but she sat down without protest. He eased into the chair opposite of her and placed his hands on the table. Whether this was a natural habit or simply a move to make her feel less threatened, she couldn't say.
"I have lymphoma. It's in remission now, but there's a ninety percent chance it will return. I won't face going through treatment again. You?"
"Inoperable brain tumors." Madda's voice cracked around the words. Shaw nodded sympathetically.
"How much did they charge you for this? Merciful, Inc., I mean?"
"I'd rather not say."
His mustache curled into a wry smile. "This trip cost me three hundred thousand."
"Oh." The man's candor caught her off-guard. "I suppose I should feel fortunate. I only paid a hundred thousand. Do you really think that's why they did this? Money?"
"I can't think of any other reason. The day they interviewed me there were at least four other people in the waiting room. Strikes me suicide is a lucrative business." The little lines around his eyes crinkled, his sense of humor obviously intact. Despite everything, she found herself liking the man. Suddenly, a cold thought rammed through her mind.
"Do you think there are others aboard? Like us, I mean?"
"Probably." Again, he shrugged. "From their viewpoint, the Titanic never really sinks. I don't know what they told you, but they were adamant that I make my kill before the ship hits the iceberg. I'll lay even money not a single target is actually from this period. We sign over our life savings for the privilege of being murdered prior to the most famous maritime disaster in history."
Madda stared around her. The figures in their quaint, uncomfortable clothing suddenly seemed ominous. Any one of them could be from her own future, a killer waiting for the chance to strike. Slowly, her fear turned to anger.
"We have to stop them."
"How?" Shaw laughed sourly. "In case you haven't noticed, we're a few centuries early to do much to our friends at Merciful, Inc."
"Are we?" She leaned closer. "What was the one thing they drummed into you before they let you jump? Don't change the time-line. They do everything they can to make sure history isn't damaged."
"So?"
"So," A malicious joy crept into her voice. "How long do you think it would take for them to pull us back if we tried to stop this ship from hitting that iceberg?"
Shaw's eye widened, the sheer audacity too good to ignore. Madda returned his smile. For the first time since she had been diagnosed terminal, she felt alive. Her gaze drifted across the slate gray waves. Seagulls still followed the ship, dipping and soaring as Titanic plowed toward its doom. If she had her way, that was all about to change.
#
Time lay heavy on her as they waited, their scheme hatched, nothing to do now but stand ready until just before the accident. To her chagrin, Madda realized how ill-prepared she had truly was, her knowledge of the coming events sketchy at best. Fortunately, Shaw proved to be an expert, his mind a storehouse of trivia concerning Titanic's death.
"It's simple," he had explained. "We start a small fire on the upper decks, then make sure it's discovered before it spreads. They'll have to bring the ship to a stop while they fight the fire. Once that happens, odds are the forward watch will spot the iceberg in time to turn."
"And if not?"
"Even if we do strike, at a slower speed the ship should be able to ride out the collision."
At the time it did seem simple. Now, hours later, doubt returned. Madda wrapped her arms around herself, the night wind bitter. Unexpectedly, a heavy warmth settled over her back as Shaw draped his jacket around her. She tried to give it back but he shook his head and smiled.
"You need it more than I do. I could actually hear your teeth chattering."
"Thanks." They strolled, the deck surreal in the incandescent glow. Brighter light gleamed through an open doorway, the muted sound of dance music drifting out, a bouncy dance number that seemed incongruous in light of what Madda knew lay ahead. She smiled sadly. "They say the band played "Nearer My God To Thee" as the ship went under."
"Actually, that's a myth. The band had quit playing by the time the bow sank."
"Just as well." She laughed. "I wouldn't know what the song sounded like if I heard it."
He joined her laughter, then hummed a dirge-like tune, his pitch far from perfect. After a mercifully brief performance, he stopped. "There. Now if they do play it, you'll know."
