By Cutieboy90

Two decks down and 50 feet aft, Jake Jackson had been on an inside service stairwell on his way back from the storage room when he’d been thrown over the railing by the ship’s pitching. His cover had been lost in his fall. In the violent shuddering and ensuing darkness, the young marine had tied himself to the handrail with a couple of the belts he’d been carrying. Ear-piercing metallic crashing and rumbling echoed up the narrow stairwell, overwhelming and disorienting him. Sitting on the landing and clinging to the metal banister, Jackson prayed.

 

In the toolroom, Quinn-Timothy James had been slammed to the floor. He lost sight of Caleb Bradley behind a curtain of fire and a thunderous crash. He stayed down and waited for the lights to come back on. When they didn’t, he felt his way to the bulkhead and pulled himself up. He grabbed a flashlight out of the maintenance cabinet, its narrow beam of light revealed to him an unrecognizable scene of twisted chaos.

“Wha-?” James was speechless for a moment. The tool room… Was gone. Whatever the fuck he was looking at wasn’t anything. Just a huge, circular door. And the smell of burnt… Stuff. Or something.

“Bradley?” He called into the darkness. “Bradley??” James’s voice echoed in the tubular structure next to him. Where was Bradley? James felt his stomach and chest tighten. Now that his brain was catching up with his eyes, he realized what the circular doorway was. It was an engine exhaust cowling from one of the F-18s. The hangar was the deck above. The fire must have been an explosion!

“BRADLEY!??” James shouted at the abyss. He took a few tentative steps away from the plane, hugging the bulkhead for balance. The floor was littered with debris, metal, glass, pieces of rubber, tools… James spotted a bright red fire extinguisher in the rubble.

“That might be worth keeping,” James thought as he reached down to grab it. It lifted easily. Too easily. James saw it had been shorn in half, and all he had was the decapitated top. Even the hose had burned away.

“Fuck!” James dropped it like a hot potato and shrank against the bulkhead. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… Fuck… FUCK!” The sharp smell of kerosene teased at his nose. “God no…” James scurried along the bulkhead away from the fumes. “I gotta get out of here!”

The wrecked frame of the F-18 was blocking the door. James inched carefully around the still-smoldering hulk. Above, the ceiling had caved in and the air drifting down from the hangar was acrid and thick with kerosene.

“Ugh…” James felt dizzy. As if he was swimming in a pool of jet fuel. His body didn’t like it one bit. But he needed to get out. Needed to…

James was violently sick against the wall. He stumbled and fell against a piece of tire. Laying still to get the blood back to his head, he saw in the flashlight’s beam, a boot. A pair of boots, with legs attached.

A weak coughing grabbed James’s attention. The boots were coughing? No! James scrambled to his feet and shone the flashlight up from the boots.

“Bradley!”

Bradley coughed pitifully. He was pinned against the bulkhead by a section of wing and pieces of the hangar floor. Clutched in his hand was his flask.

“James?” Bradley’s voice was strained. “Cutie is that you?”

“Bradley it’s me! What happened? Are- are you hurt?” James found a place on the wall to balance the flashlight so he could see and use both hands.

“Hey, yes, I- I’m fine. I think.” Bradley wheezed. “I’m stuck, James… It- it’s heavy, and… Hard to breathe.”

James looked at the mountain of rubble piled against Bradley’s body. The smallest piece was a landing gear wheel. He wouldn’t be able to move it on his own.

“Bradley, we need to find some help. Get one of the winches down here.”

“No…” Bradley choked. “You. Need… To get out of… Here. The fuel. Could…”

“No no, shhhh just take it easy.” James soothed. “No, I’m going to stay here with you until they send a rescue team. It shouldn’t be long.” He took the flask from Bradley’s hand and took a needed sip. “Here.” Bradley took a swig, coughed in resignation and stayed still.

A whining hum rattled through the floor. James’ ears were still ringing, but he could feel the vibrations well enough. He looked over at Bradley, who nodded in confirmation: the ship’s six compact fusion reactors were spooling down. James thought back to their training. The reactors would automatically shut down in an emergency, and restarting any of them would take hours, days even. James gulped and slid down the wall, weighted by dread.

 

Ren Salynkos felt himself falling. Next thing he knew, he was sitting in the dark alone.

“Fucking ay…” He rubbed his head. As he moved, the floor under him seemed to move as well, slipping and sliding with hollow clatters. Salynkos found it very difficult to get up. Every time he moved, at least one of his limbs would suddenly slip out from under him.

Salynkos’s eyes adjusted to the low lighting enough for him to get his bearings. He’d been thrown against the tray storage racks, which had broken. The trays, and other loose debris had accumulated and slid down against the starboard bulkhead, bringing Salynkos along. Now he could see the floor, and crawled to the open area.

The galley and mess hall area was a disaster- trays everywhere, broken plates, pieces of glass, wood, and cabinet doors littered the room. The stacks of chairs had fallen over behind their anchoring cables. In the galley, utensils and other equipment lay strewn about the counters and floor. Every appliance was eerily silent, and their power indicators glowed a dark amber signaling there was no power. Salynkos immediately hit the emergency power shut off for the ovens, stoves, dishwashers, and dryers to prevent any accidents. He also shut off the main water supply to the sinks. With the galley now secured, Salynkos headed for his supervisor’s cabin to report he’d carried out the emergency shut down procedure.

The corridors were a mess as Salynkos blindly navigated away from the galley. Salynkos pulled out his tablet and used the dim light from its screen to find his way in the dark. Progress was slow as the ship had settled at a 20-degree starboard list, causing Salynkos to walk with one foot on the floor and one foot on the wall.

“The stairs will be hell,” Salynkos thought as he reached the end of the corridor. He would have to go down three decks to reach his supervisor’s cabin. Perhaps he should have just stayed where he was, and let the others come to him?

“Naww…” Salynkos grabbed a flashlight off the wall and began to negotiate the stairwell. Halfway down, his quads were on fire from the fight against gravity and frequent short rolls and continued pitching.

“Damn… You’d think a ship this size would be more stable in these conditions.” Salynkos muttered as he reached the base of the stairs. “Better rest a sec, before I do that three more times.” Bracing himself against the bulkhead, he gave his left leg a slow stretch.

A static crackle attracted Salynkos’ attention. It seemed to be coming from around the corner.

It was dark at this end of the accommodation deck. The enormous steel door was shut, its polished mechanisms glinted in the light of the flashlight. Clothes, footlockers, paper, and random debris lay piled against it.

“Hello?” Salynkos called, sweeping the flashlight up the quiet corridor. Another roll of the ship sent him stumbling back a few steps toward the door. The static crackle was louder now. Salynkos inched closer to a heap about a foot from the door, with the horrible realization that it was a body.

“H-hello? Can you hear me?” Salynkos asked, shining the light over the body. He reached out to clear some debris.

An officer’s uniform was revealed in the light. The broken pieces of a megaphone crackled and sparked from under the officer. Salynkos reached out.

“N-no, don’t move me sailor.” The officer spoke. He was alive!

“Sir! You need medical attention, let me help you,” Salynkos babbled with relief.

“No, sailor…” The officer insisted, his voice quivering slightly. “I may have a neck injury. I’ll need medics to bring a board to-”

“Understood, Sir.” Salynkos sat back on his knees, feeling helpless.

“T-there’s a radio in my pocket… Careful. You can use it to call. Tell them we’re at door twenty.”

Salynkos nodded, and carefully reached out for the officer’s pocket.

“Other side…”

Salynkos gulped. Of course. Holding the flashlight with his teeth, he used both hands to fish out the radio and call the medics.

“Roger that. Backboard to door two-zero.” The reply came immediately. “Hold your position.”

Salynkos sighed with relief.

“Thanks sailor,” the officer said. “Crazy night here huh?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Heheh, at ease. We’re just men here…”

“Yes Sir,” Salynkos replied automatically.

The officer laughed weakly. “Maintaining order and protocol in the face of disaster, very good. You’re clearly well adjusted. What is your position?”

“Galley cook. Salynkos.”

“Ohhh, Salynkos. I know who you are… Last month, you taught the others some of your family’s Greek food. Yes… It was delicious. You should do that more often. For morale, team building, and combating monotony…”

“Yes Sir!” Salynkos welled with pride. The officer chuckled.

“I’ll see what I can do about making it happen. When we get out of this mess…” His light chuckle turned to a wheezy cough.

“What can I do, Sir?” Salynkos felt the weight of helplessness drop back to his stomach.

“As you are, sailor…” The officer’s body shifted as the ship rolled roughly again to starboard. “Observe your training, maintain… Order and your calm professionalism. B-but you don’t need me to tell you that, Salynkos. I can tell you have…” The officer trailed off as his voice became scratchy. He coughed heavily.

Salynkos nodded to himself. He could now see the officer’s name on his shoulder: Stewart. Must be one of the deck officers, Salynkos thought. Silence fell again, save for the constant groaning of the stressed steel structure, and scraping of items across the floor.

A multitude of boots clomping up the hallway soon broke the gloomy atmosphere. Several beams of light shone off the wall.

“Medics!” Salynkos called out in relief as the medics stomped around the corner with a backboard. The five man team gathered around to make their assessment. Salynkos stood back out of the way to let them work. He could hear snippets of Stewart’s strained voice through the squeak of boots and rustle of uniforms. One of the medics produced a neck brace.

“Sailor Salynkos!” One of the medics stepped up, bracing himself against the bulkhead door for support. “You made the call, did you see what happened?”

“Negative,” Salynkos replied. “I found Officer Stewart here. He was conscious, and suspected a neck injury. His instructions were not to move him.”

The medic scribbled a few notes.

“Thank you Salynkos, good work. We got it from here.”

The medics had lifted Stewart onto the board and fitted the neck brace.

“Alright, let’s get him back to the station. On three! One, two, three!” The team lifted the board with Stewart and carefully marched back the way they’d come.

Salynkos felt his way back to the stairwell and continued down to his supervisor’s cabin.

 

Up on the Captain’s Bridge, the situation was no better than anywhere else. Commander Daniels nodded to himself in acknowledgement as the reports of failed equipment and offline systems flooded the pitch black dark bridge:

“Radio offline.”

“Communications offline.”

“Automatic shutdown is complete on reactor one, reactor two, reactor four, reactor five, and reactor six. Reactor three entering final shutdown stage at minus six-zero.”

“Primary Radars offline.”

“Ship still secured.”

“Secondary generators offline.”

“Navigational systems offline.”

“Secondary Radars offline.”

“Alarms offline.”

“Auxiliary generators offline.”

“Steering offline.”

“Reactor three shutdown complete. All reactors offline.”

“Complete electrical failure. All indicators will go dark.”

“Secondary radios offline.”

“All computers offline.”

“Auxiliary generators unresponsive.”

…

A small emergency flashlight found its way into Commander Daniels’ hand. He clicked it on, just as the last indicators went dark and a brief chorus of “all dark” hailed from across the command deck.

“Alright now, we-!” Daniels gasped as the deck seemed to drop out from under him. He and his fellow bridge crew tumbled toward the starboard end of the bridge. The ship slammed into an oncoming wave and heeled sharply. A surge of icy water crashed through the front windows, soaking Daniels to the skin.

“Clear the bridge!”

Daniels pulled himself along the bulkhead toward the inner armored section of the tower.

“Come on, men.” The first officer took a head count as the dazed and drenched crew filed off the bridge. “That’s everyone!” He and the helmsman pulled the armored door shut behind them.

“Now then,” Daniels addressed the room. “We have a critical situation on our hands, but it’s one we have all trained for and I expect are prepared for. Our escorts are well clear, so we should have minimal danger of collision. The ship must remain secure, and personnel must remain orderly. Harris!”

 

The Chief Communications Officer stepped up.

“Get our communications back online. This is your priority, take whatever manpower and equipment you need. The rest of you, this is the bridge now. First Officer, summon the Chief Engineer and Carpenter to sound the ship. Get me confirmation on the status of the reactors and engine rooms. I want the watches doubled on all shifts until further notice.”

“Yes Commander!”

Daniels brushed a few granules of safety glass out of his collar.

