“We’re doing it today, Fitzwilliam. Do you understand?”
He glared at me menacingly, then leaned over the rail and repeated my order, making sure the men knew who had made it. After that, he went into the wheel house, rang up “full ahead,” and the vessel shuddered as we made extra speed and steamed on.
“Come inside,” said Dr. Glister.
“No,” I said. “I’m staying here. I won’t hide from the men I’ve condemned to death.”
And I stood there and watched as the lifeboat and the men drifted astern of the ship and were soon lost to view in the seas.
It was with a heavy heart that I walked back into the wheel-house and sat in the captain’s chair. Baldwin was silent, gazing straight ahead.
“It was the right thing to do,” I muttered, to no one in particular. “And what’s more, I could have used the WordStorm to escape after all.”
“Things happen here,” muttered Baldwin. “Difficult things.”
I suddenly had a thought, but hoped upon hope I was wrong. “What’s the name of this ship?”
“The ship?” replied Baldwin cheerily. “It’s the steamship Moral Dilemma, Cap’n.”
I covered my face with my hands and groaned. Anne Wirthlass-Schitt and her obnoxious husband had not been kidding when they said they’d chosen this place especially for me. My nerves were already badly frayed, and I felt the heavy hand of guilt pressing upon me. I’d only been here an hour-what would I be like in a week, or a month? Truly, I was trapped in an unenviable place: adrift on the Hypothetical Ocean, in command of the Moral Dilemma.
“Captain?”
It was the cook this time. He was unshaven and wearing a white uniform that had so many food stains on it that it was hard to say where stain ended and uniform began.
“Yes?” I said, somewhat wearily.
“Begging your pardon, but there’s been a gross underestimation on the provisions.”
“And?”
“We don’t get into port for another six months,” the cook continued, referring to a grubby sheet of calculations he had on him, “and we only have enough to feed the crew and passengers on strict rations for two-thirds of that time.”
“What are you saying?”
“That all forty of us will starve long before we reach port.”
I beckoned Fitzwilliam over. “There wouldn’t be another port closer than that, would there?”
“No, Captain,” he answered. “Port Conjecture is the only port there is.”
“I thought so. And no fish either?”
“Not in these waters.”
“Other ships?”
“None.”
I got it now. These were the “difficult things” Baldwin had spoken of, and they were mine and mine alone to deal with. The ship, the sea and the people on it might be hypothetical-but they could suffer and die the same as anyone.
“Thank you, Cook,” I said. “I’ll let you know of my decision.”
He gave a lazy salute and was gone.
“Well, Fitzwilliam,” I said, doing some simple math on a piece of paper, “there’s enough food for twenty-six people to survive until we reach port. Do you think we could find fourteen volunteers to throw themselves over the side to ensure the survival of the rest?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then I have something of a problem. Is my primary sense of duty as captain to see to it that as many people as possible survive on my ship, or is it my moral obligation not to conduct or condone murder?”
“The men in the lifeboat just now wouldn’t see you as anything but a murderer.”
“Perhaps so, but this one’s harder; it’s not a case of inaction to bring about a circumstance, but action. This is what I’m going to do. Anyone under eighteen is excluded, as are six essential crew to keep the ship going. All the rest will choose straws-thirteen will go over the side.”
“If they don’t want to go?”
“Then I will throw them over.”
“You’ll hang for it.”
“I won’t. I’ll be the fourteenth.”
“Very…selfless,” murmured Fitzwilliam, “but even after your crew and age exclusions, thirty-one passengers are still under eighteen. You will still have to select seven of them. Will you be able to throw them overboard, the children, the innocents?”
“But I save the rest, right?”
“It’s not for me to say,” said Fitzwilliam quietly. “I am not the captain.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, my heart thumping and a cold panic roiling inside me. I had to do terrible things in order to save others, and I’m not sure I could even do it-and thus imperil everyone’s life. I stopped for a moment and thought. The dilemmas had been getting progressively worse since I arrived. Perhaps this place-wherever it was-was quirkily responsive to my decisions. I decided to try something.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going to kill anyone simply because an abstract ethical situation demands it. We’re going to sail on as we are and trust to providence that we meet another ship. If we don’t, then we may die, but we will have at least done the right thing by one another.”
There was a distant rumble of thunder in the distance, and the boat heeled over. I wondered what would be next.
“Begging your pardon, Captain, but I bring bad news.” It was a steward whom I hadn’t seen before.
“And…?”
“We have a gentleman in the wardroom who claims there is a bomb on board the ship-and it’s set to go off in ten minutes.”
I allowed myself a wry smile. The rapidly changing scenarios seemed to have a clumsy intelligence to them. It was possible this was something in the oral tradition, but I couldn’t be sure. If this small world were somehow sentient, though, it could be beaten. To vanquish it, I needed to find its weakness, and it had just supplied one: impatience. It didn’t want a long, drawn-out starvation for the passengers; it wanted me to commit a hands-on murder for the greater good-and soon.
“Show me.”
I followed the steward down into the wardroom, where a man was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room. He looked sallow and had fine, wispy blond hair and small eyes that stared intently at me as I walked in. A burly sailor named McTavish, who was tattoo and Scotsman in a three-to-four ratio, was standing guard over him. There was no one else in the room-there didn’t need to be. It was a hypothetical situation.
“Your name, sir?”
“Jebediah Salford. And I have hidden a bomb-”
“I heard. And naturally you won’t tell me where it is?”
“Naturally.”
“This bomb,” I went on, “will sink the ship, potentially leading to many deaths?”
“Indeed, I hope so,” replied Jebediah cheerily.
“Your own included?”
“I fear no death.”
I paused for thought. It was a classic and overused ethical dilemma. Would I, as an essentially good person, reduce myself to torturing someone for the greater good? It was a puzzle that had been discussed for many years, generally by those to whom it has no chance of becoming real. But the way in which the scenarios came on thick and fast suggested that whoever was running this show had a prurient interest in seeing just how far a decent person could be pushed before doing bad things. I could almost feel the architect of the dilemma gloating over me from afar. I would have to stall him if I could.
“Fitzwilliam? Have all passengers go on deck, close all watertight doors, and have every crew member and able-bodied passenger look for the bomb.”
“Captain,” he said, “that’s a waste of time. There is a bomb, but you can’t find it. The decision has to be made here and now, in this wardroom.”