She felt his hand slip into hers. It took her by surprise, but she didn't pull away. "Dennis... I appreciate the offer, but..."
"I'm not looking for romance either, if that's what you were about to say. I could just use a friend right now." His fingers began to draw away, but she tightened her grip.
"I could use a friend , too."
They wandered to the rail and stared across the dark water, neither speaking. The pulse of the engines and the ceaseless rush of waves as they struck the hull was calming, almost hypnotic. After a few minutes, he released her hand..
"Did you try to do yourself before you went to Merciful?"
She didn't have to ask what he meant. "Suicide? No, but I thought about it. I suppose I'm a coward at heart. You?"
"Once." His tone darkened as he rubbed the pea-sized bump on the back of his wrist. "I thought I had my bio-chip blocked, but the paramedics still arrived before the pills kicked in. After that, I was under full surveillance. If someone at the hospice hadn't told me about Merciful, I probably would still be under their thumb."
Absently, she rubbed the tiny transceiver imbedded in her own wrist. The devices, a regulated fact of life in her time, assured help would arrive in case of trauma. They also made taking your own life a virtual impossibility. They fell silent as a pair of men smoking thick cigars wandered past, both. Madda's tongue twisted as she caught a whiff of the raw tobacco.
"Dennis?" The icy breeze caught a loose strand of hair and let it flutter around her forehead. "If this works..."
"It will."
"Fine. Let's say we pull this off and Lar does come here to stop us. What then? Will you go back home? Even if it means letting your disease run its course?"
"I honestly don't know." He leaned his forearms against the rail. "One of us has to go. We need to put an end to what Merciful, Inc. is doing."
"I'll go," Madda said. She felt a sudden lightness, the decision to leave more of a relief than she had anticipated. "Guess I'm still a coward, huh?"
"A coward?" He turned and stared at her. In the darkness his eyes were little more than dark pits, unreadable and empty. "That's the last thing I would call you."
He offered his arm and led her, acting the part of the gallant, to a deck chair in a secluded nook, far from the watches's prying eyes, seated her, then left. Shaw returned a few minutes later, a dark wool blanket folded against his chest. He lowered himself into the chair beside her, then with a flourish flipped the blanket open and let it settle around them. Glad for the warmth, Madda leaned into the crook of his arm, her head nestled against his shoulder. His jacket smelled like he did, strong and masculine, a bit rough but comforting nonetheless. Tired beyond measure, she drifted into the first sound sleep she had known in days."
#
Disconnected dreams chased her. She was a young girl again, all freckles and pigtails as she rolled down a sunlit slope, the late summer grass tickling her neck. The image shifted and she was once more an adult. A dark cloud crossed the sun, the warmth stolen as thunder burst around her. She ran, desperate to reach shelter before the rain struck, but her legs felt heavy and slow. In her dream, Madda ducked through an open door and found herself inside a tasteful, modern office, the walls lined with benches. Weary faces stared at her, sick faces. A framed sign filled the wall above the receptionist's window, Merciful, Inc painted in bold script against a cornflower blue background.
"Ms. Tulgon?" The stocky, graying woman at the window motioned Madda to approach. Locked in the disjointed memory, Madda let herself be led into a stark examining room. A man in a long white coat waited within. She tensed as she realized it was Shaw.
"Madda?" The dream Shaw said softly. "Why do you want to die?"
"I don't."
"But you spent every penny you have to be on this ship when it sinks. Suicide is a sin."
She laughed. "I don't believe in God."
"It's a crime, too."
"Then," she said, amazed at the dream's clarity, "I don't believe in governments either."
"Why do you want to die?" the phantom Shaw asked again.
"What choice do I have?"
"We always have choices."
Something brushed her upper arm and Madda woke with a start, disoriented and cold. Shaw leaned over her, a pair of cups and saucers balanced precariously in his left hand. The light around him was gray and even, the air damp. It took her several heartbeats to realize it was morning, just before sunrise.
