The Left Fork in the Road 

2nd May, 2027

The room was quiet, peaceful. The only sound to break the silence of the night was the gentle beeping of the VS monitor keeping a watchful eye on the young woman asleep in the bed next to it.

She stirred, parted eyelids that didn't want to open, and glanced around her. As her senses slowly began to function, she remembered where she was, and why she was there.

The tears tried to come. She fought them back, telling herself things happen for a reason. That didn't seem to work; eyes already foggy from the medication wanted to mist up even more.

Heartbreak, depression… desperation. Those things had contributed to it, she knew. Maybe in the grand scheme of things it was for the best, but it sure didn't feel like it right then.

She had pain in her abdomen, but the pain in her heart was far more severe. It could take a lifetime to get over the hurt no pills could ever take away.

'Astrid? Astrid DuPont?’

A cheery smile appeared around the half-open door, followed by a tall slim body clad in a dark blue three-quarter length skirt and matching jacket.

'Yes… hello,' she said, trying to lift herself up as the woman slid a chair across to the bed, and sat down. 'Now don't you go straining yourself, my dear. You just stay wherever's most comfortable. I'm Lori by the way, from the Manhattan Women's Support Society.'

'Manhattan…'

'That's right. We visit the hospital three days a week to offer a hand to hold and a hand to help… for women in need, who have been through trauma.' The cheery smile flashed in her direction again.

Astrid narrowed her eyes at the kindly-looking but slightly annoying woman. 'I'm not sure I qualify for the trauma medal. I only lost a baby.'

'Oh my dear.' Lori reached out and wrapped a consoling hand around Astrid's arm. 'It is understandable that you're in denial, but sadly your daughter was stillborn, and that is a big heartbreak for a woman in her early twenties, especially with… everything else.'

Astrid stared at the woman in silence. Partly because she'd only been awake a few minutes when she'd breezed into the room; mostly because her words were confusing.

'I'm not in denial, Lori. And what do you mean, everything else?'

The woman looked slightly uncomfortable, but then the consoling smile was back, and Astrid felt her arm squeezed a little harder. 'Well, for one thing, your husband Stephan… he's not… here, is he? The words trailed off into a sympathetic look.

'No. He's not here. In any shape or form.'

'There you see? But now I am here, to be your friend!'

'Thank you, Lori.' Astrid forced a smile, thinking that if she looked grateful enough the woman might go and leave her to grieve in peace. 'But hang on… you said, "for one thing"?'

'Well yes. And you know, bearing children isn't everything, my dear.' Suddenly Lori looked a little unsure of herself.

'I'm twenty-three. I've got a few years yet.'

'Oh dear.' Suddenly she looked like she'd seen a ghost. Her eyes dropped to her lap. 'I think I may have come to see you a little too soon, my dear,' she said, in a small voice.

'Lori?'

She was on her feet, heading nervously to the door. 'I… I'll get a doctor to come and talk to you…'

'Lori!'

Her hand on the door handle, she froze in her tracks. 'Yes, Astrid?'

'I've pretty much been out for the count since the cesarean. So sit down and tell me what you know that I don't.'

Lori sat down again. 'I… I was talking with the nurse before I came in. I'm so sorry, I thought they'd already told you. There were a few complications with the op. You won't be able to bear children again, Astrid.'

A Calm Moonless Night

14th April, 1912

'Ruddy well freezing my bones tonight, Freddy boy!' The older man with a Cockney accent grinned despite his words, and blew a streak of vaporising breath into his cupped hands.

'Only twenty-five minutes, and then you can go hit that bottle of whiskey under your bunk, Reg,’ the younger man retorted. 'And don't call me Freddy.'

'Howd'ya know about that, Freddy? Can't keep a bloody thing to yourself on this bloody ship.'

Fred Fleet gave his fellow lookout a playful punch in the stomach. 'You cuss too much.'

'Maybe I do. But up here it's only you can hear me!'

