Chapter 66

# Day 17 - 20:23

The treatment suite had never been this quiet, not even during the first lockdown. That was when there were still rules, or something close—no nudity except for official sessions, no unscheduled visitors, no drifting off in the common area like a feral animal. Now the rules had been eaten, spat out, and trampled under the heavy boots of exhaustion.

Aida stood naked in the middle of it, damp hair dripping onto the tops of her feet, towel draped over one shoulder. Mei-Lin had insisted on a night shower—solidarity, she said, and a way to rinse off the funeral. The water pressure was weak, the showerhead clogged with mineral, but it didn’t matter. Mei-Lin’s hands had washed Aida’s back with clinical efficiency, and when Aida turned, she’d let the girl knead the old ache from her shoulders, her fingertips leaving goosebumps behind.

They emerged together, a ripple of cool air raising the hairs on their arms and thighs. The lamps in the suite were set low—soft yellow against the dark wood and blue velvet furniture, the only thing in the room that wasn’t improvised or salvaged. In the main chamber, Zhao was already sprawled on his back, a thin blanket draped over his lower half, mouth open, eyes moving in REM beneath the lids. He snored like a man with nothing left to prove.

Aida hated it. Hated the sound, the way he turned the whole bed into an uncaring slab of heat and noise, but tonight, she'd forgive anything. The past forty-eight hours had buried too many of them. Each new body wrapped and weighted meant another skill, another story, another piece of humanity sinking to the ocean floor. Their floating sanctuary grew smaller with each loss. She watched his chest rise and fall, his mouth slack in exhaustion. He'd barely managed a word before collapsing, his body surrendering to a fatigue that seemed to seep from his very skin.

Mei-Lin padded across the room, unselfconscious, her own skin glistening with microbeads of water. Her body was a diagram in estrogen: the breasts round and high, the belly soft and flat, the hips curving out then in as if drafted by someone nostalgic for the old “feminine ideal.” Her nipples were taut and pink, the areola a perfect circle, as if colored in with a child’s marker. Her pubic mound was hairless, the skin unblemished except for a single, silvery scar where the ring had been. She saw Aida watching and winked.

“You want oolong, or the fake coffee?” Mei-Lin asked, opening the tiny galley fridge with a motion so practiced it was nearly blind.

“Oolong. No sugar,” Aida said. She reached for the shelf, took down three mugs, set them with the handles aligned. Ritual, even now.

Mei-Lin fished out a Tupperware, peeled the lid. “Cake?” She poked the contents, then licked her finger. “It’s better today. I added more fenugreek.”

“Don’t say that word,” Aida muttered, mock-gagging. “Tastes like maple syrup and gym shorts.”

Mei-Lin grinned, scooped a slice onto each plate. She joined Aida at the low table, curling her legs under her, thighs flattening against the cool lacquered wood.

Aida poured the tea. Steam rose, bringing with it the comfort of grass and citrus and sugar. She sipped, felt the flavor cut through her headache, the first decent sensation all day.

She sat back, letting her spine fall into the deep cushions of the lounge. Her breasts, heavier than they’d been even last week, sagged just a little more than she liked, but she didn’t bother to cross her arms. She watched Mei-Lin slice into the cake, watched the girl’s tongue catch a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and felt something inside her unspool: not lust, exactly, but the primitive urge to nurse, to anchor, to belong.

From the other room, a series of clatters—a dropped tablet, maybe—and then Vivienne appeared. Fully clothed, or at least mostly: black leggings, white tank top, a light blue cardigan buttoned all the way up despite the heat. She carried her own mug, but set it down without drinking, then stood with both hands clasped in front, as if waiting for an order to stand at ease.

Aida smiled. “You’re home early,” she said, then immediately regretted it. “I mean—” She gestured at the couch. “Sit. Please.”

Vivienne hesitated, then did, perching on the edge of the seat like someone unused to furniture.

Mei-Lin made a show of pouring a third cup. “Oolong? Or should we call it something fancier for Captain?”

