Chapter 2: March into the Future

Fionn

The march to Dublin had been a bloody affair, though that was likely due to how Fionn had chosen his path, dragging the Fianna through as many monster-infested areas as possible.

It had achieved its primary purpose, allowing them to stop some of the biggest problems before they actually impacted the people of Ireland.

It had also left everyone tired and dirty, and while he’d normally not apply the word to his esteemed brothers in arms, cranky.

However, the whole affair had also demonstrated that none of the old legends had been exaggerations.

Well, he knew of one that was a little more fantastical than what had really happened. It claimed that a member of the Fianna had come back from the grave to settle a dispute about whether or not a poet was correct about the site of a battle.

It was a long story, which basically boiled down to poets being able to lay dangerous curses down upon those who insulted them, a king correcting a factually incorrect statement made by a poet, and then being threatened by a curse unless he could prove it. The issue was that, well, while everyone knew where the battle had taken place, there hadn’t been any proof.

It was true, his son Oisin had shown up and set the record straight, but he hadn’t escaped the grave for that.

Regardless, this was a new world. One where anyone who cared to seek knowledge was almost as well informed as he was, except that they drew from humanity’s collective knowledge, not the world itself, as he did.

So, that was the plan. March into the capital city, declare their names for all to hear and spread about, and then, they could work together to gear up this country, and any who would follow Ireland’s lead, for war. Because this was not going to end quickly, or painlessly.

Modern weapons were powerful, intense, and destructive, but they were limited in how often they could be used.

A swordsman could skewer a dozen enemies before his blade needed to be sharpened, and said blade could be sharpened a hundred times before it needed to be replaced.

A gunman could spend the entirety of his available munition in a matter of minutes, and the machinery needed to replace it would only survive so long in a world where new monsters could appear anywhere, at almost any time.

An issue that only grew when it came to tanks and jets, the latter of which especially could become useless within a single day of use without adequate maintenance.

They needed to figure out how to get everyone Classes, and find people willing to fight for this cause. The head of the carriage-sized seagull that was mounted on the end of his spear should serve as a better rallying symbol than any banner he’d ever beheld.

***

People stared as they entered Dublin, and marched through the streets. As expected. This wasn’t a sight those of this age would have been used to. Phones were being waved about, pictures and videos taken, something many people were doing despite also looking rather scared. Was clout on this “social” media really that valuable?

Either way, he ignored questions, for now his goal was barely a hundred meters away.

The Spire of Dublin, positioned right at one of the city’s main thoroughfares and holding not insignificant symbolic weight.

As he reached it, he raised his left hand slightly and muttered a spell, the magic flowing far more easily than it ever had in the past, raising a low platform of stone from the ground.

Being unable to see the System and its direct effects unless said effects had been studied and quantified by humanity, thereby making them a part of “earthly knowledge,” was limiting. It completely ruined his ability to see most of the future, removing a large part of his metaphysical arsenal, and yet, he knew he was stronger than he’d ever been. They all were.

So what did it say that thoughts of the future filled him with dread and uncertainty?

“My name is Fionn Mac Cumail,” he declared, after stepping onto the platform and turning around. “Most of you know the old stories, some of you don’t. Some of you will believe this to be false, fakes like so many things seen on the internet. Others still will choose to avoid facing the reality of the situation, preferring to let others handle the threat posed by this new world.”

He raised his spear overhead as he said this, showing the monster head impaled there to even those standing furthest back, then rammed the butt of this weapon into the stone beneath him, leaving it stuck there even when he removed his hand.

“The world is about to become as dangerous as it was in the age you only remember in myths, but this change has also returned power to mankind. The Fianna has returned, and we will lead the charge once more.

“Come to us for protection, and even the likes of the biblical Leviathan will not be able to harm you.

“Come to us for training, and we will mold you into a warrior worthy of standing beside us.

“And if you come to us seeking purpose, together, we shall. Save! This! World!”

The distant rumble of thunder that followed the proclamation hadn’t been intended, and Fionn only belatedly realized that he’d subconsciously triggered one of those countless Skills, namely, [Inspiring Proclamation], but it fit the image he wanted to project despite not having been planned.

With that, he dropped down onto the ground, leaving the monster’s head where he’d planted it, and made one final announcement.

“We’ll make camp in Phoenix Park, you’ll be able to find us there. Even if some of us are away, hunting, someone will be there to hear your requests.”

It had the space for a camp, even if their numbers increased tenfold overnight, and was near the western edge of the city, where he expected most of the problems to come from, at least for now.

Not to mention that the Áras an Uachtaráin, the residence and main workplace of Ireland’s president, lay in that same park. If the government decided to meet with him, already being within spitting distance of the head of state would make things much easier.

***

Creating a camp was one of those things that any self-respecting warrior of their original era would have done a few hundred times in their lifetime, an action practiced to almost perfection.

And the Fianna was made up of some of the finest Ireland had to offer. It had been easy. Grab rocks to line the fire, find sticks to build said fire, set up the tents you’d brought with you, dig a couple of holes to serve as toilets, and that would be it. Maybe cut down a few trees to form a basic palisade.

Of course, they couldn’t really do most of that in a public park. Someone would inevitably raise hell despite the fact that this situation was the very definition of an extenuating circumstance. That was something he might know and understand intellectually, but in reality … just what had the world come to?

Even so, it was an overall moot point. This new magic known as “Skills” made it easy and simple to create a camp better than anything they’d had before. And while their Classes varied, they were all somewhat based on their status as members of the Fianna.

Caoilte had been declared the [Legendary Deputy of the Fianna], Conán had his [Warrior of Unwavering Loyalty], while Goll had gotten the most basic descriptor as [Warrior of the Fianna].

Oisin and his [Child of the Forest] would have been able to transform this park into a verdant paradise in short order, but Fionn had sent him off to buy some clothes for everyone. Modern clothes. It had been a simple thing to get their measurements in modern standards, then find a shop that would let itself be paid in gold. Of course, they’d make sure to massively overpay in the process; that would smooth things along.

But worrying wasn’t his job right now. He needed to be setting up camp in a way that both looked impressive and was inviting.

In many ways, the modern world was far more concerned with appearances than his time, if it looked bad, it was considered to be bad, even if the object in question was a broken chunk of literal gold.

Images were so much easier to make and proliferate, including stills from those movies, and people would have a basis of comparison for basically everything, a mental picture of how something was “supposed to look,” even if its likes had never been seen in living memory.

