A Tenuous Titanic

"Alright, my Sweet Summer child, keep holding your breath. Descend easy into the blackness; you're doing okay," Isaac says, coaxing his million-dollar, submersible robot down into the inky void below.

To Isaac's right in the control center of their ship, Robinson fingers around for a few toggles keeping a keen eye on the screen and flicks one. Vastly illuminating the immediate area around their Sweet Summer, the machine that bravely goes where no man can dive. Holding down a heavily scratched, yellow button, Robinson speaks into a microphone. "You're reaching 5000 feet, good buddy; say hi to the fish for me."

Letting go of the button and springing back into his damaged chair, squeezing small chunks of cotton out of the opened corners. "Well, Isaac, our boy's almost halfway there. At this rate, we'll make it back before his sister is done at the Mary Rose site," parsing his words carefully to align with the next incoming wave he spies over Isaac's shoulder. "Nature calls!" Robison exclaims, using the momentum of the crashing wave rocking the ship to propel him out of the chair, grabbing onto Isaac's shoulder to steady himself before walking through the ovular doorway.

"I'll make sure nothing gets too close to Sweet Summer while you're gone. I know how jealous you get when squids get within inking distance," Isaac says, once his partner is out of earshot. Ending the sentence on a crescendo, so just the tail-end is heard clearly. Smirking at first but rapidly spinning around to face the screen, just in case there were any such worries to be watching for. Visually clearing the area of any danger, he makes the robot spin as if showing appreciation. Isaac reaches across the control panel to press the yellow button again. "You're still doing flawlessly; keep going. You just hit the halfway point. Let us know when you see her, we'll be here waiting."

Robinson returns much later, egg sandwich in hand and splits it in half, giving it to his co-captain. "What'd I miss, sir? Don't worry, I washed my hands this time."

Shaking his head with his eyes closing in disbelief, Isaac perks up at the scent of an egg sandwich perched precariously on his shoulder. Taking it in hand as Robinson plants himself back into the chair that's barely holding on. "Well, pretty much perfect timing, sir. Sweet Summer is but a few thousand feet from our Titanic," Isaac says, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.

"We should be seeing it come into vision soon then! This never gets old, does it, Summer?" Robinson asks while changing through the many cameras all over the robot. Rubbing his other hand along the interior wall of the ship as if it was an extension connected to it.

Finally, finding the bird's eye view camera angle, the room is silent as goosebumps begin to grow. The vague but ever clarifying silhouette of a monstrosity of a ship comes into view. A physical manifestation of history incarnate, dripping and drooling with iron stalactites.

All four hands are tight on their respective buttons and sticks, trying to create the sharpest images as they quicken the descent. The cracked body, the once whole ship crawling with deep microorganisms and wildlife.

Finally, after 110 years underwater, 38 years in a known vicinity and 3 years spent with the carefully guided hands of the I&R company, this might just be a fateful day.

Moving the robot closer to the most significant hole in the Titanic's crumbling and rusted hull, Isaac dexterously uses the joysticks to direct it inside. Robinson assists by moving the flashlights and cameras to not blind the monitor with mass reflections. All the while keeping an eye out for the collapsed ship deck and gymnasium floor that covers the desired room. Many years of study of iron and laminate degradation went into this venture. Leading to this day, where the gymnasium floor should have degraded enough to give access to a previously blocked-off hallway leading to the Command Room. As they take a right turn past the grand staircase, a path they've taken several times but never not taken with bated breaths, they peer through a broken wall into the gym. As Robison directs the floodlights to the center of the room, they simultaneously gasp in utter relief and excitement.

Not wanting to disrupt his co-captain's focus and driving, Robinson instead holds down the scratched yellow button and talks to his robot in a shaky voice. "You seeing this, Sweet Summer? Right where I got your flashlight pointing, the floor is far more concave since the last time we were down here. Take us in there, buddy," he says, this time talking to both of them.

Gently keeping afloat directly over the hole, they manipulate the small arms, clearing the few floor panels that would snag on something.

Finally, gently, they descend into the hole and move according to the old floor plans and blueprints laid out for them. Eventually, reaching a door at the end of the hallway that was quickly swung open about 110 years ago, leaving clear access to the object of their dreams. The telegraph machine sitting atop an unassuming desk, the very same that sent out the famous distress messages in 1912. Colloquially known as the "Voice of the Titanic."

But there's something else under that desk, a glint of something highly, unusually reflective, that catches Robinson's eye. Pointing at the screen and motioning for Isaac to move slightly closer to get a better view.