“What a mess… It’s just like the incident in the Pacific.” Harris commented as he retrieved several hand-held radios.

“Yes,” Daniels agreed. “The storm should break soon, and we’ll call the escorts back. Assess as we go.” Daniels began to fill out a log report, his sleeve soaking it through. “Should probably get some drier clothes first…”

 

Off Nice…

Jonathon Silber strolled along the V3’s Upper Promenade Deck, soaking up the Mediterranean sun and balmy afternoon breeze.

“This has been really something, huh?” Roger mused. “Did you ever imagine retirement would be like this?”

“No,” Silber smiled.

“Do you think heaven will be this formal too?”

“What?” Silber stopped by the railing to feign shock. “You mean you’re not a fan of dinner being a five hour affair with countless courses of haute-cuisine?”

“Silber, they had THREE courses dedicated to dessert champagnes! Marie Antoinette herself couldn’t have dreamt of such extravagance. I don’t think my simple stomach can take much more of this…”

“Well we can take it easy. Nelson seems to prefer the afternoon teas anyway, why don’t we join him for lunch?”

“Sure. In the Tea Salon.” Roger chuckled. “Which is where?”

Silber consulted the deck plan. He smiled and nodded vaguely toward the stern.

Roger rolled his eyes, but played along as they descended a flight of stairs and walked aft.

“Nelson said the lunches are more casual, while the teas are formal…”

“Are they, though? Really?” Roger wasn’t buying it as he followed Silber along the open-sided Main Promenade Deck.

“Roger, you’ll be fine. Your three-piece linen suit is fine.” Silber reassured him.

“And here we are.”

Roger peered over his sunglasses. “This is it?”

“Yes, old friend. The what was it… The ‘big pyramid of mysteries at the end of the main-’”

“Yeah yeah, got it,” Roger waved dismissively and walked ahead along the side of the triangular deckhouse. “It’s the Tea Salon. Serving only the finest teas… Artisan blends from the finest tea houses of Paris, Marseille, and Lyon…” He recited the brochure as they came to a pair of double doors.

“Oh shut up, and try to enjoy yourself,” Silber pocketed his sunglasses and braced himself.

Roger nodded with a grimace and opened the doors. He and Silber were met by the expected icy blast of the ship’s ionic air conditioning system.

“I swear to god… Every time you come back inside. Wow.” Roger shuddered. “But hey!”

The Tea Salon was the most inviting space yet encountered on the V3. Its walls were a soft pale pink, and the windows were dressed with satin drapes of gold, bronze, and taupe. The floor was planked with polished teak. The ceiling with its shallow pyramid vault was a soft greenish-gray, and from the center of each face hung a simple bar chandelier.

“I can see why Nelson would like it here…” Roger observed.

“There he is.”

Nelson had a table by a window with a half-eaten pastry on a plate. He smiled broadly when he saw his friends.

“Oh you guys are just in time! They’ve started serving Le goûter.”

A white-gloved waiter bearing a silver tray stepped forward with the tea selections.

Silber chose “jasmine rêverie,” a blend from Lyon. After some debate, Roger opted for “herbes noir” from Paris. And Nelson was simply given his regular: “cacao impérial,” also from Paris. A platter of honey-almond madeleines was brought to accompany the tea.

Another white-gloved waiter approached pushing a silver cart laden with chocolate desserts: individual tarts and cakes, goblets of mousse, plates of patisserie, cookies, and confections.

“We source only the finest organic chocolate, crafted in the French tradition,” the waiter declared as he offered the menu.

“Only the finest…” Roger mimicked quietly to himself. “The hazelnut-mocha tart, please. Not a big sweet tooth here.”

“The fruit platter for me, please.” Silber nodded.

“Un de tout?” The waiter winked at Nelson.

“Oui!” Nelson smiled broadly. The waiter began to offload plates from the cart. They were small, of fine porcelain. He placed a large crystal goblet of chocolate mousse down last, in front of Nelson.

The waiter left and returned with a silver tray, which he placed in front of Silber. Silber couldn’t help but chuckle in disbelief at the array of chocolate-dipped berries, fruit slices and gold-plated almonds and hazelnuts.

“Is everything all right, Monsieur?” The waiter asked attentively.

“Yes, wonderful.” Silber nodded. “Just… Too pretty to eat.”

“Of course,” the waiter smiled and placed a full bottle of water on the table before taking his leave.

“Casual, huh?” Roger smirked across the table. He opened his cynical mouth to make another catty remark, but paused as he turned his head slightly as if straining to hear something far away. “What-? Is that Handel?”

Silber noticed the music too. Gently present in the background, the soft notes of a string quintet and a piano wafted through the quiet chatter. Silber finally spotted the decorative scrolls of the cello and bass on a slightly raised bandstand in the corner.

“Doubtful,” Nelson said between bites of a luxurious-looking mousse topped with gold leaf and raspberries. “They only play French composers. This is probably Lully. Or Couperin.”

“Right. What was I thinking…” Roger said, shaking his head. “Here, in the finest room on the finest French ship, with the finest French teas, and the finest French chocolates, only the finest French music will do. If it was good enough to please the ears of the Sun King, it just might be good enough for us to present to you, our fine guests…” He turned up his nose and gave a haughty “hon hon hon” chuckle before diving back into his tart.

“The musicians all trained at the Paris Conservatory,” Nelson mentioned in a quiet voice, just over a whisper. “But the real star here is the piano. It was custom built by Pleyel, for the V3. It’s technically a grand spinet.”

“Oh yeah?” Silber caught a brief glimpse of the instrument through the crowd. It had an understated soft silver finish with mother-of-pearl and grenadilla inlays. Ornate gilded embellishments at the sides of the keyboard and legs gave its appearance a decidedly neo-baroque touch.

“Martin said they designed this room and the piano together to maintain the perfect ‘background’ volume,” Nelson whispered. “The acoustic engineers almost quit, and it ended up being so expensive that it had to be insured separately.”

“You don’t say,” Silber said as he picked up a couple of gilded almonds. “What do you think of our friend Martin?”

“Mmm, clearly he works for Robért. He knows way too much to not be…” Nelson swallowed.

“He could just be a well-informed tour guide,” Silber suggested.

“I don’t know,” Nelson took a sip of his tea. “I get the feeling that he knows more than he lets on. Just… The occasional sly glances, he never has to think before his answers… He knows everything. And he has exceptional taste. I mean, look at his clothes! He’s better dressed than anyone else. That is not a typical tour guide’s paycheck paying for that…”

Silber thoughtfully bit into one of the gold-plated almonds, finding a generous layer of dark chocolate concealed under the gold.

At that moment, Chief Purser Henri stepped up to the table.

“Pardon Monsieurs,” Henri stated cordially. “I trust you are finding everything to your satisfaction?”

“Oh yes,” Nelson nodded emphatically. “Thank you!”

“Perfect,” Henri smiled confidently. “Mr. Silber, if I may, Captain Ammad has invited you to join him for coffee tomorrow morning if you would be inclined.”

“I would be honored!” Silber replied.

“Perfect,” Henri nodded. “Captain Ammad will be thrilled. Enjoy your tea!” Henri bowed his head graciously and left the table.

“Wow,” Roger and Nelson stared. “Coffee with the Captain…”

“Do you know him?” Roger asked.

“I don’t think so…” Silber shrugged. “Perhaps my reputation precedes me?”

Roger chuckled. “I’d hope so.”

“Ammad… Ammad…” Nelson split focus while selecting his next snack. “I read that prior to taking the helm of the V3, Ammad served with the French navy. He commanded the cruiser fleet at Brest.”

“A military man. Interesting. I wonder if he read my book…” Silber pondered as he selected a plump-looking strawberry heavily drizzled with three types of chocolate.

“Of course he has,” Roger rolled his eyes. “Anybody with a serious interest in modern naval tactics has read your book. At least you’re humble about it.”

“Humble, yes… Just like this pain au chocolat,” Nelson moaned into his latest pastry.

“This food,” Roger snapped. “Is anything but humble! Look at that!” He pointed his fork at Silber’s plate, where slices of melon had been seared to allow the gold leaf and chocolate drizzle to adhere.

“Well, alright. Bad example,” Nelson conceded. Silber smirked.

“Ships have souls, personalities of their own… What do we think of the V3’s?”

“The V3 is a cold, aloof, arrogant snob,” Roger offered without hesitation.

“Cold, yes…” Nelson put some thought into his words as he took another bite. The buttery pastry crackled at his breath. “Aloof, sure. But I get a deeper sense of pride than arrogance.”

“The ship is without peer,” Silber agreed. “She knows exactly what she is, and she knows this world doesn’t deserve her.” He nodded to a nearby table of businessmen pouring over their notes with high-tech corporate-issued tablets. “It’s always lonely at the top. Right, Roger?”

Roger side-eyed his friends as he swept up the remaining crumbs of his dessert.

“You know Roger, for someone so cynical-”

“Fine. I concede.” Roger cut Nelson off. “This decor is NOT my cup of tea, and this fancy food is way too much. But… The ship is incredible. This has been the most physically comfortable I’ve ever been. And it… Really is the best God damn food I’ve ever had the pleasure of putting in my mouth!”

Silber and Nelson nodded encouragingly. Roger’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“And I’m so glad we’re here to enjoy it together.” Roger admitted, his voice dripping with faux sarcasm. “That’s the best you’re getting. Waiter!”

Nelson smirked as Roger made some more selections from the dessert cart, his poor French prompting the waiter to revert to English.

“Better late than never,” Silber nodded. “He’s grown a bit less stubborn since retiring.”

“Ha! You’re telling me…” Nelson opted for a refill of his tea.

The three old friends enjoyed their second round of tea and dessert mostly in silence, savoring the tastes and textures of various chocolate-forward treats. Finally, the sweet sound of the orchestra gently swelled to the forefront on a prolonged trill to – with a deliberate cadence- gracefully indicate the end of Le goûter.

“Lovely,” Nelson nodded in satisfaction at the empty plates in front of him.

Silber replaced his sunglasses as the trio stepped out onto the sun-washed deck. They climbed the stairs to the Main Lido Deck, observing the nearby coast of Nice and the mountains beyond.

“Fancy a round of chess?” Roger gestured to the giant chessboard. He and Silber set up the large pieces for a game.

“I’ll play winner,” Nelson called over his shoulder. He settled down by the pool, dangling his feet in the water. Several young men walked onto the pool deck, quickly jumping in from the deeper end. They wore fitted trunks bearing the V3’s monogram. Their wet hair sparkled in the sun, and their lithe bodies gleamed with a natural Mediterranean tan as they splashed each other and raced at the far end of the pool.

“Ahoy! Nelson!” Roger called. “You wanna play? I beat Silber, so…”

“He’s not listening,” Silber pointed out. Even from a deck above, he could see his friend’s attention was fixated on the group of cabin crew relaxing in the cool water.

“Huh, can’t say I blame him,” Roger shrugged. “They are very pretty. Though I’d like to put them through some PT, sailors ought to have some definition. Nice bulge on the one doing backstroke.”

“They aren’t sailors,” Silber nodded. “I think I’ve seen them serving in the cafe.”

Roger and Silber descended the stairs to join Nelson.

“Hmmm…” Nelson sighed as the crewmen grabbed their towels and left, babbling in French. “Have you noticed we haven’t seen the twins?”

“Twins?” Roger squinted at Silber in confusion.

“Yes, back in Genoa. Tommy and Tim. Tim’s the more handsome one.”

“Have you both lost your minds!?”

“Well Nelson, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen them.” Silber pulled up a deckchair. “They said they were room stewards.”

“I…” Nelson kicked his feet. “Do you think they were with the terminal’s hotel? Because they wore red jackets. I haven’t seen any crew member wear a red jacket since those two. Oh well…” He trailed off, running his hand along the edge of the pool.

Silber watched another group of passengers settle themselves nearby. It was the trio from Rolls-Royce. They wore classic Burberry swim trunks with printed tweed patterns and checkered sunglasses. The tallest of the bunch, who had been scraping the hull with a knife in Genoa, had the broad shoulders and solid glutes of an amateur rugby player.

“Nice pool, lads…” He was heard saying. “Simple enough, I’m surprised it wasn’t done sooner.”

