Chapter 33
The klaxons were still screaming when Carmen slammed through the bridge hatch. Red emergency lights painted Sark’s terrified, orange face. Letitia raced to the weapons console, despite it being useless. Norvik sat calmly at the comms station.
“Shut those damned alarms up,” she ordered. “Status.”
“Star Shrike closing to attack range,” Sark squeaked as the klaxon fell silent.
“They’re locking plasma cannon onto our thrusters, Captain,” Letitia said.
Mierda, what did she do now? Antilles was defenseless here, and Zed was stuck in the satellite.
“Star Shrike is signaling, Captain,” Norvik said.
Damn, the last thing she wanted to do was to talk to that pendejo, listen to him gloat. But she supposed she had no choice. She needed to buy time.
“On-screen,” she instructed.
Norvik tapped controls, and a moment later, Nick Corso’s cruel face filled the screen. He leaned back in what looked like a plush command chair, a predatory smirk twisting his too-handsome features.
He looked like he’d aged ten years since she’d last seen him aboard Waystation Alora a few weeks ago – lines around the eyes, a hardness in his jaw. What the hell had happened to him in that time?
But the arrogance was the same. The contempt sliced into her like a plasma cutter, reopening the old wound of The Buccaneer, of W’Ooshlee dead on the deck while Corso watched with those cold, satisfied eyes.
“Díaz,” he drawled, his voice smooth as oil over gravel, amplified through the bridge speakers. “You have something that belongs to me.”
Belongs to him?
All the pieces fell quickly into place. Maltese hadn’t fucked them over, after all. He’d just fucked up. Corso had been contracted to curry Mila to wherever she was going, and Maltese’s people had loaded her onto the wrong damned ship!
The thought of Mila in Nick Corso’s possession made her skin crawl. He’d never have been able to resist unleashing his depraved fantasies on her. What would he have done before delivery?
Rage, hot and blinding, surged through Carmen’s veins, momentarily eclipsing the dread for Zed, the bone-deep weariness. She stalked to the center of the bridge, planting herself squarely in front of the viewscreen, radiating defiance she didn’t entirely feel.
“Corso,” she spat, her voice a low growl. “I should have known your sick ass was involved in this. What’s the matter? Stealing from children not paying well enough?”
Corso chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
“Still got that sharp tongue, huh? Always did cover the fear. You look tired, Díaz. Running ragged trying to keep that scrapheap flying? Or is it the alien snatch keeping you up nights?” His smirk widened, cruel and knowing. “Bet she’s got stamina. All that specialized training.”
She blushed reflexively and immediately hated herself for it. With an effort, she transformed the embarrassment into fuel for her contempt. She forced a sexy, knowing smile onto her face.
“Sorry, Corso,” she drawled. “I don’t kiss and tell. Guess you’ll never know.”
It was his turn to blush, but from anger not embarrassment. As usual with him, her verbal blow had landed. His eyes narrowed, the amused mask slipping for a fraction of a second, revealing the raw hatred beneath.
“Wrong, Díaz. You’re the one about to lose everything. Again.” He leaned forward, his gaze intense, drilling into her through the screen. “I want what’s mine. The Xena. Hand her over, nice and quiet, and maybe I let your pathetic crew limp away to die somewhere else.”
Hand her over. Like she was material goods. Like she wasn’t a person. Like she hadn’t saved their asses, fixed their thrusters, offered herself up as a solution while Carmen floundered.
“She’s not cargo, you slimy fuck,” Carmen snarled, taking a step closer to the screen as if she could reach through it and throttle him. “And she’s sure as hell not yours.”
Corso’s expression darkened, the veneer of smug superiority cracking. He might have her cornered, but his ego was as fragile as ever.
“Still playing the hero, Díaz? Still think rules don’t apply to you?” He shook his head, a mocking pity in his eyes that burned hotter than his hatred. “You always were delusional.
“Look at you. Running yourself ragged for a crew that can’t fix a fucking thruster.
Risking everything for a piece of alien tail you can’t even keep, because guess what, sweetheart?
She’s going home – not to her planet, back to her master.
Where she belongs. All this pathetic defiance?
It’s just you getting high on her pheromones.
You’re not saving her. You’re just her next john, too stupid to see she’s playing you. ”
Each word was a scalpel, cutting away her defenses, revealing her deepest fears. The doubt surged again, amplified by the exhaustion, the stress, the terrifying silence from Zed.
Her stomach churned. She felt exposed, raw under his merciless gaze.
