Chapter 130

#Day 44 — 12:15

Zhao climbed the ladder with one hand, the lunch box tucked under his other arm.

The mast of the Blue Oasis rose high above the bridge, a spire of steel and composite that pierced the grey sky. From the deck, it looked impossibly tall—a needle threaded with cables and sensors, crowned by a small platform that seemed to float in the air. He had never been up here before. Had never had a reason to.

Now he climbed, rung by rung, the wind growing sharper with each meter. The ship rolled gently beneath him, and the ladder swayed in response, a slow, pendulous movement that made his stomach lurch. He gripped the rungs tighter and kept going.

Below, the bridge roof shrank to a postage stamp. Beyond it, the grey Atlantic stretched to every horizon, endless and indifferent. Gulls wheeled in the ship's wake, their cries thin and distant. The air smelled of salt and cold iron.

He had been looking for Kim for twenty minutes. Not on the bridge roof, where the engineering team had been running cables all morning. Not in the workshop, where Note was calibrating the new receiver modules. The last engineer leaving the roof—a woman Zhao recognized from the wreck salvage mission, her face still marked by a fading bruise—had pointed upward.

"She's still on the mast. Finishing the installation. Wouldn't come down for lunch."

Of course she wouldn't.

He climbed higher. The platform was just visible now, a metal grate suspended beneath the navigation lights. A figure moved there, small against the sky, her salvaged naval jacket too big for her frame, the sleeves rolled up to free her hands. Kim.

She was working on something—a small module, wires trailing from its casing, her fingers moving with quick, precise motions. She didn't look down. She probably hadn't heard him over the wind.

He reached the platform and pulled himself up, his arms burning with the effort. The view stole his breath.

The Blue Oasis spread beneath him like a map. The bridge, the forward decks, the spa's glass dome catching the grey light. The helipad, empty now, its painted circle fading. The wake unfurling behind them, a white scar on the dark water. And beyond—nothing but ocean. Three hundred and sixty degrees of it, endless and absolute.

He had never been this high on the ship. Had never felt so exposed, so small, and yet so strangely powerful. This was the vantage of gods and seabirds. This was what it meant to see the world without walls.

Kim glanced over her shoulder. "Took you long enough."

"I brought lunch."

She straightened, wiping her hands on her jacket. The sleeves fell past her wrists when she wasn't working, swallowing her arms. The jacket itself—salvaged from the HMS Somerset, its original insignia removed—now bore a simple patch on the shoulder: the NUWA logo, a woman's body curved like a snake, her hair flowing like water. The Blue Oasis claiming what it had taken.

"Lunch," Kim repeated. Her voice was flat, but her eyes flickered to the box under his arm. "What kind?"

"Open it and find out."

She sat on the platform, her legs dangling over the edge, and took the box. Zhao settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. The wind pulled at his hair, cold and sharp, but the jacket he wore—also salvaged, also rebranded with NUWA's snake-woman—kept the worst of it at bay.

Kim opened the lid.

Inside: spicy octopus, the tentacles curled and glistening with red chili oil, nestled beside thin slices of potato, pan-fried to golden crispness. The smell rose between them—garlic, chili, the sweet brine of the sea. Kim stared at it.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. For a long moment, she didn't move.

"Mei-Lin made it," Zhao said. "I asked her this morning. Told her to make something... Korean. Or close to it. The potatoes—" He hesitated. "I had to go through Noor to get those. They're heavily rationed. But you need the carbohydrates. All this manual work, climbing with that leg..."

Kim wasn't listening. She was staring at the octopus, her expression unreadable.

"Kim?"

She blinked. Her jaw tightened. Then, without a word, she leaned over and kissed him.

It was not gentle. Her mouth was urgent, almost desperate, her hands gripping the collar of his jacket and pulling him close. He tasted salt and the faint bitterness of coffee substitute on her lips. Her breath was warm against the cold wind.

Then she pulled back, picked up a piece of octopus with her fingers, and ate.

Zhao sat frozen, his lips still tingling. Kim chewed, swallowed, and reached for another piece. She didn't look at him.

He wanted to say something. Wanted to ask what that kiss meant, whether it was gratitude or something more, whether she was crossing a line he wasn't sure he could follow. But the words wouldn't come. He had climbed up here to spend time with his friend, to share a meal and talk about nothing important, and now—

"The installation's coming along well," Kim said, her voice utterly casual. "Until you showed up with lunch. Now I just want to fuck you."

