Page 1 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

CHAPTER 1

Carmen Díaz breathedin the recycled air of The Lost Spacer – Waystation Alora’s scummiest cantina – and wanted to vomit. It tasted like regret and shame, the full flavor of desperation.

She hated this dirty outpost deep in the Belt, despised coming here. It was the bottom of the bottom, the central hub of the ass-end of the galaxy – all flickering emergency lighting, the distant rumble of heavy ore processors, and the underlying stench of failure.

Most of all, she hated needing to be here.

She shifted on the cracked faux-leather bench, her boots scuffing the grime-streaked deck plating. Maltese was late. Typical. She could almost hear the seconds ticking down like credits draining from their nearly empty ship account.

Across from her, Norvik sat unnervingly still, his light-blue fingers steepled before him, black eyes fixed on the closed door of the repulsive fixer’s “office.” A Collectivist and her chief negotiator, his calm was a polished shield. Like the rest of his species, Norvik saw everything through the lens of what was best for the group. Guided by those principles, nothing ever phased him. Sometimes, she hated him for it, found him absolutelyinfuriating. Mostly, she admired his ability to do what she could not – bargain without emotion.

Carmen’s own nerves felt like livewires sparking against her ribs as she waited outside the office.

Office? Bullshit. It was a converted private-dancer room in desperate need of disinfectant. Nobody Carmen did business with had an office. No one could afford it. Nor would any of their clientele – smugglers, pirates, swindlers, prostitutes – trust anyone who had one. Not a real one, anyway.

Mierda.This whole setup reeked. Perfect habitat for a bottom-feeder like Maltese. Carmen’s gaze flicked to the single, dim glow-panel overhead. It buzzed like an angry insect. Just another reminder of how far they’d fallen.

TheAntillesneeded a new regulator matrix for the starboard thrusters, the port stabilizers were held together with prayer and Zed’s ingenuity, and the fines they owed the COPS were enough to buy a small moon. Or bury them.

The door hissed open. A blocky human with sallow-gray skin and hooded eyes in a cheap suit peered out. Maltese’s enforcer. He jerked his head, a wordless command. Carmen stood, smoothing the worn fabric of her cargo pants over her thighs, a useless gesture. Norvik rose beside her, his movements fluid and precise.

The minder’s gaze lingered on Carmen, a slow, appraising sweep that made her skin crawl. She met it head-on, chin lifted, projecting a confidence she didn’t feel. The brute grunted and stepped aside.

Maltese’s inner sanctum was a study in calculated squalor. Holoscreens flickered with market feeds, security camera angles, and videos of dancing girls, bathing the room in a sickly, shifting light. The air hung thick with the pungent sweetness of cheap incense, failing to mask the underlying odors of unwashed bodies and fried circuitry.

The man himself dominated the room from behind a massive, scarred, steel desk, his bulk overflowing a chair that groaned under his weight. His jowly face, slick with perspiration despite the station’s regulated coolness, creased into a smile that didn’t touch his small, piggish eyes. A half-eaten sandwich sat on a greasy wrapper beside a sweating bulb of something amber and potent.

“Captain Díaz,” Maltese rumbled, his voice like gravel in a tumbler. He didn’t offer a hand, just gestured vaguely at the two mismatched chairs facing his desk. “And your pet diplomat. Always a pleasure.”

He took a deliberate bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly, his gaze fixed on Carmen. She forced her shoulders back, ignoring the minder’s looming presence near the door. She sat, the chair protesting beneath her. Norvik settled beside her, posture impeccable.

“Maltese,” Carmen began, her voice carefully neutral, cutting through the awkward silence. “We appreciate you seeing us on short notice.”

The corpulent pustule of a human swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound.

“Heh. Heard about your little … mishap with the COPS,” he commented. “Nasty business. That fine would cripple outfits twice your size.”

He leaned forward, the desk creaking.

“I also heard your last client wasn’t too happy about losing his shipment either. Word is, he’s looking for compensation. Blood, credits, whichever comes easier.”

The words landed like buckets of acid on her skin. Carmen kept her face impassive, but her nails dug into her palms. Maltese knew exactly how deep in the shit they were. Everyoneknew you didn’t cross Cortez Velasco. Not that she’d done it on purpose. That was why they were here.

“We got boarded,” she growled. “Happens to the best of us.”

“If you say so,” he drawled and had another bite of his sandwich.

Carmen bit her tongue to keep from speaking her mind. She hated this fat bastard.

“Look,Antillesis sound,” she said instead, keeping her tone even. “Her crew is sharp. We just need a job. A decent run. Something to get us back in the black.”

Maltese leaned back, his chair groaning dangerously. He knitted his thick fingers over his considerable belly.

“Decent run?” He snorted. “Captain, the decent runs got snapped up hours ago by outfits with shields that work and nav-computers built in the last decade. What you got is a busted freighter, a reputation that’s hotter than a plasma core, and a debt load that makes loan sharks blush.” He picked up his drink bulb, swirling the contents. “Frankly, I’m surprised you made it this far without getting spaced.”

Carmen felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She forced herself to breathe, to unclench her jaw. Beside her, Norvik remained a pillar of calm.

“We’re resourceful,” he said, speaking for the first time. “We get the job done. Always.”