Not that he cared about their fate. The galaxy had more than enough viable planets and sentient races. They wouldn’t miss the loss of one backwards planet out in the far reaches.

But what to do about the Earthling? He raised his pistol to end the human’s life, but hesitated. What had it meant when it called him Han Solo on crack? His translator didn’t know what to make of it, and dammit, now he found himself curious.

I’ll kill it after I find out. Decided, he holstered his gun and then crouched to grab the limp body. He rolled the human onto its back and that’s when he noticed the damage done to the female. And female she certainly was with her plentiful bosom spilling from the top of a soaking rag-only two breasts, though, instead of a lush four or five. He ignored her feminine attributes as he took in her twisted leg, broken in at least three places he’d wager.

I’m surprised she didn’t scream her head off when she woke there for a moment. Probably shock kept her from noticing her injury. She’d certainly have plenty to say when she woke again-blubbering and gushing tears he couldn’t abide. For a moment, he again debated just shooting her now before he had to put up with lunatic raving, but stopped at the sight of her looking so utterly helpless. He cursed as he holstered his gun. He, the coldest killer in the known galaxies, couldn’t kill her. That’s it. I need to go on a mission before I turn into a complete frukxning softy. He’d let his contacts know he was back in business as soon as he got rid of his cargo, including one sure-to-be-annoying female.

He slid his hands under her plump frame and drew her toward him before standing with her cradled in his arms. With no effort on his part-he kept himself in impeccable shape-he carried her to the end of the walkway and the equipment lift. A short elevator ride later, he spilled onto an upper level where he kept his room and the medical chamber.