Chapter 9
Carmen thought she might lose her mind. When did she become babysitter to a pack of children? She thought she was captaining a competent crew. These people were supposed to be reliable in a crisis.
And this was a damned crisis! Their backs were against the wall. Maltese had fucked them over hard. She needed answers, solutions. Not philosophy and technicalities.
It was no wonder she craved control so much, no surprise at all that she micromanaged everything. In the immediate danger of a firefight, her crew was competent, lethal even. But otherwise, they needed supervision, direction. Parenting.
What was wrong with Letitia? Was she so hurt about losing her bid to be more than a lover that she absolutely had to win this fight? Where did she get off saying, “Fuck you,” to Norvik?
And what the hell was going on with Sark? He was acting like a coward, like a terrified child. He’s supposed to be the fun one, Mr. Popularity, always quick with a zippy one-liner. Instead, he was shitting his pants over their financial situation.
Yes, it was bad. Velasco did not take well to having his goods seized by the COPS. He wouldn’t wait long before he sent the worst people in the galaxy after them.
But Sark had more character than to just abandon all sense of ethics out of self-preservation. Didn’t he?
At least Norvik was taking a reasoned approach to the problem. He was behaving consistently with his morals. But for fuck’s sake, he was acting so damned rigid. That just did not help.
She sighed heavily as she arrived at her quarters. She needed some quiet time, maybe a nap. Needed to let this situation percolate in the back of her mind, hoping a solution would bubble up. She keyed the hatch open and stepped into her private sanctum.
Mila stood before her, wet and toweling off.
Every thought vanished from Carmen’s mind.
She stood gaping at the Xena, entranced by her appearance.
Her fur was darkened by the water, her face covered in surprise.
Those bright, green eyes shone like stars and bathed Carmen in a warm light that felt innocent.
She looked vulnerable wet, like the shower had washed away her composure, denuded her confidence.
A heady scent filled the cabin – musky, pungent, and thick. Carmen hadn’t noticed it before. It must have been a side effect of Mila’s shower.
“Captain,” the Xena said, her voice cautious. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
She’d been expecting her? Why?
“Sorry,” Carmen replied, struggling to recompose herself. “I need time to think.”
“Of course.”
They continued staring at each without moving.
As though there were some unspoken promise between them they both were waiting for the other to fulfill.
Hunger she barely understood growled in Carmen’s loins.
She was unable to resist letting her gaze travel to the other woman’s sex, sitting between her legs like forbidden fruit, begging to be plucked. Consumed.
No. That was the last thing she needed, especially with an outlaw alien who was likely to get them all killed. What was the matter with her, now?
“I’m sorry, Mila, I know you’ve only been here ten or fifteen minutes, but I need some privacy. Why don’t you go back to the mess hall and get yourself something to eat? You have to be famished.”
For a moment, Mila continued to look surprised. Then she scrubbed her head one more time with the towel and hung it on its hook.
“Yes, thank you, Captain.”
She moved past Carmen, squeezing between her and the bulkhead. That wet, cloying scent filled Carmen’s brain, stole every conscious thought like some potent intoxicant. Silently, Carmen resolved to get this situation cleaned up quickly – before the Xena would need to bathe again.
The hatch slammed shut behind Mila with a heavy, final thud.
Carmen stood frozen for a second in the sudden silence of her own quarters, the ghost of the XenX woman’s presence clinging like static.
Mila’s scent permeated the cramped space.
Carmen scrubbed a hand over her face, trying to erase it, wipe away the image of those calm, green eyes staring into her own.
The weight of the decision pressed down, solid and suffocating. Sell her. Sell the calm acceptance, the quiet dignity, the fucking person that just used her shower? Or condemn her crew – her family – to slow death by debt or a quick one at the hands of Velasco’s enforcers?
Her fingers found the edge of the desk, gripping the cold metal until her knuckles ached white. The worn leather of her flight jacket hanging on the peg seemed to mock her. Captain. Ha.
Movement was better than standing. She paced the narrow strip of deck plating between the bunk and the desk, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. The thrum of the Antilles’s engines vibrated up through her boots, a constant, anxious heartbeat.
Two hundred thousand credits. Minimum. Enough to pay off Velasco’s bloodsuckers, the COPS fines that hung over them like a guillotine, fix the damned starboard thrusters, replace the flickering shield emitters. Buy them breathing room.