He stared at her. Then, despite everything, he laughed.

She grinned, her mouth full of octopus, and the tension cracked like ice. They ate together, passing the lunch box back and forth, their shoulders pressed against the wind. She told him about the antenna array—how the hardware was nearly complete, how the real challenge would be system integration tomorrow, how NUWA would need to calibrate everything before they could run silent with confidence. He listened, asked questions, let the easy rhythm of their friendship settle back into place.

But underneath it, something hummed. A current. A question neither of them was asking.

They finished the food too quickly. The carbohydrate rationing had left everyone hungrier than they used to be, their bodies craving more even when their stomachs were full. Kim licked the last of the chili oil from her fingers and sighed.

"Now," she said, "I have energy."

"Energy for what?"

She looked at him, her eyes bright and wicked. "What do you think?"

He glanced around—the narrow platform, the wind, the endless drop to the deck below. "Here? You want to—here?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous. Because it's cold. Because any of the engineers could come back up that ladder and see us. Because—"

"They won't." Kim's grin widened. "They're lazy. They won't climb back up until their shift starts. We have time." She reached for his pants. "Come on. Just a quickie."

Her fingers found his zipper, worked it down. The cold air hit his skin, and he gasped. But her hand was warm, wrapping around him, stroking gently until he began to harden despite the wind.

"Kim—"

She silenced him with a kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. Her tongue traced his lower lip, and he tasted the chili oil still lingering in her mouth—spicy, warm, her.

Then she pulled back and reached for her own jumpsuit.

The zipper came down in one long, smooth motion, parting the heavy fabric from collar to crotch. Beneath it, she wore a simple white shirt, thin and worn, the fabric clinging to her small breasts. He could see the outline of her nipples, dark against the pale cotton.

She didn't stop there. From her tool belt, she produced a pair of scissors—compact, sharp, the kind she used for stripping wires. She looked at him, her eyes gleaming with mischief, and then she cut.

The scissors sliced through the crotch of her jumpsuit, widening the opening. The fabric parted, revealing smooth skin. No underwear. Nothing between her and the cold air.

And she was bare.

Zhao stared. Kim's pubic mound was completely smooth, shaven clean, the skin pale and soft-looking. Her outer lips were full, plump, pressing together in a seam that hinted at the darker flesh within. A small beauty mark—a single dark spot—sat high on her mound, just to the left of center. He had never noticed it before. Had never been this close, this focused, when she was naked.

She was so close now. The cut in her jumpsuit framed her pussy like a window, and as she shifted on the platform, moving closer to him, that window came within inches of his face. He could smell her—a musk, faint but unmistakable, warm and slightly salty. Not perfume. Not soap. Just Kim. The scent of a woman who had been working all morning, whose body was alive and responsive.

Her outer lips were smooth, the skin there slightly darker than her thighs, with a delicate texture he could see even in the grey light. The seam between them was a soft pink line, barely visible, promising the wet heat within. He wanted to touch. Wanted to taste.

"You like it?" she asked, her voice low.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good." She reached down, her fingers spreading her outer lips. The inner flesh was pinker, glistening already, and he caught a fuller wave of her scent—musky, warm, with a hint of something almost sweet. Her clitoris emerged from its hood, small and pink and already swollen. She touched it lightly, circling, and her breath caught.

"I shaved for you," she said. "Figured you'd like it. Your wives all do it. Wasn't hard to guess."

He laughed, the sound catching in his throat. "You're insane." His heart hammered against his ribs. Kim thrived where others feared to tread—first bent over a humming generator in the utility corridor, then pressed against the throbbing pipes of the engine room, and now here, suspended between sky and sea. No safety net, no promises, just Kim and her wild, reckless hunger that both terrified and thrilled him.

"Maybe." She released herself and moved toward him, her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back against the mast. The cold metal pressed through his jacket. He gripped the edge of the platform, his knuckles white.

"How are you going to hide that?" he asked, gesturing at the cut in her jumpsuit.

She shrugged, pulling her oversized jacket closed. The fabric fell past her hips, swallowing the evidence. "See? Easy."

Before he could protest further, she straddled him.

Her pussy pressed against his cock—still only half-hard from the cold and the shock—and she was dry. The friction was sharp, almost uncomfortable, but she didn't seem to care. She shifted her hips, adjusting the angle, and the safety harness she wore (always, when working at height) creaked as she moved the crotch strap aside.

