The airborne mass of the great ship was now almost perpendicular with the boiling surface of the ocean. He swung himself back over the railing and gripped the ship's metal floor, now almost upright. A deluge of passengers fell from the decks above, crashing into portions of the superstructure or plunging straight into the unforgiving waters.

The Titanic began her final ear-splitting descent into the vortex she had created. She sliced into the heart of the whirlpool.

As the last of the funnels smashed into the ocean he felt himself cast from the railing. Unsure if he jumped or fell, he tumbled through the air and landed in an icy explosion of pain. All was black. A million frozen needles speared him.

He clawed at the razor-cold water, a seizure of blind movement that brought him spluttering to the surface. His coat billowed around him, dragging him down. He flailed wildly, finding purchase on a jagged piece of wood, a fragment from one of the shattered lifeboats. He scratched his way up the sodden flotsam and threw himself onto its widest portion, laid outstretched on the wooden shell, his feet dangling in the burning cold waters.

He reached to his coat pocket and undid the flap. The cat's waterlogged mass lay unstirring beneath his probing fingers. He raised his eyes to observe the Titanic's stark silhouette, now entirely unlit, standing black against the cimmerian night.

With a last protracted groan, she vanished into the churning waters.

He felt the deathly cold rising to envelop him. It stole its way up nerve endings, through the hollow stems of his bones. The air was filled with a low keening sound. Around him, bodies bobbed and jerked in the ocean's eddy amid the detritus of man's boldest creation.

His makeshift raft was moving faster now, caught up in the inexorable swirl of the mighty ship's departure. His eyes stung with salt, his breaths were a concertina of stabbing gasps and wrenching hacks.

He cleared the crest of the whirlpool's eye and stared down into the abyss, his face frozen in a bare-toothed snarl. The black ocean's wall broke down upon him. Thoughts were starbursts and he experienced them all in an engulfing whorl. That first night in the desert, his rude arrival in this era, and for the first time in memory he was no longer afraid. He thought of the mystic, Stead, and wondered what would happen next. But only briefly.

X.

Dawn broke over the North Atlantic, transforming her still waters into a carpet of diamonds.

Throughout the early hours of the morning, a few of the lifeboat passengers, communicating by shouts, cries and whistles, managed to locate one another. Their boats lay drifting, moored together by frail ice-encrusted ropes. Further out, rippled by the Titanic's departure, other lifeboats lay scattered amid wide sheets of field ice and the flotsam of the great ship.

The survivors spoke quietly amongst themselves, conversations punctuated by sobbing and soft moans of realisation. When not looking at one another, they cast their gaze at sodden feet on the damp lifeboat decks or out towards the glowing horizon. No one could bear to look at the bodies that bobbed to all sides in the gentle ocean's swell.

At around six-thirty that morning ship's time, Wireless Operator Evans of the Californian finally received the news that had already raced around the world. The White Star liner Titanic, out of Southampton on her maiden voyage to New York, had struck an iceberg and foundered in the North Atlantic off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. The coordinates marking her last known position put the ship less than thirty miles from the Californian's current location.

Evans rushed to the bridge to find Captain Stanley Lord, first officer Stewart, and second officer Stone in earnest conversation. He caught snatches of their words concerning the rockets that had been seen the previous night, before blurting out his own news.

Captain Lord, eyes widening in horror, asked him to repeat the message. He then turned to his second officer.

"Captain, they were white rockets. Not red. We thought there was some kind of party going on."

"At four o'clock in the morning?" Lord shook his head in disbelief. "Mr Evans, see if you can find out anything more. Mr Stewart, set a course for the Titanic's last known position."

"What about the ice, sir?" Stewart stammered.

"Set a sharp lookout and damn the ice, Mr Stewart." White-faced, Lord continued barking commands as Stewart relayed the orders to the wheelhouse and engine room. "Summon the surgeon, the nursing staff, we'll need plenty of blankets..."

Throughout the ship, men ran to their posts as the Californian slowly inched its way out of the ice field and swung north. She caught up with two lifeboats within the first hour. Lord was on hand to greet the survivors. Apart from three of the Titanic's crew, both lifeboats were occupied entirely by women. It took little over half an hour to secure the passengers.

By the time they had resumed their course, Evans had brought the captain further news. The Mount Temple and La Provence had found more lifeboats to the north. Captain Rostron of the Carpathia had telegraphed that his vessel, was on its way.

Lord stood at the bow railing, binoculars pressed firmly to his eyes. As the morning's mist thinned, burnt away by the encroaching sunlight, he saw first one and then another of the rescuing ships take form in the distance. As the Californian closed the gap between the vessels, evidence of the disaster became more apparent. Deckchairs and parasols, fragments of wood and children's toys littered the surface of the ocean. After the first body was sighted, floating serenely face down among the wreckage, Lord ordered that all passengers be taken below decks.

