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Glyn nodded. “If your theory holds up.”

The motors revved as the Turbosail rotated over the bridge.

As Nell’s eyes brimmed, the others wondered whether she was looking for more than a new flower on Henders Island.

They all cringed as a voice blasted from a speaker by the camera over the forward window:
“Tell me this is not a joke, please!”

“This is not a joke, Cynthea,” Captain Sol answered.

“You mean we actually got a distress signal?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Sol, you’re my hero! How bad is it?”

Captain Sol looked wearily at Warburton. “It’s probably just a derelict sailboat. But the beacon was activated, so we have to check it out.”

“God, that’s gold! Nell—tell me you’re excited!”

Nell looked up at the speaker over the window, surprised. “Yes, it’ll be nice to do a little actual scientific research.”

“Tell me more about the island, Glyn!”
screeched the electronic voice.

“Well, according to Nell, it was discovered by a British sea captain in 1791. He landed but couldn’t find a way to the island’s interior. There’s no other record of anyone landing, and there are only three recorded sightings of it in the last 220—”

The starboard hatch slammed open and Cynthea Leeds power-walked onto the bridge wearing a fitted black Newport jumpsuit with white racing stripes.

Everyone froze.

“I like that. I like that a lot,” Cynthea announced. “Peach, did you get that? Great! Gentlemen—and lady
—congratulations!”

Cynthea smiled wide, flashing her expensive teeth as she tossed back her bangs in girlish joy. A thin black wireless headset arched over her black hair, which was cut in a razor-sharp pageboy.

Cynthea was a dauntingly well-preserved woman, sexy at fifty. Her mother had insisted on strict ballet training from the age of five—the only thing she considered a kindness on her mother’s part. At five feet eleven inches without heels she still had the posture of a ballerina, though her imposing stature was better
suited to the high-testosterone arena she had chosen to enter than to ballet.

Like a hermit crab out of its shell, Cynthea looked laughably out of place at sea, or even outside a city. But she couldn’t help noticing lately that she was being herded out to pasture in the youth-centric jungle she inhabited.

Cynthea had produced two number-one reality shows for MTV. But the cutthroat environment she lived in would not tolerate a single misstep. After her last network reality show, the misbegotten
Butcher Shop
, had cratered, her only offer was the job every other producer in town had passed on: a round-the-world sea voyage with none of the comforts of home.

Sensing that she had to adapt or go extinct, and in the midst of an acute panic attack, she told her manager to take the offer.

She knew she had won the
SeaLife
gig because of her talent for spicing up a show’s content, which the show’s producers were painfully aware could be a problem if the science stuff got dull. Over the last three weeks, however, her efforts to get seasick scientists to mate had been a gruesome debacle.

If this show was killed, she was convinced it would be the end of her career. No husband, no kids, and no career: all of her mother’s prophecies checked off. Which would be much easier to bear if Cynthea’s mother were dead, but she wasn’t—not by a long shot.

Cynthea pressed her hands together in a gesture of thanks to the powers-that-be. “This could not have come at a better time, people! I think we would have killed and eaten each other before we ever got to Pitcairn. Tell me more about this island, Glyn!”

“Well, it’s never actually been explored, is the neat thing. According to Nell—”

“When can we land?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Glyn answered. “If we can find a place to put ashore. And if the captain grants permission to go ashore, of course…”

“You mean we can shoot our landing on an unexplored island for the anything-can-happen segment of tomorrow’s broadcast at five-fifty? Glyn, you will be my
superhero
if you
say yes!”

“It’s possible, I should think, providing the captain agrees.” The Englishman shrugged. “Yes—”

“Glyn, Glyn, Glyn!” Cynthea actually jumped for joy. “What was it you were saying about a British sea captain?”

“The island was discovered in 1791 by Captain Ambrose Spencer Henders…”

Nell was amused to see Glyn’s vanity flattered by Cynthea’s spotlight.