"There," she murmured. "Now I can move."

She began to rock. Slowly at first, her hips rolling in a steady rhythm. The friction eased as her body responded, her natural wetness slicking his shaft. He felt himself harden fully inside her, the warmth of her enveloping him.

The wind whipped around them, cold and sharp, but Kim's body was warm against his. Her face was inches from his, her breath mingling with his. She kissed him again—deep, hungry—and he kissed her back, his hands leaving the platform's edge to grip her hips.

The danger was real. One wrong move, one slip, and he would fall. The deck was so far below that he couldn't see it without craning his neck. The wind tugged at him, trying to pull him sideways. His heart pounded—not just from arousal, but from fear. From the thrill of being so exposed, so high, so close to death.

And underneath the fear, something else. Excitement. A secret, shameful thrill that made his cock twitch inside her.

This is insane, he thought. We're insane.

Kim moved faster. Her harness creaked with each thrust. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her fingers digging into his shoulders through the jacket. He could feel her tightening around him, her rhythm growing erratic.

She came with a sharp cry, her body arching, her inner muscles clenching around him. Then she slowed, but didn't stop. Her hips kept moving, slower now, languid, as if she couldn't bear to let him go.

He followed moments later, his release spilling into her, his body shuddering against the cold mast. She held him through it, her arms wrapped around his neck, her face pressed to his shoulder.

When it was over, she didn't disengage. She stayed there, straddling him, her hips still rocking in tiny, almost imperceptible movements. Her breath was warm against his neck.

"Why?" she whispered.

He didn't pretend not to understand. "Why what?"

"Why do you care about me? The lunch. The potatoes. Coming up here to check on me." Her voice was small, stripped of its usual humor. "I'm not beautiful like your wives. I don't know how to take care of men like Aida or Mei-Lin. I'm just... me. Loud. Rough. Broken."

He held her tighter. "I didn't choose my wives for their beauty."

She pulled back, looking at him. Her eyes were wet.

"Vivienne—" He searched for the words. "Her passion. Her fire. When she believes in something, she burns. That's what drew me to her. And Mei-Lin... she's steady. Warm. Being with her feels like coming home. Like what a family should be."

"And Aida?"

He smiled, a little sad. "Aida is why I'm on this ship at all. I wouldn't be here without her. I've loved her longer than I've known her."

Kim nodded slowly. "And me?"

"You're honest. Simple. Fun. When I'm with you, I don't have to think too much. I don't have to be the vector, or the husband, or the hero. I can just... be." He touched her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "You occupy a different chamber in my heart, Kim. Not the same as them. But real. I don't know what to call it. I just know I don't want to lose it."

She was silent for a long moment. Then: "Are you friend-zoning me?"

He laughed, the sound surprised and genuine. "Would a friend fuck you on top of a mast in the middle of the ocean?"

Her lips twitched. "Maybe. If they were a really good friend."

"I don't know what you are," he admitted. "You're different. Not a wife. Not a stranger. Somewhere in between. That's the most honest answer I can give you."

She looked at him, her dark eyes searching his face.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "We're all stuck on this ship together. I'll be here. If you need me. I hope that's enough."

She leaned in and kissed him—soft, slow, a kiss that tasted of chili and salt and something that might have been acceptance.

"It's enough," she whispered.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, her body still pressed to his, the wind howling around them. Then, below, a figure emerged from the bridge entrance.

Choi.

She walked to the edge of the roof, her dark hair pulled back, her salvaged jacket zipped against the cold. She looked up, squinting against the grey light, and waved.

"You two coming down? Lunch is almost over!"

Kim and Zhao disengaged in a frantic scramble. He fumbled with his zipper, wincing as the metal teeth nearly caught sensitive skin. She yanked her jacket down, buttoning it to hide the cut in her jumpsuit. They looked at each other—flushed, breathless, guilty—and burst into giggles.

Choi, apparently oblivious, waved again and disappeared back inside.

Zhao looked down at her retreating figure. "Do you know her well? Choi, I mean."

Kim shook her head, still catching her breath. "Not really. Just from the wreck mission. And the victory ritual."

"Why not? I thought... you're both Korean. For all we know, you might be two of the few Koreans left in the world."

Kim's expression flickered. She was quiet for a moment, her gaze distant. "How long did you live outside China?"

