Chapter 17
Carmen knew she shouldn’t be having fun. Their situation was dire. And flying to the Forbidden Zone was insane.
But she just couldn’t help it. Working with Mila for the past two days had brought her a level of joy she hadn’t felt in a long time.
The Xena’s passion for starship engineering was refreshing.
Sure, Carmen talked specs and problem-solving with Zed all the time.
But his analysis was always purely technical, aloof, dry.
With Mila, the discussions had real emotion.
Despite the unintentional stowaway’s utterly alien physiognomy, her ideas and her enthusiasm – little giggles, bright smiles, and the unmistakable intelligence in her eyes – felt incredibly human.
Carmen forced her eyes away from the XenX woman’s striped back, the fur gleaming faintly under the harsh maintenance lights, and focused on the flickering schematic Zed had projected onto the main engineering console. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the cool metal surface.
“All right, Zed,” Carmen said, her voice sounding rougher than intended. “Run me through the primary thruster diagnostics again. Focus on the portside modulation conduits Mila flagged.”
She kept her gaze locked on the complex web of energy pathways glowing blue and red on the screen, tracing the critical junctions where Mila had suggested rerouting power-flow.
The logic had been sound, elegant even. Too elegant for a glorified concubine.
The thought, unbidden, prickled with unfairness.
“Affirmative, Captain,” Zed responded.
One of his telescopic arms extended, a thin probe tip interfacing with a port on the console. The schematic shifted, zooming in on the tangled mess of power conduits feeding the portside maneuvering thrusters. Angry red sections pulsed where overloads had fused components.
“As previously noted, thermal damage to Conduits P-7 through P-12 is extensive. Internal shielding is compromised. Attempting to reroute primary power-flow through secondary pathways, as Mila suggested, requires bypassing the standard safety interlocks on Junction Omicron. This carries a 12.7% risk of cascading feedback into the adjacent environmental control grid if power fluctuations exceed tolerance during high-maneuver stress.”
“Twelve-point-seven?” Carmen frowned, chewing on her lower lip. It was a gamble, but better than limping along at eighteen percent. “What’s the projected efficiency gain if it holds?”
“Theoretical maximum output increase: 38%. Sustained operational ceiling, accounting for inherent inefficiencies in the secondary pathways: 32% to 35%.”
“Still better than crawling,” Carmen muttered.
She risked a glance sideways. Mila stood close, her green eyes scanning the schematic with intense focus.
Her clawed hand hovered near the display, not touching, but tracing invisible lines in the air.
The movement drew Carmen’s eye to the delicate articulation of her fingers, the subtle flex of muscle beneath the striped fur of her forearm.
She swallowed, forcing her attention back to the schematic.
“The bypass. How do we implement it? Physically, I mean. Zed can’t crawl into that junction.”
“Access is possible,” Mila said, her soft voice cutting through Zed’s whirring processors.
She pointed a claw towards a narrow access hatch low on the bulkhead, partially obscured by conduit bundles.
“Junction Omicron is located behind panel Gamma-9. The space is confined, but sufficient for an organic technician.”
She turned those unsettlingly calm eyes on Carmen.
“I can perform the reroute, Captain. My smaller stature and manual dexterity are advantageous for the task.”
The image flashed – Mila folded into that cramped, hot space, the striped fur of her back flexing as she worked. Carmen’s throat tightened.
“No,” she said, sharper than intended.
Mila’s ears twitched slightly. Carmen softened her tone, trying for practical.
“We don’t have the schematics for that junction memorized,” she explained. “One wrong connection in there could blow the whole grid. Or you.”
The thought sent an unwelcome jolt of protective anxiety through her.
“I possess a detailed internal schematic of standard Kovoid junction configurations,” Mila replied.
“The Antilles utilizes a hybrid system, but the core architecture of Junction Omicron aligns with Kovoid design principles from the late Tarkonian period. The reroute requires re-patching three primary conduits and installing a thermal shunt here—” She tapped the air above a specific node on Zed’s projection.
“—to bleed off excess energy before it destabilizes the environmental feeds. The shunt components are standard; Zed confirmed their presence in the engineering spares locker.”
Carmen stared at her. Late Tarkonian period? Hybrid systems? The woman spoke of engineering like it was poetry. Respect warred with the low, persistent purr of something else entirely.
“You’re sure?”
The question was redundant. Mila radiated quiet certainty.
“Positive, Captain. It is a straightforward procedure, though it requires precision.”
“Probability of catastrophic failure during the reroute procedure, assuming Mila’s competence, is estimated at 1.3%,” Zed added, his camera lenses swiveling between them. “Primarily contingent on unforeseen microfracture propagation in the conduit housing, which current scans do not indicate.”
So a ninety-eight-point-seven percent chance of success. Better odds than most things in their lives. Carmen exhaled, the decision settling.
“All right. Do it. Zed, prep the shunt components and talk Mila through the Antilles-specific quirks. I’ll ...” She trailed off. What? Stand here and watch? “I’ll monitor from here. Keep me updated.”
Mila nodded.
“Understood.”
She moved towards the access hatch with that fluid grace, bending smoothly to release the latches. The panel swung open, revealing a dark, cramped space smelling of heated ceramic and electrical conduits. Mila paused, glancing back at Carmen.
“I may require tools passed in. Zed’s manipulators are too large for the internal workspace.”
