Captive
Cat Star Legacy 3
Cheryl Brooks
Captive
by Cheryl Brooks
Published by Derrymane Press
Copyright © 2020 Cheryl Brooks
ISBN: 978-1-7360309-0-5
Cover design by The Killion Group Images
Cover images by The Killion Group Images and Shutterstock
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected].
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. www.cherylbrooksonline.com
In fond memory of Mr. Mike Winters
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
Also by Cheryl Brooks
About the Author
Chapter 1
Moriconthan “Moe” Tshevnoe sat alone at a table in a dusty bar on Haedus Nine choking down beer that smelled more like vrelnot piss than lager. He truly hated Haedus Nine. The climate was hot, dry, and oppressive, and its natives were ugly, devious, and inherently dishonest, which made it as good a place as any to pick a fight.
He’d been spoiling for a fight for months, an irritation of mood he couldn’t explain. But whatever it was, it made him want to beat the shit out of some deserving lowlife scumbag—or at least bite something. Hard. He was not a fighter by nature; nonetheless, his jaws clenched in anger for no other reason than the disgusting smell emanating from the occupants of the nearest table.
This much anger wasn’t normal for him. He’d always been considered the most sensible of his littermates, the lone voice of reason on many of his brothers’ escapades. He was cautious and methodical—traits that made him an excellent navigator—but his gut instincts were usually spot-on. Not that anyone ever actually listened to him. Over the years, he’d become quite adept at choking back the words I told you so to anyone foolish enough not to follow his suggestions.
Perhaps that was his problem. He’d just come from a run to Alpha Marcos where his current pilot, a Vessonian named Nevid Kairn, had ignored Moe’s reminder that the ship had a rather large communications dish on its forward hull. Having been scraped off by a low hangar bay door, that dish was now a crumpled mass of steel, useful only as scrap metal rather than a salvageable component.
Moe could easily fly the ship himself—having grown up on a starship, he’d been capable of manning every duty station by the age of seven—but being alone in space was, well, lonely. Unfortunately, Nevid wasn’t terribly good company. Maybe he was to blame for Moe’s current mood.
No. I felt like this even before he signed on.
The conversation at the next table had reached the ear-splitting level. A fistfight was imminent. Perhaps he could find an excuse to get into the fight. That’s what he needed. A good old-fashioned barroom brawl. It wouldn’t take much. One more tiny little annoyance and his anger would explode.
The lone Herpatronian in a group that boasted no less than three Haedusians, two Kitnocks, and a Vetla took a swing at one of the Haedusians and missed, inertia causing his ape-like body to spin out of his chair, the fist on the end of his long, simian arm connecting with Moe’s shoulder.
Thank the gods.
Moe pushed back his chair and tore into the Herp like a fiend: fangs bared and hands balled into fists. Rather than join in the fray, the Haedusians actually started cheering. As Moe pummeled the momentarily astonished Herp, his companions tossed handfuls of credits on the table and began taking bets.
He couldn’t blame the others for leaving the Herp to face him alone. With tall, cylindrical heads and limbs like toothpicks, Kitnocks tended to avoid altercations with species more sturdily built than they were. Vetlas were humpbacked with short arms that gave them virtually no reach whatsoever. The Haedusians themselves reminded him of birds, even to the extent that the males’ clothing—if such tattered rags could be called that—was more colorful than the robes worn by the females. Overall, they were quite scrawny with long, spidery fingers, huge hooked noses, and beady little eyes. They seldom engaged in fisticuffs, evidently preferring to profit from the outcome rather than participate.
Moe didn’t give a damn. After a brief protest that he had no bone to pick with Moe—a highly unusual statement for a Herp—the creature was finally fighting back. Moe took a punch to the jaw that should’ve at least broken a fang. He tasted blood and renewed his attack. He knew if he didn’t knock him out soon, the Herp would eventually overpower him. Getting in close was the best way to deal with a Herp, canceling their longer reach, but putting Moe’s sensitive Zetithian nose much too close to his opponent’s stinking brown pelt.
Pouring months of pent-up rage into his fists, Moe didn’t bother pulling a knife or a pulse pistol. The Herp wasn’t unarmed, but that didn’t matter. Yet.
“Take it out in the street!” the bartender roared as the Herp snatched a bottle from a nearby table and attempted to smash it over Moe’s head. With his catlike reflexes, Moe easily dodged the bottle, which went smashing into a row of bottles above the bar. Booze mixed with blue Morwellian cream oozed down the wall as two hulking Terrans shouldered through the gathering crowd.