By early afternoon, the last of the lifeboats had been recovered. Captains Rostron and Lord stood on the forwards deck of the Carpathia. All up they had located eleven of the Titanic's original sixteen lifeboats and two of the four collapsibles. The five remaining lifeboats appeared to have been lost with the wreck. Of the two-thousand-two-hundred-and-twenty people thought to have been aboard the Titanic only five-hundred-and-twenty-four had been rescued. Search parties from the Carpathia and Californian had sifted among the bodies that rose and fell in the frozen waters. The crews of the rowboats returned, ashen and pale. Not one of the bodies they had recovered had shown any sign of life.

"And what did Ismay have to say?" Lord asked.

Bruce Ismay, president of the White Star Line, had been brought aboard the Carpathia in one of the last lifeboats to be found.

"Not much, actually. Asked me to contact the White Star offices in New York. Arrange matters with them. Hasn't spoken to anyone since. Says he would like to be left alone, if possible. He's currently in my stateroom with the doctor."

Lord nodded in response.

"By the time I contacted the New York office they had already spoken to my superiors at Cunard," Rostron continued. "They have come to some arrangement. I've been asked to bring the survivors back to New York."

"Cunard wishes to be magnanimous in its support, I suppose," Lord said.

"Precisely."

"Sirs?" They were interrupted by Bisset, the Carpathia's second officer, who'd arrived unnoticed on the boat deck. "We've found five more survivors on one of the collapsibles."

The two captains turned to face him.

"It was floating, capsized, three miles from here; fourteen men secured to its keel. Apart from the five we retrieved the rest were all dead. Astor looked in poor shape for a while, but he perked up after we gave him some brandy."

"Astor's alive?" Lord exclaimed.

"Yes, sir. Officer Lightholler will tell you the entire story. Apparently they were both thrown clear from the Titanic just before she went under. They were both in the water when Mr Lightholler spied the collapsible. Astor was unconscious but Mr Lightholler towed him to the boat."

"Good man," Rostron said. "What of Astor's bride?"

"We've identified all the first-class passengers among the survivors, Captain. She didn't make it."

"Does Astor know?"

"I don't believe so, sir. He is still recuperating below decks with the others. He kept ranting about some list, sir. I believe he may have lost some important document with the ship."

"He's lost a damn sight more than that. Thank you, Mr Bisset." Rostron turned to face Lord. "Stanley, are you happy to transfer your survivors to the Carpathia?"

"Certainly," Lord replied.

"I'll wire New York. The sooner we get these people home, the better." Rostron paused. "Look, Stanley, the Mount Temple and La Provence have already sent their survivors across. They're all set to depart."

"What is it, Arthur?"

"The New York office enquired as to whether you might organise the recovery of the other passengers."

Lord lifted his gaze to the surrounding waters. The congregation of the dead, dispersed around the still vessel. He sighed heavily.

"I think we're going to need a larger boat."

A GAME OF CHESS I.

Opening Moves.

I.

April 21, 2012.

New York City, Eastern Shogunate.

Showered and dressed, John Jacob Lightholler sat at the dining room table of his hotel suite. He wore a dark blue woollen suit. A crumpled plain burgundy tie hung from his neck like an afterthought. He worried its frayed edge between his fingers.

Before him, smoothed out and spread across the table, lay the letter. A cigarette burned in an ashtray near one of its edges. He found himself staring at the glowing tip.

It had been over two hours since Kennedy and his men had left, yet little had changed-the breakfast tray remained, its contents long cold, and the newspaper lay unopened on one of the cushioned chairs.

A question formed in his mind. Reverberated through his thoughts to be borne out in a single word.

Why?

He said it softly, as if questioning the meaning of the word itself. He said it and wondered how his life could unravel so quickly. From ship's captain to Confederate lackey in the space of a morning.

Why would the King of England parcel me off to work for the Confederate Bureau of Intelligence?

He had served with the Royal Navy for ten solid years, and in that time he'd never been approached for intelligence work, never been assigned any post that suggested he was being groomed for anything covert.

True, in the last few days, he'd been approached by a number of foreign dignitaries. He'd sat with the Russian ambassador. He'd been invited to an audience with Hideyoshi, titular governor of the Prefecture of New York, Shogun of the Japanese Empire's eastern dominions and twin brother to Emperor Ryuichi. Finally, he'd been asked to attend a short-lived meeting with the German foreign minister, whom he'd met on the voyage. The minister had been preparing to leave for Berlin to resume the Russo Japanese peace talks, scheduled to be held at the Reichstag.

For some reason each group had queried his opinion on how the peace talks had gone. Lightholler had dismissed the Japanese incursion into Russian Manchuria as just another manifestation of the half-century old Cold War between the empires of Japan and Germany. In the fifty years since Germany had secured the domination of western Europe and northern Afrika, and Japan had extended itself from the borders of China to the American West Coast and New York, both empires had bickered constantly.

