"You weren't there at my first meeting with Ismay. To see the little red marks all over the blueprints. First thing I thought was: 'Now here's a man who wants me to build him a ship that's gonna be sunk.' We're sending gilded eggshells out to sea." – Thomas Andrews, Managing Director of Harland & Wolff Shipyards

Wednesday, April 10th, 1912

Southampton, England

To say that Erik's feelings about Titanic were mixed, at best, would have been a terrible overstatement. He hated the thing – hated everything it stood for: the board members who had called for her creation; their swollen egos and congratulatory pats on the back; the adoring press; the bourgeois swine who would soon glide through the first class corridors as if they owned the place and everyone in it. A palpable sense of entitlement pervaded the entire project, and it prickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

Even still, in those peaceful morning hours before the city awoke, Erik couldn't help but run a hand lovingly down the polished oak handrail of the grand staircase. Titanic was, for all her faults, a masterpiece, combining elegance and technology with breathtaking results. The architect in him marveled at her clean lines, the engineer at her impressive turbines and hydraulics. There was a current of terrible power that rippled through her hull; still and silent on the water, she pulsed with electrifying potential. It drew Erik like a moth to flame. He could hate it all he wanted, but he had never been able to resist the Sirens' beckon to beauty and power.

As the first grey light of dawn stained the horizon, he made his way slowly, tiredly, to the second class kitchens. Just as he'd hoped, a few other dedicated crew members had also been at work through the night, and they'd left a fresh pot of coffee out on one of the counters, still half-full. With a jaw-cracking yawn, Erik pulled a china cup down from one of the shelves and filled it to the brim with the dark, steaming brew. The first sip scalded his mouth, but he forced it down anyway, giving a sharp jerk of his head as it burned its way down his throat. Smacking his lips, he set the cup down to wipe away an irritating trickle of sweat that was trapped beneath his mask. Once the white kidskin was secured back in place, he drew his arms out in a long, shuddering stretch and consulted his watch.

It was a quarter to seven. Erik scowled; he had only been at work for twelve hours, and already he was feeling every one of his sixty-nine years in his bones. As a younger man, he'd had infinitely more stamina than this. He could work for days, sometimes a week on end without stopping to sleep or eat. That he was tired already – exhausted, even – was pathetic.

He sighed irritably, took another gulp of hot coffee, and brought his cup with him to go watch the sun rise over Southampton.

Even at this early hour, the port city had already begun to stir. From his vantage point several stories above the dock, Erik watched as a few locals walked their dogs along the channel. Although Titanic had been berthed for a week now, the passersby still inevitably gazed up at her massive frame with awe and appreciation. With the heavy morning fog rolling in over the water, he knew the ship must have looked positively ethereal, as if she were drifting effortlessly on a bed of clouds.

He savored those quiet, languid moments, knowing that they would have to sustain him for some time. The press was having a veritable field day with Titanic's launch, and in a few short hours this dock would be swarming with reporters and passengers alike. In part, that was why he had chosen to conduct his work at night, away from the bustle and fanfare that would arrive later in the day. Though he had acclimated, gradually, to a life among the living, he had never been able to rid himself of his instinctual aversion to crowds. There was peace to be found here in the dawn hours, though – something in the cool, dank air and the gentle lapping of waves that resonated with him as home.

He had just drained the last few drops of his coffee when the thumps of several footsteps rattled across the dock's wooden planks below, effectively shattering the last of those peaceful moments. Squinting down through the fog, Erik was able to make out a small group of men heading for the first class gangplanks. A few of them spoke in hushed, serious voices, though they were too far away for even his sensitive hearing to decipher the conversation. It wasn't until the tall, broad-shouldered man leading the group paused to address his peers that Erik realized who they were.

There were nine of them, total, on Titanic's Guarantee Group. Thomas Andrews headed the team, flanked by the best and brightest Harland & Wolff had to offer: a master draughtsman, engineer, electrician, and foreman – each one an expert in his division, each one having poured years of his life, his very sweat and blood, into the ship that now stood gleaming and ready on the morning of her maiden voyage. Behind them, quivering in excitement, were the three apprentices Andrews had permitted to intern on the project – youngsters barely out of puberty, but dedicated to their craft and anxious to prove themselves in the field.

