The Star Prince Read online

  “Talk about dropping off the face of the Earth!”

  Bleary-eyed from a string of restless nights, Ian slouched in his command chair on the Sun Devil, waiting for his twin sister to finish berating him from the viewscreen attached to his right armrest. His boots propped on a box of produce destined for the ship’s galley, he pondered the benefits of ancient technology that allowed the Vash to communicate with minimal lag times over vast interstellar distances. Then he weighed those benefits against the grinding reality of being light years from Earth and pestered by his sister, real time.

  “Ian, do you have any idea how hard it’s been trying to get hold of you? Mom said you were in the frontier, but didn’t know where. This is so not like you, Mr. Goody-two-shoes.”

  “Hey, I called, didn’t I?”

  She snorted. “Mentally, I’d already tossed your ashes into the wind.”

  “I’m undercover, Ilana. No one can reach me. Remember?”

  “Was I supposed to?” She appeared unconvincingly apologetic as she smoothed her bangs away from her forehead. On anyone else, the tangled bleached-blond hair would look like a mop. On her, it looked good, and probably fit her life as a young, single filmmaker living in Santa Monica, California.

  “I needed to ask you a few questions,” he said, “but it sounds like you have something for me.” Ilana had once said that his eagerness to devote his life to the greater good was as pointless and boring as her dating only one guy at a time. But her love for Rom B’kah was one thing they had in common, and she acted as Ian’s eyes and ears on Earth, keeping him updated on public opinion regarding the Federation.

  “Well, the Neanderthals are at it again.”

  “Earth First?”

  “Yes. Two anti-Federation rallies—one a couple of weeks ago at the U.N., the other last weekend in Washington.”

  “No protests overseas?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  He rolled the tension out of his shoulders. Because he and his mother had unprecedented positions in their society, a high-ranking Earth official instigating a bid for independence was bound to attract Vash attention. What member of the Great Council would approve of a prince from a rogue planet?

  “Don’t let it get you down, Ian. I have good news, too. Randall’s on his way to the frontier. A little fact-finding tour, he’s calling it.”

  “No kidding.” Adrenaline rushed through him, and he dropped his feet to the floor. Finally, something was going his way. “Have you got anything recorded?”

  “A press conference. Ready?”

  “Yes. Play it.”

  Charles Randall appeared on the viewscreen. Dressed in a crisp flightsuit with a NASA emblem, the senator posed comfortably before an array of viewscreens that were clearly part of a new starship. Ironic, Ian thought as he waved Muffin over; the Federation’s biggest critic was enjoying himself on a spaceship cut from a Vash pattern with Vash-donated parts.

  Muffin settled into the adjacent chair. The recording was in English, of which the man had a limited command. He could use a Basic English translator—a high-tech, palm-sized device that transformed speech to text—but he preferred observing body language, which he said he often found more useful than verbal cues.

  “Senator,” a correspondent asked once Randall was done rhapsodizing about his upcoming adventure. “How do you reconcile your harsh accusations regarding the Vash with their actions over the past seven years? In exchange for an ordinary trade agreement, they’ve given us cures for cancer and AIDS, and medical science enabling us to heal newly damaged spinal cords. Yet you say we’re better off without them?”

  Randall ran a hand over his silver hair, cut in a short military style buzz. “The Vash have indeed been generous with us,” he acknowledged. “Light-speed capable spacecraft, cures for devastating diseases; the list goes on and on. But at what cost to us? They’ve absorbed us completely into their empire.” His piercing blue eyes narrowed. “If that doesn’t frighten you, it should. The arrangement you call an ordinary trade agreement is the proverbial deal with the devil. We sold our souls for some fancy tech. This may not be what some of you want to hear, but it’s reality, folks. It’s time we faced it, took action and looked out for our own interests. That’s why I’m going to the frontier. For you, for me, for all of us. I want to see what has happened to other planets who have made deals with the Vash. And I want to see what actions will be most favorable for our peoples in the years to come. I expect that detaching ourselves from the Federation is the only way to get what we need. Remember, Earth must come first.”

