Page 34 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
“I understand,” she said, her voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “Your situation mirrors the desperation that led me to embrace Harimi. It is logical. Necessary.”
She looked from Sark’s downcast face to Norvik’s impassive one.
“Captain Díaz expressed reluctance – hesitation born of unfamiliarity with our customs, perhaps. Or misplaced ethical concerns. I am Harimi. My purpose is to serve, to be the solution where one is needed. If my sale secures your future, then it is the fulfillment of my role.
“I will speak with the captain. I will explain the honor in this transaction, the necessity. I will assure her that this is not merely acceptable to me, butright.”
Sark looked up, surprise warring with a flicker of hope in his large eyes. Norvik remained still, but a subtle shift in his posture suggested consideration. Assessment.
“You’d … you’d do that?” Sark asked, his voice hushed. “Talk to Carmen? Try to convince her?”
“It is my duty,” Mila stated simply. “To alleviate suffering, to provide security. That is the essence of service. If my disposition achieves that for this crew, then it is the correct path.” She paused, then added, “Where might I find her? Is she still in her quarters?”
Sark and Norvik exchanged a look – a complex, wordless communication born of shared history and absolute loyalty to the small, fierce woman who commanded them. Sark shook his head slowly, a small, almost sad smile touching his lips.
“You don’t find the captain, Mila,” he said quietly. “She finds you. When she’s ready.” He glanced towards the hatch. “And when she makes up her mind …”
He trailed off, the unspoken implication clear: her decision was law. Norvik nodded once.
The hatch behind Mila hissed open abruptly.
They all turned. As though Mila had summoned her, Captain Díaz stood in the doorway.
She looked different. The intense, coiled energy was still there, a livewire sparking beneath the surface, but the lines of frustration around her eyes seemed deeper, etched with a new kind of weariness.
Her dark gaze swept the room, taking in Sark leaning against the table, Norvik sitting rigidly, and Mila seated between them with her bowl of cooling stew. Her eyes lingered on Mila for a fraction longer, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths – not anger, not desire, but a profound, heavy resolve. She stepped fully into the mess hall, the hatch sliding shut behind her with a final click. The air seemed to tighten, charged with her presence.
“Right,” she said, her voice rough, grating, but carrying absolute authority. It cut through the silence like a knife. “Enough waiting. I’ve made my decision.”
CHAPTER 12
Three pairsof eyes snapped to Carmen – Sark’s wide and hopeful, Norvik’s black and unreadable, Mila’s green and calm as deep space. The lingering scent of synth-stew and recycled air couldn’t quite mask the ghost of Mila’s earlier presence, that musky, thick sweetness that seemed to cling to Carmen’s sinuses even now. It was a distraction, a low prickle beneath her skin she ruthlessly shoved aside. She had clarity. Bought and paid for in sweat and frustration and the temporary oblivion Letitia had offered. Now it was time to act.
“We’re taking her home,” Carmen announced, her voice cutting through the quiet like a plasma torch. No preamble. No room for debate. Just the hard edge of command. “To the Forbidden Zone. To her people.”
The words hung in the air, stark. Sark flinched as if physically struck. His orange skin paled, the vibrant mottling seeming to fade.
“Home?” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Captain, the Forbidden Zone? That’s ... that’s crazy!”
Norvik didn’t flinch. He merely tilted his head, a precise fraction, his blue hands still folded on the table.
“Captain, Zed is not here to give us the precise calculations, but the probability of successfully navigating the interdiction perimeter, evading COPS patrols optimized for Forbidden Zone incursions, locating the XenX homeworld without reliable astrogation data, and returning intact is astronomically bad. Factoring in theAntilles’s current condition, those odds fall to practically zero.”
Carmen met his black gaze, unblinking. She’d expected this. Needed it, almost. The resistance solidified her own resolve.
“We don’t need probabilities, Norvik,” she said. “We need a course. Plot the fastest vector to the nearest viable entry point. Avoid known patrol lanes.”
“Captain, please,” Sark pleaded, leaning forward, his webbed hands gripping the edge of the table. “Think about it! The COPS have those barrier satellites crawling with sensors! Theyshoot firstout there! And Velasco, he’ll have hunters sniffing every shadow port by now! We can’t outrun themandthe UPA Navy!”
His voice rose, edged with panic.
“Two hundred thousand creds, Cap! That solves everything! Velasco paid off! Fines cleared! New thrusters! Shields that don’t flicker when someone sneezes! We could besafe!”
Safe. The word was a barb. Safety bought with Mila’s freedom. Carmen’s gaze flicked to the XenX woman. Mila sat perfectly still, her striped back straight, her expression serene. Her green eyes were fixed on Carmen, waiting.
“Safety isn’t on the menu, Sark,” Carmen said, turning her full attention back to him. The frustration, the bone-deep weariness of carrying their collective survival, threatened to bubble over. “Not that kind. We sell her, we become exactly what Maltese tried to make us: traffickers. Slavers. We become part of the chain that grinds her people down.” She jabbed a finger towards Mila without looking at her, the gesture sharp, accusatory. “I won’t have it. Not on my ship. Not with my crew.”
“But Captain?—”