“Simple!? Are you mad??” His fairhaired companion replied, as he applied sunscreen to his own arms. “The only simple thing about this installation is that it was simply expensive. This permeable terra cotta edge alone must’ve cost a billion pounds!”

Silber looked down at the pool deck he’d thought was tiled. Indeed, it had a fine non-slip texture reminiscent of wet sand. A splash of water seemed to disappear instantly from the surface, like a thirsty sponge. The rusty color of this permeable tile faded at the water’s edge, giving way to circular white ceramic tiles etched to resemble sand dollar shells. These circular sand dollar tiles grew flatter and larger toward the deeper end of the scallop-shaped pool.

“Hmph,” Burberry dismissed his friend’s comment. “A boastful extravagance. They said  magnets keep the water level. And prevents free surface effect. Magnets! The amount of energy they’d need to produce for that would be… What? Impractical.”

“Ah give it a rest. ‘Work’ gave us this paid holiday…” The third in the trio stretched out on his chair, his thick legs spread comfortably. “Besides, we understand the technology well enough. But what are we really going to do about it? Pipe down, or bugger off.” He received a slap to the chest.

“You’re a right twat, you know that?” Burberry rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette. He flicked the ashes into the pool, taking in stride the action of the pool’s ionic filtering system immediately clearing the mess out.

“Let’s go,” Nelson stood quietly and shook his feet dry. “The sun’s getting a bit much, and I don’t want a sunburn before tomorrow’s excursion in Nice.”

“We’ll see you for dinner, then,” Silber replied. “Roger, another game of chess? I’ll beat you this time.”

“Ha, right!” Roger stood and stretched his shoulders. “I think-”

A whistle caught Silber and Roger’s attention.

“Ay!” It was Burberry.

“Yes?” Silber asked patiently, leaning on his deck chair.

“It’s alright, gentlemen!” Burberry lowered his sunglasses. “I’ve seen you looking. Makes sense, of course. I can swing that way!”

Roger seethed. Silber chuckled.

“Young man,” Silber adjusted his sleeves. “We’re not-”

“Of course you are!” Burberry flexed cockily. “I can go at your pace. We all could use a bit of fun around here.”

Silber cocked an eyebrow.

“Up to you lads,” Burberry shrugged. “I’m around and ready when you are.” He gave a flirty pout, and reclined. His well-toned chest and arms had a light dusting of hair.

“Alright.” Silber grinned. “We’re in room 217. Give us old timers a few moments to take our Viagra and move our wheelchairs out of the entry, ok?”

“Suits me,” Burberry nodded and shared a grin with his two mortified travel companions.

Silber turned away, giving Roger a sly look. Roger understood, a thin smirk crossing his face.

“I think we can all use a little reset,” Silber murmured as they headed back to the room.

Burberry showed up about twenty minutes later.

“Alright, time to get some!” He licked his lips, eyeing the large bed and the pair of matching shackles laying on top. “Kinky, alright! Maybe you guys really do know your stuff.”

“Come on hotstuff, show us that nice body you’ve got!” Roger groped Burberry’s round glutes. Burberry obliged, kicking off his designer flip-flops and shaking his trunks off like a pro stripper.

“Yes, very nice,” Silber approached with the wrist shackles and quickly locked them on Burberry’s wrists.

“Heh,” Burberry tested the shackles’ weight. “Getting right to it. I like that. So what, you guys going to-”

“Hush,” Roger stroked the young man’s handsome face. “We’ll have fun…”

Silber sat on the bed and pointed to the floor. Burberry nodded and knelt.

“Nuh uh,” Roger pulled him back. “Not quite…” He repositioned Burberry over Silber’s lap, his taut buns on display.

“Now then,” Silber explained in a calm, clear voice while Roger shackled Burberry’s ankles. “I’m a retired naval officer. And since my retirement, I have missed the role of teaching insolent, wayward boys some discipline. Thanks to you, I get to relive those glory days…” Silber brought his open palm down hard upon Burberry’s right buttock.

“Wha-!?” Burberry flinched. “Ahhhh!”

Roger stood back, tenting his linen slacks as Silber slammed his hand across Burberry’s other cheek. The boy’s ass was already blushed after one strike! Roger bit his lip in arousal. He’d almost forgotten how well Silber dished it out…

Silber continued to slap Burberry’s upturned bubble butt, alternating strikes to each taut buttock. Burberry tried to stay stoic, but started yelping quietly through his teeth after only half a dozen blows. His ass burned an angry red, like a big red ripe tomato.

“How many was that?” Silber asked calmly.

“Wha?” Burberry choked back a sob. “What, I ahhh… Maybe 15?”

“Tsk tsk,” Silber smirked at Roger. “Better start keeping track then boy. Starting now!”

Slap!

“One!”

Slap!

“Two! Ahh!!”

Slap!

“Ung.. Three!”

“What was that!?”

“Th-”

SLAP!!

“F-ffour!”

“Starting over!”

Slap!

“One!”

Slap!

“Two!”

Slap!

“Three!”

Slap

“Four!”

Slap!

“F-five!”

Slap!

“S-s-ssix!”

Slap!

“Ss-s-evehnn!”

Roger exhaled through his nose as Burberry’s right cheek developed a purplish hue where Silber’s palm struck it.

Slap!

“Eight!”

Burberry had tears running down his face. The shackles clinked heavily as the young man kicked and jerked with the following slaps.

At twelve, Silber stopped. He patted the bruised flesh gently, almost affectionately.

Silber swallowed a smile, feeling his own boner pressing against Burberry’s hard throbbing cock.

“The bag,” Silber beckoned to Roger.

“The bag!” Roger handed Silber a small travel bag.

“I always bring a few essentials,” Silber explained to a wide-eyed Burberry. “Exactly for brats like you.” Silber took out a bottle of lube and a large buttplug.

“Ahhh fuck…” Burberry whimpered, shifting uncomfortably over Silber’s knee as he was unceremoniously lubed and fingered.

“Tight,” Silber remarked. “Not usually on the receiving end, are you boy?”

“Nnnnn…” Burberry shook his head trying to relax despite the pain of both his stretched hole and his still-burning cheeks.

“Good.” Silber removed his fingers and started working the plug in.

“Ah!” Burberry’s eyes just about bugged out of his head. “Ah FUCK! Bloody fucking hell, mate!”

 

“You can take it. Arch your back, deep breaths,” Silber instructed. Burberry struggled, but complied. The plug sank deeper, stretching him wider.

“Fuck!” Roger breathed as Silber twisted the plug into Burberry, slowly reaming his tight-looking pucker ever more open. Burberry pounded the floor with his cuffed hands, seething tearily. His still-hard uncut cock visibly leaking under him.

“Ah-AHHH!!” Burberry suddenly shot a thick stream of cum down Silber’s slacks.

“Hmm,” Silber’s eyes lit up. “Naughty boy…” He shoved the plug in to the hilt as Burberry’s ruined orgasm dribbled to its end. “Up.” Burberry panted as he was guided back to his knees.

“Quite the mess,” Silber pointed to the trail of cum streaked down the inseam of his slacks. “Lick that up!”

Burberry grimaced but obediently shuffled forward, leaned down and dragged his tongue upwards from Silber’s ankle.

“Good boy,” Silber nodded. “Get it all.”

Roger adjusted himself, enjoying the sight of Burberry’s reddened and plugged ass on display. He wished he’d brought a paddle or a crop. He nudged the plug with the toe of his shoe.

“You’d better do a good job, boy,” Roger warned. “Those slacks were just cleaned and pressed!”

Burberry licked at his own cum, now more eagerly sucking it out of the fabric.

Silber smirked, giving Roger a wink as he fished through the travel bag.

“Stand up!”

Burberry staggered clumsily to his feet, wincing at the weight of the sizable plug pushing at his insides. His cock still dripped a few languid strings of his ejaculate, but had gone soft. He smacked his lips and tongue in disgust at the lingering taste of his cum.

“You’re going to be a good boy for the rest of this cruise,” Silber said as he approached again with a shiny plastic chastity cage in his hand. “Aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah sure,” Burberry nodded coyly fighting back tears. “No need for the cage, though right?”

“Ah ah,” Silber tutted. “It’s only a guarantee.” He fastened the ring around Burberry’s plump nutsack. “I’ll unlock you when we dock at Genoa. If you’re good.” The padlock clicked shut, confining Burberry’s thick tool into a tight compact two-inch nub. “Keep the plug in through dinner. I’ll check on you later.”

Silber unlocked the shackles and tossed the humiliated young man his printed shorts.

“Now get out.”

Burberry quickly pulled on his clothes and scuttled out the door, whimpering at the fabric rubbing over his bruised, tender glutes.

“Fuck, Silber…” Roger chuckled incredulously after the door closed. “Wow.”

“Yep, still got it,” Silber rubbed his hands. “Well, better hurry and get dressed for dinner.”

 

The next morning…

It was around 9am when Silber saw Nelson and Roger off on the shore tender. He then made his way up to the Captain’s quarters.

The Captain’s quarters were located behind the bridge, and clearly designed to impress. Slate blue carpets, contemporary mahogany furniture, a baby grand piano, a bar of top-shelf French liqueurs, a library, and framed photos of Captain Ammad’s career highlights and previous commands lined the walls. A velvet-lined case displaying his numerous medals and awards stood prominently under a row of spotlights.

Silber’s eye was drawn to a smaller brass-framed photo. It showed Ammad and several others in their ceremonial uniforms standing on the pier at Toulon with several French politicians and Martin. The V3 and two sleek destroyers were visible in the background.

“That was a proud day,” Captain Ammad’s deep voice said from the doorway. “La Royale accepted the first pair of Eclairs and signed the order for more. And I was promised command of the newly-launched V3.”

“Admiral Silber,” Ammad stepped forward. “Thank you for accepting my invitation, it is an honor!” He looked young, early 30’s at most. But he had a commanding presence, standing an imposing 6’ 4” with broad shoulders, and a strikingly handsome face. He wore a royal blue turtleneck with a gold insignia on the shoulder.

“Captain Ammad,” Silber shook his hand. “The pleasure is mine.”

Ammad gestured to his private balcony, where a pair of cushy chairs and a small teak table looked out at the sea. It was a mild morning, clear and bright. A gentle breeze of six knots wafted from the north-west.

“Admiral, it is a real honor to meet you. I, I read your book!”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes! Actually, we met once, about ten years ago. I was still in the Naval Academie, and you gave presentations on fleet development and tactics.”

Silber searched his memory. “I think I remember that visit. To Brest. It was right after the fleet review. We conducted some joint exercises.”

“You were an inspiration. I strived to be like you from that day.”

“You’ve had a fine career from what I can tell, Captain. Top of your class, Commander of the cruiser fleet… You must be very proud.”

Ammad shrugged humbly.

“I would have thought you’d have continued with the Navy?”

“I wanted to stay at sea. Politics, desk jobs, I’m not ready for that circus just yet,” Ammad replied. “But Robért was unveiling the new destroyers, and after serving as a test captain and consultant, I was offered full-time command of the V3. I now captain the most prestigious ship in the world. My most loyal men have followed me here, and my rivals are forever riddled with envy.”

“Capitan…” A very fit young man approached from the door carrying a tray with coffee and croissants. Silber could tell by his stature he was a former navy man too.

“Ah merci,” Ammad nodded as the valet set the tray down and quietly left. “This is a Moroccan coffee, my mother’s recipe.”

Silber took the drink, the fine ceramic cup warm in his hands.

“Thank you, it’s lovely.”

Ammad smiled and took a sip himself. “I imagine you’re working with Robért now, what with your experience and ideas about fleet modernization?”

“I’m actually enjoying retirement now,” Silber answered.

“Oh?” Ammad raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I’m spending the year visiting friends in Italy. Been a nice change, actually.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t believe that for a moment.” Ammad said, his deep voice resonating in his chest. “Men like you, like me… The sea is home. Being in command of our little floating world, our crews, letting go isn’t in our nature. You aren’t done, mon ami. That is why you’ve come here, isn’t it.”

Silber quietly took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t need to respond; they both knew Ammad was right.

Ammad nodded knowingly, and after a minute of pause posed a new subject.

