The Star King (27 page)

"You sound like you're saying good-bye," she whispered.

"Bah! I'm merely expressing what is in my heart. I want a simple life, a life with
you.
Somewhere, anywhere I can keep you safe, you and your children. Your entire family if need be, mother, father, sisters—"

She flung her arms around him in an impetuous hug. His hands crept under her robe and up her bare back. Holding her close, he was loath ever to release her. Twenty years before, her appearance had signaled the

end of life as he'd known it. Now that his "angel" had led him full circle back to the
Vash Nadah—
and his traditional obligations—he couldn't help wondering how many more moments like this they had left.

Chapter Eighteen

Word that the legendary B'kah had taken up residence at the palace spread quickly, bringing
Vash
diplomats and members of the great council to Mistraal in never-before-seen numbers. The Dar compound was jammed with would-be crusaders. More arrived every day. When Rom last checked in with the
Quillie,
Gann stated that they, too, were on their way.

But despite relentless lobbying to amass a force large enough to hunt down and destroy Sharron's bases, Jas was sorry to see that their efforts netted them but a handful of true allies. Ever careful to defer to those in power, Rom was disinclined to do more than meet with the visitors in private audiences, always insisting that he had not come here to involve himself in
Vash
politics. But the longer they stayed, the more involved he became, until finally he bowed to Joren's urging to give an address.

Since Rom was banned from setting foot on the Wheel, the vast structure housing the Great Council when in session, he agreed to speak at the palace. Jas worked doggedly with him on its content, hoping it would be the catalyst they needed to spur the
Vash
into declaring war against Shan-on. Unfortunately, the villain hadn't helped their cause by virtually disappearing in the weeks since they'd fled his compound.

"While you were in the exercise chamber this afternoon," Rom said, venting his frustrations one evening while she dressed for dinner, "a group of council elders took it upon themselves to inform me that my implication that Sharron possesses and intends to use forbidden technology is merely conjecture—and thus not worthy of their concern."

"What did you say?"

" 'Do we have the right to take that chance?'—the very question you asked of me on Ceres. But they want proof, proof that the forbidden technology exists. And that is the one thing I cannot give them." He walked to their bed and settled tiredly onto the coverlet, wedging a pillow behind his head. "Shan-on has always been too clever to allow that proof to become known."

His fatigue and frustration troubled her. "Joren supports you. So does that plantation owner, Drandon Keer. They don't need proof."

"No, but they are friends."

"Friends with influence and money."

"Resources are useless without unity." He stared at the ceiling. "Perhaps if the B'kahs would come, true headway might be made."

"Your father." Jas tried to hide her distaste for the man. Even now he was blocking Rom's efforts. Her fingers stiffened as she twisted her damp hair into a chignon. Fumbling, she made a conscious effort to relax them in order to put her hair up. "This is more his responsibility than yours. He's the one who didn't help in the first place. And he and the other elders are the ones who've mismanaged the trade routes and given the Family of the New Day the chance to come back, not you."

"When my father should have devoted his time to the Great Council and left the day-to-day mechanics of ruling to a son, he had to do two jobs. It is hard to do them both well."

His calm impartiality surprised her. "You're making excuses for him. I don't know if he deserves it."

"We've all made mistakes," Rom quietly conceded. "Perhaps I'm finally beginning to understand that."

A series of resounding booms rumbled through the palace, coming closer and closer until a startling
whoomph
blasted behind her. Air swirled past her ankles. She spun around. "The shields?"

"Yes. They'll stay in place over every portal until the wind velocity drops to normal levels."

The
Tjhu'nami.

She peered out beyond the terrace to the endless savanna. A ten-foot-thick clear barrier was now in place. Beyond it, the long grasses were completely flattened. She could feel, but not quite hear, a constant rumbling— the receding tide of air before a distant monstrous wave.

Deadly windstorms made Mistraal the most inhospitable and forbidding of the eight
Vash Nadah
home-worlds. By midnight—nights here were half as long as Earth nights—the
Tjhu'nami
was anticipated to reach an unimaginable eight hundred knots. Worse, the storm would pass directly over the palace and Dar City, home

to the planet's entire population. Shuddering, Jasmine rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Ever since the weather station on the huge space-city orbiting Mistraal had issued its warning, she'd been as agitated as an apartment-bound cat that sensed an earthquake was imminent, but could do nothing more than dart from couch to chair to coffee table.

"My ears are popping," she said, tearing her gaze from the once-soothing vista.

"So are mine. The atmospheric pressure's plunging. Dar City will literally close down within—" Sitting up, Rom glanced at his watch. "Well, now. It looks as if we already have: Total communications blackout—for at least a day."

She thought of the envoys crowding the palace—relentless in demanding Rom's time. And those in the space-city high above the planet. "That means no one can fly out, unless it's an emergency."

"Nor in, either." Mischief glinted in his golden eyes.

She matched his devilish grin. "Poor politicians, stuck in orbit. What a shame."

