Married? Surely the princess lied.

Damon ran to the nearest communal washroom area. The wall held a mirror over the trough sink. He leaned forward and checked his lip where she’d bitten him. Saw just the tender remains of the cut. It had already begun to heal because of the vitamins he took to boost his system.

No mark to be seen.

She lied. He was fine no matter what she said. He used the washroom, ridding himself of the last of the booze, and was washing his hands when Jameson appeared behind him.

“There you are. Hiding, are we?”

“Try pissing. Took more than a few shots to accomplish the mission. Those octopi bastards can drink like fish.”

“At least the plan worked.”

“As if there was any doubt we’d save the woman.”

“Speaking of saving. You seem awfully calm considering what happened.”

“You mean her claim we got married?” Damon scoffed. “Just fucking with me apparently. There’s no mark. See?” He jutted his lower lip.

Jameson shook his head. “It’s not going to show on the outside of your lip. Look inside your mouth.”

“I’m not looking because there’s nothing there. I know how the mating marks work.” Rings welded to fingers. Tattoos that couldn’t be covered by makeup on the body. The Jemmyni actually fused their bodies together. He shoved up his sleeves and held out his hands, flipping them over. “Nothing. She didn’t have enough time to do any of that.”

“Did she bite you?”

“Yeah.” No point in denying it.

“Then she marked you. Look inside your lip.”

Damon wanted to stubbornly say no. He couldn’t be married. He’d not agreed. He wasn’t ready for that, and especially not with a prim and a little-too-proper princess—with a bossy side.

However, he wanted to know. He leaned forward again and pulled his lip forward. Almost celebrated until he noticed it low down inside, a silvery emblem tattooed inside his mouth. “Wha da fuk?” he said, lip still extended. He whirled. “Sha makked me.” His words emerged slightly garbled.

The captain arched a brow. “Does this mean you’ll be expecting a wedding present?”

Damon glared.

“And time off for a honeymoon?”

He intensified the glare.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one who let some strange woman suck my mouth.”

“She told me to trust her.”

“Was this before or after you shot the guards?”

“She dared me.”

It was the captain’s turn to give him a look.

Damon rolled his shoulders. “Excuse me for being a guy for a minute.”

“Trying being a first mate instead, would you?”

“Hey, she’s safe, isn’t she? As ordered. And I might add you could show a little more sympathy for my situation. You’re not the one married.” Only after he said it did he wince. No point in apologizing, the gaffe was made. They weren’t supposed to mention the captain’s missing wife.

“She’s safe, but her father won’t be pleased. She’s his favorite, and she’s married to you.”

“So, we get divorced, no biggie.”

Jameson scrubbed his hand over his face. “Actually, it’s bigger than you understand.”

“Because he’s your friend. I totally get it. The situation is awkward. We’ll just explain.”

“Explaining won’t do shit. The Dkar follow some fucked-up set of societal rules, their equivalent of a religion. One that doesn’t believe in divorce.”

“Whoa.” Damon held up a hand. “No divorce?”

“Their marriages are binding from the moment the mark is transferred.”

“That can’t be right. We haven’t even slept together.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“What?” he yelped. “Seriously, how long?” Because amongst humans, marriages were contracts with set terms that included an expiry date.

“The Dkar are old school, so it’s ’til death do you part.”

Judging by the captain’s face, he was serious. “Damn. That’s crap. How healthy is she, do you figure?” He only knew the info he’d gotten going into the mission, which consisted of a picture and her first name, Michonne.

“She’ll outlive you more than likely.”

“Genes that good, huh?”

“Yes, but mostly because her father will likely kill you so they can reset the mark and have her ally with something he deems more worthy.”

“Hold on, are you saying they’re going to kill me so they can marry her off again?” Damon asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s a shit way to thank somebody for saving his daughter’s life.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’ll be thanked. Probably with a big transfer of credits and a case of something expensive.”

“While I end up as space dust. Is it me, or is this day getting worse and worse?” Damon groaned as he scrubbed his face with a hand.

Whoop. Whoop.

The ship sounded a warning alarm.

Jameson barked, “Rosy! Status report.”

The ship’s artificial intelligence—AI—recited a litany of reasons for the alarm. “The Kanishqui vessel has activated its shields. It is also arming its electrocryogenic cannon.”

Bad news. One blast from it and their ship would be dead in space for a few hours at least. Until the pulse wore off and the various systems—such as environmental and shields—came back online. Long enough, though, for them all to die.

The good thing about the damned cannon was it took time to charge. They had time to escape.

A better question was, why did the Kanishqui suddenly decide to attack?

Jameson marched out of the facilities, snapping orders aloud. “Keep sounding the alert. Have all active duty at their stations. Non-active on standby. Prep the engines for streaking.”

“Shouldn’t we be readying the shields?” Damon asked, keeping pace with his captain.

“Not this time. According to the latest engineering report, our second power cell is still offline, which means I want all the power going to the engines for departure. We’re going to do a quick jump.”

They entered the transport capsule—a rapid method of movement aboard the ship for those with the stomach for it. The captain only had to say, “Bridge,” for it to zoom off.

“Why is the Kanishqui ship attacking us now? I thought everything was cool. Fizz let us go.”

“And changed his mind.”

“Is he stupid? We outgun him.”

“We do. Yet he apparently thinks he can take us.”

“So let’s blast him out of the galaxy.”

“We can’t. And no, I don’t care to explain why.”

Knowing Jameson wouldn’t do this without good reason, Damon gave a nod. “Whatever you say, sir. I’ll head to engineering and ensure they’re prepared for jump.” Then it occurred to him. “What of your friend’s daughter?” A beautiful woman, aggravating with her princess airs and even more annoying for her tricking him into marriage.

