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Lucius Greer lived three more days, thus earning the distinction of being the first settler on the island, as yet unnamed, to die upon its soil. He spoke no more words; it could not have been said that he regained full consciousness. Yet from time to time, as Sara or one of the others attended to him, the smile would reappear, as if rising from a happy dream.

They buried him in a clearing surrounded by tall palms with a view of the sea. Apart from the men who had worked on the boat, few of the ship’s complement knew the man or even who he was, least of all the children, who had heard only vague rumors of a dying man in a cabin, and whose shouts of play could be heard throughout the ceremony. Nobody minded; it seemed suitable. Lore was the first to speak, followed by Rand and Sara. They had decided in advance that each would tell a story. Lore spoke of his friendship with Michael; Rand, the tales Greer had told him about his life in the Expeditionary; Sara, the day she and Greer had met, so many years ago, in Colorado, and all that had happened there. When this was done, they formed a line so each could place a stone upon the grave, which bore a simple marker Lore had fashioned from pieces of driftwood:

LUCIUS GREER

SEER, SOLDIER, FRIEND

It was the next morning that a small group used two of the dinghies to return to the Bergensfjord, which waited at anchor a thousand yards offshore. There had been some disagreement on the matter—the ship contained all manner of usable materials—but Lore was firm and, as captain, had final say. We let her rest, she told them. It’s what Michael wanted.

She had not, in fact, opened Michael’s letter until their second day on the island, by which time she had begun to suspect what it said. She could not say why this should be so; perhaps it was merely her sense of the man. Thus it was without undo surprise, only a pleasant sense of hearing his voice, that she read the three simple sentences the letter contained.

Look in aft storage locker #16.

Scuttle the ship.

Start over.

Love, M

The storage locker contained a crate of explosives, as well as spools of cable and a radio detonator. Michael had left instructions for their proper distribution. Caleb and Hollis ran the cables through the passageways while Lore and Rand distributed the explosives throughout the hull. The fuel tanks, now nearly empty, were full of highly combustible diesel fumes. Lore turned on the mixers, opened the valves, and set the final charge.

There was no further discussion about what would happen next; the job was Lore’s. The men returned to the dinghies. Lore took a final tour through the ship, its silent rooms and passageways. She thought of Michael as she walked, for the two, Michael and the Bergensfjord, were one and the same in her mind. She was sad but also full of gratitude, for all he had given her.

She ascended to the deck and headed aft. The detonator was a small metal box operated by a key. She removed the key, which she wore on a chain around her neck, and carefully inserted it into the slot. Rand and the others were waiting below in their boats.

“Goodbye, Michael.”

She turned the key and dashed for the stern. Beneath her, explosions were ripping through the hull, headed toward the fuel tanks. She hit the fantail at a dead sprint, took three long steps, and launched.

Lore DeVeer, captain of the Bergensfjord, airborne.

She entered the water cleanly, with barely a splash. All around her, a beautiful blue world appeared. She rolled onto her back and gazed upward. A few seconds passed; then a flash of light lit the surface. The water shook with a muffled boom.

She emerged just a few yards from the boats. Behind her, the Bergensfjord was in flames, a huge cloud of black smoke soaring skyward. Caleb helped her in.

“That was a nice dive,” he said.

She sat on the bench. The Bergensfjord was sinking from the stern. As its bow lifted clear of the water, exposing its massive, bulbous nose, shouts went up from the beach; the children, thrilled by the marvelous display, were cheering. When the hull reached a forty-five-degree angle, the ship began to slide backward, accelerating with astonishing speed. Lore closed her eyes; she did not want to witness the final moment. When she opened them, the Bergensfjord was gone.

They rowed back toward shore. As they approached the beach, Sara came jogging down the sand to meet them.

“Caleb, I think you’d better come,” she said.

—

Pim’s membranes had ruptured. Caleb found her underneath a tarp hung between trees on one of the thin mattresses they’d stripped from the Bergensfjord. Her face was calm, though damp in the tropical heat. During the last few weeks, her hair had grown incomparably thick, its color deepening to a rich chestnut that flared with red in the sun.