Fred turned his gaze away from the bow of the ship, and cast his eyes across the calm sea. The conditions were hardly ideal for a ship's lookout; without the moonlight it was hard to tell where the ocean ended and the sky began. Mr. Murdoch had asked them to keep an eye out for small ice, but a sea without any waves to speak of didn't make that easy. On nights like this you looked for the swell breaking against the bergs. But when there weren't any waves…

He grimaced back to Reg. 'Fair makin' my eyes water, this.'

'That's 'cause it's ruddy freezing!'

'Bins would have helped.'

Reginald Lee let out a sarcastic laugh. 'Got plenty of pairs on the ship.'

'Yeah. Behind a locked cupboard door that don't have no key!'

'Good booty, them bins,' Reg grinned.

Fred pulled the pocket-watch out of his coat, the tenth time he'd done so in their two-hour shift in the crow's nest, ninety feet above the water on the huge mast at the bow of the ship. 'Twenty minutes to go,' he said quietly, almost to himself. He forced his eyes back to the dark ocean. He could see something, he thought. Just a dark blur, in the distance. He narrowed his eyes, and leant forward in a vain attempt to see better.

'Saints preserve us…' he breathed.

The words were a whisper, but in the clear still air they sounded like thunder. Reg followed his gaze, and tried to say something. The words wouldn't come.

There was no doubt.

Frederick Fleet reached up to the brass bell fixed to the mast just above his head, and rang it three times. Then he fumbled for the telephone on the starboard side of the crow's nest. 'Got… got to tell Murdoch…' he mumbled. Trembling fingers spun the tiny handle, and in a few seconds a voice answered. 'What do you see?'

He hesitated a moment, glancing into the terrified eyes of his mate, unwilling to say the words he knew he had to. When he spoke, his voice was filled with panic.

'Iceberg! Straight ahead!'

The two men watched as the huge mass of ice drifted slowly past the ship, its tip level with the crow's nest. Neither spoke. The shudder as the hull scraped along the berg had told its own story, when you'd been sailing the seas as long as they had.

Murdoch had ordered them to remain at their posts, said there was nothing to worry about, and that they would be relieved at midnight as arranged. From their vantage point there were no obvious signs of panic. As they hit the iceberg, they'd seen Murdoch and a couple of senior officers run to the starboard wing of the bridge, and a few late strollers on the boat deck had taken some hasty steps back. A woman screamed, and then all was calm again.

But the boat was drifting, the propellers not turning. That was never a good sign.

Finally Reg found his voice. 'Blimey.' Fred forced his gaze away from the berg and looked at him. His eyes were wide with terror, and a trembling hand across his mouth distorted his features as he tried to come to terms with what he'd just witnessed.

'They say she's unsinkable.' Fred tried to smile, but it turned into a petrified, desperate grimace.

The words were hollow, because he knew there was no such thing as an unsinkable ocean liner.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something flicker. Instantly he looked back to the berg. There it was again. As the mass of ice drifted away from the stern of the ship, he saw a jagged streak of blue light, that seemed like it was somewhere inside the ice. Like a dim firework, it flickered right at the top of the berg.

It had appeared for just a moment. Less than a second.

'You see that, Reg?' He gasped to his mate.

Reg looked him straight in the eyes. 'Just a trick of the light,' he said quietly. 'Phosphorous… or something.'

'It ain't right, Reg.'

'Maybe it ain't. But if we survive this you say nothin', you hear me, Fred? Folk'll get to thinking we've gone crazy, and then we'll never get work again. You want that, in the middle of a coal strike an' all?'

Fred Fleet shook his head. He didn't want that.

He didn't know it then, but in the months and years that would follow that night, he would have to tell his story so many times it would grow to be a burden hard to bear. He did work again, for many years. But in nineteen-sixty-five he took his own life, and was buried in a cemetery in Southampton.

To his dying day, he never said a single word about the strange blue light.

Chapter 1

August 13th, 2026

Only five minutes to go.

