The lecturer wrote “RESILIENCE” on the whiteboard.
“People who exhibit the so-called survivor personality are flexible in the face of adversity. They regain their emotional balance quickly in response to setbacks. They can let things go and start over. They actually
gain strength
from adversity.”
The lecturer wrote “SELF-CONFIDENCE.”
“Survivors don’t need to prove anything to anyone. They don’t care if what they see and think doesn’t match what others around them see and think. They are competitive and tenacious and tackle problems head-on. They can be defiant.”
The lecturer wrote “PLAYFUL CURIOSITY.”
“Childlike curiosity and a playful, irreverent sense of humor often characterize survivors. In their daily lives, they do things to test limits, gauge reactions. They take risks, break rules. They experiment to find out what they can get away with. They laugh at threats and authority figures. They don’t let situations scare them or have power over them.”
The lecturer wrote “ALERTNESS.”
“Survivors have a sort of personal radar going at all times. They are attuned to even slight changes in their environment. They read new developments and changing situations quickly, usually before others do. They read
people
quickly.”
The door of the auditorium banged, causing the lecturer to stop. He craned his neck and stared into the dimness at the back of the room. Someone had come in. People shuffled, sending a flurry of agitated motion down the rows as the newcomer took a seat near the back.
The lecturer frowned. Trying to recapture his train of thought, he turned to the board again, and wrote “UNPREDICTABILITY.”
“In almost all survivors, there is a tendency to have pairs of contradictory, opposing personality traits called
biphasic
personality traits. Survivors can be simultaneously self-confident and self-critical, optimistic and pessimistic, selfish and selfless, rebellious and cooperative. Far from being a weakness, this emotional flexibility is one of a survivor’s great strengths. They are able to bring different responses to bear when situations change rapidly or become chaotic. For this reason, other people often characterize survivors as unpredictable.”
The lecturer wrote “EMPATHY.”
“Survivors are usually highly empathic people. They feel the pain of others strongly. In a life-or-death situation, they are often the ones doing the most to support and help others. However, sometimes not everyone can be saved. Survivors are also capable of making excruciatingly tough choices and choosing courses of action in order to survive that society at large might not deem acceptable. This ‘selfish altruism’ is one of the biphasic characteristics that survivors share.”
The lecturer wrote “INTUITION.”
“Survivors trust their feelings. They trust what their instincts tell them about situations and other people. While logical, they aren’t paralyzed by analysis. They take action instinctively, quickly, often before they really know why they are doing so. This intuitive ability to read situations and people makes many survivors formidable manipulators. They are skilled at getting others to do what they want.”
A bark of abrasive laughter from the back of the auditorium, followed by angry shushing and more rustling in the rows. The lecturer paused. Was somebody drunk? Or on drugs? That was the problem with opening this kind of lecture to the public. He peered out over the tops of his glasses. The commotion stopped. Then he turned to the board again.
He wrote “SYNERGY” on the whiteboard.
“Survivors are creative, intuitive problem solvers. They find easy solutions to difficult problems. That ability to make things look easy can be misinterpreted by others. When things are working well, survivors can appear lazy, disengaged, willing to let things run themselves. But when situations get dire they step in and take charge as needed. Others frequently mistake the easy competence with which a survivor approaches daily life as either laziness, indifference, or a lackadaisical attitude.”
The lecturer wrote “SPIRITUALITY.” He looked at his audience and cleared his throat.
“Now we come to the discussion of aspects that make psychologists and other scientists uncomfortable. But there is no denying that in the study of survivors, we see a side that is often considered mystical and unscientific. Survivors frequently describe their experiences in religious or spiritual terms. In retrospect, they often speak of faith, of an unshakable belief that they were meant to live through their experience. Some describe sensing a comforting presence when they were at their lowest ebb. Others swear that they were externally guided to do the things that ensured their survival. Unscientific? Maybe. But perhaps not.
