Ford pushed the plate of half-eaten eggs away. "Let's go. Before the indigestion sets in."

  Sheila slid out of the booth, adjusting her oversized flannel shirt. She pulled the grease-stained cap lower over her eyes. She looked less like a Princess and more like a sulking teenager who had been forced to work a summer job.

  They walked out of The Grease Trap and into the station's main corridor. It was crowded with dock workers, pilots, and the usual assortment of drifters.

  Ford kept a hand on his belt, near the stun baton he never went anywhere without.

  "Hey, pops," a voice sneered from the shadows near the airlock. "You forget your wallet?"

  Ford ignored it. "Keep walking," he muttered to Sheila.

  But they didn't let them walk. Two men stepped out to block their path. They were big, wearing leather vests that had seen better decades and smelling of cheap synth-ale. Real "Space Cowboy" types, minus the charm.

  One of them, a guy with a metal jaw, looked Sheila up and down.

  "That's a cute mechanic you got there," Metal Jaw grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "Hey, sweetheart. You tired of hangin' with this old fossil?"

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Sheila stopped. She didn't look up.

  "Leave us alone," Ford growled, stepping forward. He put himself between the thug and Sheila. "She's my niece. She's sixteen. And she's got a contagious rash. Move."

  Metal Jaw laughed. "A rash? I like a challenge."

  He side-stepped Ford with surprising speed and loomed over Sheila.

  "Come on, doll," he said, reaching out a hand to touch her arm. "Why don't you come with us? We're real space cowboys. Not like this old dust-farmer."

  Sheila took a step back. She looked at the hand reaching for her.

  Then, she moved.

  It wasn't a flailing slap. It wasn't a scream. It was a precise, calculated movement. She shifted her weight to her back foot, chambered her right leg, and snapped a kick directly into the man’s groin.

  THWACK.

  It sounded like a melon being hit with a hammer.

  Metal Jaw's eyes bulged. The air left his lungs in a wheezing gasp. He didn't even scream. He just crumpled, falling to his knees and then curling into a fetal ball on the dirty floor.

  The corridor went silent.

  The second thug stared at his friend. Then he looked at Sheila, who had already returned to her "sulking teenager" stance, hands in her pockets.

  Ford looked at Sheila. His mouth was slightly open.

  "I..." the second thug started, then looked at Ford's hand hovering over his stun baton. He backed away, hands up. "We're leaving. We're going."

  He grabbed his groaning friend by the collar and dragged him away.

  Ford looked down at Sheila.

  "Your niece?" Ford asked.

  Sheila shrugged. "Self-defense class. My tutor was a black belt in 'Krav Maga'."

  "Useful tutor," Ford noted.

  "I guess that means no," Ford said loudly to the retreating thugs.

  He steered Sheila toward the airlock.

  "Remind me never to make you angry," Ford whispered.

  "Just feed me better eggs," Sheila replied.