Captive

by Cheryl Brooks

  That his adversary was female didn’t give him any advantage whatsoever, especially given that she had a pistol in her hand. Moe had learned several forms of martial arts during his formative years. But so, apparently, had his captor. Every move he made was met with the appropriate countermove—almost as though they’d had the same teacher.

  The fight went on far longer than it should have, and Moe was forced to admit that she was an even match for him in technique, if not in speed. He knew he was holding back, although he wasn’t sure why. He should’ve simply beaten the crap out of this woman, recovered his belongings, and high-tailed it back to his ship before leaving Haedus Nine forever. What was stopping him?

  With no clear answer for that, he dropped to the floor. A quick spin on his belly brought his feet up against her legs, knocking them out from under her. The moment she fell, Moe pounced.

  Her breath went out with a whoosh as he landed on top of her. Pinning her hands to the floor above her head, he wrestled the pistol from her grip. Despite knowing he should take advantage of this momentary lead and start running and not stop until he reached the spaceport, curiosity, which had been known to kill cats in the past, got the better of him.

  Straddling her hips, he sat up and jerked the hood from her head. For a long moment, all he could do was stare as his gaze darted from her pointed ears to her catlike eyes, long curly hair, and sharp fangs and back again until her snarl of frustration brought him back to his senses.

  “Mother of the gods,” he said with a hoarse whisper. “You really are Zetithian.”

  Moreover, she looked oddly familiar.

  “Half Zetithian,” she said with a contemptuous snort. “My mother was Davordian.”

  That explained the eyes, but not much else. “That orange streak in your hair… It reminds me of someone I know. His hair is exactly the same as yours—black with an orange streak near the temple. It’s even on the same side as his.”

  Her eyes narrowed with disdain. “You don’t say.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I do say. His name is Trag Vladatonsk, and I’ve known him all my life.” Moe had never been quite sure how to refer to the men who’d once been his father’s comrades in arms before their unit had been captured and sold into slavery. Despite the lack of blood ties, Trag and the others were like uncles to him.

  “I’ve heard the name before,” she said. “Which isn’t too surprising. He is, after all, the one who sired me.”

  Chapter 2

  This woman appeared to be about the same age as Moe, or perhaps a year or two younger. Moe had certainly never heard of Trag having any children aside from those borne by his Zetithian wife, Micayla.

  “Does Trag know about you?”

  Another disgusted snort presaged her reply. “I doubt it. Not that he would ever acknowledge me.”

  In Moe’s opinion, once Trag had seen her, denying her would be impossible. A youthful version of her father, about the only differences Moe could detect were her gender and eye color. Trag’s other children—all of whom were considerably younger than this woman—had inherited his green eyes. “Davordian, you said?”

  Her nod of assent brought back one of his “uncle’s” more interesting quirks—blue being his least favorite color, a dislike Trag had never bothered to keep to himself. Moe was pretty sure he didn’t like Davordians, either. There was a story in there somewhere.

  He shifted his weight slightly. She wasn’t complaining, but being sat upon was bound to be causing her some discomfort.

  “Mind telling me how that happened?” he asked.

  “I might if you’ll get off of me.”

  He shook his head. “Nice try. Don’t want to lose the upper hand just yet.” He aimed the pistol at her pretty little nose. “So tell me…was her pregnancy accidental or intentional?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  He shrugged. “She must’ve told you more than his name.”

  “Not really.”

  “I see.” He studied her for a moment, but her face gave nothing away. “She must’ve really liked him to want to have his children.”

  “Who said she wanted to?” the woman snapped.

  “Nobody. But since rumor has it he only consorted with spaceport hookers back in those days, I’m guessing the pregnancy was planned. Hookers rarely conceive unless they want to—there are too many ways to prevent conception. What I can’t figure out is why none of us ever heard about you.”

