“I do. And I apologize.”

A brief silence. Then she nodded, just once: case closed. “So?”

“Brace yourself.”

—

He wanted Lore to see the Bergensfjord from below. That was the best way. Not just to see her but to experience her; only then could her meaning be grasped. They took the stairs to the floor of the drydock. Michael waited as Lore approached the hull. The ship’s flanks were smooth and gracefully curved, every rivet tight. Beneath the Bergensfjord’s massive propellers, Lore came to a halt, gazing upward. Michael would let her speak first. Above them, the clang of footfalls, men calling to one another, the whine of a pneumatic drill, the ship’s vast square footage of metal amplifying every sound like a giant tuning fork.

“I knew there was a boat…”

Michael was standing beside her. She turned to face him. In her eyes a struggle was being waged.

“She’s called the Bergensfjord,” Michael said.

Lore spread her hands and looked around. “All this?”

“Yes. For her.”

Lore moved forward, extended her right hand over her head, and pressed it against the hull—just as Michael had done on the morning they’d drained the water from the dock, revealing the Bergensfjord in all her rusted, invincible glory. Lore held it there, then, as if startled, broke away.

“You’re scaring me,” she said.

“I know.”

“Please tell me you were just keeping your hands busy. That I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”

“What do you think you’re seeing?”

“A lifeboat.”

Some color had drained from her face; she seemed uncertain where to direct her eyes.

“I’m afraid it is,” Michael said.

“You’re lying. You’re making this up.”

“It’s not good news—I’m sorry.”

“How could you possibly know?”

“There’s a lot to explain. But it’s going to happen. The virals are coming back, Lore. They were never really gone.”

“This is crazy.” Her confusion turned to anger. “You’re crazy. Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“I don’t want anything to do with this.” She was backing away. “This can’t be true. Why don’t people know? They would know, Michael.”

“That’s because we haven’t told them.”

“Who the hell is ‘we’?”

“Me and Greer. A handful of others. There’s no other way to say this, so I just will. Anybody who’s not on this boat is going to die, and we’re running out of time. There’s an island in the South Pacific. We believe it’s safe there—maybe the only safe place. We have food and fuel for seven hundred passengers, maybe a few more.”

He hadn’t expected this to be easy. Under ideal circumstances, he would have softened the blow. But Lore would cope, because that was her nature, the meat and marrow of Lore DeVeer. What had passed between them years ago was, for her, a painful memory perhaps, a quick jolt of anger and regret that touched her from time to time, but not for Michael. She was part of his life, and a good part, because she was one of the few people who had ever understood him. There were people who simply made existence more bearable; Lore was one.

“That’s why I brought you here. We have a long voyage ahead of us. I need the diesel, but that’s not all. The men who work for me, well, you’ve met them. They’re hard workers, and they’re loyal, but that only goes so far. I need you.”

Her struggle was not over. There was more talking to be done. Nevertheless, Michael saw his words taking hold.

“Even if what you say is true,” Lore said, “what can I possibly do?”

The Bergensfjord: he had given her everything. Now he would give her this.

“I need you to learn how to drive her.”

* * *

35

The funeral was held in the early morning. A simple gravesite service: Meredith had requested that no general announcement of Vicky’s death be made until the following day. Despite her high profile, Vicky had been a guarded person, sharing her private life with just a handful of people. Let it just be us. Peter offered a few words, followed by Sister Peg. The last to speak was Meredith. She appeared composed; she’d had years to prepare. Still, she said, with a hitch in her voice, one was never really ready. She then went on to tell a series of hilarious stories that left them all weeping with laughter. At the end, everyone was saying the same thing. Vicky would have been so pleased.

They adjourned to the house that was now Meredith’s alone. The bed in the parlor was gone. Peter moved among the mourners—government officials, military, a few friends—then, as he was preparing to leave, Chase took him aside.

“Peter, if you have a second, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Here it comes, he thought. The timing made sense; now that Vicky was gone, the man felt that the path had been cleared for him. They stepped into the kitchen. Chase appeared uncharacteristically anxious, fiddling with his beard. “This is a little awkward for me,” he admitted.

“You can stop right there, Ford. It’s okay—I’ve decided not to run again.” It surprised Peter a little, how easily the words had come. He felt a burden lifting. “I’ll give you my full endorsement. You should have no problems.”