And then, of course, there was Erik… who still – still – could not believe that he'd allowed Andrews to guilt him back onto the project. He certainly wasn't needed here, given the credentials of the other men in the group. Unfortunately, he was a man of his word; he'd said he was in, and now he was stuck. That did not mean he had to be pleasant or cooperative about it.

Almost directly below where he stood, the man Erik now recognized as Andrews took a step up onto the gangplank and turned to address the rest of the group in his commanding Irish clip. "Right, gents, listen up. We've got about half an hour to run a basic review of systems before we're to reconvene for Captain Smith's brief. I trust you all know what's left to be done on your units?" There were affirmative nods all around. "Right. Hop to it, then. I want all of you back up to the bridge deck by 0730 sharp. Don't lose track of time."

One of the young men in front of him cracked a lopsided grin. "Why yeh gotta look at me when you say that, Tommie?"

Andrews tapped the boy's cap down over his eyes. "Gee, I wonder. Go on now, lad, hurry along. Plenty left to do and not much time t' do it."

"Aye-aye, sir," the boy quipped with a salute and a cheeky wink before scurrying off to do as he was told.

Andrews clapped each of the remaining team members on the shoulder as they passed, wishing them luck. Only once everyone else had dispersed to their morning rounds did he turn to look directly up at Erik, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. "Top o' the mornin' to ya, Mr. Turner! I take it you had a productive evening?"

Although Erik's gut jolted uncomfortably at being caught off-guard, he refused to give Andrews the pleasure of a reaction. "Fairly," he said, straight-faced.

Andrews grinned at him, but not unkindly. "Oh, I'm glad to hear 't. I'll be up straight away to receive your report, then."

Erik looked down into his empty coffee cup, stifling a groan. While the rest of the team was just beginning their workday, he had been traipsing back and forth across the ship all night, testing and re-testing the watertight bulkheads. The damned things were, after all, his invention, and he wouldn't stand to let anyone else muddy them up any worse than they already were.

Originally, it had been his plan to divide the ship into sixteen separate watertight compartments. Each compartment was to be separated from the next by a steel trap door that could be closed remotely from the bridge, manually by a lever on the door itself, or automatically when a sensor on the door detected rising water levels. Any two compartments could flood, and the ship would remain afloat indefinitely. Even in the worst-case scenario – a head-on collision with another ship – Erik's design allowed for the first four compartments to fill with water, and the ship (while severely damaged) would still remain afloat.

The idea, he had to admit, was one of his better ones. Trap doors had always been his specialty, and incorporating them into ship's design had proved to be one of the greatest safety innovations in maritime history. Thanks to those bulkheads, they were calling Titanic "unsinkable." And perhaps she might have been, if that senseless idiot of a chairman Bruce Ismay had not insisted upon tampering with Erik's design.

Rather than extending vertically up into B deck, as they were intended, Ismay had demanded that the "cumbersome" bulkheads be lowered down to G deck, where they wouldn't be such an eyesore for the first class passengers. Andrews, with his eyes flashing, had argued furiously on Erik's behalf, throwing every bit of his weight in the company into getting those bulkheads raised to an effective height. If they did not extend at least above the waterline, he argued, they would be completely useless. The water would simply rise up over the top of the bulkheads and spill back into the next compartment, and the next, until the ship foundered. Reluctantly, Ismay had offered a compromise, to the bare minimum of Andrews' request: he allowed half of the bulkheads to reach E deck, and the other half D deck, just a few feet above the waterline. Andrews had no choice but to agree, his influence spent. Erik, on the other hand, had flown into a fit of rage, torn the blueprints up in Ismay's face, and quit on the spot. If his design was going to be rendered completely ineffectual, he wanted no further part in it.

