"They're recruiting," said Abraham Dillinger the Third to his wife.

He nodded his head towards the two security men walking along the Promenade towards the stern of the ship. One of them was wearing a full uniform, but the other was wearing ordinary civilian clothes, with only a black armband to signify his new status. The new recruit was looking nervous, but alert as the veteran gave a running commentary on how to de-escalate the conflicts that occasionally broke out between opposing groups of passengers. "The important thing," the veteran was saying, "is to never raise your voice. No matter how much they might rage and shout, keep your voice low and reasonable. The soft voice turneth aside wrath." The new recruit nodded uncertainly.

"Neither of them are wearing guns," said Doris in a soft voice, too low for the security people to hear.

"They're scared of the passengers rising up against them," Abraham replied. "Fools. You maintain order by cracking down hard on disobedience. By taking off their guns, they've handed a victory to the forces of chaos. They're encouraging them. They're telling them that violence works."

"They wouldn't last two minutes in an American city," Doris agreed. "We, however, do have guns." She patted her handbag, feeling the comforting weight of the steel weapon it contained.

"You know what that makes us?" said Abraham, smiling with savage joy. "It makes us wolves aboard a boatful of sheep." He fingers his waist bag, lovingly feeling the shape of the object it contained. "It makes us gods."

"They don't know it, but there's no-one aboard this ship that dares to fuck with us," said Doris, gazing adoring up at her husband. It never occurred to her how nonsensical her statement was.
"Don't look too happy," her husband warned her. "We can't risk anyone learning our little secret."

For a moment, he felt a moment of doubt. Yes, they could draw their guns and start shooting the people around them, but they only had a short supply of ammunition, and when it was used up the thousands of other people on the ship would overwhelm them and throw them behind bars. They were only gods so long as they never used their godlike powers. They were gods who could never dare to be gods. The ridiculousness of the situation gnawed at him for a moment, but he dismissed the thought with an angry shake of his head. He had a gun! He was a god! Better than that, he was an American!

The two security men wandered off along the Promenade, never suspecting the awesome powers of the two people they had just passed. The new recruit was nodding at another piece of wisdom the veteran had just given him. Then they went through a door and passed out of sight.

"I wonder if they're still recruiting?" Abraham wondered. "I'd make a great security officer. I wouldn't take any shit from anyone. I'd make sure everyone knew who was in charge."

"Better to have our independence," Doris replied. "At the moment, we can go where we want, do what we want. We're answerable to no-one."

"You're right, Sugar-babe." He leaned towards her and they pecked each other on the lips. "Freedom. Real freedom. That's what it means to be an American."

From one of the doors they were passing came the sounds of electrical power tools. Abraham glanced in and saw men cutting a huge section out of the wall with hand-held circular saws. The air was full of dust, and the men were wearing dust filters on their faces. One of them saw Abraham watching and gave him a sour look. I'm working, that look said, while you're just standing there, doing nothing. Then the man returned to his work.

Abraham, angered by the blatant disrespect, thought again about the gun in his waist bag, but then he turned and returned to where his wife was waiting. He's not worth it, he thought. I'm better than that.

It occurred to him that he'd heard a lot of work going on around the ship in the last couple of hours. People had been talking about an appeal on the ship's television service for people to join a work effort. Abraham hadn't turned on the television in their cabin, and he was suddenly curious to know what it was all about.
His curiosity was soon satisfied by a speaker mounted on a pole beside the spot where they were standing. Normally it told the passengers about the various recreational activities going on aboard the ship, but now a serious-sounding man's voice began to issue from it, delivering a different message.

"Volunteers are still needed for materials scavenging," it said. "We need people to go around the ship, collecting up materials that will be needed for the mainland community. Sections of wall that can be assembled to form dwellings and storage sheds. Sheets of glass or perspex. Lengths of pipe. Everything needed to create livable homes. Anyone wishing to join the effort, please report to the Atlantis ballroom, where you will be assigned to a team.

"We also need people to go ashore tomorrow, to scout out the land. We need to find good places to plant crops and dig irrigation canals, and we need people to guard them from hostile wildlife. Anyone with any knowledge of agriculture or architecture is asked to report to the Atlas gymnasium, to be assigned to a tender. Thank you."

Two men went by pushing a laundry trolly filled with coils of copper wiring. They also gave the Americans a superior look as they went by. A few feet further on were a group of elderly people watching guiltily. "Can I help you with that?" asked an old man standing with the aid of a walking stick.

"This is a job for us young folk," one of the men pushing the trolley replied. "Maybe you have knowledge that can be useful, though. Why don't you find an officer to talk to."

"I worked in a post office," the elderly man replied, wilting with shame.

