First Mate's Accidental Wife Read online

  First Mate's Accidental Wife

  In The Stars Romance: Gypsy Moth 1

  Eve Langlais

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Eve Langlais

  Copyright © 2017, Eve Langlais

  Cover Art by Dreams2Media © 2017

  Produced in Canada

  Published by Eve Langlais

  http://www.EveLanglais.com

  E-ISBN-13: 978 1 77384 003 1

  PRINT ISBN: 978 1 77384 004 8

  All Rights Reserved

  First Mate’s Accidental Wife is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing from the author.

  Introduction

  It was supposed to be a simple mission. Locate a kidnapper’s vessel. Rescue the woman. Return her home. Collect a reward.

  Instead, the First Mate of the Gypsy Moth finds himself married to a galactic crime lord’s daughter and fighting off those that would make her a widow.

  Busy watching his back, while keeping her safe, Damon misses the deadliest attack of all. The one on his heart. She’s taken it, and he’s got to decide whether giving up his freedom is worth the price of love.

  Chapter 1

  “Try not to kill anyone.”

  Captain Jameson shot him a glare along with the order.

  “I’ll try and hold off on any murderous sprees, but I can’t promise,” First Mate Damon Faulkner declared with a grin as they tromped through the tubes connecting the Gypsy Moth to the starship they were rendezvousing with in the Lxa Galaxy. The fact that only a flexible tube kept them from the freezing ravages of space was something everyone tried not to dwell on. Accidents were rare. Intentional acts of sabotage, on the other hand…

  “We are not here to start a war with the Kanishqui.”

  “Says the man who is boarding their ship under false pretenses.”

  “Not entirely false. I do indeed have some business to discuss with the commander,” Captain Jameson said.

  “And while you’re discussing, I get to kidnap someone.” A woman. Not their usual fare. The captain preferred to deal in cargo that stayed in boxes and didn’t talk back.

  Living creatures tended to cause headaches. Those with speech capabilities usually complained or cried. As for the animals? They shit. All the time. And someone had to clean it.

  “The term you’re looking for is rescue,” the captain corrected. “And so long as we do it without causing any death, I should be able to convince the Kanishqui not to retaliate.”

  “You mean bribe?”

  “If I have to. I came prepared.”

  “What if I get caught?”

  “Then it was nice having you work for me.”

  As first mate, he was second only to the captain. But as second, he was considered expendable.

  “Not exactly reassuring.”

  “Then don’t screw up.”

  “Since when do we indulge in rescue missions?” Having served with the captain for ten EC years—as in Earth Calendar, the standardized unit of time amongst humans raised in the colonies or the space stations—Damon had never been called upon to save anyone. Thief, spy, assassin—yes—but hero? That was for those galactic cowboys in their shiny ships who got paid in promotions and too few credits for a living.

  The captain tossed him a quick glance. “I’m doing this as a favor for a friend.”

  “Pretty big fucking favor,” Damon muttered. “Does the commander we’re visiting suspect we’re coming to steal his prize?”

  “Better hope not or we’ll be disintegrated the moment we enter his ship. Now shut it. He’s probably listening.”

  Wouldn’t matter if he were. Damon and the captain had engaged their FOZ protocol—which stood for Friends Only Zone. When enabled, they could communicate with each other, but anyone not in the loop would only hear gibberish. No translator available on the market could yet crack the codes the FOZ protocol used—a special invention of their resident geek gal, Einstein. But even she admitted it was only a matter of time before someone developed something to infiltrate it, especially now that she’d sold the patent for a sum that had too many zeros attached. The woman could easily retire and live the life of leisure, so why did Einstein still work?

  Who the fuck knew. Who the fuck cared. The woman was a genius. If you stayed on Einstein’s good side. Get on her bad side—say by eating the last apple specially imported from the colonies—and you might get locked in your room with the computer refusing to answer and the food replicator spitting out a foul-smelling mush.

  “Remember, no communication once on board. Stick to the plan.” One last muttered instruction.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Don’t fuck this up,” Jameson growled.

  “Who, me?”

  “Let’s not forget what happened in the Ashiesha system.”

  The captain would remind him of their banishment from there. As if it was Damon’s fault the wife of the emperor seduced him. She’d pretended to be a servant. He’d thought her dazzled by his looks. The emperor was overcome with jealous anger. Damon’s balls still tucked tight when they remembered how close he came to being emasculated.

  “If you ask me, the Ashiesha thing was a blessing. They were cheap bastards, always trying to stiff us on the fees.”

  “Hmmph.” Jameson took on a stony countenance as they approached the airlock after what seemed like an Earthen mile. Ships couldn’t dock too closely together. The galactic winds and tides could sometimes cause them to collide. It was why the tunnels had flexibility to them.

