24991120 | 0440

  Shanghai Er Lang Sheng Medical Institute | Pudong | United China

  31°18′37″ N

  121°31′27″ E

  There was motion.

  Thoughts.

  Sounds.

  Impact.

  Sliding

  Vibrations

  Footsteps.

  Rolling.

  Words.

  Impact.

  A dull throb.

  Pain.

  Thoughts coalesced.

  Darkness.

  Vibration in slow waves.

  Distant thunder echoing within bones.

  Recognition returned.

  Scraping of metal.

  Cushioning of padding.

  Constraint of straps.

  Straps.

  Cinched tight across a chest.

  Absence of heartbeat.

  Absence of limbs.

  Legs.

  A dull throb.

  Pain.

  Hand.

  Hands.

  Memory reasserted itself.

  Darkness.

  Whispers.

  Cold breath.

  On skin.

  Vapor.

  Memory.

  Recollection.

  A bump.

  Glass.

  Condensation beads.

  Glass inches from his face.

  He.

  Him.

  Darkness.

  His eyes.

  Memory.

  The glass.

  He knows its thickness.

  He felt the faint hum.

  Steady and patient.

  A still heart.

  Voices come and go.

  Words

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Language.

  Language.

  Foreign.

  Chinese.

  Mandarin.

  They never spoke to him.

  They spoke around him, above him, through him.

  “—temperature holding—”

  “—seal intact—”

  “—no response to stimuli, as expected—”

  “—waking up, hurry—”

  “—get them, to the ward, quick—

  The words slide past.

  Softened by layers of gel and insulation.

  Underwater.

  Drowned lungs.

  A thud.

  Rapid bleep.

  A hiss of air.

  Hands.

  Many hands.

  “—on the bed, now!”

  Professional.

  Frantic.

  Gentle.

  Manic.

  Darkness.

  “—behind schedule—”

  “—he’s fading—”

  “Doctor!”

  “Defibrillator!”

  “Now!”

  The voice rushed in.

  Drowning.

  A whining.

  A jolt.

  Heart stilled.

  “Again!”

  A whining.

  Another jolt.

  “Again!”

  Another jolt.

  “Again!”

  Heartbeat, faint.

  “Doctor-“

  “We are not losing him!”

  A shuffling.

  A change in pitch.

  “Maximum!”

  “Doctor!”

  The world snapped back.

  A rush of sensation.

  Input.

  Senses.

  Overwhelming.

  Heartbeat.

  He tried to breathe.

  He choked.

  A hand descended.

  Female.

  It grabbed the rebreather around his face.

  He felt a tickling sensation.

  She pulled the breathing tube out of his tract.

  He gagged.

  He threw up.

  Hands pushed him down.

  He lashed out.

  Men in white.

  His instincts took over.

  His eyes acquired his targets.

  A dozen of men.

  His breathing steady.

  His instinct returned.

  Razor sharp.

  Precise, measured, timed.

  His body failed.

  He fell, dizzy.

  His chest rise. Falls.

  Rises again.

  “Adam - ” A voice said.

  Fracture.

  “Adam Nightblade.” The voice said again, accented.

  That is his name.

  Cold creeps deeper.

  The chill of the grave.

  It presses into muscle, into marrow.

  It dwelt within hollow places where warmth once resided.

  The chill of fear.

  He knows that.

  But he was not afraid.

  His awareness returned, fragmented.

  A hand rests briefly on his muscular chest.

  The pressure is gentle.

  Reassuring.

  Reverent.

  “My lord,” she murmured. “Lord Adam Nightblade.”

  The words echo strangely.

  Lord Adam Nightblade.

  Harbinger.

  Church of the Nine.

  Light passes over him in bands.

  Spots of red, then white, then blue danced before his eyes.

  His sight returning.

  He was soaked.

  Cold.

  Unnaturally cold.

  The cold of death.

  He was shivering.

  “Take it slow.” The woman said.

  The world snapped back into focus.

  Traffic.

  Cars and bikes.

  Moving on the road.

  The soundscape coalesced.

  Distant horns.

  The low roar of traffic.

