Page 31 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
The thought of her smug face, that defiant tilt of her chin, being replaced by the dawning horror as COPS troopers stormed her pathetic ship should have been satisfying. But all he felt was cold fury. Her failure wouldn’t just humiliate her; it would destroy him.
He quickened his pace, boots ringing on the metal decking. TheStar Shrikeawaited, sleek and powerful in its docking cradle. TheAntilleswas slow, damaged, cautious. He had speed. He had firepower. He had a crew that knew how to get things done.
He’d get to Babcinq first. He’d intercept that walking disaster before she could blow everything to the stars. He’d take back what was his.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d make sure Carmen Díaz understood, once and for all, the cost of defying Nick Corso.
The image formed in his mind: Díaz, on her knees before him, the Xena standing obediently at his side. Proof. Ultimate proof.
“Move!” he barked at his crew, breaking into a run towards the docking umbilical. The chase was on. And failure wasn’t an option.
CHAPTER 11
The mess hallhatch slid open at Mila’s approach. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the lingering smells of synthesized protein, stale coffee, and the faint, sharp tang of recycled air. The large, scarred metal table dominated the space. Two figures remained: the Sensoori and the Collectivist. They sat at opposite ends of the table, the space between them charged with unspoken tension. The silence wasn’t companionable; it was the brittle quiet after a storm.
The Sensoori looked up as she entered. His large, brown eyes widened, the mottling on his skin seeming to flush slightly. The large, red fin on his head quivered. He straightened in his chair, a quick, nervous movement.
“Oh! Hey! Mila, right?” His voice was higher than she remembered from the meeting, edged with a forced brightness. “Captain send you for chow?”
Mila inclined her head slightly, a gesture of polite acknowledgment.
“Yes. She suggested I utilize the facilities here.”
Her gaze shifted to the Collectivist. He hadn’t moved. His light-blue hands remained folded on the table, his black eyesfixed on her with unnerving, analytical stillness. He offered no greeting, only that unwavering, detached observation.
The Sensoori scrambled to his feet, his webbed hands fluttering slightly.
“Right! Food! Yeah, of course,” he said. “The dispenser’s over here.”
He gestured towards a recessed unit in the bulkhead near the table. It looked like a complex arrangement of nozzles, heating elements, and small storage hoppers.
“It’s, well, it’s not gourmet, but it keeps the engines running, you know?”
He offered a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was an energy to him now, a nervous buzz. And beneath it, Mila recognized the subtle shift in his bio-signature, the slight dilation of pupils, the quickened pulse visible at his throat.
Desire.
It was a familiar frequency, one her senses were attuned to detect. It wasn’t predatory, not like most of the Kovoids she knew. This was hopeful. Apprehensive. Young. She followed him to the dispenser, maintaining a respectful half-step behind.
“I appreciate your assistance,” she said, offering him a demure smile.
“No problem! Happy to help.”
He tapped a sequence on the grimy control panel. A small screen flickered to life, displaying a limited menu:
Nutri-Paste (Standard)
Synth-Stew (Vegetable)
Synth-Stew (Protein)
Coffee Substitute
“We’re kinda low on variety right now,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “The protein stew’s not bad. Tastes vaguely like, well, protein. The paste is efficient, but it’s like eating flavored chalk.” He wrinkled his nose, a surprisingly expressive gesture on his alien features. “Guess you gotta fuel up, though, right? Big day. Unexpected detours and all.
“I’m Sark, by the way. Sark T’Raan. I’m the pilot. This is Norvik. He’s our chief negotiator.”
Chief negotiator. A piece of the puzzle fell into place. He was evaluating her for her potential value. That made sense, though she still found his quiet stare a bit unnerving.