Chapter 40

# Day 12 - 22:00

Verne stood at parade rest, boots planted in the threshold, but Sophie didn’t turn from the window. She held the wine glass by the stem, swirling the dregs in a precise circle. Her profile was knife-sharp in the half-light, the outline of her jaw bracketed by a single lock of silver hair.

“You almost died yesterday,” Sophie said, not a question. She spoke English with the lazy precision of someone who could choose six other languages but found this one the most efficient for delivering disappointment. “And you almost took the ship with you.”

Verne didn’t flinch. “The odds were better than reported. There was margin.”

Sophie smiled, a flicker in the glass’s reflection. “Margin for error. Margin for heroics. Is that what they taught you at Toulon?”

Verne’s jaw worked. “It’s what you hired me for, Madame.”

Sophie’s turn was slow, deliberate. She surveyed Verne from hairline to boots, eyes unblinking. “I did not hire you to captain a floating mortuary. The Blue Oasis was to be a haven. A seed for something new.” She sipped, savoring it, then set the glass on the desk with a sharp clink. “You understand this?”

“Of course,” Verne said. “But it’s not a haven. Not anymore.”

Sophie's gaze drifted toward the upper decks. "What about Zhao Xun? How is he adapting to all this?"

Verne hesitated. "Better than expected. He's... resilient."

Sophie leaned back, crossing her legs. "And the others? How do they respond to him?"

Verne's posture softened slightly. "They've formed a cohesion I didn't anticipate. His presence has become something of an anchor for morale."

“Barely.” Sophie reached into a drawer and produced a battered tablet. She tapped it twice, then angled the screen so Verne could see. A line graph shimmered blue, jagged as a mountain range. “Do you see the trend? Do you see the blips?”

Verne squinted at the tablet. "The viral load readings. They're higher than baseline projections."

Sophie's smile faded. "Much higher. Many survivors aboard are carrying concentrations that should have triggered conversion by now."

Verne's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Sophie swiped the tablet, producing a dossier. Zhao’s face, caught in a moment of mild surprise, filled the screen. “He has no training. No genetic preparation. No loyalty to the project. He was a mistake.”

Verne bristled. “He’s alive. The others—”

“Were chosen,” Sophie interrupted. “Bred, if we are being honest. Every factor calculated for stability. For obedience.” She tossed the tablet aside, as if bored by its inability to argue. “Zhao is not even type O. Did you know that? He should have rejected the vector outright.”

Verne blinked. “He’s not O?”

“No. AB. A hybrid. Not optimal, but… persistent.” Sophie seemed amused by the word. “He persists. That is why he is interesting.”

Verne's shoulders tightened beneath her uniform. "Permission to speak freely, Madame," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Zhao isn't our problem. It's this entire operation—fragmenting before our eyes. The freezer incident with Blanc. That navy vessel we found—comandeered by the monster. These weren't in any briefing." She leaned forward, just slightly. "What other surprises should I be preparing my crew for?"

Sophie's laugh was thin, almost pitying. "Then adapt. That's what you're supposed to do." She traced the rim of her glass with one manicured finger. "You think I engineered this nightmare? I merely saw it coming. Like watching a tsunami approach from a distance—you can't stop it, but you can build a boat." Her eyes hardened. "Do you imagine I enjoy carrying this virus in my blood? That I would choose this slow death if there were any other path?"

Verne didn’t answer.

Sophie rose, crossed to the credenza, and refilled her glass from a carafe older than the ship. “Do you know what Vivienne told me last night?” she asked, pouring.

Verne stayed still. “No, Madame.”

Sophie swirled the wine in her glass. "According to Vivienne, you owe your continued existence to her quick thinking. And to Zhao's... participation." Her eyebrow arched. "She was quite thorough in her account."

Verne kept her face impassive. “It was… unusual. But it worked.”

Sophie returned, sat on the edge of the desk, wine glass balanced on her knee. “You see? Adaptation. Not the rigid process, not the protocol. That’s why I selected you. Not for your medals, not for your titles.” She leaned in, her eyes sharp as glass. “But for your ability to improvise, to make hard decisions. And yet, here you are, drifting in circles.”

“We’re not ready to move,” Verne said, voice low but steady. “Not with the current supplies, not with morale this low, and not with the current crew training.”

