Page 66 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

Corso cut the connection. He walked back to the viewport, staring out at the void. Soon, he’d have his prey in sight. Carmen Díaz would learn the cost of defiance. And the Xena would learn the meaning of a true master.

The grim smile returned, sharp as a knife. The hunt was back on.

CHAPTER 25

Letitia stood justinside the weapons pod, her hand still on the manual release lever, examining the chaos. Bolts and access panels lay scattered on the deck. Machine parts rested nearby. Wiring hung exposed.

The harsh overhead lights glared off the curved bulkheads, illuminating the two point-defense turrets mounted on articulated arms near the pod’s apex. Sark was already there, perched precariously on a rolling maintenance scaffold pushed up against Turret Beta. His orange skin looked sallow under the unforgiving light, the red fin on his head twitching erratically. He was elbow-deep in the housing, his webbed fingers fumbling with a bundle of thick, insulated cabling. Norvik stood below, holding a magnetic tray of tools, black eyes watching Sark’s clumsy movements. He looked utterly calm, a statue of indifference amidst the tension.

“About time,” Sark muttered, not looking up. His voice was tight, strained. “Thought maybe you’d decided hiding in your bunk was a better career move.”

Letitia ignored the jab. She strode across the deck plating, the sound of her boots echoing in the confined space.

“Had to check the schematics Zed sent,” she said, her voice clipped.

She pulled a data card from her thigh pocket and slapped it onto the workstation port. It showed the internal layout of the turret housing, highlighting the power conduits and regulator clusters in pulsing red.

“Zed says the superconducting cabling runs from the main reactor conduit junction here,” she tapped a spot near the turret’s base, “through this secondary channel, and terminates at the capacitor bank here, beneath the firing assembly. The plasma-flow regulators are mounted dorsally, right above the main pivot joint. Two per turret.”

Norvik moved silently to the screen, his yellow pupils scanning the schematic.

“Efficient design. High-density power transfer necessitates the superconducting properties. The regulators manage the plasma-flow surge during rapid discharge cycles.” He looked up at Sark, still wrestling with the cabling bundle. “You are attempting to disconnect at the capacitor end. The primary junction cluster offers a cleaner extraction point and minimizes risk of damaging the insulation.”

Sark grunted, pulling his arm out. A thin smear of dark lubricant stained his forearm. “Yeah, well, the junction’s buried under half a ton of targeting servo-mechanisms. Easier from this end.”

“Easier is irrelevant,” Norvik stated flatly. “Undamaged components are essential. Captain’s orders prioritize successful repair of the jump-drive over expediency.”

“Captain’s orders,” Sark echoed, his voice dripping with a bitterness Letitia hadn’t heard from him before. He wiped his hand on his jumpsuit, leaving a greasy streak. “Right. The orders that got us stranded in the middle of nowhere with no drive and now no way to fight back if some pirate junker stumbles acrossthis floating coffin.” He gestured wildly at the turret. “We’re ripping out our own teeth, Letitia! For what? For that … thatthingdown in engineering?”

The word, “thing,” hit Letitia like he’d thrown a wrench at her. It wasn’t just disrespectful; it was ugly.

“Her name is Mila, Sark,” Letitia snapped, sharper than she intended. “And we’re doing this, so we don’tdieslowly, sucking down the last of the recycled air while we count the microfractures spreading. This isn’t for her. It’s for us.”

“Is it?” Sark climbed down from the scaffold, his movements jerky with agitation. He paced a tight circle in front of the workbench, his webbed feet slapping the deck. “Because it sure feels like it’s for her.

“Captain’s been different since she came aboard. Obsessed. Making calls that don’t make sense. Ignoring the numbers. Ignoringus.” He stopped, facing Letitia, his brown eyes wide with a fear that went beyond their current predicament. “You saw her in the mess hall. That look in her eyes when she was talking to Mila. Even through the viewscreen, she’s gazing on her with … hunger.”

Letitia couldn’t meet his gaze. She stared at the schematic, the pulsing red lines representing the veins they were about to tear out of their ship.

Sark’s words echoed her own unspoken doubts. Jealousy stung Letitia’s heart again like a scorpion. The way Carmen had looked at Mila on the comm screen, even through her anger and quarantine orders. The way the two of them had gotten on so easily before the pheromone reveal, like old friends. Like lovers. It hurt. Damn, but it hurt.

“It’s the Xena, Letitia,” Sark finished. “Those pheromones. She’s got Cap under her spell.”

“Sark has a statistically valid point,” Norvik interjected, his calm voice cutting through the tension. He picked up a micro-wrench from his tray, examining it as if it held the answer to their predicament. “Captain Díaz’s decision-making parameters have demonstrably shifted since acquiring the XenX asset. Her rejection of the economically optimal solution in favor of a high-risk, low-probability, altruistic mission represents a significant deviation from her established risk-aversion profile regarding crew safety and ship integrity.”

“Damn you, Norvik,” she growled, “I’m only gonna tell you this one more time: She. Isnot. Anasset! She’s a sentient fucking being.”

He placed the wrench back with precise care with a shrug.

“Whatever she is does not change the analysis,” he said. “A competent captain prioritizes the survival probability of the collective over individual ethical quandaries, especially when the individual in question represents both the source of the jeopardy and a readily available solution.”

Letitia’s hands knotted into fists. He shoulders bunched. She ground her teeth to avoid punching him in his prioritizing-the-group face.

“So selling a sentient being into slavery is just an ‘ethical quandary’ to you? A math problem?” Her voice vibrated with the old, familiar outrage. “She’s aperson, Norvik! Not cargo!”

Norvik’s black eyes met hers, utterly unreadable. If he saw the restrained violence in her posture, he appeared untroubled by it.

“I acknowledge her,” he replied smoothly. “However, her cultural framework assigns her a specific societal role. Voluntary servitude is her stated purpose and value proposition. Liquidating her fulfills that purpose while simultaneously resolving the existential threat her presence poses to this crew.