Chapter 31
The silence on the bridge was thick enough to choke on.
Carmen stood rigid behind Sark’s pilot chair, her knuckles bone-white where they gripped the headrest. On the main viewscreen, Zed was a tiny, blocky silhouette against the vast, star-flecked backdrop of the Forbidden Zone’s perimeter.
He looked absurdly small, impossibly fragile, hurtling through the absolute emptiness on the jury-rigged thruster pack Sark had cobbled together from spare parts and sheer desperation.
“Distance?” Carmen’s voice was a rasp, scraping against the tense quiet. She didn’t take her eyes off the screen.
“Eight hundred meters and closing, Captain,” Sark replied, his voice tight “Velocity nominal. Thrust vector holding steady.”
Carmen could feel Antilles’s idling engines vibrating through the deck plates, a low, anxious hum that mirrored the one in her own chest. Every instinct screamed to grab the controls, to do something.
But there was nothing. Zed was out there.
Alone. Beyond her reach. Beyond her control.
The realization was a cold stone settling in her gut.
She’d sent him. Ordered him. Gambled his existence on a thirty-eight-point-seven percent chance. The numbers Zed had recited so calmly echoed in her mind, cold and relentless. Thirty-eight-point-seven. Less than flipping a coin.
The memory of Mila’s scent, the echo of surrender and release in Engineering, was a distant, dangerous warmth she couldn’t afford right now. It felt like a betrayal, thinking of it while Zed was out there in the killing void.
She scanned the bridge. Letitia stood rigid at the sensor station, her dark eyes fixed on her own console readouts, her jaw clenched so tightly Carmen could see the muscle jumping.
Norvik was a statue of blue calm at his comm station, his yellow pupils flickering minutely as he monitored the encrypted data stream Zed was theoretically sending back.
No one looked at her. They all studiously avoided meeting her gaze. The discomfort when she’d walked on the bridge was palpable. They’d all heard her. Mila had made sure of that. Demanded it.
Focus, Díaz.
“Passive sensors still clear?” Carmen asked, her gaze snapping to Letitia.
“Clear, Captain,” Letitia confirmed, her voice clipped. “No energy signatures. No drive trails. Just us, the satellite, and Zed.”
“Six hundred meters,” Sark announced. “Vector still looks good.”
On the screen, the security satellite grew larger. It was a sleek, dark wedge, radiating silent menace – a threat in the middle of absolute darkness.
“Four hundred meters,” Sark said, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “Thrust vector holding. Zed’s initiating final-approach-deceleration burn.”
Carmen’s nails dug into the worn leather of Sark’s headrest. She could almost feel the vibration of Zed’s tiny maneuvering thrusters firing, the minute adjustments as he braked.
“Two hundred meters,” Sark breathed. “Deceleration nominal. On target.”
A flicker of relief, sharp and fleeting, pierced Carmen’s dread. Almost there. Thirty-eight-point-seven was looking better. Maybe—
“Shit!” Sark’s curse ripped through the silence, sharp and panicked. His hands flew over the console. “Vector instability! Lateral drift! Captain, he’s—”
Carmen’s heart slammed against her ribs. On the screen, Zed’s small form was veering sharply off-course, drifting sideways relative to the satellite. The smooth trajectory was gone, replaced by a sickening lurch. The tiny plume from his maneuvering thrusters flared erratically.
“What happened?” Carmen barked, leaning over Sark’s shoulder, her eyes glued to the display. “Sark! Talk to me!”
“Unknown!” Sark’s voice was high with fear. “Thruster malfunction? Micro-meteoroid impact? Data stream from Zed is fragmented.”
On the screen, Zed’s thrusters flared again, longer this time, a desperate burst. His drift slowed but didn’t stop. He was still sliding sideways, missing the satellite by meters. Dozens of meters.
“Fifty meters separation!” Sark yelled. He opened the comm. “Zed, you’re not correcting fast enough! You’re going to miss!”
Horror washed over Carmen, cold and absolute. Miss the satellite. Drift past it. Into the endless void. Zed could maneuver, but his thruster pack had limited fuel. He’d drift until his power cells died, a silent tomb in the dark. Thirty-eight-point-seven percent had just plummeted to zero.