Therefore, well … this camp needed to look good. And he’d be damned if that wasn’t a little annoying.

[Instant Setup] meant that the tent he’d packed appeared in an instant, complete with all the wards he’d normally prepare.

Caoilte managed to create a palisade wall in a heartbeat.

Conán created the firepit with a gesture.

And so on. The camp took shape in short bursts—all that was really required was someone to find the relevant Skill on their lengthy list and apply it. Presumably, people who started out at lower Levels would be able to grow into their abilities, and make each of them their own.

Fionn took this as a chance to once again use his sight. For the sake of not looking ridiculous, he only stuck the tip of his thumb into the side of his mouth, giving the whole affair the appearance of merely chewing on his nails.

The world was, surprise surprise, in utter chaos, the various spots of monster activity causing varying degrees of casualties, depending on the armament of the locals and proximity to military installations.

He’d probably drawn on his gift more today than he had in the decade preceding their slumber, but was still feeling absolutely lost and was constantly being caught by surprise.

For example, it seemed like he’d sent Oisin off for no reason. Or not sent him early enough. Either way, the meeting he’d wanted a modern suit for was just about here.

It was a matter of a few simple motions to divest himself of his weapons, unhooking his sword and hunting knife along with their sheaths from his belt, and removing the sling that held his spears from his back. It would have been easier to simply remove the weapons themselves, admittedly, but this look, without empty holsters, was simply … cleaner.

Fionn strode out to meet the government envoy, surprising the man who immediately proceeded to awkwardly bow slightly. It was clearly not a motion he practiced often, if ever, but the effort was appreciated.

“Lord Mac Cumail, President O’Dwyer would like to extend an invitation to meet him at his residence, to discuss the future of this country,” the man, who was clearly an aide of some stripe, began before pulling out a folded piece of paper, hot off the presses, as it were.

Fionn grasped the proffered letter and looked it over. It read like a modern man’s version of a proper royal summons, even more flowery than the originals had been, and it was exceedingly, for lack of a better word, submissive. As if he were the king, being asked to grace one of his subjects with his presence. It even stated the time of the meeting as “by his convenience.”

Oof. The government’s being polite was good. Afraid, on the other hand, … not so much.

“Would me taking him up on this invitation right now be too early?” Fionn asked.

The aid shook his head. “No, President O’Dwyer would …”

“… He’d like to be able to plan with all information at his disposal?” Fionn finished as the aide trailed off.

“Yes, exactly,” the man beamed.

No, this wasn’t fear, no, it was … awe . Or, in modern parlance, the man was starstruck. If the same feeling drove the president, then maybe this meeting would go well.

The aide led the way and Fionn followed until they reached the Áras an Uachtaráin. It was guarded, of course, considering the nation’s sovereign lived and worked here, but no one stopped them.

They soon reached what Fionn was able to identify as a sitting room, complete with a cabinet of liquor and huge bookshelves covering most of the walls. A pair of comfortable-looking armchairs stood in the middle of the room, and a low table holding two wide, short glasses alongside yet another bottle of liquor sat between them.

An informal meeting, even better.

“Good afternoon, President O’Dwyer,” Fionn greeted, dipping his head. A far cry from a full bow, but an acknowledgment of the other man’s standing nevertheless. Then, he offered his right hand, palm perpendicular to the ground. Neither of their hands would be above the other, a handshake between equals.

“Lord Mac Cumail, thank you for coming.” O’Dwyer shook the hand with clear relief before he gestured towards the chairs.

Again with the “lord.” Clearly, something that had been settled on to cover all bases when it came to politeness, though not something he was entirely happy with.

“Please, call me Fionn,” he said as he sat down.

O’Dwyer seemed a little uncomfortable, so Fionn explained.

“I know it’s a regular first name nowadays, but for me, it’s a title. My name is Demne, even if I haven’t heard it since I was a little boy.”

The president nodded.

“Alright, Fionn , I have to ask, what are your intentions beyond your declaration earlier today?” he asked.

“We, the Fianna and I, want to do what we set out to do all those centuries ago. Protect Ireland. There were no more monsters to fight at that time, no dire need, and while my sight didn’t stretch to the present day, it wasn’t hard to predict that, eventually, we’d be needed again.”

O’Dwyer sagged in his seat, though the cause was clear relief.

“ Thank you ,” he breathed. “Thank you so much.”

“My sight means that we can easily find and fight monsters as they crop up, but if you have an issue that you need help with, you know where to find us.”

“Thank you,” O’Dwyer repeated.

“Though access to some of those ‘mobile phones’ would make things go much more smoothly. And some modern clothing wouldn’t go amiss either,” Fionn continued.

“We can arrange for all that. Hell, let’s do that right now,” O’Dwyer announced, turning to the aide that had led Fionn here. “Mac Liam, can you arrange to have everything they could need delivered to the Fianna’s campsite? Coordinate with the Corps of Engineers to make sure you have a complete list of what could come in handy.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the aide nodded and marched off.

Then, O’Dwyer turned back to Fionn, looking nervous.

“I really appreciate everything you’re offering, but …” O’Dwyer sighed, and Fionn chose not to comment. It seemed like he’d follow that up in a reasonable amount of time.

“… There are people who won’t see it that way. Or people who decide that going for your head is a way to earn prestige.”

“Or stupid teenagers who decide that messing around with a lethal swordsman to film a funny video is a grand idea,” Fionn added. “There’s no need to worry. I’ll defend myself, but I’ll leave everything I can to the ‘proper channels,’ as it were. And I’m more than capable of differentiating between a real threat and a fool doing something foolish. Also, I can clearly distinguish between friend and foe. I won’t hold anyone else’s actions against you.”

As he said that, Fionn raised his right hand, palm facing towards him, and a cloud slid aside from in front of the sun at just the right moment to reflect off the glass front of the liquor cabinet to perfectly illuminate his thumb, which was covered by a mottled scar. This time, [Inspiring Proclamation] had been used on purpose.

The scar had been old even when they’d gone to sleep, and was truly ancient in the twenty-first century. It should have faded into near-invisibility by now, but one could still see it due to its faint blue tinge. That was the so-called “thumb of wisdom,” his “signature power,” gained when the burning-hot fat from the frying Salmon of Wisdom had splashed onto it.

“I guess that would make it easier …” O’Dwyer stared.

“Now that we have an agreement, don’t you think we could use a photo op?” Fionn stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar words before continuing.

