Lost Republic by Paul B. Thompson Page A

Julie thought.
    The purser, Mr. Brock, walked briskly ’round the stern, greeting each passenger by name. When he came near, Julie didn’t wait for pleasantries.
    â€œWhat happened to the air-conditioning?” she demanded.
    Mr. Brock smiled, not showing any teeth. “Utilities are out on B and C deck,” he said. “There’s been a loss of power from the generators. Repairs are being made.”
    â€œThis old ship is falling apart,” Julie went on. “No Your/World, no TV, now no A/C? What’s next, no toilets?”
    Purser Brock eyed other passengers nearby who heard the American girl’s complaints. He said, “The
Carleton
was never intended to carry so many passengers. Too many demands have been made on the ship’s systems. As for the loss of communications, that is hardly our fault.”
    â€œI bet they have Your/World on the
Sunflyer
!”
    â€œI’m sure they have many amenities on the sunship,” Brock said carefully. To Hans he said, “Captain Viega wanted me to thank you again for the use of your sextant, Mr. Bachmann. It’s a magnificent instrument.”
    â€œIt was made in Wetzlar in 1899,” Hans replied. “They made the best lenses in the world.”
    â€œI wish they made our air-conditioning,” Julie grumbled.
    Breakfast was cold that morning—fruit, yogurt, cheese, and cereal. The bread was leftover from the night before. The chief steward apologized. The electrical stoves in the galley were not working. So far, the ship’s refrigerators were still cold, but power was slowly failing throughout the ship.
    â€œWhy?” France Martin asked. “The engines are still running, aren’t they?”
    The chief steward said, “Yes, but I am told the dynamos are down and storage batteries are barely holding any charge.” Mr. Chen wanted to know his source of this information. “I have this from Engineer Pascal.”
    Sullen silence fell. One of the young kids started to cry about the tasteless breakfast and got a sharp reply from his mother. France didn’t care much about the food, but he wondered where all the power generated by the
Carleton’
s engines was going. They were turning, but the dynamos weren’t putting out electricity. Even the batteries, which ought to have lasted for days, were malfunctioning. But why?
    His question went unanswered. In that moment, the
Carleton
shuddered violently from end to end. A loud, crushing, crashing sound filled the air.
    Leigh had a stale biscuit in hand, about to bite, when the deck flew wildly to the right, throwing him right over in his chair. An empty chair fell on top of him, which hurt, followed by the Belgian kid, Emile. That really hurt. The back of the chair rapped Leigh across the nose. Emile’s weight drove the fallen furniture into him.
    Jenny Hopkins was frowning at the breakfast buffet. There were too many carbs on the menu and not enough protein. Then the deck lurched under her. She caught the edge of the buffet in both hands, and tray after tray of canned peaches, muesli, biscuits, and jam packets hit her. She held on through the barrage until a pitcher of orange juice started to slide at her face. Jenny let go one hand and swung out of the way. The pitcher smashed to juicy bits against the starboard wall.
    Eleanor was standing, too. She was tired and feeling ill from a sweaty night in her cabin. All she wanted for breakfast was yogurt and a little coffee. The
Carleton
always served good coffee (the Panamanian crew demanded it), but she had hardly filled her heavy mug before the ship creaked over on its side. Hot coffee poured over her hand and bare leg.
    Linh Prudhomme was in her suite when the
Carleton
suddenly keeled over. She was thrown against the couch. Her case of poker chips hit the floor and burst open, spilling red, black, and gold disks everywhere.
    On the boat deck, Hans had been trying to find the sun. He’d gotten