  “You never heard about me because she never told him,” she said with unrestrained anger. “She was a slut, like every other Davordian I’ve ever run across. She was jealous of the others who raved about the snard and what a good fuck he was. As you may know, he has an aversion to the color blue. Wouldn’t do a Davordian or an Edraitian. My mother had to pretend to be Terran by disguising her eye color. I’m surprised he couldn’t tell what she was by her scent. But then, I’ve been told he had a lousy sense of smell.”

  “I’ve never heard that about him, but you may be right.” He frowned. “Trag’s a hero, you know. He’s the one who killed Rutger Grekkor—the guy who destroyed Zetith and paid the bounty on us.”

  “Never heard of anyone named Grekkor.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “But dear old Dad killed him too late to save my brothers. The Nedwuts shot me, too, but since there was no bounty on females, they left me lying in the street without making sure I was dead. My mother found me. Not sure how I survived, but I did.” She shrugged. “I’ve always assumed they didn’t see the need to waste the kill setting on me and only hit me with a heavy stun.”

  Moe was horrified, although not terribly surprised. Nedwuts were notoriously hard to stun, with the result that the stun setting on their weapons would kill just about anyone else. “How old were you?”

  Her only reaction was a brief dilation of her glowing pupils. “Three.”

  “Mother of the gods,” Moe whispered. “That’s–that’s terrible!”

  “You think?”

  Moe was leaning toward letting her go, but he was starting to enjoy the feel of her body between his legs. Then he remembered she was the one who’d shot him. “Next question: why am I here?”

  Her lips stretched into a wicked grin. “Gladiator prospect.”

  Moe nearly choked on his own spit. “Gladiator? Seriously? I’m not that good a fighter.”

  “You took on a Herp with your bare hands. I liked your spirit. Could’ve made a bundle on you. Still can.”

  “As a gladiator?”

  “No. As a gladiator slave.”

  Moe’s anger ignited once again. “Shit. We just can’t seem to get away from that crap. I am not about to be anyone’s slave. Not yours or anyone you might try to sell me to. Your best bet is to let me go because, trust me, I’ll cause you nothing but trouble.”

  “Not if you’re unconscious.”

  “True, but you can’t keep me knocked out all the time. Gladiators have to be awake in order to fight.” Unless, of course, the goal was to lose.

  She shrugged with infuriating nonchalance. “Once you’ve been thrown into the arena, you won’t have any choice. You’ll either have to fight or die.”

  That made some sense, until he recalled his current position. “What the devil am I thinking? I’m the one holding the gun, and I have no qualms about shooting you.”

  Her eyes widened in apparent dismay. “And taking me captive?”

  “Why in the world would I want to do that?”

  “To take me to my father?” she suggested.

  “Nah. He’s gone this long without ever meeting you; he can just keep on going.”

  “No sympathy for a helpless orphan?”

  Judging from her tone, she didn’t expect any, but figured she might as well play that card as not. However, Moe wasn’t buying it.

  “Your mother’s dead too, huh? Still doesn’t matter. You seem to be perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. Besides, I don’t particularly like you. For all I care, you can stay on this disgusting planet until
you rot.”

  “You aren’t being very nice.”

  He glared at her, outraged at her audacity. “Can you blame me? I was already pissed enough to punch a full-grown Herp, and being stunned and tied up in a cell hasn’t improved my mood.”

  “You’ll never get past my gang,” she warned.

  Moe couldn’t help but laugh. “With a gun to your head?”

  She appeared to consider this for a moment, then shook her head. “They’re fairly resourceful. I’m sure they can stop you, even if they have to stun both of us to do it.”

  Yet another good point.

  “Yes, but I know a Nedwut pistol when I see one. It has a kill setting on it. If I have to use it, I will.”

  Moe had never killed anyone in his entire life, and he didn’t relish having to do it now. Especially not Trag’s daughter.

  Then he realized he had a pretty significant carrot to dangle in front of her. “What if I told you there was a trust fund for surviving Zetithians set up with Rutger Grekkor’s assets and that you were entitled to a share?”

