FIVE sat nestled in the middle of Lifeboat Number One, next to her husband. If she were to proceed according to plan, she should now take her small pistol from her delicate beaded purse, stand up, and methodically execute her fellow passengers. Greta Wilson had never been the same after her beloved only son had been returned to her from Viet Nam cut in half in both body and spirit. As she could not quite bring herself to blame the men who wielded the political power, she decided instead that it was the people who invented the land mines, the bombs, the tanks and guns who were to blame. Mass destruction was only possible through the disgusting curiosity of the human mind. Where did it all start, after all, before the engineers and the manufacturers and the distributors? It all started in the laboratory. Nor did they ever take responsibility for their discoveries. "We are only there to learn." she had once heard an eminent chemist say, "We are not ethicists. There is no place for contemplation of the moral implications of our work, because that is an impediment to learning."
Those words had formed in her a hard, dark resolve, and it became her mission to reset the balance in the world. It was easy enough for her, with her international connections, her daily exposure to people who objected to and protested the actions of the American government, to seek out allies and make plans. No one took her seriously, she knew. She was just the pleasant, privileged, shallow wife of the Secretary of State.
There were two reasons she decided not to bother with this last part of the plan, the first being that she had already decided that the whole venture was a complete and utter failure. That hateful Oscar Goldman had been far too thorough in his security measures. The lifeboats had been the key to the plan. Everyone was supposed to have gone down with the ship, and failing that, she and her conspirators were supposed to be able to tidily kill whoever was left - but as it was, there were too many lifeboats in the water, too many passengers in them, and they could not be dealt with properly now. She had just seen the raft that FOUR had brought as a back up escape, floating in the water, filled with passengers - but without FOUR or the others.
The second reason was because of a conversation she had had the previous night with a Dutch microbiologist named Caspar Van Oosten. She had sensed a kindred spirit in this rotund man, and had cautiously advanced her concerns that science had a very dark side, to which he replied, "Mrs. Wilson, it is my theory that the world cannot continue on the course it is going. I believe that in our lifetime most of the men and women of science on this ship will live to see their work corrupted and used in ways they never dreamed of and would never sanction. Science and technology will not be our savior, as we would like to think. On the contrary, it will be the end of us, I assure you." So, it seemed her intervention was not necessary. The problem would take care of itself - and she could sit back and watch.
"Greta, are you smiling?" Douglas asked, looking to her with a frown.
"I'm trying to think of happier things, Darling." she replied, slipping her hand into his.
--
Oscar knew he was losing precious heat by swimming, but he also thought it best to get around to the other side of the ship in hopes of finding one of the upturned lifeboats. There seemed to be no one else in the water, and with an optimism that was rare for him, he decided that this was a sign that the evacuation had been successful. Avoiding debris as best he could, he cut wide around the stern of the ship, now lying sideways and over two thirds submerged. His limbs were stiffening and a knot of fear clenched his guts. He knocked his hand on a some unidentifiable hunk of wood, and noted that he hardly felt it. As he passed by, he saw that it was a door - actually it was the door - that Jaime had cranked off its hinges a short time earlier. Choosing to regard this as a good omen, he clumsily pulled himself on top of it. It was a poor raft, always partly submerged, but it was a merciful relief to have at least some part of his body out of the water. The air was balmy in comparison to the water. How long before a rescue team arrives? he wondered. By his own figuring he had entered the second stage of hypothermia - the shivering was so violent now that he feared complete loss of command over his limbs. What would it take to kill him - half an hour? Twenty minutes?
The lights on the Anastasia flickered and went out, leaving only the green emergency lights and the stars above to illuminate the ship's last moments on the surface. The groaning and howling continued from the wreck, like metallic death cries from a giant iron beast. Perhaps he was the only one here beside her to witness her going down - and she was going down fast. The water was boiling and sputtering around her, and though he was far enough away to be safe from it, he registered the centrifugal pull in her direction.
Aboard Lifeboat Six, the Petty Officer suddenly stood and drew a gun. Before the five OSI agents aboard had a chance to stop him, he took aim and shot the eminent microbiologist Dr. Caspar Van Oosten through the chest, killing him instantly. No sooner had the first shot sounded than there was a second, and the Petty Officer known to Greta Wilson as THREE was dead from a shot to the head.
Now there was only the great sleek black side of the ship shining above the surface. She held there for some minutes, as though resisting her fate, and then, smoothly and silently, she dropped under the water. At first, her progress downward could be marked by the faint green lights glinting underwater, but quickly the darkness swallowed her up. Once she was gone Oscar was hit by a loneliness like nothing he'd ever felt before, and it made him want to scream. The ship had somehow kept him company. At least he wasn't entirely alone on that interminable, flat, freezing water - water that was waiting to suck him under too. No one could ever find him out here in the dark, he knew it. He rested his cheek on the surface of the door, succumbing for a moment to the horror of his situation. The pain was excruciating - it seemed to be emanating from his very bones. He closed his eyes and listened to his own shallow breath - so light, so insubstantial that it sounded like the breath of a child.
