Page 47 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

“The bypass. How do we implement it? Physically, I mean. Zed can’t crawl into that junction.”

“Access is possible,” Mila said, her soft voice cutting through Zed’s whirring processors. She pointed a claw towards a narrow access hatch low on the bulkhead, partially obscured by conduit bundles. “Junction Omicron is located behind panel Gamma-9. The space is confined, but sufficient for an organic technician.”

She turned those unsettlingly calm eyes on Carmen.

“I can perform the reroute, Captain. My smaller stature and manual dexterity are advantageous for the task.”

The image flashed – Mila folded into that cramped, hot space, the striped fur of her back flexing as she worked. Carmen’s throat tightened.

“No,” she said, sharper than intended.

Mila’s ears twitched slightly. Carmen softened her tone, trying for practical.

“We don’t have the schematics for that junction memorized,” she explained. “One wrong connection in there could blow the whole grid. Or you.”

The thought sent an unwelcome jolt of protective anxiety through her.

“I possess a detailed internal schematic of standard Kovoid junction configurations,” Mila replied. “TheAntillesutilizes a hybrid system, but the core architecture of Junction Omicron aligns with Kovoid design principles from the late Tarkonian period. The reroute requires re-patching three primary conduits and installing a thermal shunt here—” She tapped the air above a specific node on Zed’s projection. “—to bleed off excess energy before it destabilizes the environmental feeds. The shunt components are standard; Zed confirmed their presence in the engineering spares locker.”

Carmen stared at her. Late Tarkonian period? Hybrid systems? The woman spoke of engineering like it was poetry. Respect warred with the low, persistent purr of something else entirely.

“You’re sure?”

The question was redundant. Mila radiated quiet certainty.

“Positive, Captain. It is a straightforward procedure, though it requires precision.”

“Probability of catastrophic failure during the reroute procedure, assuming Mila’s competence, is estimated at 1.3%,” Zed added, his camera lenses swiveling between them. “Primarily contingent on unforeseen microfracture propagation in the conduit housing, which current scans do not indicate.”

So a ninety-eight-point-seven percent chance of success. Better odds than most things in their lives. Carmen exhaled, the decision settling.

“All right. Do it. Zed, prep the shunt components and talk Mila through theAntilles-specific quirks. I’ll ...” She trailed off. What? Stand here and watch? “I’ll monitor from here. Keep me updated.”

Mila nodded.

“Understood.”

She moved towards the access hatch with that fluid grace, bending smoothly to release the latches. The panel swung open, revealing a dark, cramped space smelling of heated ceramic and electrical conduits. Mila paused, glancing back at Carmen.

“I may require tools passed in. Zed’s manipulators are too large for the internal workspace.”

“Right. Tools.” Carmen grabbed a nearby toolkit, her fingers fumbling slightly on the latch.

Get a grip, Díaz.

She crouched beside the hatch as Mila slid inside, headfirst. Carmen fought the urge to lean closer.

For several minutes, the only sounds were the faint hum of the ship’s systems, the whir and click of Zed’s manipulators as he sorted components, and the occasional scrape or soft clink from within the access way. Carmen watched Mila’s legs, the shifting play of muscle as she worked in the tight space, the occasional flash of her sex. Her own breathing felt too loud.

“Initiating primary conduit decoupling,” Mila’s voice, slightly muffled, came from inside. “Captain, the tertiary bypass conduit appears to be fused at the coupling. Standard torque application is ineffective.”

“Fused?” Carmen leaned closer to the opening, peering into the dimness. She could just make out the outline of Mila’s back, bent low. “Can you cut it?”

“Affirmative. Hand me the micro plasma cutter from the toolkit.”

Carmen rummaged in the open kit, her fingers closing on the cool handle of the cutter. She passed it handle-first into the opening. Mila’s hand reached back, her claws brushing against Carmen’s knuckles as she took the tool. The touch was brief, incidental, but it sent a jolt of heat straight up Carmen’s arm, and down into her belly. She snatched her hand back as if burned.

“Thank you,” Mila murmured.