Lost Republic Read Free Page B

the top of the gangplank by Captain Viega and Purser Brock, decked out in their best white uniforms. Farther down the deck a winch whined, hauling up passengers’ luggage. The cargo net was designed to handle whole pallets of goods, so it looked nearly empty bringing up several dozen suitcases and backpacks.
    Out of the stream of brightly dressed travelers, Hans spotted a lone shadow. A boy came aboard alone, wearing a stark black suit over a bone-white shirt. His hair was almost as dark as his clothes. At the top of the ramp, Captain Viega not only shook the boy’s hand but he bowed to him.
    VIP, Hans thought. At that moment, the boy in black looked up at him. The captain and the purser were going on about nothing important. The boy stared up at him awhile and then moved on, leaving the
Carleton
’s master talking to his back.
    There were a few other noteworthy characters Hans saw: a tall girl in running clothes who broke out into a sprint once she cleared the captain and the purser. There was an old lady, unable to walk, in a lifter chair. Hans had seen these on Your/World, but he’d never seen one in real life. It glided along, held off the ground by powerful magnets. He saw four men in American naval uniforms, a group of Chinese tourists with holographic hats (one had a short and flickered), and an entire Irish football club in striped jerseys and shorts.
    There was a break in the line, and Hans thought the boarding was over. He started to leave the rail when he noticed Captain Viega wasn’t leaving. He could see down the covered ramp, so there must be someone else coming.
    A lone girl appeared out of the canvas tunnel. She was tall and thin, with black hair bobbed at her ears. Clasped in her hands was a simple carpetbag. Her jade-colored skirt came down to her ankles. Pausing at the top of the ramp, she exchanged courtesies with the purser and captain before moving on.
    She was the last. Captain Viega held up a hand and called out, “Vamos!” The purser held a finger to the PDD in his ear and issued rapid orders. It was time. The
Carleton
’s last voyage had begun.
    The boarding ramp was cleared. Lines, hoses, and data cables dropped free and were reeled onto the quay. The steamer’s turbines, idling since daybreak, surged, sending vibrations throughout the steel hull to every deck. A ship the size of the
Carleton
did not simply pull away from a dock like a speedboat. Two electric tugs, unimaginatively labeled
109
and
73
, approached the
Carleton
’s free side. The massive magnets on their bows, encased in peeling rubber bumpers, pulled hard on the old ship and with a deck-shaking thunk-thunk locked onto the steamer.
    Many passengers flocked to the port side to watch the action. Seawater boiled at the tugs’ sterns as they reversed engines.
    François Martin was at the
Carleton
’s bow, as close to the water as he could get. Tug
73
was below him, straining against the bulk of the old freighter. He could smell ozone from the tug’s electric motors. No one was visible on the tug’s deck. In the lofty pilothouse,
73
’s master sat in a high chair wearing an enormous pair of dark glasses, guiding the tug with a simple joystick.
    Stale green water swirled around the
Carleton
’s hull. Up close, the ship was not nearly so fine as it looked from the streets of Cherbourg. François bumped the toe of his shoe against a line of rivets thickly crusted with new paint. The owners had decided to send the old ship off with a fresh coat, like sending a dying man to the hospital in a new suit.
    A droning overhead and a broad shadow drew François’s attention skyward. A Eurochannel blimp drifted over at low altitude. Clusters of cameras raked up and down the
Carleton,
sending images live through Your/World. The American girl must have been watching the feed on her glasses. She punched her brother on the arm and yelled something about being on TV. She wasn’t the