  The sound of a city that never sleep.

  The word surfaces unbidden.

  A memory.

  A decree.

  “Why am I here?” He asked, voice hoarse.

  A caregiver came with a glass of water.

  “Drink.” The woman said.

  He gulped the water down.

  “You are?” Adam asked when he found his voice.

  “Dr Vicki Shi, my lord.” The woman said, “your servant.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Shanghai Er Lang Sheng Medical Institute.” Vicki said, “Virology Lab.”

  He rubbed his temple.

  “You have been dead for 33 hours, my lord.” She continued, “we almost lost you.”

  “Ah yes, I remembered now.” Adam said, “my thanks for reviving me.”

  “My lord.” She said, bowing.

  “My men?” He asked.

  “They are being resuscitated as we speak.”

  The staffers wheeled another med-pod in.

  “ID matches, Zora Chainbreaker.”

  “Cadaver transfer, 33 hours.”

  “Faint life-signs, commence resuscitation.”

  Cadaver.

  Vicki moved over to his med-pod.

  She pressed a button.

  A concealed, sealed panel slid out

  His armor and weapons.

  An attendant brought forth a tray.

  A bowl of thin rice congee steamed faintly in the cold room.

  Adam crinkled his nose.

  He ate as he watched them worked.

  24991119 | 22:40

  Eastern Mediterranean Sea

  34°58′12″ N

  25°06′45″ E

  “There,” Viper said.

  “Visual on the target.” Cobra affirmed.

  A black silhouette against the sea of black.

  Adrift, cast loose.

  “Ghost ship?” Boa whispered.

  “Spooky,” Python said.

  “Handing off,” Cobra said as he flipped a few switches.

  He got out of pilot chair.

  Viper, Boa and Python followed.

  The autopilot took the craft down.

  VTOL thrusters kicked in.

  The doors slid open.

  Wind.

  Salt.

  Dark.

  Viper rappelled first.

  Boots hit steel.

  “Clear.”

  The rest of the squad followed a heartbeat later.

  Weapons came up.

  They fanned out, sweeping arcs of darkness.

  “Clear,” Cobra said.

  “Clear,” Boa said.

  “Clear,” Python said.

  Silence.

  “No sign of life,” Cobra said.

  Boa glanced back. “Why the detour, chief?”

  Cobra shrugged.

  “We were asked to take a look.”

  He paused.

  Python was tapping away on his slate.

  “IFF tagged her as The Salvation of the Sea.”

  “Pulled anything?” Viper asked.

  “Yeah. One sec.” Python frowned at the readout.

  “Old EUNHCR vessel. Registered as *The Salvation’s Edge*.”

  “That’s old,” Viper said.

  Cobra looked at him.

  “Serial UNHCR MRV-111306,” Python continued.

  “Reported missing winter of 2378.”

  Boa’s eyes flicked to the dark superstructure.

  The ship groaned.

  Wind-haunted hollowed corridors.

  A low, constant pressure against the hull.

  The hiss of water shearing past metal.

  A rhythm older than engines.

  Older than charts.

  They felt it beneath the soles of their boots.

  Through the deck plates.

  In their bones.

  Night has swallowed everything else.

  The ship ahead does not have lights.

  No running lamps.

  No deck illumination.

  No navigation beacons.

  No wake.

  No engine vibration.

  No heat plume.

  Dead in the water.

  There should be noise.

  Even derelicts creak. Even empty ships complain.

  This one does not.

  “Defunct UNHCR,” she murmured.

  “Supposedly decommissioned at Nairobi Shipyard Twenty-Four,” Python said.

  “Refurbished and refitted by an NGO afterward.”

  A pause.

  “Nobody wanted to pretend to help anymore.”

  Viper frowned. “Then how is it at sea?”

  Cobra didn’t answer right away.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

  “Ships like this didn’t disappear,” Python muttered.

  “They just stopped being worth tracking.”

  “Yes,” Cobra said, “weapons warm. Expect anything.”

  “And if we find something?” Boa whispered.

  Cobra didn’t look at her.

  “Crew expendable.”