Page 71 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
Carmen couldn’t meet her gaze. She looked down at the half-repaired drive assembly, at the scattered tools, anywhere but at the alien woman whose kiss had just unraveled her. The scent of fur still clung to her, a mocking reminder of her lapse.
“Right,” Carmen rasped, her voice raw from the sudden dryness in her throat. She grabbed the micro torque driver Mila had set aside, her knuckles white on the grip. “Cabling. Sealant. Phase two.”
The words were automatic, a lifeline back to command, back to control.
“Let’s … let’s get it done.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She turned her focus fiercely onto the exposed wiring bundle, her movements sharp, efficient, desperate. Anything to escape the vulnerability, the terrifying promise, and the lingering warmth of Mila’s lips. She needed the tube. She needed space. She needed to be Captain Díaz again.
Without another word, without looking back, Carmen began crawling out of the cramped access tube, leaving Mila alone amidst the scent of lubricant and the fading echo of surrender.
CHAPTER 27
The jump-drive’s low,resonant roar vibrated up through the deck plates and into Carmen’s bones, a sound she’d feared she’d never hear again. It wasn’t the smooth, confident purr of a healthy engine; it was a deeper, grittier growl, laced with the whine of overtaxed components and the faint, worrying tremor of instability.
But it was power. It was motion. It was life.
For one suspended, crystalline moment, Carmen felt a surge of pure, unadulterated relief so sharp it bordered on pain. She leaned forward in the command chair, gripping the worn armrests until the cheap leather creaked. Her gaze snapped to the main viewscreen, where the unsettling, starless void dissolved into the familiar, swirling chaos of hyperspace. The vortex of distorted light, usually a backdrop to tension or calculation, now looked like salvation. They were moving. They weren’t frozen corpses waiting for the air to run out.
“Hyperspace transition confirmed,” Sark said, his voice shaky but triumphant. “Course locked. ETA to the Forbidden Zone perimeter, uh, recalculating based on the drive’s current output efficiency.…” His webbed fingers tapped the controls. “Approximately twenty-one standard hours. Give or take.”
Mierda, they’d been closer before the drive failure. She supposed, though, they needed to go slower, pace themselves with greater care. They couldn’t afford for the damned thing to blow again. She doubted Mila could pull another miracle out of the void.
The air in Carmen’s lungs felt suddenly lighter, less oppressive. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. They’d done it. Against impossible odds, buried in the ass-end of nowhere with a jump-drive that had literally torn itself apart, they’d patched the bleeding wound in their ship’s heart with cannibalized teeth. They had a chance.
“Drive core stability holding,” Zed’s voice reported through the comm speaker. His usual flat monotone held the faintest undercurrent of strain, a subtle modulation Carmen had learned meant he was pushing his processing capacity hard. “Sector Theta-7 instability readings fluctuating within predicted tolerance bands. Probability of catastrophic failure during sustained hyperspace transit: 8.3%. Recommend continuous monitoring and minimal course adjustments.”
“Understood, Zed,” Carmen replied. “Keep me updated. Sark, plot the most stable course you can. No fancy maneuvers. Smooth sailing.”
“Smooth sailing, aye, Captain,” Sark replied, a hint of his usual, slightly manic energy returning. He swiveled in his seat, the red fin on his head twitching. “Though, uh, ‘smooth’ might be relative with this bucket of bolts shaking like dust in a plasma storm.”
The observation hung in the air, puncturing the fragile bubble of relief. The vibration through the deck was constant now, a low-frequency rumble that set Carmen’s nerves on edge and made the loose fittings on the bridge consoles rattle like anxious teeth. TheAntilleswasn’t so much flying as tremblingher way through hyperspace, held together by salvaged parts, Mila’s ingenuity, and sheer, dumb luck.
Carmen’s knuckles tightened on the armrests again. The sweet taste of relief soured, replaced by the familiar, metallic tang of anxiety. Eight-point-three percent. Every minute was borrowed time.
The bridge hatch hissed open. Carmen didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The heavy, deliberate tread and the wave of disapproval that seemed to precede him like a cold front were unmistakable. Norvik stepped onto the bridge, his blue face impassive as ever, his black eyes scanning the vortex on the viewscreen before settling on Carmen. Letitia followed a step behind, her expression unreadable, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She leaned against the bulkhead near the hatch, a silent, watchful presence.
Norvik stopped a few feet from Carmen’s command chair. His gaze was analytical, detached, assessing the ship’s status through the subtle cues – the vibration, the sound, the tension in Carmen’s posture.
“The jump-drive is functional,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Probability of reaching the perimeter has increased significantly.”
“It’s holding,” Carmen confirmed, keeping her voice level. She met his gaze, bracing herself. Norvik rarely initiated conversation without a purpose. “We’re on our way.”
“Acknowledged.” Norvik paused, his yellow pupils narrowing slightly. The pause felt deliberate, weighted. “The immediate crisis of propulsion has been resolved. Attention must now return to the unresolved primary threat vector.”
Carmen felt a muscle jump in her jaw. She knew where this was going.
“Mila,” she said flatly.
“Correct.” Norvik’s tone remained neutral, a clinical dissection. “Her presence remains an extreme liability. The biological contaminant she emits continues to permeate the ship’s atmosphere, impairing crew judgment and operational efficiency. The legal ramifications of harboring her are unchanged. The financial opportunity she represents as a liquidatable asset is still the most viable path to resolving theAntilles’s critical operational and financial deficiencies.”
He paused again, letting the argument hang in the air like a sentence.
“Furthermore,” he continued, his gaze unwavering, “her unrestricted movement aboard the vessel compounds the risk. She interacts with critical systems. She influences key personnel.” His eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly, towards Carmen. “I recommend immediate containment. Return the asset?—”
“Norvik …” Letitia growled.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Return her to her life-support chamber. Seal the unit. This will minimize further contamination and mitigate the risk of … unforeseen complications during the final approach to the perimeter.”