The Star King Page 6

  “Oh, I’ll find her in a minute, Jasmine,” he shot back, “but I guarantee it won’t be to fight.”

  Inhale…exhale…inhale.

  “Self-absorbed as always, Jas,” he went on. “Vain and irresponsible. When we had infants at home all you wanted to do was hop back into the cockpit. Fortunate for all of us the docs said no. But you won in the end, didn’t you? Made those kids go through a divorce because you were too self-centered to put out any effort in bed.”

  An invisible fist squeezed her, and shame heated her cheeks. The man had the knack of knowing where she was most vulnerable. And somehow he’d figured out a way to make her feel responsible for his failures, using her built-in sense of obligation to justify his behavior.

  But if you leave, he won’t be able to punish you for his sins, and that scares him.

  The realization slammed into her with the force of an explosion, and she grabbed the edge of the nearest table to steady herself. So much was becoming clear about her life. “This isn’t about Ian at all, is it?” she said. “You’re desperate. You can’t let me go. If you do, you’ll have no one to blame for your mistakes.” Why hadn’t she seen it before? Why had it taken so long? “You shot me down, Jock, and that got you booted out of the air force. Remember? But you hated the fact that I was still in, so you told me I’d do a lousy job of raising our kids if I returned to flying. I stood by you through everything—the Saudi incident, the court-martial. Even when Glen accused you of sleeping with his wife.” Her voice shook. “I must have been blind! Every time you failed—as a soldier, as a husband—I paid the price.” There was silence on the other end. Her voice gained strength and purpose. “Guilt was your weapon of choice. Used quite effectively, I might add, when I found out you’d been fooling around on me for years. That’s my fault, too? Go to hell, Jock. The reason I was lousy in bed was because you never could find the target.”

  Jas jammed the off button with her finger as Ian popped his head through the garage door. “Ready, Mom?”

  Her heart thundered and her hands shook. “Yeah, sweetie.”

  She climbed into the Range Rover’s passenger seat. Clutching her hands, she stared straight ahead as he backed out of the driveway. “I don’t care how you do it. Just get me there in time for the eight-ten flight to D.C.”

  “You got it.” Tires squealing, they were off.

  Ian gave her a sidelong glance. As if sensing her disquiet, he joked. “So, madame. Is this trip for business or pleasure?”

  With that, a surge of pure excitement swept through her, along with the calming sense that what she was about to do was right. With a sigh, she relaxed against the leather seat. “Well, now. I suppose I’d call it a little bit of both.”

  Andrews Air Force Base Flight Operations sat next to the flight line—an asphalt field of taxiways, hangars, and runways. Jas ignored the FLIGHT CREW ONLY signs on the building’s automatic doors and found the women’s rest room. Hurriedly, she changed into her flight suit, combat boots, and standard air force–issue brown leather jacket. Facing the mirror, she donned a flight cap; it was a dark blue hat worn many times, with her former officer’s rank pinned to the right side. After positioning the cap two fingers’ width above her eyebrows, she headed out into the cold, damp night, hoping no one noticed that she was a bit mature-looking to be wearing the silver bar of a first lieutenant. But everything else so far had gone smoothly—including the lift she’d gotten from a former colleague of Dan’s, a Pentagon employee happy to do a favor for his friend. Their admission onto the base proceeded with little more than a cursory wave, and the man was unaware of the crucial role he’d played in dropping her off. Without the coveted sticker he had on his windshield, she would have needed a visitor’s pass, which meant forms to fill out, delays, questions—attention she did not want.

  Jas strode along a well-lit road paralleling the flight line. To her left was a barbed wire–topped chain-link fence separating her from the runways. Jet engines thundered in the distance. Her muscles tensed as she watched green and red winking lights soar skyward. It was a cargo plane, not a spaceship. So far, so good—all air traffic would be stopped long before a spaceship was allowed to depart. Yet she couldn’t keep from checking her watch.

  Ninety minutes until launch.

  Quickening her pace, she ignored the pounding of her travel bag against her thigh, and the way her lungs tightened in the jet fuel–scented autumn air. The moon floated behind a tattered curtain of clouds, painting the shadows of two hulking vessels ahead in a hazy, fog-touched glow. They loomed, foreboding and ominous, and she wondered fleetingly whether she was out of her mind.

