"This filthy fucking ship is going to sink, and I'm going to drown."

Fifty years before I'm even born.

He refilled his glass unsteadily. He felt a light tap at his shoulder.

"Very eloquent, Mr Wells. Exceedingly so. Now, may I have a brief word with you?"

It was William Stead. A self-styled mystic, Stead was travelling to the United States at the request of President Taft. In his capacity as journalist, he was to attend a series of peace talks. In his role as medium, he was to give lectures on spiritualism and its relevance in the modern world. He was a slightly built man with light brown hair. A thick beard and narrow oval glasses adorned an otherwise unremarkable face. The dismal fact that he'd gone down with the ship had facilitated their acquaintance.

Wells looked up at him and said nothing.

"We'll talk, because we always talk, but all in good time."

Stead made his way to a plush chair by the fireplace. He sat staring into the fire, sipping from a wine glass.

Wells topped up his own glass and moved, falteringly, to sit in a nearby chair.

Stead's smile was half-formed. Enigmatic. "Shall we begin?"

"I don't understand," Wells said. "Begin what?"

"The same dreary subject we always discuss, I'm afraid. Not that it ever comes to much."

"I think you've mistaken me for someone else."

Stead shook his head morosely. "There's no mistaking the likes of you." His tone was strangely weary.

A new dread took Wells. This was no insult, nor a threat. This was something more sinister. The implication of the statement awoke old fears, but he remained fixed in his chair. "The likes of me?"

"Yes. This is how it always begins."

Wells leaned in close. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Are expletives so common in your era?" Stead asked quietly. "Or was it lack of polite society that urged you back here in the first place?"

Wells' glass slipped to the floor with a soft thud. A small puddle formed on the carpet.

"I wouldn't worry," Stead said. "This carpet will be damper yet. Would you care for another?"

"Who are you?"

"A man not unlike yourself. In the wrong place, at the wrong time."

"Who sent you?" The accusation was a whisper.

Stead shook his head meaningfully. "No one sent me anywhere, Mr Wells." His face took on a sanguine appearance, reflecting the flame. "I'm sorry," he continued after a few moments, "I share your evident dismay at this meeting. I'm a frank man by nature, so believe me when I tell you that I find all of this as uncomfortable as you do. The fact remains, however, that you need to know certain things, and I would have some answers myself." He swirled the near empty glass in his hand, looking past Wells into the blaze. "All I seek is understanding, and in return I offer wisdom. Alas, how terrible is wisdom when it brings no profit to the man who is wise." He smiled sadly. "The role of Tiresias ill suits me. Cassandra less so, but why else would I be here? The absence of Greeks makes this no less a tragedy." He removed his glasses and began to polish them. "So tell me, young man, what is it exactly that you have done?"

"Are you from the future?" Wells breathed the question.

"Good Lord, no." Stead gave a low chuckle. "And neither, may I add, are you. Not any longer, that is." He paused. "I have always enjoyed a small aptitude in matters of the spiritual world; a prescience, if you will. Nothing that has ever approached this magnitude, however."

"You're trying to tell me you foresaw all this?" Wells demanded. He struggled to keep his voice low.

"Not entirely. I have had glimpses here and there. More comes to me with each passing moment, unfortunately."

"Glimpses?" Wells snorted. "Then tell me why on Earth would you be here? On this ship, of all places?"

"I was about to ask you the very same question." Stead took a sip of his wine. "You see, Mr Wells, it is my affliction to see portions of the future. I am, however, quite incapable of altering it. You, on the other hand..."

Wells' reply was curtailed by a sudden mild lurch beneath them. He hooked both hands under the chair's armrests. There was no further movement. He tried to compose himself, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes, some ash from his trousers.

"What do you mean, I'm not from the future?" he asked after a moment.

"What did you do last night?"

"I gave a man a pair of binoculars," he said hesitantly. "They had certain... properties."

"Such as?"

"Radar enhancement, night vision."

Stead looked back uncomprehendingly.

Wells avoided his eyes. "I was hoping to make a change."

The two men studied each other.

"You've succeeded," Stead said finally. "How long have you been here?"

"I boarded ship at Queenstown."

"How long have you been here?"

"A year."

"You've been among us for more than a year?" Stead asked, his eyebrows raised.

Wells said, "I thought you knew it all."

"Please, Mr Wells. I know that at around nine-forty last night, you did something that has thrown an entire world off balance. Your future, as you recall it, no longer exists." Stead drained his glass. "You are, in fact, quite literally a man out of time."

The air was pierced by another screaming explosion.

"How can that be? I failed. What have I changed?"

"Even the smallest twist in the kaleidoscope may produce chaos."

"What happens in the future then?"

"That is closed to me. All I know is that it provides for your return."

"My return?" Wells pushed his face forwards, until he was inches away from Stead. "What happens to me?"

"The same thing that always happens to you, Mr Wells." Stead spoke softly again. "You die with this ship." He closed his eyes as Wells sat back in his chair. "Your passing goes unrecorded and unmourned. Despite all of the subtle changes you effect in the flimsy repetitive cycle of your lives, you always return to this ship and you always die here. Death by water."

"Always?" Wells felt his anger slip away. "How many times have I done this?"

