Page 3 of Star Prince (Star #2)

Chapter Three

“A pleasant day to you!”

At the sound of the too-cheery female voice, Ian slid his hands off the bar and pushed himself upright. The last thing he needed was another solicitation from one of Blunder’s overenthusiastic pleasure servers. The women were independent contractors who profited from consensual sex, but he didn’t partake of their services—unlike every other trader on this godforsaken rock, it seemed. Even if he did, he doubted a round of brainless, bought-and-paid-for sex would keep him from steeping himself in misery over the knowledge that Senator Randall was on Grüma, and he was stuck here.

“Find someone else,” he snapped, turning around. “I’m not interested.”

The sweet-faced sprite gawking at him took a step back. The wounded look in her wide golden eyes made him feel like a total jerk.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I thought you were…someone else.”

“No offense taken.” She chose the stool to his left, smoothing her dusty black pants as if she were dressed in a gown instead of baggy clothes that could have been borrowed from an older brother. A bulge in her right pocket hinted at a pistol-sized weapon. Yet everything else about her indicated a cultivated upbringing—her impeccable posture, the way she clasped her hands primly atop the bar. He couldn’t figure out the hairstyle, though. A few red-blond strands clung to her ears and jaw. The rest was spiky and looked as if it’d been hacked away with a machete. A dull machete. Distantly, he hoped he never found himself sitting in her barber’s chair.

“I saw you, didn’t I?” he asked. “About an hour ago. You were wearing a cap.”

“Yes.” Proudly she added, “You nodded at me.”

“Right...” He folded his arms over his chest and drummed his fingers on his biceps.

She contemplated him in wonder, then shyly averted her gaze. Fidgeting, she appeared to be searching for words to fill the silence. Finally she said, “I imagine the tock ’s quite good here.”

He suppressed a smile. He had no idea where the cute pixie hailed from, but she was proving damned near worth her weight in gold in entertainment value. A whole minute had passed since he had last dwelled on where—or how—he was going to find another pilot.

“Had worse to drink,” he admitted. “But it sure beats the company.” He jerked his thumb toward the bartender, who gave a shuddering snore, startling himself half-awake. Immediately the man started asking questions—and then giving himself muttered answers.

The pixie tipped her head to the side and whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “I believe he’s seen the back end of one too many freighters.”

Ian laughed. The girl’s sense of humor was a welcome bonus on a day in which he felt about as light-hearted as a half-ton pickup. “Bartender! Bring the lady a...” He shot her a questioning glance.

“ Tock . Iced, if you please.”

The bartender started awake, grunted, then unsteadily made his way to the chiller, chatting to himself all the way there. Mumbling, he opened the door and withdrew one frosty mug. Frozen water vapor rose in white streamers, evaporating instantly in the hot air. In a display of unexpected agility, he filled the glass with tock and slid it along the bar.

Ian caught the mug and handed it to his new companion. Then he propped his chin on his palm and studied her as she sipped from it. “So…what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

A smile lit her face. “An Earth expression! That’s where you’re from, is it not? ”

“They call Blunder the crossroads of the galaxy,” he said carefully.

The ends of her mouth lifted in a cryptic smile. Then she raised her glass. He watched her take a long, thirsty drink. She hadn’t answered his question, he thought. But neither had he answered hers.

Companionably, they people-watched in silence. But his eyes kept going back to her. She pretended not to notice, but he knew she was aware of his scrutiny by the color that crept into her cheeks. For a crazy instant, he pictured himself back in Tempe, Arizona, and they had just met in one of the places near the campus. He hadn’t thought of his college days in ages, and when he had, it was because he missed football and burgers, not the simple, taken-for-granted freedom of taking a woman out on a date. But it was easy to imagine bringing this woman along on a road trip to the canyon. His Harley. The open road. Her slender arms wrapped around his waist—

“Crat!” she coughed out, nearly spilling her drink.

Crat was the Basic equivalent of “shit.” His hand over his pistol, Ian followed her fearful gaze to the docks, where one of the local merchants was arguing with a dozen soldiers in crisp silver-trimmed blue uniforms and shiny black boots. Vash Nadah elite guard. The medium-sized cruiser he saw land a short while ago sat nearby. More soldiers were tramping down the boarding ramp.