Although the entire ordeal had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, Erik had never been able to forget the tenacity with which Andrews fought for his design; it was part of the reason he had been unable to refuse his plea to rejoin the Titanic project now. The Irishman wasn't any happier about the alterations than Erik was, and behind closed doors he made that sentiment perfectly clear. "Even my dullest apprentice sees the way we're half-buildin' these ships," he'd ranted once. "They're askin' me things like - 'Why do the bulkheads only go up to the waterline, Tommie? Why are we puttin' in electric watertight doors when the water's just goin' to pour over into another compartment, Tommie?' We all have a bad feelin' about it." While the commiseration was appreciated, it did nothing to assuage Erik's foul temper on the matter. To this day, he avoided any potential encounters with Ismay; he didn't trust himself not to punch the man's face in on sight. Such a perfectly good idea, ruined…

Bright and cheery, Andrews' voice suddenly broke through Erik's brooding reverie like a ray of sunshine. "All right, then, Mr. Turner, what do you have for me?" The Irishman smiled as he flipped open his notebook, pen at the ready.

Far too grouchy and overtired for such a cheerful greeting, Erik crossed his arms over his chest petulantly and leaned up against the railing behind him. "What would you like to know?"

"Were you able to test all of the bulkhead doors?"

Erik nodded.

"…And?"

A noncommittal shrug. "Completely useless."

Andrews sighed. "You know 't and I know 't, old friend. But the Captain will be lookin' for somethin' a mite more specific to his purposes than that."

For a long moment Erik simply scowled at him, unblinking. Then, finally, he reported in a dead monotone, "All fifteen doors close immediately from both manual and bridge controls. I cannot guarantee the automatic sensor response unless you'd like me to flood the lower decks. And believe me, I would be more than happy to oblige—"

"No, thank you just the same," said Andrews lightly as he scribbled away on his notepad. Without looking up, he continued on, "And the alarm?"

"I dismantled it after the first test. That infernal noise was giving me a headache."

"Alarms functioning, effective volume, check, check, check…" Andrews glanced up, then, raising an eyebrow. "You did remember to reconnect it when you were done testing?"

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched. "Of course."

Andrews gave a little shake of his head, murmuring to himself as he wrote, "Note to self: reconnect alarm on bulkhead doors." After making a few more marks, he shut his notebook with a crisp snap and tucked it underneath his arm. "Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Turner." Though his demeanor was entirely professional, the fine wrinkles around his eyes creased warmly. "I'm glad to have you here with us. I truly do appreciate you agreein' to come back on the job."

At that, Erik discarded his pretense of detached boredom and answered earnestly, "Why did you even bother to ask me? You have more than enough men to cover the job."

"Aye, and good men they are, too. Twasn't a matter of numbers, though, Mr. Turner, nor a matter of credentials. It's just…" He drew in a breath as if to continue, but stopped at the last minute, looking uncertain. "You'll mock me for 't, I'm certain, but I've just got this… uneasy feelin' in my bones that something's going to go dreadful wrong this time around. And if it does, I can't think of anyone better to have with us than you. You're a good man to have in a storm, Turner. Quick on yer feet, cool-headed, and you know this ship just as well as I do. If Titanic comes to a spot of trouble, you're the one I'd trust to get her out."

Erik could only stare, stunned into silence. He had been called many things in his day, but cool-headed had never been one of them. He was notorious for a foul temper and rash decision making when he truly stood to lose something he cared about. But in a situation like Andrews was imagining? A ship malfunction, a propeller blade spun off, a fire in the engine room – these were "disasters" of a professional nature, disasters that had no real emotional bearing on him. He had certainly dealt with his fair share of them in the past, and he supposed he had done so efficiently. He could never recall being commended on it, or thinking highly of himself for managing the situation; it was simply a part of his job. But Andrews seemed to think this made him… what had he called it? A good man to have in a storm. Reliable. Trustworthy. Although foreign to him, the thought was not entirely… unpleasant, Erik decided. At least Andrews seemed to intend it as a compliment. Gradually, he blinked away his shock, to find the Irishman smiling at him in his affable way.