  The door to the other ship slid open at their approach, the matte black surface not reflecting anything. The Kanishqui possessed sleek ships, the exterior of them coated in some kind of shit—real excrement he might add—that provided a tough outer shell and protected the more fragile components from bits of galactic debris that could punch even through thick rock. It was why most crews used machines rather than suits for repairs when in deep space. One little piece of dust could kill.

  Immediately upon stepping on the other ship, the moist air hit Damon’s face, a wet towel slapping him with instant humidity. Within his uniform—black on black tunic over shirt tucked into pants—he thanked the fabric that wicked the sweat from his body and kept him cool. It did nothing for his lungs. At least he didn’t choke or drown. The air might prove thick and cloying, but it was breathable.

  Many of the species in space required an oxygen-based atmosphere. Those that didn’t? Usually at war with those that did. Eradicating intolerance on Earth didn’t mean humanity managed the same in space.

  But a wary truce did exist between the wars spanning galaxies, and currently most of humanity was on peaceful terms with the Kanishqui. Although that could change shortly.

  Entering the other ship meant being at the mercy of the Kanishqui. Good thing Damon boasted balls of tungsten. He managed a slightly bored expression and kept
his hand off the holster of his gun. A gun he might not be allowed to keep, currently set to stun.

  No killing. I promised.

  Harder than it sounded, especially when they were met by the commander and a pair of guards. Knowing they were outnumbered—especially when it came to arms versus tentacles—his first instinct was to draw his weapon. The captain had insisted only the two of them meet with the Kanishqui commander. This was supposed to be a friendly, catching-up visit.

  It would probably end with someone getting hurt. By me.

  As the captains exchanged pleasantries, Damon peeked around. The interior of the Kanishqui ship held an ornate lavishness not seen on the Gypsy Moth—named after the rare insect Jameson had located in the clouds of Veynuz Nine and sold for a fortune. The Kanishqui vessel had a long title of The Bucket That Carries the Liquid Vomited Remains. The Kanishqui weren’t known for their elegant prose.

  But they could build nice ships. The exterior was slick and smooth, unlike their own vessel with its patched hull and thick seams.

  The interior walls of the alien ship were gilded in a copper-colored metal that absorbed shadows. Strange property, and something that had Damon checking to see if his shadow returned every time he got away from the stuff.

  The floor, a gray-green color, possessed a slimy surface that gripped the soles of his boots and removed the need for a gravity generator. The Kanishqui didn’t actually walk. They preferred to float in order to avoid having their tentacles rubbed raw—which an enthusiastic human inventor once tried to solve. He apparently approached the race with an idea of creating shoes for the appendages. Even shoved some sample versions onto some tentacles. It didn’t go well.

  The Kanishqui were a proud bunch who brought new meaning to the term ugly. Really fucking ugly. They reminded Damon of the ancient pictures of octopi on Earth. Giant, bulbous head/body and arms. Lots of them. Unlike their Earth counterparts, though, the Kanishqui had evolved enough to not only emerge from the oceans and form a space-faring society, but also to manipulate their biology enough they could mate with just about any race in the galaxy—so long as it was a water-based biology, like humans. It made for some freaky-looking kids.

  The alien speech held a particularly interesting gargle to it. As if they spoke through a mouthful of water. It could be as melodic as a babbling brook or as harsh as the slap of a wave on a rock.

  But Damon understood each ripple of liquid, each rolling wave. The translator embedded into his auditory channels—which was a polite way of saying jammed into his ear and fused to the drum—communicated directly with his brain so that he heard the actual speech. What his translator couldn’t do was make it interesting.

  He tuned in to find his captain and the ugly Kanishqui leader yapping about the usual boring stuff.

  “Looking mighty fit,” Jameson remarked. “Have you been working out?”

  Gargle, spit, swallow. *Lifting some weights. Eating my enemies.

  Funny how many species considered the ingestion of sentient races as a necessary thing for strength. Some still believed they absorbed the knowledge and power of the entity they ate. In the case of the K’ahmelons—a bipedal winged reptile race from the jungle planets in the Rinfrst Galaxy—they truly did.

  “I hear your last battle netted you a case of ice wine from the Ekiimo plains.” Jameson arched a brow and lifted a plain box with no markings on it, yet the giant green Kanishqui quivered in excitement. “I brought chocolate.”

  More valuable than gold, chocolate was a hot commodity in the galaxy. As was coconut in any form, maple syrup, and corn. It turned out Earth had been on the right course when they played with ethanol as a fuel source. It made Earth a rich planet once they got the refinery of it right—with a little alien help.

  Having all this natural wealth in one spot made Earth a target. Good thing they could afford the security to protect it. Nowadays, getting back to visit the first planet—because humans had long colonized dozens of others—proved almost impossible unless you had connections. It was a place that was split between manufacturing and a playground for the rich. Even the government didn’t have a place on that coveted world. The Earth’s government—known as the Gaia Federation—ruled from a massive space station built at the edge of the galaxy.

