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“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.
