Heroic Abduction (7 page)

No. There was a better solution than that. Something to placate his need for heroism. He would simply have to make her his damsel in distress and do something spectacular to rescue her.

That’s it! I just need Betty to put herself in danger, then save her. She will be so grateful at my intrepid rescue that she will give me more of those extraordinary lip caresses and I shall ask her to be my mate.
The only problem with this scenario was, would she say yes? Oh, and where to find some danger. But that was a minor detail.

One he might solve quickly given they needed to stop at a way station to refuel his energy cells. Plenty of peril to be found on the floating space stations that serviced alien breeds from all over the universe.

Setting a course for the nearest one, tethered to an asteroid less than a few galactic units away, Dyre sent out a shipboard announcement.

“To my current passengers, we will be docking to refuel shortly. If you require supplies or simply wish for a change of scenery, please feel free to do so. But please take a transmitter with you that we might remain in contact should trouble arise.”

It wasn’t long before both females joined him on the bridge.

“This place we are going to has supplies?” Betty asked.

“Some. I’m sure there will be a few traders with shops and stalls who are more than willing to barter. As for those just passing through, you’ll find most of them at the local tavern.”

Betty perked up. “I wonder if they have beer. I haven’t had one of those since my high school days.”

Zista clucked her tongue. “It’s not safe for you to venture off the ship. These refueling stations cater to a rough crowd. You would stick out sorely among them. Remember what happened on that planet? I can’t allow it.”

Dyre hid his smile as the Zonian did his work for him, forbidding Betty. He already knew her well enough to guess this wouldn’t go over well.

“Nowhere is safe. And I want to check things out too. I’ll wear a cloak and stick close to you.”

“You should wait until we land on a more civilized planet to explore,” the Zonian argued.

“And maybe miss out on a chance to find a man?” Betty taunted.

Dyre almost growled. She had one.
I just need to make the moment right.

Perhaps this plan wasn’t the right one after all.

Then he saw her sly smile as Zista appeared to ponder her words. And reject them. “You do require a breeding partner, but it’s still too dangerous. I will scout out any potentials for you. If I find some compatible specimens, then I will gather their information and we can arrange a safe meeting on board.”

A sensible decision, one Dyre could tell Betty didn’t like at all. Her lips pressed into a tight line. “This trip sucks.”

“You were warned before volunteering that this would happen. Humans are too rare for you to roam freely,” Zista explained, and, judging by her exasperated tone, not for the first time.

With a muttered, “No fair,” Betty spun on her heel and stalked out.

“You know she’s probably going to disobey,” Dyre remarked.

Zista sighed. “Of course she is. She’s stubborn that way. But I suspect you already knew that.”

“Yes. And rest assured, I plan to shadow her steps and keep her out of trouble.” Not one hundred percent true. He’d let her get in a little trouble, then save her from it.

The docking of his ship to the space station went without a hitch. Betty returned and took a seat on the bridge, lips pursed in a pout. She even managed a less than sincere, “Have fun,” as he and Zista departed.

Dyre hid a grin.

With a large knife strapped to her hip, Zista strode off his ship and quickly melted into the crowd of aliens. Dyre, wearing a heavy cloak that he donned just before exiting, also blended in, but he didn’t go far. Inching his way to a wall, where he possessed a clear view of his ship’s portal that led into the large bay, he waited and watched.

He counted to three hundred and eleven before the doorway for the tube connecting his vessel to the space station slid open and a head poked out. With her features concealed via a dark scarf wrapped around her head with only openings for her eyes and mouth, Betty made an attempt at camouflage, yet her all-too-human eyes and pink shell lips easily gave her away.

Betty stepped gingerly onto the space station deck, and he noted the rest of her attire. Baggy trousers, dark combat boots, and a long trench coat. A decent disguise, but her hesitancy garnered attention.

Weakness acted as a magnet for the less scrupulous. He noticed more than a few aliens taking an interest and dogging her steps as she chose a direction to wander in. This would be easier than expected, and quick. It wouldn’t take long before someone made their move, and Dyre would be ready to step in and save her. A hero for his damsel.
A splendid plan.