Vivienne’s eyes flicked to Aida, then back. “Oolong is fine. Thank you.” She accepted the cup and held it in both hands, the steam blurring her vision. For a long moment, she said nothing.

Aida let the silence go. She watched the way Vivienne sat, every muscle tight, feet together, knees at the precise angle of propriety. In the past, Aida had admired that—her own posture had always gone to hell the second the cameras shut off—but now she wanted to see Vivienne slouch, to see her loosen the bun at the nape of her neck, to watch her exhale and believe the world wouldn’t collapse.

Mei-Lin was already halfway through her slice. She glanced at Aida, then nodded toward Vivienne. Aida understood, leaned in.

“Rough day?” she asked, low and soft.

Vivienne sipped her tea, letting the heat bloom against her tongue before swallowing. Her shoulders remained squared, military-straight. "Two funerals before noon. Then Carmona's assassin killing spree. Navigation training after lunch. And just before dinner, an eighteen-year-old tells us that Carmona is not even the biggest threat." She exhaled through her nose, the sound barely audible. "The captain's bars feel very heavy."

Aida wanted to touch her, but didn’t. Instead, she let her own hand drift to Mei-Lin’s, squeezing it briefly under the table.

Mei-Lin squeezed back, then scooted closer to Aida, pressing her thigh against Aida’s. She set her fork down, licked her lips, and looked at Vivienne. Mei-Lin sliced a piece of cake, placed it on a small plate, and extended it toward Vivienne with a gentle smile. Vivienne accepted it, her fingers brushing against Mei-Lin's. Something in her chest loosened—the treatment room's soft lamplight and casual intimacy so unlike the bridge's harsh fluorescents and constant alarms.

Aida glanced at Zhao, still out cold, then back at the two women. “You can change, if you want. The other shower’s free.”

Vivienne glanced down at her clothes, as if just noticing them. “Oh. I… no, I’m fine like this.” She reached for her tablet, then realized she’d left it by the door. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit for a while.”

Aida shrugged. “We mind less than you think.”

For the next few minutes, they drank in silence, the only sound the drone of the air system and the distant roll of the ship.

Mei-Lin broke the quiet, leaning into Aida’s shoulder. “We need to do maintenance.”

Aida stifled a laugh. “Is it that time already?”

“Three days without a proper expression and you’ll get mastitis,” Mei-Lin said, very matter-of-fact. She reached for the bottle of lanolin on the table, then started massaging it into her own breast, making small, circular motions with her thumb and forefinger. She handed the bottle to Aida, then moved behind her, kneeling on the cushion. With expert care, she began to knead Aida’s shoulders, then slid her hands around to the breasts, cupping them in her palms, thumbs stroking the swollen tissue.

Aida hissed, then sighed. “You have good hands,” she said, closing her eyes.

Mei-Lin leaned in, her lips brushing Aida’s ear. “You say that every time.”

Aida reached back, threading her fingers through Mei-Lin’s. Together, they squeezed, then worked the glands near the areola, the familiar burn flaring then receding as the milk began to flow. Aida opened her eyes, saw the first bead appear at her nipple, then two, then a slow, steady drip onto her thigh.

“Here,” said Mei-Lin, producing a small dish from nowhere. She angled Aida’s nipple over it, milk spattering the surface with a sound like rain. Aida felt a shiver run through her, half pleasure, half relief.

Vivienne watched, her face unreadable. “Does it hurt?” she asked, not quite able to look away.

“Only if you don’t do it,” said Mei-Lin. “Think of it like—dental hygiene. You skip too many days, things rot.”

Aida chuckled. “It’s not that bad. But it does feel better after.”

She let her head fall back onto Mei-Lin’s shoulder. The girl hugged her from behind, the touch so gentle it almost undid Aida.

After a minute, Mei-Lin leaned over the couch, cupping the dripping breast with both hands, and kissed the top of Aida’s head. Then she returned to her seat, content.

Aida wiped herself off, then took a deep breath. She turned to Vivienne, voice low. “You know, you’re allowed to relax. In here, anyway.”

Vivienne smiled again, this time with more sincerity. “I am trying.”