"I'm sure there are still ways you can contribute," said the younger man in a kindly, sympathetic voice. "Go find an officer. There must be something you can do." The two younger men then resumed pushing their trolley, but not before giving the two Americans another sour look.

"I think we need to join in the work effort," said Doris. "Otherwise, our names are going to be mud around here."

"Physical, manual work," said Abraham with disgust. "We have immigrants for that." Then he brightened, though. "We know ranching," he said. "How to manage horses. They said they were looking for people like that to go ashore."

"They said we're back in time," his wife reminded him. "There're no horses over there."

"I expect the basic principles are much the same, no matter the animal," said Abraham. "We can find an animal that can be broken and put to work. Pulling a plough, a cart. Animals to ride on. There must be something over there that'll he perfect for the role. Give it a few years and we can be ranchers again. People of power and influence in the community. We'll have people working for us, mostly stuck-up Brits. I'll enjoy giving them orders."

Doris grinned with delight. "Where did they say to sign up? One of the gymnasiums?"

The voice was issuing from the speakers again, and they listened carefully. Then they went to one of the deck plans mounted on the wall and looked up the way to the Atlas gymnasium.

☆☆☆

Viktor Dityatin was lying flat on his cot in the brig, and he didn't bother to move when he heard footsteps approaching. He recognised the rhythm of the steps and knew it was Joe Wardley. Probably coming to remonstrate with him over his conduct again. Well, let him remonstrate all he wanted. Viktor didn't care, and he had nothing to say to the Head of Security.

"How you doing, Viktor?" Wardley asked when he approached the iron bars of the door.

"Just fine," Viktor replied. "Very relaxing."

"I expect you've heard what's going on out there."

From the sound of his voice, the croupier knew that the Head of Security was looking in at him. He lay still, though, and stared at the ceiling. "Becky told me some crazy story about going back in time. Probably drunk herself silly worrying about me."

"I'm afraid the stories are true. This ship is all alone in the world. All the people we left behind, our families, friends, neighbours, are gone forever. Probably going on with their lives as normal while wondering what's happened to us. I expect we're all over the news channels. Cruise ship vanishes. Search and rescue finds nothing. We'll probably be headlines for a few days, and then the world will move on and forget about us."

"Probably," said Viktor, only half listening to what the other man was saying. He didn't have anyone back home, apart from some former colleagues from his army days, and he hadn't seen any of them for over a year. There was nobody back home that he'd miss if he never saw them again.

"So it's just us," Wardley continued, undaunted. "Faced with starvation if we can't figure out a regular, reliable source of food. They say they're going to create a farm on the mainland, but without tractors, weedkillers, combined harvesters, farms are hard work. Everything has to be done by hand. The weeds have to be hoed out before they choke the plants. They have to be watered, fertilised, harvested, re-planted. It's going to take every able pair of hands we've got to get the work done. We can't have a strong, healthy man like you sitting here doing nothing. Eating our food and doing nothing to contribute."

Viktor sat up and turned to face the other man. "So you're either going to release me or kill me," he said.

"We don't have the death penalty here," said Wardley with a smile. "We're a little more civilised than that. We know Travis Dixon lied about you cheating at the roulette table. I don't blame you one bit for punching his face in. I might have done the same thing in your place. Enough is enough, though. I want your word that, if we let you out of here, you won't go after Travis Dixon again. You've had your revenge, and now it's time to move on. Will you give me your word on that?"

Viktor swung his legs over the edge of the cot and stood, facing Joe Wardley through the iron bars of the door. "If I see him again..." He began. He fell silent, staring up the corridor as if the billionaire mignt be up there, waiting for him.

"If I see him again, I'll keep on walking," he said. "I won't go after him again."

"That's all I wanted to hear," the Head of Security told him. He took a key card from his pocket, inserted it from the door, and pressed a combination of numbers on the keypad below it. There was a click and the door opened. Viktor stepped out, and stood in front of Joe Wardley in the corridor.

"We can't force you to work, of course," said Wardley, "but you'll find things will be a lot more pleasant for you if you contribute. People who don't work, unless they're genuinely unable because of age or something, are going to be shunned. The Captain tells me there's going to be a propaganda campaign to make being a freeloader socially unacceptable. People will want to work just to have friends again."

"That won't stop some people," Viktor told him. "Some people are very happy to sit around while others work."

"What about you?" asked Wardley.

"No-one calls me a freeloader," said Viktor, his eyes narrowing with anger.

"Good," said Wardley, giving him a slap on the shoulder. "They're organising work gangs in the Atlantis ballroom. You know the way?"

"There's deck plans all over rather ship," Viktor replied. "I'll find it."

"I'll see you later, then," said Wardley.

They walked together until they reached the end of the corridor. Then Wardley took the stairs up to the crew levels, while Viktor turned right and took the elevator up to the passengers decks.