Sophie White's eyes flicked upwards, a nervous momentary glance at the sleek black hull towering above her. It cast a huge shadow across the pier, and filled her heart with dread.  The fear in her eyes was clear to see, but fortunately no one around her had the time to notice.

It wasn't the ship. That wasn't the reason for the knots and the rapid heartbeat. The ship was beautiful; a perfect replica of the Titanic.

Neither was it the three complete layers of clothing she wore, despite them cramping her movement and turning the twenty-three degree August afternoon into something resembling the heat of the Sahara desert. Or the fact every pocket on all three layers was stuffed with things she might need, making her look like she'd suddenly gained a kilo or six.

It wasn't the mass of people lining the pier to wave the ship off on her maiden voyage, although that hadn't helped. More sightseers had turned up than anyone expected, and the barriers weren't coping. Loading the provisions was taking longer than it should, and Sophie's bulldog of a line manager was close to a coronary.

That was the reason. The bulldog was watching his staff like a deranged eagle. And given the crazy insanity of what Sophie was about to do, that was the last thing she needed.

Crazy. Love makes you do crazy things. Stephan started it all, going to New York to make a new life for them both. Investing every penny they had in a friend's business. Getting drawn deeper and deeper into a money-pit, and destroying their financial status along the way.

Then, languishing in a Bronx prison accused of fraud and embezzlement.

That was crazy enough.

But maybe not as insane as what she was about to do.

She didn't even possess a passport. She'd applied for it, four weeks ago, when the need to go to Stephan and find the truth turned to desperation, and the crazy idea was born. The passport hadn't arrived, and as of that day it was too late anyway. Another option had presented itself. Working as a warehouse operative for the company supplying the ship with some of its consumables, she’d been seconded to the loading team.

'Sophie!'

"Yes, sir,' she replied to the bulldog in her best pseudo-naval tone, dragging herself out of the thought bubble, and driving the fork-truck off the loading ramp into the belly of the ship.

He glared at her as she passed by. 'Don't be so fucking cheeky,' he growled, his haunches raised in anger.

She drove slowly along the line of plastic pallets stacked with every consumable a rich, hard-to-please passenger could ever wish for, and spun the truck to drop her pallet onto the metal floor. The ship's storeroom was vast. Above her head, state-of-the-art diffused lighting glowed in long strips that seemed to go on forever. On the opposite side of the pallet line, an inventory 'bot wheeled itself along its personal track, beeping away in a language only it could understand.

It stopped next to Sophie's load. She watched as it scanned the shrink-wrapped boxes, thinking to herself it looked like a cross between R2D2 and a Dalek. Then a metallic voice boomed out, echoing in the huge cavern. 'Pallet two-one-six dash four… checked.'

That was it. The last pallet.

There was no choice. If she was going to do the craziest thing she’d ever done in her life, it had to be right then.

Sophie started to panic. The loading staff was on the move, heading out of the ship. The bulldog strode towards the daylight of the open hatch, waving manically at people. She was still halfway along the hold, the forklift right next to her.

Then she caught a break. One of the junior warehouse ops appeared, a few metres away.

'Lee!' He turned at her sharp call, and came over. 'Lee, do me a favour and take the truck back? There's a pallet I need to check, I think there's a bit of damage on it.'

'Sure Sophie,' he said, grateful of the rare opportunity to drive a forklift.

'Oh, and if I don't see the bulldog and he's wondering where I am, tell him I don't need a lift back to the warehouse. Gonna go see a friend, she's only up the road.'

'Ok,' he smiled, as he drove the truck away.

He was a good kid. Not the brightest of sparks, but Sophie told herself she'd love him forever if his help meant she'd get away with her insanity.

She moved fast. Slipping behind a run of pallets so she was out of the bulldog's line of sight, she walked quickly towards the double pedestrian access doors fifteen metres away. The doors leading to the rest of the ship. She couldn't see anyone else in the hold. The two inventory 'bots did most of the work there. But any minute the place would be crawling with catering staff, as the time came to start preparing the first meal of the cruise.

