Star Prince (v1.1) Page 5

  "I am… I mean, I can. That is, if you're interested."

  As she watched him with skepticism, he rummaged through his front pocket and dug out Carn's old pilot wings, placing them on the table. "The job's yours if you want it. What do you say, Miss Tee?"

  The wings glinted in the hazy sunshine. Her hand crept forward, her long fingers at last closing reverently around the pin. She lifted her gaze to his and smiled. Then her eyes rolled back, and she passed out.

  "Tee?"

  Ian took off his sunglasses. In the lull between departing ships, a puff of wind ruffled the woman's hair, accentuating the stillness of the rest of her.

  She had to be joking, he thought. No one passed out after two drinks. Did they?

  "Hey, kid," he called.

  She remained facedown on the counter, her forehead resting on her knuckles. Like Carn. Fear squeezed his gut. Even if she was an experienced drinker, the toxicity of frontier brews varied tremendously. She had drunk only two glasses, but the percentage of alcohol to her body weight could be dangerously high. And Mandarian whiskey was notorious for the quickness with which it was metabolized. The girl might not have known that.

  He gave her shoulder a shake. Her head lolled to the side, exposing her slender throat—and her pulse. Relief rippled through him.

  "Come on, I was enjoying the conversation," he said, massaging the back of her neck. Her smooth skin was damp from perspiration and warm to the touch. Sighing, she flexed her fingers, using her hands as a pillow. Her lips curved into a blissful smile, but her eyes remained closed.

  Ian gave a quick, pained laugh. "I can't believe this is happening. Thirty seconds in my employ and she's already unconscious."

  The bartender jolted awake, snuffling and scratching his scalp.

  "Like every other pilot I've hired," Ian told him, as if he or anyone on this miserable rock cared. He downed the rest of his tock, wishing for once that he'd chosen a stronger drink. "I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day."

  The bartender blinked uncomprehendingly.

  "An old Earth movie," Ian explained, though it was probably futile. "This guy wakes up to the same day over and over. He's trapped until he finally learns from his mistakes." Watching the ice melt in the bottom of his glass, he scowled. "Tell me I'm not doomed to hire one liquor-loving space jockey after another."

  The thought was downright depressing. He'd never prove to the Vash—to Rom—that he had what it took to rule the galaxy if he couldn't even master the basics of commanding a starship, including hiring and maintaining a crew. He'd best turn things around, right here, right now.

  "On your feet, Miss Tee," he said briskly. "I have an appointment on Grüma I'd like to keep." He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her away from the counter. It took a moment to untangle her long legs from the stool. Dragging her away from the bar, he supported her with one arm hooked around her waist. Her legs wobbled under her weight, indicating the extent to which the liquor was mucking up her system. How she'd survived in the frontier with such a low tolerance for alcohol, he had no idea.

  "Wait, Earth dweller," the bartender called out.

  Ian turned around, Tee heavy in his arms. The bartender's yellow-brown eyes were watery, but a new glint suggested he was more alert than before.

  "Watch your back," the man rasped.

  "Why?" Ian asked carefully. "Is someone following me?"

  The bartender coughed into his hand.

  "Who is it, old man? Who's after me?"

  The man waved vaguely across the outdoor bar toward the docks.

  Unease trickled down Ian's spine. "This isn't helping my paranoia any," he muttered, scanning the crowd.

  But the bartender's moment of lucidity—if that's even what it was—had ended. He took a soiled rag from his pocket and began wiping the countertop, contentedly engaged in another one of his solitary conversations.

  Despite the iffy source, Ian decided to consider the warning valid. He'd brief the crew and launch as soon as he could get this pilot sobered up.

  He urged her to walk faster. "After listening to what that old spacehand just said, I think it's time we got the hell out of Dodge."

  The girl's eyes opened to slits. "Hmm?" She lifted her head, clutching the wings he'd given her to her chest.

  "Sorry. I slip into English sometimes," he said. "Welcome back. We're on the way to the ship."

  Her eyes flew open, and she dug her heels into the dirt. "To where?"

  "My ship. I hired you, remember?"

  She pulled away from him and clumsily fished out her pistol.

  Ian's hands shot up. "Put that away!"

  She scrutinized her weapon with some consternation, as if trying to remember what to do with it. Then she dropped her right arm, pointing the deadly laser south. Her speech was a bit slurred. "Not so fast. How do I know you're really a starship captain—that you're hiring me to fly, and not for"—she blushed furiously—"for sex?"

