Page 39 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
“Got it!” Sark said after a few seconds. “Course laid in. Short hop. Just under three light-years. Should put us near the Carina Nebula fringe. Plenty of dust clouds to hide in.”
“Zed, monitor that instability like a hawk,” Carmen ordered. “Give me a green light the second we’re clear of the gravity well.”
“Affirmative. Drive spooling. Energy levels nominal. Monitoring Theta-7 resonance.”
TheAntillesshuddered again, a different vibration this time – the deep, gathering song of the jump-drive powering up, resonating through the deck plates.
Carmen gripped the armrests again, her knuckles white. This was the gamble. The damaged drive. The jump that could tear them apart or strand them in the void.
She glanced around the bridge. Sark, focused, sweat beading on his orange skin. Letitia, tense but ready at her console. Norvik, monitoring sensors with detached precision. Zed, a silent presence over the comm.
And Mila, standing quietly observant, her green eyes reflecting the starlight outside.
Respect. That’s what she felt for the XenX woman now. Sharp, grudging respect. And something else, warmer, more dangerous, that she couldn’t afford to name. Not here. Not now.
The vibration of the jump-drive intensified. Carmen’s teeth chattered.
“Gravity well cleared, Captain,” Zed said over the intercom. “Jump-point access optimal.”
“Punch it, Sark,” Carmen ordered.
His only response was to stab the controls. A hole opened in the universe, andAntillesleaped forward, leaving the pursuit, the gas giant, and the crushing pressure behind, plunging into the unpredictable currents between stars.
Relief washed over Carmen, cold and sudden, leaving her trembling slightly in the command chair. They’d made it. For now.
But the jump-drive’s ominous hum was a grim reminder the danger wasn’t over. It had just changed shape.
CHAPTER 14
President Ronaal C’Aardleaned back in his custom-contoured grav-chair, the supple leather sighing under his considerable weight. Outside the panoramic viewport of his Babcinq office, the Carina Nebula sprawled across the void like spilled jewels – ruby, sapphire, and emerald gases swirling against the velvet black. It was a vista fit for a king. Or, more accurately, a president. His vista. A symbol of the power he wielded, the dominion he commanded.
He sipped from a crystal tumbler, the expensive, smoky Lintensian whiskey warming his throat, a taste of the luxuries his position afforded. Soon, very soon, the opposition coalition would crumble.
His carefully orchestrated smear campaign against Senator Vorlag was gaining traction; the old fool’s protests about ‘fiscal responsibility’ were being drowned out by whispers of corruption, whispers C’Aard’s agents had planted with surgical precision. He could almost taste the increased majority in the Senate, the unchallenged authority that would follow. A contented rumble vibrated in his chest. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had foreseen.
The discreet chime of the office entrance interrupted his reverie. Annoyance flickered, a tiny spark quickly smothered by the warm glow of his whiskey and his own magnificence.
“Enter,” he called, his voice a rich baritone that filled the spacious, opulent room.
The door slid open silently, revealing the lean, angular form of Kars P’Uutil. His fellow Sensoori moved with an unnerving silence, his dark, close-fitting tunic and trousers seeming to absorb the light from the tastefully recessed glow-panels. His face was a mask of professional neutrality, but C’Aard, who had employed the man’s unique talents for over a decade, detected a subtle tension in the set of his narrow shoulders, a stiffness in his normally fluid gait. Something was wrong. The pleasant warmth in C’Aard’s belly curdled slightly.
“Mister President,” P’Uutil murmured, his voice a dry rasp, like stones grinding together. He stopped precisely three paces from the immense obsidian desk, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“P’Uutil,” C’Aard acknowledged, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He deliberately took another slow sip, savoring it, asserting control. “Report. I trust the arrangements for the … special delivery are proceeding smoothly? I grow impatient.”
He allowed a hint of petulance to color his tone. He’d paid an obscene amount for the XenX, routed through untraceable accounts and cutouts. The anticipation had been a delicious torment, but now it was verging on irritation. He wanted his prize. He deserved it.
P’Uutil didn’t flinch, but the silence stretched a fraction too long. The air in the climate-controlled office suddenly felt thick, heavy.
“There has been a complication, sir.”
C’Aard’s thick fingers tightened imperceptibly on the tumbler.
“A complication?” he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “Define ‘complication,’ P’Uutil.”
“The asset,” P’Uutil stated, his gaze fixed on a point just above C’Aard’s left shoulder, “has gone missing.”
The words landed like hailstones. C’Aard felt the blood drain from his face, a cold wash starting at the base of his skull and spreading rapidly down his spine. The carefully curated nebula-scape outside the viewport seemed to blur, the vibrant colors leaching into gray dread.