She had to reach her bolt-hole quickly.

Sophie knew the layout of the ship, pretty much every walkway and cabin. The Seven Seas Line had been only too eager to make the details of the ship public, believing it was a prime marketing tool. For Sophie it was - their info, the floor-plans of the original ship, and a full day on the internet had convinced her she could be a part of the maiden voyage.

Just not a paying customer.

She slipped through the doors, and the twenty-first-century technology of the provisions hold was gone. Suddenly she’d stepped back in time more than a hundred years, and it made her catch her breath as her eyes panned around the white painted walls and the basic metal staircase that led to the deck below. The cargo deck.

It would be fully laden, thirty minutes to departure. Everything that needed to be loaded would be on board, offering plenty of hiding places for a desperate stowaway.

It was just as she'd hoped. The cargo deck was rammed. She heard voices in the distance, and ducked behind a support post. Two porters passed by, on their way out. They didn't see her. Quickly she ran across the deck to the far side, where the small dividing bulkheads for the smaller items were located. The bulkheads were there to stop the little stuff from wandering around if seas got rough.

To Sophie, they were the walls of her private cabin.

She inspected a few of the alcoves, and then settled on a penthouse on the end of the line. It didn't have a luxury power-shower, a memory-foam bed or a built-in smart TV. But it did have a small space between a big stack of storage boxes and the rear bulkhead, big enough to stretch out in.

Home.

For the next three days anyway.

Had she got away with it? In twenty-five minutes the ship would depart, and they wouldn't turn back then, even if she was discovered. Less than a half-hour and she would know that, one way or another, the next land she set eyes on would be American soil.

Suddenly her legs didn't want to work anymore. She slumped to the floor, pulled her knees up to her chin, and burst into tears.

Chapter 2

'Oh dear.'

Captain Peter Havelock, standing dutifully at the head of the gangway to greet his most important passengers, groaned at the sight of the portly figure struggling up to meet him. He'd known the clinically-grumpy Lord for some years. He and his long-suffering but much more pleasant wife seemed to spend half their lives cruising around the world.

And for some reason, they always seemed to choose his ship.

'God damn infernal commoners.' His lordship's awfully-English expletives greeted the captain a few seconds before the man himself reached the reception deck, his round face flushed red, and his overly-large moustache twitching with distaste. 'Who the bloody hell authorised this anyway, Havelock?'

The captain forced a cheery smile. 'It is tradition, your lordship. People have been coming to Southampton to wave off ships on their maiden voyages for longer than you or I care to remember. And the Titan may look like a veteran ship, but she is by far the most advanced vessel ever to sail the seas.'

'Titan? Hmph! I take it you won't be ramming an iceberg, captain?'

Peter Havelock gritted his teeth, secure in the knowledge his white beard was helping to mask his true feelings. 'I can assure you, Lord Holmes, even if we did ram an iceberg, the hull is sheathed in titanium… one reason for her name. This ship will not sink.'

'Hmph! They said that about Titanic.'

Lady Holmes, standing just behind her husband, shook her head. A small round woman, her cheery face never seemed to be without a smile. Something that had always amazed the captain, given that she'd been married for fifty years to the aristocratic equivalent of Victor Meldrew. She tapped his lordship's arm.

'Dear…'

His lordship was too preoccupied to notice. 'Bring back ships with working funnels I say.'

'Dear…'

Captain Havelock could feel himself getting wound up, and his least favourite passenger had only been on the ship for a single minute. 'Perhaps Lord Holmes, if you prefer genuinely traditional vessels, you should ask the King for a cruise on the royal yacht.'

'Already tried that. Jumped-up little upstart refused.'

The captain's expression switched to one of regret. A genuine one this time. 'Charles has only been king for a short while. Perhaps you should give him a little time and try again?'

'Dear…'

'Not a chance, Havelock. For some unfathomable reason he seems to think I'm a species of dinosaur.'