“I have a special treat planned in Toulon, while everyone else is ashore. Robért’s destroyers will be practicing high-speed maneuvers, and the V3 is one of the few ships that can keep up…”

“No way!” Silber’s pulse quickened.

“Mmm hmm,” Ammad smiled. “I knew that might arouse your interest. Come, join me on my bridge tomorrow. You and your friends, as my guests!”

“It will be a pleasure, Captain!”

“Good, I’ll have it arranged.” Ammad settled back in his chair.

Silber did the same, smiling as he took another sip of his coffee.

It was late afternoon. With the temperature in the triple digits, it was too hot to be on deck. Silber relaxed in the cool lounge of the reception room, waiting for Roger and Nelson to return from being ashore all day. He looked over as the tender pulled up with a short whistle blast and watched with detached amusement as everyone boarding hesitated at the threshold, only to seize in shock when the frigid air curtain hit them.

“Having too much fun, I see.” Roger shook away his goosebumps as Nelson followed silently behind.

“Well? How was Nice?” Silber asked as Roger sat down heavily. A waiter brought chilled drinks.

“Hot.” Roger said. He and Nelson both looked a few shades darker, and their clothes were ragged. “But all in all, Nice was nice…” Roger guzzled the glass of ice water and signaled a server for another.

Nelson was quiet, sitting back in his chair with his eyes staring blankly into space.

“Did some shopping,” Roger gestured to several parcels and bags of souvenirs. “Olivewood crafts from Eze. Got some beautiful pictures from the church up there…” He trailed off, weary from the day’s excursion.

“Lovely,” Silber nodded. “Why don’t you rest? There isn’t much going on until later tonight. Go, cool off.”

“No.” Roger whined. “I want to hear about your coffee date with the captain.”

“Perhaps when you’re both alert enough to actually listen,” Silber smirked toward Nelson, who was looking slowly around the room squinting with his head tilted as if in a trance.

“Wha-? The hell’s wrong with him?” Roger pointed. “The heat must’ve broken his mad, British little-”

“Ohhhhh…!” Nelson’s eyes shot open. “Ohhh I get it. I get it!”

“Yes Nelson? What do you get?” Silber prompted.

“Please, don’t keep us waiting. The suspense is just ki-!”

“Look!” Nelson waved vaguely around the room. “Look, don’t you see? The color palette, the stark minimalism, the weird glass light fixtures! It’s a beach! An abstract… Beach!”

“Nelson, it’s nothing. It’s literally trash that some snobby elitists decided was-”

“It’s a beach!” Nelson rose to his feet and wandered toward the atrium like he was possessed. “I get it now… The simplistic style. It doesn’t bombard you with complex visuals. It cools you…”

Silber and Roger followed with the forgotten shopping bags.

“There’s the water, all the blues and greens in the carpets and drapes. The sand, bleached white and gray. The jagged light fixtures, the glass washed up like… Oh don’t you see it!?” Nelson’s voice echoed off the concrete walls.

“Yes, I wondered if anyone else would…” Martin’s light lilty voice came from the landing right below. “The designers from Bugatti insisted on making the V3 different from her sisters, wanting to embrace the ship’s year-round Mediterranean itinerary.” Martin climbed the stairs as he spoke. He wore an extremely fitted sky blue linen suit today. Chunky amber cufflinks and a matching tie clip peeked out from the edges of his jacket.

“Yes yes, I get it now!” Nelson nodded excitedly. “It just had to grow on me, but this is… Brilliant.”

“Oui,” Martin reached the top of the stairs. “Ah, I see you went shopping in town. Lovely.”

“Hello Martin,” Silber greeted him. “No tours today?”

“Oh yes, it never stops.” Martin brushed at one of his sleeves. “Today I led a tour of the kitchens and food storage. The limestone-lined Roquefort vault garners a lot of interest…”

“A… Limestone-lined-” Roger stopped himself. Silber and Nelson didn’t take the bait.

“So where are you headed all dressed up?” Silber asked.

“To the Art Gallery. There’s a special program. Why don’t you join me?”

“Sure.” Silber and Roger shrugged.

“I’ll catch up, I should take my bags back to the room.”

“Non monsieur,” Martin flicked his wrist at Nelson’s shopping bags. A waitstaff hurried right over. “Mr. Nelson’s room, s’il vous plaît.” Martin placed his arm around Nelson’s shoulders and guided him toward the elevator. Silber and Roger followed closely.

The Art Gallery was at the end of the Main Promenade Deck, just forward of the Tea Salon. Taking advantage of the increased surface inherently offered by the V3’s numerous curved bulkheads, the Gallery boasted over five hundred works. A serpentine case displaying jewelry and small items mirrored the undulating curve of the starboard bulkhead.

As Silber had expected, the works were modern; all of the artists were still living.

“These artists are all French, or from former French colonies,” Silber made a point of mentioning to Roger.

“Oh look at these charming ceramics from Algeria,” Roger deflected.

 

“We have a mixed media program this afternoon,” Martin explained. “Roam the gallery as you wish, while the orchestra serenades with compositions written in the last twenty years.”

“Oh jolly…” Nelson smiled politely as a chaotic atonal plinking noise emanated from a shell at the after end of the room where the musicians were set up.

Silber wandered the gallery, initially drawn to a collection of reimagined tribal masks constructed of recycled plastics, denim scraps, wood, and painted paper made by a young artist from Réunion.

Nelson, still tired from his day shopping, joined Martin on a bench near the bandstand. Silber could see Martin gesturing to the wall. Curious, he beckoned Roger to take a look.

“…So it’s accurate regardless of which direction the ship is facing.” Martin was saying.

“I see… Literally light and mirror tricks.” Nelson nodded.

Silber looked up to see a sundial set on the wall. A complicated array of mirrors was set around it on moving tracks controlled by a gyroscope mechanism hanging from the ceiling. The dial showed 5:35pm. Silber checked his watch to confirm.

“There’s a matching sundial on the forward wall of the Lido Deck cafe. Same principle.” Martin explained.

Champagne and pastis began to circulate.

“And the long road to dinner begins…” Roger sighed as he took a small flute of pastis.

Silber slowly made his way along the starboard gallery, looking at a densely displayed collection of psychedelic 3D paintings. A short bio of the artist from rural Burgundy claimed they drew inspiration from “rêves induits par le vin et les champignons…”

“This is a complicated technique…” Tony had walked up to the same collection. “Silkscreened layers of holographic foil and tinted clearcoats that are crazed by the next layer… These works will change over time as the chemical reaction eats away the copper-based pigments.”

“Fascinating.” Silber tilted his head. “As an art student, you must have a deeper appreciation for this vintage… Tell me, do you see flowers, fireworks, or lichen viruses?”

“It seems to change based on the angle and how long you stare at it? I see a basket of moldy fruit. But now I only see sunbursts.”

“Huh…” Silber blinked a couple times and turned away from the dizzying work. “Are you here on your own today?” Tony nodded.

“Art isn’t really Sean’s forte… He’s down there pining over the engine room still. I can only take so much engineering analysis. And he’s got some of the craziest ideas.”

“I see,” Silber decided not to pry. It was clear Tony and Sean had very different ideas of how to enjoy a cruise.

“It’s strange for once, being the one waited upon,” Tony remarked when the server brought Champagne. “It’s nice, yes. I think I’d get bored after a few days of it though.”

 

“Ah to be young and restless…” Silber sipped his champagne. He noticed a couple of younger engineers from the Japanese group smiling and checking Tony out. “Enjoy it while you can. Looks like you’ve got some admirers.”

“Don’t I know it…” Tony turned away, pretending to be enamored by a collection of hand wrought metalworks. “Sean doesn’t care if I play around, but that’s not my style.”

Silber chuckled as Tony slowly leaned over the glass case, putting his bubble butt on display.

“But I still have fun with it…” Tony smirked as he casually rolled his shoulders back and flexed his chest, to the delight of his admirers. “Maybe I go enjoy the pool before sunset. Think they’d like that?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Tony shrugged and sauntered toward the door.

“Thanks Admiral,” he gave a playful salute. “Enjoy the art.”

Silber nodded and watched Tony leave, followed shortly by his two admirers.

“Remember when we were ogled and chased like that?” Roger sidled up beside the jewelry case.

“We still got it, buddy.” Silber clapped Roger’s shoulder. “Still got it all.”

“Yeah? How do you figure?”

“You’ll find out tomorrow, when you skip the shore excursion in Toulon.”

“There is nothing that would make me skip-”

“Yes there is, trust me.”

“God, Silber I swear. Your guessing games still get to me after all these years. I’m the idiot who should have gotten used to it, but no, here I am. And there is no way in hell I’m skipping Toulon, the base, Robért, and the Eclairs.”

“Someone on high informed me that the Eclairs won’t be in port tomorrow. They’ll be at sea. If we were to stay aboard, we may just zip out to sea as well…”

Roger spit his pastis out his nose.

“Don’t say anything, personal invitation and all that. Special treat just for us.”

“Got it.” Roger nodded in understanding. “Right… It’s just… The price of these art pieces is shocking. Absolutely nuts.”

“You and Tony should join us too,” Silber nodded as Sean approached.

“Sure,” Sean smiled. “Would be an honor.”

“Tony was just here,” Roger pointed his chin toward the door.

“It’s alright, he should be having fun…” Sean grumbled. “I just thought I’d take a little break.” He quickly scanned over the wall. “This is what passes for art nowadays huh? What a privilege.”

“There’s champagne,” Silber suggested as a waiter appeared with another tray of drinks.

“Hmmph,” Sean declined. “I could go for a beer though.”

“How about the bar by the pool?” Roger suggested. “Come on, I’ve had enough of this austere snobbery too. And it is getting chilly in here now.”

“Too hot out there, too cold in here. Guess you can’t win.” Silber winked over the rim of his champagne glass.

 

The North Atlantic…

Joe Bennett was drowning in his own sweat. Without power, the carrier had lost its air circulation system. The lower decks had now become stuffy and almost unbearable.

Sitting beside Bennett, visible under the harsh light of an emergency lantern tied to the corner of the bunk with a sheet, Nathan Vincent had removed his shirt and was fanning himself desperately with a piece of cardboard.

“Should’ve jacked off when I had the chance. Now it’s too hot to…” Vincent muttered.

“You’re telling me…” Brent Charles snapped from his bunk across the room. He’d kicked his boots off and now reclined with his trousers around his knees. His thick cock bulged in his sweat-soaked boxerbriefs. Even in the poor lighting, Bennett could see the taut fabric clinging around the man’s groin. Charles reached down frequently to adjust himself.

“It’s just too hot, and smells like a locker room…” Vincent whined. “Your ballsweat isn’t helping any of us.”

“Yeah?” Charles gave a chuckle as he spread his legs wider. “You’re welcome. Hey Bennett, these are what a real man’s balls look like… Sorry you had to settle for those little peanuts.”

“HEY!” Vincent snapped defensively. “My balls-”

“Are fine, baby,” Bennett patted Vincent’s chest. “Your balls are wonderful.”

“Hell yeah they are.” Vincent puffed up. Charles smirked across the room and grabbed his crotch.

“You guys, shut the fuck up!” Tyler Clark growled as he humped uselessly at his sheets. “Just shut the fuck up.” He was still tied spreadeagled to his bunk. The sheets around him had been soaked through with sweat and humidity.

“Talk to us like that again, and the socks are going back in your foul, ungrateful little mouth.” Shane Matthews threw his balled-up sweat-soaked undershirt at Clark’s head. It missed widely as the ship heeled. With a groan, Matthews lay back against the painted metal bulkhead. He glistened with sweat. Like the others, he sported a raging boner from the heat and testosterone-thick air.

“It’s too hot…” Bennett whispered.

“Shh, I know baby.” Vincent patted his hand. “I wish holding you would make it better.”

“It still does,” Bennett snuggled closer to Vincent’s side. “Really, I-”

“Hush now, save your energy.” Vincent petted Bennett’s head, flexing his muscles until they popped clearly even in the dim light.

Bennett placed a kiss on Vincent’s shoulder and closed his eyes for a few minutes. Sweat covered his body. The droplets would form and then slowly creep downward before picking up speed and rolling down his sides into the mattress.