“Situation, suboptimal,” Zed’s voice replied far too calmly through the speaker. “Port lateral thruster misfiring.”
“Shit,” Sark swore. “It must be gumming up. The sealant is probably leaking into the fuel line.”
“Zed,” Carmen ordered, “Max burn on that misfiring thruster.”
“Captain, that could—”
“Do it now!” she barked.
Carmen held her breath for two seconds as nothing happened.
Then Zed’s thrusters ignited again. Not a pulse.
A sustained, blinding flare. His sideways drift halted abruptly.
Then reversed. He was clawing his way back towards the satellite, a tiny, determined creature fighting the indifferent physics of the void.
“Come on,” Carmen whispered, the words barely audible. She wasn’t sure if she was urging Zed or the universe itself. “Come on, you stubborn piece of scrap.”
Zed’s thrusters cut out. Momentum carried him the last few meters. He slammed into the dark flank of the satellite with a jarring thud that Carmen felt in her own bones. For a heart-stopping second, he rebounded, floating free again.
“No!” Letitia gasped.
Then Zed’s telescopic arms shot out. They wrapped around the satellite’s angular body with startling speed, clamping on with the strength only a Mechan could muster.
A collective breath, held too long, escaped the bridge in a ragged sigh. Carmen’s knees felt weak. She forced herself to stand straighter, her grip on Sark’s chair the only thing keeping her upright.
“Contact confirmed,” Sark reported, his voice trembling with relief. “He’s secure. But now the satellite is drifting.” He turned to her. “Captain, I don’t know what will happen if it gets too far out of position.”
“Zed, fire retro-rockets; you’ve got to stabilize your position,” Carmen snapped.
Every muscle in her body tensed. Would the satellite blow? Would it trigger the recognizer chip in Antilles? Would Zed just drift off into space with it?
A second later, Zed’s thrusters fired again on a sustained burn. Carmen bit her tongue and tasted blood.
“Satellite drift slowing,” Sark reported.
Carmen counted her breaths. One. Two. Three. Four.
“Full stop,” Sark said. “Position stabilized.”
Letitia audibly sighed in relief. Carmen wanted to vomit.
“Zed,” she said, “status.”
“Impact sustained. Minor damage to thruster-pack housing. Structural integrity of primary chassis: 98.4%. Locomotive treads undamaged. Grip on target structure is stable.”
“Good. Proceed. Find the access port.”
The words came out clipped, professional. Inside, the stone of dread was still there, but now, it was overlaid with a fragile layer of hope. He’d made it. He was attached. The satellite wasn’t floating away. Now came the hard part.
“Scanning target surface,” Zed reported. “Sensor suite optimized for UPA alloy composition. Searching for primary access port.”
Silence descended again, thicker than before. Carmen stared at the viewscreen, searching for some sign her chief engineer could find what he needed while clinging to the side of the deadly device. Seconds ticked by, measured by the frantic thudding of Carmen’s pulse in her ears.
“Anomaly detected,” Zed’s voice cut through the tension. “Surface scan reveals no external access panels. No service hatches. No manual interface ports.”
Carmen’s fragile hope shattered.
“What? That’s impossible. Norvik? The schematics?”
Norvik swiveled his chair, his blue face impassive, but his yellow pupils were narrowed. “The Collective intelligence packet indicated a standard UPA perimeter satellite design. All such designs incorporate a primary access port for maintenance and reprogramming. It should be present.”
“Scan confirms absence,” Zed stated. “Surface is uniform. No recessed panels, no data jacks. Probability of concealed access port: 0.7%.”
“Mierda,” Carmen hissed.
The stone in her gut sank to her knees. No port.
No way in. The entire suicidal spacewalk, the risk, the terror was all for nothing.
They were stuck. Trapped. The weight of command, the crushing responsibility she always carried, pressed down on her like the gravity well of a black hole.
She’d gambled everything on this. Sent Zed to his potential doom. For nothing.
“Options?” Her voice was barely a whisper, scraping raw.
Norvik’s gaze flickered across his console.