“He said, take it outside,” snarled a heavily muscled bald man whose body was covered with more leather and tattoos than actual fabric. That was another thing Moe didn’t like about Haedus: the excessive heat tended to reduce the amount of clothing worn by offworlders, some of which should never have been seen in such a disgusting state of undress. Herps were the worst. The long cloths they wore wrapped around their pelvic areas looked more like diapers than anything and didn’t cover nearly enough of them.
One of the Terrans grabbed the Herp from behind just as his diaper came undone, leaving an already hideous creature completely naked.
“What has been seen cannot be unseen,” Moe muttered as a push from behind sent him sprawling, but only for a moment. With a quick roll, he jumped to his feet.
As the bouncer wrestled the Herp toward the door, Moe ran after them, yelling, “I’m not done with him yet!”
“Oh, yes, you are,” said a feminine voice from behind him.
Spinning around, Moe came face-to-face with a tall woman in a black hooded robe. At least, he assumed it was a woman. A pair of electric-blue eyes stared at him from inside the hood. However, unlike the usual Davordian, which was what he took her to be, her pupils were glowing vertical slits like those of his own feline eyes.
“Who the devil are you?” he snapped.
“Why, the devil, of course.” The woman let out a hiss as the nozzle of a pulse pistol emerged from her robes. “Nighty-night.”
Without another word,
she fired.
The last thing Moe saw was her fangs as she smiled.
Klara Tavock motioned for her henchmen to gather up her latest catch. “A fighter brave enough to go up against a Herpatronian—or stupid enough, take your pick—should bring a nice price on the open market, don’t you think?”
She said this to no one in particular, nor did she expect an answer, mainly because her gang members had learned the wisdom of keeping their mouths shut long ago, especially when she was on the hunt.
Except this one particular gang member. The Norludian glanced up as he rolled their captive over onto his back. “You know, boss, he kinda looks like—”
“Like what?”
“Well…sort of like you.”
Klara raised a brow, the only indication of anger she ever allowed herself to display. “A man looks like me?” She tipped her head to the side, trying to decide if Temfilk was serious or simply hoping to get a rise out of her, as he so often did. “How so?”
“He might not have an orange streak in his hair.” He pulled a mass of black curls away from the unconscious man’s face. “But check out the slanted eyebrows and pointed ears. You could be the same species. Might even be related.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are none like me anywhere in the quadrant, let alone on this”—she sneered as she squeezed a large measure of disdain into the word—“planet.” At least, none she’d ever seen. She waved a dismissive hand. “Just put him in the speeder. I’ll decide what to do with him later.” A brief sweep of the dusty barroom with her keen eyes showed several patrons making a big show of pretending they hadn’t seen a thing.
Typical. Although she wouldn’t put it past any of them to figure out how to profit from the event.
Still, she’d reacted quickly with this one. She normally took longer to study her quarry, weighing their possible worth against their likelihood of causing trouble. This one was trouble, all right. But something about him made her shoot first and ask questions later. His speed and agility were only part of it.
Perhaps Temfilk was right.
However, this was not the time for contemplation. A low whistle brought her speeder to the door, along with Nexbit.
“Might want to morph into something strong for this one,” she advised the Sympaticon. “He’s bigger than our usual catch.”
Aside from the fact that Nexbit’s resting state was rather ugly, it had never struck Klara as being particularly strong. His thin body was covered with pale gray skin, and wispy hair sprouted from a pair of flat, round ears. Long yellow nails studded the tips of fingers like weak bamboo. Beady eyes, a bulbous nose, and a nearly nonexistent chin completed a face only a mother could love. Clad in a tunic made of coarse brown fabric that was belted at the waist, he reminded Klara of the trolls from the stories her mother had read to her as a child.
“Sure thing, boss.” Nexbit opted for a Terran form this time, duplicating the bouncer right down to his tattoos. Only his head remained unchanged—which was fortunate because the bouncer was even uglier than the Sympaticon.
“That’s a good look for you, Nex,” Temfilk remarked. “You should stick with it.”
“Too much trouble.” Nexbit hefted the unconscious man onto his shoulder with ease. “And besides, Terrans stink.”
Temfilk glanced at Klara. “Going to sell this one or recruit him? He’d be an asset to the team.”
“Haven’t decided,” Klara replied. “No more questions. Let’s get out of here.”
Moe awoke with an ache in every bone in his body, and not only where his Herpatronian opponent had hit him. When he realized he was bound and gagged, his anger flared again, even though that anger had probably been responsible for his current predicament. He didn’t know why he’d been captured, but there were only two options.