"For them, perhaps. For us, a temporary respite I say we celebrate." He swung his legs off the bed and extended his hand. "Allow me to escort you to dinner, angel."

* * *

The Dar Palace was a galactic version of medieval splendor—with all its idiosyncrasies. Dinners were communal banquets shared with hundreds of others in the largest room Jas had ever seen. Massive columns of white marble supported a dome resplendent with hand-painted scenes of an alien sea, replete with creatures she'd not find on any Earth shore. The ceiling was so high that moisture collected there in diaphanous ribbons of mist, imparting the dreaminess of a mermaid's underwater castle.

Rom led Jas past tables laden with fragrant delicacies. Sociable men and women, descendants of those who had attended the Dars for eons—a sought-after position among the merchant class—served hot and cold dishes of every description, liqueurs, wines and juices, casks of salt, the best the galaxy had to offer.

As the wind slammed hurricane fists against the shielded windows that spanned the height of the room, the very air drummed with the tempest. Yet musicians played, Bajha aficionados regaled each other with tales, and children squirmed and giggled, while sinewy, downy-haired ketta-cats prowled under the tables, looking for scraps.

As usual, they sat with Joren and Di, their children, and assorted powerful and influential members of the Dar clan. Since most spoke Siennan, except when addressing her, Jas was immersed in the tongue. The language was difficult, but gradually she was learning to communicate. She was thankful that tonight the conversation centered on lighthearted subjects, perhaps due to her and Rom's obvious exhaustion in the wake of preparing for his address, and their consideration of it. The Dars were family, after all.

"The Earth beverage, sir." A young man sporting a double row of silver triangles down his nose handed Rom a flask of wheat-colored liquid crowned with a layer of white foam. Then he bowed and backed away.

Rom grinned. "Beer."

Protests and groans met his announcement.

"A different recipe this time!" he shouted over the

noise. "The cooks assure me that it will win your stomachs and your hearts, as Jas's precious supply won mine. Give me your glasses."

All within reach reluctantly thrust out what clean cups they could find. Rom splashed beer into them one by one. Foam bubbled over onto the tablecloth, spreading in dark circles over the holographic pattern.

As Rom poured the last of the beer into her goblet, Jas remarked, "At least it's the right color this time."

He sniffed. "The aroma is promising, as well." He raised his goblet high. "Let us drink!"

Jas nearly gagged when the bitter liquid hit her tongue. Fingertips pressed to her lips, she glanced around, desperate for any alternative to swallowing the stuff.

"Romlijhian!" Joren bellowed, slamming his glass down.

Jas squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed.

Rom dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "Yes, brother?"

Mirth danced in Joren's watering eyes. "Be warned, if I ever see this beverage at my table again, I will happily and quite unceremoniously bathe you in it!"

Laughter erupted. Rom waved his napkin like a flag of surrender. Then he dipped his head to Jas's ear. "You say your friend Dan Brady maintains an Earth establishment devoted solely to the creation and distribution of beer?"

She smiled. "Well, he serves solid food, too."

"We'll partake of both, naturally, but the beer is what intrigues me." His mouth tipped crookedly into a roguish grin, reminding her that he was still a rebel smuggler at heart. "Red Rocket Ale," he said, pronouncing it
Redeh
Rockeet Ell.
"I still have in my possession the trade agreement you brought with you from Earth. I believe it grants me an exclusive arrangement."

She slid her arms around his waist. "You know, I have the feeling you're going to make Dan a very wealthy man. B'kah and Brady—purveyors of beer to the stars."

He threw back his head and laughed.

Oddly, his delight tugged at her heart. "I haven't seen you do that in ... I can't remember how long."

"What? Laugh?"

She nodded. "It's wearing
on
you. The stress, the long hours. I realize we're racing against the clock, but if you don't take a break, you'll bum yourself out."

He turned pensive, drumming his fingers on his upper arms. Then his golden eyes sparked almost boyishly. "Let's go flying."

She reared back. "Are you serious? Where? When?"

"Patrol—each in our own starfighter. It's more a tradition than a necessity, but after a storm passes, the Dars launch ships to survey damage to the palace—if any— and to symbolically reestablish contact with the space-city. No doubt the space chief has already chosen pilots for the mission, but surely he'll be amenable to a little, ah, rearranging."

She smiled and squeezed his hand. He was doing this for her, to cheer her and alleviate her concern. No matter what his condition, he always put her first.
The good of the people outweighs the desire of the individual.
It was what he was taught as the young heir to the throne.

She considered that, and then all the people who had flown here to hear him speak. They were looking to him for leadership, and she couldn't help wondering what that would someday mean for their relationship. But for

now, for the space of this one flight he wanted to arrange, he was hers.

* * *

"Auxiliary boosters."

"Check," Jas said over the comm linking her vessel to Rom's.

"Life-support system."

"Check."

"Weapons systems," Rom finished.

"On-line."

Jas glanced at him across the shadowy hangar. Supposedly she wasn't "seeing" him at all.

"Let me see if I understood you correctly," she asked. "My windows aren't really windows?"