Lady Holmes gave up tapping her husband on the shoulder. She thumped him instead. 'Dear?'

That got his lordship's attention. 'What the blazes, woman?'

'I think we should let the captain get on with his duties.' She linked her arm into her husband's, and began to guide him away along the deck, throwing the captain a cheery wink as she did so. 'And one more thing, my darling. We may be on a replica of an early twentieth-century ship, but please try your best to live in the twenty-first century now and again?'

The captain watched them go, and drew in a deep breath. His relief lasted five seconds. Heading up the gangway like a two-legged stampede was the other passenger that would very likely give him nightmares for the next decade.

This one was the exact opposite of his lordship. He wasn't red-faced, overweight or English. He didn't have a moustache or a bad attitude. He did have a microphone in his hand, and a cameraman struggling along a few feet behind him, as his long legs made short work of the gangway. He was already over-excitedly describing the ship to his viewers on the other side of the Atlantic.

In his own unique way.

'Oh my god… oh myyyy god… have you ever seen anything so totally awesome… just feast your eyes on this incredible feat of engineering, folks…' He waved a frantic hand at the cameraman to pan along the hull, but didn't stop to take a breath. 'Two hundred plus metres of titanium-sheathed beauty… everything controlled by an on-board supa-computer… twin nuculur reactors so this awesome beast don't need refuelling for ten years… ten years, folks… how cool is that? Just think about how many times you gotta stick that little pipe in your automobile and fill that tank full of gas… imagine not doing that for one hundred and twenty months! And don't you people get jealous now 'cause little old Leroy gets to take the ride on this here maiden voyaaage…' He stopped stampeding for a second, shoved his face a few centimetres from the lens, and threw his viewers a toothy grin. Then he was off again, reaching the head of the gangway.  'Just remember guys, it’s a dirty job but someone has to do it… someone has to spend three days living rough in the lap of luxury just to bring you folks a blow-by-blow account of everything as it happens… but don't you all dare go feeling sorry for me, 'cause I am dedicated to the needs of my viewing public, and… hellooo captain!"

'Welcome aboard, Mr. Hutchins.' Captain Havelock switched the official greeting smile back onto his face as the tall black American dug in his hooves next to him, and the stampede came to an abrupt stop.

'Pleeeese captain, call me Leroy. We're all friends here, right?"

'In that case Leroy, you may call me captain.'

Leroy didn't catch the sarcasm, he’d already turned to face the camera. 'Can you belieeeeve this guy, ladies and gentlemen? Does he look like he's the captain of this here replicated boat or what? Just feast your eyes on that fuzzy white beard!' The frantic hand beckoned the camera to pan in on the captain's features, as he hastily switched the smile back on.

Two seconds later the camera was pushed away, and the microphone was in his face instead. 'So captain… is it safe?'

'Um… is what safe, Leroy?'

'The nuculur shit, man… this here fine vessel is the first of its kind. So are we all gonna turn green, or some such predictament, by the time we reach New York?' For a second the lens was filled with the cheesy grin again, as Leroy made sure his viewers knew he was joking.

'I can assure you Leroy, no such thing could ever happen on my ship.'

The microphone was suddenly whipped away, as Leroy hid it behind his back and whispered quickly, 'I know that captain, I'm just giving my viewers a reason to keep watching, savvy?'

Captain Havelock was about to say something that wasn't on his carefully-prepared list of polite replies, but suddenly the microphone appeared in the ten centimetres of space between their faces, and the grin was back. 'So let's get this show on the road… your favourite news reporter has to go find his teeny-weeny cupboard of a cabin on this little ole steamship, and then he'll take his loyal viewers on the grand tour… see you at dinner, captain.'

The stampede was on again, as Leroy Hutchins strode away to do as he'd promised his viewers, with his clearly long-suffering cameraman in tow.

'What the hell was that?'

The captain turned towards the voice, blowing out his cheeks again at the younger man who walked up to join him. 'That Dane, is the reason I hate maiden voyages.'