"What? It's just a box, man," Isaac says. "Although it does look remarkably untouched by the elements here, but this whole hallway has been buried until only recently."

Robinson leans in closer to the screen to get a better view. "I don't know; there's something about it, man. There's a glimmer to it. It's almost blue? Which - yeah, I mean we're underwater here, but it's an ethereal blue. I think we should take it. I can take control of the arms and hold them close to that Sweet Summer body. Won't even get in the way, I promise," Robinson says, pleading with his hands clutched to his chest, looking right at Isaac, waiting for him to turn and face him.

"Every single time we come through the Titanic, you always want to take something we don't have the jurisdiction to take," Isaac retorts. "This, and I promise you, this is the last thing we take. It's a damn good thing you've improved with those arms; that's the only good thing to come from you taking things."

Robinson smiles sheepishly, stretches his arms, stands up, and does a few toe-touches. Sits back down and cracks his knuckles, placing his sweaty palms around the joysticks and begins moving the chair out from the desk. Reaching one arm under and grasping hold of the strange, black box, clutching it tight to the robot's body.

Isaac drifts it upwards and uses the larger arms to reach and grab a delicate hold onto the telegraph machine, disturbing much of the old debris that sat alongside it.

"I was really hoping this was a purely mechanical machine. Hey, I need a hand here, Robinson. I need you to take control of the hydraulic scissors and cut through the wires connecting it," Isaac demands. Robinson begrudgingly obliges, knowing this needs to be done and uses his arm to place his box down onto the desk and equips the scissors. Delicately maneuvering it over to the thick insulated copper cables running along the surface of the desk and onto the floor, eventually connecting to the large cabinets on either side of the room.

"Hey, are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Robinson asks. "I'm a little afraid if I break the tension in these lines, those cabinets are gonna topple over on us."

"Oh yeah, trust me, I know. I was calculating it all while you were admiring your box. I think if we cut both lines quickly, on either end, then the immense water pressure down here will give us enough time to get out. Even if they start toppling," Isaac says, trying to reassure himself. "What worries me most is the fact the ceiling seems to be resting on top of these cabinets? We've got four arms, alright? Two equipped with scissors that'll take too long to put away, one free to grab the machine and the other to take your box or, better yet, to stop a falling cabinet if it comes to that."

Robinson nods affirmatively. Knowing no more words must be spoken, only offering up one of their famous pre-action fist-bumps. Which connects gracefully, without either taking their eyes off of the screen. Orienting the robot around and getting the scissors in place, they initiate a countdown on the screen.

An audible timer begins: "Five. Four. Three. Two. One," the speakers ring out their last and they press the trigger switch.

Simultaneously snipping the thick cables, releasing long-held tension and swirling dust that clouds the room. The cables snake back as best they can towards the cabinets as time slows for the co-captains. In Sweet Summer's periphery, the operators see the large rectangular shapes begin to fall inwards, knowing their fears came true. Also, knowing the ceiling is probably falling in tow, they immediately relinquish their grasp on the scissor controls. The arms retract back into the robot as they grab hold of the two empty arms and try to snag their individual items. Robinson fumbles with his box as he's not as savvy with the claw arm under pressure, knocking it clear off the table. Isaac, who is equally as sweaty but far more adept, is struggling all the same. He begins relentlessly tugging with the famed machine in his hand, now seeing that there was a third but not as thick wire protruding from the back of the device.

In a split-second decision, knowing full well if Robinson just let his box go and took equal hold of the machine and pulled, they'd break it loose. Looking up and seeing the ceiling and cabinets get ever closer, he reluctantly relinquishes his grasp on the device and reaches to catch the falling box. Now holding it in two hands, he makes the robot spin and flies out of the collapsing room. Letting up speed only until they're free of the hallway and through the hole, not knowing if the hallway was as poorly supported.

Ascending through the hole, the co-captains lean back into their chairs, letting go of minutes old, stale breath.

Isaac flicks open his eyes again and lunges forward to check the battery percentage they've completely neglected to check. In seeing a solid sixty-seven percent remaining, he lets go of every control and rests back in his chair. Squeezing and rubbing his forearms to get blood flow back into his pale-white hands.

Both captains breathe heavily, feeling utter relief and regret in equal proportion. Robinson is the first to act after minutes of nothingness, feeling personally responsible. Reorienting the floodlights as they're back in the gymnasium with far more particulates and debris floating around them than before.

"Let's get our Sweet Summer back, okay?" Robinson says with a wavering voice. Shakily pressing the button again with a partially bitten nail, piling up some more yellow paint underneath it. "We're coming to get you out, alright girl? Hang in there."