“Our understanding of the human brain is still only rudimentary. Perhaps there is a scientific explanation for these phenomena to be found in the fact that most of us are able to tap only a small fraction of our brain’s full potential. Survivors may represent those few percent who are able to access unmapped facilities of the brain that remain mostly dormant in the rest of us.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your time and interest. Are there any questions?”
Hands went up. The lecturer pointed. The murmur of the audience died down as the first questioner spoke.
“There are limits, right? I mean, survivors don’t always survive.”
The lecturer smiled. “Yes, there are limits. Survivors aren’t superhuman. Sometimes the objective hazards are simply too great, the conditions too extreme, for survival. Even among survivors, there is always a hierarchy. Some are more resilient than others. Every survivor has his or her own breaking point.”
The lecturer scanned the audience. For the second question, he selected a raised hand near the front of the room.
“How does someone know if they’re a survivor?”
“Well, there’s the rub, isn’t it? There’s no easy answer.”
The lecturer lowered his glasses, considering the question further.
“Well, actually, there is an easy answer, though it’s not a particularly useful one most of the time. You can conclude that someone is a survivor after he or she survives, even thrives, under circumstances that would kill most people. Until then, your guess is as good as mine. Next question.”
The third question came from the darkness at the back of the room. It sent a ripple of displeased murmurs through the audience.
“What would happen if a group of survivors ended up having to compete with each other to survive? Who would win?”
C
amilla stood at the rail on the upper deck. The megayacht glided out from under the Golden Gate Bridge and headed into open water. She watched the massive pylons recede behind her, the bridge glowing a soft red-orange in the light of the setting sun. She took a deep breath and turned her face up to the last rays.
Closing her eyes, she let the wind play through her hair. She would go inside the salon in a moment, to mingle with the hosts and meet the other contestants. It was time to start doing what she did best. To give herself an advantage in whatever “team-oriented competition” was planned, she needed to figure out who she wanted on her team. But not quite yet.
The ship sliced an arrowhead of white foam through the dark water. It cruised regally past smaller sailboats and pleasure craft, then turned south, parallel to the coast. Scattered lights were coming on along the headlands. Camilla pulled her jacket tighter against her shoulders.
“You look just like that scene from the movie
Titanic.
”
Camilla turned her head and raised a hand to hold her hair out of her face. “God, I hope not. That didn’t end so well.” She peered up into the easy smile of the man who had just now joined her at the rail. “This ship is amazing, though. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Have you?”
He looked around the deck. Another contestant? She studied him. He wore a camel-hair sport coat, pinstripe shirt, and slacks. Nice shoes, too.
“Not in San Francisco, I haven’t.” He grinned. “In St. Tropez, Porto Cervo, St. Barts, places like that—sure. Makes you wonder what they want from us, doesn’t it?” His thin-framed glasses looked expensive. A banker?
She followed his gaze to take in the sweep of contoured white paneling, dark-tinted glass, and blond teak deck that stretched to either side of them. Blue reflections danced in the distance. “Is that a pool?” she asked.
“One of them—there’s another up front.” He held out a hand. “Mason Gray, by the way. I take it you’re a contestant, too?”
“Camilla Becker.” She shook his hand. He had short brown hair, a conservative haircut. “So what do you do when you’re not auditioning for reality shows, Mason-Gray-by-the-way?”
“I’m in finance.” She was right: a banker. “Fixed-income assets and derivatives. Boring stuff. You?”
“Animated film.”
He smiled a wolf’s smile. “Okay, Miz Camilla Becker who works in animated film, probably over in Emeryville…”
Boom!
she thought.
He’s sharp.
“Look around you. What do you see?” He was watching her closely. She took her time answering.
“Money—heaps and gobs of it.”
“But what
don’t
you see a lot of?”
Together they looked across the wide, vacant deck and through sliding glass doors into the brightly lit interior of the main salon. A few people were visible inside. They were scattered in small, awkward groups around the vast space. Their body language said they were all strangers to each other.
