Page 17 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

“A robot is the chief engineer?” she prodded, desperate for any information that might tell her what was going on.

“I am not a robot, ma’am,” it replied. “I am a Mechan.”

A Mechan. Yes, she’d heard of them. An alien AI species that inhabited automated bodies they could customize to their needs.

Hope flickered softly in her heart. Mechans were one of four member species of the United Planetary Alliance. If a Mechanwas the chief engineer aboard this ship, then it stood to reason she was in UPA space. And if that was true, then Karsh …

No. Best not to get her hopes up before she knew for sure.

“I’m sorry, you said the captain wanted to interview me?” she said.

“I did. If you would follow me?”

Zed pivoted smoothly on its treads and began moving towards a heavy hatch at the far end of the cargo bay. Mila hesitated only a second. Captain Díaz. The new master, then, at least temporarily. Respect and cooperation were paramount.

She followed Zed, her movements fluid and unhurried. Curiosity, a quiet hum beneath her calm acceptance, began to stir. Who were these people aboard theAntilles?

The corridor beyond the cargo bay was narrow and utilitarian. Exposed conduits ran along the ceiling, dripping occasional beads of condensation. The walls were scuffed and dented. The pervasive hum was louder here, underscored by the rhythmic thump of pumps and the distant whine of straining engines. It spoke of age, of hard use, of systems pushed to their limits. Not a vessel accustomed to transporting high-value, living contraband.

Zed led her through a junction, then down a shorter passageway. A hatch slid open with a protesting hiss, revealing a small, crowded room dominated by a large, scarred metal table. Four figures sat around it, their postures radiating varying degrees of tension. The air here was warmer, thick with the smell of synthesized food, stale coffee, and anxiety. It was a palpable weight.

Mila paused in the doorway, taking them in. Her gaze swept over each face, assessing.

A Sensoori male – orange skin mottled with yellow and brown, a large, red fin standing tall on his skull – looked terrified. His large, brown eyes darted to her, then away, hiswebbed fingers gripping the edge of the table. Pure fear radiated from him.

Beside him sat a Collectivist. Light-blue skin, hairless scalp, black eyes like polished stones, with yellow pupils, fixed on her with unnerving calm. His posture was rigidly composed, hands steepled before him, betraying nothing. Calculation, perhaps. Detachment.

Next to him, a tall, dark-skinned human woman with intricately braided hair sat rigidly. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her expression a mask of fierce protectiveness and simmering anger. Her dark eyes met Mila’s with startling intensity, not hostile, but challenging. Guarded.

And then, at the head of the table, leaning back in a chair that seemed too large for her, was the woman who must be the captain. Small, even for a human. Soft-brown skin. Dark, kinky hair pulled back severely from a face set in lines of intense concentration and simmering frustration. Her dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, locked onto Mila with a focus that felt almost physical. She wore a grease-stained tank top and cargo pants, projected an air of fierce competence barely contained by her compact frame.

This woman was coiled tension, a livewire crackling with suppressed energy. Mila felt a flicker of something. Recognition? Not of the face, but of the burden radiating from her. The weight of command. The desperate need for control.

Zed moved aside, gesturing with one manipulator.

“Captain Díaz, our guest.”

The captain didn’t move. Her gaze never wavered.

“Sit,” she said, her voice low and raspy, commanding despite its lack of volume. She jerked her chin towards the only empty chair, directly across from her.

Mila inclined her head slightly, a gesture of respect.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Her voice was soft, clear, cutting through the thick silence. She moved to the chair, her movements graceful, unhurried. The eyes of the crew followed her, a mix of fascination, apprehension, and, from the Sensoori, outright dread. She settled into the chair, folding her hands loosely in her lap. She met Carmen’s intense stare calmly.

“Do you have a name?” Díaz asked.

“Yes, Captain,” she answered, keeping her tone respectful. “My name is Mila.”

“Any last name?” the captain prompted.

“No, ma’am. We XenX have only a single name, though the Kovoids who rule our world use second, third, and fourth names.”

Díaz looked a little confused by the answer. Was she ignorant of the culture on Lintensia? Mila supposed it was possible. It existed, after all, in the UPA’s Forbidden Zone.

“I need to know what you’re doing on my ship,” the captain said. Her eyes were chips of obsidian, hard and unreadable.