"About a year. Exchange program in France."

"Did you know any Chinese born in France? Or anywhere outside China?"

He thought about it. The other exchange students—he had avoided them, preferring the solitude of his room, the familiar voices of old friends through social media, the endless scroll of Aida's videos (so much easier to access in France). He had never really talked to them. Never learned their names.

He shook his head.

Kim sighed. "Choi is not Korean. She's American."

"She has a Korean last name. She looks Korean."

"She can barely speak the language. Kindergarten level. She acts American, thinks American, eats American. There's almost nothing Korean about her except her face and her name. And even her name—her first name is Evelyn." Kim's voice hardened. "Even her face looks different. I can't explain it exactly. But Koreans born in America... there's something different. In the bone structure, maybe. Or the way they hold themselves. I can see it."

Zhao was quiet. He remembered similar conversations with friends back home—about American-born Chinese, how they were more American than Chinese, how they thought and acted like Americans with only a superficial similarity to those born in China. Some of his friends had insisted they shouldn't even be called Chinese. Han American, they'd said. Chinese is a nationality, a civilization. Not an ethnicity.

"Do you know Joyce?" Kim asked.

"Joyce who?"

"Joyce Oen. From my engineering team. You worked with her on the wreck salvage."

Zhao frowned, searching his memory. The girl with the short ponytail. Asian face. Quiet, competent. "What about her?"

"Why don't you know her better? She's Chinese."

He stared at Kim. "She's Chinese? She doesn't even have a Chinese last name. Her accent isn't Chinese. I thought she was from Vietnam, or somewhere in Southeast Asia."

"She's Chinese Indonesian. Fourth generation. Pure Chinese ancestry, but her family's been in Indonesia for over a century."

Zhao nodded slowly, the implications settling over him like the cold wind.

Would I still be Chinese?

The question surfaced unbidden. If the Blue Oasis formed its own unique culture—a culture built on sex, on intimacy, on bonds forged through pleasure and survival—would he still belong to the civilization that had shaped him? If he was the last Chinese vector, would Chinese civilization end with him, even if he lived?

He thought about Chinese New Year. The festivals of his childhood—the red envelopes, the dumplings, the fireworks, the family gathered around the table. His grandmother telling stories of the old country. His mother insisting he wear new clothes for good luck.

It was a celebration of survival, he realized. An agricultural society, celebrating that they had made it through another winter. That the planting season was beginning. That the family was still together, still strong, ready to work another year.

Was that so different from the victory ritual they had held after the wreck mission? They had come together to celebrate survival. To strengthen the bonds between them so that the next mission, they could protect each other better. The Chinese celebrated with food and family, signaling that this—nourishment, connection—was what they fought for.

The Blue Oasis fought for the same things. But their survival depended on sex. And sex, he realized, could be celebrated like food. If food bonded old societies, then sex could bond theirs.

But if sex became the primary focus of our culture... would I still be Chinese? Would a culture that celebrated harvests have any meaning here?

He didn't have an answer. But he realized, with a small measure of relief, that food was still important. His family still bonded over breakfast. The rice Noor was growing. The tea tree in the Willow. The feasts Mei-Lin prepared.

His culture wasn't erased. It was adapted. Carried forward in new forms.

He wanted to talk to Mei-Lin about this. Or maybe get to know Joyce better. The urge surprised him—he had never felt it before. But now, thinking about what he might lose, he wanted to hold onto whatever remained.

"Kim," he said quietly. "Do you miss your country? Your people?"

She looked out at the open sea. The wind pulled at her hair, and for a long moment, she didn't answer. When she spoke, her voice was thick.

"When I opened that lunch box today..." She stopped, swallowed. "The octopus. It wasn't exactly like my grandmother's. She used to make it when my father was working late at the shipyard. When my mother was still teaching math at the tutoring school. I'd come home and the whole house would smell like chili and the sea."

Her eyes glistened. "I hadn't thought about that in years. But the moment I saw it, I was back there. In that kitchen. With her."

She turned to him, and a single tear traced down her cheek. "Yes. I miss my home. I miss my family. And I know they're probably..." She couldn't finish.

Zhao reached out and took her hand.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For the lunch. For thinking of me. It helps. It keeps my memories alive. Keeps me alive."

She kissed him—slow, honest, a kiss that said everything she couldn't put into words.

