Page 5 of Accidentally Fearless

"You're a giant lizard man," she said.

"I am Commander Vrex Talon, Fourth Division Strategic Command of the Velkorin Territorial Defense Force." I straightened, which put the top of her head approximately level with the middle of my chest. "And you are Earth's Supreme Leader of Recreational Combat."

A shorter pause this time. The human's expression cycled through several configurations I could not immediately categorize—shock, confusion, a brief flicker of irritation—before settling on something flat and assessing.

"Recreational combat," she repeated.

"That is your title, as provided by the Bureau of Intergalactic Resource Acquisition."

"The Bureau of—" She closed her eyes for nearly a minute, then opened them. "Okay. What, specifically, do you think recreational combat means?"

"Military engagement in a formalized setting. Combat simulations used for strategic training and territorial dispute resolution. You are, according to the Bureau's translation, Earth's foremost expert."

The human made a sound. Not a word—it was a short, sharp exhalation through her nose, accompanied by a slight shake of her head.

"I run a paintball arena," she said.

Silence. My guards exchanged a glance. The bioluminescent markings along my spine flared. I suppressed them immediately, but not before she noticed. Her eyes tracked the fading glow—she was accustomed to reading environments for threat indicators.

"Explain," I said.

"Paintball. It's a game. People shoot each other with little balls of paint. For fun. At birthday parties." She paused. "I'm the assistant manager. I don't even own the place."

The receiving bay was very quiet. One of my guards cleared his throat, which among Velkorin was a sound that roughly translated to someone has made a catastrophic error and I do not wish to be associated with it.

"I see," I said, though I did not. "There has been a mistranslation."

"You think?"

"The Bureau's contract, however, is binding. Standard terms. Thirty days."

"Thirty—no. No, absolutely not. Send me back." She looked around the bay—at the dark metal walls, the weapons rack by the door, the guards who were both a full meter taller than she was. "Right now. This second."

I activated the Bureau's communication channel. The dispatcher materialized again, smile intact. "Commander Talon! I trust the acquisition was—"

"There has been an error. This human is not a military strategist. She manages a recreational facility for children."

"Hmm." The dispatcher consulted something. "The translation reads 'Commander of recreational combat simulations with expertise in tactical deployment, personnel management, and crisis resolution.' That matches the candidate's employment profile."

"She organizes birthday parties."

"Large-scale events requiring coordination of multiple hostile parties! Commander, I understand there's been a slight expectation mismatch, but the contract has been activated. Return transport is locked to the thirty-day cycle or successful resolution of the stated problem, whichever comes first. Budget constraints, I'm afraid. The beam costs are—"

"Unacceptable."

"—non-negotiable. But may I remind you that humans have an eighty-seven percent positive outcome rate? Earth-based resources consistently demonstrate creative problem-solving that exceeds predicted parameters. Give it a chance, Commander! You might be pleasantly surprised."

The dispatcher disappeared. The communication channel closed with a soft chime that sounded, to my ears, distinctly smug.

The human—Rory Sullivan, according to the contract documentation that had materialized on my data pad—crossed her arms over her feline-decorated sleeping garments and looked up at me with an expression I would later learn was barely controlled fury.

"So let me get this straight," she said. Her voice had shifted. The initial shock had burned off, and underneath it was something harder. "Your translation software glitched. You meant to grab a military genius. You got me. And now I'm stuck here for thirty days because you can't afford the gas to send me back."

"The Bureau's transport beam operates on a fixed cycle. It is not a matter of fuel."

"It's a metaphor." She stared at me. "Do you people not have metaphors?"

"We have metaphors. They are typically less casual."