Ian regarded the woman with heightened interest .

“Dar security forces. On Blunder. What brings them so far from home, I wonder?”

Wild-eyed, the sprite swung her attention to him. “They’ll see me,” she said fervently. “They’ll take me back.” Her chest rose and fell in increasingly deep breaths.

“Listen, if you’re in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help. I—”

“No.” She shut her eyes as if praying, then whirled around to watch the scene unfolding on the docks. The focus of the argument appeared to be centered on a sleek speeder parked behind them. Several groups of soldiers broke off from the gathering and strode across the plaza, heading their way. The curious crowd of bedraggled traders and merchants parted to let the big men pass.

“Your eyeshaders!” The woman snatched Ian’s sunglasses off his face, shoving them on before he had the chance to react. She bumped her stool closer to his. “Put your arms around me.”

He hesitated for a heartbeat. He didn’t like to jump into situations blind. On the frontier—anywhere—it was an easy way to end up dead.

“Please,” she beseeched him.

Wordlessly, he drew her to him. She was quivering. Instinctively he tightened his arms around her.

The soldiers made their way through the shops; others walked through the bars, asking questions, their weapons in their holsters. Apparently, they didn’t consider their quarry dangerous. But when a pair of officers veered their way, Ian felt the woman go rigid.

“Greetings, Earth-dwellers,” the robust officer called to them.

The woman lifted her head. “Greetings!”

“My apologies for disturbing you. We’re gathering information on some stolen goods. I’m in search of a tall woman, looks Vash, has short hair. She’s wearing a blue flight suit—or was the last time she was seen. Have you seen her?”

They shook their heads and chorused, “No.”

Clearly taken with the prospect of chatting with exotic Earth-folk, the officer leaned casually on the bar while his partner peered behind barrels and rooted through a pile of trash, before trying in vain to question the semiconscious bartender, who’d added more imaginary friends to his somnolent dialogue.

Waiting for his partner to finish, the officer lifted the visor of his helmet and dabbed at his forehead. “Hot weather, this.”

Before Ian could answer, the pixie chimed in. “On Earth, Ah-ree-zona is worse.” She kissed Ian on the cheek. “Is it not?”

Ian gaped at her.

The officer winced in understanding. “With all due respect to the B’kah’s Queen Jasmine, I’ll not be taking any trips to Earth anytime soon.”

Apparently satisfied that what they were searching for was not in the café, the men bade them good day and departed.

Immediately, the girl scooted away from Ian. Her eyes darted skyward at the telltale high-pitched whine of speeder thrusters. Her jaw clenched and unclenched, as if she was fighting hard to control her emotions. A screech rattled their glasses as the sleek vessel—the one the Dar security men had been arguing over—soared overhead so low that the bar’s stools danced across the patchwork flooring. Then the speeder streaked across the sky and disappeared on the horizon.

“There goes my ride,” she whispered.

“And look—there go those Dar soldiers, back to their cruiser. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yes.” She dragged her attention back to him. “Thank you for…your help.”

“I aim to please, ma’am.” He plucked his sunglasses off her nose. “Obviously they were looking for you. So what’d you do? Or not do?”

She blinked at him in the bright sunshine but gave no answer. Somehow he hadn’t expected she would. Blunder was a place for secrets and this pixie evidently had more than her share. Her appearance alone was enough to pique his curiosity. She had the classic sculpted features of Vash royalty—high cheekbones, a long, perfectly formed nose, and pale golden eyes that tipped up at each end—but she was more animated, more genuine than any of the wife candidates met at court on Rom’s home world of Sienna.

That was because she wasn’t a royal, he quickly assured himself. Vash princesses rarely left their homeworlds. And when they did, they didn’t come to places like Donavan’s Blunder. The idea was inconceivable. The protocol that kept Vash Nadah women cloistered dated back to the years before and during the Great War, a period of anarchy when the protective measures were necessary. Eleven thousand years later, the galaxy was stable and safe. Yet the customs restricting royal women remained. Strange that the religion binding the galaxy together was based on a feminine entity, the Great Mother, when the highest-ranking women in the eight royal families spent their lives in the shadows.