With a jaunty step, Dyre left his post and followed her. For protection, he wore a broadsword strapped to his back and a holster around his hips. While he wore a long cloak, it was specially made to allow him to keep one hand on the grip of his pistol. Only the suicidal, or insane, would dare venture around unarmed.

The space stations that dotted the galaxies were varied as to rules, and patrons. Some were run with tight laws enforced by mercenaries who would shoot first and take your ship. Others had no laws at all, letting the various visitors battle it out and forcing the winner to pay for damages.

This place fell in the middle, organized enough to show some civility, but rough enough that posturing and strength were needed lest a visitor find themselves with a laser blast to the gut or on board a ship drugged and en route to a slave auction.

He could tell Betty hadn’t visited many rough places like this. She gave it away with the way she halted to stare at things that fascinated her—stones that pulsed and changed colors, fabric that undulated when stroked. She jerked at abrupt noises and flinched when other beings accidentally brushed past her.

He got the feeling Zista had kept Betty pretty sheltered thus far during their travels. Which made how he’d found her all the more astonishing. It must have been some bet for the Zonian to have agreed to let Betty have herself tethered and willing to risk herself just for some treasure.

The thoroughfare was a jumbled mess from open stalls hawking wares to teetering, corroded buildings to prefabricated pods piled on top of each other with ladders leading up to the ones not at ground level.

He’d still not ascertained Betty’s objective when the first hint of trouble appeared. And, of course, it would be from a one-eyed Kharnqiop, who drooled, probably because its extra sensitive olfactory senses smelled a tasty dinner before him. It reached for his female.

Time to put his plan in motion.

Before Dyre could act, Betty jabbed her elbow back, right into the Kharnqiop’s abdomen, then whirled and smashed her fist into its one eye. It squealed and shuffled off, a victory for his human, and a surprise to Dyre.

She’s not as weak as she appears.
And apparently followed the mercenary code. Dangling a pouch she’d not had before, her lips curved in a satisfied smirk as she stuffed her plunder under her cloak. She didn’t linger. She moved away, re-adopting her meek persona, even going so far as flinching and squealing when a mini flight of Faoryes flitted past.

She’s acting.
The realization stunned him. Then amused. How his mother would love her. But was a thieving mate a proper one for a hero?

Dyre began to question his decision as he continued to dog her steps. He’d always assumed he’d either die a lone hero doing good or find his princess, his good and morally-conscious princess. But Betty appeared to be anything but good.

Several more times, aliens thought to accost her, falling for her seeming naiveté, and each time she prevailed and stole something new.

If he’d not given up on the less-than-noble pursuit of illegal acquisitions, he would have admired her skill. As it was, he got more and more disgruntled as she kept extricating herself from situations, leaving him with no chance to save her.

Morally bankrupt or not, he still wanted her. Still had to have her. Now if she would only stop removing herself from danger so he could rescue her.
Blasted female is thwarting my perfect plan.

A tap came on his shoulder. Dyre ignored it. He was currently engaged.

Someone tapped again, more insistently. He rolled his shoulder to shrug off whoever thought to bother him. He also ignored the muttered, “Arrogant prick.”

During the course of his heroic feats, he’d heard much worse, sometimes from the very people he saved.

The third time the tap came, more of a pounding than a gentle nudge, he sighed and whirled, trusting Betty would remain out of trouble for a few moments—or, even better, not—while he took care of the irritation at his back.

A shaggy behemoth glared at him. “You’re wearing Bretunian woven fur.”

As a matter of fact he was, a rare and costly fabric that someone had gifted him in the form of a cloak. “I am.”

“I’m Bretunian.”

“How fascinating to see the origin of such a lush and silky fur. I quite admire the color of your coat. Have you ever shaved and sold it? You’d probably fetch quite a fortune.” Dyre dispensed a compliment and financial advice in one fell swoop. He waited for his thanks.

Bulbous lips pulled back to display fangs. “Hunters kill and scalp my kind for the fur you’re wearing.”

“Those bastards,” Dyre replied. “If I weren’t already on a quest, I’d travel with you to hunt down these miscreants and mete out punishment.”