"Many, many times. I would suggest you get used to it."

Wells rose shakily out of his chair. "You're wrong," he said in a thin voice. "You're wrong," he shouted as he staggered to the lounge's exit, all eyes turned towards him.

Stead did not look after him. He just stared into the flames. "Not this time I'm afraid," he murmured.

VI.

Wells ran down the Grand Staircase, taking the stairs two and three at a time. Gaining C deck, he raced down the vacant corridor. His cabin door had been forced. His trunk lay to one side, its contents scattered. His lifebelt was gone. He grabbed a blue woollen coat from the wardrobe and stepped back into the room.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to let everyone die on this godforsaken ship."

He strode out of the cabin without looking back and began walking towards the bow end of the hallway. He had to place an even pressure on the balls of his feet to keep them steady on the slanting floor.

The Grand Staircase landing was deserted. Passengers were either lining up outside or crowding the various lounges that offered easy access to the decks.

The purser's office was unattended. He was stunned to find his journal beneath a pile of papers scattered on the desk. It appeared undisturbed. The safe, embedded in the wall behind the desk, was partially open. Only a few items remained on its bare shelves.

He examined the manuscript for long moments before turning to the last page. He took a pen from the drawer and wrote a single word in the margin. He waited for the ink to dry, blowing gently against the fresh markings. His exhalation was a fine mist. He closed the journal and slid it onto a shelf and sealed the safe, before returning to the first-class promenade.

The ship was motionless. He approached the rail to see how low in the water they rode, but he was forced back by one of the crew. The great ship not only tilted forwards but was now listing obviously to port. He felt the dark, cold waters calling to him.

Was he finished? Was there anything left for him to do? Stead's dire prophecy echoed in his mind. Had he truly done this before? If someone had told him eighteen months ago that he was destined to travel back in time, he'd have laughed in their face. Yet he was here now, wasn't he?

Was it possible that his fate was somehow entwined with that of the Titanic? That he was cursed to wander back and forth through the twentieth century, each time to die with the ship?

Or could he break the chains that bound his destiny? Perhaps board one of the lifeboats now? If he could find one with few women around, he could no doubt escape, but what then? He'd read accounts of passengers who had disguised themselves until the lifeboats had been well away from disaster. Those men had been vilified, branded as cowards.

It wasn't so much a question of whether he could live. More a question of whether he could live with himself.

He looked around.

Ben Guggenheim, in full evening dress, stood by his equally attired valet, prepared to go down like a gentleman. Would he press that top hat firmly to his head as the water flowed over him? Would he cry out for his mother, or clamp that stiff upper lip against his chinless jaw?

John Thayer, his young son by his side, was arguing vehemently with Officer Lightholler. The Strauses, locked in a firm embrace, were already heading back to their stateroom.

Now, more than ever, Wells felt as though he was observing a play, part melodrama, part tragedy. All farce. Some vast performance for the amusement of dispassionate gods. What was his part? Was he the fool, forever spouting nonsense yet unable to reveal the truth?

Trapped in this era, this time, for just over a year, he'd set his mind on this course months ago and what had he achieved?

He'd ingratiated himself with Thomas Andrews, architect and designer of the three Olympic-class vessels. He'd had ample time to suggest appropriate design changes, roofing the watertight compartments, increasing the number of lifeboats. Had he set his mind to it, he might have surely found a way to delay the sailing of the ship, thus avoiding this calamity. He could have done anything he wanted, and instead he had given a man a pair of binoculars from the future.

A pair of binoculars. He began to laugh. A thick belly laugh, tinged with tears.

As if that could change everything. As if that could change anything.

He'd ignored the fact that the ship had been travelling at excessive speeds in ice-dense waters. Ignored the lack of safety precautions for passengers and crew alike. Instead, his own hubris mirrored that of an entire generation. He was no better than any of the others involved in the tragedy. He'd desired to be the author, but his own role in this play was now starkly evident. He was the leading man. It was time to act accordingly.

Another lifeboat began its descent into the calm frozen waters. Three remained. Astor was standing alone now, near the ship's railing. Wells thrust his hands into his coat pockets and walked up to him.

"Are you feeling better?" Astor enquired politely.

"Yes and no," Wells replied.

"Well, and what now, I wonder?" Astor reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a cigarette case. The match trembled in his hand.

"Colonel, I have to tell you something." Wells leaned forwards to cup the wavering flame. Their faces arched in the creviced shadows thrown by the sudden burst of light. "Everything I know tells me that we are going to sink before any help can arrive."

Astor lit up and dropped the match over the side. "Nonsense. The captain himself assured me that the Olympic is already steaming towards us."

"Did he bother to tell you that she's currently five-hundred miles away?"

"There are other ships in the vicinity." Astor sounded less sure of himself.

"No one's answering our distress signals, Colonel. No one else knows what's happening here tonight."

Astor turned his attention to the dark waters.

"There are people below deck, hundreds of them, who are little wiser," Wells pressed.

"They'll be taken care of."

"By whom?"

Astor resumed his silence.

"Who's taking care of you, Colonel? Where's your valet?"

"I dismissed him from my service."

"Now why would you go and do a thing like that?"

Astor studied him for long moments before asking, "What exactly do you have in mind, Mr Wells?"