  A few journalists cheered.

  “Great,” Ian muttered to himself. Their eagerness to swallow Randall’s sugar pill of sovereignty showed their naiveté in galactic history. Independent, power-hungry worlds caused instability; only unity would keep the peace.

  “What’s your itinerary, Senator?”

  “Planet Grüma will serve as my base camp for the month. From there I’ll launch several side trips.”

  Ian drummed his fingers on his thighs. “Grüma.” The rural planet was home to the frontier’s lively but mostly harmless black market. “I wonder what facts he thinks he’ll find there?”

  “We can easily find out,” Muffin said. “It’s close, a day’s ride. Maybe two.”

  Ian scowled. “It might as well be in another dimension without a pilot to fly us there.”

  When Ilana reappeared on the viewscreen, she searched his face and grinned. “All right. You’re going after him?”

  “You better believe, I am.”

  “Hot damn! Ian Hamilton’s going to kick some butt. Tae-kwon-do! Make Randall eat his propaganda, would you?”

  He replied dryly, “The Vash crown prince duking it out with a U.S. senator? Yeah, that’d go a long way toward helping interstellar relations.”

  “You know, maybe it would.”

  Muffin chuckled, and Ian glared at him.

  Ilana lifted her hands. “I know, you don’t have to tell me. You prefer the thinking man’s approach; diplomacy is paramount; ‘make love not war,’ the Vash Nadah creed. Hey, it worked for most of eleven thousand years, right?” She leaned toward the viewscreen. “But sometimes, you just have to kick a little ass.”

  Ian pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Ilana recognized the warning sign and smiled sweetly. “All I’m saying is that you have a black belt—put it to use for once in your life.”

  “On a different subject,” he interjected. “Thanks for the heads-up on Randall.”

  “Anytime,” she said, softer.

  He reached for the viewscreen, then dropped his hand. “I owe you big time. And don’t tell Rom or Mom that I called. I want to take care of this myself.”

  “Okay.” She blew him a kiss. “Be careful out there,” she murmured, then she signed off.

  Rom had approved a mission for Ian to see what was happening in the frontier, not to chase after an Earth senator. “Quin,” he called over his shoulder. “When you have a chance, redo the encryption on our comm.”

  “But, sir,” Quin said, “it was done before we left Sienna. Lord B’kah’s chief mechanic is an expert in the security field.”

  “That’s the point. Rom knows the codes.” As long as there was a way for the king to find him, the umbilical cord was still attached. This was something he wanted to achieve on his own. “We’re about to take a little detour. It’s best no one knows about it but us.”

  The ship felt suddenly claustrophobic. Ian pushed himself off the chair and tiredly tucked his shirt into his jeans. “I’m heading out for awhile,” he told the men. “Call me on the comm if any pilots come knocking on our door, begging for work.” He checked his utility belt for his laser pistol and sunglasses, then left in search of a likely establishment for a glass of iced tock. The licorice-tasting beverage passed for coffee everywhere but Earth.

  Not much happened on Blunder before mid afternoon. He’d use the quiet hours to reformulate his strategy now that it appeared his
nemesis was coming to him. But as soon as the streets filled at sunset, he vowed to find someone capable of flying him off this stinking rock.

  There was a decided swagger in Tee’ah’s stiff, too-long-on-a-ship gait as she strode down the gangway of her starspeeder. The air on Donavan’s Blunder was thick, almost suffocating, and the sun’s intense heat seared through the fabric of her brother’s unseasonable black shirt and pants. She would have been far more comfortable in her flight suit, but with the Dar fleet likely on her tail, armed with the description of her clothing the lieutenant would have given them, she couldn’t risk being recognized.

  She donned her cap, now stripped of its wing-shaped emblem, and ducked under the shadow of the speeder. Her boots crunched on the hard, bleached dirt as she took in the bustling spaceport, marveling at the sheer volume of people. The scents of dust, food, and decay, the thunder of ships roaring overhead and merchants shouting, slammed into her, making her senses whirl wondrously. Filling her lungs with hot, rocket fume-laden air, she tasted freedom with every breath.