  “How much?” She was nothing if not direct. Yet another trait she shared with her father.

  “I couldn’t say exactly,” he replied. “But I bought a starship with my share. If you play nice, I can give you a ride to Terra Minor to claim yours.”

  The wheels were definitely turning in her head. “Would it be enough to pay off the Nedwuts? For good?”

  Along with being as tough as she apparently was, she must’ve been too stupid to live. “Let me see if I can say this in a way you’ll understand. There is no bounty being paid on Zetithians. Rutger Grekkor is dead. There is no money left to pay Nedwut bounty hunters. It’s all in the trust fund.”

  “I’ve been blasting Nedwuts since I was old enough to lift a weapon, which is why there’s still a price on my head.” She smiled without a trace of mirth. “Those bastards killed my brothers—and my mother, although that came later. I figure it’s the least I can do, and no one in the entire galaxy will accuse me of murder.”

  She was right about that. While not everyone shot Nedwuts on sight, his own mother had wiped out a fair number. Although that was when the bounty was still being paid. “You’re saying the Nedwuts have offered a reward for you?”

  “That’s right. Why do you think I wear a hooded robe?” She paused, frowning. “I think they may have gotten wise to this disguise, though. I made the mistake of trying to sell my last captive to the president of the prize fighters’ guild. His offer was far too low for me to accept, but I think he recognized me and may have told the Nedwuts.”

  Moe wouldn’t have thought he could be more furious than he already was. He was wrong. “And that’s what you intended to do with me? Sell me to the highest bidder?”

  She thrust out her chin in a belligerent manner. “Absolutely. I see no reason not to go ahead with that plan.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Moe gritted his teeth so hard, he half expected them to crack. “My father was a slave for twenty years, and so was yours. We’ve all suffered from Grekkor’s vendetta against our people, but the rest of us have at least retained a few shreds of decency. You, on the other hand, are the most greedy, heartless bitch in existence, and I’ve had just about enough of you.” Sneering, he leaned back, set the pistol for a light stun, and pointed it right at her nose, which no longer seemed even the slightest bit pretty. “Nighty-night, sweetheart.”

  Unfortunately, pulse pistol fire wasn’t exactly silent. Moe barely had time to adjust the stun setting and leap to his feet before the door flew open and a Sympaticon and a Norludian came running in, both of them armed.

  Moe didn’t hesitate. Firing first, he dropped them both with a wide stun blast.

  After hopping over their inert forms, he ran into the guard room. Barely taking stock of the contents, he spotted his own belongings scattered across an already cluttered table next to the half-eaten remains of a pizza and two bottles of Markelian ale. His boots sat against the dirty, crumbling wall. Clearly, his captor wasn’t plowing the money from the sale of any gladiator slaves back into her headquarters.

  He was strapping on his holster when a trio of Rackenspries came barreling through the door. Thankful that his reflexes were better than theirs, he dispatched them as easily as the other two. Silence fell the moment their hairy little rat-like bodies hit the floor. Hoping those three were all that remained of the gang, he yanked on his boots, pocketed his comlink, snatched a slice of the pizza and a bottle of ale, and jumped over the pile of Racks.

  Once outside, the décor improved, but only slightly. The door to the street was locked, but the kill setting was more than enough to disrupt the mechanism. He ran out into the street.

  “Damn. I thought I was in the poor side of town before.”

  Trash and debris littered a dusty road that didn’t appear to have ever been paved. Derelict buildings, many of which teetered on the brink of collapse, lined both sides of the empty street. If anyone lived nearby, they were either hiding or had left for the day. For a gang of slavers not wishing to be disturbed, the setting was ideal.

  Figuring he should at least get out of sight, Moe darted across the street, ran down an equally deserted alleyway, and hid behind a fallen awning. After finally taking the opportunity to relieve himself on a pile of dirt, he pulled out his comlink and called Nevid.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  And then waited some more.