  Each species had its own government. Some species that had spread to multiple galaxies often had more than one government. The universe was a mishmash of creatures, which meant a lot of treaties. Those that didn’t want to play nicely with others went to war.

  Other wars were fought over resources because, while there were lots of planets in the many solar systems, some of them lacked goods to trade—or had stripped their planets clean. Those that didn’t have, conquered or sold their services to help others conquer. For example, the purple mercenaries, known as the Kulin, from Aressotle, made great for-hire soldiers. And they didn’t require much pay if allowed to salvage the remains of Earth’s enemies.

  They didn’t used to work as allies. In centuries past, the Kulin used to kidnap human women to make babies for them. They weren’t the only ones stealing bodies. Back in the twenty-first century, there was a rash of alien abductions. It and other incursions by aliens was what eventually led to their discovery and humans finally being allowed to join the ranks of galactic travelers and players.

  Three hundred EC years later and humans had multiplied and spread. Some likened them to an invasive weed that, once taken from its habitat with proper controls, multiplied.

  With that many humans, each with different points of view, came division. Rival groups. Unlike the Kanishqui who were a tight-knit family group whose massive ships housed generations. Kind of like what the Rhomanii—the space gypsies—did on a smaller scale.

  Remember, these are our allies. Didn’t make his trigger finger any less itchy.

  Damon followed the commanders a few paces back with one of the guards. The other one glided ahead.

  He tuned in to listen as he fought the suction of the floor with each step.

  Waves lapping. Gentle drip. *I have a daughter coming of age.

  Talk about jumping right into it.

  Jameson shook his head. “Kind of you to offer, but I’ll have to pass. My current relationship status is complicated.”

  Just a bit. Married to a woman who’d disappeared several EC years ago. For some reason, the captain wouldn’t apply to have their union dissolved. Said he couldn’t. Which was weird. And none of Damon’s business.

  But he had to wonder what the daughter looked like. He’d met the ugly Kanishqui leader—whose name sounded like “tinkle-tinkle-splash” and translated to “Flows-In-Spurts-From-Spout,” nicknamed Fizz—before when he and the captain had done business. This was the first time a more permanent alliance was offered.

  Fizz floated along the wide corridor, his tentacles suctioning to bits of walls. He pulled himself along, letting the lack of gravity float his bulky body. On their home world, where they had to deal with gravity, they’d constructed cities of flowing water. Their roads wide canals. Their highways raging rivers. A beautiful place, actually. If you weren’t afraid of drowning.

  They arrived at a grand set of doors, ornate and meant to impress. They slid open and displayed Fizz’s lush personal quarters. Despite his rank as first mate, Damon and the guards weren’t invited in; however, his captain did turn to say, “I’ll buzz you when the fine commander and I are done.”

  In other words, piss off.

  Damon waited until the doors shut before saying, “What do you say we go find ourselves some geer?” The galactic version of beer. Sometimes made with fuel.

  One of the guards replied, a toilet swirling.

  Damon made a face. “Wow, that was totally uncalled for. I mean, if you can’t handle the fact a human can outdrink you, then just say so. No need to insult my man parts.” He knew better than to compare his manhood with that of the Kanishqui. Damned thing was long and agile enough to do things even human women craved. The babies were butt ugl
y, though. “Just thought since the captain won’t need me for a bit, we’d go hang and toss a few back.”

  Spit tossed and caught. Gurgle.

  “Still on duty, eh? I totally get it. Of course, you need to work because your commander is obviously too big of a sushi to take care of himself against my wee captain. Because look at us, we’re so scary.” Damon lifted his hands and rolled his eyes.

  If there was one thing that was common from one species to another, it was pride. Prick it and you could manipulate it to get anything.

  In this case, his new pal, Phlegmy-Water-Hitting-Mud, brought him down a few levels, via stairs of all things, to a massive cafeteria.

  There were numerous liquid tanks embedded in the floor, the surface of each a different hue depending on the plankton it was seeded with. Within a few vats floated other things, lively aquatic things that required chewing. Massive canisters lined the walls, full of replenishing fluids. The Kanishqui didn’t believe in replicated food. It meant they shopped for ingredients often. Unfortunately for the worlds they shopped from, they didn’t always pay market value. And they sometimes took the inhabitants for a snack.

  The cafeteria wasn’t their final destination. Good thing, because Damon didn’t see anything he wanted to put in his mouth. Not even the pink tentacle of the female who blew wet bubbles at him, lounging in the orange vat.

  His buddy, whom he nicknamed Flem, skedaddled past, never glancing back to see if his human companion followed. Why bother when his trailing tentacles, equipped with auditory receptors, peeked for him.

  Within the cafeteria, the floor didn’t have as much tackiness, all the slopping liquid from the vats ruining its sticky trait. However, a good leap could cover a lot of ground so long as he was careful not to land in a vat.