“You’re wearing my murdered kin, you frukxing idiot.” The Bretunian stepped into Dyre’s personal space, and Dyre finally clued in.

“Is this your way of saying I should remove it?” He eyed his comfortable and versatile cloak. “But I like it. And it’s not as if removing it will return its owner.”

It seemed his calm logic met deaf ears because, with a bellow, the large brute slammed his head forward. Given he probably had a much harder skull than his own, Dyre thought it wise to duck out of the way. Just like he danced out of reach of the swiping claws and barely evaded the sweep of a knife.

“Now, can’t we be reasonable about this?” Dyre asked in his most placating voice. He had no quarrel with the beast.

A roar was his reply, oh and a few more swipes of the knife and claws.

“I mean, really, you can’t just expect me to throw out a perfectly good cloak. It was a gift you know from a quest.” Unfortunately, the virgin he’d meant to save had gotten accidentally trampled instead of ravished on an altar, which made the present so much more special. Why, they’d even recommended he visit the Bretunian home world and wear the cloak to show them how much they appreciated his service.

Swinging wildly, the irrational alien kept trying to play with Dyre. In between ducks and dodges, he tried to peek in the direction he’d last seen Betty, only to discover her gone!

Damn. He needed to wrap this up. “Sorry, but my services are needed elsewhere. Perhaps next time we can have a more civilized chat about my wardrobe.”

Dyre sent a jab that crunched against the alien’s nose, but didn’t stop him. The fist to its gut did nothing but make it grunt. The sweep of a foot didn’t even make it teeter, and the arm twist Dyre attempted saw him flying overheard as the monster used his strength to give him flight.

Wheee!

Landing on his feet, Dyre braced himself for the next rush and finally deigned to pull his sword. It seemed he wouldn’t be able to incapacitate the alien in a rapid enough fashion with hand-to-hand combat.

Before he could knick a few tendons and disable the thing’s knees, he heard a whistle and then a familiar voice say, “Hey, smelly, walking carpet guy. Any idea where I can get some Bretunian fur sheets?”

Dyre wanted to shake his head in disbelief.
Is she seriously doing this on purpose to put herself in danger?
How fantastic. He’d finally get to save her properly, soak in her appreciation, and then kiss her as he swept her off her feet.

He should have known she’d ruin a perfectly good plan.

“Be proud. Walk tall. Chest out. Sneer in place. Show ‘em what you got.” –
A Mercenary’s Guide to Prosperity

“A hero is humble. Don’t brag, or accept praise.” –
The Unofficial Guide to Heroism

Betty sensed more than saw her shadow. One guess as to who it was—Dyre. Zista wouldn’t have bothered with subtlety, just grabbed her by an ear and frog-marched her back on board, locking her in the cabin until she was done.

But this time, Betty didn’t have her big adopted sister looking after her. This time she’d acquired a tall, ominous guard who wasn’t very subtle in his attempt to keep her in his sights. Kind of hard considering the guy was probably about six and a half feet tall, wore a furry Grim Reaper cloak, and whose very bearing screamed warrior. As to how she knew? It wasn’t hard to spot his reflection in the storefront windows. Just knowing he was there made her more brazen than usual with her pickpocketing.

Back on Earth, she used to do it so she could feed herself. Her drunken stepdad tended to worry more about his next beer than ridiculous things such as money for groceries. As for her mother, when she wasn’t tired from work, she was at work, attempting to keep a roof over their heads. Thankfully, Betty had left those bleak days behind. Now, she used her nimble fingers because of the rush and to pad her journey when she and Zista eventually parted ways.
Which will happen soon if I want to continue to succeed with my personal agenda.

How easy it was to fool some of these multi-limbed, weird-eyed, and often smelly aliens into thinking they could prey on her. Pretend weakness and they swarmed like sharks scenting blood. She soon taught them the error of their ways, and also made them pay for it.
Which I’ll bet is driving my honorable escort nuts.

When her unasked-for guard got waylaid by the Bretunian goliath, she should have slipped away and gone exploring. But, for some reason, instead, she stayed and watched. Then frowned as she tried to figure out Dyre’s angle.