Aida believed her.

The doorbell rang—two sharp chimes, then a third. Mei-Lin tensed. Aida reached for her robe, shrugged it over her shoulders, tying it at the waist. She motioned for Mei-Lin to do the same; the girl obeyed, wrapping herself in a pink bathrobe with a cartoon lamb stitched over the left breast.

Vivienne rose instantly, smoothing her hair with both hands, and walked to the door. When she opened it, Iqbal stood on the other side, tablet in one hand, hair frizzed from either sweat or speed. Her white lab coat was streaked with something dark, her eyes ringed with fatigue.

"Captain." Formal. Professional.

Vivienne shook her head. "When I'm off duty, it's Vivienne."

Iqbal blinked, then nodded. "Vivienne. I need to speak to the treatment team. It's urgent."

Vivienne looked back at Aida. Aida nodded.

She stepped aside. "Come in."

Aida slipped into her silk kimono robe, the fabric sliding over her skin like a second layer. Mei-Lin wrapped herself in a bathrobe, tying the belt with quick, efficient motions. Zhao didn't stir. He was too far gone, too exhausted to notice anything.

Iqbal stepped inside, her eyes briefly taking in the room—the intimacy, the warmth, the sleeping man—before settling on Aida.

"I'm sorry to intrude so late." Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly. "It's Chen Wei. Her condition is worsening."

Aida felt the words like a physical blow. "How bad?"

"Her Dawn Meter is rising faster than we can counter. She's not responding to the experimental drugs Saanvi and I developed. And the traditional suppressants—the sex drugs—are gone." Iqbal paused. "We used the last of them during the mass treatment in the submarine."

Mei-Lin's hand found Aida's. Squeezed.

"The good news," Iqbal continued, "is that the other women are stable. The critical cases from the submarine have all been treated. Chen is the only one we can't reach." She looked at Zhao, then back at Aida. "We need to treat her. Tomorrow, ideally. But I'm not sure she'll last that long."

Aida shook her head. "Zhao is in no condition. And even if he were, Chen isn't ready for him. She's not ready for any man."

Iqbal's gaze shifted to Aida's chest, then to Mei-Lin's. "Your milk. If we could boost the suppressant concentration—"

Aida shook her head again. "We've been lactating continuously for days. Our bodies are depleted. The suppressant levels are too low."

Iqbal produced two test tubes from her bag, each containing a clear reagent. "Then let's be sure."

Aida hesitated, then loosened her robe. One side fell away, exposing her breast. She squeezed gently, directing a stream of milk into the first tube. The liquid swirled, then settled into a pale, watery blue.

Mei-Lin did the same. Her milk produced the same result.

Iqbal held the tubes up to the light. "Light blue. Barely any suppressant left." She looked at them. "What are your own Dawn Meter readings?"

Aida checked the tablet on the counter. "Fifty-two percent." She looked at Mei-Lin.

"Fifty-one," Mei-Lin said quietly.

Iqbal's face tightened. "You're both in the danger zone. If you lose any more suppressant, with Zhao unable to recharge you..." She didn't finish the sentence.

Silence settled over the room.

Aida closed her eyes, thinking. Remembering. The first time she'd broken through to Zhao. The way her presence had calmed him, anchored him, made him feel safe enough to try.

Imprinting, she'd called it. Not a word she'd ever used professionally, but it fit. Presence. Familiarity. Trust.

She opened her eyes. "Chen needs me. Not Zhao. Not yet. She needs to get used to my presence—my smell, my voice, my touch. I need to stay with her. All night, if necessary."

Mei-Lin's hand tightened on hers. "Your own meter—"

"Will hold." Aida's voice was firm. "I'm an Oasis woman. Chen isn't. She's dying, Mei-Lin. I have to try."

She turned to Mei-Lin. "Your job is Zhao. Get him back to strength. Feed him, rest him, do whatever it takes. Our lives depend on him being able to recharge us."

Mei-Lin nodded, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Vivienne spoke for the first time. "I'll prepare her bunk. Make sure there's a wider bed, something comfortable. Kim's crew can handle it."