“Without a physical interface, remote intrusion remains impossible. The comms shield renders any transmission ineffective.” He paused, the silence heavy. “There are no tactical options remaining that align with mission parameters and acceptable risk thresholds.”
“Zed?” Carmen asked, a desperate plea disguised as a command. “Analysis. Is there any way in?”
A pause. Longer than usual. Finally, Zed spoke again.
“Affirmative. One potential solution exists. Direct neural integration via hardline connection.”
Carmen frowned.
“What does that mean? Patch in? How?”
“Not ‘patch in’,” Zed clarified. “Download. Transfer my core consciousness protocols directly into the satellite’s central processing unit.”
The words hung in the air, incomprehensible at first. Then their meaning slammed into Carmen.
“You mean upload your mind? Into that?”
“Essentially. My consciousness is a complex algorithm. The satellite’s mainframe possesses sufficient processing capacity to host it temporarily. Once integrated, I can directly access its operating system, bypass all security protocols, and implement Norvik’s hack code from within.”
Temporarily. The word echoed.
“And then? How do you get back?”
“Retrieval protocols should remain identical. Once the reprogramming is achieved, I will reintegrate my consciousness to my primary chassis. Assuming the unit remains attached to the satellite, I will be completely restored. Odds of successfully returning to Antilles updated to 29.6%, given damage to propulsion pack.”
Damn it! Now getting him back was less than one chance in three! The odds on this whole mission kept getting longer and longer. Eventually, they were going to catch up with them. Eventually their luck was going to run out.
But what choice did she have? The only way out of this mess was forward.
“Permission to proceed, Captain Díaz?” Zed requested.
The silence on the bridge was absolute. Even the ship’s vibrations seemed to still. Carmen could feel the eyes of her crew on her – Sark’s terrified gaze, Letitia’s intense, conflicted stare, Norvik’s expectant calm.
There was no good choice. Only survival. Or oblivion.
She closed her eyes and remembered the unexpected freedom in surrender. Surrender wasn’t weakness here. It was the only move left. Roll the dice one more time and hope not to crap out.
Her throat was desert-dry. She forced the word out.
“Proceed.”
“Acknowledged,” Zed responded instantly. “Initiating drilling into satellite housing to enable hardwire connection.”
A high-pitched whine came over the comm speakers. Carmen held her breath, praying that Zed’s partial destruction of the satellite body wouldn’t trigger an explosion.
Seconds ticked by. No one spoke. The sound of Zed’s drill filled the bridge, setting Carmen’s nerves on edge.
“Access to motherboard achieved,” Zed reported as the tool at last fell silent. “Establishing hardwire connection.”
This time, there was no sound. All Carmen could do was wait and wonder. Sweat trickled slowly her temple.
“Hardline connection to satellite CPU established. Initiating consciousness-transfer protocol. Estimated transfer time: 17 seconds.”
Seventeen seconds. Seventeen heartbeats. Carmen counted each one, a hammer blow against her ribs.
Ten. The satellite loomed, silent, deadly.
Eleven. Sark’s breathing was a ragged whisper.
Twelve. Letitia had closed her eyes, her lips moving silently.
Thirteen. Norvik watched his console, completely still.
Fourteen. The phantom scent of Mila’s pheromones seemed to whisper through the recycled air, a cruel reminder of life.
Fifteen. Zed’s body on the screen was inert.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
“Zed, can you hear me? Give me a status.”
Silence.
“Zed? Report!”
“Contact lost, Captain,” Norvik said.
“What do you mean, ‘contact lost’?” she said, whirling on him.
“The comm channel is still open, Captain,” he answered. “But there is no one on the other end to receive our transmission or to send a reply.”
Horror washed through her. There was no way to speak with him?
“Cuz Zed ain’t there anymore,” Letitia commented.
On the viewscreen, Zed’s blocky form remained clamped to the satellite, motionless. No lights blinked on his chassis. He was an empty shell.
Carmen stared, her blood turning to ice water in her veins. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic thumping of her own heart echoing in her skull.
He was gone. She prayed he was inside the satellite and able to work.
But deep in her soul, she feared she’d killed him.