The Spire's Med Bay was a jarring contrast to the rusted hell below.
It was blindingly white. Clean, hexagonal tiles lined the floor. Humming air scrubbers pumped the scent of harsh antiseptics into the cold room.
In the center of the bay sat a hyper-baric trauma pod. Stolen Board tech, pristine and sleek.
Galen was inside it.
He was stripped of the heavy hazard suit, floating in a thick, translucent blue gel. An oxygen mask covered his pale face. Tiny bubbles rose from his lips, slow and irregular.
Marcus stood outside the glass, his hands pressed flat against the cold surface. He was still covered in grease, soot, and the dried blood from his fight in the reactor.
"Status," Marcus croaked. His throat was raw from the canned air.
The Boatman's personal physician—a nervous man in a starched white coat—tapped a datapad frantically.
"He... he ingested a massive dose of ionizing radiation," the doctor stammered, adjusting his glasses. "The anti-rad foam is bonding with the isotopes in his lungs. It's flushing his system."
"Will he live?" Marcus asked, his voice low and dangerous.
The doctor swallowed hard. "Yes. The pod's cellular regeneration matrix is active. But his lung tissue is severely scarred. It will take days for him to breathe on his own without the gel."
Marcus let out a long, shuddering breath. He closed his eyes.
The Warlord's mask slipped for just a second. He slumped forward, resting his forehead against the thick glass of the pod.
"You did good, Galen," Marcus whispered to the unhearing mechanic. "Rest."
He pushed himself off the glass.
The door to the Med Bay slid open with a soft hiss.
Scylla stepped in. Her massive red armor looked absurd in the sterile white room.
"The core is holding," Scylla rumbled. "The main guns are cycling power. Nero's frigate retreated to visual range. He's licking his wounds."
Marcus turned to her. He didn't smile.
"Where is the Fabricator?" Marcus asked.
Scylla pointed a heavy metal finger down the hall. "Engineering Bay Prime. Next door."
Marcus walked past the doctor without a word.
Scylla followed him.
They entered the adjacent room. It wasn't sterile white. It was black steel and heavy industry.
In the center of the massive bay was the Class-4 Fabricator. It looked less like a 3D printer and more like a robotic assembly line used for building tanks. Massive robotic arms hung from a ceiling gantry, holding welding torches and plasma cutters.
Strapped to a heavy steel table beneath the arms was Narcissus.
He was in pieces. His scorched, fused right leg had been completely removed at the hip joint.
Four ship mechanics were swarming over him, frantically inputting commands into a rusted terminal. Sparks showered the deck as a robotic arm welded a thick steel plate to the giant's shoulder.
"Stop," Marcus ordered as he entered.
The mechanics froze. They looked at Scylla for confirmation. She nodded. They stepped back from the table.
Marcus walked up to the giant.
Because Galen wasn't awake to guide the delicate bio-mechanical design, the ship's mechanics had improvised. They used what they had.
Carrier parts.
Narcissus's new leg wasn't sleek Board chrome. It was massive, black, and riveted. The hydraulic pistons were salvaged from the ship's heavy anchor-chains. His thigh armor was thick naval steel, scarred with old blast marks.
He looked less like a fast, precise Sentinel and more like a walking Dreadnought. A walking battleship.
Marcus reached out and touched the cold steel of the new leg.
"Wake him up," Marcus ordered.
Scylla stepped up to the main terminal. She punched a heavy sequence into the keyboard.
"Powering core," Scylla announced.
A low, deep hum vibrated through the deck plates.
Inside Narcissus's chest, the scavenged fusion core whined to life.
The giant's single remaining eye flickered.
Red. Then gold.
He let out a sound like a venting steam pipe. A long, slow exhale of pressurized air.
He raised his right arm—the one with the heavy Board cannon still attached—and gripped the edge of the steel table.
He didn't struggle. He didn't jerk.
He sat up smoothly.
The steel table groaned under the shift in weight. He was significantly heavier now.
He looked down at his new leg. He flexed the massive anchor-chain pistons. They hissed perfectly, powerful and smooth.
Narcissus swung his legs off the table.
He stood up.
CLANG.
His new heavy boot hit the deck. The entire bay shuddered slightly.
He was twelve feet tall. A towering mountain of rusted black iron, scarred gold plating, and glowing red optics.
He looked at his massive new hands. He clenched them into fists the size of engine blocks.
"I am..." Narcissus rumbled. His voice was deeper now, resonating in his wider chest cavity. "...seaworthy."
Marcus stared at the giant.
For the first time since the Arno River, Marcus smiled. He actually laughed. It was a short, sharp bark of pure relief.
"Good," Marcus said. "Because we have a meeting."
Marcus turned on his heel. He strode out of the bay.
