The Star Princess (13 page)

She watched steam twirl up from the bowl of rice. "Guilt sucks," she repeated, more softly.

Ché gave her a curious and yet intrigued look, his brow lifting.

Ilana took a long drink from her bottle of beer. Plunking the bottle onto the table, she leveled her gaze at him." The good of the people outweighs that of the individual.' It's the Vash Nadah mantra. Hey, it's worked for eleven thousand years, so who am I to argue?" She leaned forward. "All I'm saying is that having fun is not a crime. That's why you came here, and that's what you're going to do. I've come up with a few ideas to kick things off. Just let me handle it."

He sat back in his seat, fingers steepled under his cleft chin as he observed her. She tried to appear as innocent as possible. Finally, he said, "What is the word you use— okay?"

"Yes. Okay." Her smile returned. "So. It's okay, then?"

"Yes. I am grateful for your help in this matter."

Her chuckle veered a little close to an evil cackle. "Ah, Ché. Don't thank me yet. I haven't even started."

Ché wasn't sure what woke him, but the moment he opened his eyes, he was instantly alert. He was in Ilana's home, in her spare bedroom. Judging by the amount of sunlight flooding the small bedchamber, it was well past dawn, his usual waking hour.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Well past dawn? Of course. He hadn't retired until after sunrise; he'd been too busy conversing— or rather, arguing— about a dizzying variety of subjects over a meal that finally ended hours after they'd started, long after the beer and food had run out.

He scrubbed his palm over his stubbly jaw. Responsible for a good deal of his vertigo was Ilana's reaction to his upcoming wedding. He wasn't quite sure what he'd expected from her, but outrage overlaid with pity wasn't it. If only on that matter alone, he'd found an unexpected ally in the Earth princess.

Wedding fever. Yes, that was the derisive term she'd used to describe those who displayed an overabundance of enthusiasm and meticulousness in planning a wedding ceremony. Ché could think of no better description, and would certainly use the term when he returned home— to amuse himself as his wedding loomed. How would Councilman Toren react upon hearing he suffered from the exasperating malady? Or Hoe?

Chuckling, Ché rose from bed. As he stretched sleep from his limbs, he realized that he couldn't recall the last time he'd risen from bed with a smile. Perhaps Earth agreed with him, and his decision to vacation here wasn't as symptomatic of folly as Hoe had accused.

He glanced about the bedchamber. The room was small, like the rest of Ilana's abode, but colorful and charming— in a disorderly way, much like the woman herself.

But the desk… it did not seem to belong amongst the chaos. The surface was polished and clear. Che's father, the king, tended toward exacting standards of organization, but Ilana's workspace would have put even him to shame. Along the wall were neat and ordered stacks of printed periodicals, data storage discs, and paper of various sizes covered with neatly handwritten notes. A camera Ché recognized as one that created moving images sat to the right of a computer and next to a metal cup containing writing implements of every description. The only frivolity on the entire desk was a cluster of frames containing images of Ilana's family.

The organized desk opened a window to the inner workings of the woman's mind that Ché didn't know, or expect. He stored away the information, wondering what else he'd underestimated about her— like her focus on her career, her creativity, her drive.

Vash women didn't carry on a trade. It would drain time and energy away from their obligations. Not only that; there was the issue of propriety to consider regarding princesses and careers___

Propriety. Bah. Had he not come here to escape such boundaries? Today, he'd not let decorum govern his actions. Here, on Earth, he was far from the watching eyes of his household, far from the requirement for respectability. As long as he didn't look Vash, there was no need to act Vash.

From outside, he heard shouts and laughter. That was what had woken him, he realized. He slipped on a pair of eyeshaders his jeweler had fashioned for him for the purposes of this trip, combed his fingers through his hair instead of styling it more precisely, and walked to the window, open to let in the sounds of the street and shore.

Three boys played below, not quite children and not yet adults. They rode flat boards with four wheels apiece. He searched his memory for the name of the recreational vehicles. Something… boards. Surfboards, perhaps?

The angle of the sun told him it was well past midday, perhaps nearing late afternoon. He'd slept far later than even his late night with Ilana would explain. It was due to his out of-adjustment body clock: Earth used twenty-four-hour days, and Eireya used closer to twenty-eight, in standard hours. It made for shorter nights than what he was used to.

