Chapter 6
Consciousness returned to Mila like a slow tide, lapping at the edges of her awareness.
The first sensation was cold. A deep, pervasive chill that seeped through the thick fur covering her limbs and back.
Then came the hum. Not the familiar, deep whir of the stasis unit she’d entered back home, but something higher-pitched, less regular.
It vibrated through the hard surface beneath her, a constant, living pulse that spoke of engines and metal and motion.
She opened her eyes. Blurred shapes swam into focus.
They weren’t the smooth, sumptuous interior of the luxury suite she’d expected.
Instead, she saw riveted steel plating, stained and scarred.
Overhead, harsh white lights glared down from a grimy ceiling, illuminating swirling motes of dust in the cool air.
The smell was overwhelming – a complex tapestry of hot metal, stale lubricant, recycled air, and something else, something organic and vaguely unpleasant, like old sweat and desperation.
Confusion flickered, a brief spark. This wasn’t right. She was the property of a wealthy man, a government official. This space felt old. Used. Cramped. Not at all the quarters of someone powerful.
Movement caught her eye. A machine, unlike any she’d seen before, stood nearby.
Its boxy, utilitarian chassis rested on two triangular treads.
A narrow, rectangular head perched atop a telescopic neck, swiveling smoothly to bring multiple camera lenses to bear on her.
One manipulator arm, ending in a surprisingly dexterous five-fingered hand, retracted from the control panel of the life-support chamber she lay within.
“Awakening sequence complete,” a synthesized voice stated, calm and precise. It emanated from the machine. “Vital signs stabilizing within nominal parameters. Please confirm full awareness.”
Mila stepped out of the chamber, muscles protesting after the long stasis. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light. The cold air prickled against her fur.
“Where am I?”
Her voice emerged softer than intended, slightly raspy from disuse. She cleared her throat.
The machine’s head tilted slightly, a gesture that seemed almost thoughtful.
“You are aboard the independent freighter Antilles. Container 7-Beta-Alpha was loaded into our cargo hold during our recent stop at Waystation Alora, despite it not being a part of our contracted goods.”
Mila blinked several times at the machine. Not a part of their contracted goods? She was on the wrong ship?
A mistake. It had to be an error, perhaps by the dock crew. Her primary concern – the contract, the security of her family’s settlement – was in jeopardy. The UPA official would have to be informed, arrangements made.
“I see,” she said, her voice soft and measured.
The fur on her back and limbs stood slightly on end against the chill. She stretched, a long, sinuous movement that flowed from the base of her tail up through her spine, ending with a slight arch that made the red stripes along her limbs ripple. The stiffness began to ease.
“A regrettable error,” she continued. “I trust communications have been initiated to rectify the situation?”
The machine remained silent for a moment. Its lenses refocused.
“The situation is complex. Captain Díaz has requested your presence in the mess hall to discuss the circumstances.”
Mila blinked in confusion. The machine wasn’t telling her something. Deep in her bones, she knew something had gone wrong. Silently, she prayed this would not impact her contract with Karsh.
“Captain Díaz?” she asked.
“The commander and owner/operator of this vessel,” the robot replied. “She and the rest of the crew await you in the mess hall. The captain wishes to interview you about the nature of your situation.”
Mila remained confused. The thing in front of her kept answering her questions, but it wasn’t giving her any useful information. She decided to start with something simple.
“I’m sorry, and who are you?”
“I am Z136∑?9. You may call me, ‘Zed.’ That is the designation the rest of crew uses for me. I am the chief engineer aboard Antilles.”
Mila frowned. Once again, the machine’s answer was unhelpful.
“A robot is the chief engineer?” she prodded, desperate for any information that might tell her what was going on.
“I am not a robot, ma’am,” it replied. “I am a Mechan.”
A Mechan. Yes, she’d heard of them. An alien AI species that inhabited automated bodies they could customize to their needs.
Hope flickered softly in her heart. Mechans were one of four member species of the United Planetary Alliance. If a Mechan was the chief engineer aboard this ship, then it stood to reason she was in UPA space. And if that was true, then Karsh …
No. Best not to get her hopes up before she knew for sure.
“I’m sorry, you said the captain wanted to interview me?” she said.