Narcissus followed. His footsteps were deafening.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
They marched through the red-carpeted corridors of the Velvet Deck.
The high-rollers and officers pressed themselves against the mahogany walls, staring in terrified awe at the iron giant and the Warlord covered in soot.
They reached the glass elevator. It groaned as Narcissus stepped inside.
They rode up to the Spire.
To the CIC. To the Throne Room.
The red blast doors slid open.
The Boatman was waiting.
He was still wired into his chair, surrounded by the flickering monitors of his tactical network. He smelled of sandalwood and old sweat.
He turned his milky, blind eyes toward the door as Narcissus's heavy footsteps shook the room.
"The Warlord," the Boatman rasped. "And his monster. Both alive."
Marcus walked to the center of the room. He didn't bow.
"The core is green," Marcus said. "Your ship breathes."
The Boatman nodded slowly. "I see it on the telemetry. You paid the iron debt. You bought your people's lives."
He pointed a withered finger toward the monitors.
"Your giant walks. Your mechanic heals. Now, take your refugees down to Hangar 4. Steal a skiff. Take supplies. The sea is open."
Marcus didn't move.
"Nero is out there," Marcus said. "He retreated, but he didn't leave."
"Let him stay," the Boatman sneered. "My CIWS turrets are fully powered. If he comes within ten miles, I will shred his frigate into scrap."
"And then what?" Marcus asked, his voice echoing in the large room. "He calls the Board armada. He calls a Titan-class cruiser. You can't run forever. You're a stationary target."
The Boatman's hands tightened on the armrests of his chair.
"This is my city," the Boatman hissed. "I am the King here. I do not run."
"You don't run because you can't," Marcus said, gesturing to the Boatman's wired, legless body. "You're hiding in the rust."
Scylla stepped forward, raising her hammer. "Watch your mouth, Warlord."
Marcus ignored her. He stepped closer to the Boatman's throne.
"I'm not leaving," Marcus said.
The room went dead silent.
"Excuse me?" the Boatman whispered.
"I'm changing the terms of the deal," Marcus said.
He leaned over the console, bringing his face inches from the Boatman's.
"You need a Warlord," Marcus said softly. "And I need a mobile fortress."
The Boatman's milky eyes widened. He let out a harsh, rattling laugh.
"You?" the Boatman wheezed. "You want to command my ship?"
"I want to integrate it," Marcus said. He tapped his temple. The Neural Link flared gold. "I plugged into your reactor. I felt your systems. They're old. They're sluggish. My AI can optimize your targeting grid by two hundred percent. I can make this rusted tub fight like a Board dreadnought."
"I have five thousand scavengers on this ship," the Boatman growled. "They answer to me. Not to a boy with a glowing eye."
"They answer to strength," Marcus countered. "They hate the Board. You hate the Board. We all know they're coming to finish the job Nero started."
Marcus stood up straight. He looked at the monitors. He saw the burning coast of Italy in the distance.
"I offer an alliance," Marcus said. "Not of survival. Of conquest."
The Boatman stopped laughing. He studied Marcus's face, tracing the lines of tension and absolute resolve.
"Conquest?" the Boatman asked. "You want to take a rusted aircraft carrier and invade Italy? You are insane."
"I want to take the Vatican," Marcus said. His voice was absolute iron. "I want to break the Board's central server. I want to rip Executive Vane out of his digital throne."
He looked back down at the Boatman.
"Give me the helm," Marcus said. "And I will make you a King of the new world."
The Boatman was silent for a long time. The only sound was the hum of the servers and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of Narcissus.
The Old Man looked at the monitors. He saw the fire Nero had set. He saw the rot in his own ship.
He looked at Marcus.
Slowly, agonizingly, the Boatman extended a withered, trembling hand.
Marcus reached out.
He gripped the old man's hand.
The deal was struck.
"The Carrier is yours, Warlord," the Boatman whispered. "Do not sink my city."
Marcus nodded once.
He turned and walked toward the main tactical terminal at the front of the room.
He didn't ask for a cable. He simply placed his hand flat on the glowing glass of the interface.
Zzzzt.
The Neural Link engaged.
[SYSTEM WIDE INTEGRATION COMPLETE.]
JARVIS's voice didn't echo in Marcus's head. It boomed over the CIC's main speakers, clear and powerful.
"Battery at one hundred percent, Boss," JARVIS announced to the room. "Ship systems fully optimized. Main guns primed. Engines at maximum yield."
Marcus looked out the reinforced glass of the bridge, toward the horizon.
Toward the smoke rising from the Italian coast.
"Set a course," Marcus ordered.
"Where to, Boss?" JARVIS asked.
Marcus smiled. A cold, Warlord's smile.
"Take us home."