“People,” she said. “There’s hardly anybody onboard.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“What does it tell
you
?” she replied.
He leaned back against the railing, slid his hands into his pockets, and crossed his ankles. The smile left his face. “It tells me there’s a hard sell coming. And they expect to close this deal. They don’t expect anyone to back out.”
Feeling a twinge of apprehension, Camilla looked back over her shoulder at the Golden Gate Bridge, far behind them now.
“How can they be so sure we’re all going to sign on?” she asked.
Mason pushed off the railing. He grinned again. “We should go inside, see how the land lays. Because if this was a three-hour dinner cruise, we’d be circling the bay. Instead we’re headed south right now, at top speed.”
“T
his part was a piece of cake,” Cory said. “And for a change, I’m not wet or covered in some nasty shit.” The hum of the ship’s engines was loud. He eyed the client. Definitely not a scientist, this one. Cory wasn’t buying it. He waved a hand in the direction of the main salon, three levels above them. “Lights, camera, action—we’re live now.”
“Show me.”
“Pay me.”
He took the envelope and thumbed through the bills, counting. They were all hundreds. It took him a while, because there were a lot of them. He had earned it, though. He was proud of the work he had done. Too bad he couldn’t reference it for future jobs. It was truly state of the art.
“Okay, good, that’s me,” he said. “But what about the other techs? We need to pay them, too.”
“They’ve been taken care of already. Out at the site yesterday.”
“They were supposed to let me know when they finished.”
The client didn’t say anything to that.
“Weirdest job I ever did.” Cory shook his head, looking around at the gleaming chrome engines. So clean. Not like any ship he had ever been on before. He should have asked for more money. “Getting tangled up in that ropy shit, all those goddamn animals. Those big ugly things—Jesus, I was sure one of us was gonna get killed.” He rubbed a thumb along his chin, looking at the client. “If I knew what we were getting into, I might’ve said no.”
The client didn’t say anything to this, either.
Cory reached into a pocket. He pulled out the controller, tapped a few times on the touch screen, and handed it to the client. “Go nuts. I watch Discovery Channel sometimes. Let me know how it turns out.” He slipped the envelope into his pocket. “Well, okay then, that’s it.”
The client looked at the screen, slid a finger back and forth across it, and nodded. “Yes, that’s it.”
The pain was unbelievable. Cory fell to the floor, gasping, and watched the client’s other hand slip something back into a pocket. His world faded to white.
• • •
“Know the rule of three?”
Cory’s eyes flickered twice, then opened. It felt as though some time had gone by. The engines sounded different now. His whole body hurt. He strained to remember what had happened, but couldn’t. He recognized the voice, though. It was his client. Something was very wrong here.
He tried to move and heard a crackling noise beneath him, like plastic. A tarp? His eyes flew wide. He was tied down, his arms and legs restrained somehow. He could barely twitch them. A blast of adrenaline jolted his limbs, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Three months without human companionship.”
The client’s voice came from behind Cory’s head. A bright light dazzled his eyes, making him squint. The light came from long LED strips running directly above him, in a ceiling fixture that seemed too close. Where was he? Sick with terror, he tried to yell, but only a wheeze came out.
“Three weeks without food.”
He heard the client’s steps, moving away now. He was lying on a table of some kind. He could see shiny tools and parts gleaming on the spotless walls. The ship’s machine shop! But he couldn’t turn his head. This was bad, really bad. A tremor ran through his body. He wheezed again, feeling the spit dribble down his cheek.
“Three days without water.”
Metal clinking. Scrapes. Cory could hear his own gasping. Oh Jesus, he’d give the money back, all of it, never say anything to anyone about this ever. He needed to tell the client that. But he couldn’t form the words.
“Three hours without shelter.”
The client stepped into view, holding a four-foot pipe wrench. The heavy wrench thudded onto the table beside Cory. The client was wearing a plastic rain poncho now, the disposable kind.
“Three minutes without air. You should focus on that one right now.”