Chapter 82

Day 22 - 14:50

Zhao found Vivienne standing at the aft deck, watching the horizon where the fishing boat's lifeboat was slowly making its way toward the drifting Blue Oasis.

The aft deck was transformed. The beach club had been fully deployed, its folding terraces extended to create a vast open space that seemed to float above the water. The indoor swimming pool gleamed at the center, surrounded by sprawling deck space, bars, and lounge sofas that had been pushed back to create room. It could easily fit fifty people for a party—and today, it would host something far more serious.

Rows of women in security uniform lined the perimeter. At least twenty of them, armed with sidearms, shields, and close-quarter weapons. Their stance was professional, their expressions stern. They looked like they meant business.

Zhao leaned close to Vivienne, keeping his voice low. "Where did you get so many security people? Last I checked, we had nine. And only enough ammo for six."

Vivienne's lips twitched. She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear.

"Most of them are hospitality staff. Their weapons are empty. Only the melee ones are real." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "We need to look intimidating. Discourage any ideas they might have."

Zhao looked at the women again. He couldn't tell which ones were fake. That was the point.

He scanned the rest of the preparations. The medical team was present—Iqbal and Saanvi at the forefront, two other nurses behind them. Nadia sat at a makeshift table, her fingers flying across a laptop connected to what looked like decontamination equipment. Cleaning crew stood by with mops, buckets, and sprays. Everyone had a role.

"The bigger the welcoming party," Vivienne murmured, "the less likely there will be shenanigans."

Zhao nodded. "Emeka knows about the side effects? From Alexis?"

"I told him. All of them." Vivienne's voice was steady, but Zhao caught something underneath—doubt, maybe, or guilt. "That's why we're doing three batches. The first batch are the most critical. The second batch will be the remaining women. The strongest will stay on their boat to tend the first batch while they recover. Their ship will remain one kilometer away, as I requested."

Maggie stood at the edge of the deck, overseeing the loading area. Zhao noticed she no longer wore a bandage or sling. Her arm hung naturally at her side, but he could see the telltale signs—the way she favored it slightly, the careful way she moved. She was hiding the pain, putting on a show of strength.

Vivienne turned to him. "Why are you here? It's not safe."

Zhao held up his fishing rods and tackle. "I'm going to ask Emeka about that fish. The one that fights the virus." He shrugged. "The treatment's going to take a while. Might as well learn something."

It was a lie. Mostly.

He was here because he needed to see for himself. To make sure Vivienne and Aida were okay. To be close if something went wrong. To do something instead of waiting in the suite, helpless.

Vivienne's eyes said she knew. But she didn't argue. Instead, something softened in her expression—gratitude, maybe, or simply comfort that he was here.

Because she was nervous too. Anyone could see it.

Aida arrived moments later, slightly out of breath, crossing the deck with quick steps. She found her place between them instantly, her hand brushing Zhao's arm, her eyes taking in the scene.

The three of them stood together, watching the lifeboat approach.

The fishing vessel's lifeboat was small, battered, riding low in the water. It stopped beside the aft deck, and the moment it did, a smell hit them.

It wasn't just unwashed bodies, though that was part of it. It was something deeper—sickness, vomit, pus, the unmistakable stench of bodies breaking down from the inside. Zhao's stomach turned. The submarine. The mass treatment. The smell came rushing back, and with it, the dread.

This is what Alexis has to deal with.

The thought landed strangely. Alexis was a monster, genetically engineered for pleasure. But had she ever done anything like this? Had anyone?

A man was first up the ladder.

He was tall, dark-skinned, in his forties or fifties—it was hard to tell through the gauntness of malnutrition. His clothes were stained, his eyes hollow, but his posture was alert. Calm. He took a moment on the deck, getting his bearings, and Zhao watched him take in the scene—the rows of armed women, the luxury vessel, the hedonistic beauty of it all.

He was looking for someone. The captain, probably.

Zhao nudged Vivienne. She stepped forward.

She wasn't wearing a uniform—just her usual dress, formal and neat. Zhao couldn't help himself.

"You should wear the captain's hat," he murmured. "It would look good on you."

Vivienne shot him a look. The kind that said stop fooling around, this is serious. It was the look of a married woman exasperated with her husband at an awkward family gathering.

