The Star Prince (7 page)

From inside the lavatory came the swish of water in the hygiene sink. Then Tee emerged, her choppy hair slicked back from her pale forehead, her baggy clothes hanging in wrinkled folds, making her appear more gaunt than slender. Grayish shadows under her eyes added to her air of fragility, turning the once-enchanting pixie into a forlorn waif.

She passed them, her gait faltering but still proud as she made her way back to the galley.

Ian spoke in undertones, preempting his mechanic's protest. "She'll have to do, Quin. Randall's on Grüma, and we're going after him."

Quin's jaw moved back and forth, a sure indication that he was pondering their predicament.

Ian jerked his thumb toward the galley. The pixie was definitely a sight, dressed in her dusty old clothes, her short red-gold hair sprouting in all directions. But something inside him lightened inexplicably every time he looked at her. "Now that she's purged her system, we'll fill her with tock"

Referring to Tee as if she were another bulky piece of shipboard equipment appeared to comfort the mechanic. "All right, Captain. After launch, I'll allow her some downtime to bring her back to maximum efficiency."

"That's it, Quin," Ian said with a smile. "Now we're talking."

After a prolonged private conversation with his men, the handsome Earth dweller returned to the galley. Tee'ah gave a small moan as the room tilted.

"When was the last time you had a meal?" he asked.

"It's been awhile. Sometime yesterday, I think."

"Quin," he called out. "Don't we have some leftover stew in the chiller?"

"No!" Tee'ah's belly contracted at the mere thought of congealed stew, no matter how delicious it might be once heated. "But thank you," she added quickly, trying to blunt the initial sharpness of her tone with a smile. The last thing she wanted was to rebuff the Earth dweller's kindness; he might listen to that foul-tempered troll Quin and toss her off the ship. She'd lost her starspeeder and most of her credits. If she didn't soon shake off the aftereffects of the whiskey she'd boasted about drinking all the time, she'd lose this job, too. If that happened, her dreams of a new life were over. Broke and unemployed, a woman's chances of surviving in the frontier diminished to nearly zero.

No matter what, she must stay on this ship.

In that case, she'd better know who her captain was. Ian Stone's similarities to Ian Hamilton were numerous and striking. Her stomach flip-flopped with the mere thought of being on the same starship as Rom's handpicked heir. From all reports the crown prince was an unfailing devotee of Vash custom, a model heir. If he were to find out who she was, he'd certainly order her to return home. Her personal desires would mean no more to him than they had to her father. She was ungrateful, disobedient; she'd run from an arranged marriage and shamed her parents in the process.

Regret lay heavy in her chest, and perhaps it always would. Humiliating her family wasn't what she'd set out to accomplish, but sadly it was what would come of her actions.

Woozy with nausea and exhaustion, she listened carefully to Ian's conversations with his crew: discussions of mundane shipboard matters, the goods stored in the cargo hold, ordinary trader lingo. She noted that the Earth dweller needed a shave, and that his wavy dark brown hair brushed the bottom of his neck, a length longer than Vash standards. His jeans and eye-shaders completed the image of a dangerous and handsome space rogue. She couldn't fathom his being the crown prince. He was so marvelously alien; nothing about his behavior reflected the courtly manners and rigid tradition of a Vash castle.

Anxiety and the natural stimulant in tock made her pulse race. Her empty stomach worsened the effect. In fact, hunger was likely the reason the liquor had played havoc with her system in the first place. So were shock, lack of sleep, and physical exhaustion from pushing the starspeeder and her body to the limit. While drunkenness couldn't be so readily shrugged off, exhaustion and hunger could be overcome.

She set her mug on the table. "On second thought, I think I will have something to eat. Something light, if you don't mind."

Quin dropped a few slices of lar-bread onto a plate. Tee'ah bypassed the jar of sticky jam he offered and forced herself to eat the flatbread plain. When she was sure the bread would stay down, she drank what was left in her mug. This time Ian refilled it, while his acid-tongued ogre of a mechanic paced behind her, his impatient footsteps thundering in Tee'ah's aching head, his skeptical gaze boring into her back. Slowly the fog dulling her senses began to retreat like dust from Mistraal's skies after a Tjhu'nam’ s passage.

