Chapter 11 #2
“Extremely so,” Mila said with a nod. “It ensured my father’s debts were cleared, my younger littermates removed from the debtor labor camp rolls, and my family’s settlement provided with enhanced security, nutrient synthesizers, and educational access for a generation.
Their safety and prosperity are guaranteed. ”
The memory brought a familiar warmth, a sense of profound accomplishment that eclipsed any abstract notion of personal freedom. She imagined her father being able to spend the rest of his life idle, relaxed. She smiled.
Sark looked down at his hands, his earlier nervous energy replaced by a somberness that sat strangely on his usually expressive face. He sighed, a soft, ragged sound.
“Yeah. That sounds nice. I wish we had an option like that.”
“What do you mean?” Mila asked.
“The Antilles,” Sark replied, “she’s not just old. She’s held together by Zed’s genius and Carmen’s stubbornness. She needs a lot of upgrades.”
“And you cannot afford these?” Mila said.
Sark barked out a single, bitter laugh. He shook his head.
“No. Our last run went sideways. We got boarded by the COPS. They seized our cargo and fined us into oblivion. They were gonna impound the ship, so the captain ordered us to run. I got us away, but Antilles took a lot of damage in the process.
“We owe a guy named Velasco for the cargo we lost. It’s more than we have. Way more. And he is not the kind of man you want to be in debt to. Between that and the fines, we are totally screwed. Then factor in the repairs we need and, well, it ain’t a pretty picture, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Mila said, slightly confused. “What are the COPS?”
“The Corporate Operational Police Service,” Norvik answered.
“Officially, they work for the UPA Senate, but their job is to enforce corporate regulations, exclusivity contracts, shipping mandates, and tariffs. They keep the mega-corporations that effectively run the UPA wealthy and eliminate the threat of small businesses.”
“Like ours,” Sark added. “We make a living moving contraband goods. Most of it is harmless stuff – things people want that regulations or corporate monopolies make impossible to get, at least at a reasonable price.”
“But our business is nevertheless illicit,” Norvik clarified. “We and many ships like ours are classified as smugglers. The COPS hunt ships like ours.”
“They like to say we’re pirates,” Sark said. “But smugglers and pirates aren’t the same thing. Pirates are dangerous.”
Mila nodded in understanding. Her heart broke for these people. The situation they described was much the same as the one on her home world of Lintensia. The Kovoids controlled everything for their own benefit. They were brutish, boorish, and selfish. These COPS seemed to be of the same ilk.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I understand this plight of yours only too well.”
“Sark’s emotional presentation is a bit melodramatic, but his assessment is factually correct,” Norvik said. “Our operational and financial status is critical. Our chances of long-term survival without significant capital infusion are slim.”
“And they’re getting worse as the ship breaks down,” Sark added.
Norvik’s black eyes met Mila’s again, devoid of malice, only stark pragmatism.
“Your market value, as an illegally trafficked XenX Harimi within UPA space, is considerable, conservatively estimated at two hundred thousand credits. Liquidating that asset would resolve our debts to Velasco, pay the COPS fines, fund essential repairs, and provide a substantial operating reserve. It represents the only currently viable path to ensuring the survival of this crew and this vessel.”
His logic was undeniable. Sark flinched, looking guilty, but didn’t contradict him.
He just stared at the table, his shoulders slumped.
Their desperation was a tangible thing in the cramped room, thick as the smell of synth-stew and recycled air.
It was a scent Mila knew intimately – the sharp tang of impending ruin, the metallic taste of hope running out.
It was the scent of her father’s workshop before the Kovoid bailiffs came.
A sense of profound kinship washed over her. She was the key to their survival. Just as her contract had been the key for her family. The symmetry was beautiful. Obvious.
She placed her spoon carefully beside the half-eaten bowl of stew.
“I understand,” she said, her voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “Your situation mirrors the desperation that led me to embrace Harimi. It is logical. Necessary.”
She looked from Sark’s downcast face to Norvik’s impassive one.
“Captain Díaz expressed reluctance – hesitation born of unfamiliarity with our customs, perhaps. Or misplaced ethical concerns. I am Harimi. My purpose is to serve, to be the solution where one is needed. If my sale secures your future, then it is the fulfillment of my role.
“I will speak with the captain. I will explain the honor in this transaction, the necessity. I will assure her that this is not merely acceptable to me, but right.”
Sark looked up, surprise warring with a flicker of hope in his large eyes. Norvik remained still, but a subtle shift in his posture suggested consideration. Assessment.
“You’d … you’d do that?” Sark asked, his voice hushed. “Talk to Carmen? Try to convince her?”
“It is my duty,” Mila stated simply. “To alleviate suffering, to provide security. That is the essence of service. If my disposition achieves that for this crew, then it is the correct path.” She paused, then added, “Where might I find her? Is she still in her quarters?”
Sark and Norvik exchanged a look – a complex, wordless communication born of shared history and absolute loyalty to the small, fierce woman who commanded them. Sark shook his head slowly, a small, almost sad smile touching his lips.
“You don’t find the captain, Mila,” he said quietly. “She finds you. When she’s ready.” He glanced towards the hatch. “And when she makes up her mind …”
He trailed off, the unspoken implication clear: her decision was law. Norvik nodded once.
The hatch behind Mila hissed open abruptly.
They all turned. As though Mila had summoned her, Captain Díaz stood in the doorway.
She looked different. The intense, coiled energy was still there, a livewire sparking beneath the surface, but the lines of frustration around her eyes seemed deeper, etched with a new kind of weariness.
Her dark gaze swept the room, taking in Sark leaning against the table, Norvik sitting rigidly, and Mila seated between them with her bowl of cooling stew.
Her eyes lingered on Mila for a fraction longer, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths – not anger, not desire, but a profound, heavy resolve.
She stepped fully into the mess hall, the hatch sliding shut behind her with a final click.
The air seemed to tighten, charged with her presence.
“Right,” she said, her voice rough, grating, but carrying absolute authority. It cut through the silence like a knife. “Enough waiting. I’ve made my decision.”