'He had a big mouth even when he was on the basketball court.'

'Hmm… rather wishing he still was. I can't fathom why NBC would even have employed him in the first place after he was busted for drugs, let alone giving him the job of covering this voyage.'

Dane smiled. 'The drug thing was never proved conclusively, and he had a huge following even then.'

'Hmph!'

'Just try and keep out of his way, dad, and then you two won't come to blows!'

'That might be easier said than done, the speed he moves around.'

Dane Havelock flicked his thumb across the screen of the small tablet in his hands. Like his father, he was wearing the traditional dress uniform the Seven Seas Line had provided for VIP greetings. Unlike his father, at twenty-nine he’d not yet clocked up enough years on cruise-ships to develop the captain's cynicism. Tall and good-looking, his hair was a super-short crop. A smile came easily to him, something he used to good effect on long cruises, when the shift was over and it was time to relax.

Unfortunately for Dane, the company frowned on inter-crew relationships. As did his father. So there were many times when he and a willing female co-worker had to get a little creative in order to spend a few stolen intimate hours together.

He looked up from the tablet just as the captain glanced at his watch. 'Five minutes Dane, and boarding time is done. How many more MSCs to come?'

He grinned at his father's obvious frustration, knowing all too well his hatred of maiden voyages, the meet-and-greets of VIPs, and evening dinners at the captain's table with what he called MSCs. His abbreviation for mindless self-absorbed cretins. The captain had no time for such pointless frivolities… all he wanted to do was to sail a ship.

'Don't worry dad, there's only two to come. Princess Eloisa of Moldova and her… um, prince.'

'Oh dear god. I doubt there's any such place!'

'Actually there is. It seems Eloisa only discovered her ancestry a couple of years back. And the royal fortune hidden in the caves of the Carpathian Mountains.'

'Carpathian?' He groaned and shook his head. 'Could they not have called this damn ship Brittania Twelve or something?'

Dane's grin grew wider. 'Never mind dad, in three days time you can wave a cheery goodbye to the lot of them. I should just warn you though…'

'Am I not going to like this?'

'Probably not. It seems the princess's new-found wealth has kind of… gone to her head a bit. Going from a penniless vinery worker in Romania to a billionaire overnight was something she found hard to cope with.'

'Poor soul.’

'She may be a bit… well, demanding.'

'Is that your way of saying pain-in-the-butt, Dane?'

'Guess it is.'

The captain looked at his watch for the hundredth time. 'One minute. Start retracting the gangway. With a bit of luck she'll miss the bus!'

'Dad?'

Dane did as his father asked, and pressed a button on a tiny device attached to his belt. The silver gangway lifted a metre off the quay, and slowly began to retract into itself.

The captain turned to walk away, but then a disturbance in the crowd on the quayside made him look back. The sea of heads was parting, people jumping out of the way and shouting angrily at a car speeding into them, its horn screeching out a constant wail as it speared through the mass of onlookers without stopping.

It seems only seconds, and then the black Silver Phantom came to a stop where the gangway once was, and a chauffeur leapt out of the driving seat to open the rear door. A pair of red knee-high boots stepped slowly out, and marched to the edge of the quay. Black lace gloved hands were indignantly placed on black leather-clad hips. And a throaty, angry voice boomed out, a thick eastern-European accent reverberating against the side of the hull.

'I do hope you were not thinking of leaving without me, capitain?'

Dane shook his head in a slightly amused way, and reversed the retraction of the gangway. Captain Havelock said nothing, just switched on the smile. He was longing to tell the princess she'd missed the boat, but he knew there would be hell to pay if he did.

But he had an awful feeling the hell of the next three days could be far worse.

The princess stood unmoving, her hands on her hips and the red boots with their impossibly-high heels firmly planted a metre apart on the quay. Then a man dressed in a black suit climbed out of the car and stood by her side. That made her move. She turned to him, and let out a spate of abuse. At least it appeared to be abuse; every vicious-sounding word was in Russian. The man was giving as good as he was getting, and four waving arms were becoming more animated with each passing insult. But then, as the gangway finally dropped onto the quay, the argument ceased. The man stomped back to the car, and the princess began to walk slowly and deliberately towards the reception deck.