Being sold into slavery was one. His father had been a slave for twenty years, and that history appeared to be repeating itself in his son. The fact that he’d been taken by a woman made the slavery issue even more appalling. Lynx, one of six Zetithian prisoners of war who had been sold as slaves in lieu of execution, had been a harem slave for ten years. Cooped up with fifty women at any given time, those women had simply worn him out—physically, mentally, and sexually. That Moe had been captured while in a fight with a Herp was another factor. There were still gladiator-type entertainments on a few backward planets—including Haedus Nine—and those were only the ones he’d heard about.
The other possible option was being turned over to a Nedwut bounty hunter. The bounty on Zetithians hadn’t been paid in twenty years, but that didn’t mean everyone had heard the news that Trag Vladatonsk had killed Rutger Grekkor, thus ending the Terran man’s jealous vendetta against Zetithians. In his zeal for exterminating their species, he’d even destroyed their planet. And all because Grekkor’s wife had taken a Zetithian lover.
Why does it always have to be about sex?
Moe sometimes wished he’d favored his Terran mother instead of appearing to be a clone of his Zetithian father.
Curse those dominant genes.
Finally, his fury had a focus.
That woman.
So what if she had the most incredible eyes he’d ever seen. Clear, electric blue with a startling black rim around the iris. At least, that was what he remembered seeing—right before she shot him.
Whatever she was planning for him couldn’t be good. This wasn’t like any courtship ritual anyone had ever told him about, unless it was a shoot-first-and-have-sex-later approach, which meant he needed to get the heck out of Dodge.
What his captor couldn’t have known was that Moe could escape from almost any form of restraint. Harry Houdini had nothing on him. He could dislocate various joints and then put them back in place with ease. Sure, he might be a little sore afterward, but thanks to his Zetithian blood, a good night’s restorative sleep fixed him right up. The only limiting factor was the width of the space between any bars on the doors and windows with respect to size of his head. However, given enough time and access to the locks, he didn’t have to resort to squeezing between bars. Considering the lack of creativity with which he’d been tied up, he doubted the locks were any better. Getting past a guard was a little tougher, but it could be done. Being conscious was the only requirement.
I should’ve been a thief.
Except he wasn’t a thief—wasn’t even the tiniest bit dishonest. His escape artist routine was more of a hobby than training for his life’s work. Some people played video games or engaged in sports. Others painted or played music. Moe played with locks and handcuffs.
On the other hand, if he’d been imprisoned aboard a starship, there really wasn’t anywhere to go, unless he could find an escape pod. Even if he couldn’t get to a pod, he could tap into a ship’s navigational controls, alter the course to suit his needs, and lock the controls so no one could reset the course.
He set aside his anger for the few minutes it took to extricate himself from his bonds. Given how measly these were, he suspected the windowless cell in which he was being held was where the security lay.
There were two possibilities for escaping the cell. He could wait behind the door and attempt to overpower anyone who entered, or he could go to work on the lock. Fortunately, he didn’t need much in the way of tools to do the job, although a quick check of the pockets of his jacket and trousers was enough to inform him that he had undergone a thorough search prior to being deposited there. Even his belt and boots had been removed.
Waiting behind the door, it is.
A hidden camera would nullify that tactic, although being free to move still gave him an advantage. He took a few moments to study his surroundings, which didn’t take long because except for him, the room was empty. The only light came from a single overhead fixture. A camera could be hidden there, but as archaic as the fixture appeared to be, he doubted it was equipped with anything that sophisticated.
He checked the lock anyway. Since it was sonic operated, he could’ve altered hi
s comlink signal to override it, but of course, that was gone too.
Nothing to do but wait.
Hungry, thirsty, and in dire need of a trip to the restroom, he could’ve called out to his captors that he needed to relieve himself, which would’ve been a good idea if he hadn’t been gagged as well as bound. Once he started talking, they would know he was loose.
He settled down beside the door, noting that it was at least hinged. A door that opened inward was a mark in his favor. A sliding door or one that opened outward would severely diminish the element of surprise. Nor, he now realized, was he being held aboard a starship—unless the stardrive engines were currently shut down. Having lived on a ship for nearly his entire life, he was attuned to changes in the engine’s hum and the barely perceptible vibrations of space travel. These were, however, absent, suggesting that he probably hadn’t left Haedus Nine—might even still be in Srekatoa, the same crappy city in which he’d been captured.
He should’ve known better than to let his temper get the better of him. Nothing good ever came from throwing a tantrum, no matter the age of the person involved. Anger made you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do, like breaking things that were sometimes irreplaceable. Still, when the mood struck, ignoring it was just as unhealthy.
He was about to give up and go pee in the corner when the lock finally disengaged. Moe leaped to his feet in a silent move only a cat could have duplicated. He waited until the robed figure had cleared the doorway before kicking the door shut and pouncing on his prey.
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