Кейт Кристенсен - The Last Cruise

The officer spotted Sasha and Miriam. “Can I help you with something?”

“We came to find out what was going on,” said Sasha.

“The captain just made an announcement that the fire is contained and the ship is safe,” said the officer. Miriam opened her mouth to explain that they hadn’t heard the captain’s announcement because she’d been standing right here while he made it, but the officer gestured to the open doorway to the stairwell. “You’ll be safer down with the other passengers.”

Larry hung up the phone and turned to the captain. “What a mess. Un-fucking-believable.” He turned to the crewmembers nearby. “What? You’re just standing there? Why aren’t you fixing this shit?” Then he saw Miriam and Sasha and strode over to them and put his hands on their shoulders. “You two,” he said. “Get downstairs and follow instructions. And if you see my wife, tell her to go to our suite and stay there.”

Miriam felt his hand on her shoulder like a steel clamp as he herded them out of the room.

“What’s happening, Larry?” she asked him.

She looked up into his face and met his gaze. He looked startled to recognize her there, surprised to remember who she was, his old friend Miriam.

“It’ll be fine,” he told her, his tone softening. “Little blaze in the engine room, should be out by now, or soon.”

“Will the power come back on?” Sasha asked.

“I’m sure it will,” said Larry with his old easygoing confidence. “Don’t worry, go back to your cabins and be comfortable. We’ll take care of this.”

As Miriam and Sasha went down the stairs, she heard his voice again, penetrating, full of punitive anger at the bridge crew, and felt as if, after all the decades she’d known him, she had just seen Larry Weiss clearly for the first time.

Mick retraced his steps back to the crew lounge in the glow of the emergency lights. He had already concluded that the power had gone out because of the fire. The next logical conclusion was that the crew who’d walked out had deliberately set the fire to sabotage the ship. It seemed crazy. But then again, he had never in his life witnessed a galley crew walk out on their executive chef. He had no idea what they were capable of doing now, how far they were willing to take this insane protest. Maybe Consuelo had actually poisoned Laurens. She had joked about it the other day. At least, Mick had thought she was joking. Who knew anymore?

When he got to the open door to the darkened crew lounge, he heard shouting, chaos, thumps. A few people were lighting candles.

“What’s going on?”

“Why is the power out?”

“Hey,” Mick yelled into the crowd. “Did you assholes start a fire?”

Some began to panic at the mention of fire. There were shrieks, curses. Someone standing close to Mick said something in a low, despairing mutter in a language he didn’t know.

“A fire,” said Mick. “It made the power go out. Does anyone know anything about this?”

“No,” came shouts from several people.

“Where is the fire?” said Trevor.

“We should go and help,” said Rodrigo.

“No!” He heard Consuelo’s voice clearly. She stood with her arm raised theatrically in the manner of a rebel statue, lit by candlelight. Her voice was clear and ringing. “No one leave! It works better for us if we stay together and don’t give in!”

“People will be scared,” said a young woman Mick recognized from salad prep. “It won’t hurt us to see if they need anything.”

“We aren’t their servants anymore,” said Consuelo. “We’re equals now. And if we stay here, we have more leverage, if we stay true to what we’re doing. It’s better for us. No one leave!”

Mick could see how much she loved this role, resistance leader, venting her righteous anger in service of a cause instead of having to keep it suppressed on the line. She was flying high. Not even the news of the fire and the power going out had daunted her.

He pushed his way through the crowd and stuck his face near hers, tapped her on the shoulder.

“Did you poison Laurens? Tell the truth.”

“Poison—what?”

“He’s throwing up. He went to the infirmary. What did you do?”

She looked shocked, genuinely. “I would never do that,” she said.

“Did you people start the fire?”

“No! This is the first we’ve heard of it. Why the hell would we do that?”

He locked eyes with her for a beat or two. “If there’s a fire,” she called as he turned into the crowd, “then we’re all fucked. All we did was walk out.”

Exhausted, Mick stepped out of the lounge and stood alone in the dim, smoky hallway. He had no one to confer with. Kenji had taken Laurens up to the infirmary. Jean-Luc was a competitive, pouty meathead and would be of no help to him. Paolo had joined the walkout, and there was apparently no night crew now, either.

He couldn’t face going back to the galley alone. He craved a short glass of straight whiskey with a ferocious bloodlust. With no real idea of where he was headed, he found the nearest stairs and climbed upward, out of the smoke. A cigarette, jaj istenem, he wanted a cigarette.

Christine and Valerie had made their way up to the solarium at the very top of the ship to join a crowd of people. The ship lay on the calm ocean. Smoke from the fire hung over the open decks like drifting clouds of noxious incense. Without the soothing effect of the constant, low-level vibrations of the engines, everyone was full of nervous jitters, as if all the engines had transferred their energy to the passengers themselves, and the sudden lack of propulsion had awakened everyone out of their dreamy languor. Christine heard sharp voices, felt bodies moving around her in restless dislocation and fear.

From the front of the solarium came a bridge crewmember’s voice, amplified through a megaphone. She sounded very young, but calm and confident. “Everyone, hello, I have good news! The fire is out, and no one was hurt. And we’re working on getting the power back up for you.”

There were some wan cheers as flashlights were trained up to illuminate her. Small arrows of rain slanted down through the beams of light.

“Well, folks, we had a small engine-room fire,” she said. “Our crew has put the fire completely out with no damage to the ship, and the engineers are working on repairing the generators.”

“When will we have power back?”

“As soon as we can.”

“Is there a midnight buffet?”

“Not tonight. I’m sorry.”

She put the megaphone down for a moment while another bridge crewmember said something into her ear. She listened closely, nodded, lifted the megaphone again, and resumed.

“So we’re going to work through the night and do our best to have the power back up by tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, we need you all to stay warm and safe, so the captain is asking that you all go back to your cabins right now. I know it’s a bit smoky below, and the air isn’t working, so you’ll need to open your windows enough to let fresh air in. Keep your doors open if you have inner rooms. There’s emergency lighting in the hallways. The crew will be here to assist if you need us. So try to get some sleep, and we hope to have everything back up and running in the morning.”

“Oh man, this is fucked up, Christine.” Valerie’s voice vibrated through their pressed-together skulls as Christine put an arm around her and they leaned into each other. “I’m so sorry I brought you on this disaster cruise.”

“It’s not your fault,” Christine said. “Anyway, aren’t you glad I’m here? What if you were alone?”

She could feel Valerie’s anxiety subside. She liked having her arm around her friend. It made her feel motherly. It was not a bad feeling at all, this power to soothe and ground someone with your physical presence alone. Valerie’s shoulders and ribs felt as insubstantial as wicker.