Titanic Embers

84years

Edward Hockley was the sole heir to the Hockley fortune, amassed through Pittsburgh steel and oil. Today, he came to visit his grandfather, Carl Hockley, now past a hundred years of age.

The old man was a legend, the very model of the Hockley name—a man who had fallen to ruin in the crash of 1929, only to resurrect the family empire from its ashes. He rebuilt their steelworks into a titan that spanned nearly every nation, drawing upon the cheap labor and raw materials of distant lands, and expanded boldly into finance and real estate.

Yet some fifteen years ago, when Edward was still young, his grandfather had grown silent, retreating into the citadel of his own thoughts and yielding all family affairs to Edward’s father.

Time is no respecter of men.

The television flickered. On the table, as always, stood a tulip-shaped crystal glass, two-thirds filled with brandy, its amber liquid catching the light. In Carl’s faintly trembling hand smoldered a Havana cigar.

On the screen flashed the cold, grey surface of the Atlantic.

“Stealing a moment from his busy schedule, we have Mr. Brock with us,” came the announcer’s voice, round and mellifluous.

“There are many secrets locked within her hull… so we dove where no one has ever been,” Brock replied.

The old man’s eyes kindled—brighter than one might expect from a centenarian—piercing, almost youthful. Edward felt as though he were watching his grandfather once more in the days when he commanded the world like a general on his battlefield.

His gaze was a searchlight, sweeping back into the mists of the past.

“Your mission has captured the world’s attention,” the announcer continued, deftly steering the interview. “Yet it has also stirred controversy. Many call you grave robbers, claiming you will disturb the spirits of the dead. How do you respond to such accusations?”

“An archaeologist must excavate a tomb if he is to truly understand it. Our work is the same. And besides, there is no gold or silver aboard this great liner—only the secrets and the glory of a dream-ship…”

He shifted suddenly. “I studied museology, received special training. Now, let me show you today’s find—a drawing and a photograph, preserved in the safest vault of her day.”

The camera turned to Brock, then panned to a life drawing of a man.

“This paper has lain beneath the sea for eighty-four years,” Brock said with quiet pride. “Our team recovered it intact. Here, too, is the artist’s signature—clear as the day it was written.”

A black-and-white photograph of a great diamond. A nude male sketch.

Under the camera’s light, every facet of the jewel blazed. Pure and transparent, it seemed to breathe; each plane caught and scattered light like a living spirit. The sketch, rendered with rigorous elegance, made the man within more dazzling than the diamond itself. Though the hand that drew it was still unseasoned, every expression, every play of shadow and light had been set down with meticulous care.

The sea’s ripples passed over the image, as though the drawing swayed; the man might at any moment step from the page into the viewer’s world. From his expression, it was clear that the model posed reluctantly—yet in his gaze there was something more, a connection with the artist that went beyond the ordinary. In one hand, he held a diamond identical to that in the photograph.

April 14, 1912.

The date inscribed on the page.

Beneath it, the signature:

J.D.

The old man suddenly covered his face.

The camera lingered on the sketch, unwilling to look away.

The young man reclined, his bare, powerful form entirely unshrouded. His head tilted slightly, casting the light in shifting patterns across sculpted pectorals and the graceful hollow of the collarbone, like a Greek statue brought to life. In one hand he idly held a necklace; the blue cord spilled between his long, articulate fingers, the diamond at its end glinting as if cradled in flesh. The other hand rested in languid elegance upon the backrest. Though it was only pencil on paper, one could almost feel the skin’s hue and texture—sun-warmed bronze, or the smooth glow of honey. Most striking were the eyes: meant, perhaps, to be sharp, shadowed, or arrogantly unbound, yet altered—ignited by hunger, restlessness, a thirst that would not be quenched—betraying a mingled rapture and torment.

The work radiated a dangerous, forbidden beauty. Yes, his physique could shame Hollywood idols and top models alike, his face could drive women to pursuit and rivalry—but the gaze in those eyes held the viewer captive.

“My God…” The old man lifted his damp, time-creased face toward the screen, releasing a low cry—half moan, half sigh.

At that moment, the robot Duncan seemed to falter—an imperfection Lovett could not abide. He stood as if nailed to the deck, commanding the operation like a general in a battle for life and death.

“Lovett!” Bobby burst from the workroom, shouting, “Satellite call for you. Speak up—he’s no young man!”

Lovett waved him off in irritation, but Bobby pressed the handset into his palm before he could protest.

Across the span of the globe, the voice came unmarred by distance.

“Yes? What is it?” Lovett’s reply was curt, dry.

“Good day, young man. I am Caledon Carl Hockley,” came the voice at the other end—aged, yet still resonant with the poise and command of high society’s rarest breed.

Lovett, quick to read a room even across a wire, straightened at once. “Mr. Hockley—an honor to speak with you! How may I be of service?” A pause. “You say this drawing is the work of Jack Dawson? No—no, I would never doubt—”

Two minutes later.

“According to survivors of the disaster,” the announcer now reported, her voice alight with excitement, “this was indeed an early work of Jack Dawson—Jack Dawson! My God, everyone knows Dawson as one of our most celebrated artists, famed especially for his nudes and portraits. Since his death in 1978, his paintings have soared into the tens of millions!”

“And can you tell us,” she pressed, “who is this handsome, compelling man—mastered by desire, yet mastering our own—who stares from the page?”

Lovett’s mind spun with possibilities.

“Of course I can,” came the reply. “For the man in the picture… is me.”