Zhao bit back a smile.

Vivienne extended her hand to the man. She was wearing a glove.

"Captain Emeka. I'm Vivienne Laurent."

He took her hand without hesitation, his grip firm despite his weakened state. "Captain." His voice was deep, accented, weary. "Thank you for receiving us."

"The Laurent aristocratic habit dies hard," Zhao thought. At least she shook his hand. Sophie probably wouldn't have come within twenty feet.

Emeka looked around. "Permission to bring my people aboard?"

Vivienne nodded and signaled to her team.

Iqbal approached, her expression clinical but not unkind. She explained the procedure—decontamination, examination, the treatment itself. Emeka listened carefully, nodding slowly. When she finished, he turned back to the lifeboat and called out in a language Zhao didn't recognize.

The sound of it—the cadence, the unfamiliar words—struck Zhao like a physical blow.

This language could disappear. If this goes wrong, if they die, these sounds die with them.

Did they know that? Did they understand what was at stake beyond their own lives?

Probably not. They were too deep in survival mode to see the bigger picture.

The crew filed out slowly. Mostly men, but two women as well. Some of them already showed symptoms—the glassy eyes, the pallor, the trembling. But overall, they were in better shape than Zhao had expected. They'd been through cycles of advance and retreat, he realized. They knew how to endure. They were calm in a way the Oasis women hadn't been during the submarine crisis.

Physically inferior, Zhao thought. But mentally stronger.

Aida moved toward the medical team to help.

The decontamination began. The fishermen were instructed to remove all their clothing in the outdoor shower area. One by one, staff in protective suits sprayed them down with water, then with something that smelled like disinfectant—or soap, or both. They were given towels, then led to Iqbal and Saanvi for examination.

The doctors were thorough. They inspected every inch of each body, including private parts, looking for signs of disease that couldn't be seen at a glance. The fishermen were clearly uncomfortable with the public exposure, but their eyes kept wandering—to the vessel, to the women, to the impossible luxury surrounding them.

They'd probably never seen anything like it. The Oasis women were curated, beautiful, even the security personnel model-worthy. And captained by a woman who topped them all.

As each examination concluded, a Dawn Meter wristband was slipped onto the patient's wrist. The readings flashed briefly before being covered: 60s. 50s. Some higher. One man, barely standing, registered 72%.

They were led away, towels wrapped around their bodies, escorted toward the spa.

Aida followed them.

Emeka stayed.

He hadn't decontaminated himself yet. He'd volunteered for the last batch, like any decent captain would. He stood with Vivienne and Zhao, watching his people disappear into the vessel.

"May I wash?" he asked quietly. "The smell—it's on my clothes."

Vivienne gestured to the showers.

Emeka walked over, stepped under the spray fully clothed, and let the water run. He scrubbed at his stained shirt and pants with his hands, using the soap liberally. When he was done, he dried himself with a towel, then folded it neatly and placed it on a bench.

Zhao noted the gesture. The man had education, upbringing. The signs were there if you knew what to look for.

Emeka returned to them. "Thank you." He looked at Vivienne directly. "What can I do to help? In exchange for saving my people."

Vivienne hesitated, then gestured to Zhao's fishing rods. "Tell us about the fish. The ones that fight the virus."

Emeka's eyes moved to the tackle. He walked over, picked up a rod, examined the reel, the line. His hands moved with expertise, checking the drag, the knot.

"May I?" he asked.

Zhao nodded.

Emeka set up the rod in seconds, his movements sure and practiced. He moved to the edge of the deck, dropped the line, and let it run—hundreds of meters, until the spool was nearly empty. Four hundred, maybe five hundred meters deep.

Then he began to jig. Slow, unpredictable movements, an uneven rhythm that seemed almost random.

Zhao watched intently, memorizing every motion, every detail of the setup.

"If you have fresh fish meat," Emeka said quietly, "it's easier. But this will work." He paused. "The fish is long. Silver. Lives deep, near ocean ridges. Most people don't eat it—the taste is strange, and the side effects can include diarrhea. But my people know how to process it."

He jigged the rod steadily.