"Oh, don't even say it. I know what you're thinkin' – old Tommie and his grand Irish superstitions." He gave a little self-deprecating chuckle. "And you're probably right, of course. With Captain Smith at the helm and you keepin' a watchful eye out, I'm sure there's nothin' to worry about."

Erik nodded, still unsure of how to respond. Evidently it was enough for Andrews, who patted him soundly on the shoulder as he turned to go. "I know you must be tired after running those drills all night. Don't worry about the meetin' on the bridge, I'll give your report to the Captain. Get yourself some rest. The passengers won't begin loadin' for another three hours or so. It's enough to get some shuteye in the meantime."

Erik wanted to protest that he was not tired, that he could keep going for hours, that he was more than capable of attending the Captain's brief to give report himself – but when he opened his mouth to fire off the retort, a yawn came out in its place. Thank God Andrews didn't see it; he had already turned, and was halfway across the deck. Reluctantly, Erik decided that perhaps a brief sojourn to his quarters would not be such a terrible idea. He'd just rest his eyes for a bit, and be back up on the bridge for the Captain's brief in twenty minutes…

The bone-shaking blasts of Titanic's whistle jolted him out of a dead slumber, wild-eyed and tangled in freshly starched sheets. His hand went instinctively to the weapon that was normally stashed beneath his pillow, and his panic escalated exponentially when he found nothing there. Lost in the haze between waking and sleeping, he staggered to his feet, squinting against the harsh white light that poured through the port hole…

The port hole… on a ship…

It took him longer than he cared to admit to connect the dots. To his credit, once he finally ascertained that he was in his private room onboard Titanic, the sudden, sinking realization came almost immediately on its heels: the ship's whistle blew promptly at noon. A quick glance at his watch only confirmed what he already knew: while he slept the morning away, the crew, cargo and passengers had been loaded, the anchors raised, all the last minute checks and re-checks of the engines, boilers, pumps, pipes and wires completed without him.

The ship was ready; Titanic was on her way.

"Shit!"

Erik paused only long enough to slip on his coat and hat before tearing out of his room and slamming the door behind him. A handful of passengers in the corridor jumped out of his way with little exclamations of surprise as he went bowling past them with all the speed and precision of a cannon ball. Unwilling to wait for the elevators, he ducked into the nearest stairwell. His knees and ankles cracked and snapped in protest as he took the stairs two at a time, up five floors to the Boat Deck. At last he emerged, wheezing for breath, joints aching – but damned if he was going to let a little arthritis stop him from wringing Thomas Andrews' neck. He couldn't believe he'd let him sleep this late! The ship was already in motion, lurching slowly out onto the channel while the passengers hung off her railings, waving to their loved ones down on the dock.

It didn't take Erik long to find the burly Irishman among the throngs of people – his jolly, booming laugh carried easily across the deck. Unfortunately, Andrews caught sight of Erik in his peripheral vision, and raised his hands over the crowd as if greeting a prodigal child.

"Ah, if 'tain't our very own Mr. Turner himself!" he said jovially, taking Erik by the shoulder once he got close enough. "Gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to introduce you to one of the finest naval architects Belfast has ever seen—"

Erik barely had a chance to open his mouth in protest before a sudden, deafening series of cracks rang out like gunfire somewhere beyond the port side of the ship. There was a tense pause of silence in which everyone on deck froze, listening. Then, from that same place somewhere beyond the ship came a sudden chorus of shrieks, and suddenly all the passengers watching from Titanic's port side railings began to point and gasp in horror as well. With a furrowed brow, Erik strode briskly over to the rail to see for himself what the commotion was about.

He felt his heart leap up into his throat at the sight that greeted him.

As Titanic made her way down the channel, she swept past two other, smaller ocean liners. Beside the mammoth new ship, they looked like mere toy boats bobbing on the water. Evidently, the undertow churned up by Titanic's propellers had been too much for the SS New York – the steel cables anchoring her in place had snapped straight through (The gunshot sounds, Erik realized), and the ocean liner was now being drawn, swiftly and surely, right at them.

