Trident Force by Michael Howe Page A

looked forward to returning to live shows. Even now, there was for her nothing quite like having twenty thousand people around you, screaming their love for you. And she returned the emotion. When she smiled and waved, both were acts of total sincerity.
    But what was going to happen when she finally fell off the top? When Buddy could no longer pull rabbits out of his hat? When people no longer even wanted to steal her stuff?
    Nobody just sinks slowly and disappears anymore. Now you fall with a loud, bone-shattering crash. One moment you’re the Queen of the Universe, the next you’re the worst sort of tramp. And when that happens, the media—and the self-appointed bloggers, most of whom she suspected couldn’t tie their own shoes—fall upon you. They tear you to pieces with both beak and claw and then gnaw on your still-living organs.
    She’d once had tons of friends—friends who were no-bodies. But she’d lost track of most of them. Now she spent her time being seen with somebodies, very few of whom she considered friends.
    Chrissie felt an overwhelming desire to speak with the lady next to her, whoever she was. “There’s something almost surreal about lying in these deck chairs when we’re headed toward the South Pole,” she remarked.
    The woman looked at her and smiled. “They’ve become part of the ritual, haven’t they? Years ago, Fred and I made a number of passages to Europe on liners and everybody seemed to feel they had to spend hours in the deck chairs. Even in the winter.”
    On hearing his name, Fred raised his head, smiled at his wife, then at Chrissie and then settled back into his chair.
    â€œWe put on every scrap of clothing we owned,” continued the woman, “wrapped up in one of those horse blankets they provided and lay there, a brilliant smile pasted on our faces, obviously having the time of our lives.”
    As the singer listened, she realized the woman was studying her, even evaluating her. Maybe she’s trying to decide whether or not to introduce me to her grandson, she thought. She must have one. That might be a real adventure. A change of pace. To have a boyfriend who’s not a somebody, who doesn’t have a big, gold ring in his ear and an incessant need for attention. Like she once did.
    Chrissie lay back in the chair and was soon dozing, lulled by the ship’s stabilizer-gentled motion.
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    By noon, Aurora had crossed the forty-fifth parallel, the wind had increased, and the sky to the south had started to darken. Despite the increasing seas, the ship barely rolled, thanks to the new, cutting-edge stabilizer system installed during the overhaul. And the ship’s third engineer, Jacob Rounding, could appreciate the stellar operation of the new system. He could but he didn’t because he simply didn’t care.
    Jake Rounding was born with a chip on his shoulder, and for various confused reasons, it had grown much larger over the decades, until now he was thin, white-haired and stooped under the weight of a very heavy block.
    Rounding had drifted into the merchant marine and over the years risen from engineman to his current position. His superiors considered him more than competent and his subordinates considered him okay to work for. But nobody had ever described him as warm or cheerful. There are many more aimless wanderers like him to be found at sea, even in today’s world of high-tech navigation.
    Third Engineer Rounding was examining an electrical distribution box on the deck just above the boat deck when he first spotted the little girl. She was talking excitedly to an elderly couple—waving her arms and dancing from foot to foot—and the couple appeared to be utterly enthralled. Rounding suddenly felt as if a spear had been thrust into his chest. The little girl looked just like Annie had when she was young.
    Well over twenty years ago Jacob Rounding had found himself living with a