“Right. Tools.” Carmen grabbed a nearby toolkit, her fingers fumbling slightly on the latch.
Get a grip, Díaz.
She crouched beside the hatch as Mila slid inside, headfirst. Carmen fought the urge to lean closer.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the faint hum of the ship’s systems, the whir and click of Zed’s manipulators as he sorted components, and the occasional scrape or soft clink from within the access way.
Carmen watched Mila’s legs, the shifting play of muscle as she worked in the tight space, the occasional flash of her sex. Her own breathing felt too loud.
“Initiating primary conduit decoupling,” Mila’s voice, slightly muffled, came from inside. “Captain, the tertiary bypass conduit appears to be fused at the coupling. Standard torque application is ineffective.”
“Fused?” Carmen leaned closer to the opening, peering into the dimness. She could just make out the outline of Mila’s back, bent low. “Can you cut it?”
“Affirmative. Hand me the micro plasma cutter from the toolkit.”
Carmen rummaged in the open kit, her fingers closing on the cool handle of the cutter.
She passed it handle-first into the opening.
Mila’s hand reached back, her claws brushing against Carmen’s knuckles as she took the tool.
The touch was brief, incidental, but it sent a jolt of heat straight up Carmen’s arm, and down into her belly.
She snatched her hand back as if burned.
“Thank you,” Mila murmured.
A moment later, the faint, high-pitched whine of the cutter started, accompanied by a shower of tiny orange sparks spitting from the opening. Carmen watched, mesmerized by the brief, violent light illuminating the curve of Mila’s shoulder, the line of her spine.
Roughly a minute later, the whine stopped.
“Coupling severed. Proceeding with shunt installation.”
More soft clinks and scrapes followed. Carmen stayed crouched, her knees starting to ache, unable to look away. The tension in the small bay felt thick, charged. Zed remained a silent, boxy sentinel nearby, his cameras periodically rotating to observe.
“Shunt secured,” Mila announced after another tense minute. “Initiating primary power reroute ... now.”
A deep thrum vibrated through the deck plates, stronger than the usual engine buzz. Lights on the main engineering console flickered briefly before stabilizing. Zed’s chassis emitted a series of rapid clicks.
“Power flow reroute successful,” Zed confirmed. “Secondary pathways active. Thrusters registering at 39% efficiency. Stability within predicted parameters. Environmental grid stable. No feedback detected.”
Relief washed over Carmen, sharp and sweet.
“Thirty-nine? That’s better than you estimated, Zed.”
“Affirmative. Mila’s installation of the thermal shunt was optimal, minimizing energy bleed.”
Mila began backing out of the access way. Carmen instinctively reached out a hand to steady her as she emerged and caught a glorious, vulnerable view of vagina, open, inviting.
Her fingers closed around Mila’s upper arm, just below the shoulder. The fur was surprisingly soft, dense, and warm beneath her touch. She felt the solid muscle underneath, the heat radiating from Mila’s skin.
Time seemed to slow. The contact sent another, stronger surge of heat through Carmen, stealing her breath.
Mila turned, still partially crouched, her eyes meeting Carmen’s from mere inches away. Carmen saw the intelligence there, the focus, but also a flicker of something else. Awareness? Surprise?
“Captain?” Mila’s voice was soft, questioning. She didn’t pull away.
Carmen couldn’t speak. Her hand remained on Mila’s arm, the connection feeling electric, vital.
She saw the subtle rise and fall of Mila’s chest, the way the light caught the different shades of yellow and red in her fur.
The thought of what it would feel like to run her fingers along that short hair, to feel the warmth and strength of the body beneath, slammed into her with dizzying force.
It wasn’t just attraction anymore; it was a deep, aching pull, a fascination that went beyond the physical, rooted in the fierce competence and calm intelligence she’d just witnessed. She wanted to know this woman. All of her.
The moment stretched, fragile and charged. Carmen’s heart hammered like a pulse cannon. She saw Mila’s gaze drop briefly to Carmen’s lips, then flick back up, holding hers.
“Captain?” Mila repeated, even softer.
Her free hand came up, not to remove Carmen’s grip, but to rest lightly, tentatively, on Carmen’s forearm where it braced against the bulkhead. The touch was feather-light, but it burned through the fabric of Carmen’s sleeve.
“The reroute is stable,” she said. “We succeeded.”
A small, genuine smile touched Mila’s lips, transforming her face, making her green eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. It wasn’t the serene mask; it was warmth, shared accomplishment.
The sight, the touch, the scent, the sheer overwhelming presence of her short-circuited Carmen’s control.
Logic, responsibility, the precarious state of the ship, the danger they were flying into – it all receded, drowned out by the roaring need in her blood.
She leaned in, just a fraction, drawn by an invisible force, her gaze locked on Mila’s. The air between them crackled.
Suddenly, the heavy hatch leading to the main corridor slammed open, crashing against the bulkhead.
Letitia stood framed in the opening, her dark eyes blazing, her chest heaving as if she’d been running.
Her gaze swept the scene – Carmen crouched close to Mila, her hand still gripping the Xena’s arm, Mila’s hand resting on Carmen’s forearm, the scant inches between their faces.
Fury and raw panic warred on Letitia’s features.
“Captain!” she snapped. “Get away from her! Now!”