“Here guys!”

Bennett snapped awake at the sound of Ren Salynkos’ voice.

“Salynkos!”

Salynkos was at the door dragging a cart laden with canned water from one of the emergency stores. He tossed a couple to Vincent.

“There’s a fuel leak and it’s contaminated the water supply,” Salynkos warned. “These rations are all we have, so make it last!”

“Sure thing,” Bennett nodded. “Thanks!”

“Is there… Any food?” Matthews asked hesitantly.

Salynkos fished around in his pocket and pulled out a handful of oyster crackers, the small packets they kept by the soup bar.

“Make do with that.” Salynkos threw the bags across to Matthews’ bunk.

“Fuck…” Matthews eyed the tiny plastic packages of mostly crushed crackers. “Thanks.”

Salynkos smiled brightly and turned to continue down the corridor, dragging the cart behind him.

Much to Bennett’s disappointment, the canned water was lukewarm.

“No relief…” He held the can for Vincent to take. “Sorry babe.” Vincent didn’t say anything, but took a long gulp.

“These tiny-ass cans won’t last…” Charles pouted after chugging his in one sip. “Hmmm…”

“Stop thinking,” Matthews groaned from his bunk. He rolled the metal cans along his lats. “You’ll overheat.”

Charles rolled his eyes and made his way over to Clark’s bunk.

“Here kid. Drink up.” Charles held the can for Clark to drink.

“You really aren’t going to untie me, huh? Even for this?” Clark pulled at the ropes.

“Be grateful. You’re probably the safest person on this ship because you’re tied up like this. Now drink.”

Clark had to strain his neck to reach the can, but finally got to an angle he could sip while Charles tilted the can into the side of his cheek.

“Thanks, I guess.” Clark rested his head back down once he’d finished.

“That’s a good sailor.” Charles patted Clark’s shoulder and returned to his bunk.

 

Specialists Quinn-Timothy James and Caleb Bradley were having a hell of a time in the wreckage of their station. The entire hangar floor had collapsed, rendering the area inaccessible. The two men were on their own. Like most areas of the ship, the toolroom had gotten hot and stuffy when the air circulation system failed. However after two days in the stormy North Atlantic, the unbearable heat had dissipated and the lower decks now grew cold.

“Hkkk-!” Bradley felt the air squeezed out of his lungs as the wreckage pinning him to the bulkhead shifted slightly. “Damn…” Every shockwave, every vibration through the ship translated to more pressure on Bradley’s body. He could still feel all his limbs, but it was increasingly harder to breathe.

Closing his eyes, Bradley leaned his head back against the wall. Adrenaline had kept him from resting, and he was exhausted. Standing all this time had made his legs stiff and his boots felt tight on his feet and ankles. His toes sloshed in cold sweat and piss. He was grateful he’d skipped the last meal and so far had only needed to relieve his bladder. Speaking of…

Bradley grunted his relief as he pissed. His pants had only just dried from the last time, and now he felt the wet fabric cling warmly to his legs again. Luckily for him, the stench of jet fuel covered up the smell for now. But it was still humiliating having to piss himself like this.

Bradley coughed self-consciously to mask the quiet splashing. He felt the ship start to rise over another swell. The wreckage around him creaked, and something to his right shifted with a long scraping noise. Bradley held his breath, trying to keep calm as tons of trashed metal shifted against him. A wide tubular piece pressed against his thigh, pinning him back farther, forcing him to keep his knees locked.

“Please, not like this…” Bradley whispered. The idea of having his limbs crushed and dying slowly as the tissues succumbed to necrosis and gangrene made his heart rate spike. “No god.”

And as always just as the pressure was getting too much, it would stop. The ship would roll back slightly and the wreckage would settle. Bradley sighed in relief, safe for now.

Over his own racing pulse and breath, Bradley suddenly heard water splashing against metal. Just a trickle, as if filling a canteen or flask from a fountain.

“Alright,” James spoke up. “Hydration time.” The little flashlight clicked on and Bradley could see James approach with the flask. Bradley instantly felt uneasy.

“H-hey, you said the Scotch was gone.”

“It is. But we still need fluids.”

“I’m not… You’re joking, right?” Bradley tensed up upon the realization.

“I’ve had my shots.”

“Not cute, cutie,” Bradley warned.

“Then you will die of dehydration. Here, I’ll hold your nose. Pretend it’s beer.”

“Fuck this… I won’t.” Bradley clenched his jaw. “It’s too much.”

James sighed patiently. “I know. It’s disgusting. But we don’t have any other options.”

Bradley hesitated. He was thirsty…

“You’re right. What’s the point…” Bradley nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Sorry…” James stepped up, careful to avoid putting weight on the wreckage pinning Bradley to the wall. “Here goes.” He pinched Bradley’s nose and held the flask up.

Bradley squeezed his eyes shut and guzzled quickly. It’s beer, it’s beer, it’s beer, it’s just really cheap bad beer! He told himself as the lukewarm bitter liquid rushed down his throat. Bad beer… He coughed. James took the flask away to let Bradley breathe.

“Ugh,” Bradley gulped a few deep breaths. “Please no more, for now.” He begged.

“For now,” James said seriously. He released Bradley’s nose and stepped away.

Instantly Bradley regretted it as the acrid distinctive aftertaste clung to the inside of his mouth. He gagged.

“Keep it down, Bradley.” James warned.

Bradley nodded and tried to relax. He was not going to puke on himself… He watched as James took a long swig, seemingly equally unhappy about it.

“Oh…” James fought to keep it down, tears running down his face. “Oh… It burns.”

“Yeah…”

A long awkward silence fell between them. James would piss again in a few hours and they’d have to endure this all over again.

 

Off Toulon…

11:00am. All passengers and most of the crew had departed by tender for day-long excursions ashore in Toulon.

Jonathon Silber, Nelson, Roger, Sean, and Tony waited giddily in the Captain’s sitting room with Chief Purser Henri and a member of security.

“Wow,” Nelson said at the numerous medals and photos on Captain Ammad’s wall. “A proud captain for a proud vessel. Whew.”

“Yes, and rightly so…” Roger eyed the honors and awards in the case. “So young, but so accomplished.”

“And not just in his naval career.” Nelson pointed out a photo of Ammad holding a flute.

“Captain Ammad is a fine flautist,” Henri chimed in. “He gives a recital toward the end of the cruise.”

“Let me guess. Gaubert, Poulenc, Dutilleux, perhaps some Ibert?” Roger asked dryly.

“Yes indeed!” Henri answered, ignoring Roger’s clear sarcasm.

“What do you think the bridge will be like?” Nelson mused aloud.

“I hardly think it will be too unfamiliar,” Roger replied. “Though I imagine it will be very clean, lots of modern equipment and display screens.”

“Sean, did you get to see the V1’s bridge?” Tony asked as Sean examined the many photographs on the wall.

“No,” Sean responded distractedly. “There weren’t bridge tours when I was aboard…”

Silber noticed Sean looking keenly at a series of photos from the V3’s launch and trials. Martin was present in each picture, next to Ammad.

“I knew you looked familiar…” Sean muttered to his voice recorder. “You’re in all of Robért’s press. Hiding in plain sight…”

“All right!” Henri checked his watch. “It’s time. Everyone ready?”

Henri escorted the group down the short plain corridor to the bridge.

The security guard flashed his badge at a scanner by a simple white painted door with a slim black-rimmed window.

“Welcome to the bridge,” the security guard held the door open as Henri ushered everyone inside.

Captain Ammad stood at the center window dressed in a crisply pressed uniform. He beamed as Silber approached.

“Come in, come in, my friends!” Captain Ammad gestured warmly to a spot next to a low, sleek console at the back of the room. A tall-backed mahogany chair stood at the very center; the Captain’s perch.

The bridge was, as expected, very minimal. Simple, modern equipment with backlit digital screens mounted on sleek pedestals lined the bridge. Large windows offered a grandiose unobstructed view over the bow and the sides looking aft. The floor was a pristine linoleum, except for the areas behind the consoles which were planked with fine satin oak.

“What a bridge!” Nelson breathed. Roger nodded, unable to find anything to critique.

Captain Ammad gave a brief tour, explaining how each console was dedicated to a specific role: one for engine performance, one for navigation, one for communication, one for onboard information, and one for the primary autopilot.

Silber, Roger, and Sean took immediate interest in the engine console. Its two display screens showed the ship had four propulsion pods. One of them was shown to be angled two-fifths of a degree to port.

“It’s counteracting the current?” Roger whispered to Sean, as the screen indicated with arrows the flow of water under the hull. “Just like that…”

“Captain, I don’t see any information about the propellers. RPMs, or vibration.” Nelson squeaked timidly. “It appears to just be quantifying the total volts being used?”

“Ah yes,” Captain Ammad tapped the console proudly. “The V3 has four azimuthing ion pods. They function much like a pump jet, only instead of pressurizing water by mechanical means, they ionically charge the water at the intake and use the magnetic properties inherent in seawater to expel it through the narrower end. So no shafts, no blades or moving parts. Each pod can tilt up and down, and can reverse their polarity in an instant.”

“Are they also made of Tatinite?” Sean asked.

“But of course.” Captain Ammad answered. “And yes, the autopilot constantly adjusts for currents, wind, wake turbulence, and other forces that may interfere with our course or comfort. I for one do not tolerate spilled Champagne.”

“Of course not,” Roger muttered to Silber. “Can’t have that…”

“And here,” Captain Ammad finished with the center console in front of his chair. “Is the manual control. The V3 has a fine and very capable autopilot, but every so often it’s fun to take her out for a spin.”

The manual control console had clear views of the other displays, and of the entire bridge. Two angled levers, like those of a video game controller, rose out of the center. A digital compass showing the ship’s heading sat directly in front.

“These are the high speed instruments,” Ammad explained. “They control the engines directly. Now that we’re out in the open, I’ll put the autopilot on standby and engage manual mode.” Ammad stepped onto the planked floor of the command console and took the levers in hand.

“Engage manual mode. Autopilot standby.” Ammad barked clearly. A chime sounded from the autopilot console in response. Its screen flashed several times and displayed its new status “Safety Standby.”

“Manual mode engaged. Autopilot on standby,” a computerized voice confirmed.

“The ship will now obey my inputs exactly,” Captain Ammad explained. He guided the levers in a succession of turns. Pushing them forward made the ship increase speed from the 35 knots it had been held at. “But in safety mode, the autopilot is still monitoring and smoothing the inputs. The navigation console is still active as well, and will re-engage the autopilot in the event a potential hazard arises.”

“So?” Captain Ammad let go of the levers as the ship reached 50 knots, and turned to Silber. “You want to feel how the finest ship in the world handles?”

Silber’s breath caught in his throat.

“No way…” Roger stepped back, holding the handrail for support.

“Go ahead!” Captain Ammad encouraged.

Silber nodded, suddenly unsure if he wasn’t really dreaming. He stepped up to the controls. They were a brushed silver metal, probably Tatinite, with padded black grips. He took a deep breath, placed his hands on the levers, and pushed them gently to starboard. The V3 responded immediately with a smooth starboard turn. Silber waited five seconds before pushing the levers back to port. Again, the V3 followed the input with extreme ease.

“Okay…” Silber looked over at his friends.

“Well?” Roger pressed. “Tell us!”

Captain Ammad raised an eyebrow. Silber nodded, and pressed the levers forward.

“Woah!” Nelson, Roger, Sean, and Tony stepped back as the floor angled up noticeably. The ship gradually pitched up about two degrees as the speed increased exponentially.

“Eighty-one point seven knots. Point eight. Point. Eighty-two knots…” The computerized voice called out the speed. “Eighty-two point four knots. Point six. Point nine…”

“Main turbines at maximum revolutions. Full main power output achieved.” Another computerized voice chimed across the bridge from the engine room console.

“Eighty-three point five four knots. Full speed achieved.”

“Now try that zig-zag again,” Captain Ammad suggested.

Silber pushed the levers to starboard, just like before. The V3 veered to starboard, rolling slightly from its own centripetal force. Silber didn’t wait a full five seconds to turn back to port; he could feel the ship had covered a massive distance in very little time. Silber made a few quick, shallow zigzags and a wide figure-eight.