But Letitia’s furious eyes burned in her memory.
Slavery. Exploitation. Part of the chain.
Was it? Was it any different from the choices she made every damned day, trading freedom for survival in this rusted tin can? Was selling Mila just another transaction in the Belt’s grimy ledger?
The sweet smell seemed to intensify, thickening the recycled air. Carmen stopped pacing, leaning her forehead against the cool bulkhead. Mierda. She couldn’t think straight with that scent clogging her brain.
The comm panel beside the bunk buzzed, a harsh, grating sound that shattered the fragile silence. Carmen flinched.
“Díaz,” she snapped, slapping the receive button without looking.
“Captain.” Zed’s synthesized voice, calm and precise as always, came through the speaker. “I have completed a full diagnostic scan of Antilles. Purpose: assess best solution to the XenX presence aboard. Context: ship capabilities.”
“And?” The word came out clipped, tight.
“Localized instability detected in Sector Theta-7 of the jump-drive matrix containment field. Microscopic fracturing in the crystalline focusing elements. Cause: stress from the unscheduled hyperspace exit near gas giant.”
Carmen closed her eyes. Of course. Just fucking perfect.
“How bad?”
“Probability of catastrophic field collapse during jump initiation—”
“Damn it, Zed, spare me the percentages,” she snapped. “Just give me the bad news.”
“The jump-drive was damaged in the sudden exit from hyperspace. It remains operational, but the more we use it and the farther we travel, the greater the likelihood of a catastrophic breakdown.”
Mierda. The hits just kept on coming.
“Can we fix it?”
“Negative. Required recalibration and reinforcement unit is not aboard. Fabrication impossible with current resources.”
Of course. Because shit wasn’t bad enough already.
“What will it take to get the parts, Zed?”
“Much more than what we have available. Realistically, Captain, it would be less expensive to replace the entire unit than to attempt to repair the existing one.”
Damn. She might as well try to buy a new ship at that point.
“Understood,” she managed, the word scraping her throat raw. “Díaz out.”
She cut the comm, the silence rushing back in, louder than before. The sweet smell was still there, a sickly counterpoint to the metallic tang of fear rising in her own mouth.
Carmen braced both hands on the desk, head hanging, staring at the scuffed deck plates.
Stranded. Screwed. Trapped. The options narrowed to multiple variations of fucked.
Sell Mila and maybe blow up trying. Keep her and definitely get caught.
Maroon her and hope she couldn’t be traced back to them.
Right. Because a high-ranking UPA official wasn’t going to notice his prize sex toy went missing.
A bitter laugh escaped her. Some fucking captain she was.
A soft chime at the hatch told her someone was outside. Carmen didn’t turn.
“Not now, Zed,” she said.
“It’s me,” Letitia’s voice, low and hesitant, came through the intercom.
Carmen straightened slowly, wiping a hand across her mouth. Shit. Just what she needed: more judgment, more pleading eyes.
“I thought I ordered you to work on the weapons,” she replied.
“You did. I … I just need a minute.”
Unsure why she didn’t just send Letitia away, she hit the release. The hatch slid open.
Letitia stood in the corridor, silhouetted by the harsh lights.
She’d changed out of her work coveralls into a simple tank top and loose pants, her dark braids pulled back.
Her expression was unreadable, but the tension radiated off her in waves.
She stepped inside, the hatch sealing behind her.
The small space felt instantly smaller, charged.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then her nose crinkled.
“Damn, what’s that smell?”
“Wet XenX” Carmen said. “Mila used my shower.”
Letitia spent several seconds sniffing, examining the scent. Her face screwed up in offense.
“Damn, that is some funky shit,” she pronounced at last.
“Yeah, it’s not exactly making thinking easy.”
Letitia moved closer, stopping just behind her. Carmen could feel the heat of her body, smell the faint, clean scent of ship’s soap overlying her own skin. A stark contrast to Mila’s lingering sweetness.
“Any closer to a decision?” Letitia asked.
Carmen barked a humorless laugh.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve decided we’re monumentally fucked no matter what we do. Zed just confirmed it. Jump-drive’s cracked. Trying to go anywhere is basically playing Russian roulette with the engine room.”
Letitia was silent for a moment. Carmen could almost hear her thoughts whirring. The moral outrage, the pragmatism warring inside her, too.
“So … selling her is off the table?” she said, fragile hope threaded through the question.