Lost Republic by Paul B. Thompson Read Free Book Online

He’d find out who was in there.
    Back in his own cabin, he dressed with angry haste in total darkness. Hans never stirred, not even when France stubbed his toe and cursed aloud. France stalked up to A deck, then to the weather deck. Along the way, he passed a wall clock that read 03:22.
    Out on deck, wind was blowing. The old steamer plowed steadily ahead, pushing her bow against rough seas. Overhead, stars flitted between gaps in the clouds and a brilliant moon washed everything in pale light.
    There were people in the lounge. France ducked in and saw they were crew members eating dinner, having come off their watch. He asked how he could find out who was in the cabin next to his.
    The men smirked. Was she hot,
une bébé
?
    â€œNo, he’s a loudmouthed bastard!” The crewmen laughed.
    The fellow with a closely trimmed gray beard said, “Go up to the signals room on the boat deck. There’s always an officer there. Don’t bother the bridge watch, though.” France thanked him curtly and left.
    Higher up on the ship, the motion of the seas were worse. Climbing the steel steps to the boat deck was actually hard. Once there, there was nothing above him but
Carleton
’s massive streamlined smokestack, some pole masts with antennas, and assorted ventilator hoods. Forward was the ship’s extensive bridge. France found the signals office at the rear of the structure. He didn’t knock but simply threw open the door.
    It was dark inside, with no light visible but the glow of a dozen thin monitors. Most of them were blank and blue. One played a snowy scene of static. Another was covered with marching lines of random letters and numbers.
    â€œHello?” he said. The blank silence of the place took the anger right out of him.
    Someone stirred in the shadows.
    â€œWho’s there?” the voice challenged in English.
    â€œFrançois Martin. I-I am a passenger.”
    â€œPassengers aren’t allowed in signals.”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry. I’m having a problem with my neighbor.”
    A woman in the blue jacket of the merchant service emerged from the darkness. She was about forty, pale, with eyes shot with thready blood vessels. Her name badge read Señales.
    â€œWhat problem?”
    â€œHe’s making noise.” Mad as he was, France couldn’t bring himself to accuse anyone of crying like a baby.
    â€œDid you ask him to stop?” France admitted he had and was insulted for trying.
    â€œI’m too busy for this,” Señales said, waving him off. “Find the chief steward. He’ll help you.”
    She turned away. France said, “What’s going on here?”
    â€œGo back to bed. Everything will be fine . . . “
    That’s what they told people on the
Titanic
. France came two steps into the room.
    â€œIs every computer on the ship out?” he said, gazing at the empty screens.
    Her voice came from the shadows. “No, the systems on the ship are old, but they work. It’s the outside connections that have failed. We’re cut off from everything—satellite navigation, Your/World net, telephone, radio . . . radar is out, too.”
    France’s complaint suddenly seemed very childish. He said, “How are you steering the ship?”
    â€œBy the sun and stars. At least they haven’t left us.”
    â€œWill we make it to Canada?”
    Officer Señales gave a weary sigh. “If we don’t run into Ireland or Greenland first!”
    France left her surrounded by blank screens and a wall of electronic silence. By the time he descended to the lounge, the crewmen had finished their meal and gone to bed. The ship felt deserted.
    Down on B deck, he paused in the passage outside his door. The door of the cabin next to his, B14, was ajar. France tapped on it firmly.
    â€œHello?” he said. The door swung inward halfway and stopped.
    The cabin was weirdly lit by a lamp fallen to the deck.