“So fast!” Silber commented to Captain Ammad, who smiled proudly. “It’s incredible.”

“Try some hard inputs,” Captain Ammad nodded. “Go ahead, it’s perfectly safe.” He finished nodding toward the autopilot console displaying the “safety mode” still engaged.

Roger, Nelson, Sean, and Tony quickly grabbed the handrails and braced for whatever might happen.

Silber glanced at the radar screen, checking it was clear. He then slammed the levers to starboard.

“Holy shfff-!” Roger squeaked as the ship heeled sharply, causing everyone at the handrail to lose their feet. “Silber, if you-” Roger was cut off as the ship heeled the other way.

“Hmmm, what was that?” Silber called cooly over his shoulder. Captain Ammad chortled and approached Silber at the helm.

“Fun, yes?” Captain Ammad nodded expectantly. “This ship handles more like an aircraft, fighter jet.”

“It definitely feels electric,” Silber agreed. “Immediate, but much smoother than anything I’ve ever helmed.”

“The ArachniLite hull passively absorbs all the shock,” Captain Ammad explained. “And the steering computer smoothes everything else out.”

“I noticed we don’t slow down during the turns. How?”

“The auxiliary batteries engage for the outboard engines,” Captain Ammad gestured toward the engine console. “When a helm command is given, watch the power levels.”

Silber pushed the levers gently to port. The digital indicators of the two starboard engines rose slightly. Pushing the levers farther to port caused the indicators to rise further in correlation.

“And… The computer does all that,” Roger breathed as he eyed the monitor.

“Yes.” Captain Ammad replied. “We don’t have to sacrifice speed for any maneuver. Except maybe one… Silber, push the starboard lever to port, and pull back on the port lever.” Silber complied.

It was as if the port side of the ship had stopped dead. The V3 pivoted toward a sharp turn, completing an entire circle within its own length. Silber held the levers in place, watching out the windows as he chased his own wake.

“We’re doing donuts…” Sean was heard muttering to his voice recorder. “Like a bunch of tipsy college kids in a new sports car.”

“Now you see we’ve lost about ten knots of speed,” Captain Ammad nodded to the speedometer. “But we’ll get it back.” As he spoke, the speed indicator rose and the engine output indicators did too. Silber could feel a growing centripetal force pushing him out toward the starboard wing.

“That’s terrifying.” Roger hauled himself over to the helm. “You’re done.” Silber relinquished the controls to his friend. Roger gripped the levers and guided the ship back to a steady course.

“Wow, it does respond.” Roger looked to Captain Ammad in disbelief. “So easy!” Like Silber before, Roger steered a series of zig-zags at the “moderate” speed of 58 knots.

“Roger here is the conservative one,” Silber mentioned deliberately to Captain Ammad. “Playing it safe is how he achieved success.”

“20 bucks we don’t see the speed break 70 knots while he’s at the helm,” Nelson added.

“30 and dinners in the main dining room the rest of the cruise he doesn’t break 65.”

Roger rolled his eyes, his gaze settling on the autopilot console. He tightened his grip on the levers, a smirk wormed it way through his lips as he slammed the levers back. The V3 came to a swift but gentle stop.

“Ha. That was quick,” Nelson took a step toward the helm. “My turn already. I suppose old Roger here just-” Nelson stumbled as the V3 pitched down slightly and accelerated astern.

“Old Roger here is retired.” Roger called to him. “And retired Roger here just wants to have some fun at your expense.”

The engine console lit up as Roger spoke, indicating the increasing power output and speed. Silber found himself holding the handrail more tightly than he’d expected, feeling the deck under his feet trying to get away from him. He nodded to Captain Ammad.

“Roger has his moments. You just need to know how to draw it out.”

“Sixty th- sixty… Sixty-five point… Sixty-six knots. Sixty-s- point. Seventy knots. Seventy point five knots. Seventy-one p- Seventy one point nine kno- Seventy-two point three knots. Seventy-two point seven. Seventy-three point one knots…”

As the V3 passed the mid-seventy knot mark, Roger pushed the levers to starboard. Not quite hard over, but close to it. He proceeded to drive the V3 in a high-speed figure-eight pattern in reverse.

“How’s that for playing it safe, huh?” Roger quipped, pulling back on the levers until the ship maxed out at just over eighty-two knots. “Yeah?”

“Alright buckaroo,” Nelson stepped up to the helm. “My turn, before you damage one of us.”

Nelson took the ship through a series of control checks; mostly sharp turns and crash stops. Unlike Silber and Roger, Nelson constantly vocalized his awe at the ship’s response. He was starting a high-speed stretch when the navigation console chimed an alert. The autopilot reengaged and steered the ship gently to starboard

“What’s this?” Nelson asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

Captain Ammad peered down at the navigation screen. He shook his head.

“Non, mon ami. We have incoming traffic on our port quarter. Take a look!”

Silber, Roger, and Nelson looked out the portside windows as a signal horn blared an intent to pass.

“Wait, is that-?” Sean whipped out his phone just as two large gray objects shot by at high speed.

“The Eclairs…” Silber breathed.

“Yes. Robért’s destroyers.” Captain Ammad beamed proudly. “Based on the V-class, those are the fastest, most agile escorts ever to grace the seas. Powerful too. A single shot from their main battery can take out an entire country’s power grid.”

“I read the French navy plans to replace their entire fleet with Eclairs by the end of the decade,” Roger mentioned aloud. “Would they do that?”

“I couldn’t say,” Ammad winked.

Silber watched in awe as the two sleek warships darted over the water, weaving a tight grapevine pattern with their wakes. Their quick movements more akin to the tricks a figure skating pair might win the Olympics with.

“Did that one just do a three-turn!?”

“Yes. It did. And there goes the other one.” Sean zoomed in with his camera as the two Eclairs frollicked in the distance.

“So sleek…” Roger whistled. “The pictures don’t do them justice.”

“Niente,” Tony was hurriedly sketching on a crumpled piece of paper. “It’s that sharp angle of the prow. Not quite as extreme as the V3’s, as nothing is. But still… Sharp, sharp, sharp.”

“They’re making what, ninety knots?” Nelson asked Ammad. Ammad relayed the question to the navigation console.

“Ninety point eight one knots,” the computer replied.

“There you have it,” Ammad smiled. “Now, the Eclairs have the next couple hours for drills, after which we’ll be allowed to join them. In the meantime…”

Captain Ammad nodded toward Chief Purser Henri, who stood attentively by the door.

 

“We have a special lunch prepared for you,” Henri finished.

“A pleasure, Captain,” Silber shook Captain Ammad’s hands.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Captain Ammad nodded. “You’re welcome on my bridge any time.”

Silber and the others followed Henri off the bridge.

“So did uhh…” Roger whispered. “Did you guys get… Excited at the helm just now?”

“You bet,” Silber blushed. “Why else would we be walking like goons?”

“This thing has some serious power… What a thrill!” Nelson gushed. “I’ve never felt a ship behave in such a way… Instant response, but always smooth and so controlled. To turn, and to stop on a razors edge-!”

“That bridge…” Roger hunched more noticeably trying to hide his excitement. “That bridge…”

“Was a bridge, huh?” Nelson teased. “Or were you expecting a big wooden wheel and brass-trimmed dials?”

“No, is that what you were hoping for?”

“Foolish, right?”

“I have my ideal bridge layout, as do we all,” Roger continued. “But the bridge we just saw. There is no better fantasy to dream up.”

“Does Roger have a crush? Did the V3 finally win you over?”

Roger said nothing. Silber smirked at his friend’s stoicness. He and Nelson shared a wink.

Henri led the group to one of the private banquet halls adjacent to the main dining room.

“Sean,” Tony said softly. “Mind if I go lie down. All those fast turns…”

“Fine,” Sean nodded. “I’m not too hungry myself… We’ll meet up with you guys later, then?”

“Sure thing. Feel better, Tony!” Silber nodded.

“Find the horizon,” Nelson advised. “And fresh air. It helps.”

“I’ll see you to your room,” Henri offered attentively.

“Oh that’s not necessary, thank you.” Sean helped Tony to the door. “We’ll just step out on the deck for a few.”

“Those two are an odd match,” Roger commented once Sean and Tony had left. “Cute, young, but I wouldn’t have paired them together in a million years…”

“Hmmm… They say taking a trip together is the make-or-break relationship test,” Nelson nodded.

Just as Silber sat down, the V3 suddenly lurched forward and then again directly sideways to port. The uncharacteristically clumsy maneuver got everyone’s attention.

“Huh,” Nelson gave a quizzical look. “What was that?”

“We clearly altered course,” Roger settled into his chair, placing his napkin on his thigh.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Silber shrugged. “Perhaps… I don’t know.”

“Not to worry,” Henri assured them. “Sometimes when the autopilot reengages from manual mode, the navigation recalibration does that. Tea?” Henri looked inquisitively towards one of the waitstaff, who hurried back toward the kitchen.

Bread, brie, and an herbed olive medley started a round at the table. Silber had just been poured a glass of sparkling mineral water when Martin strode through the door, wearing a spotless white suit with white satin trim. Even his shoes and belt were white. Mother-of-pearl cufflinks and buttons gave a slight iridescent shimmer as they caught the light.

“Bonjour, friends!” Martin smiled as he took his place at the table. “I heard you briefly took control of the ship! Tell me, how was it?” A waiter stepped up with a prepared glass of Champagne and Guignolet. Martin took a sip as Nelson and Silber recounted their morning, describing the levers and automated functions.

“Yes,” Martin nodded. “I’ve heard it’s like steering an aircraft. And you say you saw the Eclairs too?”

“Do you suppose the Eclairs have similar engines to the V3?”

Martin’s eyes flashed.

“Well yes, actually very similar. Vacuum-sealed room, solid Tatinite, though the blocks on the Eclairs are inverted to save overhead space. There was some concern that the V-8 configuration wouldn’t provide enough power for their array of ion and laser weapons, so the first pair was originally fitted with low-pressure turbines driven by the residual heat from-”

“Monsieur!” A breathless messenger stepped briskly up to Henri, handing him a folded paper message. He wordlessly nodded to Martin. Henri studied the message, a calculated smile hiding the flash of urgency in his eyes. He calmly approached Martin.

“Monsieur, a word…”

“Please excuse me a moment,” Martin gracefully excused himself from the table and stepped to the side with Henri.

“Hmmm, something’s up.” Roger murmured to Silber. “Serious, from the looks of it.”

“Yes…” Silber agreed, noting Martin’s change in posture. “Even Henri looks worried.”

Martin could be seen nodding. Henri beckoned the messenger again, speaking rapidly in French. The messenger nodded and hurried away.

“What do you suppose…?” Nelson pondered as Martin returned to the group.

“Forgive me, I’m afraid I’m being summoned away,” Martin announced as he reached the edge of the table. He turned, hesitated, and turned to the group again. “Say, Gentlemen, would you fancy an impromptu excursion on my personal yacht?”

“Oh, of course.” Silber rose from his chair. Roger raised his eyebrows, wordlessly standing to follow. Nelson nodded and placed his napkin on the table, taking a final longing glance at the untouched Blood orange salads and Roquefort tarts they were leaving behind.

Martin led the group out to the Main Shelter Deck. Roger and Silber exchanged shrugs and glances.

“Martin, is something the matter?” Nelson finally asked as they waited by the window. The airy reception lounge was eerily empty and quiet.

“Oh don’t worry, they’ll see to your luggage…” Martin said distractedly as he took a gulp of his drink.

“See to our- Wait, what are…” Nelson trailed off, sighing softly as a dumbstruck smile overtook his face. Roger and Silber followed Nelson’s gaze out the window.

Silber swooned at the sight of the mystery Superliner from Genoa. It was less than ten miles away, and closing in fast. Like before, the huge vessel displayed no bow waves, no wake, and no visible exhaust.

“She just… Glides on the water l-like, like…” Nelson stuttered. “A beautiful ghost.”

“Oh, we need to be a deck up. I forget my ship has a higher embarkation deck. So sorry.” Martin ushered them towards a stairwell.