When she pulled back, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and took a shaky breath. "Okay. Enough of that. I have a reputation to maintain."

Zhao smiled. "Your secret's safe with me."

He looked at her—really looked. Kim, with her sharp features and wiry strength. Her too-big jacket and her rolled-up sleeves. Her leg brace, hidden beneath the jumpsuit, that she never complained about. She was loud and rough and swore in Korean when she thought no one was listening. But she was also tender, in her own way. Loyal. Present.

She had been chosen by Blanc, like all the women on this ship. Not just for her skill, but for her looks. In his old school, she would have turned heads. She was attractive in a way that had nothing to do with softness—sharp, bright, alive.

But she was not his wife. She was something else. A companion. A colleague who had become more. He couldn't give her what he gave Aida, Mei-Lin, Vivienne, Chen. That part of his heart was already full.

But this part—the chamber where Kim lived—was real. And he hoped it was enough.

Kim's gaze sharpened. She was staring at something over his shoulder, her body suddenly still.

"Do you see that?"

He turned. The horizon was a grey line, smudged with clouds. But there—a speck. A shape. White against the dark water.

"A boat," he said. "A lifeboat, maybe."

Kim was already on her radio. "Bridge, this is Kim. We've got visual on something. Small craft, bearing approximately two-seven-zero. Looks like a lifeboat. Drifting."

Vivienne's voice crackled back. "We see it. Slowing to investigate. Get down here."

They climbed down the ladder together, their earlier intimacy forgotten in the rush of new purpose. By the time they reached the bridge, the main screen was already lit with the drone's feed.

The lifeboat drifted on the grey water, small and white, its shape eerily familiar. Zhao's stomach tightened. The refugee boat. The screaming. The crawlers bursting from human skin, tearing through the helpless. The memory was still fresh, still raw.

"Easy," Vivienne murmured, as if reading his thoughts. "We're not approaching until we know what's inside."

Linh guided the drone closer. The camera zoomed in, the image sharpening.

Bodies.

Five of them, sprawled across the bottom of the boat. Still. Silent. Their skin was pale, waxy, marked by the early stages of decomposition. They wore winter clothing—heavy jackets, insulated trousers—identical to the gear Zhao was wearing now. Salvaged from the HMS Somerset.

They had died in this boat, adrift on the endless sea.

Kim's voice was barely a whisper. "They're Somerset crew. What are they doing here? I thought they were all taken out by the enemy when they tried to escape."

Vivienne's jaw tightened. "Maybe this boat launched earlier than the rest. Before the attack."

Zhao stared at the screen. At the bodies. At the way they lay, still and peaceful, as if they had simply fallen asleep.

And then the question surfaced, cold and unavoidable.

"Why are they decomposing?"

The bridge fell silent.

Everyone knew what happened to the dead. They turned. The virus didn't let them rest. It reanimated them, twisted them, sent them hunting for the living. That was the rule. That was the horror they had all learned to accept.

But these bodies were simply... rotting. Like the dead of the old world. Like normal corpses.

"That's not how the virus works," Kim said slowly.

"No," Zhao replied. "It's not."

Vivienne's voice cut through the silence. "Council meeting. Now. And someone get Nadia—I want those Somerset files analyzed. Whatever's already recovered, I want it reviewed. There's something about that ship we don't understand."

She turned to the screen, her eyes fixed on the drifting lifeboat and its silent, decomposing dead.

"And we need to find out what it is. Before it finds us."

The drone circled once more, its camera lingering on the five bodies, on the crates of supplies that might have been meant for someone, on the unanswered question that hung over them all.

Then it turned, and the screen went dark.

Zhao stood at the window, watching the real horizon where the lifeboat was still too small to see. The wind had picked up, whitecaps forming on the grey water. Somewhere out there, five dead sailors were slowly returning to the earth, their bodies following the old rules instead of the new.

Why?

He didn't have an answer. But he knew, with a certainty that settled cold in his chest, that whatever secret the HMS Somerset carried, it would change everything.

Kim's hand brushed his—a brief, private touch, there and gone.

"Come on," she said quietly. "Council's waiting."

He followed her out of the bridge, his mind still turning over the image of those peaceful, rotting dead. The ship hummed beneath him, carrying them north, toward the Amazon, toward answers that might save them—or destroy them.

And somewhere behind them, the lifeboat drifted on, keeping its secrets.