"I hope you like tea." He passed one of the saucers to her. "I didn't know if you used milk or sugar, so I took a chance and added both."
"Thanks." Her hands shook as she raised the steaming china cup to her lips and took a hesitant sip. A strange combination of sweet and bitter swept over her tongue, surprisingly pleasant. Shaw settled into the chair beside her, then produced a thick lump wrapped in a cream white napkin. Madda opened the stiff linen and found a raison bun. She bit into it and savored the taste, the roll so sweet it made her teeth hurt, then quickly devoured the rest. "Guess I was hungrier than I thought," she said with a chuckle.
"I should hope so." Shaw laughed with her. "Neither one of us ate supper last night." He glanced over his shoulder, then, certain they weren't being watched, produced another cloth wrapped bundle. Instead of more purloined food, a short tube as thick as a broom handle lay inside the napkin. "I 'borrowed' this from the purser's office."
"What is it?" Madda stared at the tightly rolled cylinder of wax-dipped paper. Shaw waggled his eyebrows mischievously then returned the bundle to it's hiding place.
"It's a signal flare. Lots of sparks. Perfect for setting a diversion fire." He sat sideways on the chair, his knees so close they brushed Madda's thigh. Though she had spent the better part of the night cuddled against the man, the brief contact sent a shock up her spine, the kind of giddy excitement she hadn't felt since she was a teen.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" she asked.
He nodded gravely. "If we don't put a stop to Merciful, who will?"
A wash of yellow, bright but void of warmth, spilled over the deck. Madda glanced up in time to see the enormous smoke funnels burst crimson as sunrise poured across them. She watched it, fully aware this might be the last sunrise she would ever see.
#
The hours sped, seconds trickling down to what Madda knew awaited. Children played while mothers watched. Men smoked and chatted, strangers thrown together for what most expected to be a fast trip to a new life, a chance for something better. She tried not to dwell on it, all too aware how many would soon be lost, their sparks extinguished in the icy waves. To keep herself from panicking, she made a private game of trying to discover her fellow time travelers among them. The thin man in the tweed coat. The woman with the gaunt face, pale skin stretched tight over her cheekbones. As evening drew close, however, the idea that she might be watched, or worse, tagged for murder by another well-meaning time jumper, crowded in on her. Finally unable to take any more, she drew Shaw aside.
"What if we're under surveillance?" she asked.
"Why would anyone suspect us of anything?"
Unconvinced, she led him out of the noisy dining room and back on deck. The air was crisp, the change in weather unmistakable. Low to the east a bright star seemed to hover in the indigo sky. "You said it yourself. Merciful probably has dozens of other jumpers aboard. What if this is all just a set up?"
"Is there something I should know about?"
She tried to put a label on the nagging doubt. "Why weren't we chased off last night?"
"Hmm?" He straightened, a puzzled expression on his face. "I don't follow?"
"Think about it. We slept on the deck last night, obviously against ship's rules, but not once did anyone from the crew say a word."
"How do you know they didn't?" He flashed a broad grin. Now it was Madda's turn to look confused. Still grinning, Shaw pulled a thick roll of paper money from his pocket and thumbed the bills until they fluttered. "I came prepared. Last night, one of the junior officers found us, but I gave him a generous donation to look the other way."
"Whatever for?" Madda asked, startled by the idea.
"Don't take this the wrong way." He put the money back in his pocket. "I enjoyed being with you. I liked having your head on my shoulder. Sorry."
"Don't be." She let herself relax. "I kind of liked it myself."
More stars emerged as darkness settled. Shaw glanced at the pocket watch suspended from the gold chain clipped to his vest, the lid's click a cheery sound against the engines dull thud. He put the watch back in his pocket, then took Madda by the arm. "Know what I'd like to do? Let's go dancing."
Madda stepped back and laughed. "Are you insane?"
"Probably. But I would still like to dance with you."
"I'm not much of a dancer," she said even as he ushered her back inside the massive ship.