“The people need something to boost their confidence. I’d also like to be introduced to some of your military leaders, and I have reason to believe there are others like the Fianna out there, people from ancient times returned to save the world …”

***

Charlemagne

So, this was what Francia had turned into. Split up in two parts, which constantly fought against each other for centuries upon centuries, with the half now known as “Germany” having become most famous for producing the worst villains of the world’s history, and the one known as “France” being globally stereotyped as constantly surrendering.

Although there was one good thing to say about the current state of Francia. Germany really seemed to have taken his philosophy of structure and order to heart. To the point where it was an international joke.

As for the world itself … a Godless place filled with countless pagan and even satanic religions. Far from the legacy Karl had hoped to leave behind.

But he could only get general information on everything. [Information Osmosis] was good for slowly understanding his situation, not receiving precise intelligence.

Not to mention there were these strange “Skills” that had originated from … something. A “System” that seemed to be the threat that had woken him despite the fact that it was also helping him. So much magic, without a clear and present origin he could point to, and investigate.

Though he needed to find his helpers, his keepers during his long sleep, before he could do anything else.

So yes, he needed to take a few steps to ensure that everything went smoothly.

Step one, find the Mandln.

Step two, have them fix this place up.

Step three, go out into the world and reestablish proper structures once step two had begun.

Step four … show the world just what he was capable of.

Gathering his beard up into a big knot pressed against his chest, Karl began to march through the tunnels beneath the Untersberg. Dust flew into the air in great clouds with every step he took, making it harder and harder to see and breathe the faster he marched, so he pulled his beard up to cover his nose and mouth.

As hard as it had initially been to imagine that it had been over twelve hundred years, seeing this made it easy. Here and there, he saw signs that the Mandln had tried to clean up, but this vast complex that had simply appeared beneath the mountain was large enough to house the entirety of his army at the height of his power and then some. Of course, a mere baker’s dozen of mountain spirits would not be enough to keep it in shape for over a millennium.

While he marched, he came across a sign that said “Armory,” sitting above a door which he promptly opened. He had to put his entire weight on the doorknob before it moved, and when he hauled it open, an ear-splitting screech rang out, but open it did.

The room inside was less dusty than the corridor, having been largely sealed, but that didn’t mean it was clean. Far from it.

Karl picked up a dagger and pulled it from its sheath, seeing a freshly oiled blade staring back up at him. So that was where most of the upkeep effort had gone.

A single sweep of the weapon later, the monumental beard fell from his face, and a few more cuts left him looking halfway presentable.

Perfect .

He attached the sheath to his belt and continued his search.

Eventually, he reached the deepest point of the fortress, and there, he finally found the Mandln, huddling together in the tiny tunnels that served as their home.

“There is no threat … for now,” Karl declared. “I need you to march out into the world as my envoys, find those worthy of becoming my paladins in this new age. Find me the greatest keepers of knowledge, the bravest of warriors, people who can navigate this new world, and those who can make things happen in the current climate. Then …”

He was interrupted by a loud “boom” that echoed through the entirety of the underground fortress.

Oh, that could not possibly be goo— Were those footsteps?

Yes, they were, heavy, loud beyond measure, and most importantly, familiar .

“Eleven of you, find me worthy paladins. The rest, make this fortress presentable. Rough sweep to get rid of the dust in the throne room and the corridors that lead there first. Everything else can come later.”

And with that, Karl whirled around on his feet and began to make his way upwards, in the direction of the entrance. The more he closed in on the newcomer, the more the dust in the environment began to jump, until his visitor finally came into view.

A giant of a man, wearing silver plate armor, a shortsword that seemed to hum with energy grasped in one giant hand, covered in fresh, odd-colored bloodstains that the dust now clung to.

“Carolus Magnus Rex,” the man rumbled. “As always, you have your ideas staying up way too late into the night, and present them to everyone else still wearing your nightshirt.”

Karl looked down at himself and sighed. Yes, he’d fallen asleep for centuries and was clad in not only, well, a nightshirt, but also countless layers of dust. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the mess.

“You have to admit Ogier, they were good ideas.”

“That, they were,” the giant responded, and at that point, both men were already close and embraced each other, with Karl’s ribs creaking by the time they separated again.

“Where were you all this time?” Karl asked the last survivor of his twelve paladins, Ogier the Dane.

“Asleep under Kronborg Castle,” the man announced. “And this is your resting place, I presume?”

Karl nodded.

“And what are you going to do next?”

“Why, I’m going to rebuild the empire, of course,” Karl announced. “The modern world is not ready for the appearance of monsters, and its inefficiencies would have spelled its doom sooner or later. I’ll find the best and brightest to serve as my paladins and advisors, I’ll forge a military that can take on the worst this ‘System’ can throw at us, and once all is said and done, the sun will rise over a new world!”

“That’s going to have to be a pretty powerful military,” Ogier noted, gesturing to his chest, and the blood spatters there. “These things are tough.”

“So are we,” Karl said. “So are we.”

***

HMS Defiant , Sea just off Portobello, Panama, Day of the System’s Initialization

“What is the progress on the radio repairs? Did you get anything on the satellite uplink?”

Captain Theodore Smith knew he’d already asked these questions before, but that had been ten minutes ago and things were still just as buggered as they’d been then.

As far as anyone on the crew could tell, technology still worked, it just couldn’t actually do anything. They were cut off from everyone else, unable to reach any satellite, ship, naval base, no one .

He’d have suspected some kind of software issue or even computer virus … if it hadn’t been for all the other shit that was happening.

The floating screen proclaiming the apocalypse had come, the voice whispering to everyone about new, albeit minor, superpowers most of them were getting, and above all, the drumbeat .

That damn drumbeat.

There wasn’t a single drum on the ship, or at least, there shouldn’t be, and even if there had been, the sound should not have been audible on the entire bleeding ship!

And of course they’d bloody checked if the sound was coming from the Defiant ’s PA system.

It wasn’t.

Just a drum beating the tune of “Rule Britannia” on a loop, echoing from somewhere off the starboard bow, audible even to people standing on the deck of the ship.

He’d even sent someone out on a speedboat to check if the effect was limited to the ship. It wasn’t.

But there was also no speaker or similar out there, because a speaker wouldn’t be equally audible within and without the ship.

“Radar contact, two clicks out, ten o’clock,” the radar operator warned.

That was the third “contact” they’d had since the world had stopped making sense.

“Identify it,” Smith ordered.