But the King's letter pre-dated those meetings.

Could it have something to do with the centennial voyage itself?

He thought back to the crossing, trying to summon up something, anything, that would be of value to the Confederates. He recalled a brief encounter with Morgan, the historian who'd accompanied Kennedy that morning.

It had been halfway through the Atlantic passage, on April 15. They had held a memorial service for those lost on the maiden voyage of 1912. The crowds were filtering out of the first-class lounge at its conclusion; Lightholler had been one of the last to leave. Wishing to avoid the other passengers, he'd made his way to the ship's stern, where he spied another man by the railing: Darren Morgan. He remembered those pale blue eyes as the historian had caught his glance and turned quickly away-a clumsy movement that failed to conceal what he'd been doing.

Morgan had been casting breadcrumbs into the ship's wake.

Lightholler had walked up to him and nodded in greeting and Morgan responded with an embarrassed shrug.

"It's just in case," Morgan said. "Just in case we lose the way home."

Only then had Lightholler perceived the alcohol on the man's breath. They parted, and he had all but forgotten the incident.

Little else had happened that was out of the ordinary. E deck had been sealed off due to fire damage, prior to the ship leaving dry dock in Bremen. No one in, no one out. There were Johnson's concerns about the displacement of the Titanic, but Kennedy had said it was the original ship that they were interested in. It made no sense.

Kennedy had issued a challenge, almost daring him to confirm the validity of the letter. Contact the White Star Line, he'd said. Contact the Foreign Office in London. It was as good a start as any.

Still, Lightholler sat by the telephone for long minutes before dialling the first number.

The Foreign Office in London confirmed that his assignment had indeed come directly from the Palace. No one he spoke to, however, could supply any details.

He contacted the London branch of the White Star Line only to be told that he'd been placed on leave of absence. Indefinitely. If he would be so kind as to come down to the Manhattan offices, there was some paperwork to be taken care of.

Lightholler slammed down the phone. So the letter was authentic, and the Titanic had been taken away from him, placed under the care of Fordham, his first officer.

He could only think of one man to turn to: Rear-Admiral Lloyd. The officer who had organised his honourable discharge from the Royal Navy and facilitated his assignment to the Titanic late last year.

He smoked another cigarette to calm his nerves before dialling the number that would connect him to the offices of the Admiralty. Discretion could go fuck itself.

II.

Joseph Kennedy stood before an open window, hands clasped behind his back. He considered the message he'd just received, trying to make sense of it in the hidden augury of the street. His glance rose to the houses opposite, bland replicas of the brownstone he'd leased a month ago. He turned and his eyes fell on the sparse decoration of the room. An oval kitchen table occupied one corner. Three folding chairs, now collapsed, were arranged against the chipped surface. A pre-Secession flag, the stars and stripes, hung on otherwise bare walls. Its worn material, seemingly cut from the same cloth as the curtain, held his gaze.

The news was from Saffel, a freelance operative assigned to the German embassy at Project Camelot's inception. Having no direct affiliation with the CBI, he provided Kennedy with intelligence that was free of Bureau censorship; he provided the means of keeping watch on the watchmen. Usually, his monthly reports were read and dismissed over a quick coffee. This morning's report had been read twice and slowly. It had been shredded to fine strips of paper and torched, the burnt remains now smouldering on the kitchen table.

Project Camelot was the reconciliation of the Confederate and Union states by covert means. It was a long shot; its chances of success slim, its price incalculable. Kennedy had come to understand that even before he'd met Hardas and learnt the truth in Red Rock. Yet for a brief time it had borne a promise that he'd clung to with the faith of an agnostic who secretly desires the Kingdom of Heaven. Pipe dream though it was, however, its sheer audacity held an appeal that had enamoured the leaders of three nations: Germany, the Union and the Confederacy.

Yet if Saffel's report was in any way accurate, Camelot was doomed. Its veil of lies would be torn away, leaving Kennedy's true agenda exposed.

Martin Shine entered the room. He'd changed out of the staff uniform he'd worn earlier to deliver Lightholler's breakfast at the Waldorf. He sniffed at the air and gave the table a swift glance before fixing on Kennedy with a perplexed look. After a moment, he spoke up.

"Major, Commander Hardas is calling in. I'm scrambling the line."

"I'll take it next door," Kennedy said, dismissing him with a nod.

He reached for Lightholler's dossier and considered adding it to the ashed residue on the kitchen table. Instead, he thumbed through the document. The text blurred before his eyes. All he saw were the white bones and coiling black smoke of the vision bequeathed to him at Red Rock, Nevada.

"You played me for a fool, Captain," he murmured.

III.

Lightholler was treated to an earful of static as Admiral Lloyd obtained a secure phone line.

"Ah, that's better. Now, you were saying, John?"