Chapter 24
The damage report scrolled across the screen embedded in Nick’s desk, a relentless, glowing testament to failure. Line after line of red text, blinking warnings, and critical failure icons. He read each one, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle bulged beneath his skin.
Star Shrike groaned around him, a deep, wounded sound vibrating through the deck plates and up the legs of his heavy command chair.
The usual rumble of power was laced now with the higher-pitched whine of overtaxed systems and the intermittent, angry sputter of damaged conduits jury-rigged just enough to keep them from bleeding atmosphere into the void.
Portside shield emitters: OFFLINE.
Primary sensor array: DEGRADED.
Secondary array: OFFLINE.
Weapons control: PARTIAL.
Jump-drive stability: CRITICAL.
The words burned into his retinas. His beautiful ship – his pride – reduced to a limping, half-blind cripple.
Because of Carmen fucking Díaz and her goddamned flying scrapheap crewed by rejects and failures.
A fresh wave of cold fury washed over him, so intense his vision momentarily grayed at the edges.
He slammed his fist down on the polished metal surface of the desk.
The impact jarred up his arm, but the dense material didn’t even scratch.
It just absorbed the blow, silent and impassive. Like the universe itself, mocking him.
He pushed himself up. He needed to move. To pace. To do something besides stare at the glowing proof of his humiliation.
His quarters, usually a haven of sleek, intimidating luxury – dark metals, deep crimson accents, trophies from a dozen successful raids – now felt like a cage.
The air tasted stale, tinged with the faint scent of burned insulation that had seeped in from the damaged sections.
Emergency lighting strips along the baseboards cast long, distorted shadows, making the room feel cavernous and hostile.
He stalked to the large viewport that dominated one wall. Outside was nothing but black space and stars – a void profound enough to drown every sorrow. It offered no solace, no distraction. Only the reminder that they were nowhere. That they were running.
Running.
Him. Nick Corso. The terror of the Belt. Reduced to fleeing from an enemy he hadn’t even seen until it was carving chunks out of his ship.
His reflection stared back from the plexisteel – pale, eyes shadowed, a smear of soot or maybe dried blood on his cheek he hadn’t bothered to clean. The image of a man bested.
The thought ignited the fury again, hotter this time. He spun away from the view, unable to bear the sight.
The movement brought him face-to-face with the desk again, the damage report still glowing accusingly. His gaze snagged on a specific line:
Hull Breach: Decks 7-9. Containment fields: ACTIVE (marginal).
Marginal. One power surge, one unlucky micrometeorite hit near the patch job, and whole sections of his ship would decompress. Crew lost. Cargo lost. Prestige lost.
All because Díaz had somehow fucked up a simple pickup so spectacularly that it had drawn extermination.
He resumed pacing, the click of his boots doing nothing to drown out the rage coiling in his gut. Every scrape of metal from the ship’s strained systems, every flicker of the lights, felt like a personal insult.
Díaz. Always Díaz. Standing in his way. Mocking him. Defying him. Even when she wasn’t there, her shadow hung over him, costing him his ship, his dignity, maybe his entire operation.
The memory slammed into him then, unbidden and vivid as a plasma burst. Not the recent ambush. An older wound. Deeper.
The acrid tang of weapons-fire still hung in the air of The Buccaneer, mixed with the coppery stink of blood. Old Man W’Ooshlee lay sprawled near the navigation console, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, a neat, smoldering hole in his chest.
Power. Sweet, intoxicating power thrummed through him. It was done. The ship was his.
He swaggered across the deck, stepping over the bodies of the few loyalists stupid enough to stand with W’Ooshlee. The crew – Nick’s crew now – watched him, a mix of awe, fear, and raw hunger in their eyes. All except one.
Carmen Díaz stood near the shattered viewscreen, back straight, shoulders squared, her dark eyes blazing not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated fury.
Her knuckles were white where she gripped a wrench she’d snatched from a fallen engineer.
Blood – not hers, he noted – spattered her grease-stained tank top.
She looked magnificent. Ferocious. A prize worthy of the new captain. He stopped before her, radiating triumph.
“Díaz,” he drawled, his voice thick with the adrenaline rush, the sheer joy of victory.
He gestured expansively at the bridge, at the ship that was now his kingdom.
“Look at this. Look at what we’ve made. No more W’Ooshlee playing it safe.
No more scraping by on milk runs. We take what we want now. ”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice, letting the heat of his ambition, his desire, show in his eyes.
“First mate’s chair is still yours. Right hand.
We run this galaxy together. We take it all.
” He let his gaze travel over her, lingering on the fierce set of her jaw, the defiant fire in her eyes, the curve of her hips in the worn pants.
“And maybe more. A lot more. You’ve always known you belonged with someone strong. Someone who isn’t afraid to take.
“Of course, you could choose to be marooned on an asteroid here in the Belt, rotting until your air ran out. That’s an option if you want to be stupid.
“But it would be such a shame. Especially given your talent and our … chemistry.”
He reached out, intending to brush a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead, a gesture of possession, of promise.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just met his gaze, her own eyes like chips of obsidian. Then she spat. Not at him, but on the deck plating between his boots. The globule landed with a wet slap.
“I wouldn’t work for a sniveling, backstabbing pendejo like you if you were the last captain in the Belt,” she snarled, her voice low and vibrating with contempt. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t fuck you.”
He stood frozen, her words echoing in the sudden silence of the bridge.
The triumph curdled into something hot and shameful.
Humiliation. Rage. She’d looked at him, at his victory, at his offer of power and pleasure and she’d spat on it.