"Correct. They're viewscreens, simulating exactly what you'd see if they were transparent. Only they're better than transparent. The onboard computer compensates for any decay in visibility."

Cool, she thought. Except for her brief stint at the controls in the
Quillie
and the starspeeder, she hadn't piloted anything in decades, and certainly not a craft this automated. Even the seat she was strapped to was "smart." Capable of reacting faster than any human brain, and certainly
her
brain, it provided protection and guidance in situations ranging from interstellar combat to the far more mundane task of shielding her from the tremendous accelerations required for space flight.

Lowering her black visor over her face, she gave Rom a thumbs-up.

"Patrol One's ready," Rom radioed to the space controller, who sat in a pod just outside the cavernous shuttle bay.

"Cleared to launch," the controller replied.

Jas gave a silent cheer as the shield in front of her vibrated, then slowly lifted. Dried leaves and grasses whirled inside the bay, borne on the wind of the dying storm. Spread out before her were endless plains below a dust-yellowed sky. As in her fighter pilot days, she sat poised like an eagle about to take wing.

In a burst of energy, Rom's starfighter departed first. Three seconds later, she flipped on the thrusters. G-forces pressed her into her seat, bringing on a fleeting twinge of pain in her abdomen, where she was still healing.

Clearing the hanger, she aimed the craft's nose at the sky. Though piloting the starfighter wasn't difficult, she saw she wouldn't have the same ease she'd acquired in her F-16.

The storm was ebbing rapidly, but turbulence shook her starfighter in uneven jolts. Hampered by oversize engines and stubby wings, the craft was designed for space rather than the atmosphere, but it was smaller, more advanced, and more heavily armed than the star-speeder Drandon had loaned Rom. For a society that abhorred conflict, the
Vash
certainly put a lot of effort and expense into their weaponry.

Within moments she joined Rom in formation. Side by side, several hundred feet apart, they soared over the prairie, searching the sprawling palace below for damage. Finding none, Rom said, "Onward to the space-city," and took them higher, through the atmosphere, until stars took the place of the rising sun.

Space.
A rush of freedom swept through her, and she suspected Rom felt it, too. Turning the heavens into a glittering carousel of stars, he led her through a series

of practice maneuvers, careful not to heap too much strain on her tender stomach.

"Patrol One, this is Mistraal Control," said a voice in their comm.

"Go ahead," answered Rom.

"Unable to establish contact with the space-city. When you arrive, have the controller initiate comm from their end."

At first the exchange puzzled Jas. How could they be cut off? Forty thousand citizens made their home there and on the mining colonies. The controller's problem gave her an insight into the differences between the way Rom's people and hers on Earth had developed. The
Vash
had perfected star travel and built space-cities, yet the Dars couldn't compensate for something as simple as atmospheric turmoil disrupting space-to-planet transmissions.

Rom acknowledged the call, then moved his craft close to her left wing. Cockpit to cockpit, she waved him off. "You're taking a chance, space cowboy," she said when he stayed put. "This is no F-16. No guarantees how steady I can keep this thing."

"So why wouldn't you dance with me last night at dinner?" he asked, immune to her warning.

She gave an incredulous laugh. The question was the very last one she expected in the midst of flying patrol. "It was the promise song, that's why."

"We're an unmarried couple. That is the only requirement to perform it."

"Unmarried couples intending to legally wed."

"When I request the song again tonight, will you dance voluntarily? Or will I have to toss you over my shoulder?"

She snorted. "I dare you." Something told her that shoulder tossing wasn't an everyday event in Joren's palace. "We'll be the oldest ones out there by twenty years. But you, I take it, as family rebel are tired of such details?"

He sighed. "More than you will ever know."

The airless, frigid chasm of space sat between them like an unwelcome chaperon, magnifying their sudden silence.

From his cockpit, Rom wished he could see past Jas's visor, wished he could read what was in her eyes. "My decision to make you my
a'nah
was impulsive. It is not at all what I wanted for us, but I haven't a choice. I have no title, few resources." And if he joined with a non-
Vash Nadah
woman in an unapproved, unarranged marriage, it meant giving up his secret hope of reclaiming his father's favor.

His stomach muscles tensed. Well, he thought. He'd finally admitted it. But with the admission came a harder realization. If the man wished to see him, he would have done so already. But in its own way, that, too, was liberating.

"By all that is holy, Jasmine, we ought to be wed. Lawfully. Alas, I have spent a lifetime dreaming of the impossible, wishing for what cannot be—"

"Why can't it?"

Because he never imagined such a decision was his to make. The concept shook him. His life was his own now, was it not? He was not the B'kah heir, would never be again. They'd leave soon to visit Earth, and after that. . . well, they had yet to discuss it. Of course, there was the question of whether she'd actually consent to any arrangement...

His words rushed out like a nervous youth's. "We would need authorization—I've no official title, you see. But then, you are not
Vash Nadah.
However, there are different restrictions for the frontier, looser restrictions. The Treatise of Trade states—"