The Star Prince (4 page)

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 roar-ing 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 star-speeders 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 cafe. 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 for, 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 cafe 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 nourish. "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.

She let out a breath and turned around. "All right. Twelve thousand credits."

"For six thousand more I'll resync your thrusters."

She almost snorted. "Do I look like I'm made of credits?"

"As a matter of fact, you do." He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Ever think of putting those looks to use? I mean, grow your hair a bit, a bath, a clean gown maybe. No one would know you weren't genuine." He used his tongue to wet his lips. "Traders would pay good money, real good money, to buy sex with a pleasure servant who looked like a Vash virgin."

Her cheeks flamed.

"I could help get you started, and— "

"No. Thanks." Swallowing, her throat suddenly dry, she whispered tightly, "Just fix the ship."

She backed out the door into the sun-baked plaza. A cruiser landed at the docks, making the ground rumble beneath her boots. Slumping against one of the poles holding up the awning, she pressed her sleeve to her cheeks, blotting rivulets of sweat and what likely remained of her blush of embarrassment.

The tent creaked: then the cloaker eased past her carrying a sack bulging with clinking hardware. "Three standard hours," he called over his shoulder. His facial expression was benign, as if his offer to help sell her body hadn't occurred at all.

Maybe he hadn't meant anything by it. It was a business proposition and nothing else. Men here were merely cruder than what she was used to, and she couldn't expect them to keep their conversations within the boundaries of accepted etiquette. Before long— she hoped— such encounters would no longer mortify her.

Faintly, wind chimes tinkled in another weak breeze. She peered across the plaza to the cafe. Her stomach gave a little flip; the Earth dweller was sitting in the same place, appearing almost forlorn, his hands curled protectively around his tock. She'd bet he didn't care much for Vash rules, she mused wistfully. He was independent, unconventional, maybe dangerous, too. He symbolized all that she had run away from home to find.

Speculatively, she studied him. She had time to kill, didn't she? Three hours. And she was thirsty, too. Besides, the cafe afforded an uninterrupted view of her speeder.

She swiped off her cap, then shoved it into her back pocket. Where she'd worn the hat, her hair was molded to her scalp. But the bottom strands were beginning to curl, exposing her ears to the harsh sun. She attempted to tidy up, using her fingers as a comb— then stopped herself, hands in midair. Heavens, what did it matter what she looked like? In fact, she thought wryly, the more she resembled the other grubby traders around here, the better. Less chance of being recognized, for one thing.