“Wha-? But…” Silber snapped out of his trance as they reached the landing. “You said this is your ship. That ship is your ship?”

As they reached the top of the stairs, the boldly elegant Superliner had already pulled alongside. The doors were open and a gangway had been secured. A dozen handsome muscular stewards wearing scarlet jackets quickly crossed, briskly heading down the corridor to the Main Shelter Deck. They reappeared seconds later carrying the group’s luggage. The tallest, broadest of them carried the case with Nelson’s monocular, his ram-rod posture and watchful eyes exuded an elite private security vibe.

“Monsieur,” one of the new scarlet-coated staff nodded to Martin. Martin raised his glass toward the gangway.

“After you, my friends,” Martin took another hurried sip.

“You said this is your personal yacht…” Silber pressed. “You… You’re Robért.”

Nelson’s eyes bulged. “As in, Robért Robért?”

“No…!” Roger stared in disbelief.

Martin nodded. “I am Martin Robért, owner and director of the Robért Shipyard at Toulon, sole manufacturer of the Spectrum panel, and builder of the finest vessels ever to float. Shall we?” He gestured again to the open door.

Silber nodded and followed Roger and Nelson. As he stepped over the threshold, he turned and looked back toward the V3. He could see Captain Ammad’s shadow observing their departure from the enclosed bridge wing. It also came to Silber’s attention that neither ship was riding the ocean swells; they were still, as if they were ashore. The gangway wasn’t moving or flexing either.

The handsome staff from the Superliner lined the gangway on both sides. Their uniforms were immaculate, starched white shirts, slacks, with fitted scarlet jackets. Each one had a muscular chest and slim waist, accentuated by stylized silk piping on their well-tailored uniforms. They stood attentively along the gangway, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Roger waved a hand at the statuesque staff, snapping his fingers.

“Well trained.” Roger smirked back at Silber. “I think they’d meet your standards.”

Silber nodded in agreement, saying nothing as he followed his friends across the gangway. The Superliner’s stylized superstructure towered above them, gleaming like porcelain in the Mediterranean sun.

Nelson and Roger both hesitated at the end of the gangway, anticipating a similar air curtain to blast them with cold, as on the V3.

Silber heard Nelson squeak as he stepped over the threshold. Silber braced for the chill, but it never came. In fact, the transition was so gentle and easy, Silber didn’t notice a change at all.

“Huh…” Roger was waving his hand around trying to feel any kind of air current. “It’s definitely comfortable in here,” he was saying as Silber turned to let Martin take the lead.

“Bienvenue à bord de mon yacht préféré.” Martin said casually as the gangway door shut behind him. “Welcome aboard the Comte de Savoie.”

As the words lingered in Silber’s ears, his eyes were greeted by a plush lobby with cocoa brown leather chairs, glass-topped tables set with vases filled with red and yellow flowers. With alternating light almond and pale blue walls topped by Murano glass crown moulding and ebony window accents, the Savoie was instantly inviting and comfortable in a way the V3 never could be. A white marble corridor led forward into the atrium, a towering 11-deck cavern of white and gray marble capped with a Murano glass dome.

Following Martin along the corridor, through grand foyers and expansive lounges, no room neglected the elegant whimsy of Murano glass. Swirls and speckled bursts of color glowed from every light fixture, entire wall panels, and even several ceilings.

Martin seemed to be leading them up to the bridge. The journey was a bit of a blur, Silber was awe-struck by the ship’s spaciousness. By comparison, even the roomy V3 was a claustrophobic nightmare.

“This is his personal yacht!?” Nelson squeaked.

“And I thought I’d seen everything…” Roger whispered to no one in particular as the group reached the forward end of the deck and a pair of double doors. “But a bridge is a bridge, right?”

The doors slid open, revealing a chart room decorated with old-fashioned maps and framed travel posters. Polished teak shelves held a library of nautical works in leather-bound tomes. Huge Murano glass vases and overstuffed leather couches and chairs were arranged around the room. Large windows lined the forward wall. Outdoor promenades sat on either side, reminiscent of the open-air bridge wings of early vessels. The heavy-looking sliding doors to these promenades lay open, allowing a fine breeze to gently air the room.

“This looks like a lounge?” Nelson whispered to Roger.

“This is the Observation Lounge,” Martin explained, walking up to a green marble-topped bar and refilling his drink. “The Comte de Savoie doesn’t have a bridge in the traditional sense…”

The scream of a jet through the open outside doors interrupted Martin’s explanation. He chuckled and took a quick sip of his drink.

“Don’t mind that. They’re just looking for me…” As Martin spoke, a hologram screen appeared in front of him. A pair of Eurofighter Typhoons, followed by two pairs of Dassault Rafales were shown. Their speeds, altitudes, headings, pilot bios, and other information was displayed as well.

“They scrambled fast…” Martin shrugged. “Oh you see, they have this competition among the coastal forces that the first guys who can spot this ship gets some sort of promotion or raise. So far no one’s-”

 

A whistle blast drowned Martin out.

“Ah. We’re underway. Good.”

Silber looked over to the starboard-most windows. The V3 slid out of sight, its whistle rapidly fading away. Mere moments later, the Savoie caught up with the two Eclair-class destroyers. They sped due west, slashing the sea to foaming curtains.

Silber watched as two of the fastest ships in the world flashed by in an instant, and left far behind.

“Like they were sitting dead in the water…” Roger breathed. All eyes turned to Martin, who simply shrugged.

“Mr. Robért?” Nelson squeaked. “Uhh… What exactly…”

“I’m sure Captain Savoie will explain,” Martin raised his glass toward the door, as a tall, broad-shouldered authoritative figure entered. His handsome face held a professionally neutral smile.

Captain Savoie stepped up and greeted each of them with a handshake.

“Welcome aboard.”

Silber instantly knew this was an experienced captain, well seasoned despite his looks. Captain Savoie couldn’t have been more than 40. He had a magnetic personality, very firm handshake, and his uniform was immaculate; exactly the type of man Silber would have pictured commanding this vessel.

Captain Savoie stood back and looked toward the door expectantly.

Moments later, a commotion from the hallway grabbed everyone’s attention. A steward escorted Sean and Tony into the room!

“I… Really, this is all just a misunder-”

“Stowaways!” Nelson squeaked.

“I have no stowaways on my ship.” Captain Savoie stated, an eyebrow cocked.

Sean stood defiantly straight, while Tony visibly fought back anxiety.

“Welcome, guests.” Captain Savoie slowly smiled and crossed the room, shaking Sean and Tony’s hands. “I trust you enjoyed your personal tour. But I assure you, you haven’t seen anything yet…” He turned to address the group.

“Welcome aboard the Comte de Savoie. A few minutes ago, I received a relayed distress call and have deployed to offer assistance.” He paused and looked to Martin, who nodded.

“The Comte de Vannes, gathering data on the storm in the Atlantic, has tracked a number of disabled US Navy vessels – an aircraft carrier and two destroyers from the Second Fleet. It has successfully recovered the crew of two carrier escorts, which are now under tow. However, the Comte de Vannes does not have the supplies or capacity to assist the carrier as well. Our mission is a rescue operation of the disabled carrier.”

“A rescue mission? Of a US Navy aircraft carrier. In the Atlantic?” Roger repeated in disbelief.

“One of the new ones,” Captain Savoie turned his gaze to Silber.

Silber felt a knot form in his stomach.

“The escorts too?”

Captain Savoie nodded.

“But…” Sean spoke up. “The Atlantic? How-”

“We just passed Gibraltar. We’ll be on the scene in under an hour.”

Silber’s eyes darted to the window, just in time to see the Straits of Gibraltar fading into the distance.

“What?” Nelson gawked. “What?”

“That’s impossible,” Sean said flatly. “We’d have to travel at-”

“2401.352 knots,” Captain Savoie replied. “Or just over 3.6 times the speed of sound.”

“That’s impossible,” Silber echoed Sean’s earlier statement. Roger nodded in agreement.

“Right,” Martin swirled his glass. “Where to begin… Captain?”

Captain Savoie stepped forward, and with a wave of his hand, a large hologram appeared in the middle of the room showing a map of the Atlantic and a pair of pinpoints. One of the pinpoints was in the north Atlantic off Nova Scotia, the other was just outside Gibraltar. The hologram zoomed in on this second pinpoint, which grew into a large image of the very ship they were standing on.

“The Comte de Savoie,” the Captain began, “is the third Comte-class Superliner built by

Robért Shipyard after the Comte de Vannes and the Comte de Rhin. 230 meters long, 31 meters beam, 34,000 gross tonnes, and constructed entirely of Tatinite. Powered by Robért’s proprietary Spectrum panels, which are capable of harnessing sufficient energy to provide infinite electrical power on demand. Eight solid Tatinite battery cells provide auxiliary power.”

The hologram model turned as Captain Savoie spoke, flashing the features as mentioned. The Captain continued:

“The Comtes travel by creating an electromagnetic bubble around the entirety of the vessel, and ionically charging the air and water molecules directly around it. Depending on the speed required, this bubble will change shape so as to meet the perfect form for maximum efficiency. This electromagnetic bubble also serves as the primary navigation sensor, weather shield, and cloaking mechanism.”

Roger turned to Silber. “That’s how…! This thing can disappear right in front of you. I bet it was in Genoa the whole time.”

“Therefore, these vessels are more like spacecraft…”

“Right, because water and air don’t act upon the hull of the ship. Those forces act upon the electromagnetic bubble that the ship is creating!” Nelson sat down on the couch, his eyes wide. Roger looked uneasy, but said nothing.

“An electromagnetic bubble would also render the vessel immune from any weather conditions.” Silber turned to Captain Savoie. “That’s why this ship was summoned.”

“So what exactly are the conditions we’re facing?”

Captain Savoie nodded. The hologram backed out into a map, then zoomed back into the first pinpoint in the north Atlantic.

“A very low-pressure system, sustained by unusual currents feeding it a chain of hurricanes from the south, and cold fronts from the north. Sustained winds of 180 knots, gusts up to 300 knots. Swells exceeding 30 meters, rogue waves, extreme thunderstorms, blizzards, heavy precipitation.”

The hologram showed the carrier wallowing in massive seas, its mast and radar arrays gone, flight deck chipping away at the edges. Its starboard side dragged heavily through the waves. The tower showed heavy damage as it emerged from another swell.

“Good God in heaven…” Nelson grabbed the side of the table for support. “You’re sailing this into that!?” His eyes swirled with the marble and Murano glass interiors they’d all walked through upon embarking.

“At the present time, there are seven vessels in existence that can handle conditions like this…”

A superimposed image of the V3 appeared in the simulation. It was tossed around like a toy, its lights flickering. A wave washed over the bridge, submerging the bow. All four propulsion pods broke the surface for a moment before the ship popped back up like a cork in a dishwasher. Displaced by the rising bow section, a rush of seawater crashed along the open aft decks washing furniture overboard and leaving giant chess pieces strewn across the patio. Dwarfed by walls of water, the tiny speck of light that was the V3 was still able to maintain its course and heading, but only just.

“Of those seven, only three can safely launch any meaningful rescue attempt.”

“Those three… The Comtes?” Silber inquired for clarification.

“Correct.” Captain Savoie nodded. The hologram V3 was superseded by an image of the Savoie, gliding serenely and effortlessly through the tempest.

“And how exactly?”

“I will extend the electromagnetic bubble to envelope the carrier,” Captain Savoie explained as the hologram provided a visual. “Take on the crew, and then make for the Norfolk Naval Base in Virginia.”

“Take on the crew?” Nelson inquired. “That carrier must have-”

“4300 men, yes.” Captain Savoie answered. “I have the capacity. The Comtes have a very high capacity because they have no machinery spaces, engine rooms, fuel tanks, crew or crew quarters. The staff appear as holograms created by the A.I. controlling the vessel.”

“Y-y-you’re… A hologram?” Nelson clutched the leather armrest of the couch tighter. “Is none of this real? But… I just shook your hand!”

“Oh it’s real alright,” Martin interjected. “But it was found a hologram crew would allow for superior service. Saves on space, weight. Not that this ship needs it. Tatinite is so light, a Comte has a lower lightweight than an Airbus A-220.”