After a few seconds, it was pulled up on a screen. It was a seagull, quite a bit larger than even an albatross, with a decidedly evil glint in its eyes and claws that could tear through a warship’s hull. They’d already seen what those things could do, when one of the random seabirds that had settled on the ship’s deck had suddenly turned into a rabid beast.

“Shoot it down,” he ordered, “Bow gun, three-round burst.”

The bird on the ship had gone down to handheld weaponry, but it had nonetheless taken an ungodly number of bullets before it had died. He wasn’t taking any chances.

But a destroyer’s four-inch bow gun was an order of magnitude more powerful than anything handheld and easily reduced the interloper to bloody mist.

By now, it had become abundantly clear that reality had gone off the deep end, and now, the crew of the Defiant were stuck dealing with the fallout.

Smith sighed.

Either nothing existed anymore beyond his ship, or they were cut off somehow. It didn’t matter. Either way, the situation had gone thoroughly tits up, and he was the man on the ground, without any way to reach his superiors or receive new orders.

The captain is the master of his ship and next to God .

That phrase had never felt so heavy.

“Follow those drums, find the origin,” Smith ordered. There was a distinct possibility that he was sailing straight into a trap, one laid by some kind of siren or the like, and yet … something was telling him this was the correct course of action.

Something about a drum being beaten in England’s darkest day, lauding the return of … something .

There was a supernatural drum beating “Rule Britannia” on the day the world went down the drain. He had to believe there was a reason behind it.

“Uh … Sir? What course should I take?” the helmsman asked.

“Play it by ear,” Smith ordered. “Just head in whatever way the song seems to be the loudest.”

The ship jerked under his feet several times in the next few minutes as the helmsman made course corrections, but in due time, they reached the source of the unnatural song.

It had a clear origin, you could turn your head and hear it louder in the ear pointed towards the source, yet after having traveled towards it at the Defiant ’s top speed for several minutes, its volume should have been deafening . After all, if the song was that loud when they’d started moving, it should be much louder almost three miles closer to the source.

And then, he saw him. The man in the old-fashioned naval uniform, covered in medals.

He was sopping wet, true, but he was standing on the ocean .

The radio crackled to life.

“To the captain of the naval vessel. This Vice Admiral Sir Francis Drake, Royal British Navy, requesting permission to come aboard.”

Crikey. That was … something.

“Drake’s drum.”

Smith wasn’t entirely certain who’d spoken, the quiet whisper hadn’t been conducive to recognizing the speaker’s voice, but the statement almost made him facepalm. Almost .

“Drake’s Drum” was an old song, but also an actual drum, one deeply interwoven with the history of the British Royal Navy. An instrument that the man had carried on his vessel during his trips around the world, one he’d had returned to England after his death, swearing to return if England were in trouble, and all someone would have to do was beat on this drum.

However, what had happened was really the opposite, with the British hearing the beat of a nonexistent drum during historically significant events.

The launch of the Mayflower .

The start of World War I.

The evacuation of Dunkirk.

And now, its latest beat, this very day . The date on which reality itself had lost its marbles.

“Did anyone else hear that?”

Another whisper, a different speaker this time.

On one hand, on any other day, this would have been a reason to declare oneself unfit for duty on psychological grounds and make sure nothing nasty had wound up in the food.

On the other hand, he’d shot down a demonic seagull barely five minutes ago.

“Send the speedboat out, fetch him, get him a fresh outfit, and bring him to the bridge with a marine escort,” Smith ordered.

Was it potentially a bad idea to bring someone with clear supernatural powers onto the ship? Possibly.

Then again … in for a penny, in for a pound. And things were so far beyond anything he’d been prepared to handle that the old certainties really no longer held much sway.

Francis Drake coming back from the dead made just as much sense as anything else did.

Now, all that was left to do was wait until the man reached the bridge, all the while trying to reach someone, anyone , and taking down any supernatural creatures that showed their ugly faces.

Smith heard Drake before he saw the man, a loud, metallic “thunk” being followed by a bitten-off curse.

It seemed that the old admiral wasn’t used to the knee-knockers on modern warships.

The tiny doors in the bulkheads were meant to contain water in case of a hull breach, but they were narrow enough that people not used to them tended to alternatively bang their heads or shins into the top or bottom portion, respectively.

And then the man himself appeared in the doorway, dressed in a modern uniform with the decorations of his old one haphazardly tacked on. Drake had, supposedly, come up from the bottom of the ocean, something his sopping-wet uniform certainly supported.

Having someone go around dripping all over the place was a safety issue even when pneumonia wasn’t a concern. Not to mention that sensitive electronics did not enjoy contact with salt water in the slightest.

So Smith had had them give the vice admiral a new outfit.

“Vice Admiral Sir Francis Drake of the Royal Navy of the British Empire,” Drake introduced himself.

“I’m Captain Theodore Smith, commanding officer of the Royal Navy destroyer Defiant ,” Smith responded.

“A destroyer? I’m not familiar with that class of vessel,” Drake said.

“It’s short for ‘torpedo boat destroyer.’ These vessels serve as escorts and were originally conceived of to prevent a new weapon known as a ‘torpedo’ from easily bringing down capital ships,” the helmsman informed him.

“Tor-pe-do,” Drake said the word slowly, carefully enunciating every syllable, rolling the unfamiliar word around on his tongue. “It seems I have a lot to learn. Captain, I’ve been hearing voices that informed me of new abilities since I woke. Is that normal?”

So it hadn’t been entirely in Smith’s head. Somehow, that was less comforting. Paradoxically, things would have been easier if he had been crazy. Then he could have either removed himself from command or would have been declared unfit by the ship’s doctor. Either way, even at the cost of his career, the situation would have been resolved.

But no, the world really was going insane, and either the Defiant had the last working radio on the planet, or there was something effing with them.

“What range does your communication device have?” Drake asked. “My ability allows me to use it to contact you, but does not tell me anything about it.”

“Technically, global,” Smith informed him. “But that’s using satellites for relay, and we can’t reach any of them.”

“Is there anyone capable of receiving your signals in your regular range?”

“Yes, but they aren’t responding,” Smith said.

“And this pattern of interference doesn’t match any documented issue?” Drake rubbed his chin.

Smith just shook his had. “We’ve never seen anything like it.”

“If you hadn’t come to pick me up, what would the plan have been?” Drake asked offhandedly, studying a monitor as though it were an exotic animal.