When he opened his eyes again he was amazed to see not twenty feet away the white belly of an upturned lifeboat. The pull of the ship had sucked all debris inward, and here, getting closer by the minute, was his best chance for salvation. Feeling a thrill of hope, he pushed himself off the door and clumsily paddled over to where the lifeboat was lying lowest in the water. Clambering and scrambling he attempted to heave himself up onto the slippery, smooth surface. It felt like the hardest task he had ever faced. His body was so frustratingly uncooperative, but he was aided by a fierce determination - he was a man with a lot to live for, and this was his only chance. On his third attempt, grunting, kicking and clawing, he finally pulled himself on to the flat bottom of the hull. There was not much to hang onto other than the keel, which he did with uncooperative fingers. Desperation was his greatest ally.
The shivering was diminishing, the pain ebbing, and he was actually beginning to feel warm. He knew this was only an illusion, but at least it was pleasant. He looked out into the inky blackness left where the ship had been. Somehow it seemed even darker there. The string of lights belonging to the lifeboats bobbed in the distance, and he wondered if they were rowing or merely waiting. Then he heard a splash and he turned to see what he thought was a person, clinging to a deck chair.
"Hello?" he called, his voice brittle with cold.
"'Allo?" an accented voice returned. "May I join you?"
"Yes! Can you get over here?"
There was a slight chuckle. "I'm trying."
Using the deck chair as a float, the man kicked toward the lifeboat and grabbed at the wide slick hull. Oscar, hanging on to the keel with one hand, leaned across and reached his hand out. The man grabbed awkwardly, his fingers stiff and weak. Tightening his grip as best he could around the man's forearm, Oscar heaved mightily, pulling him part way up, at which point the man reached for the keel, and with Oscar's help, threw himself safely onto their inadequate oasis. Resting on either side of the keel, they continued to grip each other's arm, for it provided a welcome stability and some sense of safety. They remained silent for some minutes, breathing hard, wincing from the pain of exertion. Finally the man looked to Oscar, his face an eerie white, contrasting with his lips, which were almost black.
"Well, it is even too cold for the fish promenade, don't you think?" the man said in a thick French accent.
"Uh... yes." Oscar replied uncertainly.
"I need new shoes for that anyway." he added.
"Me too." He had no idea what this man was talking about, but he didn't want to be rude, particularly in these difficult circumstances.
"You are Oscar Goldman, no?" he inquired, raising his arched eyebrows.
"I am."
The man laughed ruefully. "This is i-rony, I think." He spoke slowly, his tongue thickened by cold.
"Irony?"
"Because, my friend, your are one of the big ones we are suppose to kill, and here, you save me."
Oscar was silent for a moment, replaying the last sentence in his head. He wasn't feeling very swift, but he was pretty sure this man had just said he had intended to kill him. "You're supposed to kill me?"
"Yes - but don't worry, you are safe from me now. But not from the cold." He raised his eyebrows again and his thin face cracked open into a leering smile. He was so very pale. Oscar's heart was suddenly gripped by fear, not because he was afraid of what the man might do to him, but because he felt like he was speaking to someone who was already dead.
"We have made this to happen." The man nodded to where the Anastasia had once been.
"You?" Oscar breathed, feeling suddenly alert, "Why?"
"You have heard of the English - the Luddite, Monsieur Goldman?"
Oscar frowned. What he heard was 'loo-deet' and it took him a moment to put it together. "The Luddites, yes. They burned down mills in the industrial revolution because they were angry about progress."
"Oui. You speak a little fast for me, but yes."
"Nous pouvons parler Francais." It felt like he had marbles in his mouth.
"You speak French?" the man asked in his native language. "That is unusual for an American." He paused and tried to pull himself higher onto the hull, pulling Oscar toward him at the same time.
Oscar waited for the spectre to say more, but for some time he just stared at him in an intense, hypnotic manner, his eyes large and prominent.
"Science and technology are ruining the world, Monsieur Goldman. The weapons, the pollution, the factories that poor people must work themselves to death in - these are all the products of science. The natural world grows weaker every day, and men and women no longer live natural lives. They live in little boxes and drive cars and breathe filthy air and sit under fluorescent lights. It is not a life."
Oscar felt so slow. "I don't understand. What does that have to do..."
"A ship full of the most eminent scientists in the world!" The Frenchman's eyes glinted, the whites of his eyes blue, the pupils an endless void of black. Oscar could feel the man's breath on his face as he spoke, and it smelled sharp and metallic. Then Oscar had a revelation - how could he not have recognized him? He had come to take all the people on the ship, and now he had come for him. It was obvious - this man was Death.
"But what do you care about how people live?" Oscar said angrily. Death didn't care about anything but snuffing out life, did he? "I believe science is there to help people. You use it for your purposes. You ought to love it." he added accusingly.
"My friend, the clock is on the wall, and underneath that clock is a child with pale skin and coal black eyes, and she reaches out and you suffocate her, do you hear me? You suffocate her."