"Neither am I. But why should we let that stop us?"
Warmth rolled over her as he led her through the labyrinth of passages, a pair of fools in search of a dance floor. Madda couldn't believe what she was doing, acting like a girl sneaking out of her parents house. It was so out of character she couldn't help but giggle as they swept into the brightly lit ballroom, assailed by the aroma of tobacco and perfume and the harsh glances of the well-to-do patrons. She felt young, vital, even happy, their hasty conspiracy a fire in her long-banked spirit. Utterly out of their element, they blundered across the polished floor, heedless of the people around them.
It was nine o'clock, less than three hours from the iceberg.
#
Laughing, Madda and Shaw left the ballroom one step ahead of a smartly dressed crewman obviously dispatched to usher them out. "I told you it wasn' t a good idea." She stopped to catch her breath. "How will I ever show my face at brunch tomorrow?"
Shaw wiped the sweat off his forehead, his dark hair curled at the tips. Somehow, she thought, he looked like a mischievous boy caught raiding the cookie jar. Slowly, his expression darkened. "I wish there was going to be a tomorrow."
His words were a stark reminder why they were here. "This is going to work, right?"
"Yes." Shaw checked his pocket watch, sighed, then snapped the case shut. "We may as well get started."
A locked gate barred access to the aft deck. Shaw used a vibroprick to jimmy the lock, then, together they climbed into the darkness outside. Madda stood a moment to let her eyes adjust to the shadows. She took a deep breath, certain she tasted the ice on the back of her throat. Far away, a light flickered then vanished along the horizon.
"That's a Swedish trawler fishing these waters illegally," Shaw said.
"You seem so certain of everything."
He shrugged. "Like I said, I've been studying this all my life."
Madda stiffened. Again, the apprehension she had felt earlier returned, something about the situation still vacuous. Slowly, she wandered to the rail and forced looked down. Reflected lights gave the water around the ship a pale glow. As she watched, even that light began to fade. Unsure why, she turned and noticed the deck lights had gone out.
"They're dimming the lights to make it easier for the watches to see ahead," Shaw said quietly.
"They know about the ice?"
He nodded, his face little more than a dark patch against the star cluttered sky. "They've been picking up radio warnings for hours. If they had only paid better attention..." His voice trailed off.
"Why are you really here?" she asked softly. She wanted to believe in him, wanted to think he was like her, without a future, determined to meet death on his terms. But, she knew on an instinctive level, it wasn't true. "You're not dying, are you."
"No." His voice was so low she barely heard him. "I'm just tired, that's all."
"Did you fake the medical reports for Merciful, or did you bribe your way back here, too?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me. Why are you so willing to die?"
He looked away without answer. Madda sighed. "Goodbye, Dennis. Despite it all, I'm glad I knew you." She pulled her shawl tighter around herself, then walked away, no thought but to find a quiet place to make her peace and prepare for the end, now only hours away. She tried not to think about the children aboard, the horrendous loss of life that even knowing what she did, could not be avoided. The idea roiled within her. She had expected to be afraid, even terrified. But, she hadn't expected to be angry. She stopped in front of a broad staircase, her fists clenched at her side.
"This doesn't need to happen," she said out loud. No matter what Shaw's motives might have been, his plan was solid. If she could start a fire, even a small one, the Titanic would have no choice but to stop engines. The collision could be avoided. Her resolve rekindled, Madda returned to the Second Class smoking room. A few people within the hazy chamber glared at her as she hurried in.
"Excuse me, miss," a clean shaven steward said.
She ignored him, her gaze fixed on a small box of matches left on one of the tables. Madda grabbed the box and practically ran back outside. A waste can lay nearby, but to her dismay held nothing flammable. Her pulse quickened as she searched, hampered by the darkness, for something to burn. Blundering in the chill air, her foot brushed a familiar object abandoned beneath a deck chair. Madda bent down and retrieved the newspaper.