Smith shrugged. “Head back to shore, see if there are still people there, drop off a group of marines to find a landline. If that doesn’t work, the ship proceeds to the naval base at Bermuda, where they’re fully equipped to refuel and rearm the ship. And if the base isn’t there either …”

“Before you try any of that, something tells me there’s a specific enemy disrupting communications.”

Drake dropped that bomb without so much as batting an eye.

Smith heroically resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Don’t swear at the vice admiral, don’t swear at the vice admiral, don’t swear at the vice admiral who also happens to be a national hero …

“Can I ask why you neglected to share that information before?” he finally asked.

“Skills are as new to you as they are to me,” Drake said simply but elaborated almost immediately afterward. “As near as I can tell, I, a man out of time, am almost as lost as you are. We have a choice to make here. Do we blindly attempt to continue on as though the old certainties were still in place, following modern protocols for extraordinary situations, or do we take a chance? Do we use this new weapon that is ‘Skills,’ trusting in them despite knowing nothing about them?”

The man then shrugged and walked a few steps into the center of the bridge, as though everyone hadn’t been staring at him since before the beginning of his speech.

“Well, I say that today has already been a day for the supernatural. I did mean what I said when I swore to return in Britannia’s greatest hour of need, but I never expected to be able to fulfill that oath. And then, I rose from the very bottom of the ocean amidst a world beset by monsters, a world in which people gain powers.

“I say that we are the denizens of a new world, one filled with danger and opportunity.

“I say that we find whatever is causing this interference, that we go after whatever is creating these monsters, that we conquer it all!”

Drake paused briefly, before practically shouting, “For king and country!”

Smith could feel himself shiver. So this was the man who’d smashed the Spanish Armada, cut a bloody swath through the Caribbean, and become the very model of a patriotic sailor.

But as much as he wanted to let himself get swept up in it all, he had to remain aware of himself. So he thought about it. Drake was right, the nearest naval base was far from here, and by the time they reached it, an already chaotic situation could easily have become far worse. If they had to wait until then to gain knowledge of the global situation …

And if all else failed, Francis Drake was a bleeding vice admiral. “Admiral’s orders” was a very nice shield to hide behind if things went terribly wrong.

Of course, no one expected a centuries-old admiral to show up and start barking orders, but the royal navy of today was a direct continuation of the one Drake had served. Technically, there was nothing preventing his rank from holding weight even today.

Practically, was an entirely different matter, of course.

Smith marched over to one of the marines and gave her an order.

“Go find Midshipman Fletcher in the radio room and get him here; he’s to give the good vice admiral a crash course in proper weapons systems.”

And while they waited for that to happen, Smith asked the admiral about his “Skills.” It was likely the most surreal conversation he’d ever have in his life, but it was informative.

The next thirty minutes were extraordinarily tense, with Drake quietly talking to Fletcher in the corner and occasionally barking a course correction, while Smith kept making, discarding, and remaking plans for what they might face.

***

Deep Sea Kraken (evolved giant squid), Lv. 14 Field Boss

Isolation Kraken (evolved giant squid), Lv. 14 Field Boss

Kraken of the Primordial Ocean (evolved giant squid), Lv. 15 Raid Boss

So apparently, monsters got nameplates if they were powerful enough. And what were Field and Raid Bosses? Smith knew that in video games, Bosses were the strongest enemies, but that was the absolute extent of his knowledge.

And these things did look damn tough, and to make things even worse, they were almost invisible to radar.

Not to mention that the so-called “Isolation Kraken” was likely what had caused their inability to contact anyone. It was a massive squid, equaling the Defiant in size, though most of that stemmed from its tentacles. Its main body barely made up a quarter of its imposing build. White streaks tore across its body in jagged scratches, with the rest of its body covered in a pattern that was a strange mixture of TV “snow” and the blue screen of death, and, somehow , it looked like what radio static sounded like.

Even without the utterly batshit concept of visible bleeding nameplates , Smith would have likely decided that one of these creatures was responsible for the radio disruption.

By contrast, the Deep Sea Kraken was a very simple squid monster from legend, barely larger than the Isolation Kraken. Big, strong, scary.

And then, there was the big one, the Kraken of the Primordial Ocean. A monster with tentacles that could fully wrap around an aircraft carrier, a main body just as large as the Defiant , and eyes that gleamed with hate and vicious intent.

One of the marines walked over to Smith while returning his radio to his holster.

“Corporal Lannis says that in video games, Field Bosses are powerful roaming enemies, and Raid Bosses are really powerful enemies that you can only fight in a huge group.”

That was … a hell of a lot more useful than Smith had ever expected video game trivia to be.

So, these things were powerful, then? And they now knew that they were being affected by some kind of radio disruption ability, which meant that the world was still there. They could run.

But that would leave these incredibly dangerous enemies at their back.

“How easily will we be able to find these creatures should we retreat?” Drake asked, clearly having come to the same crossroads.

“I don’t know. It’ll be almost impossible, I think,” Smith admitted. The Isolation Kraken wasn’t like any kind of interference he’d ever encountered. Everything still worked, no disruptive signals were detected, no nothing. It was just as if they were … the only thing in existence, isolated from everything else. It was more than likely that that interference also hid the goings on within its area of effect from outside detection.

“But if we were to go after the Isolation Kraken, we’d be able to return with a vast force,” Drake suggested.

Oh, that was a good point. Damnit !

If they left those things there, they could easily become a nigh-undetectable threat that roamed the ocean, trackable only by the mysterious disappearance of the ships they destroyed.

So now that there was an option for doing something genuinely valuable and constructive without risking having to fight all those monsters, they basically had to take it, didn’t they?

“Moore, keep us at a distance while we make final preparations,” Smith ordered the helmsman, while the familiar call of “All hands, go to battle stations” blared out on the PA system. If anyone hadn’t been at battle stations already, they wouldn’t have been doing their job, but the announcement was still a part of the process.

The Defiant had eight ship-to-ship missiles already in their launchers on the deck, though reloading them under combat operations would be difficult. Hopefully, using them as an overwhelming initial strike would finish the fight before it even started.

It also had forty-eight vertical launch cells for anti-air missiles that could be retooled to strike at surface targets, should the Krakens be polite enough to stay on the surface.

Should those things decide to dip, though, then the Defiant would be in trouble. She had two helicopters that could deploy anti-submarine torpedoes, but the Type 45 destroyer wasn’t designed to go toe-to-toe with submarines. And none of their anti-submarine capabilities were designed to target nonmetallic monsters .