This old age argument is the only thing to shake Isaac out of his stupor. "I still think Sweet Summer is a boy, y'know," he says. "Even this wasn't gonna let me allow that one slip by." Brushing the remaining sweat off his brow, he grips the controls once more and starts leading the robot up and out of the legendary Titanic for what he thinks will probably be the last time.

Once finally boarded the underbelly elevator, Sweet Summer is lifted onto the main deck, and the co-captains walk down from the control room on weak legs to greet it.

As excited as they both are to see what just it is they recovered in place of their ultimate goal, they cannot help themselves but first start picking pieces of seaweed and debris from their robot. Then, grabbing microfiber towels and drying it off, talking to it softly. Robinson tells her how good of a job she did, and Isaac tells him how fearless he was. Giving one another sharp, jovial glances each time they put more emphasis on the pronouns. Finally, after feeling content with their clean-up job, they take the box and set it on a nearby table to examine it. It's a perfectly shaped black cube, about a foot in each dimension. Constructed clearly from wrought iron but entirely untouched by the same affliction the rest of the Titanic's iron has suffered. Not a hint of rust or water damage. Strangely, though, the only indentations or markings on its surface are of old welding lines. Robinson picks it up and spins it around, looking for a keyhole or finger hold to pry it open. Isaac, watching intently, notices where his partner is in contact with the box is where that ethereal blue colour appears.

Squinting his eyes trying to discern it, he's interrupted by Robinson deciding to put his ear to it and begin shaking. "Hey! Dumbass, don't shake it," Isaac yells. "This was probably just a safe from one of those hundreds of wealthy passengers on board; you could break the jewelry inside." Robinson immediately stops shaking but keeps his ear to it as he places it back down on the table, trying desperately to hear any vibration or giveaway.

"Listen, let's just leave it alone until we get back to Reynold's, alright?" Isaac says, shifting his weight towards their command room, waiting for confirmation.

"Alright. You're right, he'll probably know what to do with it, but I'm not happy about it," Robinson answers. "Let's go back home."

After a week-long voyage back to Boston, following the same path the Titanic was supposed to take, stopping just short of New York. The I&R Co. and crew dock their exploratory ship and say goodbye to their Sweet Summer before hitting dry land, their one and only artifact locked away in a large suitcase following behind them. Eventually, making it to the doorsteps of their CEO's office, located within a museum of antiquities. Stepping through, they're greeted with wide open arms from a burly man and billowing smoke from his mouth as it's opened in glee. Returning the phone in his right hand back to his ear, remembering to finish the ongoing call.

"Yes, yes, sir - yup, absolutely. Listen, I have to go. Somebody just walked into my office. I'll be sure to call you back later today. Have a good evening," Reynolds says hurriedly, setting down the phone. "My boys! My dear explorers, return! Yes, oh yes - come in, sit down, take a seat." Gesturing towards the three plastic chairs in front of his mahogany desk. "Please, recount your journey; I've just opened my schedule," he laughs.

Isaac and Robinson do as they're told, silently sitting down and begin telling their three-week story. From their initial moments leaving Boston, the first two weeks spent stopping at more minor and less relevant shipwrecks along the way. Then, finally, the few days they were stationed on the coast of Newfoundland, over the Titanic. Ending their telling of the tale by inserting a thumb drive into a travel laptop, carrying a video recording of their time inside the Titanic. Robinson nervously takes the lead on explaining the video to his boss, sweating and swallowing profusely, despite knowing audio was conveniently not included.

"So, sir. I - uh, yes, I was first to take notice of that box there. Hopefully, the one you can see through the chair legs," he says quickly, pausing the video and fumbling around with the suitcase propped up behind him and pulling out said box. "This is her, sir. And we'll uh, we'll let the rest of the video speak for us." The recording finishes when Sweet Summer exits the Titanic's hull, leaving the air in the office thick with anticipation.

Reynolds takes one last puff of his cigarette, clearly gathering his thoughts. "Well, boys, I can't say I'm not disappointed. You promised me and the world the so-called Voice of the Titanic, and, well, you brought me a box," the burly boss says, punctuating his sentence by stabbing his cigarette into the ashtray. "So what's in it, huh?"

Isaac sits up in his chair, clasping his clammy palms together as if in prayer. "See, that's where you and your capabilities come in, I'm afraid to say. We cannot figure out how to open it, as, well, you'll see when you get a good look at it, there's no obvious orifice to pry or open," Isaac says encouragingly, trying to prove its importance. "We didn't quite deem it worthwhile trying to open it out on the rocking ocean, you see. We figured you and your suite of welding and prying tools could reveal its contents."