"Thank you," she whispered, a quiet prayer to whatever gods might be watching. Paper in hand, she ducked into a sheltered alcove near the stern of the massive ship. Working quickly, she crumpled the newspaper and stuffed it beneath a nearby chair, then piled more chairs one on top of the other along with anything else she thought might burn. Finished, Madda drew the box of matches from the hidden pocket in her sleeve, careful not to tip her finger on the blade still secreted within. She pushed the box open. A handful of tiny sticks rolled inside.
"Don't stop now," she muttered as she knelt in front of the pile and struck the first match. It flared bright yellow, but before she could place flame to paper, died with a wisp of acrid smoke. Undeterred, she lit the second match and held it near the wadded paper. The page caught with a wash of heat so intense she snatched her hand back. Grinning, she sat back on her heels, satisfied with her handiwork. Her happiness was short lived as the paper burned briefly, then went out, leaving a curled, spark-lined edge all but invisible in the dark.
"Damn it." A single match remained. Madda took it out and leaned as close a she dared to the paper, her body a shield from the wind.
She struck the match.
The tip glowed, flickered once, then went out. Defeated, Madda let the empty box fall from her hand. Behind her, someone coughed.
"Here," Shaw said. "Use this."
She felt something firm pressed into her hand, the flare's wax-coated surface pliant in her cold fingers. Though she couldn't see his face clearly, she knew he was smiling. Desperate to finish before time ran out, she fumbled for the ring on top of the signal flare.
"You won't need that," another voice said. Madda spun toward the voice and saw a third figure on the far side of the pile. He moved around it, one arm outstretched, no doubt holding a weapon of some kind. Despite the darkness, Madda knew all too well who stood in front of her. Lar inched closer, putting himself between her and the would be pyre. "All right," he said quietly. "You've got my attention. Let's go inside where we can talk."
Lar ushered them back inside the ship. In the brighter light, Madda saw he held a standard police stunner. The weapon was far from lethal, but given what was soon to happen, being rendered unconscious amounted to a death sentence. Using the stunner for emphasis, Lar motioned them into a storeroom and closed the door.
"Well, well." A grim smile creased Lar's face. Though his clothing was contemporary, the illusion was spoiled by a thick belt studded with glowing, liquid discs, the wave-guide that bound him to the future still active. "I have to admit, Vann, I'm a little disappointed. Given your background, I expected you to find a more novel method of sabotaging the ship."
"Vann?" Madda asked, confused. "Who are you talking to?"
"Him." Lar flicked the stunner in Shaw's direction. "His name is Pitir Vann. He's a professor of late second millennia history."
"Is this true," Madda's throat tightened. "Your name isn't Dennis Shaw?"
"I can explain..." Shaw stammered. He shut his eyes tightly, drew his lips in, then started over. "I'm sorry I lied to you, Madda. I should have told you from the start, but things just seemed to take on a life of their own."
"What else have you lied about?"
Shaw stared down at his feet, unable to meet her eyes. Lar laughed softly. "Aren't you a pair. Do you have any idea what you were about to do? The damage you could have caused the time-lines had you managed to save this ship? So willing to throw the future away and you can't even be honest with each other."
"Fine." Madda's face reddened. "So we didn't tell each other the truth. Neither did you. Merciful, Inc. is stealing millions from its clients."
"Stealing?" Lar's mouth turned down, his disgust plain. "You came to us because suicide is impossible in our age. We gave you a chance to die with dignity and you call it theft. What a hypocrite you are."
"So," she said, her voice tense. "That makes it right to set us at each other's throats? Tell me something. Have any of your clients actually killed someone from this time frame?"
"Of course not." Lar said with blunt frankness. "You're amateurs, most of you seriously ill or deluded. Can you imagine the damage dozens of incompetent assassins might wreak on history if you were given real targets? Besides, why should you care? You get the death you paid for one way or another."