Hopefully, the missiles would do the trick, because the last thing Smith wanted was to have to duel one of these monsters with the 4.5-inch popgun he had for a gun turret. And if they didn’t, maybe these Skills would do the trick. Honestly, they’d have to, since the Defiant ’s strength lay literally anywhere other than a direct gun battle.

Keeping the distance open would be key, but they couldn’t use anything close to the full range of their weaponry either, seeing as they were relying on the Mark One Eyeball to track these things.

Careful modification of targeting protocols, ways to work around the limitations of their weapons, all of these things would hopefully let them kill their enemies, but those took time to perfect. Would these monsters give them that time?

Under Smith’s orders, the Defiant was slowly retreating, opening up the range. It didn’t seem like any of the Krakens would be charging after them just yet.

… Spoke too soon. Well, thought , but the principle was still the same.

The Isolation Kraken began to retreat, the Deep Sea Kraken submerged itself, and Raid Boss started swimming straight towards Smith’s destroyer.

Even as the ship’s captain began to bark orders, the vice admiral of a bygone age began to speak, announcing his arcane actions for the bridge crew to hear.

“[Chain of Command], [Sling of David], [Numbers Don’t Matter].”

It should have been nonsense, meaningless phrases that might be somewhat related to Drake’s life, and yet, they held power. Immense power.

The first “command” invoked some manner of power that linked him to his ship, granting them understanding of every subsequent power activation, and how to make the most of it.

In this case, the Defiant ’s guns gained offensive capabilities as the power gap between the ship and her opponents grew, and they’d be able to face their first foe one-on-one even though there were three krakens. It was simple, yet so incredibly insane.

Once every ten or so minutes, Sir Francis Drake could declare a one-on-one fight with a given foe, and as long as he worked towards finishing that fight, no one would be able to interfere.

Smith had gotten several abilities of his own, these mystical “Skills,” but his were practically nonexistent by comparison.

Preternatural, albeit limited, knowledge of the health of the crew and the ship’s logistics without needing to check was useful, sure, but even both skills combined didn’t add up to a fraction of one of Drake’s abilities. And he had three … that he’d shown so far.

“Evasive Maneuvers, keep as far from the Raid Boss as possible. Launch all anti-ship missiles, target the Isolation Kraken,” Smith ordered.

The deck beneath his feet trembled slightly as all eight of their missile tubes were flushed, unleashing enough firepower to obliterate a carrier. At least if all of them hit.

A giant tentacle cracked through the air like a massive whip as the Kraken of the Primordial Ocean struck, losing the appendage in the process, but that was the full extent of its contribution.

And then, the missiles hammered home like meteors, blasting apart the Isolation Kraken that hadn’t been quite smart enough to hide underwater. Or being submerged disrupted its abilities, either one was possible. Point was, the attack seemed to have been a success.

“Still not getting through,” the radio operator warned while Drake announced, “My Skill is still active, we are currently locked into a duel with the Isolation Kraken.”

As if to punctuate that statement, the ship jumped , rising at least half a meter before dropping back to its previous position with jarring force.

“Damage report. What the hell just hit us?” Smith snapped. “Launch the Wildcats the moment they’ve been armed, tell them to hit whatever’s under the keel the instant they can.”

The Defiant ’s two Wildcat helicopters could each deploy two anti-submarine torpedoes, and they had just been loaded with anti-air missiles before the Krakens had come into view.

Reports began to flood in, speaking of stuff getting tossed off shelves and people being thrown into ceilings or walls, landing badly when they came back down, but ultimately, the ship itself was fine.

“I think that was the Deep Sea Kraken. I saw an unidentifiable shadow on the radar, but I lost track of it again,” the radar operator reported.

Ok, that made sense. But why the hell had they survived a knock like that? Enough force to literally send the ship flying should have snapped the *Defiant’*s keel like a toothpick and the hull at the point of impact couldn’t possibly have survived the impact.

And yet, they were golden. Mostly .

“So that’s how [Numbers Don’t Matter] works,” Drake commented under his breath, though still somewhat audible, before loudly adding, “We won’t be protected from too many more hits like that.”

“How many?” Smith demanded, deciding to ignore the fact that he was speaking to an admiral.

Drake just shrugged.

“I can guarantee one, I have no idea beyond that. These Skills are decidedly new to me. And attempting to target a different enemy will disrupt the effect.”

Ok, that was fair.

“Found the Isolation Kraken!”

Smith immediately zeroed in on the report, the image on the screen showing a ragged mass of pulped flesh amidst water darkened by the monster’s blood.

“Target it with the main gun, draw up a targeting solu …” Smith began to order when the ship jerked again. It wasn’t as bad as it had been the first time, but still utterly terrifying . A warship a hundred and fifty meters in length, weighing several thousand tons, should not be able to be tossed around like that.

“One more hit,” Drake warned.

“Prepare to launch half of all available missiles at the Deep Sea Kraken, the instant the Isolation Kraken is dead,” Smith repeated himself while the bow gun roared to life, spitting a 4.5-inch round towards their enemy with a little over two seconds between each shot.

And suddenly, the bridge was flooded with reports amidst the roar of twenty-four vertical launch cells being used as rapidly as possible, and Drake warned that his Skill had broken now that they’d killed their main enemy.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the HMS Defiant …”

Smith half listened as their distress call was sent out, including their current coordinates. It wasn’t something he’d ever expected to say, at least not in a situation like this, but judging by what he was hearing, this crap was happening all over the globe.

“… We are currently engaged with two Krakens , one of which is the size of an aircraft carrier. We have a visual of their location, they will not be locatable via radar once we go down …”

Yeah, that was about the long and short of it.

Once again, the Defiant trembled, though this time, it was only the shockwaves from countless missiles detonating against the surface of the water reaching the hull.

“Wouldn’t those munitions be more effective if they detonated under water?” Drake asked.

“They’re anti-air missiles, not designed to survive the impact,” Smith answered while barely paying any attention.

“I can help with that. [Enhanced Munitions],” Drake intoned, and suddenly, Smith just knew that they’d at least survive the initial contact with the ocean surface. And out of the corner of his eye, he could tell how the firing solution was being adjusted for the next salvo.

More blue blood stained the water below the Defiant , the powerful shockwaves unleashed into the water by the missiles having damaged something in the second Field Boss.

And then, the Defiant rang like a bell from the impact of a gigantic tentacle as the Kraken of the Primordial Ocean finally got too close, having whipped the ship’s stern.

