Page 40 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

Gone missing.

The tumbler slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, hitting the plush, imported carpet with a dull thud. Whiskey soaked into the intricate weave, the sharp, peaty scent suddenly nauseating.

“What?” The word was a strangled whisper, devoid of its usual commanding resonance. He gripped the arms of his grav-chair, his knuckles bulging, the orange skin turning pale. “What do you mean, ‘gone missing’?”

Panic, raw and unfamiliar, clawed at his throat. Images flashed: the discreet holos of the XenX female, her exotic fur, those unsettlingly intelligent, green eyes, the promise of absolute, willing submission.

His. She was supposed to behis. A possession beyond price, a testament to his power, a private reward meticulously planned.

“Initial reports from Waystation Alora indicate a loading error,” P’Uutil continued, his voice devoid of inflection, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within C’Aard. “The container housing the merchandise was not put aboard the vessel of the intended courier.”

“Where was it put?” C’Aard roared.

“At present, that is unknown. Our agents confirm that the goods were delivered properly to Alora. Sometime after that, the shipper lost possession.”

They lost her? The rarest, most illicit cargo in all of UPA space was simplylost? The sheer, staggering incompetence was breathtaking.

C’Aard shoved himself upright, the grav-chair groaning in protest. He paced behind the desk, his heavy tread muffled by the thick carpet. The room felt stiflingly small. The implications crashed over him, wave after icy wave. His XenX, loose in UPA space. Possibly being resold on the black market.

The political ramifications were catastrophic. If this became public, if it were traced back to him, the scandal would end his presidency. It would rob him of all his well-deserved glory. It would besmirch, ruin his legacy for all time. Reduce him to a punchline for history.

Thatcould not happen.

The carefully constructed edifice of his power, his influence, his very identity, trembled on the brink of collapse. The warm glow of anticipated triumph was utterly extinguished, replaced by the cold, sucking void of absolute terror.

He stopped pacing, turning to face P’Uutil. The mask of the confident statesman was gone, stripped away by raw fear, revealing the ruthless core beneath.

“Find her,” C’Aard commanded, his voice a low, venomous hiss. Every trace of the rich baritone was gone, replaced by the grating rasp of pure survival instinct. “Activate the Silent Division. Use every resource, every contact, every dirty trick in that arsenal you keep so meticulously hidden. I want my prize found. I want my property recovered. Intact.”

“And P’Uutil….” He paused, the next words forming like ice on his tongue. “Everyone, every single person who had any knowledge of this operation – the loading crew on Alora, the dock supervisor, the smuggler and his entire network, the crew of the ship that was supposed to bring her here, and especially,especially, whoever has her now – is to be eliminated.”

He took a step closer, looming over his spymaster despite P’Uutil’s height advantage. The smell of spilled whiskey and cold sweat hung heavy in the air between them.

“Do you understand me? No loose ends. Not one. Erase them. All of them.”

CHAPTER 15

Carmen leanedback in the command chair. On the viewscreen, the swirling, impossible colors of hyperspace flowed past, hypnotic and strangely calming after the chaos. Relief, cold and sharp, washed over her, leaving her trembling fingers clenched on the armrests. They’d made it. For now. The pirate ship, whoever they were, was light-years behind them, lost in the dust clouds near the gas giant or nursing their thruster burns. The silence on the bridge, punctuated only by the ship’s systems and Sark’s shaky exhale, felt fragile, precious.

“Status?” she said

“Hyperspace vector stable, Captain,” Sark reported, his orange skin still pale beneath the mottling, the large red fin on his head twitching. His webbed fingers danced over the nav console, double-checking readings. “Carina Nebula fringe, like I plotted. ETA: forty-seven standard hours. Plenty of dust and debris for cover when we drop out.”

“Zed?” Carmen prompted, her mind already turning inward, cataloging the ship’s groans and shudders during the jump.

“Jump-drive integrity nominal post-transition,” Zed answered. “Theta-7 instability persists at fluctuating amplitude between 0.007% and 0.009% above tolerance. Structuralmonitoring indicates no new microfracture propagation from the jump stress. Hull temperature returning to baseline. Passive sensors detect no pursuit signatures within detectable range.”

Nominal. Barely. Carmen unclenched her jaw.

“And the damage from the fight? Before the jump?”

“Compiling preliminary damage assessment now, Captain,” Zed replied. “Primary casualty: sub-light maneuvering thrusters. Port and starboard clusters sustained direct hits and subsequent thermal overload during atmospheric ingress and egress. Efficiency currently estimated at 18% of nominal output. Rerouting auxiliary power is impractical; the thruster control conduits are fused.”

Carmen closed her eyes for a second, seeing the pirate ship’s sleek agility, the way it had danced around their sluggish attempts to evade. With thrusters that crippled, theAntilleswouldn’t dance. She’d barely crawl. A sitting duck if anything else found them. The Forbidden Zone patrols wouldn’t be kind to a crippled smuggler.

“Shields? Weapons?” she asked, forcing her voice level.

“Forward shield emitter suffered harmonic feedback during the dive but remains functional at sixty-two-percent efficiency,” Letitia reported. “Starboard emitter array is non-responsive; repair requires EVA and replacement parts I assume we do not possess. Zed?”