Sophie set down the glass, disappointment thick as oil. “That is your job, Captain. You are supposed to make them ready. The crew is a reflection of the captain. If you fail, they die.”

Verne stiffened, shoulders squaring beneath her uniform. "We're holding together, but barely. The supply tender never made it to dock before—" She gestured vaguely toward the horizon where the world had ended. "If you want us to move to site thirty-four now, I'll need to double officers, increase security rotations, and triple the treatments with what little we have. Otherwise—"

Sophie waved her hand, dismissing the logistics. “Do what you must. But move the ship, and move it soon.”

Verne inclined her head, waiting for the inevitable escalation.

Sophie delivered. “Zhao is not the solution. He is an accident. You must not depend on him. The survivors… they are paying for my husband’s mistake.”

Verne tried not to show surprise. “You never wanted him here?”

Sophie laughed, hollow. “He was never meant to be. The vector was designed for Arnault. Years of grooming, prepping him to be the nucleus of a new order. Someone everyone could look up to, follow, breed with.” She spat the word. “Arnault had the right genes, the right temperament. And then my husband shot him.”

Verne hadn’t known that part. “Why?”

Sophie's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Because my husband realized what I was building. He couldn't bear to watch Arnault become the center of a new world when he wanted that throne for himself." Her fingers tightened around the glass. "Men and their harems. Such predictable fantasies."

She let the words settle, heavy as chain links.

Sophie's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. "After my husband shot Arnault, the hospital staff was in chaos. Some nurse—overworked, underpaid—mixed up their medication charts. Zhao, in for that minor concussion, received the vector dose meant for Arnault's recovery. By the time anyone realized..." She gave a bitter laugh. "Five years of genetic engineering, undone by a tired woman on a double shift."

Verne felt the gears shift. “So everything since—”

Sophie's eyes glittered like sunlight on water. "Was improvisation," she said, swirling her glass. "My improvisation. I had to get Zhao on board, quietly. The Blue Oasis would have been stocked and undergoing retrofit in site thirty-four by now, ready for whatever challenge the other vector ships might pose. Instead—" she gestured vaguely at the chaos around them, "—we have this."

Verne nodded once, not trusting herself to speak.

Sophie refilled her glass, not offering one to Verne. “If Arnault was here, the dawn meter would read single digits. There would be order, not chaos. But with Zhao, every reading is a coin toss. Up, down, wild swings.” She shook her head. “But you know what is strange? Despite it all, people are surviving.”

Verne allowed herself a half-smile. “Maybe that’s the point, Madame.”

Sophie looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “You think so?”

Verne shrugged, keeping it professional. “If the world ended because people couldn’t adapt, maybe the last ones left are the ones who break the most rules.”

Sophie seemed to consider this. “You are smarter than my daughter gives you credit for.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

Sophie set the glass down, rose, and approached until she was a half meter from Verne’s face. “You will take the ship to site thirty-four. You will do what is necessary. And if you need to use Zhao, use him, but do not let him become a crutch. He is not strong enough for that.”

Verne didn’t answer.

Sophie’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “If Arnault were the vector, we would all be stock. Broodmares. Inventories to fuck and retire.” Her gaze slid sideways, lost in thought. “But with Zhao, a strange thing is happening. There is camaraderie. Trust. I see a group, not a harem. A family, almost. It is an uncharted territory for me.”

Verne found her voice. “It’s uncharted for all of us.”

Sophie returned to her desk, eyes distant. “So adapt,” she said. “Use what you have. Finish the project. And get us to the finish line.”

Verne snapped a crisp salute. “Yes, Madame.”

Sophie's eyes warmed, just for a moment. "Before you go, Captain—the “key” from the Victoria. Was it salvaged?" Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. Verne gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Safe and secure, Madame. Handled with discretion, as ordered." Sophie's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "That's more like it. Now make yourself irreplaceable."

Verne pivoted and exited, boots silent on the carpet. In the hallway, she let the tension out of her neck, exhaled slow. On the bridge, she would have to find Zhao, recalibrate the next moves. The game was no longer about protocols. It was about surviving whatever plan the universe threw at them.

Behind her, the door clicked shut. Inside, Sophie poured another glass and watched the sea, waiting for the next plot twist.