Role Reversal

Role Reversal

  by

  Stephen C. Spencer

  Copyright © 2012 by Stephen C. Spencer

 

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people and actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except by anyone wishing to quote brief passages in a review.

  Edited and Published by Stephen C. Spencer

  Cover art by Clarissa

  https://yocladesigns.com/

  At sea

  41° 46' North, 50° 14' West

  Bathed in grime and sweat and shivering uncontrollably, the three men looked at one another and exchanged tentative smiles. Ice-cold water sloshed across the deck around their ankles, but only minutes earlier, that water had stood knee-high. The pumps had done their job. The huge room was cold, dark, and, except for the sound of the men's chattering teeth, uncharacteristically silent.

  The great ship was already well down by the bow, but if the three crewmen could somehow hold the line, here at Boiler Room 5, there might still be a chance of keeping her afloat. The massive watertight doors had thus far contained the flooding, restricting it to the forward compartments where the hull had been cruelly slashed open. Help, while not precisely at hand, was at least in the vicinity, fifty-eight miles and four hours distant.

  So near, and yet so far. The senior engineer had moments ago dispatched one man to inform the bridge. All they could do now was wait and monitor the situation. The silence grew.

  Then, suddenly, it was shattered by an ear-splitting screech of tortured metal that instantly wiped the men's smiles away. They swung round toward the source of the noise. The forward bulkhead—which was not designed to be watertight—buckled alarmingly. The silence that followed seemed even deeper. No one spoke.

  Then, with the sound of a rifle report, one of the huge rivets popped free and shot across the room, whizzing past only inches above their heads. Before they could react, the bulkhead gave way and a million gallons of freezing cold greenish foam rushed in to engulf the men, filling the engineering space to capacity in less than a minute.

  Boiler Room 5 was gone.

  Midtown Manhattan

  New York City

  Maria Rakosi's eyes flew open two seconds before she heard the scream from the next room. She had a knack for quite often knowing things were going to occur before they did occur. This she always attributed to her gypsy heritage, though there hadn't been a real gypsy in her family tree for well over a century. So far as she knew, that was: she had little interest in her genealogy.

  After the scream, she stared at her bedroom ceiling for a few seconds, then turned on her side and stretched, preparatory to going back to sleep. This was the third night in a row. There was no cause for alarm.

  Still, she supposed, one ought to go and check. With a sigh, she sat up and reached for her robe, throwing it on over the blue satin open-back chemise that was one of her favorites. Then Maria shoved her feet into a couple of nearby slippers and brushed back her long auburn hair.

  "Ez nevetséges," she muttered. She rarely spoke or even thought in Hungarian any more; but for God's sake, this was getting ridiculous. She stood and walked down the hall.

  Maria peered into her roommate's darkened bedroom. As well as being co-workers, the two women had been roommates for the last six years and best friends for the last fifteen. They had no need for closed doors. She tapped on the jamb.

  "Fliss?"

  "Sorry," came the disembodied reply. "I did it again, didn't I?"

  "That's okay. Are you decent?"

  "Since when does that matter?"

  Maria went in and sat on the edge of the bed. Except for her head and the lower half of her right leg, Felicity Carter was still under the covers and therefore, to all intents and purposes, decent. Her face was composed and her short blonde pageboy cut was slightly mussed—though to be fair, that's the way it always looked.

  "Was it the same dream?"

  "I don't know," Felicity said. "It was gone again the second I woke up. It feels like it was the same."

  "You still can't recall any of it?"

  "Not a scrap."

  "This didn't start until after Mr. Cramer arranged the trip for us," Maria said. "Is there any chance it might be related to that?"

  Felicity shook her head again. "Can't imagine why. I'm as excited about it as you are."

  The two young women (both were twenty-seven; Maria was three months the older) worked directly under multi-billionaire news and publishing magnate Bentley Livingston Cramer, about whom the only thing one could predict with any accuracy was his unpredictability. His latest manifestation of this came in the form of two tickets for a twelve-day journey commemorating the centenary of the Titanic's ill-fated voyage in 1912. Including the flight across the Atlantic (there were two cruises planned; theirs, the longer one, would depart from Southampton, England), the package would have cost Cramer something on the order of fifty thousand dollars. The girls didn't protest; they knew better than to even try.

  Maria nodded. She patted Felicity's exposed calf, then stood and walked to the door before turning back around.

  "Well, whatever's causing it, I hope it's a temporary situation. I'm not having you out there waking up the entire ship in the middle of the night. You'll have everyone thinking we've gone and hit another iceberg."

  "No worries. I'll get it solved before we sail."

  "Knock yourself out," Maria said shortly.

  "Don't be like that. I said I was sorry."

  Maria shook her head.

  "That's not what I mean," she said. "I mean knock yourself out. Or better still, have someone do it for you. First thing in the morning, I'm taking you to a hypnotist."