Chosen exile, poverty, and a slow death on some rock over him.
Back in the present, Nick stopped pacing abruptly, his breath coming in short, harsh rasps. The memory of that humiliation was as fresh as if it had just happened.
And somehow, the petulant bitch had managed to escape her chosen fate. She and the rest of the losers he’d marooned had found their way off the strip-mined asteroid he’d left them on. She’d gotten a ship and a crew of her own. It was outrageous!
His fury with her had metastasized into something deeper, uglier: a festering obsession. Díaz didn’t just defy him; she rejected him. His power. His ambition. His very being. She looked at him and saw weakness, insignificance.
Impotence.
The thought was intolerable. He needed to break her. Utterly. Completely. He needed her on her knees, acknowledging his superiority. Begging for his mercy. He needed that fire in her eyes extinguished, replaced by submission.
And the Xena – that beautiful, exotic creature – was the key. Possessing her, flaunting her obedience in front of Díaz would be the ultimate proof. Proof that he could take what he wanted, that Díaz’s defiance was meaningless, that he was everything she refused to see.
But first, he had to find her. Find them both.
He forced himself to take a slow, deliberate breath, trying to shove the seething rage down, to think past the pounding in his temples.
Díaz had the Xena. That much was undeniable.
Maltese’s incompetence had loaded her onto the Antilles.
And Díaz, in her typical, bull-headed fashion, hadn’t sold her at Babcinq. Why?
Possibly because her POS ship had destroyed itself in hyperspace. Old, damaged, and practically un-space-worthy, it had finally given up the ghost and killed them all.
Nah, he’d never get that lucky. Díaz was a disease in his life. She wouldn’t go away on her own. She was a cancer he needed to excise deliberately.
So that left two options. First, he’d beaten her to Babcinq just like he’d thought.
Which meant it was possible she’d shown up after he’d been forced to flee and was about to get herself killed.
He didn’t need to worry anymore about her fucking things up for him.
They were already torqued. All she could do now was get herself and her worthless crew spaced.
He spent a moment deliciously fantasizing over that scenario. That would be proof of his superiority. He’d escaped destruction. Antilles? The thought was laughable.
But again, that was asking for the cosmos to do the work for him – let the natural consequences of Díaz’s stupidity and stubbornness remove her from his existence.
And Nick just didn’t believe that was possible.
He’d had to take destiny into his own hands at every critical turn in his life.
Nothing ever happened just because he wanted it to.
And, oh, how he wanted Díaz beaten.
So, the only other option was that the petulant bitch had discovered the Xena aboard her ship. That Mechan engineer of hers probably scanned the cargo and realized a shipping container full of coffee beans shouldn’t have a life-support system. The Xena was almost certainly free aboard Antilles.
What would willful, defiant Carmen Díaz do once she found out she was carrying the most illicit package in UPA space?
The answer clicked into place with cold, brutal logic. That stupid, stubborn morality of hers. She’d railed against slaving runs back on The Buccaneer, called them vile, refused to let W’Ooshlee take them. So, her actions now were obvious:
She’d look at a trafficked Xena, a walking violation of UPA law, and see not a payday but a victim needing rescue. Of course she wouldn’t sell her. She’d try to “free” her.
But where? The Xena was from the Forbidden Zone. Smuggling into the Zone was nearly as suicidal as smuggling out, thanks to the UPA’s automated kill-sats.
But for Díaz? With her self-righteous heart and her talent for stumbling into disasters? It fit. It fit perfectly. She’d see it as the “right” thing to do. The only option that didn’t compromise her precious principles.
A grim, humorless smile stretched Nick’s lips.
He could see it. Díaz, hunched over the helm of that piece-of-shit, Antilles, jaw set, eyes blazing with that infuriating conviction, plotting a course straight into the teeth of the most heavily automated death-zone in the sector. Because it was “noble,” “just.”
Stupid. Reckless. And utterly predictable.
The rage he’d felt before was still there, a banked furnace, but it had direction now, a focus. He knew where she was going. He knew her destination.
He just had to get there first. Or intercept her before she vanished into the Forbidden Zone’s chaotic fringe. His ship was wounded but not dead. Not yet. She wouldn’t outrun him. Not this time.
A soft chime echoed in the room, followed by James’s crisp voice over the comm.
“Captain? Engineering reports the primary thrusters are back online at eighty-seven percent. Structural containment on decks seven through nine is holding stable. Sensors are patched – we’ve got basic functionality back. Long-range is still spotty, but we can navigate.”
Nick turned slowly towards the comm panel. He didn’t look at the damage report anymore. He didn’t feel the ache in his clenched jaw. He saw only the stars beyond the viewport, and beyond them, the invisible line marking the edge of the Forbidden Zone. And Carmen Díaz, flying straight towards it.
“James,” he said, his voice devoid of its earlier ragged fury, cold and flat as deep space. “Set a course.” He paused, letting the order hang in the air. “For the Forbidden Zone. Maximum sustainable burn. I want us on that perimeter before she even sniffs it.”
Silence on the comm for a beat. Then, unwavering loyalty:
“Aye, Captain. Plotting course now. Forbidden Zone. Jump-drive will take approximately sixty seconds to spool up. We’ll be on our way as soon as I have the course mapped.”
Corso cut the connection. He walked back to the viewport, staring out at the void. Soon, he’d have his prey in sight. Carmen Díaz would learn the cost of defiance. And the Xena would learn the meaning of a true master.
The grim smile returned, sharp as a knife. The hunt was back on.