  She waved the gun at his waist, and he resisted the potent urge to cover his balls. Never in his life had he seen anything like this pistol-toting pixie, her chin jutting out, her eyes accusing him of unspeakable perversions.

  Think fast, he told himself. He forced an expression of serene calm to his face, a skill he'd learned from Rom. "Now that you bring it up, how do I know you're really a pilot?"

  Clasping his hands behind his back, as if he were a seasoned space veteran with decades of space travel under his belt instead of an Earth guy four years out of Arizona State, he walked in a circle around her…

  Slowly…

  … forcing her to turn in order to follow his deliberate and thorough inspection.

  "For all I know, you're just another good-for-nothing space drifter," he said, "lying your way aboard my ship for the chance at a hot meal and a clean bunk."

  That threw her. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.

  "Or a thief," he went on, "waiting until my crew and I are asleep tonight to steal us blind—"

  "I'm a pilot! My wings were in that speeder."

  "Which is?"

  "Gone," she replied glumly, wobbling on her feet.

  "My point exactly. I have no proof you're who you claim you are, other than what you've told me. You feel the same about me, obviously." He stopped, facing her. Warily she watched him. "I need a pilot and you need a job. We have no choice but to trust each other. But if that isn't going to be a possibility, Tee, let me know now, because it's the only way this is going to work." That, and her staying sober.

  She peered at the row of shops and sleazy bars. Doubt saturated her features. Then she shifted her attention to him, artlessly examining him from his hair to his boots and back again. In her eyes sparked a glimmer of wonder—the look she'd given him when they had first met.

  He tamped down on the unexpected rush of pleasure he found in that gaze. "So," he prompted, "what will it be?"

  Weaving slightly, she stowed her pistol. "It appears I shall trust you, Earth dweller."

  "Good. And just so there's no misunderstanding about my personal life"—he caught her by the arm, bringing his mouth close to one perfectly formed little ear—"when I want sex, I don't have to buy it."

  Her eyes widened, and then she blushed, deeper than before. He'd meant the statement as fact, not as a boast, but her irresistible reaction left him in no hurry to explain.

  "Now let's go." Ian took Tee by the elbow and pulled her along the road leading to where the ship was docked. Harsh sunlight glinted off the tiny beads of sweat on her golden skin, illuminating her angelic face. Unexpectedly, something inside him softened.

  But then she hit him with another demand. "What about my money?" she asked.

  "It's in your left pants pocket. I paid the bartender—left him the bottle, though. The last thing I need is whiskey on board, with your partiality to the stuff—"

  Her boot heels skidded to a halt on the gravel.

  He ground his teeth together. "Now what?"

  "I mean my sala
ry." She screwed up her face, trying hard to focus on him. "I'm a starpilot. I require starpilot wages."

  "You're an intersystem cargo pilot. There's a difference." Yet she'd made it all the way to Blunder from wherever she'd come from, proving that her skills went beyond short planet-to-planet cargo runs.

  Ian thought of what he'd paid Carn and raised it ten credits. Mostly out of desperation—and with the fervent hope that this newest stick-monkey would last more than a few weeks. "Sixty each standard week. Plus benefits: room, board, medical—"

  "Two hundred credits."

  "I'm not paying you two hundred a week!"

  Her eyes snapped in challenge from within the shadow of the cap half hiding that… hairdo. "Do you need a pilot or not?"

  "Do you need a ship or not?"

  She didn't flinch. "I'll agree to one-fifty."

  "One hundred." He supposed he was nuts to risk losing what appeared to be a qualified pilot over the question of a few credits, but if he didn't act from a position of strength from the beginning, as captain he'd never squeeze a worthwhile day's work out of this drunk. "Take it or leave it."

  She glanced at the empty place where her vessel had been parked before being whisked away by Dar security. A look of profound pain flickered across her expressive face, chased by obvious indecision in the way she clenched her jaw. Her blatant inner battle heightened his curiosity about her, but he forced himself to wait in silence for her answer.

  "I shall take it," she said in a quiet voice.

  He snatched her by the hand before she changed her mind—again. But the sudden move caused her to trip over her boots. He caught her before she fell, wrapping his arm around her waist. "I'm sobering you up with hot took even if it takes me all day—which I hope it doesn't, because you, my friend, are flying me to Grüma, come hell or high water."

  Chapter Four

  Ahead, the long fuselage of his ship gleamed pale silver. "There she is," Ian said. "The Sun Devil."

  "She's… beautiful," Tee murmured. Genuine longing softened her features. He'd seen that expression before on his mother's face when she reminisced about her days as an Air Force fighter pilot.