“I did. If you would follow me?”
Zed pivoted smoothly on its treads and began moving towards a heavy hatch at the far end of the cargo bay. Mila hesitated only a second. Captain Díaz. The new master, then, at least temporarily. Respect and cooperation were paramount.
She followed Zed, her movements fluid and unhurried. Curiosity, a quiet hum beneath her calm acceptance, began to stir. Who were these people aboard the Antilles?
The corridor beyond the cargo bay was narrow and utilitarian.
Exposed conduits ran along the ceiling, dripping occasional beads of condensation.
The walls were scuffed and dented. The pervasive hum was louder here, underscored by the rhythmic thump of pumps and the distant whine of straining engines.
It spoke of age, of hard use, of systems pushed to their limits.
Not a vessel accustomed to transporting high-value, living contraband.
Zed led her through a junction, then down a shorter passageway.
A hatch slid open with a protesting hiss, revealing a small, crowded room dominated by a large, scarred metal table.
Four figures sat around it, their postures radiating varying degrees of tension.
The air here was warmer, thick with the smell of synthesized food, stale coffee, and anxiety. It was a palpable weight.
Mila paused in the doorway, taking them in. Her gaze swept over each face, assessing.
A Sensoori male – orange skin mottled with yellow and brown, a large, red fin standing tall on his skull – looked terrified. His large, brown eyes darted to her, then away, his webbed fingers gripping the edge of the table. Pure fear radiated from him.
Beside him sat a Collectivist. Light-blue skin, hairless scalp, black eyes like polished stones, with yellow pupils, fixed on her with unnerving calm. His posture was rigidly composed, hands steepled before him, betraying nothing. Calculation, perhaps. Detachment.
Next to him, a tall, dark-skinned human woman with intricately braided hair sat rigidly. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her expression a mask of fierce protectiveness and simmering anger. Her dark eyes met Mila’s with startling intensity, not hostile, but challenging. Guarded.
And then, at the head of the table, leaning back in a chair that seemed too large for her, was the woman who must be the captain.
Small, even for a human. Soft-brown skin.
Dark, kinky hair pulled back severely from a face set in lines of intense concentration and simmering frustration.
Her dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, locked onto Mila with a focus that felt almost physical.
She wore a grease-stained tank top and cargo pants, projected an air of fierce competence barely contained by her compact frame.
This woman was coiled tension, a livewire crackling with suppressed energy. Mila felt a flicker of something. Recognition? Not of the face, but of the burden radiating from her. The weight of command. The desperate need for control.
Zed moved aside, gesturing with one manipulator.
“Captain Díaz, our guest.”
The captain didn’t move. Her gaze never wavered.
“Sit,” she said, her voice low and raspy, commanding despite its lack of volume. She jerked her chin towards the only empty chair, directly across from her.
Mila inclined her head slightly, a gesture of respect.
“Thank you, Captain.”
Her voice was soft, clear, cutting through the thick silence.
She moved to the chair, her movements graceful, unhurried.
The eyes of the crew followed her, a mix of fascination, apprehension, and, from the Sensoori, outright dread.
She settled into the chair, folding her hands loosely in her lap. She met Carmen’s intense stare calmly.
“Do you have a name?” Díaz asked.
“Yes, Captain,” she answered, keeping her tone respectful. “My name is Mila.”
“Any last name?” the captain prompted.
“No, ma’am. We XenX have only a single name, though the Kovoids who rule our world use second, third, and fourth names.”
Díaz looked a little confused by the answer. Was she ignorant of the culture on Lintensia? Mila supposed it was possible. It existed, after all, in the UPA’s Forbidden Zone.
“I need to know what you’re doing on my ship,” the captain said. Her eyes were chips of obsidian, hard and unreadable.
“I’m afraid I have little more information than you, Captain,” Mila replied, an apologetic note in her tone. “I entered a Kovoid hibernation chamber back on Lintensia. I was to be delivered to a courier in UPA space, who would then conduct me to my eventual master.”
“Master,” the dark-skinned human spat.
“When I awoke,” Mila went on, ignoring the comment, “I assumed the transit had been completed successfully. But Zed informs me that is not the case.”
“You mean you were sold,” the dark-skinned human said. “Like chattel.”