"When the sickness came, I noticed my crew were more resistant than the refugees we picked up. The only difference was the fish. We'd been eating it for generations—it has... properties." He glanced at them. "Aphrodisiac. The men in my village use it to increase fertility. It's a tradition, a practice passed down. Only our village knows how to prepare it properly."

Zhao's mind was already working. Aphrodisiac. Hormone regulation. Things that affected the body's chemistry, its drives, its deepest functions. That was the connection. That was why it worked.

"The fish can't be overcooked," Emeka continued. "The healing effect diminishes. But it can't be undercooked either, or the symptoms become severe." He shook his head. "It's risky. We were lucky to have it. But we can't rely on it forever."

Zhao didn't say anything. He couldn't tell Emeka that their long-term solutions all required the vector. That the sex drugs were too limited. That Alexis was an unknown. That they were all, in their own way, as desperate as he was.

Vivienne asked the question gently. "Your village. What happened when you tried to go back?"

Emeka's face went still.

For a long moment, he didn't speak. When he did, his voice was quiet, controlled—the voice of a man holding back a flood.

"I tried to dock at the harbor. The jetty was... crowded. Not with people. With them." He swallowed. "My wife was there. At the edge. I saw her—" He stopped. Breathed. "The monsters dragged her down. Tore her apart while I watched."

Zhao felt the words like a physical weight.

"My children jumped into the water. I tried to reach them. But the monsters can swim. They got there first." Emeka's eyes were wet, but he didn't let the tears fall. "I couldn't save them. I couldn't save any of them."

The silence stretched.

Emeka looked at Vivienne, then at Zhao. "I have a new family now. These people—they're all I have left. I won't lose them too."

Zhao couldn't speak. He was seeing himself in this man. Building something new from the ashes. Fighting to protect it.

The line jerked.

Emeka's attention snapped back to the rod. He worked the fish expertly, playing it, wearing it out. Minutes later, a long silver shape broke the surface—nearly a meter long, gleaming in the light.

Emeka hauled it aboard, unhooked it, held it up for them to see.

"This is the one."

The second batch arrived while Emeka was cleaning the fish. The decontamination process began again, smooth and efficient.

Then the door to the corridor opened.

The first batch was coming back.

Led by security, they emerged onto the aft deck—and Zhao's blood went cold.

They looked worse than when they'd gone in.

Their eyes were dilated, wild. Their bodies moved strangely—some twitching, others too slow, too loose. Two men were laughing uncontrollably. Another was weeping. A third could barely walk, supported by two of his companions.

And their bodies... the men were fully erect, some hiding it behind their towels, some not bothering. Their penises stood out obscenely, impossible to ignore.

One of the men lunged at an older woman from the first batch, grabbing at her. Another joined him, their intentions unmistakable.

Maggie was there in an instant, her melee weapon raised. Emeka dropped the fish and ran, shouting in his language. They pulled the men off, separated them, held them down.

The woman stumbled back, wrapping her towel tighter, her face a mask of shock and fear. She said something in their language—sharp, questioning—but no one understood. The crew could only watch, helpless, as the scene unfolded.

The other first-batch patients were in various states of disarray. Some sat slumped against the wall. Others paced erratically. One man was trying to copulate with a deck chair.

The second batch stood frozen at the edge of the decontamination area, watching their people, fear dawning on their faces.

Vivienne's hand found Zhao's. Squeezed. He squeezed back.

Her face was pale. Guilt was written there, clear as words.

This is my doing. My deal. My responsibility.

Emeka stood over the two men, his back to them, his shoulders heaving. He turned to look at the rest of his people—the first batch, broken and strange; the second batch, terrified; the third batch, still waiting on their boat.

He looked at Vivienne.

The question hung in the air between them.

Do we continue?

Zhao watched Emeka's face, saw the war raging behind his eyes. The captain's duty. The horror of what he'd just witnessed. The knowledge that more of his people would go through this—and that without it, they would die.

The Dawn Meter on the older woman's wrist caught the light. Zhao glimpsed the reading before she covered it: 38%. Down from whatever it had been. In the 60s, probably. Maybe higher.

It worked. The treatment worked.

But at what cost?

Emeka hadn't moved. The second batch waited. The first batch twitched and moaned. Vivienne's hand was cold in Zhao's.

The silence stretched.

No one knew what to say.