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It felt like Dismor hid in the shadows for an eon, waiting to hear anything that would indicate the human was going to be hurt once again. She had to follow orders, she could not be caught or hurt, she could not jeopardize the contract. The King’s wishes were difficult to manage this time.
Shouting followed by a smack and a scream made Dismor’s pulse race. She jetted out from her hiding place, dodging surveillance equipment and random guards. Seconds later, she ducked into a crevice in the stony wall. Her slim frame slipped into the wide crack easily. Now she could see what was happening to the human woman who’d captured the King’s interest. She was just inside the confines of a holding cell, the shimmering entrance was pulsing off and on, allowing designated personnel to enter and exit. Many of them were dragging along human females of various shapes and sizes. Dark hair, pale hair, fire hair. All wearing the black-and-blue uniforms.
The yellow-haired human was slapping the King’s human pet again and an ex-gladiator was trying to rip something out of her hands.
“You can’t take it with you,” the blonde snarled, “and you can’t wear those ridiculous shoes. Put the boots back on. Now.”
“If I’m going to die, I’m going to die the way I want to!” What had the woman called herself back in the King’s chambers? Gen? Ghan? Gwen… Gwen. Dismor liked the human in this moment, watching her fight rather than play prey.
But there were too many eyes for Dismor to help.
“Drop the case and change your damn shoes!”
“Screw you,” Gwen hissed. Another slap across the face. Bright red blossomed, an angry color against her white freckled skin. She gasped seconds later as a large case was ripped from her grip and thrown out of the holding cell. It bumped and jumped against the uneven floor, coming to a rest not far from Dismor’s hiding place. She held onto the boots, pressing them against her chest, but still refusing to change out of a pair of strange, completely impractical shoes with spikes on the heels. Not useful spikes, designed for slicing enemies, but ridiculous ones, designed to be walked upon.
How could the human balance in them?
“You know what?” the yellow haired human sneered, “Keep the heels. Maybe you’ll trip and break your neck. I won’t shed a single damn tear for you.”
With that, Gwen was being shoved by a Rhastoplast, a cantankerous creature with small beady eyes and a sizable horned nose.
Dismor was patient, staying in the crevice for as long as it took for the guards to clear out the human prisoners. The women would be taken to yet another holding area now, chained and treated like livestock until the bonding ceremony.
When the immediate area was empty, she slipped out of the crack, moving swiftly toward the abandoned wheeled case that had seemed so important to Gwen. Dismor grabbed it, not bothering to open it and inspect the contents. Whatever it was, she would make certain her King received it after the bonding. She would also make sure he received nutritional pills, a small supply of food, and an instant water synthesizer. Compressed hydrogen and oxygen that would expand and flow the minute the cap came off the tiny bottle. The items would be easily hidden.
The large bag with wheels, not so much.
But guaranteeing Gwen got this thing that was so important she was willing to fight with an ex-gladiator four times her size seemed to be the only way Dismor could assist the woman and thereby fulfill her King’s orders.
Dismor retreated the way she’d come, stealth and the dim lighting keeping her under cover.
When she came back to the King’s quarters, he was sleeping fitfully across the oversized bed. Magl’on stood stoically, eyes trained on the entrance. She flitted past him, without acknowledgement, and into her own small quarters shared with the other guard. Gathering the few things she could from her own survival kit, she left the chambers soundlessly. She could tell Magl’on was curious, but he knew better than to question her comings and goings. As far as rank went, she was his superior.
Dismor headed to the main hangar. She’d mapped out the palace before landing and knew the ins and outs—every secret exit and entrance, every hiding place for possible threats. Hundreds of ships dotted the sleek floor. But only one was suited for a King. Gilded and glowing in a sea of dark carbon hulls.
She walked with purpose, because it was not easy to hide here—not with crew roaming the areas and pre-flight checks happening on dozens of ships at once. But she’d learned long ago that people rarely bothered anyone who looked like they knew what they were doing, like they had every right to be somewhere. Like they belonged.
As if any of her people could actually ever belong someplace as depraved as the home of the Galactic Gladiator Games.
The ramp to the King’s transport was extended. She boarded easily, no one stopping her. Because of the contract, Kaio would be in the most well-appointed room. The Captain’s room.
She tucked the case and the small grouping of supplies beneath the built-in bed. She’d added a few things to her original list, hoping they might do some good.
Dismor would not warn her King that she had broken contract to ensure he had the means to survive. It was important that he had deniability. But she knew him well, and he would search his transport quarters thoroughly.
It was a minor offering.
And not for the first time or the last, Dismor was struck with that dreaded sense of helplessness.
Only so many nanoseconds left, only so many solar hours.
Before her King was beyond her reach.