That was immediately followed up by a loud screeching noise, like nails on a chalkboard but more metallic and infinitely louder as the Defiant strained against the tentacle holding it fast.

Giant squids had hooks in their suction cups, Smith suddenly recalled. Between those and the cups themselves, that thing had actually latched onto their stern.

“Split the remaining missiles between both targets, fire as soon as you are able,” Smith ordered. Reloading the missile tubes was an involved process, and a full reload would take longer than they had, in all likelihood.

“[Adapt Armor],” Drake ordered, the meaning of the Skill once again being perfectly conveyed by the name being spoken aloud. And while Smith couldn’t see the outer hull of the Defiant , obviously, he could feel the changes taking place, armor plates shifting to be nigh-impossible to cling to while taking on an almost springy property that prevented the claws from sinking in.

Another bout of hair-raising noise later and the Defiant was free, leaving the Raid Boss behind.

Twelve more missiles were launched as they fled, plunging through the surface of the ocean even though at their speeds, the water should have been hard as concrete.

“Deep Sea Kraken’s dead.”

That just left the big sucker, which had somehow escaped radar tracking while the first creature had died.

Smith sighed.

“Appraise anyone who replied to the mayday of the new situation, make sure people know there’s a big Kraken around. Continue moving at full speed ahead, we can’t afford to have that thing pop up on us,” Smith ordered.

The ocean around the Defiant was silent, still, only disturbed by the vessel’s wake, without a Kraken in sight. Somehow, that was all the more terrifying.

Soon after, the radio operator reported that several nearby countries were preparing to send out what bombers they had, armed with depth charges, ready to carpet bomb the area. In addition, the helicopters had finally been rearmed with anti-submarine weaponry.

Eventually, the Defiant had to slow down due to fuel concerns, though, and that was utterly nerve-wracking.

“Venezuelan bomber wings are five minutes out, and they’re requesting any targeting data we have.”

“Give them what we’ve got,” Smith advised. It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing either.

Minutes passed without anything happening other than the occasional plane passing overhead. But otherwise, they were just waiting, slowly traveling in the direction of England, to deliver the hero of a bygone age.

And then, from one moment to the next, everything went to pot in an instant. Again .

“Incom—” the warning came way too late. Radar had clearly picked something up, but not soon enough as the Kraken surged up from beneath the ship, wrapping its tentacles around the Defiant in a crushing death grip.

“[Escape], [Flank Speed]!” Drake snapped and the destroyer slipped from the monster’s grasp like a greased egg. A moment later, he turned to the radar operator. “Inform those airplanes that we found the Kraken.”

And as the Defiant practically blurred across the waves, the first Raid Boss of the new world was torn apart by countless bombs and torpedoes.

It was well past midnight when Smith was finally able to lie down in his bunk, his head swimming. Well, the XO’s bunk, as his cabin had gone to the vice admiral. It was always a mess when higher-ups traveled on vessels without spare cabins for them, resulting in a domino effect of officers kicking someone underneath them out of the cabin, who would in turn kick out someone else, and so on, and so forth.

This world … the world he was going to sleep in was not the same one that he’d woken up in this morning. It had magic, monsters, and people returning from the dead. As far as he knew, only Francis Drake was confirmed to have returned, but countless rumors had already reached them, even in a spot as isolated as a warship in international waters.

King Arthur, a couple of German kings, some kind of artificial creature in Czechia, and, of course, the dear Admiral … this world was going to be eternally changed even if those were the only ancients who’d come back.

***

Drake laid back in the bunk he’d borrowed from Captain Smith, staring up at the ceiling and the cool, white, light coming from a small glass pipe set into the metal.

This world was truly incredible. The capabilities of this ship had already been impressive beyond belief when it had been under the suppressive effect of that monster.

But now, Captain Smith was in some room, alone, talking to someone in England. From just off the coast of Portobello, to his homeland. In an instant. Real-time communication. He could receive orders from the other end of the world in less time than it had taken Queen Elizabeth to send for a fresh pot of tea.

If he’d had that kind of communication capability back in his day, he’d have been able to tear the Spanish Armada apart with casual ease, coordinating wolfpack tactics across several sea miles, drawing attention to one spot with only a handful of ships that remained at a safe distance before attacking in full force from another angle, destroying what they could before retreating.

On the flip side, a single one of these “radios,” or rather, a pair that could communicate, would have stopped his raids on Spanish colonies dead in their tracks.

And this radar of theirs … fantastic, fascinating, world-shattering, a concept that would forcefully shape strategies and alter all tactics, everywhere, now that it had been invented. A simple machine that could track thousands of objects simultaneously, even if they were as small as a pea …. It boggled the mind.

The things he could have done with something like that in his day were … quite, frankly, absurd, but alongside the daydreams his imagination painted of that world came nightmares of the Armada devastating the Royal Navy simply by being able to track their every move, even at night.

Midshipman Fletcher had been very informative, mentioning past disasters when his drum had sounded, and briefly, very briefly, Drake had thought about the world he might have returned to.

However, the more the midshipman explained, the more he realized just how little he’d have been able to do in those situations.

It was humbling.

He was an old man now, at least by the standards of his day, and the world had moved on without him even on the final raid, the one that had ended with him contracting dysentery and dying.

The sheer amount of technological catching up he’d have had to do to be useful in the so-called “Second World War” would have rendered him useless, and the intuition that had carried him through so many dilemmas and dangerous situations would likely have failed him, simply because his knowledge of that world was so lacking.

But today? Today, the world had fundamentally changed once again. They were all off balance, just like him, scrambling to understand how things worked now. Everyone was just as confused as he was.

However, unlike him, the sailors of today hadn’t had the chance to gain his degree of experience. He had power beyond this ship’s crew, and likely, beyond everyone else on this planet.

Drake grinned. This would be a fascinating world to explore, one that held countless challenges and adventures. All he needed was to be given a fleet, or, hell, even just a single ship.

And while the captain was briefing high command, he could continue learning about this new world, and experiment with his Skills.

There were a lot of them, ranging from directly applicable abilities with simple effects, such as [Instantaneous Reload] to instantly reload all guns on a vessel and [Full Restoration] to restore a ship to full combat power, including refilling munitions, to more esoteric and hard-to-understand abilities, like [Devil’s Luck], [Uncanny Intuition], and [Sling of David].

Another midshipman strode towards him, one he hadn’t met yet. Well, actually, she was a midshipwoman. Not something he’d have expected to see, but apparently, it worked for the navy of today.

