Page 7 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

The words weren’t accusatory, just painfully honest.

“I want connection,” she continued. “Something real. Something that lasts longer than the afterglow.”

Carmen stayed silent, staring at the bulkhead. Connection. Real. Words that felt alien, dangerous. She cared for Letitia. Respected her. Enjoyed her body, her fire.

But the thought of more, of opening that door, letting someone see the raw, terrified mess underneath the captain’s bravado, it made her want to bolt. To lock the hatch and seal herself in.

Control wasn’t just about the ship, the job, the sex. It was about the walls. Thick, high walls that kept her safe.

“I know you can’t,” Letitia continued, her voice dropping, laced with a sadness Carmen hadn’t expected. “Or won’t. The distance … it’s part of what makes you such a damned good captain. You carry it all. Alone.”

She took another step closer, close enough for Carmen to feel the warmth radiating from her but still not touching.

“But I can’t keep doing this, Carmen. Not like this. Pretending this is just physical, when for me …” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It hurts too much. Seeing you shut down the second it’s over. Knowing I’m just … a tool. A very enjoyable tool,” she added with a wry, pained twist of her lips, “but still. A means to an end.”

The coldness spread through Carmen’s chest. Tool. The word landed with brutal accuracy. Wasn’t that what she’d made Letitia? A convenient outlet, a skilled partner who followed her directions, gave her the release she needed without demanding access to the crumbling fortress inside?

The shame was sudden and acute, sharpening the edges of her earlier humiliation. She’d used her. Used her loyalty, her desire.

“So,” Letitia said, squaring her shoulders. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a determined resolve that Carmen recognized from the bridge, from combat. “This has to be the last time. For this.” She gestured again at the bunk. “I can’t be your pressure valve anymore. Not if it means tearing myself apart watching you walk away afterward.”

The ultimatum hung in the air, stark and final. The last time. The end of the easy, uncomplicated release. Carmen felt a pang of loss, sharp and unexpected. Not for the relationship she couldn’t give, but for the simple, physical solace.

She nodded stiffly, still not meeting Letitia’s eyes. What could she say? Sorry? It wouldn’t change anything. Promises she couldn’t keep? That would be worse.

“Understood,” she managed, the word clipped, professional. Captain to crew. The safest distance of all.

Letitia watched her for a long moment, searching Carmen’s closed expression. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, quickly smoothed away. She nodded back, the movement tight.

“Okay.” She turned towards the cabin door, then paused, hand hovering over the release pad. “For what it’s worth, the upgrades? They’re not optional. We need a plan, Carmen. A real one. Before Babcinq, or after. But soon.

“Or the next job won’t just be insulting. It’ll be our last.”

Carmen didn’t answer. She just stood there, arms crossed, the cool metal of the viewport frame biting into her back. Letitia hit the release. The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the dim, utilitarian corridor outside. She stepped through without looking back. The door slid shut behind her, sealing Carmen into the silence of her cabin.

Alone with the schematics on the wall, the lingering scent of sex and sweat, the ghost of Letitia’s warmth, and the crushing, inescapable weight of failure. Coffee. Rejection. A ship falling apart. A crew depending on her. Walls. So many freaking walls.

She pushed away from the viewport, the movement jerky. She needed to move, todosomething. Punch the bulkhead. Scream. Anything to shatter the suffocating stillness.

She paced again, three furious steps, her bare feet slapping the cold deck plating. Maltese’s greasy smirk swam in her vision. Corso’s mocking laugh. Letitia’s sad, resigned eyes.

A tool.

The intercom panel beside her bunk chimed, a soft, insistent tone that sliced through the turmoil in her head. Carmen froze mid-stride. Who the hell…? Sark knew better than to disturb her after … well, after.

She stabbed the accept button.

“Díaz.” Her voice came out rougher than she intended.

Zed’s synthesized voice, calm and precise as always, filled the small cabin.

“Captain. Apologies for the interruption.”

“What is it, Zed?”

Impatience edged her tone. She wasn’t in the mood for the Mechan’s measured analysis.

“I am conducting a routine sweep of the cargo hold,” Zed replied, unfazed. “I have detected an anomaly associated with Container Seven-Beta-Alpha.”