The captain swallowed, hard. Already he was feeling intimidated, the woman drawing closer with each echoing step blinkering his vision until all he could see was her, and all he could hear was the footsteps that sounded like thunder in his ears.

She was young, in her early thirties. And beautiful. The red boots were clearly the best money could buy. Black leather trousers looked like they had been sprayed onto long, perfect legs. A short black cape with a red collar was tied at the neck; a red wide-brimmed hat covered most of a very short, jet-black bob. A pair of oversized sunglasses completed the look.

She reached the top of the gangway but didn't board the ship, instead holding out a gloved hand. The captain took it, and the princess stepped onto the deck. 'Welcome aboard, your highness,' he mumbled in a little voice.

'I apologise for my late arrival, capitain. In Moldova I have police escort wherever I go. Your heartless government refused me such a basic necessity. I shall be suing.'

'I am sure it was an oversight, your highness.'

The sunglasses lifted upwards. 'Your ship appears adequate, capitain. If a little small. But I assume as you have copied an ancient design, you could not make it twice as big.'

'I… I think you will find our facilities to your liking, your highness.'

'Perhaps. You will escort me to my suite, and then we shall find out.'

The captain swallowed again. Dane checked the passenger list. 'Welcome your highness. May I ask… um… you have two cabins booked?'

The princess lowered her head, and pierced a disdainful stare into him over the top of the sunglasses. 'I am alone.'

The captain raised his eyebrows. She saw the look and sighed dramatically. 'Some men are pitiful mice.' She glanced back to the quay as the Rolls drove away, a little slower this time. 'My brother Dimitri, he is too scared. He say he has bad feeling about this voyage. Forget him, he is nothing.'

The captain held out an elbow. 'Shall we visit your suite, your highness?' he smiled. Dane frowned. Then the princess finally smiled too, and linked her arm into the captain's. 'Ush, stop with the your highness nonsense, capitain. It bores me. Only when we are in public, yes?'

Dane watched the two of them walk away, the frown on his brow growing deeper. He’d never known his father captivated so instantly by a beautiful woman, and made a mental note to keep a close eye on the two of them.

The gangway fully retracted itself, and he walked away shaking his head. He’d expected a torrent of disrespectful comments from his father. Something like, 'Goddamnit, Dane. We've got Lord Meldrew, a jumped-up American basketball player-cum-reporter who thinks he's Kevin Hart, and now the daughter of Dracula!'

That would have been the father he knew.

Chapter 3

'Captain on the bridge!'

'Thank you, chief.' Captain Havelock nodded to his number two as he strode into the room, and took a deep breath as his eyes quickly glanced around. The bridge itself was an exact reproduction of the Titanic's. The secondary steering wheel stood in the centre, and flanking it were four brass telegraph binnacles, which on the original ship would have sent instructions directly to the engine room. A steering compass sat in front of the wheel. On the Titan, only the compass was functional. Everything else was there for aesthetics, to give those passengers lucky enough to be granted a bridge tour a true feel of Titanic life.

Despite the facade, Captain Havelock smiled, because right then he was back in a bygone era. That wasn't the only reason for the smile.

It was time to sail.

Six people were present on the bridge, the most there would likely be at any one time until the ship docked again in New York. Five of them were human. As the captain stepped into the enclosed wheelhouse, where once the primary steering wheel would have been situated, the sixth crew-member smiled up to him from a VCR built into a huge curved console filling the small room… and immediately ripped away any image of a long-gone time.

'Hello Roberta,' the captain said warmly. 'How are you today?'

'In perfect technological health, thank you captain,' the face smiled back. 'Ready to take the helm on your command.'