Aida met her eyes. "Thank you."

Vivienne nodded. For a moment, something passed between them—recognition, perhaps, of the weight they both carried.

Then Aida was moving, tying her robe, heading for the door.

They left Zhao asleep on the bed, snoring like a small engine, and walked out together.

Five minutes later, they’d try to save a life. Maybe two, if they were lucky.

#Day 17 - 21:02

The medical bay at night was nothing like the day: no buzz of traffic, no cacophony of machines or shouting. Just the fluorescent hum, and the hush of barely-contained fear.

Aida padded in on bare feet, silk kimono fluttering behind her. She saw Chen at once, propped up in the high hospital bed. The girl’s skin shone with a glaze of sweat, her arms curled to her chest like a wounded animal. The breathing wasn’t bad yet, but Aida could see the signs—hyperventilation, fingers twitching, every muscle tensed in anticipation of pain.

On the wall above, the Dawn Meter display glowed a cold, merciless blue: 54%. The number pulsed slightly, in sync with the heart rate. Next to it, Saanvi Rao watched, arms folded tight.

“She’s burning through suppressant like a hot knife,” Saanvi said, not looking away. “When she first came in, it was mid-forty. Now… this.”

Aida checked her own wrist. 52%. She felt fine, but the number itself was a goad, a reminder. For Oasis women, it didn’t show on the outside, not until 60 or 70. But for someone like Chen…

“She’ll crash,” said Saanvi. “Within three days. Maybe less. The metabolic load is brutal.”

“Any chance we can slow it down?”

Saanvi shrugged. “Only if we get her something—someone—who can transfer suppressant to her system. Otherwise, it’s just a matter of hours.”

On the other side of the room, Kim and two of her mechanics hammered at the base of an empty bunk. They were building a new frame, something wider, softer, nothing like the hard metal racks used on the lower deck. Victoria sat at the door, legs stretched out, eyes on everything but Chen. Aida felt the security; she also felt the judgment, the silent assessment from all sides.

She moved to the bed. The closer she got, the more she could see: the way the muscles in Chen’s face rippled, the jaw clenched tight, the little beads of sweat marching down her temples, the skin so thin and pale it looked translucent. Her arms were nothing, just corded muscle and bone under the paper of her skin. The blankets covered most of her, but Aida knew—underneath, it was all scars.

Aida reached out, took Chen’s hand. The girl flinched at first, then stilled, the trembling in her fingers fading a little.

“Hey,” said Aida. “It’s just me.”

Chen didn’t answer. She stared at the ceiling, lips pressed to a line, every part of her broadcasting agony and anxiety, overlapping and indistinguishable. She was suppressing it with everything she had.

Aida stroked the back of the hand, felt the pulse galloping under the skin. “You don’t have to talk,” she said, “but if you want to, I’m here.”

For a long moment, nothing. Then, so quiet it was almost inaudible, Chen whispered, “It’s better now.”

Aida stayed, not letting go, just anchoring herself as the sweat slowly dried on Chen’s brow. The meter stopped climbing—only a tiny difference, but Aida noticed.

Saanvi hovered, but when she saw the stabilization, she nodded once. “Call if you need anything,” she said, then walked to the far side of the bay, where a security guard lay in a mesh hammock, one arm in a cast. She spoke softly, blending into the machinery background.

The door closed with a hiss.

Aida turned back. “You want a sip of water?”

Chen nodded.

Aida uncapped a bottle, held it to her lips. Chen sipped, then more, then a full mouthful. Aida wiped her chin with a corner of the blanket.

“You smell good,” Chen said, not looking at her.

Aida smiled. “Thanks. It’s just soap. I’m not much for perfume.”

“Not the soap,” Chen said. “You. The smell of your skin.” She turned her head a little. “Is it the same for all the women here?”

Aida shook her head. “No. Everyone’s different.” She moved closer. “I’m older, so my skin’s more… leathery, probably.”

Chen actually laughed—an awkward, ugly sound, but real. “You don’t smell old.”