Time elapsed. A few hours, she guessed. Ian scrutinized the Earth-made chronograph on his wrist and then her. "So. When do you think you might be able to fly me off this rock?" Brows raised, he gave her a long, questioning, intensely appraising stare.

A sense of purpose swept through her, the desire to surpass Ian's expectations and those of the crew. This was her chance to prove, if only to herself, that she was more than a coddled princess, more than a woman whose identity would be defined by the accomplishments of a future mate.

"I'm ready now," she said, and stood. Light-headedness swept through her. She gulped a few breaths and gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.

Quin balked. "She'll kill us all!"

Only you, bonehead, if I get half a chance. Summoning her remaining dignity, she lurched into the corridor, followed by the two men.

Ian caught her elbow. "Is that true, Tee? Are you going to kill us all?" He regarded her with an irritatingly amused smile. "I'm afraid I'll have to dock your pay for every life lost."

Perhaps she might have chuckled at his teasing had the stakes not been so high. She yanked her damp cap over her hair. "I intend to fly this ship safely and to your satisfaction."

"Good. But the cockpit's this way." And with that, his grin turned devilish, and he steered her in the opposite direction.

The Sun Devil's cockpit was smaller than the cargo freighter she was used to, but she'd managed all right with the starspeeder, a smaller ship. A sweeping forward-viewscreen framed a vista of brown hills below a pallid sky. Below the screen was the pilot's station, a panel with state-of-the-art instrumentation, as on the Prosper. The indicator lights winked invitingly, illuminating the black composite of the control yoke. Her fingers twitched in anticipation of gripping it. Ian sat in his captain's chair. "All hands to launch stations." Gredda, Push, Muffin, and Quin took their seats.

At Ian's firm command, Tee buckled herself into the snugly comfortable pilot's seat. Her empty stomach and bone-deep tiredness made it difficult to resist the craving to lie down and sleep for an entire standard year. But she willed away her sluggishness and shook her head, bunking.

The voices around her hushed. Slowly she became aware of the crew's doubtful gazes, particularly Quin's.

She wrapped her dust-streaked hands around the control yoke. "Strap in." Her lips drew back in an evil smile. "Tight."

There was a chorus of clicking harnesses. Then the scuffling ceased as the crew awaited her next order. To her delight, Quin looked decidedly paler.

She used the ship's computer to guide her through the unfamiliar prelaunch checklist display: prompts scrolling past on the viewscreen.

"Pilot ready, Captain," she said upon completing the last step in the procedure.

Ian folded his hands over his stomach. "Commence launch."

That he was calm with her at the controls of his craft infused her with confidence. She tapped the comm icon and told Blunder's port controller they were ready.

"Cleared to depart, Sun Devil."

She heard the sound of straps being yanked extra tight. Then a deep rumbling gave way to a satisfying surge of power. A force several tunes that of normal gravity pressed her into her seat. Her queasiness surged. She took deep breaths to control her nausea until the ship was out of the atmosphere and in its assigned space-lane routing, where the forces of acceleration eased. She was grateful the Sun Devil had a gravity generator, making the shipboard environment feel normal. If she had to contend with weightlessness, as she had on the starspeeder, she'd have long since lost her last meal.

She used everything she had to concentrate on Ian's instructions to take the ship through a short jump to hyperspace, where greater than light-speeds could be achieved through physics she battled to comprehend. Only after they'd dropped back into normal space did she have a free moment to grin at the silent crew.

Gredda gave her a respectful nod. The others attempted weak smiles. But the Earth dweller's eyes simply gleamed. She'd gotten him off Donavan's Blunder, and that was what he wanted.

Exhaling, she relaxed a fraction and returned her attention to her viewscreens and the planet Grüma ahead. Maybe this wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind, but by the looks of it, she'd found herself a job.

Chapter Five

Gann Truelenne dismissed the escort assigned to him; he preferred to navigate the maze of corridors in the palace himself. His travel cloak whipped around his legs as his strides carried him into the heart of the largest personal residence in the galaxy. To his left and right massive columns soared to the ceiling, the space between them open to a vast desert. He breathed deeply. With Sienna's two suns now below the horizon and the palace heat shields lowered for the night, the B'kah homeworld felt almost habitable, a term not generally used to describe any of the eight Vash Nadah home planets. But it had been so long since Gann had trodden upon anything but the deck of his starship, the Quillie, that he swore he felt the polished-stone floor rolling beneath his boots.