“Being shown to her quarters. I’ll deal with your nuptials and her father once we’ve put some space between us and this quadrant.”

The elevator capsule stopped and spat out the captain. Then it was Damon’s turn to zip off into the bowels of the ship then farther still to the tail end of the ship where the engines were located behind the heaviest hulls.

Damon arrived in time for someone to yell, “Strap in. Going to streak, in five, four…” He dove against the wall and slid his arms through a harness a moment before the ship paused, as if hanging in anticipation, and then they were gone.

Streak, faster than sound and light. It had revolutionized space travel, especially since it proved a lot safer than wormhole travel. If you could plot the coordinates properly. Damon wouldn’t pretend to understand the science behind it other than it did something that bent space and time and got a ship from point A to B without weeks or months of travel. But it could only be done in short bursts that required recharging in between. After fifteen minutes, the streak ended. During that time, Damon tapped into the ship via his embedded wrist com for a status report.

According to the logs, the Moth had moved before the Kanishqui managed to fire their cannon. A conflict averted until the next time they met. Then again, by the time they crossed paths again, things should have calmed themselves. And if not, the captain would invest in a few cases of chocolate as apology.

Exiting the harness—which existed all over the ship for the times they needed to streak with little notice, especially if they didn’t want to end up flattened on a wall or tumbling down a corridor—Damon continued to the heart of engineering. He might as well have been on an alien planet. Or a magical realm. The bowels of the ship certainly had an ethereal appearance to them. The energy cores—contained within clear diamond cylinders that reached several stories—glowed, their color not on a spectrum he could describe. Their origin not earthly in nature—and expensive.

The captain had spent a fortune retrofitting his ship with the streak drive and upgraded power system. Money well spent. Few could catch them when they streaked.

Taking the stairs two at a time down to the lower level, Damon nodded at some of the workers in this section. Most ignored him. Snobby bunch that kept to themselves. This wouldn’t happen on a military vessel. The lack of respect might have bothered, except he knew they didn’t do it on purpose.

The crew that worked in engineering weren’t one hundred percent human anymore. The drives they worked in close proximity with had a tendency of changing biological matter after too much time spent in their proximity. This resulted in an engineering crew with, in some cases, more metal parts than human. Cyborgs, as they called themselves, had recently declared themselves their own species apart from humanity.

Not many argued about them splitting off. Anyone who encountered a cyborg noticed their difference—and he wasn’t talking about their machine parts. They thought differently. Acted differently. He couldn’t have said if it was the metal in their bodies or the alien technology they worked with that changed them, but the fact remained they were fucking weird.

Damon reached the main control area for the engine room—a circular hub, ringed in consoles with people bent over them, fingers flying. In their midst stood Craig “Crank” Abrams.

A massive man, over six feet and wide, his bald pate shone, his goatee was well trimmed and his uniform—with the sleeves torn off—showcased his metal arm from the shoulder down. He’d lost the limb trying to save his wife. Some claimed he’d also lost his heart when she died.

Crank didn’t speak. He stood with arms crossed, and yet Damon knew he was directing everything that was going on. Yet another cyborg trait. Wireless communication. Handy, if eerie, at times like this when a man who had to use actual spoken words needed to interrupt.

“Crank, Captain sent me to check on the state of our engines.” Which they already knew because of the reports, but given how engineering liked to recluse themselves, some kind of in-person checking was encouraged.

Crank didn’t bother looking at him as he replied. “The status is still the same. We have one active power unit. As I’ve mentioned already, we need to stop and refuel the second one to see if the repairs worked.”

“I do believe we’re stopping in at the Xandu way station within the next few days.”

“That will do. I will send you a revised list of items required.”

“You know you could leave the ship and buy those things yourself on ship credit.”

“I’m needed here.”

More like he was hiding. And Damon couldn’t help poking.

“You didn’t show up at the last officer meeting.”

Crank turned haunting clear blue eyes his way. “I was detained.”

The man was always detained of late. “Still pissed, are you?” Crank hadn’t yet forgiven Jameson for saving his life in the incident five years ago that took his wife.

“Emotion is a waste of time.”

It sure was. And so was marriage. In the next few hours, as Damon checked in with the various stations on board, and after a few more streaks, he had had time to mull over the whole marriage thing.

What kind of working guy wanted to settle down with one person for life? Sure, some people liked it, but personally, Damon had yet to find a woman he could tolerate for a few days in a row let alone a lifetime. It was why he tended to curtail his onboard activities and waited for their visits to way stations and planets. A few days to a week refueling and enjoying rest and relaxation were easy to walk away from. Not to mention, departing for another galaxy made it hard for any sexual partners to cling or show up uninvited.

Marriage, though, when you worked aboard a ship, meant bringing your spouse with you. Sharing your space with someone else. Never being alone. Stuck with one vagina forever. It seemed worse in some respects than a prison sentence.

And to think he was stuck in a marriage. I have a fucking wife.

A cute wife.

But still? He was much too young to be tied down. He didn’t care how wealthy she was. Damon wanted for nothing. He had his own spacious quarters, which, as first mate, were second only to the captain’s.

He had enough credits in the Qpers Galactic Bank that he could buy all but the most extravagant items.

His genes, while not state-of-the-art, were modified enough to provide him good health, excellent recuperative abilities, long life, and good looks.

What else could a man ask for?

Marriage was a nightmare. Which was why he might have uttered a scream when he entered his quarters and found his wife sprawled across his bed and his room overtaken with clothes. Women’s clothes. And a pink blanket. On his bed.

“What the fuck?”