“Trust me. I do, compared to the others.”

They were silent again. The numbers on the Dawn Meter glowed steady. 54%.

“Are you beginning treatment now?” Chen asked, voice so dry it cracked.

“Yes,” said Aida. “But not the way you’re thinking.”

Chen let out a long, slow breath. “I’m ready for anything,” she said, but it was the voice of someone who had already decided to die.

Aida squeezed her hand. “That’s not what I want. I just want to talk. To let you get used to being with someone. No one’s going to force you to do anything.”

Chen lay still for a moment, then said, “You’re very gentle.” It was not a compliment, just a fact.

“I can be mean, too,” said Aida. “But only if you want.”

This time, Chen smiled—not with her mouth, but with her eyes. “I don’t want.”

They sat, hand in hand, the seconds ticking by.

Suddenly, Chen said, “Zhao. He’s sick, isn’t he?”

Aida blinked. “You noticed?”

Chen nodded. “His pheromones are… off. His body is stressed.” She tilted her head, blank eyes searching for Aida’s face. “You think he’ll get better?”

Aida hesitated. “I hope so.”

Chen shifted under the blanket, wincing. “Then it’s you, and Mei-Lin, and… who else?”

Aida shrugged. “Vivienne, but now she is the captain. We do what we can.”

Chen nodded, accepting this. She released Aida’s hand, then reached up, both arms extended. “Can I touch your face?”

Aida leaned forward, bringing her face within reach. Chen’s hands mapped it gently—thumbs tracing the line of the jaw, the cheeks, the arch of the brow. She explored the lips, the nose, the edges of the ears. Her hands were so light Aida barely felt them.

“You have a pretty face,” Chen said, simply.

Aida laughed, but not unkindly. “It’s been through a lot.”

“Are all the women here this pretty?”

Aida considered. “Prettier, probably. And healthier.”

Chen’s face flickered. She drew her hands back to her chest. “Mine is the ugliest on this boat.” She said it not with self-pity, just truth. “Thank you for not… looking away.”

Aida clasped her hand again, both of hers now, struck by how Chen's fingers trembled like any teenager's might—this brilliant mind housed in such fragile architecture. Behind those sightless eyes lay perhaps the sharpest intellect Aida had ever encountered, analytical enough to calculate trajectories in seconds, yet vulnerable enough to doubt her own worth. "You're worth saving," Aida said softly.

Chen held on tight, as if it might keep her afloat.

“How do you plan to do it?” she asked. “How do you plan to fix me?”

Aida thought for a while. Then: “It depends. On you. On what you want. Sometimes, the virus can be tricked. If you trust me, we might be able to push it back.”

Chen took a long, shuddery breath. “It’s very different here.”

Aida said, “From the Red Solstice?”

Chen nodded. “Carmona ran it like a barracks. No privacy. Every day was torture, but organized. Predictable.” She paused, then, with the faintest of laughs, “I never thought I’d prefer a harem ship to a barracks, but…” She shook her head, embarrassed. “It’s less humiliating, somehow.”

Aida just held her hand, stroking the skin with her thumb, letting the silence fill with something that wasn’t fear.

“I’m ready,” Chen said, voice so soft it could have been a ghost.

Aida smiled. “Ready for what?”

Chen smiled, too, just a crack at the corner of her mouth. Chen had a gift for hearing what wasn't said, for extracting truth from the spaces between words.

They sat together. Time stretched.

Chen spoke again, after a while. “You’re not like the others.”

Aida tilted her head. “How so?”

Chen shifted beneath the blanket. "You're steady. Your hands, your voice. Like you've seen everything already."

Aida looked down at their joined fingers, hesitated. "I worked in adult films for...a while." Her voice softened. "You learn to separate yourself from what's happening to your body."

That stopped Chen, who turned her head, blind eyes pointed right at her. “Really?”

“Really.”

Chen said, “I’ve never seen porn. I know what it is, but…” She trailed off, her face darkening. “I guess I never will, now.”

Aida felt a pang of guilt. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Chen said, a trace of excitement in her voice. “I want to know. What’s it like?”