"Welcome back," a voice boomed from the distant end of the passageway.

Gann squared his shoulders. Ahead, the king awaited him, his tall, muscled frame illuminated by the laser candlelight flooding the hall. Romlijhian B'kah was the undisputed ruler of all known worlds, a direct descendant of Romjha, a warrior of almost mythical greatness credited with saving civilization from extinction over eleven thousand years before. A hero in his own right, Rom was a statesman, a decorated soldier, and a devoted husband. But to Gann, his most fitting title would always be friend.

Gann halted and snapped his fist over his chest, dipping his head in a bow. "You summoned me, my lord."

Rom's eyes sparked with amusement. "Ah, such formality."

Gann slowly raised his head. "I thought it was better to be safe. It's been two years since I last saw you in the flesh; your rank may have finally gone to your head."

"My one-too-many-times-battered head?" Rom asked dryly. When Gann grinned and pretended to search for a tactful answer, his friend laughed heartily. "Ah, my friend, it's good to see you."

They came together in a spirited embrace. Then, hands clasping each other's shoulders, they moved apart, a thousand shared memories in their eyes.

Finally Gann let his hands fall to his sides. "You didn't bring me here simply because you missed me."

"Not entirely." Rom's tired smile was maddeningly enigmatic. Without further comment he waved toward an open set of double doors and led Gann through a vast chamber, where a floor of Siennan marble reflected lavish tapestries and pieces of furniture— all ancient and priceless— encircling a saltwater fountain stocked with rare sea creatures. Such grandeur was breathtaking to those viewing the palace for the first time, but such trappings of wealth and power did not intimidate Gann. He'd grown up amid this wonderland. His father was a member of the previous king's elite guard, as was his father's father, and the thousands of years of Truelenne men who came before him. The loyalty Gann felt for Rom and his family went beyond friendship, beyond the years they'd served on the same starship during Rom's exile. It was bred in his bones.

The men walked silently. Gann studied his uncharacteristically subdued friend, wondering suddenly if this mysterious summons translated to a family emergency. "How is Jas?"

Rom's eyes lit up at the mention of his Earth-born wife. "Very well. She looks forward to seeing you. In fact she's chilling several bottles of Red Rocket Ale as we speak."

Gann had hoped as much; he found the Earth beverage delicious. And he wasn't alone. Beer was swiftly becoming a sought-after libation across the galaxy, making Jas's longtime friend, Dan Brady, creator of this royal favorite brand, one of Earth's wealthiest businessmen.

Gann made another bid to determine the root of Rom's concern. Rom was close to his children-by-marriage, and treated them as if they were of his own blood. "Ian and Ilana— I trust they are well?"

"Yes." Rom leveled him with a perceptive, if somewhat worried gaze. "All are healthy, thank the Great Mother. But you are correct in assuming the reason I brought you here is not a Vash Nadah matter. In fact, it's quite personal. A predicament of lost and found, you might say. Found, I pray, with your help."

A surge of anticipation quickened Gann's pulse. Life had lacked a certain… spark since he and Rom had parted ways upon his friend's ascension to the galaxy's throne. Whatever Rom required of him now, it was bound to be good and, he hoped, exactly what he needed to lift him from his doldrums of late. Though he couldn't help wondering why a king with an immense army and security forces trained in covert operations at his disposal would need an aging warrior's help.

His curiosity soared higher as he trailed Rom to where soft music emanated from a sitting area hidden behind a screen. Here the walls were whitewashed and plain, the tile floor strewn with cushions, all glowing in the light of Sienna's three pockmarked moons framed in an enormous skylight. Mementos from Rom and Jas's travels, along with framed holo-images of their families, graced shelves and ledges clearly installed for that purpose, making obvious the intimacy of the couple who lived there.

A stab of longing blindsided him as an image blossomed in his mind's eye of a private retreat like this, shelves stacked with holo-images of a wife, children. He frowned, then cleared his throat. Family life was for other men; that was the way of it. Serving the B'kah was his calling, a choice he'd made long ago, duty over personal wishes, if not consciously then by birth. Why, then, had regret tainted where only pride dwelled before?