  “Donavan’s Blunder,” she said on an exhalation. The name was legendary, conjuring images of danger and adventure. Her uncle, Romlijhian B’kah, a legend in his own right, once dismissed Blunder as a rather notorious but necessary stop on the far-flung trade routes of the frontier. But to her, a woman raised within the custodial elegance of a Vash castle, the port was exotic, exciting. Glamorous. How far she’d veered from her ordained path, a destiny she’d never questioned until her uncle married Jasmine Hamilton, the most fascinating individual she’d ever known. The woman flew starspeeders and acted as freely as her ruler husband.

  A starcruiser roared overhead, reminding Tee’ah quite starkly that as soon as the storm passed, her father would have dispatched his security forces to find her. Certainly one contingent would have been sent to search the major ports in the frontier, and if they hadn’t already searched Donavan’s Blunder, they certainly would soon. This was no time to act like an awestruck tourist.

  She tugged her cap over her eyes and set her jaw. Fighting dizziness and the beginnings of a headache triggered by sensory overload, she left the speeder behind, limping across the plaza to the crowded market, where she was sure to find a cloaker. The crew of the Prosper had often talked about their travels. From those tales of adventure Tee’ah had learned about obtaining the illegal services of a cloaker, a specialist who could “disguise” a vessel by hacking in and scrambling the identifying codes it transmitted when queried by space controllers or other ships. As long as her ship was virtually screaming I’m a stolen speeder piloted by a runaway princess, she had a star-berry blossom’s chance in winter of making it off Blunder without her father’s knowledge. A cloaker would change all that, allowing her to traverse the galaxy as just another run-of-the-mill ship.

  Heat rose from the dirt. Ahead, a row of ramshackle buildings undulated like palace banners in the morning breeze. As she neared, the illusion solidified into tents with frayed canvas flaps for doors. Although a lot of money flowed in and out of the port, it wasn’t apparent in the area’s architecture. She suspected that those who profited here funneled their illegally gained wealth off planet to where it would be safe from thievery and Vash seizures.

  She chose the nearest tent. Pushing past a musty tarp she walked inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the stuffy interior dimly lit by laser candles. A man who looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks lowered the cup from which he’d been drinking. “Yes, lad?” His breath held the sharp scent of liquor.

  “Can you tell me where I can find a cloaker?” she whispered.

  He pointed unsteadily with his cup. “That way.” Clear liquid sloshed onto the dusty floor. “Second shop from the end.”

  “Thanks.” She exchanged the oppressive heat of the tent for the sharp glare of the sun-baked street. She infused her steps with confidence she didn’t quite feel, but she was stared at nonetheless; strangers were noticed on the Blunder.

  Some in the mostly male crowd looked mean, their eyes hard. Others showed signs of disease—pockmarks, bowed limbs, or colds with coughs and reddened noses—none of which she had seen before. If advanced medical technology reached all corners of the galaxy, as the Vash Federation claimed, then why was it not evident here?

  A wisp of a breeze teased the tarnished wind chimes dangling from the beamed ceiling of a café. The delicate melody lingered and seemed out of place. Longingly she gazed at a glass of iced tock in the sole patron’s hand. Then a glint of silver dragged her attention to the man’s face. He was wearing mirrored eye-shaders! No one wore shaders anymore. They hadn’t been popular for thousands of years, not since the advent of optic implants. But they somehow fit the trader, right down to his fair skin and odd-colored dark hair, a rich nut brown.

  Tee’ah slowed, curiosity overcoming her. The exotic stranger noticed, warily twisting around on his stool. He glanced over his shaders with greenish eyes as brilliant as gems. An Earth dweller! Just seeing someone from the provincial and stubbornly independent frontier world, close enough to touch, was thrilling proof that she was far, far from home.

  The man gave her a brief nod, the kind one traveler might give another, and then went back to his tock. Almost reluctantly she resumed her pace, leaving the café behind.