Glyn looked at Nell. “However, Nell is the one who—”

“That’s just
gold
, Glyn! Do me a favor and make the announcement to the crew?” Cynthea interrupted. “At sunset—right after dinner—and really build it up? Oh, pretty, pretty
please?”

Glyn looked apologetically at Nell. She nodded, relieved to have him do the honors. “Well, all right.”

“You know Dawn? The tan, leggy brunette with the tattoo?” Cynthea gestured in the vicinity of her tailbone. “Yes? She was just remarking to me how she thought British scientists were the sexiest men alive.” Cynthea leaned forward and crooned in Glyn’s ear: “I think she was talking about YOU!”

Glyn’s eyes widened as Cynthea turned to Captain Sol. “Captain Sol, can we land?” She jumped up and down like a little girl pleading with her grandfather. “Can we, can we, can we?”

“Yes, we can land, Cynthea.
After
we check out the beacon.”

“Thank you, Captain Sol! You know ship’s surgeon Jennings is just crazy about you?”

Warburton shook his head.

“Now if we could only find someone for Nell,” the producer persisted. “What about it, sweetie? What
is
your type, anyway?”

Nell saw Glyn looking out the window at Dawn, who was performing yoga stretches on the mezzanine deck below. Hard-bodied and sporting buzzed black hair, Dawn wore a midriff-baring mustard mini-T over her imposingly toned core. A purple
and yellow sun tattoo peeked over the rear of her black bikini bottoms. “I don’t have a ‘type,’ Cynthea,” she said. “And I wouldn’t want to be anyone’s ‘type,’ either.”

“Always the loner, eh, Nell?” Cynthea said. “You have to know what you’re looking for to find him, darling.”

Nell looked Cynthea in the eyes. “I’ll know him when I see him.”

“Well, maybe you’ll find a new rosebud or something to name tomorrow, eh? Give us some
drama
, if you do, Nell! Pretty please?”

Cynthea turned and loped out the hatch.

Nell looked back down at the plotting monitor, watching the island as it moved down in tiny steps from the top of the screen. As the sight overwhelmed her, she almost forgot to breathe.

Captain Sol looked at Nell with fatherly affection. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’d say it was destiny, Nell, if I believed in that sort of thing.”

She looked at him with bright eyes and impulsively squeezed his big, tanned hand.

“Still no response on the emergency frequencies, Captain,” Warburton said.

Nell traced a fingertip from their position over the blue plasma screen to the white circle above tiny white letters:

O
Henders Is.

Huddled inside the cramped, equipment-filled brain center of
SeaLife
, tucked within the
Trident’s
starboard pontoon, Cynthea watched three camera feeds of Captain Sol and Glyn making the announcement to the crew after dinner.

“Peach” McCloud sat by Cynthea, manning the editing/uplinking bay. Whatever original audio-visual equipment Peach was
born with was buried under his hair and beard and replaced with man-made microphones, headphones, and VR goggles.

Cynthea had worked with Peach on live MTV shows in Fort Lauderdale and on the island of Santorini. Her one stipulation when she accepted the job as
SeaLife’s
producer had been that Peach come along as her engineer. Without Peach, the job would have been unthinkable.

Peach had agreed. He always agreed. Anywhere was his living room if he had a wireless connection. It really didn’t matter to Peach if he was on a boat weathering fifty-foot swells or in his Soho apartment. So long as his digital habitat came with him, Peach was happy.

Cynthea spoke urgently through her headset, on a conference call to the
SeaLife
producers in New York. Peach equalized sound levels and switched shots according to the jabbing eraser-end of her pencil as she talked.

“We
need
the segue, Jack. We’re getting it right now and can zap it to you in ten minutes. We’re landing on an unexplored island in the
Anything-Can-Happen
feed tomorrow, Fred—come on, that’s the hook! And it’s a
rescue
mission—we’re responding to a
distress
signal!”

Cynthea gestured at Peach for confirmation, and Peach flashed ten fingers twice.