He looked through the big glass windows of the wheelhouse walls, and called through the open doorways to the four men on the bridge. 'In that case gentlemen… and lady, I suggest we get this show on the road. Roberta, take us out of here!'

'Yes sir.'

The pretty blonde-haired features of Roberta the quantum computer disappeared from the screen, and were replaced with the word Embarkation. A tuneful noise reverberated around the ship, and her soft, soothing tones announced to the passengers and crew the ship was about to depart.

On the quay, the Lord Mayor of Southampton stepped onto a small temporary stage, and regaled the crowd with a few carefully-chosen and awe-inspired words. Then the brass band a few metres to his left began to play, the notes of Rod Stewart's iconic song We Are Sailing drowned out by the cheers of the huge crowd.

At the bow and the stern of the ship, dockside workers slipped ropes thicker than their wrists from stainless-steel bollards, and watched as they slowly retracted into the belly of the hull.

On the ship, Roberta turned the azipods so the propellers were facing the quay, and gently fed in the power, doing the same for the thrusters set into the bow of the hull. Slowly the ship inched itself sideways away from the quayside.

On the leisure decks, most of the passengers stood watching as the strip of water between the quay and the hull grew wider, waving to the crowd that was a sea of union-jack flags.

The ship's klaxon boomed out above the noise, a four-note goodbye to those not fortunate enough to be standing on the decks. The Lord Mayor tried to make himself heard above the deafening noise all around him, then realised it was a futile task, and turned instead to face the ship, waving his own flag in a slightly sheepish way.

On the bridge, the chief engineer scanned the bank of screens in the wheelhouse, their multi-coloured readouts, which would look more at home on a spaceship, telling him all was functioning as it should. A slight smile curled up the corners of Captain Havelock's mouth. His ship finally had no connection with land… just the way he liked it.

And then the smile grew wider, as Roberta's face filled his screen once more, and she spoke the words he'd waited so long to hear. 'Ready to engage forward drive, captain.'

'In that case Roberta, you have the helm.'

Sophie dried her eyes, told herself to stop being so pathetic, and started to get undressed.

The cargo bay was next to the reactor room and the generators. She'd heard the rising hum of energy telling her things were about to happen. A minute later she'd taken a deep breath of relief, because the first stage of her plan had gone without a hitch.

She knew there was a major risk of discovery, and knew she'd have to try and stay hidden until the ship was at least a few hours into its journey. But she had no intention of sitting on a cold hard metal floor for the entire three days.

Sophie wanted to explore the ship, and see what she could get away with.

Undressing was no easy task. The jumper of her warehouse uniform was normally a bit too big for her, but not right then. There was too much underneath it. She managed to get the neck up around her head, but the movement in her arms was restricted with so many layers, and for a minute she twirled around inanely, swearing to herself as she fought to get it over her head.

It finally parted company with the rest of her, but not before making her long dark-auburn hair look like she'd connected two live wires to it. She gasped breathlessly, the sudden freedom feeling like heaven.

The company issue slacks weren't quite so much of a problem, once she got them past her hips. Then she took a moment, sitting on the cold metal floor that felt so wonderful now she'd removed the suit of armour.

She was still wearing plenty of clothes though. She undid the buttons on the blue blouse, and slipped it off. That was more heaven. Finally some exposed skin could breathe again. Next to come off was the knee-length taupe skirt that had crumpled into a million creases when she'd pulled the slacks over it. It didn't look so good right then, so she spread it out across one of the boxes screening her from the rest of the bay.

Then she looked almost presentable. The third layer was a long white summer dress, made from a thin chiffon-like material that just didn't want to crease. Exactly the reason she'd chosen it. She straightened it out a little, and then decided the two bras and three pairs of knickers she was wearing weren't doing the look any favours, so took them off too.

Finally she felt like a great weight had been lifted… which in one way it had. All she was wearing was the dress, and she felt good. That evening she would throw caution to the wind and go for a stroll around the ship, in the dress, just like any other passenger.

Suddenly she was looking forward to it.