Roger and Sean had fallen into stunned silence. The ghostly image of the mighty V3 struggling in the waves still lingered in their eyes as they shared a haunted glance. Sean’s gaze finally fell on the hologram Savoie, hardening at once to a glare.

“This ship…” Sean muttered. He cleared his throat. “This… Ship. Is an android. An indestructible android with access to infinite electrical power, unlimited range, stealth abilities, supersonic speed, and an advanced A.I. in control… That… That is…”

Captain Savoie turned and approached Sean with a keen smirk, his eyes suddenly flashing a cold arrogance. It was a face only an android could ever make. He handed Sean an energy drink.

“There’s time enough to answer your questions,” the captain said in reply to the thoughts swirling in Sean’s head. “But since you don’t want to hear them from me, I’ll show you instead. Drink up, you’ll have a long night…”

Sean stared at the drink being handed to him. It was a tropical fruit flavored energy drink, exactly the kind he used to pull all-night study sessions.

“Now that you believe me, you can get to work.” Captain Savoie gave Sean a soul-piercing analytical look, and then turned back toward the group. “The Comtes are completely electrical. As the human brain is nothing more than electrical pulses firing between receptors, I am able to read thoughts, feelings, even access memories. I know what you want, what you need, I can anticipate what you will even before you can form the idea in your mind. I use that information to tailor the perfect cruise experience for each guest within my range. Part of my responsibility as captain is the safety and medical well-being of all those aboard as well…”

“Oh… Of course,” Silber grasped the concept. Captain Savoie nodded, locking eyes with him for a second.

“Once within the electromagnetic bubble, I will instantly diagnose, stabilize all injuries and medical conditions, block the pain receptors, and kick-start the healing process. I can even accelerate the process… When we arrive, those aboard the carrier will see this transition as a soft white light. This will clean and disinfect everything within the bubble. The men will all be able to walk right over the gangway, and proceed directly to their cabins.”

Captain Savoie paused to let his explanation sink in. His cold android smirk warmed after a moment.

“I took you all away from a fabulous meal. Please, allow me to make up for it…”

The words hadn’t left Captain Savoie’s mouth when the door opened and two familiar handsome faces entered pushing a couple of catering carts. It was the twins Tim and Tommy!

“It was in Genoa. At the pier next to us. We were looking straight at it!” Nelson hyperventilated. “And… that’s why we never saw these hunks aboard the V3.”

Tim approached Silber with a silver tray.

“A focaccia sandwich for The Admiral,” Tim stated with a smile.

Silber thanked him, and took the sandwich in his hand.

“The chicken for Nelson… Linguine for Tony… An Amaretto espresso for Roger… And a cheeseburger for our friend Sean.” Tim and Tommy presented everyone with their tray in turn.

“We all got our perfect light lunch…” Roger whispered to Silber. “And it could beat out any five-star restaurant.”

A light sobbing from Tony caught their attention.

“Mi dispiace, Mamma! Il pesto è più buono del tuo!”

Martin and Captain Savoie stood to the side, quietly watching.

“Forty minutes out.” Savoie informed him. Martin nodded as he swirled his glass.

“How bad is it really?”

“Nothing we can’t handle. Commodore Vannes reported it was exactly as predicted. The storm just added a few extra bruises.”

“This isn’t what I wanted for your debuts…”

“No. This is far more important. Besides, Americans love heroics. Their press will gobble it up.”

“It’s not the press I’m concerned about.”

“The military will come around. You did warn them.”

Martin took a sip of his drink.

“Ease your mind, Sir. We have this under control…”

“Of course you do, Savoie.”

“…He would be proud.”

“Yes. I imagine so.”

“Let me ease your mind. You are more troubled today.”

“Very well, but first… Tell me. Tell me the truth.”

“You already know the truth.”

“Yes… I do. Thank you, Captain.”

Captain Savoie refilled Martin’s drink.

“Thirty minutes out.” Captain Savoie announced. “Radio contact made. They know we’re coming.”

 

The Pentagon, Washington DC, USA…

Admiral Kalling stormed into his office. He wordlessly snatched a stress ball off the shelf and promptly ripped it in half.

“WILLIAMSON!!”  Kalling shouted for his assistant. “NOW!”

Dale Williamson hurried in carrying a stack of papers and several binders, the sight of which immediately put Admiral Kalling in a slightly calmer state.

“So, something!” Kalling allowed his assistant to make stacks of documents in order on his desk. “Something at last. Only three days later… Where are my missing ships?”

Williamson smiled neutrally as he opened one of the binders in front of Kalling.

“Still in the North Atlantic, Admiral. Still on top.”

Kalling nodded and grabbed the binder. Intercepted coded transmissions between two unfamiliar call signs. None were decrypted. None were relayed through any known points.

“How the hell is this-”

One uncoded radio transmission caught Kalling’s eye: “Commander Daniels: Rescue ship deployed, prepare to transfer crew upon imminent arrival off port side. FMNA1RCDS.”

Admiral Kalling folded his hands.

“It appears to be a…” Williamson stopped as several new veins appeared on his boss’ neck. He quickly pulled up another file and placed it in front of the others.

“From our contacts in Berlin. All we have on that callsign, Sir.”

“It’s Robért, yes I know…” Kalling selected another stress ball, kneading it as he spoke. “That arrogant, smug little… He didn’t exist five years ago. His shipyard didn’t either. Came out of nowhere, overnight! This nobody had the nerve to tell us our new fleet had critical flaws and then proposed radical designs for the ‘warships of the future.’ Silber took a look, though. Of course, we didn’t heed any of it. Then he launched the V’s, and the Eclairs. Now here we are, pretending we aren’t playing catch-up with technologies we can only replicate in theory. Yes, Willamson I know it’s Robért!” Kalling tore the squishy ball into three pieces. “What’s he done now?”

“Two years ago, the German Navy was called in to verify sea trials for a new class built by Robért.” Williamson summarized. “The trials were conducted under the highest secrecy, and remain classified by the French government. This is what Berlin would share. The Comtes were reported to break the sound barrier, evade radar and sonar detection, deflect warheads, and hack and disable electrical systems on ships and aircraft up to 1000 kilometers away. They are also submersible, and were tested to a depth of 1000 meters.”

Kalling took the file and glanced through it. A touched-up photo of a sleek white liner fell onto his desk.

“The Comtes are only intended for passenger service. Though the Germans noted their “terrifying” military potential.”

“Yes… I see that conclusion.” Kalling’s jaw clenched tighter.

Williamson’s tablet buzzed with an alert. He skimmed over the message, his eyes widening.

“Now what?” Kalling glanced up from his file. “Well? Your job is to ensure I’m not always the last to know these-”

“Oh. Just now. Our files were remotely updated with more detailed information on the Comtes,” Williamson continued from his tablet. “There are three Comte-class vessels, all bearing special elite callsigns. FMNA1RPCV is the Comte de Vannes. FMNA1RCCR, the Comte de Rhin, and-”

“Remotely updated?” Kalling frowned. “By whom?”

“FMNA1RCDS, the Comte de Savoie.”

“Whaddia know…” Kalling snapped the binder shut. “I’m heading back to the White House. Inform me immediately of any more developments.” He dropped the broken stress ball into the trash bin as he strode to the door. Seeing a brightly colored sphere in his assistant’s hand, Kalling grabbed it on his way out.

“Sir!” Williamson squeaked, turning bright red.

“What-!?” Kalling tried to dig his fingers into the ball, but found he couldn’t. The ball was firm, and had a hole molded through it. “Williamson, what the hell!? Is this… From home?”

“Yes Sir!” Williamson tried to act cool. “The uh firmness lasts longer. Stress balls have such short lifespans around here…”

“Don’t call me ‘Sir,’ and do not talk about ‘longer lasting firmness.’”

“…”

“I’m keeping your ball gag. Hope you can stay quiet without it.”

“Yes Sss… Admiral!”

Kalling rolled his eyes and marched to his car, clutching the binders tightly. At least this time he had something to tell the President.

 

The North Atlantic…

Joe Bennett shivered violently. Nathan Vincent hugged him tighter, resting his lips on Bennett’s forehead.

“I… I’m-m…”

“Sh-hhhh shhh,” Vincent soothed. “I-I-I know… Shhh…”

Shane Matthews, Tyler Clark, and Brent Charles were similarly huddled together across from Bennett and Vincent. The room was quiet, as it had been for some time. The sailors were cold and weak, lost in the pitch black darkness of their bunk. Even the creaking of the ship had faded from notice.

Another wave crashed into the side of the ship, shoving it further than the 20-degree list it had been sitting at. The men in Bennett’s cabin silently braced for the end, as heavy-sounding scraping and crashing broke through the wash of creaks and groans.

The roll continued. 25 degrees… 30 degrees… 35 degrees…

“Please God…” Clark squeaked through the din.

38 degrees… 40 degrees…

The carrier seemed to fall off the swell it was riding, the bow pitched down with a tortured moan. 40 degrees… 40 degrees… Water would be pouring in through the armored air intakes now. The huge ship was sinking.

Bennett closed his eyes, pressing closer into Vincent’s chest. He couldn’t see the muscular adonis, but he could certainly feel him. Vincent’s heart pounded, and Bennett pictured his handsome face scowling into the darkness. Bennett smiled. They’d all drown like rats in a trap, but Vincent would drag the reaper to hell with him fighting all the way.

40 degrees… 41 degrees… 39… 37… 30… 20… 15…

All at once, the carrier was back on an even keel and eerily quiet. Even the howling of the wind had ceased.

Bennett opened his eyes. He could see!

“Wha–? This is… There’s light! I think?” Matthews exclaimed breathlessly.

It was true, there did seem to be light… But where it was coming from was not clear. Bennett lifted his head from Vincent’s pecs. He wasn’t cold anymore either.

Matthews was on his feet first, peering down the corridor at other bemused faces.

“The hell is going on?”

“We’re dead,” Charles stated simply, sitting on the edge of his own bunk as he untied the harness from his waist. “We’re all dead. Welcome to the afterlife, boys…”

“But…” Matthews had a strange look on his face. “You guys hear that?”

Bennett and Vincent strained to hear. It was a voice, too faint to understand.

“What..?”

“Shh!” Matthews slowly turned his head toward the speaker for the ship’s PA system.

“…ship… ‘sonell… to disembark… Rescue ship… prepare…”

All five men jumped toward the speaker, piling against the wall. It was the Captain’s voice!

“Rescue ship inbound. All personnel prepare to disembark from port-side gangways.”

“Yep, Charles is right. We are dead,” Matthews sighed. “There’s no way.”

As if on cue, another ship’s foghorn sounded in the near distance.

Scattered cheers could be heard from down the corridor, but Charles sat stone-faced as he pulled on his working blouse.

“Men lost at sea,” he spoke solemnly. “Are taken on by the Flying Dutchman. Heaven for us is to sail the oceans for eternity…”

Bennett and Vincent rolled their eyes to each other.

“Come on, baby.” Vincent straightened up Bennett’s uniform. “Let’s go.”

The five of them made their way to the loading bay where they would disembark. Though the lights were off, somehow the corridors and rooms were lit well enough for the men to see where they were going. Ren Salynkos joined them on the stairs.

“Bennett,” Salynkos nodded. Bennett clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re alright!”

Salynkos shrugged. “Somehow…”

It was quiet on the loading bay, except for Charles’ humming of “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.” The dim, eerie light concealed the wrecked interiors of the carrier. Bennett reached over and clasped Vincent’s hand. All there was to do now was wait for further instruction.

Further instruction didn’t come quite as expected. The huge loading bay door opened, warm white light instantly flooded through. A gangway was already in place, lined on either side with sharply-dressed fit men, leading to salvation.

“It’s her. The Flying Dutchman.” Charles gasped at the glowing profile of the rescue ship alongside. “So… beautiful.”

Bennett counted 12 decks, all aglow with warm silvery light; but through the windows an inviting kaleidoscope of colors. Comforting aromas of baked bread, coffee, and something sweet played around Bennett’s nose, beckoning him to step forward. As if under a spell, the men collectively proceeded to cross the gangway.

To be continued …