Page 46 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
Oh, shit.
“What’s that smell?”
“Wet XenX.”
The scent of Mila’s wet fur – no, her pheromones – thick in the air, short-circuiting her anger, replacing it with raw, demanding need. She’d blamed stress, proximity, her own unresolved feelings. But that hadn’t been it….
The final line of the summary burned itself into her retinas:
Conclusion: XenX pheromones represent a significant psychological and operational hazard. Designation as a Class-4 Bio-contaminant and primary rationale for UPA interdiction of XenX individuals within controlled space.
Not slavery. Not cultural incompatibility.This.This insidious, invisible weapon. This chemical subversion of free will.
Mila wasn’t just a victim or a burden. She was a walking, talking neurochemical bomb. And she’d been sitting in their midst, radiating that sweet, treacherous scent, while Carmen made decisions that could get them all killed.
The console screen blurred. Letitia slammed her fist down on the metal surface, the sharp crack echoing in the quiet station. Fury, cold and pure, washed over the icy dread.
Not at Mila, not entirely. The report mentioned “source individual,” implying it was biological, involuntary. Mila might not even know the full extent.
No, her anger was directed at the situation. At the UPA for burying this. At Carmen – her friend, her captain – being played, manipulated on a fundamental level.
Carmen, who prided herself on control, whose very identity was built on commanding every variable, was being puppeted by her own biochemistry.
That protective instinct, the fierce loyalty that had always defined her relationship with Carmen, flared white-hot. This wasn’t a crush. This wasn’t Carmen making a risky choice based on flawed logic or even burgeoning affection. This was chemical warfare.
And Carmen – stubborn, proud, fiercely independent Carmen – was the primary target, drowning in an invisible tide of manufactured desire and impaired judgment.
Letitia pushed back from the console, Kovoid fiscal policy completely forgotten. The nebula fringe, the damaged drive, the pirate threat – all of it was secondary. There was a more immediate enemy aboard the ship. An enemy wearing fur, calm acceptance, and no fuckingclothes, whose very presence was unraveling them.
She had to find Carmen. Now. Before Stage Two became Stage Three. Before Carmen gambled everything, sacrificedthem all, on an altar built by pheromones and a desperate need that wasn’t even her own.
CHAPTER 17
Carmen knewshe shouldn’t be having fun. Their situation was dire. And flying to the Forbidden Zone was insane.
But she just couldn’t help it. Working with Mila for the past two days had brought her a level of joy she hadn’t felt in a long time. The Xena’s passion for starship engineering was refreshing. Sure, Carmen talked specs and problem-solving with Zed all the time. But his analysis was always purely technical, aloof, dry. With Mila, the discussions had real emotion. Despite the unintentional stowaway’s utterly alien physiognomy, her ideas and her enthusiasm – little giggles, bright smiles, and the unmistakable intelligence in her eyes – felt incredibly human.
Carmen forced her eyes away from the XenX woman’s striped back, the fur gleaming faintly under the harsh maintenance lights, and focused on the flickering schematic Zed had projected onto the main engineering console. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the cool metal surface.
“All right, Zed,” Carmen said, her voice sounding rougher than intended. “Run me through the primary thruster diagnostics again. Focus on the portside modulation conduits Mila flagged.”
She kept her gaze locked on the complex web of energy pathways glowing blue and red on the screen, tracing the critical junctions where Mila had suggested rerouting power-flow. The logic had been sound, elegant even. Too elegant for a glorified concubine. The thought, unbidden, prickled with unfairness.
“Affirmative, Captain,” Zed responded.
One of his telescopic arms extended, a thin probe tip interfacing with a port on the console. The schematic shifted, zooming in on the tangled mess of power conduits feeding the portside maneuvering thrusters. Angry red sections pulsed where overloads had fused components.
“As previously noted, thermal damage to Conduits P-7 through P-12 is extensive. Internal shielding is compromised. Attempting to reroute primary power-flow through secondary pathways, as Mila suggested, requires bypassing the standard safety interlocks on Junction Omicron. This carries a 12.7% risk of cascading feedback into the adjacent environmental control grid if power fluctuations exceed tolerance during high-maneuver stress.”
“Twelve-point-seven?” Carmen frowned, chewing on her lower lip. It was a gamble, but better than limping along at eighteen percent. “What’s the projected efficiency gain if it holds?”
“Theoretical maximum output increase: 38%. Sustained operational ceiling, accounting for inherent inefficiencies in the secondary pathways: 32% to 35%.”
“Still better than crawling,” Carmen muttered.
She risked a glance sideways. Mila stood close, her green eyes scanning the schematic with intense focus. Her clawed hand hovered near the display, not touching, but tracing invisible lines in the air. The movement drew Carmen’s eye to the delicate articulation of her fingers, the subtle flex of muscle beneath the striped fur of her forearm.
She swallowed, forcing her attention back to the schematic.