“Peach can send it in fifteen minutes,” Cynthea lied. “Give us the satellite feed, Fred. Yes, Jack, as you’ve mentioned several times already, there’s no sex. The whole crew screwed each other in the first four weeks. All I’ve got to work with now are
scientists
, Jack, so come on—cut me some slack! How could I know the crew smuggled Ecstasy on board? Anyway, that’s a done deal, Fred, and we’re lucky we kept it off the Drudge Report, OK? Are you kidding me? You must be kidding me now. Then Barry should do a show with scientists and try to have sex in it. I fucking dare him to do it, that flaming asshole, especially while they’re
puking on each other!
If there were any Ecstasy left I would have slipped it into their green tea by now, Jack! I’m
suggesting
that we go back to the original
angle
, the science thing. Right,
adventure
,
Fred, EXACTLY! Thank you! And what comes from adventure but
romance
, Jack—I swear, if this isn’t the play that saves this show, you can broadcast my execution. Didn’t have to think about that too long, eh, Fred? Well, boys, I’m glad to know the way to your heart. Don’t worry, sweetie—tomorrow we’re making
television history!”

Cynthea squeezed Peach’s shoulder painfully. “We got it!” Peach grinned and nodded, dialing in sound levels as Captain Sol addressed the crew. “This is good stuff, boss.”

Shooting from port to starboard across the mezzanine deck, Zero framed a pointillist sunset of orange, lavender, and vermilion cirrus clouds.

Candlelit dining tables set for dinner dotted the foredeck as the
Trident
cruised due south. A warm wind played over the tables. The scientists and crew were finishing their dinner of orange roughy rice pilaf, and green beans almondine. All three cameramen circled the tables as the crew buzzed with curiosity about the upcoming announcement.

Captain Sol finally clanged a glass and, with the South Pacific sunset at their backs, he and Glyn addressed the crew.

“As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, we are now heading south,” the captain began, and he pointed his right arm dramatically over the prow.

Cynthea directed Peach to cut to the bridge-mounted camera that showed the
Trident
heading toward the southern horizon, then to another that showed the prow slicing through the sea, then back to the captain.

“A few hours ago we picked up an emergency beacon from a sailboat in distress.”

The crew chattered excitedly.

“We know that the vessel’s owner was rescued by the United States Coast Guard off Kaua’i during a storm five years ago. So either this boat has been adrift for five years, or it came aground on
the island south of us even before then, or someone else is on board it now. We tried hailing the vessel on emergency frequencies but got no response. Since search-and-rescue aircraft don’t carry enough fuel to reach this location from the nearest airfield, we have been asked to respond.”

A chorus of “Wow”s rose from the tables.

Glyn cleared his throat. The biologist was visibly nervous now that the cameras and lights turned to him. “The good news,” the Englishman announced, “is that the signal seems to have come from one of the world’s last unexplored islands.”

After twenty-one miserable days at sea, the distress signal itself was cause for celebration. But the opportunity to land on an unexplored island inspired thunderous applause from all.

“The island is only about two miles wide,” Glyn said, encouraged. He read from cue cards Nell had prepared for him. “Since it is located below the fortieth parallel, a treacherous zone mariners call the ‘Roaring Forties,’ shipping lanes have bypassed it for the last two centuries. We are now headed for what could well be the most geographically remote piece of land on the Planet Earth. This empty patch of ocean is the size of the continental United States, and what we know about it is about equivalent to what can be seen of the United States from its interstate highway system. That’s how sparsely traversed this part of the world remains to this day. And the seafloor here is less mapped than the surface of Mars!”

Glyn got an appreciative murmur out of the crowd and he charged on.

“There are only a few reports of anyone sighting this island, and only one report of anyone actually landing on it, recorded in 1791 by Ambrose Spencer Henders, Captain of the H.M.S.
Retribution.”

Glyn unfolded a transcript of Captain Henders’s log entry. This had been the remarkable glimpse into the unknown that fired Nell’s undergraduate imagination nine years earlier. With out stumbling too badly over the archaicisms and nautical abbreviations, he read: