Lost Republic by Paul B. Thompson Page B

the
Preussen
sextant from the navigator and was quartering likely parts of the sky for a glimmer of sunlight. He was so wrapped up in his task, he had no chance to brace himself. The impact half-flipped Hans over the rail. His feet went up and his head went down. His first act was to try to grab the thickly painted rail, but he misjudged the distance, and his hand closed on air. Hans’s chin hit something hard, and his PDD, now useless, slipped from his shirt pocket and vanished over the side.
    The ship lurched again, not as hard as the first time. Hans jammed a foot between the rails. Steadied, he finally managed to avoid being thrown thirty feet into the sea. The antique sextant was not so lucky. Hans saved his own life, but the 150-year-old instrument splashed in the water far below after his personal date device. Both sank without a trace.
    Julie sat down so hard when the ship tilted that the shock ran right up her spine. It was like a jolt of electricity, and for a moment she was paralyzed. Plates and flatware rained on her. Mrs. Ellis glided past in her lifter chair, eyes wide with terror. She smacked into the wall just behind where Leigh and Emile Bequerel struggled under a pile of tumbled chairs.
    The ship’s whistle shrieked, followed closely by the bellow of the steam horn. Everyone was yelling, screaming, or crying. After a long, deafening concert, the ship stopped screaming first. The passengers quit when it slowly became clear they weren’t all going to die in the next two seconds.
    The chief steward, the cook, and the cook’s assistants went through the slanted lounge, helping people stand. Eleanor’s burns were painful, but not serious. Leigh had a black eye. Emile was untouched.
    â€œOf course he is,” Leigh snarled. “He had a cushion to land on!”
    Hans used his foot hooked in the railing to lever himself back on deck. Looking at the slanted superstructure, he estimated the ship’s list at ten degrees. When the horn fell silent, he groped his way forward to the steps up to the bridge. Other passengers felt their way out of the lounge and started that way, too. On the walkway just past the signals room, Hans heard Captain Viega shouting in Spanish. He didn’t sound frightened, just mad as hell.
    He emerged from the wheelhouse, red-faced. Seeing Hans, he cried, “What are you doing here? Passengers are not allowed on the bridge!”
    â€œWhat’s happened, Captain?”
    â€œCan’t you see? We’ve run aground!”
    â€œAground? In the middle of the North Atlantic?”
    â€œIt’s insane, I know, but what can I tell you? Now get below!” To the crowd climbing toward him, he shouted, “All of you, return to your cabins or the lounge! There is nothing for you to do! The crew and I will deal with this emergency!”
    Hans backed down the steps. He leaned out far enough to see the ship’s stack. A ribbon of gray smoke from it rose straight up in the still air. The engines were still running, it seemed. Some of the ship’s masts had been damaged by the collision. One of the aft stacks had broken off and was only held up by its wires. The spinning radome atop the wheelhouse had stopped. There was the sharp smell of ozone in the air.
    Carleton
’s crew crawled all over the ship, inspecting every nook and cranny. The captain, Purser Brock, Signals Officer Señales, and the chief steward took up positions on deck and received breathless reports on the ship’s condition. Gradually, some facts emerged. They didn’t make much sense.
    Carleton
had experienced a slow loss of propulsive power over the previous twenty-four hours. Her speed had been down to about three knots when she ran into—whatever she had run into. Several compartments at the point of collision were slowly filling with water. Those compartments had been sealed off.
    â€œWe’re not sinking, are we?” asked Kiran Trevedi.
    â€œWe are