In about fifty feet, the smaller ship would crash head-on into Titanic's port side.

Suddenly, everyone around him was running and shouting. Andrews had disappeared amidst a swarm of passengers and officers of varying ranks, each scrambling to prepare for what seemed to be an unavoidable collision. Onboard the smaller SS New York there seemed to be an even bigger panic; the crew was running about like so many ants, draping mats over the side of the boat in a vain attempt to soften the impact. Several tugboats had begun to charge forward in a desperate attempt to latch on to the smaller ship and pull her back. Erik felt his mouth go dry – they weren't going to make it. The New York drew dangerously close… forty feet… thirty… twenty five…

"Full astern!" came Captain Smith's urgent order from Titanic's bridge.

Twenty feet… fifteen… ten…

Erik gripped the railing with white knuckles, bracing himself for impact. In those fleeting seconds, he found himself calculating the inevitable damage – at least one watertight compartment would be breached by New York's stern, and more likely two. His bulkheads would save Titanic by the skin of her teeth. They could drag her, limping, back to the dry docks for months of severe, expensive repairs. It would be a nightmare for the White Star Line – rebooking all the passengers on alternate ships, making formal apologies to all the powerful and wealthy patrons onboard, offering thousands in refunds…

And certainly, it would be an unthinkable embarrassment for Ismay. The press would be only too happy to sink their fangs into him, and how glorious – simply glorious – it would be to watch him writhe! Perhaps this, at last, would force the haughty bastard to eat his words, pull his head out of his arse, and raise the bulkheads to their proper height…

Eight feet… six…

Suddenly, violently, Titanic's engines surged in reverse, churning the dark water up against the oncoming ship. The New York slowed in its advance, bobbing perilously close to the larger ship's hull. Within four feet of collision, one of the tugboats finally caught up to the ocean liner and tossed her a line. The little tugboat heaved, Titanic's engines roared, and slowly, impossibly, the New York drew back to safety.

All at once, a thunderous round of applause erupted through the breathless silence. Titanic's passengers and crew were ecstatic with relief, grateful for their quick-thinking captain, while those watching from the docks jumped up and down, waving handkerchiefs and cheering riotously.

Erik stood at the rail, watching the scene through cold yellow eyes. As the adrenaline died in his veins, age-old bitterness bubbled up in its place. He'd been so close! Four feet from seeing Ismay tuck his tail like the dog he was. Four feet from seeing his original designs implemented the way they should have been from the beginning. That collision would have been his chance.

Andrews reappeared beside him a moment later, holding one hand to his heart and grinning from ear to ear. "Whew!" he cried. "That was a little too close! See now, Turner, I weren't kiddin' you about that premonition. Another two meters and we would have needed those bulkheads of yours."

"Yes," Erik grumbled. "Not even out of the channel, and already this ship is more trouble than she's worth."

The Irishman laughed airily. "Bah. Learn to take a compliment, y' old codger! I'm only sayin' it's a good thing you're here. I don't know what we'd do without you."

Finally releasing his hold on the rail, Erik turned to glower at his well-meaning companion. "Sink," he said dryly, and stalked off in search of a good strong brandy.

A/N: If this chapter felt a little bit technical to you, don't worry – I just needed to give you guys some background information regarding Erik's role on Titanic before we get further enmeshed in the plotline. To be honest, I couldn't tell you which side of a boat is starboard or port prior to writing this, so I'm certainly not a "ship person" myself, haha.

More on the watertight compartments and bulkheads, if you're interested: www (dot) titanic-titanic (dot)com / titanic_watertight_compartments (dot) shtml

And if any of you are thinking, "Hey! That near-catastrophic collision with the SS New York wasn't in the movie!"… well, you're right. I guess they thought it wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things. It truly did happen, though, and many of the Titanic survivors later remarked that they thought it was a bad omen from the start.

An actual photograph of the New York's close shave with Titanic: www (dot) lostliners (dot) com/content/flagships/Titanic/Images/southham_ny2 (dot) html

You learn something new every day, right? ;)

Reviews are lovely, and much appreciated!