somewhere, probably. Arnstein—the history professor—thinks that what’ll happen is that there will be two futures, the one we came from, and the one that happens because we landed here. Rosenthal, the scientist, says that that could be—something to do with quantum mechanics.”
“Yeah, the Many Worlds interpretation. We studied it in physics,” Lieutenant Walker said thoughtfully.
Alston cleared her throat. “In any case, it’s irrelevant. We can’t do anything about it. Even mass suicide, which is not going to happen, wouldn’t change the fact that we’re here and the consequences that follow. But we do have to eat, y’all will recollect. So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get down to some serious plannin’.”
The meeting went on for hours. As the officers left for their bunks, Alston signaled to Walker to stay. “Lieutenant, I think you’ve had an idea that you’re not sharing.”
“Ma’am,” the young man said. He hesitated. “It’s just that there are so many possibilities here.”
“Including death by starvation, unfortunately. That has to be our maximum priority for the present.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The younger officer had a boyishly open face, green eyes, and a mop of reddish-brown hair; he looked like an overgrown Huck Finn. And I can believe that as much as I want to, she thought.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Alston sighed and sat alone, cradling her coffee and wishing for a drink. Coast Guard ships were dry, though, just like the Navy’s. Like the Navy’s had been . . . would be . . . whatever.
She poured another cup. Thinking about what had happened made her head hurt even worse. She’d considered drawing a trank herself, she needed the sleep, but no. She also needed her wits if something happened. Lucky for her she’d never been able to strike any deep roots, anywhere. At least she was used to disadvantages.
What more can the Supreme Ironist do? Let’s see, you’re a woman. A black woman. A black woman who came up through the ranks. A black, ex-ranker, divorced woman. A black, ex-ranker, divorced, gay woman. A black, ex-ranker, divorced, gay woman in charge of a ship. A black, ex-ranker, divorced, gay woman in command of a ship thrown back three thousand years in time with a crew getting more hysterical by the moment. What else could happen?
She had an uneasy feeling she’d find out.
The Nantucket Council was meeting around an office table in the Town Building, on Broad Street down by the Whaling Museum. The building was eighteenth-century brick Georgian on the outside, late-twentieth Institutional Bland inside. Voices sounded through open windows as outside, slippery mounds of fish were manhandled into boxes, garbage bags, and the backs of pickups and the island’s ubiquitous Jeep Cherokees for distribution. The smell was already fairly powerful.
Cofflin rapped his knuckles on the table and spoke: “All right, people, we’ve toted it up, and with strict rationing we’ve got enough food for about two to three weeks from our reserves. Thank God not many of the summer people had arrived, but we’re still up against it. Captain Alston? What’s the fishing situation?”
Marian Alston had been sitting quietly, making notes now and then. Occasionally she would change a small ball of hard rubber from one hand to another, squeezing steadily.
“There are two real trawlers operating out of Nantucket, and another that was here from Mattapoisett, sheltering . from rough weather. As long as the fuel lasts, they can pull in enough to give everyone on the island a pound or more of fish a day—the schools of cod and herring and flounder and whatnot out there have to be seen to be believed. The main problem is breaking nets because the yields are so heavy.”
“Thank God for that,” Cofflin said. “Both Nantucket trawlers were slated to be junked next year,” he went on. He’d been a commercial fisherman himself for a while, between getting out of high school and
“Yeah, the Many Worlds interpretation. We studied it in physics,” Lieutenant Walker said thoughtfully.
Alston cleared her throat. “In any case, it’s irrelevant. We can’t do anything about it. Even mass suicide, which is not going to happen, wouldn’t change the fact that we’re here and the consequences that follow. But we do have to eat, y’all will recollect. So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get down to some serious plannin’.”
The meeting went on for hours. As the officers left for their bunks, Alston signaled to Walker to stay. “Lieutenant, I think you’ve had an idea that you’re not sharing.”
“Ma’am,” the young man said. He hesitated. “It’s just that there are so many possibilities here.”
“Including death by starvation, unfortunately. That has to be our maximum priority for the present.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The younger officer had a boyishly open face, green eyes, and a mop of reddish-brown hair; he looked like an overgrown Huck Finn. And I can believe that as much as I want to, she thought.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Alston sighed and sat alone, cradling her coffee and wishing for a drink. Coast Guard ships were dry, though, just like the Navy’s. Like the Navy’s had been . . . would be . . . whatever.
She poured another cup. Thinking about what had happened made her head hurt even worse. She’d considered drawing a trank herself, she needed the sleep, but no. She also needed her wits if something happened. Lucky for her she’d never been able to strike any deep roots, anywhere. At least she was used to disadvantages.
What more can the Supreme Ironist do? Let’s see, you’re a woman. A black woman. A black woman who came up through the ranks. A black, ex-ranker, divorced woman. A black, ex-ranker, divorced, gay woman. A black, ex-ranker, divorced, gay woman in charge of a ship. A black, ex-ranker, divorced, gay woman in command of a ship thrown back three thousand years in time with a crew getting more hysterical by the moment. What else could happen?
She had an uneasy feeling she’d find out.
The Nantucket Council was meeting around an office table in the Town Building, on Broad Street down by the Whaling Museum. The building was eighteenth-century brick Georgian on the outside, late-twentieth Institutional Bland inside. Voices sounded through open windows as outside, slippery mounds of fish were manhandled into boxes, garbage bags, and the backs of pickups and the island’s ubiquitous Jeep Cherokees for distribution. The smell was already fairly powerful.
Cofflin rapped his knuckles on the table and spoke: “All right, people, we’ve toted it up, and with strict rationing we’ve got enough food for about two to three weeks from our reserves. Thank God not many of the summer people had arrived, but we’re still up against it. Captain Alston? What’s the fishing situation?”
Marian Alston had been sitting quietly, making notes now and then. Occasionally she would change a small ball of hard rubber from one hand to another, squeezing steadily.
“There are two real trawlers operating out of Nantucket, and another that was here from Mattapoisett, sheltering . from rough weather. As long as the fuel lasts, they can pull in enough to give everyone on the island a pound or more of fish a day—the schools of cod and herring and flounder and whatnot out there have to be seen to be believed. The main problem is breaking nets because the yields are so heavy.”
“Thank God for that,” Cofflin said. “Both Nantucket trawlers were slated to be junked next year,” he went on. He’d been a commercial fisherman himself for a while, between getting out of high school and
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