Aida sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s it like? To be an adult actress?”

Chen nodded, eyes wide. It was like watching a child discover a secret world.

Aida thought. “It’s a job, mostly. Lots of waiting around, makeup, fake orgasms. But sometimes it was fun. And sometimes it was just… humiliating. But even the worst days, it was still better than being poor and alone.”

Chen’s fingers curled in the blanket. “You chose it?”

Aida nodded. “No one forced me. Not at first.”

Chen seemed to absorb this. “Why did you do it?”

Aida took a deep breath. “I needed the money. Then I liked the sex. Then I liked being needed. Then I liked being famous. It’s stupid, but it’s true.”

Chen’s voice was very small. “Was it ever… good?”

Aida surprised herself. “Sometimes. But only when I was the one in control. Only when I could tell the story I wanted to tell.”

Then it hit her.

Chen’s curiosity can triumph her pain and horror, Aida realized. If I can make her curious about real sex—about intimacy, about pleasure—there might be a way.

Chen was quiet for a long time.

Then she said, “They kidnapped me. Took me from my parents. I was sixteen. Before that, my life was perfect. My mother was a professor. My father was a mathematician. They loved me. I never had to fight for anything. I was always the smartest kid in the room, and it made people angry. But not my parents. They made me feel safe.”

Aida listened. She didn’t speak, didn’t move.

“I’m not strong,” Chen said. “I survived, but not because of strength. Just luck.”

Aida leaned in, brushed a lock of hair from Chen’s forehead. “It’s not luck. You’re strong in ways that matter.”

Chen’s face twisted, almost a sob, but she swallowed it. “You’re the only one who talks to me like a person.”

Aida didn’t know what to say, so she just stroked Chen’s hand, feeling the chill and the tremor, the little electric surges as they passed from skin to skin.

Chen’s curiosity flared again. “Tell me about your first time.”

Aida blinked. “You mean—first time on camera, or first time ever?”

“Both.”

Aida smiled. “First time on camera was… terrifying. I thought I’d faint. But after a minute, I forgot the cameras. The man was older. Not very attractive, but kind. He asked what I wanted, and I told him. He did it exactly as I said.” Aida’s face warmed with the memory.

Aida's face darkened. "The first time ever..." Her voice trailed off. She stared at her hands, which had gone still. "I was eleven." The words hung between them like broken glass. Her throat worked, but nothing more came out.

Chen's fingers tightened around Aida's. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

After a moment, Chen tilted her head, her expression curious despite her sightless eyes. "Why do you think people watch it? The videos you were in?"

Aida shrugged. “I think it’s because they can watch without risk. They can imagine things without having to feel them. It’s safe. For them, anyway.”

Chen turned her face, blank eyes almost searching. “What about real sex? Is it better?”

Aida grinned. “Sometimes. Depends who you’re with.”

Chen laughed, then, a real laugh, a release of something old and black. “I wouldn’t know.”

Aida reached for her hand again. “You might, someday.”

Chen squeezed back, hard. “Maybe.”

They sat together, talking long into the night, the conversation drifting from bodies to math, from math to the future, from the future back to the past. They ate cake from the nurse’s tray, drank water, and let the Dawn Meter tick its slow blue rhythm.

At some point, Chen dozed off, her hand still in Aida’s. Her breathing evened, her face slackening into something close to peace.

Aida pulled the blanket over her, smoothed her hair, and slid onto the new bunk beside her.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift, hand curled around Chen’s wrist.

As the night deepened and sleep began to pull at them both, Aida felt something shift inside her. She'd come here to heal Chen. And she was—Chen's trembling had stopped, her breathing had steadied, the Dawn Meter held at 55%.

But something else was happening too.

Chen's curiosity, her lack of judgment, her genuine interest—it was seeping through the cracks in Aida's wall. Touching places no one had touched in years.

Aida thought she is healing Chen, but can't help to think that Chen's curiosity and lack of judgment on the topic is healing Aida as well.

They would save each other, if they could.

And if not, at least they’d have tonight.