  One block to go.

  From behind, Jas heard a car approach. Then came the unmistakable sound of a police radio. Gravel popped and headlights hit her in the back. She fought an irrational urge to run toward the ships, to freedom. You have no ID, her conscience screamed. You’re impersonating an officer. But fleeing would be an admission of guilt, so she lowered her bag. Perspiration prickled her forehead despite the chilly air. Then slowly, reluctantly, she turned around.

  Rom’s boot heels clicked over the Quillie’s alloy flooring. “Begin the prelaunch sequence,” he ordered his bridge crew. But he did not settle into his command chair to watch the proceedings, as was his habit. Instead he paced, as if the mindless exercise would burn off his anger, his frustration—and the deeply personal sense of shame. He’d been forced to leave Earth without completing a single act of commerce. It was his own fault, too, for thinking he could best the Vash Nadah. And now the men who trusted him would suffer for it.

  At the far end of the bridge, Rom turned on his heel and tramped back. Months! He’d wasted months on this jaunt to Earth, only to be sent away with no more regard than was used to flick away a Centaurian morning-fly. The barest of supplies graced the larders; a pitifully small cargo of salt lay in the hold—and that was booty left over from the system visited before this one. Hell and back! Shoving the fingers of both hands through his hair, Rom sat heavily in his command chair, his forearms balanced on his knees. From his position behind the six men preparing the ship for launch, he observed the proceedings in sullen silence. Nothing less than a million standard miles between the Quillie and this miserable backwater planet would improve his mood.

  Zarra called to him from his station in front of the sweeping navigation console. “Sir. The prelaunch checklist is complete.”

  “Call the tower,” Rom said wearily. “Tell them we want an early launch approved. I see no reason to prolong our stay, do you?”

  “No, sir!” cried Zarra. The bridge crew chorused in hearty agreement.

  A young security police officer rolled down his window. “Evening, Lieutenant,” he said to Jas.

  She forced her mouth into a casual grin. “How’s your night going so far?”

  “Quiet. Just how I like ’em. Where you headed?”

  She gestured with her chin. “The Vash ships.”

  He chuckled and lowered the volume on his radio. “You and every other pilot on the base. Can’t get enough of them babies, huh?”

  “What I wouldn’t give to fly one.”

  “I’ll bet.” He propped his arm on the door.

  Jas relaxed a fraction. He sounded like a bored cop looking to chat. But that could change in a heartbeat if he asked her for ID. She’d better take control if she wanted to win him over. She took a breath. “You know, you’re my one lucky break all night.”

  He grinned. “How’s that?”

  “I’m beat. Have time for a lift?” Criminals didn’t ask policemen for rides.

  He unlocked the back door. “Hop in. I can drop you off in front of the checkpoint.”

  “Perfect.” She hopped into the backseat, clutching her bag with shaking hands. “I need to run some paperwork out there. Then I’m headed back to the VOQ,” she explained, using the lingo for the building that housed visiting officers.

  He stopped in full view of the checkpoint, establishing her much-n
eeded credibility with the two MPs sitting inside. Weak-kneed with relief, she thanked the young cop profusely.

  Inside the cramped trailer the odor of cigarettes and coffee hovered in an interior illuminated by overly bright fluorescent lights. Jas slipped the leather portfolio from her bag and set it on a dented metal desk next to the radio. “This is for the Quillie.”

  The stockier MP reached for it. She blocked his hand. “Actually, I’m supposed to deliver it in person. Governor’s orders. The Arizona state governor,” she emphasized. She opened the portfolio and smoothed her palm over the creamy white cover letter. “He promised the captain of the Quillie he’d have these here yesterday, but”—her voice hushed—“all I can say is that it’s embarrassing that these are so late.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am…”

  A sharp hiss echoed from the vicinity of the two Vash ships. Then a rumbling began, increasing in volume until the linoleum floor vibrated beneath her boots. Jas’s heart slammed urgently in her chest. She jabbed her finger in the direction of the ships. “We’re running out of time. Radio the Quillie. Tell them their papers are here.”

