Page 53 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
“Scanning inventory.… Affirmative. Three Mark VII Isodyne capacitors are catalogued in Spares Locker Gamma.”
“Good. We can install them in series here and here,” she pointed to junctions on the schematic. “That should absorb any potential feedback surges.
“As for the voltage differential—” She zoomed in on the starboard thruster housing. “—the main thrusters don’t require peak voltage for basic stabilization and low-speed course corrections, only for high-G maneuvers. We can program a limiter into the reroute, capping the power-draw to what the auxiliary grid can safely handle. It won’t give us full maneuverability, but it might bring the starboard cluster up to … twenty, twenty-five percent? Combined with the portside, that’s significantly better than eighteen.”
“Calculating.…” Zed’s lights flickered rapidly. “Proposed solution viable. Projected starboard thruster efficiency with capacitor buffers and power limiter: 22-24%. Combined maneuvering capability: approximately 45-48% of nominal. Risk assessment: Feedback risk reduced to 8.1%. Transformer requirement negated.”
“Let’s do it,” Mila said. “Prep the capacitors. I’ll need the micro plasma cutter again, and the thermal shunt spares. And access to Conduit Junction Sigma-4.”
She moved towards the spares locker Zed indicated, her body falling into the familiar rhythms of preparation. Gathering tools. Mentally rehearsing the procedure. This was her element. This was where she felt grounded, useful.
As she pulled the heavy capacitors from the locker, the weight solid in her arms, the silence of the bay pressed in again.The absence wasn’t just physical. It was the loss of the fragile connection that had begun to form. The shared focus over the thruster schematic. The spark of mutual respect in the captain’s eyes when Mila had proposed the initial reroute. The almost-camaraderie. It was gone.
Replaced by quarantine protocols and Zed’s impassive gaze.
She carried the capacitors to the workbench near the access hatch for Junction Sigma-4. Setting them down, she paused, her hand resting on the cool metal of the bench. The memory of the captain’s hand on her arm flashed again, vivid and warm. The scent of her – machine oil, leather, and something uniquely, sharply human – seemed to linger in the air, mixing with her own musk. It had been intoxicating. For both of them, apparently.
Now, the bay felt cavernous. Empty. The constant roar of the engines, the whir of Zed’s processors, the faint clicks and groans of the ship – these were the only companions. The vibrant, commanding presence that had filled the space, radiating fierce energy and tightly leashed vulnerability, was absent. Confined, just as Mila was, but by walls of anger and betrayal Mila didn’t know how to breach.
She picked up the micro plasma cutter, its familiar weight offering cold comfort. She could fix conduits. She could reroute power. She could patch microfractures and stabilize unstable drives.
But how did one fix trust? How did one reroute suspicion? How did one patch a heart convinced it had been chemically fooled?
The tools felt heavy in her hands. The task ahead, necessary and within her skills, suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the void left by Captain Díaz’s absence. The ache of it was a constant throb beneath her focus, a counterpoint to the ship’s own vibrations. She missed the captain’s sharp gaze,her quicker-than-lightning mind, the surprising gentleness that sometimes flickered beneath the command.
She missed the possibility that had shimmered, however briefly, between them.
Taking a deep breath, Mila bent and released the latches on the access hatch for Junction Sigma-4. The panel swung open, revealing another cramped, dimly lit space smelling of heated ceramic and dormant electricity. The familiar challenge of the task beckoned, a problem shecouldsolve.
She would fix the thrusters. She would make theAntillesstronger. She would prove her worth wasn’t tied to her biology or her past, but to her mind, her hands, her desire to serve this ship and its fierce, wounded captain. It was the only language she had left. The only offering she could make.
Sliding into the confined space, the darkness enveloping her, Mila began to work. The whine of the plasma cutter soon filled the bay, spitting orange sparks into the gloom, a small, defiant light against the vast emptiness Carmen Díaz’s absence had created.
CHAPTER 20
The curvedexpanse of Babcinq filled theStar Shrike’s viewscreen, a sprawling, glittering tumor of UPA bureaucracy clinging to the void. Nick Corso leaned forward in his command chair, as a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He was here first. Díaz and her flying scrapheap were still limping through hyperspace, blissfully unaware of the vipers’ nest waiting for them.
“Hold us here,” he ordered, his voice a low rumble that carried easily across the bridge. “Perimeter orbit. Keep us just outside their official control zone. Don’t want to give those COPS bastards an excuse to poke their noses in.”
“Aye, Captain,” James responded crisply from the pilot’s station. Her fingers danced over the controls, adjusting the thrusters with practiced ease. TheStar Shrikesettled into a smooth, silent glide, a shark circling just beyond the light. “Orbital pattern established. Holding position.”
Nick’s gaze swept across the tactical displays flanking the main viewscreen. Dozens of ships crawled around the massive station – lumbering freighters, sleek corporate yachts, the occasional blocky COPS patrol cutter. All insignificant. All potential hiding places for one particular, battered freighter.
“Sensors,” he barked. “Full active sweep. I want every docking bay, every maintenance slip, every shadow scanned. Make sureAntillesisn’t here.”
“Sweep initiated, Captain,” replied Brask, the sensor operator. His massive frame seemed to engulf his station. “Running pattern recognition against knownAntillessignatures. Focusing on outer docking rings first.”
Corso drummed his fingers on the armrest. Patience wasn’t his strongest virtue, but the hunt demanded it. He was certain he’d beaten her here. There was no way that POS Díaz called a ship could have made it to Babcinq in the timeStar Shrikehad, even with the delay of doubling back to Alora.
But he had to be sure. He had to know she hadn’t fucked everything all up worse than usual.
He pictured Díaz’s face – that stubborn, defiant set of her jaw, the dark eyes flashing with anger he always managed to ignite. She’d be scanning, too, probably shitting herself over whether the COPS had detected their exit from hyperspace.
The thought warmed him. Soon, he’d have her exactly where he wanted her.
His plan was elegant in its brutality. Make sure Díaz wasn’t here, then wait for her right at the jump-exit point. As soon as she showed, theShrike’s plasma cannon would rip her thrusters to shreds. He’d leave her dead in space before she could even think about an approach vector. Then he’d board her sorry excuse for a vessel and take the Xena from her.
A familiar heat stirred low in his belly. Not just the anticipation of the fight, but the image of Carmen Díaz on her knees, stripped of her precious control, finally acknowledging his superiority. Her sharp tongue silenced. Her defiance broken.