Cool ocean air whooshed around his torso and thighs, reminding him that these quarters were not private, as were his at the palace. Nor did the averted eyes of palace servers surround him. While the balcony shielded Ché from the waist down, he realized that perhaps he should not be standing there without clothing.

He rummaged through the supplies he had packed and donned faded blue pants over boxers, Earth's version of an undergarment. An emblem decorated a black short-sleeved shirt he pulled over his head: "Harley-Davidson." The T-shirt and blue jeans guaranteed that he'd blend in, according to Ian, who had so kindly sent him the images necessary for the Vedla tailor to fashion the items and a number of other pieces comprising a small wardrobe. The rest Ché would acquire once he was more familiar with the attire of the local inhabitants.

He caught a reflection of himself in a narrow wall mirror, stopped and stared. Great Mother. Look at him— barefoot, trousers hugging his hips, the snug black shirt tucked into the jeans, his short hair finger-combed. And he could use a shave, he thought, rubbing his jaw. But he wasn't bothered in the least. No, indeed. With his vision-enhancing shaders covering his telltale Vash eyes, he looked like an Earth-dweller.

At that, he winced at the cries of protest emanating from his conscience. Usually, he had to enter meditation in order to connect with his ancestors, but he could hear their howls of collective dismay without trying, the entire, long traditionalist line of them, Vedlas all, stretching back eons before the Eight Great Warriors joined together and took back the galaxy. Barbarian! they accused.

Ché tried to soothe them. I am here for you, and because of you, he said silently in the ancient Eireyan tongue that no one outside his family and people knew. I traveled here only because I would not wish to impede the Great Council's efforts to find me a wife.

That was mostly true, he thought. But he heard nothing but ominous silence in response.

Ian Hamilton had once laughingly told him that Vash Nadah and Catholics shared one indisputable characteristic: guilt. But Ché was not going to let that ubiquitous trait dampen his enjoyment of his visit here.

The main room was empty. The wood floor felt cool beneath his feet. While he didn't expect that a prepared bath awaited him, he hoped that Ilana had set out breakfast. Instead, displayed on the table were last night's dirty dishes and four drained bottles of beer. The only thing that looked fresh was the water in the clear, globular vase holding the flowers.

Che noted that fact well. Ilana had seen to the flowers, prolonging their freshness, while she let the other chores slide or ignored them altogether. The woman's priorities were intriguing. Perhaps he should take a lesson from her while on Earth: Savor the pleasures of life without the encumbrance of conventional expectations.

He wasn't sure if he knew how.

Che smelled something fresh and nutty. The Earth beverage, coffee, Ilana was awake. But where was she?

"Ilana?" He flattened his hand on his stomach and glanced around. A radio played music and a man's voice: "Don't forget the sun block if you're headed to the beach. We're looking at sunny skies today, temperatures in the mid eighties… "

The exotic and tempting smell led him into the kitchen. He picked up the note he found on the counter. You're finally up! I went out running, she'd written. Take coffee. We'll find us something to eat when I get back.

Find something, eh? He already knew it would not be in this abode. They would have to find an eating establishment. He had Earth currency. He'd pay for the venture!

He eyed the pot of hot, brewed liquid suspiciously. He recognized the apparatus from the Earth programs he'd studied. He'd tried coffee once, years ago when a Federation merchant had attempted to convince the Vedlas to import the product; Ché hadn't cared for it, giving his family another reason besides a disinclination to stock Earth products to decline the shipment. Coffee tasted bitter to him. Harsh. He preferred tock. Tock had a mellow, sweet-spicy taste that was so much more pleasant than this Earth-dweller brew. But the result was the same— both beverages stimulated the central nervous system, and his needed some stimulating, with his body still insisting that it was the middle of the night.

He poured a cup and took the mug with him, intending to sit outside on the balcony, where he'd spied two simple chairs and a tiny round table.

But the sound of a chime stopped him. Not a moment later, the front door swung open, revealing a tall man with shaggy black hair.

