Michael shrugged. “I admit, the whole thing took some getting used to. But the pieces fit. You read that letter. The Bergensfjord was headed there.”

“And just who decides who goes? You?”

“You’re the president—that’s ultimately your call. But I think you’ll agree—”

“I’m not agreeing to anything.”

Michael took a breath. “I think you’ll agree that we need certain skills. Doctors, engineers, farmers, carpenters. We need leadership, obviously, so that includes you.”

“Don’t be absurd. Even if what you say is right, which is ridiculous, there’s no way I’d go.”

“I’d rethink that. We’ll need a government, and the transition should be as smooth as possible. But that’s a subject for later.” Michael removed a small, leather-wrapped notebook from his pack. “I’ve drafted a manifest. There are some names, people I know who fit the bill, and we’ve included their immediate families. Age is a factor, too. Most are under forty. Otherwise there are job descriptions grouped by category.”

Peter accepted the notebook, opened it to the first page, and began to read.

“Sara and Hollis,” he said. “That’s good of you.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic. Caleb’s in there, too, in case you were wondering.”

“What about Apgar? I don’t see him anywhere.”

“The man is what? Sixty-five?”

Peter shook his head with a look of disgust.

“I know he’s your friend, but we’re talking about rebuilding the human race.”

“He’s also general of the Army.”

“As I said, these are just recommendations. But take them seriously. I’ve given the matter a lot of thought.”

Peter read the rest without comment, then looked up. “What’s this last category, these fifty-six spots?”

“Those are my men. I’ve promised them places on the ship. I won’t go back on that.”

Peter tossed the notebook onto the table “You’ve lost your mind.”

Michael leaned forward. “This is going to happen, Peter. You need to accept it. And we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Twenty years, and now this is a big emergency.”

“Rebuilding the Bergensfjord took what it took. If I could have finished faster, I would have. We’d be long gone.”

“And just how do you propose we get people to this boat of yours without starting a panic?”

“Probably we can’t. That’s what the guns are for.”

Peter just stared at him.

“There are three options that I can see,” Michael continued. “The first is a public lottery for the available slots. I’m opposed to that, obviously. Option two is we make our selections, tell the people on the manifest what’s happening, give them the choice of either staying or going, and do our best to keep order while we get them out of here. Personally, I think that would be a disaster. No way we could keep a lid on things, and the Army might not back us. Option three is we tell the passengers nothing, apart from a few key individuals we know we can trust. We round up the rest and get them out in the dead of night. Once they’re at the isthmus, we give them the good news that they’re the lucky ones.”

“Lucky? I can’t believe we’re even talking like this.”

“Make no mistake, that’s what they are. They’ll get to live their lives. More than that. They’ll be starting over, someplace that’s truly safe.”

“And this boat of yours can actually get them there? This derelict?”

“I hope she can. I believe she can.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“We’ve done our best. But there aren’t any guarantees.”

“So those seven hundred lucky people might be going straight to the bottom of the ocean.”

Michael nodded. “That might be exactly what happens. I’ve never lied to you, and I’m not going to start now. But she managed to cross the world once. She’ll do it again.”

The conversation was broken by a burst of voices outside and three hard bangs on the door.

“Well,” Michael said, and clapped his knees. “It looks like our time is over. Think about what I’ve told you. In the meanwhile, we need to make this look right.” He reached into his pack and withdrew the Beretta.

“Michael, what are you doing?”

He pointed the gun halfheartedly at Peter. “Do your best to act like a hostage.”

Two soldiers burst into the room; Michael rose to his feet, raising his hands. “I surrender,” he said, just in time for the closest one to take two long strides toward him, raise the butt of his rifle, and send it crashing into Michael’s skull.

* * *

48

Rudy was hungry. Really fucking hungry.

“Hello!” he called, pressing his face to the bars to aim his voice down the lightless corridor. “Did you forget about me? Hey, assholes, I’m starving in here!”

Yelling was pointless; nobody had been in the office since early afternoon—not Fry and not Eustace, either. Rudy plopped down on his bunk, trying not to think about his empty stomach. What he would have given for one of those stupid potatoes now.

He rocked back on the cot and tried to get comfortable. There were lots of spots that still hurt; every position Rudy tried made him ache in a different way. Okay, he’d pretty much asked for a beating. He wouldn’t say he hadn’t. But what would have happened if Fry hadn’t gotten the door open? Dead Rudy, that’s what.