“Shut up,” she hissed, the words escaping before she could stop them. Weak.
Corso saw it. His eyes lit with predatory satisfaction.
“Hit a nerve, did I? Truth hurts, does it? You think she wants you? A broke, desperate smuggler captain with a death wish and a ship held together by prayers and Mechan spit?” He laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
“She smells your desperation, Díaz. She smells the pheromones you’re pumping out.
Fear. Despair. It’s like catnip to her kind.
She’s using you for a ride home. Nothing more.
And you’re lapping it up like a lovesick puppy. ”
The image flashed – Mila’s claws digging into her hips, the possessive growl, the obliterating pleasure. Had it been real? Or just a predator exploiting prey?
The doubt crystallized into a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest. She could feel Letitia’s worried gaze burning into her.
Then it vanished. Mila never asked to go home. Not once. That had solely been Carmen. She’d insisted on it being the right thing to do. Mila had recommended they sell her. She’d claimed it was her purpose to help them.
And that meant that what had happened in Engineering – and the things Mila had said – were real.
“You don’t know shit about her,” Carmen said, a smile creeping slowly up her face.
“I know she’s property,” Corso spat, his own control fraying. The veneer of amused contempt vanished, replaced by pure, venomous rage. “Paid for. Lost due to a fucking clerical error your incompetent ass benefited from. And I’m done talking.”
He slammed a fist down on the arm of his command chair.
“Prepare for boarding, Díaz. I’m coming over to collect what’s mine. You try to stop me, you try to hide her …” His lips peeled back in a snarl. “I’ll space your crew one by one and make you watch. Starting with the frog.”
Sark whimpered audibly, shrinking lower in his seat.
“You touch him, you touch any of them—” Carmen started.
“And you’ll what?” Corso roared, surging to his feet on the viewscreen, his face contorted with fury.
“What are you gonna do, Díaz? Huh? Bluster? Swear? Your shields are tissue paper. Your weapons aren’t even charged.
Your fucking engineer is a god-damned paperweight clinging to a satellite! You have NOTHING!”
He pointed a finger, jabbing it towards the screen, towards her.
“You think I forgot? You think I forgot anything? The way you looked down your nose at me on The Buccaneer? The way you dismissed me?
“Well, look at us now, Díaz. Your place is on your knees, begging. And mine is taking what I’m owed.” His chest heaved. “Including that fucking Xena.”
He paused, drawing a ragged breath, his eyes burning with manic intensity. Then a cruel smile slid up his face.
“But I can see you need a demonstration. Proof I’m not bluffing.” He turned his head slightly, barking an order not meant for the comm. “Target that debris clinging to the satellite, the Mechan. Reduce it to slag.”
“No!” The scream tore from Carmen’s throat, raw and primal. She lunged forward as if she could stop him.
On the viewscreen, the image shifted. The view pulled back slightly, showing the Star Shrike, sleek and predatory, hanging in the void.
One of its ventral plasma cannon glowed a vicious, building azure.
It swiveled with chilling precision, lining up on the tiny, dark shape clamped to the satellite – Zed’s motionless chassis.
Time slowed. Carmen saw the cannon’s aperture flare. A searing lance of plasma, brighter than a star’s core, streaked across the black.
It struck Zed’s chassis dead center.
There was no explosion. No dramatic fireball.
One moment, the blocky, familiar form was there, clinging to the dark wedge of the satellite.
The next, it was simply gone. Vaporized.
A brief, intense flare of light, a puff of expanding superheated gas and molten fragments that glittered for a microsecond against the starfield before winking out. Utterly erased.
Silence. Absolute, crushing silence on the bridge. Carmen stared at the empty spot on the viewscreen where Zed had been. Her mind was blank, her body numb.
Gone. Just gone. Part of her crew obliterated solely to prove a point.
A deep, penetrating cold seeped into Carmen’s bones, frostier than the void outside.
It started in her gut, a leaden weight, and spread outwards, numbing her limbs, icing her veins.
The fury was gone, extinguished as thoroughly as Zed’s body.
In its place, a yawning chasm of horror opened.
Nausea rose, sharp and acidic, clawing at her throat. She tasted bile.
Corso’s face filled the screen again, his expression now one of cold, satisfied malice. The rage had burned out, leaving something far more dangerous.
“Ten minutes, Díaz,” his voice cut through the stunned silence on the bridge, flat and final. “Have the Xena prepped and waiting in the main airlock. Unrestrained. Cooperate.”
He paused, letting the threat hang in the air, thick and suffocating.
“Or your pilot is next.”