  Quin and Muffin met them at the bottom of the gangway. Quin's eyes twinkled. "It's not like you to bring home company" he said, while Muffin squinted at the woman, studying her.

  "She's not company. This is Tee, our new pilot. Tee, meet Muffin, chief security officer. And Quin, ship's mechanic."

  "Nice to meet you." She stuck out her hand. Thrown off balance, she grabbed onto Ian. "Whoa."

  Quin's smile froze with incredulity. "She's drunk!"

  "Right. Let's get her sobered up. I want to launch as soon as possible." Hastily he swept Tee past the two men and up the gangway. After a moment's silence, Ian heard two pairs of boots thumping on the alloy flooring behind him.

  "We've been through three pilots already," Quin called after him. "Now here you are with another stray."

  Ian didn't have to turn around to guess the expression contorting the man's face.

  Muffin was typically good-humored. "Reminds me a bit of my sister and the way she collects lost ketta-cats."

  "I can deal with ketta-cats. It's good-for-nothing pilots I have no stomach for," Quin grumbled.

  Through the forward cargo hold they went, down the central corridor and past the crew quarters, while Quin ranted about starpilots and their general unreliability and mental instability.

  "This way." Ian planted his hands on Tee's hips and boosted her up the gangway to the galley. Haltingly, she climbed to the upper deck, stumbling over the top rung. She giggled, then slapped her hand over her mouth as if the sound had startled and embarrassed her.

  Ian guided her into the galley, settling her onto a seat next to the table. Crushed by her cap, short locks of hair clung to her temples and flushed cheeks. He shook off the oddest urge to smooth the strands off her skin.

  Muffin lumbered into the galley. Ian told him, "One of the locals, a bartender, said I should watch my back."

  "Did he elaborate?"

  "Unfortunately no. He wasn't exactly stable in the mental department, either."

  Muffin frowned. "Let's launch as soon as possible."

  "Agreed."

  Quin marched past. "I'll get the tock started." Glowering, he slammed a kettle on the ion-burner.

  The last two members of Ian's crew, Gredda and Push, the cargo handlers, peered into the galley from the corridor. Ian made another around of introductions.

  Dressed in a brown leather sleeveless jerkin with studded straps crisscrossing over a tight woolen chemise, Gredda looked like a mythical Viking queen. She crossed her impressive arms over equally impressive breasts, her skin glistening with grease smudges and perspiration from a long session loading cargo. "A female flyer this time," she said approvingly.

  Tee acknowledged Gredda with a smile that quickly faded. Much paler now, she lifted an unsteady hand to her cap and plucked it off her head.

  Quin stared. "By the heavens, what happened to her hair?"

  Tee's expression could have frozen plasma fuel. "Do you have a problem with the way I look?"

  Quin sized her up. "What if I do? I doubt looks matter much in the places you frequent."

  Ian whistled softly as the two exchanged heated glares.

  When Quin returned to the stove, Tee sank into obvious misery. She was perspiring, even in the cooler air, and a greenish pallor bleached her face. Ian had experienced the morning-afters of enough fraternity parties to know how she was feeling. Mandarian whiskey meant a quick buzz and a killer hangover.

  "Drink up," he coaxed, handing her cup of tock. I REFUSE TO ENGAGE IN A BATTLE OF WITS WITH AN UNARMED PERSON, the mug read. He hadn't chosen it deliberately, but it seemed somehow appropriate. Although, he had to admit that Tee had done a hell of a job negotiating her salary, despite her inebriated condition.

  She lifted the cup, sniffed at the liquid, then lowered it Her voice quavered. "I—I need your lavatory."

  Ian plucked her off the bench, steering her toward the lav in the corridor. She waved him away, and the door hissed closed. Waiting for her to exit, he leaned against the bulkhead, folding his arms over his chest.

  Quin stepped in front of him, hands spread. "Captain, listen, save us all a bit of trouble and haul her back to the nearest drinking hold. Another pilot will come along."

  "Another pilot is not going to come along, Quin."

  Quin's attention swerved to Muffin. "Didn't you say you fly?"

  Muffin's fists closed and the sinewy muscles in his neck flexed. "I flew a combat mission in the war. It was part of a raid to free Queen Jasmine. The young lad I was paired with took a shot in the abdomen. I got him off Brevdah Three, but"—regret darkened his eyes—"he bled to death during our escape. I haven't wanted to pilot a craft since. You wouldn't want me to try now."

  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 e
fficiency."

  "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.