Reynolds places his big and ring-cladded fingers upon the top of the box, causing it to glow blue and ripple with that strange ethereal force. "This is indeed a strange find, my boys," he says, not taking his eyes off the cube. "And you two are the best in the business, after all! So take some time off; you did your best under the titanic circumstances, right?" He looks back up at his co-captains and gives them both a wink. "I'll be sure to call you's when we get this bad boy cracked open. But, for now, have a good evening," he says, standing up and offering to shake both their hands. Robinson lets his friend start walking towards the door first and soon follows suit. Both make their way down and out of the museum and towards their homes, defeated but excited about the prospects.

Days turn into weeks and those into months. About three of them finish in dire anticipation shared amongst the co-captains, who finally receive a simultaneous call telling them to return to the museum to discuss and witness.

Stepping through the doors once more, they're this time greeted by a fair, unfamiliar face. One who's sitting and smiling at them in the third seat, quickly gesturing towards the two vacant seats left. Robinson is swift to offer his hand before sitting, letting her speak first.

"It's nice to meet you two; I've just heard lots about your excursions. My name is Susan Lightoller. Of, yes, that Lightoller family, if you know this specific history. My mother is Claire Doreen Lightoller, daughter of Second Officer Charles Herbert Lightoller, a great man among the few officers who were lucky enough to survive the Titanic sinking,"

Susan says, smiling and taking a regimented breath like she's said this exact line many times at many a social gathering.

"Your boss here, Mr. Reynolds, contacted me a few weeks ago and flew me over from Britain, and here I sit. As I'm told, he quite miraculously contacted most every family lineage tracing back to the higher officers, but I believe I am the only one with any information."

Saying as she pulls out an old, cracked and weathered shoebox and places it down on the desk.

"My mother gave this to me as she was once given it by her father. It's remained a close Lightoller secret, but it felt worth spilling with this coming to light. Here - Uhm, what's your name?"

Susan asks, handing an ancient-looking letter to Robinson.

"Wow, it's nice to meet you too, miss. My name is, well, just call me - my name is Robinson," he blurts out through reddening cheeks.

"That'll make you Isaac then, here. Take this key, and while Robinson reads, this will start making more sense to us all," she says, handing a skeleton key shape to the co-captain to her immediate left. Glimmering and slightly translucent, just as the box does under direct contact.

Robinson clears his throat, shifts into a comfortable position and begins to read the letter.

The Tenuous Titanic

Second Officer Charles H. Lightoller.

March 19th, 1927

This letter is penned alongside my book titled Titanic and Other Ships but will not be included in such as it will hold a telling not destined for the masses. I will write it instead wholly and solely for my sullen daughter Claire Doreen Lightoller, a woman with no ill or rapacious intent in her soul to be found. Whereas my three beloved sons, I believe, would do all within their power to locate this truth. On April fourteenth, late into the fateful night, the Titanic sank in nineteen-twelve; most of my memories have been reduced to smithereens. It was a chaotic few hours, and I was unable to absorb them thoroughly in between the rush of water and the wails of children. The details of which, Claire, I will save for you to read when you are of an older age and when my words are spent upon the pages of a book. For now, and the part I deem not destined for the masses is what I witnessed and grabbed hold onto moments after being dragged under-tow. Two hours into the catastrophe, when myself and the other officers quickly boarded everyone we could into the lifeboats, I found myself caught unawares. I was violently thrust to, and fro from sloshing waves and a mighty current I'm sure sourced from the voids in the vessel being filled with water. In a moment that felt gifted by God, I received some respite by clinging onto one of the four smokestacks, now nearly surface level with the frigid waters. At that moment, I noticed a strange effervescent object floating effortlessly along the water next to me. It was vaguely in the shape of a key, and in making the assumption I remember to include it with this letter, you should have had to move it to be reading this letter. I know not the source nor function of it, but If I were a betting man and Mrs. Lightoller could attest that I am. I would say the blue, enigmatic humanoid shape I saw in the reflection of the water would prove in some way a tangential connection. Whether my visions were of an adrenaline and horror-filled folly, I will never know nor find out, but this key we both now hold is genuinely indistinguishable from truth. I equally know not what you or I am to do with it, but the fact remains we hold something that undulates with the queerest presence.

My dearest Clair Doreen Lightoller, I love you.

Charles H. Lightoller.