The man stomped in. "Ilana?" He wore battered tan ankle-high boots and shorts of the same fabric of Che's pants. Jeans. His shirt was flimsy with wide arm-holes and had no sleeves, revealing muscled arms bronzed from sunlight. His dark eyes grew blacker the more disappointed they became.

How presumptuous, Ché thought, to enter unannounced and expect Ilana to be there, waiting. He took another sip of coffee. "Ilana is not here."

At the sound of Che's voice, the man froze. His black eyes swerved to the kitchen, where Ché stood. "Who the hell are you?"

Before Ché could reply, the man's gaze dropped to the cup of coffee in Che's hands, and then to Che's bare feet. His face crumpled. "Aw, hell." He lowered his head and blew out a few gusts of hair, as if he were trying to compose himself. Then he sized up Ché. "She didn't waste any time, did she?"

Ché lifted a brow. "Waste time?"

"Two weeks ago she was with me. Now she's with you. And she let you stay the night? I tried. She told me no one stayed. Consider yourself lucky, dude."

The man assumed Ché was Ilana's lover. He must have shared such a relationship with Ilana or he wouldn't have jumped to that conclusion. Earth-women could take lovers, Ché reminded himself. But the thought of Ilana making love with this oaf irritated him. Acutely.

But show it he would not. He would not descend to the same level of barbarism as this uncouth intruder. He extended his hand in Earth-dweller fashion. "Greetings. I am"— he caught himself— "French," he said, taking the moniker Sam had given him and making it a bit… stronger.

"French." The man made a face. "That explains it."

"Ilana and I, we— "

The man's hand shot up. "That's okay. I don't need details."

Details? Did he expect Ché would share them, had there been any? It would be coarse and crude to do so. Intimate relations between a man and a woman were to be celebrated and kept private out of respect. To do otherwise countered everything his people be lieved. "Allow me to clarify. Ilana and I, we are not— "

"And you won't be, just in case you're hoping." The man raised his voice to make it sound like Ilana's. " 'An exclusive relationship is so confining. It's more fun being friends'." He shook Che's hand in a sinewy, callused grip. "Cole Miller. The one she told you about."

Ché covered his distaste for the man's boorish presumption with a polite smile and said nothing.

"I'm a cameraman," Cole explained with increasing gloom. "I worked with SILF on the Holt film." He tried to peer past Che's eyeshaders. "So, what are you— an actor?"

"Of a sort," Ché replied smoothly.

"Of a sort." Cole rolled his eyes. "The accent may not get you work, buddy, but it'll get you laid— I guarantee that." He stopped himself, his cheeks turning red as if he'd realized what he'd said. Swearing, he handed Ché a thick roll of paper he'd carried wedged between his arm and ribs. "The Times."

Shoulders hunched, he marched into the kitchen. "I'll get my dog bowl and go." He grabbed a shapeless blue item off the counter, crushing it in his fist. "She can't stand them, you know. Dogs."

Ché shrugged. "I do not care for the creatures myself."

Cole appeared to search for something else. "And she's commitment-phobic, too. Here's some more advice, French— attachment is futile. Enjoy what you got with her while it lasts, because it won't last long."

Triumphant, Cole stomped away and down the stairs, where another man arrived. They eyed each other suspiciously, walking past each other without saying a word.

Ché shook his head. Was this newcomer yet another disillusioned discard in Ilana's parade of lovers? How many more would he have to endure before she returned?

Exhaling, Ché donned his shoes and walked outside to greet the man. The newcomer was balding and slender, and he appeared to be in better spirits than Cole.

"Hello," the man called out cheerily. He carried a palm computer and a comm— cell phone, as the Earth-dwellers called them— and wore the same eager, slightly furtive look as the jerk-with-ihe-camera from the night before. "Jim Bohannon. Coastal Chronicle. Is Ms. Hamilton in? I'd like to ask her a few questions about the wedding."

The wedding. Ché growled silently. This was no rebuffed lover. No, he represented something far more troublesome. "She is not here."

"Do you know when she'll be back?"

"No. I do not."

The man's curiosity homed in on Ché. "And you are… ?"

"French."

"That explains the accent."

"French is my name."

"Ah," Bohannon said. "Are you a member of the family, Mr. French?"

"No."

"A friend."

Ché hesitated. "Yes."