  “What do we have here?” she heard someone say.

  She jerked her attention up from the dusty street. A lanky merchant with intense, intelligent eyes scrutinized her from the shade of an awning. “A genuine intersystem cargo pilot cap you’re wearing there,” he noted. “Minus the emblem. Where’s the rest of your pretty uniform?”

  Unease fluttered in her belly, and instinct urged her to run. Pride kept her from doing so. She dismissed her admirer with a nod but he caught up to her, matching her strides.

  She halted with one hand on the tent flap to the cloaker’s shop. “I have business to attend to,” she said crisply.

  He peered under the brim of her cap and his eyes sparked with surprise. Whether it was because he had discovered she was female, or that she had the classic features of her class, she wasn’t sure, but he didn’t ask the question she saw on his face.

  “Well, the plot thickens,” he murmured. “Nice ship you have there. Looks fast.”

  “She is that.” With wistful pride, Tee’ah glanced backward over her shoulder. The distant speeder’s fuselage glowed painfully bright in the sun. “Sub-light–speed at only twenty-five percent thrust.”

  “Impressive. Bet you’d like to keep her.”

  Her heart stopped. “What?”

  He handed her his palmtop. His gaze was cool, discerning, as if he knew what she was all about. She forced herself to focus on the series of numbers and letters scrolling across the screen, a code identifying her ship as a Dar speeder without clearance to be this far from home.

  “Stole her, did you? From the Dars.” He broke into a laugh when the rest of the blood no doubt drained from her face. Then he waved at the dozens of ships docked on all sides. “Not to worry; half the ships here arrive with owners other than those who were intended.”

  Somehow she kept the quivers in her belly from reaching her hand as she returned his palmtop. “What do you want?”

  “A little business.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m your cloaker.”

  “But…” Stupidly she peered into the empty interior of the tent.

  “It’s a quiet day. I was out combing for extra work. You simply beat me back to the store.” The merchant lifted the tent flap and waved one arm with a flourish. “After you, my lady.” With a shrug, she went in.

  The shop smelled like tobacco and stale incense. Half-hidden behind an array of computers was a desk littered with surprisingly sophisticated hardware. The cloaker pulled out a chair and sat, leaving her standing. “I’ll be happy to fix your hot little speeder,” he said. “But I’ll require insurance.”

  “What? I require cloaking, nothing more.”

  “You’re
wearing the cap of an intersystem cargo pilot, but you’re in the frontier, way out of the usual neighborhood, correct? Not to mention that at first sight you look purebred Vash…but you can’t be because you’re standing here talking to me about a Dar speeder that ain’t supposed to be here.” He slammed his palmtop onto the desk separating them. “Someone’s going to come after your ship eventually. If I’m still on board working when they do, they’ll fine me to oblivion. I’ll need insurance for that—and to steer them off your trail should they ask about you.” He paused, regarding her. “They are going to ask about you, aren’t they?”

  She studied the sunlight creating patterns on the floor. It seemed the cost of her freedom was rising. “How much?”

  “Fourteen thousand credits.”

  She gave a strangled cough. “Fourteen?” That was most of what she had with her. “Ten thousand,” she shot back, her belly twisting from nerves. She desperately needed the cloaker. But she needed her credits, too. “That’s all I’ll spend.”

  He plopped his arms over his chest. “Thirteen-five and not a credit lower. As a special favor I’ll throw in my expert subterfuge, which is me convincing anyone who asks—at my own risk—that you’re not here. Long gone. Off planet. Got it?” His eyes narrowed. “You’re dealing with the Dars here. Vash royalty. They’ll want back what’s theirs.”

  “There are other cloakers on Blunder.” She swallowed tightly, then headed for the exit, praying she was right.

  “Twelve, then,” she heard him say. “You won’t get it any lower. Not under these circumstances.”

  He was right. She wasn’t in possession of just any ship; she’d taken a top-of-the-line Dar starspeeder. Other cloakers might not want to risk the wrath of a Vash royal family by altering such a vessel, no matter how much money she was willing to pay.