The final syllable is all that's heard in the office, reverberating as all its occupants come to grips with the possibilities in front of them. Isaac reaches forward steadily and grips the key between his fingers, ready to attempt unlocking the strange box.

Reynolds, wide-eyed, only now understanding the correlation, nods towards Isaac.

Making tentative eye contact with Susan, then to his friend, he thrusts the key into the side of the wrought iron box, bunching up the edges of blue light around the key.

Turning it clockwise, the blue light rapidly clings to and runs along the weld lines. Blindly illuminating the room for a few seconds until the energy dissipates, returning everyone's vision aimed at the now unfolding iron box.

Inside lay untouched by time, several documents and letters on papers that should be aged and yellow but are as pale white as the moment ink first connected.

Not a word is spoken as everyone is awestruck, shifting papers around the desk to see and count them better. Robinson catches sight of one slightly stuck to the underside of another, picking it up by the tiny corner and realizing it was freshly coagulating blood holding the two together. He slowly separates the two sheets, placing the other face down to not tarnish the mahogany desk.

"Well, it seems that me shaking it earlier wouldn't have affected it, huh?" Robinson quips. "But it is, in essence, a safe of sorts. How strangely kept from the elements to keep this blood wet, though."

The word blood and especially the concept of fresh blood breaks everyone's attention to look at the letter in question. Noticing that every ounce of attention and interest is placed squarely upon him and his sheet, Robinson clears his throat once more.

April 14, 1912

Hello, dear reader. I'm writing this upon fragile paper floating in a big boat upon a cold body of water, so my hopes for this sheet's survival are low. I'm afraid I am but fresh out of bottles to put this note into, so I must hope it somehow reaches the right eyes. Be it the necessary authorities' or antiquities' eyes that are reading, my dear reader, my name is Victor Robbins. I am but a lowly manservant to the great John Jacob Astor, and upon my fourth nightly travels to fetch ice, I unknowingly overstepped into a conversation truly, I was not destined to hear. I write this just outside Captain Edward Smith's quarters as I witness this conversation, knowing full well I would draw ire from my Master for my tardiness. If only it seemed it would ultimately matter, as for I've just heard the Captain agree to run the ship into something. He has been conversing with another voice I am not familiar with, the contents of which I will copy as best I hear. "Mr. Smith, there is a passenger of utter ill repute aboard your ship. Just as inexplicable as my appearance is in your residence, my knowledge is similar but no less accurate as the fact I stand before you. This passenger's near future actions are catastrophic in nature, and he must not reach dry land. I am sorry to bear this burden on you, Mr. Smith, but you must go down with this ship and ensure he does as well. This man is of a massively wealthy family name, with which comes power he would soon wield recklessly to most everyone's dismay. We've calculated four days from shore was the precise distance for this vessel to lay unmolested by human interference for nearly a century. Late into this night, Mr. Smith, there will be an unseen object off the left side of your ship of which you must feign utter ignorance to your crew." The Captain's response is given in a shaky rhythm and in short words, but I will hopefully never forget the sound of him agreeing. I had opened the door slightly more ajar to catch but a glimpse of this man, and I cannot believe what my eyes told me. He is dressed in a well-fit suit, not unlike my Master, but simply newer. I certainly have not ever straightened out a jacket with so many intricacies before. And upon his left and right wrist are a type of technology wholly unseen by my eyes, but I am not a studious man, after all. They are rectangular, but with numerous wires protruding from it, wrapping around his torso to connect to the other, it is all so very stran-

"That's it; that's where it ends. Halfway through writing a word," Robinson says, looking up from the letter to the end of a barrel pointed directly at his face, as a bullet flies through it.

Reynolds, now standing and wielding a smoking handgun pulled from a nearby drawer in the middle of the reading, quickly points and pulls the trigger twice more at both the wide-eyed and stunned witnesses.

Isaac, Robinson and Susan all slump back and over their chairs, their final breaths leaving their bodies.

Reynolds shakes his head from side to side in disbelief, grabbing the fallen letter and placing it back on the center of his desk. He sits back down and dials a phone number, bringing it to his ear, keeping the pistol in his right hand on the desk.

"Mr. President, what we feared is true. Come hither and smother. It's been a pleasure, sir. Goodbye," Reynolds stammers, placing the phone delicately upon the desk, face up.

The burly man pushes away from the desk on his wheeled chair to not fall on or dirty the letters, ruffling his collar and straightening his clothes.

He opens his mouth wide, burning his tongue as he places the barrel upon it and pulls the trigger one last time.