Page 8 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone

Container Seven-Beta-Alpha. Maltese’s damned coffee. Of course. Something else. Somethingwrong. Carmen closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Could things get any worse?

“The nature of the anomaly is unclear,” Zed continued. “Environmental readings are inconsistent with the stated manifest for organic consumables. There is also a faint, unidentified energy signature emanating from within the container. It does not match known contraband scanner profiles or standard cargo monitoring systems.”

Anomaly. Energy signature. Inconsistent readings.

The words landed like stones in Carmen’s gut. Maltese. That double-crossinghijo de puta. What had he loaded onto her ship?Had he set them up? Planted something to get them caught? Or worse?

The cold dread that had been coiling in her chest since Letitia left solidified into a hard knot of suspicion and rising fury. Coffee was insulting. Coffee with a side of unknown, potentially lethal, bullshit? That was a declaration of war.

“Captain?” Zed prompted, his tone unchanged. “I recommend immediate visual inspection.”

Shit. What fucking disaster would pop out of the shipping container when they cracked the seal? She didn’t want to even imagine.

But Zed was right. If something was off with Maltese’s cargo, she needed to know. Now. Before they dropped out of hyperspace anywhere near UPA sensors.

“On my way,” Carmen snapped, already reaching for her boots.

The sting of Letitia’s rejection, the weight of their impossible situation, the humiliating memory of Corso’s smirk – all of it was shoved aside, buried under a surge of adrenaline and cold, focused rage.

Something was wrong on her ship. In her cargo hold.

And Carmen Díaz was going to find out what the hell Maltese had really sent them to die for.

CHAPTER 3

The heavy clangof Carmen’s boots on the metal decking echoed through the access corridor, a frantic counterpoint to theAntilles’s steady roar. A fresh wave of acid panic rose in her stomach and broke over her mind.

Anomaly. Energy signature. Inconsistent readings.

Zed’s precise words looped in her head, each syllable tightening the knot of dread in her gut. Maltese. It had to be Maltese. That bloated, double-crossing weasel hadn’t just given them a suicide run; he’d loaded a bomb onto her ship.

Or something worse.

The cargo bay’s hatch hissed open at her approach, revealing the cavernous space beyond. The air here was cooler, thick with the metallic tang of steel and the faint, ozone bite of active power conduits running along the high ceiling. Rows of empty cargo clamps lined the deck, skeletal reminders of better times.

In the center, bathed in the stark white glare of work lights Zed had deployed, stood Container 7-Beta-Alpha. It looked totally mundane. A standard, reinforced-steel crate, a cube standing maybe six feet high but brand new, the dark metal gleaming beneath the cargo bay’s LED lighting.

Coffee. Right.

Zed waited beside it, his boxy chassis perched on triangular treads. His telescopic neck extended, multiple camera lenses on his rectangular head swiveling to track her entrance. One manipulator arm held a multi-spectrum scanner, its emitter glowing a soft blue.

“Captain,” he reported. “The anomaly persists. Environmental readings remain unstable. Internal temperature fluctuates between 2.5 and 4.1 degrees Celsius above the declared optimal range for unprocessed Solari Arabica beans. Humidity levels are elevated by 17.3% and demonstrate erratic cycling. Most concerning is the persistent low-level energy emission, registering at 0.07 terahertz. It does not correlate with any known cargo monitoring system or standard contraband scanner frequency within UPA databases.”

Carmen stopped a meter from the container, her eyes scanning its unremarkable surface. It looked inert. Harmless. But Zed’s data painted a picture of something else. The smell of the cantina on Alora – regret, desperation, failure – seemed to drift through the bay, overlaying the sterile metal scent.

“You’re sure it’s inside?” she asked. “Not some faulty sensor on the crate itself?”

“Affirmative. Scans confirm the emission originates from within the container’s primary chamber. External sensors register nominal function.” Zed retracted his scanner arm with a soft whir. “Visual inspection is the only method to ascertain the source. Manual access is required.”

Carmen stared at the heavy-duty latch sealing the container. It looked simple enough. A lever, a pressure seal. But opening it felt like disarming a mine. What if itwasa bomb? What if Maltese had rigged it to blow the second they tampered with it?

The image of theAntillesbecoming another piece of debris floating in the dark reaches of empty space flashed in her mind. She swallowed, her throat tight.

“Call the others,” she ordered, her voice rough. “Get them down here. Now.”

She needed witnesses. Backup. Someone else to see whatever nightmare Maltese had saddled them with.

Zed’s head unit emitted a soft chime.