Page 16 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

A fractional pause.

“Alora, sir? But the rendezvous at Babcinq?—”

“Scrap it!” Corso snarled. “Maltese backstabbed us. We’re going to correct that.”

He cut the comm before she could respond. He didn’t need questions. He needed action, speed.

Maltese had made a fatal error. He’d crossed Nick Corso. And now, he was going to learn exactly what that cost.

CHAPTER 6

Consciousness returnedto Mila like a slow tide, lapping at the edges of her awareness. The first sensation was cold. A deep, pervasive chill that seeped through the thick fur covering her limbs and back. Then came the hum. Not the familiar, deep whir of the stasis unit she’d entered back home, but something higher-pitched, less regular. It vibrated through the hard surface beneath her, a constant, living pulse that spoke of engines and metal and motion.

She opened her eyes. Blurred shapes swam into focus. They weren’t the smooth, sumptuous interior of the luxury suite she’d expected. Instead, she saw riveted steel plating, stained and scarred. Overhead, harsh white lights glared down from a grimy ceiling, illuminating swirling motes of dust in the cool air. The smell was overwhelming – a complex tapestry of hot metal, stale lubricant, recycled air, and something else, something organic and vaguely unpleasant, like old sweat and desperation.

Confusion flickered, a brief spark. This wasn’t right. She was the property of a wealthy man, a government official. This space felt old. Used. Cramped. Not at all the quarters of someone powerful.

Movement caught her eye. A machine, unlike any she’d seen before, stood nearby. Its boxy, utilitarian chassis rested on two triangular treads. A narrow, rectangular head perched atop a telescopic neck, swiveling smoothly to bring multiple camera lenses to bear on her. One manipulator arm, ending in a surprisingly dexterous five-fingered hand, retracted from the control panel of the life-support chamber she lay within.

“Awakening sequence complete,” a synthesized voice stated, calm and precise. It emanated from the machine. “Vital signs stabilizing within nominal parameters. Please confirm full awareness.”

Mila stepped out of the chamber, muscles protesting after the long stasis. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light. The cold air prickled against her fur.

“Where am I?”

Her voice emerged softer than intended, slightly raspy from disuse. She cleared her throat.

The machine’s head tilted slightly, a gesture that seemed almost thoughtful.

“You are aboard the independent freighterAntilles. Container 7-Beta-Alpha was loaded into our cargo hold during our recent stop at Waystation Alora, despite it not being a part of our contracted goods.”

Mila blinked several times at the machine. Not a part of their contracted goods? She was on the wrong ship?

A mistake. It had to be an error, perhaps by the dock crew. Her primary concern – the contract, the security of her family’s settlement – was in jeopardy. The UPA official would have to be informed, arrangements made.

“I see,” she said, her voice soft and measured.

The fur on her back and limbs stood slightly on end against the chill. She stretched, a long, sinuous movement that flowed from the base of her tail up through her spine, ending with aslight arch that made the red stripes along her limbs ripple. The stiffness began to ease.

“A regrettable error,” she continued. “I trust communications have been initiated to rectify the situation?”

The machine remained silent for a moment. Its lenses refocused.

“The situation is complex. Captain Díaz has requested your presence in the mess hall to discuss the circumstances.”

Mila blinked in confusion. The machine wasn’t telling her something. Deep in her bones, she knew something had gone wrong. Silently, she prayed this would not impact her contract with Karsh.

“Captain Díaz?” she asked.

“The commander and owner/operator of this vessel,” the robot replied. “She and the rest of the crew await you in the mess hall. The captain wishes to interview you about the nature of your situation.”

Mila remained confused. The thing in front of her kept answering her questions, but it wasn’t giving her any useful information. She decided to start with something simple.

“I’m sorry, and who are you?”

“I am Z136∑?9. You may call me, ‘Zed.’ That is the designation the rest of crew uses for me. I am the chief engineer aboardAntilles.”

Mila frowned. Once again, the machine’s answer was unhelpful.