Page 33 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
Norvik leaned forward slightly.
“Fascinating. A cultural elevation of biological imperative into a societal pillar. And this ‘surrender’ you describe – it is absolute? You retain no personal autonomy within the contractual parameters?”
Mila tilted her head, considering the Collectivist’s clinical description. Despite his aloof nature, she found herself liking him. He had a fascinating way of reframing perspective.
“Autonomy is redefined within the role, Norvik. The Harimi chooses to relinquish certain personal decisions – the choice of partner, the nature of the acts performed – in service to the patron’s wishes. This surrenderisthe autonomy. It is the conscious choice to dedicate oneself entirely to another’s fulfillment. In that dedication, there is a profound freedom from the burdens of individual desire.” She saw the confusion, the faint disapproval in Sark’s expression, the analytical detachment in Norvik’s. “You find this concept difficult?”
“It’s … different,” Sark stammered. “Where we come from, people don’t sell themselves. Not like that. Not forever.”
“Choice constrained by necessity is still choice,” Norvik stated, his tone neutral. “Your decision secured your family’s well-being. A logical exchange, prioritizing group survival over individual liberty. The Collective recognizes similar imperatives,though our mechanisms differ.” He paused. “The financial compensation for your contract was substantial, I assume?”
“Extremely so,” Mila said with a nod. “It ensured my father’s debts were cleared, my younger littermates removed from the debtor labor camp rolls, and my family’s settlement provided with enhanced security, nutrient synthesizers, and educational access for a generation. Their safety and prosperity are guaranteed.”
The memory brought a familiar warmth, a sense of profound accomplishment that eclipsed any abstract notion of personal freedom. She imagined her father being able to spend the rest of his life idle, relaxed. She smiled.
Sark looked down at his hands, his earlier nervous energy replaced by a somberness that sat strangely on his usually expressive face. He sighed, a soft, ragged sound.
“Yeah. That sounds nice. I wish we had an option like that.”
“What do you mean?” Mila asked.
“TheAntilles,” Sark replied, “she’s not just old. She’s held together by Zed’s genius and Carmen’s stubbornness. She needs a lot of upgrades.”
“And you cannot afford these?” Mila said.
Sark barked out a single, bitter laugh. He shook his head.
“No. Our last run went sideways. We got boarded by the COPS. They seized our cargo and fined us into oblivion. They were gonna impound the ship, so the captain ordered us to run. I got us away, butAntillestook a lot of damage in the process.
“We owe a guy named Velasco for the cargo we lost. It’s more than we have. Way more. And he is not the kind of man you want to be in debt to. Between that and the fines, we are totally screwed. Then factor in the repairs we need and, well, it ain’t a pretty picture, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Mila said, slightly confused. “What are the COPS?”
“The Corporate Operational Police Service,” Norvik answered. “Officially, they work for the UPA Senate, but their job is to enforce corporate regulations, exclusivity contracts, shipping mandates, and tariffs. They keep the mega-corporations that effectively run the UPA wealthy and eliminate the threat of small businesses.”
“Like ours,” Sark added. “We make a living moving contraband goods. Most of it is harmless stuff – things people want that regulations or corporate monopolies make impossible to get, at least at a reasonable price.”
“But our business is nevertheless illicit,” Norvik clarified. “We and many ships like ours are classified as smugglers. The COPS hunt ships like ours.”
“They like to say we’re pirates,” Sark said. “But smugglers and pirates aren’t the same thing. Pirates are dangerous.”
Mila nodded in understanding. Her heart broke for these people. The situation they described was much the same as the one on her home world of Lintensia. The Kovoids controlled everything for their own benefit. They were brutish, boorish, and selfish. These COPS seemed to be of the same ilk.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I understand this plight of yours only too well.”
“Sark’s emotional presentation is a bit melodramatic, but his assessment is factually correct,” Norvik said. “Our operational and financial status is critical. Our chances of long-term survival without significant capital infusion are slim.”
“And they’re getting worse as the ship breaks down,” Sark added.
Norvik’s black eyes met Mila’s again, devoid of malice, only stark pragmatism.
“Your market value, as an illegally trafficked XenX Harimi within UPA space, is considerable, conservatively estimated at two hundred thousand credits. Liquidating that asset wouldresolve our debts to Velasco, pay the COPS fines, fund essential repairs, and provide a substantial operating reserve. It represents the only currently viable path to ensuring the survival of this crew and this vessel.”
His logic was undeniable. Sark flinched, looking guilty, but didn’t contradict him. He just stared at the table, his shoulders slumped. Their desperation was a tangible thing in the cramped room, thick as the smell of synth-stew and recycled air. It was a scent Mila knew intimately – the sharp tang of impending ruin, the metallic taste of hope running out. It was the scent of her father’s workshop before the Kovoid bailiffs came.
A sense of profound kinship washed over her. She was the key to their survival. Just as her contract had been the key for her family. The symmetry was beautiful. Obvious.
She placed her spoon carefully beside the half-eaten bowl of stew.