Page 19 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
“I’m sorry, Mila, what exactly are you saying?” the Collectivist asked.
“For the purposes of ensuring my family’s future,” she answered, her heart singing, “it no longer matters if I am delivered to the man who purchased me. You are free to determine my disposition.”
The crew exchanged glances. The Sensoori looked hopeful, then immediately guilty. The Collectivist gave a barely perceptible nod. The dark-skinned human’s expression hardened into fierce protectiveness.
And the captain? Her eyes seemed to bore into Mila’s soul. Díaz’s jaw was clenched, her shoulders rigid. The air crackledwith her unspoken tension. Mila could practically feel the conflicting forces warring within her – pragmatism fighting with something else, something that felt like outrage. But directed at whom?
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Mila waited, serene on the surface, but inwardly curious. What would this intense, burdened woman decide? The fate of her crew, her ship, hung in the balance. And Mila’s own path, for now, was inextricably tied to theirs.
Finally, Díaz pushed her chair back with a sharp scrape. She stood up, her movements tight with controlled energy. She didn’t look at anyone else, her gaze fixed solely on Mila.
“Zed,” she said, her voice rough, grating. “Take her to my quarters. Let her clean up. Get her whatever she needs.”
She waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that seemed aimed more at the oppressive atmosphere than at Mila herself. Her eyes, however, held Mila’s for a fraction longer – a silent communication of something unreadable and intense.
Mila inclined her head again.
“As you wish, Captain.”
She rose smoothly from her chair. Her path was clear. Obedience. Patience. She turned to follow Zed, who had already pivoted towards the hatch.
As she walked away, she thought she might float. She had succeeded. Her family would have a future of comfort, joy, fulfillment. Her service was perfect, accomplished.
Yet she felt the weight of their stares on her back. It was a complex dynamic, this crew. Fractured by desperation, bound by something deeper. And at the center of it all, radiating a tension that vibrated in the very air, was Captain Díaz.
Curiosity deepened into something more focused as Mila followed Zed’s boxy form down the narrow corridor. Thecaptain’s quarters. Her private space. A place of control, perhaps.
Or vulnerability.
Mila found herself looking forward to seeing it. Understanding the environment of this woman who held her fate, however temporarily, in her small, capable hands, felt necessary.
Perhaps even promising.
CHAPTER 7
Zed arrivedwith the Xena at Captain Díaz’s quarters. The woman, Mila, had spent most of the transit observing her surroundings with quiet curiosity. When she spoke, she expressed fascination with the ship’s antiquated systems, acting as though she were a history student on a tour through a museum. Despite being a completely alien specimen from a portion of the galaxy forbidden to any UPA citizen, she possessed qualities similar to those he’d observed in his shipmates: a habit of so-called “small talk” and a tendency to romanticize the past. Neither made sense to him.
He extended a secondary manipulator, interfacing directly with the cabin door’s security panel. The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk. The hatch slid aside, revealing the compact interior of Carmen Díaz’s private space.
The quarters were a reflection of her: functional, densely packed, meticulously ordered despite the clutter. A narrow bunk was secured to the port bulkhead, the bedding rumpled from her recent tryst with Ms. Anderson. A small desk occupied the opposite wall, its surface dominated by a flickering terminal displaying navigational star charts. Tools, spare parts, and datacards were neatly stowed in labeled bins above it. A single locker held minimal clothing.
“These are the captain’s quarters,” Zed stated. “Facilities include a private hygiene cubicle.” He gestured with a manipulator towards a small, recessed door beside the bunk. “Water ration allocation for personal cleansing is limited to 15 liters per standard week. Controls are clearly marked. Do you require clarification on their operation?”
Mila stepped inside, her head turning slowly as she absorbed the space. Her pupils dilated slightly as she scanned the personal effects: a faded image of theAntillespinned to the bulkhead, a well-worn, leather, flight jacket hanging from a peg, a half-disassembled plasma torch on the desk.
“No, Zed,” she answered. “The controls appear standard. Thank you.”
Her bio-signs showed a subtle shift: heart rate decreasing to 78 bpm, respiratory rate normalizing to 18 breaths per minute. Stress indicators diminishing. Acceptance. Her gaze lingered on the bunk, then moved to the hygiene cubicle.
“Will the captain require her quarters immediately?”
“Negative. Her instructions were for you to utilize the facilities. She did not specify a timeframe for her return. Privacy protocols for this compartment are active. The hatch will seal and lock upon closure. Only Captain Díaz or myself possess override authority.”
Mila nodded. She moved towards the hygiene cubicle, her steps silent on the textured deck plating. She paused at the entrance, one hand resting on the frame. She turned back, her green eyes meeting Zed’s primary optical sensor.
“Zed? May I ask what is the consensus among the crew? Regarding my disposition?”
Zed’s processors evaluated the query. Direct, seeking predictive data. Organic crews valued such information foremotional preparation. His response adhered to observed facts and calculated probabilities.