Outside, a bell rang. Lar flinched, momentarily distracted. Seeing an opportunity, Shaw leapt toward the bearded man, his knife suddenly in hand. Startled, Lar stumbled against the wall behind him, but quickly recovered. He raised the stunner and fired. A high-pitched whine filled the room. Shaw' s muscles went into mad convulsions, his back twisted horribly as he crumpled to the deck. Still off balance, Lar slid drunkenly along the wall then caught himself. Madda watched in horror as the stunner turned toward her.
Time seemed to slow as she reached for the dagger secreted in her sleeve. No thought now but to stop Lar, she lunged. The insect whine swept over her as the stunner fired, but she felt none of the disorientation the weapon should have produced. Driven by her own weight, the knife slid between his ribs and buried itself up to the hilt. He gasped, but as the strong narcotic in the hollow tip took hold, smiled.
"Thank you," he whispered, then sank to the floor.
Madda shrank back, shocked at what she had done. She dropped to her knees and tore Lar's jacket open. A deep red stain marred his white shirt. Already, she knew it was too late, his eyes glazed and sightless. Sick to her stomach, she reached for the knife but before she could retrieve it a heavy hand fell over her shoulder.
"Let it be," Shaw said. Madda twisted around, stunned to see him standing unharmed behind her.
"How..."
"You gave him what he wanted," Shaw said quietly. "He couldn't face the pain any longer."
"But, he..." Madda struggled to comprehend. "Wasn't he from Merciful?"
"Yes." Shaw seemed on the verge of tears. "So am I. Brandt was my lover. And he was dying. How could I refuse him what we gave so many others?"
"You used me." Madda recoiled, driven back by her anger and guilt. "You son of a bitch. You used me to murder him."
"I'm sorry. I truly am."
Before Madda could say anything, the man she had called Dennis Shaw tipped Lar's body on its side and unbuckled the heavy belt. He held it toward her.
"Take this."
"Why?" She refused to touch the wave-guide. "Where are you taking me?"
"Home."
"No." She backed away, but the same wall that had stopped Lar from falling now blocked her retreat. Shaw wrapped the belt around her, then led her outside. Reeling from everything that had happened, she stepped into the cold air, stars bright overhead. Backlit by the feeble light spilling through the open door, she watched Shaw take out his pocket watch, sigh, then snap the lid shut. As if on cue, Madda felt a faint sway as the ship veered, followed by a soft, almost imperceptible shudder. More bells rang, and far in the distance, she heard men shouting.
"We've struck the iceberg, haven't we?" she asked.
He nodded. Around her, nearly lost in the shadows, Madda became aware of a small, huddled crowd. A sour sense of victory swept her, her suspicions confirmed as she realized they were Merciful, Inc.'s other clients, lost souls waiting for the end. She started toward them, but Shaw caught her by the wrist.
"No," he whispered. "You can't stay."
"Don't send me back." Her protests sounded feeble in her own ears.
"I have to." His arm slipped behind her waist and activated the wave-guide. A familiar, almost sensual tingle spread through her torso, the first rush of jump begun. "Goodbye, Madda. I hope the doctors can do something to help you."
"What about you?" she asked, suddenly aware he was not coming with her. "If you stay here, you'll die."
"Do you think I want to live after what I've done?"
Madda struggled to grab him, but already the space around her grew opaque, the light a rich cobalt blue. Still struggling, she felt the deck dissolve under her feet and, with exquisite slowness, fell into nothingness. Titanic wavered, washed in a ghostly shimmer, Shaw's sad smile the last thing she saw before she was swept away. From far away, she swore she heard the band playing "Nearer My God to Thee."
Justin Stanchfield's work has appeared in various publications including Boys' Life, Gothic.Net and numerous anthologies. He lives with his wife and two children on a Montana cattle ranch a stone's throw from the Continental Divide. All the gory details at www.sff.net/peopl/justinvs/
© Justin Stanchfield
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