  Activating the ship locator, all he received was an Out of Range notification.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered. “She couldn’t possibly have taken me offworld.”

  If he’d had any doubts as to his present location, the weird smell he’d noticed the moment he’d gotten a whiff of Haedusian air would’ve provided the necessary proof. Which could only mean one thing…

  “That lowlife bastard stole my ship.”

  He should’ve known better than to trust a Vessonian. Although on a world like Haedus Nine, it was distinctly possible that Nevid had been attacked by someone else who then made off with the Tequila Sunrise. The spaceport had been crawling with the riffraff of the galaxy, including a fair number of Nedwuts. Moe could’ve picked a fight with anyone there and no one would’ve stopped him. But that was hindsight talking.

  “I really liked that ship.”

  Snarling, he took a bite of the pizza, which was cold, but otherwise edible, before chasing it with a swig of ale. As matters now stood, he wished he’d taken the rest of the pizza and the other bottle of ale, even though having retrieved his wallet, he could probably at least feed himself. For a while.

  That was, if they hadn’t taken his cash.

  A quick check of the contents revealed that they had indeed taken every last credit. He had his identchip, which would enable him to access his bank account—if he could find a portal on this horrid planet.

  I should’ve known giving free rein to my anger would only get me in trouble.

  He still couldn’t pinpoint the source of his fury, although Trag’s daughter had certainly provided him with a focus for that rage. A heavy stun would’ve served her right for even thinking about selling him as a slave.

  Like father, like son.

  The irony of his situation was almost laughable. His father, Carkdacund Tshevnoe, had been one of six soldiers captured near the end of the war against Zetith and sold into slavery in lieu of execution. Twenty years had passed before he was purchased and subsequently freed by Moe’s mother, Captain Jacinth “Jack” Rutland.

  But Moe hadn’t been sold yet. Finding a way out of this dilemma might take some doing, but find it, he would. He always had. This solution would simply require more thought.

  His options were limited. If he couldn’t access his funds, he could steal his money back, get a job, or enter that gladiator contest and win it—or die trying.

  Resorting to thievery was probably his best bet. That is, if he could find anything on this stinking planet worth stealing. Certainly nothing i
n this trashy neighborhood. He was chastising himself for not checking his wallet before leaving that woman’s lair when he heard footsteps.

  “Spread out,” a curt voice ordered from across the street. “He can’t have gone far.”

  The sound of her voice sent hatred surging through him. She was keeping her voice down but obviously hadn’t reckoned on his superb hearing. That heavy stun setting was sounding better all the time.

  I should do it right now.

  Seeing her crumple in the middle of the street would be satisfying and no more than she deserved. What a horrible woman! Trag was a decent sort, which meant her mother must’ve been a real piece of work. Imagine going to all that trouble just to fuck a Zetithian—although she probably wasn’t the first to do so. Once again, Moe wished he’d taken after his mother’s side of the family. Sure, there were bad Terrans as well as good, but at least he wouldn’t have been quite so conspicuous.

  Creeping toward the edge of the awning, he peered around it. All he could see were the three Racks and the Norludian. The woman and the Sympaticon were nowhere in sight.

  Sympaticons were tricky. They could assume almost any form. He’d seen them morph into everything from boulders to enormous fish. He could walk right past the damn thing and never know it was there until it finally struck.

  Therefore, although it went severely against the grain, going back for his credits was out of the question. He needed to get as far away from that woman as fast as he could. With no idea which way to turn, he opted to continue on his original path. Once the Racks were out of sight, he fired a narrow pulse beam at a nearby building to create a diversion and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

  His curly waist-length hair was his most identifiable feature. Moe had never worn a hat in his life, but this seemed like a good time to start. The trouble was, he’d never seen a Haedusian wear a hat, either. Cutting his hair wasn’t an option, but braiding it would help. After finally reaching what seemed to be an inhabited area—although the condition of the buildings wasn’t that much different from where he’d just been—he spotted several rags hanging from a clothesline.