  But the MP picked up the telephone instead. “I’ve got to check with the duty officer first.”

  “No time for that!” Jas flipped over the cover letter, revealing the first page. “Look, it’s a trade agreement. A legal contract. A lot of work went into this.” She watched him read the governor’s message and then scan the signatures and statements from the CEOs. “Can you imagine the repercussions if this doesn’t get on board? Civilians get nasty, especially when the military screws up. My butt’s already on the line. I’m sure Governor Goldsmith would love to roast yours, too.”

  The thinner MP piped in. “Jesus, Russ. Don’t get anal on me. We’re running stuff like this out there all the time.” Grabbing the radio transmitter, he lifted the mouthpiece to his lips. “Quillie, this is Alpha Five,” he said in painfully mangled Basic. “Alpha Five to Quillie. Please respond.”

  There was static, then a curt, unintelligible reply.

  The MP raised his brows. “Ma’am, what do I tell them?”

  Jas grinned. “Special delivery.”

  Rom spread his hands in disbelief. “They want to what?”

  “Trade,”Gann replied, equally puzzled. “He—or she—claims to represent a consortium of powerful merchants. With supposed signed proof of their eagerness to trade.”

  Rom choked out a laugh. It was no doubt a bureaucratic blunder, a contract destined for one of the other ships. He raised his headrest and buckled his safety harness. “Send the Earth-dweller away. He can sort out the mess with Lahdo.”

  Gann returned to the bank of communications equipment that had received the Earth guard’s call.

  “Zarra,” Rom demanded. “Where is my clearance?”

  “Working on it, sir. The tower says the delay is with a higher aviation authority of some kind—Washington Center, I believe they called it. And they can’t give me an estimated time of departure.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Rom frowned. More blasted minutes wasted sitting on this rock. In the lull that followed, he pondered the Earth-dweller’s offer. Lahdo would be mortified when he found out that the Quillie had been contacted in error.

  A grin slowly lifted one corner of Rom’s mouth. The launch was delayed, was it not? He might as well solicit a little entertainment to make the time pass faster.

  He unfastened his harness. “Gann, disregard that order. What do you say we have ourselves a little sport?”

  Gann laughed. “At Lahdo’s expense?”

  “Naturally. Summon the Earth-dweller. I ache to see his face when you tell him he’s aboard the wrong ship.” Rom walked to the railing that overlooked the cavernous bulkhead below. “I’ll view the fun from here. Naturally I’ll join you should the encounter prove amusing.”

  Jas’s body hummed with awe and fear as she followed the MP to the rebel ship. The dark, smooth metal hull gleamed dully, punctuated by winking multicolored lights. Steam hissed from the craft’s belly, adding to the chorus of whirring motors and intermittent mechanical clicking. Distinctly alien, it was at least as long as a Boeing 747, but much fatter, with stubby triangular wings close to the fuselage. A row of odd symbols decorated one side, resembling hieroglyphics—not the Basic she’d learned—likely the ship’s name in an exotic, unknown language. A film of some kind coated the forward windows, preventing her from seeing inside. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. She had the feeling that she was being studied by those she could not see. Her suspicion was confirmed when a portal below the nose opened slowly, spilling warm, golden light onto the tarmac. Then the heavy ramp hit the pavement with a gravelly thud and there was silence, broken only by the sizzle of escaping steam.

  “Go on in.” The MP’s throat bobbed, and he stepped backward. “I’ll wait here.”

  Unable to see what lay beyond the steep ramp, Jas inhaled and exhaled slowly, steadying herself mentally. Everything she’d accomplished in her life so far—the choices she’d made, the mistakes and the triumphs—were so that she could experience this one glorious moment. No matter what the outcome, tonight her life had reached a turning point. “Here goes,” she said, and began the long climb.

  Recessed green lights in the floor led her inside. Laden with the mysterious humidity of a cave, the air gradually warmed, and the lights began to alternate between gold and green. The tunnel was featureless. No graffiti, no trash cans, she thought in a frantic attempt at humor. No cigarette butts or Coke cans lay wedged, trampled and forgotten, in the space between the floor and the walls. There were no signs of life, though she could hear distant voices. And laughter. That unnervingly familiar sound coaxed her forward.