His contemporaries had thought his open attitude to primitive locals and willingness to accept help from escaped slaves was stupid and reckless, but it had almost always worked for him, a handful of situations where literally everything that could go wrong had gone pear-shaped notwithstanding.

Just because common wisdom said, or rather, used to say, women couldn’t serve in combat didn’t mean it was so. It’d still take some getting used to.

“Midshipwoman Buckley, are they ready for me?” he asked, getting her name from her nametag. That was yet another new thing for him, something that would certainly have been useful in his day. No need to ask for names, no need to resort to “hey you”s, just addressing people with their names. Simple and polite.

“Yes, Sir,” she nodded. “If you’ll follow me?”

“Lead the way,” Drake announced and rose to his feet. It wasn’t far, just walking a couple of meters and stepping through a single small door with a raised threshold that was at just the right height for an unwary sailor’s shins to bang into. As his did.

It made sense. This door was part of a bulkhead, and having the bottom edge raised off the ground would make it harder for water to flow from one section into the next, but he would need to adjust to the change.

Biting back a string of blistering swearwords, Drake reached down and rubbed his shin as he fully stepped in, while Midshipwoman Buckley stayed outside.

The room he now found himself in was tiny , but that was to be expected. Space was at a premium on a warship, especially a small one such as this.

As for what this room was used for … Drake would have called it the captain’s mess, but that was mostly a guess. It could also be a meeting room, or one solely meant for using telecommunications equipment.

It could be any of those, it could be all of those. It was a room with a table, surrounded by eight chairs, one of which was occupied by Captain Smith. The back wall was covered in what Drake was now able to recognize as computer screens. And displayed upon those screens was someone who seemed to be a high-ranking officer.

At least that was his assumption, based on the higher number of gold stripes on the woman’s sleeves and intricate epaulets. There were three stars on them, and presumably each represented a higher rank. Captain Smith’s uniform lacked that kind of design, so she was either a vice admiral like himself or a full admiral, depending on whether the first rank that gained a star on its epaulet was commodore or rear admiral.

He’d learned that the Royal Navy of today was a direct continuation of the organization he’d served in his day, so in theory, he should still have all the rights and privileges of his rank, but that wouldn’t necessarily hold true in practice.

Annoyingly, his authority was a technicality; hers was cemented in the hearts and minds of every person on this ship. He was under no illusions about the power dynamic here.

“I’m Vice Admiral Porter,” she introduced herself, solving at least one of his questions. “You’re Vice Admiral Drake, I take it?”

Her tone was somewhat skeptical, but far less so than he’d expected. What else had happened today to make her a believer? Aside from the whole “System” mess, that was.

“At your service,” he gave a formal bow before snapping back up to a ramrod-straight position, carefully making sure to not hit his head on the table. That display at the threshold had been bad enough. No need to make himself look any worse than he already did.

“The same Vice Admiral Drake who served Elizabeth the First in the sixteenth century?”

“That is correct, Admiral,” he said.

Porter sighed.

“Captain Smith tells me you have no clear idea as to how you managed to return?”

He shook his head.

“I made my oath to return on England’s greatest hour of need, and I did, alongside an empowerment by the System.”

“I see,” she said. “Your level wouldn’t happen to be somewhere in the forties or fifties?”

“That’s correct,” Drake said. “[Daredevil of the Sea], Level 47. What made you assume that?”

“You’re not the only one with such … exotic circumstances. Arthur Pendragon marched out from under Glastonbury Tor four hours ago and immediately proceeded to destroy the most powerful monster to date.”

More powerful than the Kraken… Drake blanched even as Porter corrected herself.

“Though that Kraken of yours might have been stronger. It’s hard to get a proper comparison since he used magic of currently undefined power.”

Drake nodded.

“Does his return have any consequences for the line of succession or current monarchy?”

“Thankfully, everyone seems to be ignoring those implications for now,” Porter admitted. “The royal family is working on staying safe and Mr. Pendragon has been marching around exterminating any threat he can find.

“In addition, a man claiming to be Fionn Mac Cumail, a hero from Irish mythology, announced his return in Dublin, there is a video floating around of the German mythological king Dietrich von Bern having returned, and some claim an armored giant ran down the length of Germany from Denmark. He’s rumored to be Ogier the Dane, another legend, this one tied to the former Germanic emperor Charlemagne.”

Either there was something in the water at the navy’s intel division, or the world had just gotten a lot more fascinating.

“I ordered the Defiant to proceed to England with all due haste. Are those orders acceptable?” Drake asked.

Porter nodded. “Get back here; then, we’ll discuss how we proceed further. Speaking of, what are your plans for the future?”

“I plan on going hunting, Admiral,” Drake announced. “It seems like however dangerous the land has gotten, the sea is a hundred times worse.”

“What would that require?” Porter asked.

“Anything the navy is willing to spare.”

“And if there are no ships to spare?”

“Then I’ll go out to sea on a fishing boat, armed with a speargun,” Drake responded flatly. “I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it. One of these Skills I was provided lets me instantly teach people to fill in for any position on a modern warship. I’ll find whoever is willing to stand beside me and then, we’ll hunt down the most powerful creatures this sea has to offer.”

And he was already practically vibrating with excitement. Though it seemed that Porter had understood something very different from what he’d actually said.

“So, you can magically teach people what they need to know to do anything on a modern warship? Can you use these Skills on yourself?”

Actually, he’d never tried it, even though it had been very obvious. They could teach “people” and he certainly was “people.”

“Let me check,” Drake said and used [Instantaneous Training: Midshipman]. It was important to start at the basics, with the lowest officer rank to give him a broad base of information the latter-rank teachings could build upon.

For about ten seconds, a pounding headache made him wince in pain, but it passed before he could even begin to articulate a request for a medic.

“Are you alright?” Smith and Porter asked nigh-simultaneously as Drake managed to sit up straight again.

“Peachy.”

Drake was met with two flat stares.

“That was unpleasant, but it worked. I’ll brush up on everything I could possibly need to know on the way to England,” he promised.

“I look forward to making your acquaintance in person,” Porter responded. “Until then, please also work with the crew of the Defiant to figure out the optimal uses for Skills.”

Drake nodded. “Until then, I bid you farewell.”

It would have taken the Defiant from six to ten days to reach England under normal circumstances, depending on how much they were willing to push the engine, but with his Skills, that time should shrink quite a bit, to four or potentially even three days.