Your Call
Taria Karillion
Midnight in the North Atlantic. An icy south-westerly whipped the waves mercilessly as they towered and crashed against the colossal hull of the Resolute, clawing at her bow like a thing enraged.
Captain Harrow stood braced at the helm like a pocket‑sized Poseidon; boots spread wide against the sway, white knuckles gripping the control and glaring out, one bushy eyebrow raised as if expecting the sea to calm itself for him out of sheer respect. As the ship’s belly groaned, his eyes narrowed against the black and white fury that howled in the darkness.
The comms crackled into life - barely audible over the whining gyros and bursts of static.
“Cargo vessel, cargo vessel…. Please identify …. this is …. on emergency channel sixteen …. Please state your intentions …. dangerously close proximity…. Please alter course immediately. Repeat, please alter course immediately. Over.”
Harrow snorted. “Who the hell do they think they are?” he muttered, grabbing the mic.
“Unidentified vessel, Unidentified vessel, this is The Resolute; ninety thousand tonnes of steel under international passage, a fully laden Panamax with two hundred souls aboard. I have prerogative. YOU alter course. Over.”
A pause. Then the voice returned, more firmly.
“Cargo vessel Resolute …. it is imperative - repeat IMPERATIVE - that you alter your heading without delay – you are on a direct collision course with us…. Please confirm your diversion course NOW. Over.”
Harrow’s First Mate shifted uneasily.
“Sir? Navigational sensors aren’t showing any large vessels and there’s nothing of size scheduled in this lane. Maybe it’s something small?”
Harrow’s jaw tightened. “I will not be bossed about by some five-hand fishing boat! They can bloody well get out of our way!”
He jabbed at the mic again.
“Now listen here, whoever you are, this is The Resolute. We are a sovereign vessel under international maritime law. We do NOT yield. Over!”
Harrow give a brisk nod of ‘put that in your pipe and smoke it, cheeky bugger’, and turned to his First Mate, who uttered a wordless squeak as his eyes widened and he raised his arm, pointing out through the rain-battered wheelhouse window. Through the mist, a vast shape was emerging—tall, unyielding, impossibly close, and a single blinding beam of light pierced the night sky and illuminated the cabin for just a moment, causing both men to shield their eyes.
Harrow’s face drained of color as his mouth dropped open and he let out a hoarse yell;
“ENGINES FULL REVERSE! HARD TO PORT! NOW, NOW, NOW!”
The radio crackled once more, then came,
“Resolute, be advised, we are categorically UNABLE to move - we are a LIGHTHOUSE!
… Your call!”
Taria Karillion
As the daughter of an antiquarian book dealer, Taria grew up surrounded by far more books than is probably healthy for one person. A Literature degree and some gratuitous vocabulary overuse later, her stories have appeared in a Hagrid-sized handful of anthologies and have somehow won enough literary prizes to fill his other hand. Despite this, she has no need as yet for larger millinery.