  The ramp ended in a cavernous chamber, ringing with a metallic emptiness, reminding her of the interior of an aircraft hangar. A vibration rumbled beneath the floor, and she had to clench her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. The rattling ceased. She heard the muffled voices again, emanating from a room above, beyond a balcony with a double railing. She could see shadows moving, and lights of instruments and computers reflected in an enormous curving window at the front of the ship. Most likely the flight deck, or the bridge. Still, no one had shown up to escort her. Did they know she’d come aboard?

  She was weighing the consequences of shouting “Anybody home?” when she spotted a Vash man waiting behind a low table that extended at a right angle from the wall. Good-looking and ruggedly built, the man was easily six-foot-three. Dim, bluish light illuminated the room, bleaching his tawny skin. If not for his startling golden eyes, he would have looked entirely human.

  “You not the captain,” she said in choppy Basic. Nerves were making it tough to speak the language she’d so recently learned.

  He spread his hands, palms down on the table. “I’m Gann, the second-in-command. Show me the agreement.”

  She dropped her gear onto the table. Several lights blinked in protest. Quickly Gann flicked off a switch. His expression was downright forbidding, but his eyes glinted with laughter, pricking Jas’s pride.

  “My name is Jasmine Hamilton,” she announced with cool professionalism, using words she had rehearsed a thousand times in the past few days. “I represent business leaders who want to trade with your ship.” Opening the finely bound folder, she turned it so he could see. “This is everything the captain wants. Commander Lahdo said no to trade. But the state of Arizona says yes.”

  Gann examined the documents. “English,” he said, pronouncing it “On-gleesh.” With obvious dismay, he admitted, “I cannot read it.”

  Of course! Why hadn’t she thought to make a copy in Basic? Sheepishly, resorting to unrehearsed Basic, she summarized what was on the papers, and who had signed them.

  “This is the Quillie,” he said. “No one is permitted to trade with us. Weren’t you told this? Your agreement is meant for another ship.”

  “No. Yours.”

  He peered over her head and lifted his
palms. She glanced over her shoulder, following his gaze to the balcony, to where the shadowy form of a man stood. His face was hidden, but he was the rebel captain; she was sure of it.

  She returned her attention to Gann. “I know he wants to see this. Exclusive deal. For very small price.”

  He appeared incredulous. “You want us to pay you?”

  “Well, yes.” She thought hard, struggling to remember the words she needed. “Small price, big reward. I give you this agreement. And you give me passage into space. That is all.”

  His nostrils flared. “We don’t take passengers.”

  She rooted through her bag until she found her pouch of jewelry. She tugged open the silken cord and upended the bag, spilling out her beloved silver bangles and assorted gemstones. Her old wedding ring wandered in a wobbly circle before taking a suicide plunge off the edge.

  The Vash caught it neatly in one big palm. Unimpressed, he smiled, as if charmed, which irked her some more. She’d bet that the South Pacific islanders of centuries ago felt the same when they climbed aboard Captain Cook’s superior ship only to find that that their most valued offerings were considered trinkets. Again he glanced over her head. Her stomach squeezed tight. Any minute her apparent novelty would wear thin and they’d boot her off the ship. It was time to roll out the heavy ammunition. “Have salt,” she said. “Many, many salts.” She began plunking box after box of Morton table salt onto the gleaming table, making sure she left her personal supply hidden, what she’d estimated she’d need to purchase supplies and lodging.

  This time when Gann turned his attention to his captain, his eyes widened slightly. Then his incredulous gaze lowered. “My captain says you may come.”

  Overcome by a torrent of conflicting emotions, Jas fought to keep them from appearing on her face.

  “Quickly,” he said. “We’re ready to depart.” He locked the salt and jewelry in a recessed cabinet. Then he lifted her bag onto one broad shoulder and gestured to a ladder that led up to a cutout in the ceiling. She was halfway up when more rumbling began, forcing her to tighten her sweaty grip on the ladder. On the bridge the crew stopped midtask to stare at her. Blond and healthy, they wore sensible, rugged work clothes. If not for their bronzed skin and odd-colored eyes, they could have passed for a group of Swedish sailors. “Greetings,” she said, offering a half-smile.