"What?" Oscar asked, uncomprehending. "What are you saying?" He looked hard into the face of his companion, just a foot from his own. There was icy drip hanging from the end of Death's long aquiline nose.
"You are ruining the world." he added. His eyes were glassy, the light in them dimming second by second.
"I didn't know you were French." Oscar frowned.
"I'm not French. I'm Belgian."
"Oh." So Death was a Belgian. Who would have guessed?
"You are ruining the world." Death repeated.
"Science has done wonderful things." Oscar protested. "Miraculous things. The woman I love wouldn't be alive without scientific intervention. And because she is alive the world is a better place."
"Do you love a machine?" Death asked, with a sincere curiosity.
"No!" Oscar snapped. "She's human. Perfectly, wonderfully, human!"
I'm sorry my friend, I don't mean to offend you. But can you honestly tell me that science is good and wonderful? After the atom bomb?"
"You can't stop it." Oscar answered, trying to keep a grip on his reason. "So all you can do is shape the future, hopefully for the good."
"Ah, an idealist. Well, I am an idealist too - a different kind." Death's eyelids were drooping now, but he still leered, reminding Oscar of the drunks who have to be thrown out of the bar at closing time. "Tell me," Death said, his voice dropping low, "is your heart made of leaves and asparagus, or ammonium nitrite and titanium?"
"What?" Oscar asked, trying to imagine his heart as a bunch of asparagus.
"You are not listening to me. There is much you have to learn, my friend. Too bad there is no time." Death chuckled as though delighted by his own private joke. The grey pearls of his teeth glinted between black lips.
"You're not making any sense." Oscar said. He was so revolted by this creature, so irrationally frightened of him, and yet he felt strangely protective of him.
"I can see into you." Death said. "There is an acid, that pours down behind your eyes and pools in the bottom of your heart." His lids lifted and he looked hard at Oscar, and Oscar could have sworn he felt an icy trickle at the backs of his eyes. "But for all that, you seem like a nice man. I'm sorry I killed you." He seemed to regard this as his closing remark, and rested his face on the hull.
"No - keep talking!" Oscar barked. "You have to keep talking or you'll die."
Death chuckled again and ignored him.
"Hey!" Oscar prodded, yanking on his arm.
Death lifted his head, looking at his intended victim through ice hazed eyes, "Is this woman you love - is she in a lifeboat?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry about that."
"What do you mean you're sorry about that?" Panic beat at Oscar's chest. "What do you mean?!" His mind raced - what was the danger in the lifeboats? Could his men deal with whatever might arise? He repeated the question ten times over, squeezing Death's arm and poking at him with his free hand, to no avail. Still Oscar continued to grip his arm like he was hanging onto his own life.
"Don't die." he pleaded. "Please don't die." He was more afraid and more lonely than he had ever been in his entire life. He even preferred the company of Death to solitude. Besides, what would happen if Death were to die?
Despite Oscar's efforts, Death's grip slowly slackened and released.
"No!" Oscar cried. "No." He hung on all the harder, but his hands were too cold, too uncooperative, and inch by inch, the cold fingers slipped through his. The lifeless body of ONE slipped from the hull and landed in the water with a lazy splash. Oscar wriggled higher up the hull and flung himself over the center. He couldn't even feel the keel pressing into his ribs. His hands were now as useless as blocks of wood, so all he could do was position himself well and hope he wouldn't slip into the water. As he watched the body drift away he was overcome by grief. The tears that welled in his eyes were strangely warm - perhaps the last bit of warmth left in him, but they turned cold before they dropped from his jaw. His face pressed into the hull, he wept for himself - for the aching loneliness he felt, for the fact it was now too late. He wept for the woman he loved so well and for the beautiful opportunity he had missed, and for the fact that he could to nothing to keep her safe. So much waste. So much loneliness. Everything he had done in his life was nothing to him now. All he wanted was Jaime, and he would never see her again. It was all futile. Now he had even been abandoned by Death - and what did that mean for him? Did it mean he was to float out here in this dark night forever? And was Death right now rushing toward the lifeboats, skimming below the surface of the pitch black waters like a shark seeking prey? Making his way to Jaime? Oscar thumped his useless hands on the hull of the boat, and sobbed, helpless, frozen, alone.
Then came a memory - one long forgotten. He could feel his mother's hand holding his, warm and firm and safe. He was not more than three. Every week the two of them walked to the empty lot across the street from their house in Rhode Island. It was asparagus hunting day. He and Mother, bowing their heads solemnly to their work, searched the gravel and dry dirt for the fresh new shoots of asparagus that sprung up here and there. Usually they left with a good sized handful which Mother always cooked up that night, every time making sure to tell his father and brother and sister that he, Oscar, had found them all. He was as proud as if he had come home from the hunt with a bison.
So why did Death have to come and get his mother so early? That was a question he should have asked him. She was a year younger than Oscar was now when she died. Louise was right. His mother would have loved Jaime.