Thoughtful, he sipped his tock and studied the young woman next to him. Plenty of upper-class merchants carried Vash Nadah blood, so this one must have royalty as her ancestors.

“Everything I had was in that ship,” she said glumly. “Now I’m stuck on Donavan’s Blunder with a bad haircut, a quarter of the credits I came with, and these are my only clothes.” Sighing, she sagged forward on the bar, supporting her chin with her hands. “I don’t think it can get any worse than this.”

Ian lowered his drink. “I’ve had a pretty lousy day myself. ”

They shared lingering commiserating grins.

He asked, “Buy you another tock?”

“No. This calls for something stronger.” She pounded her fist on the counter. “Bartender—Mandarian whiskey!”

The old space-hand came to life, reaching under the bar for a dusty red bottle and uncorking it.

The woman tossed a few credits on the table. “Order yourself some spirits—what’s your name, anyway?”

“Ian.”

Her expression tightened in alarm before her eyes narrowed in concentration. She scrutinized him as if she thought she knew him—or hoped she didn’t. “Ian...?”

“Ian Stone,” he finished for her, using the alias he had chosen for his surname.

“Ah.” She swallowed. “Ian. Your given name is common on Earth, is it not?”

He smiled innocently. “Very.”

She relaxed and shook her head. “What will you have, Ian Stone? I’m buying.”

He chuckled. “I’ll stick with tock , but thanks.”

She grabbed the cup the bartender handed her and tossed the contents into her mouth. Her breath exited in a wheeze and her golden eyes filled with tears. “Great Mother,” she whispered hoarsely. Her dark-lashed eyes focused, then unfocused. “Another,” she huffed.

“I don’t think you want another. Mandarian whiskey is potent stuff. If you’re not used to it—”

“Who says I’m not used to it? Why, I drink all the time, every day, morning and night. I brush my teeth with the stuff. Yes, that’s what I do. No one keeps me from my whiskey!”

Anger blazed in her eyes. “I’ve followed orders my entire life. No more.” She shoved more credits across the bar. “Your glasses are too small,” she informed the bartender. “Hand me the bottle.”

He shifted his watery eyes to Ian, his brows raised questioningly. Ian shook his head ever so slightly, and the man wedged the cork into the bottle.

“Hey!” The pixie swiped for the whiskey, snatching it from the barman’s gnarled fingers. “I paid for it, didn’t I?” Her hand was unsteady as she poured another glass.

Ian groaned, folding his arms across his chest. Well, he knew what he was doing this afternoon— baby-sitting. With this heat, that liquor, and the girl’s obvious low tolerance for the stuff, she was going to be feeling pretty low, pretty fast.

“Quite good, this Menerian—Manarian—this whiskey. ” She hiccupped. “‘S’cuse me.”

“What’s your name, pixie?”

She tilted her head at the Earth word. She seemed to be having a tough time focusing on his face. “Tee—” She clamped her mouth shut. “Just Tee.”

“Tell me your story, ‘Just Tee.’ You say you lost your ship. Who’d you work for? The Federation merchants? ”

“Had my own ship.” Her lips compressed into a resolute line. “It’s all right. I’m not afraid of hard work. Someone will need a pilot.”

Ian grabbed her upper arm. “You mean you fly ?”

She wedged a wrinkled cap out of her trousers and fit it on her head. Above the brim was the faint outline of a pair of wings. “There. See?”

He gave a whoop of delight. “An intersystem cargo pilot—with no speeder!”

She frowned at him with accusing eyes. “Thought you were s’posed to be making me feel better.”

“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 face down 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 had 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 would 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 had 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 had 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 was 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 would 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 space-hand 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 had 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 plasma pistol with some consternation, as if trying to remember what to do with it. Then she dropped her right arm, pointing the deadly weapon 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 had 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 had 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 had 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 salary.” 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 had made it all the way to Blunder from wherever she came from; it proved that her skills went beyond short planet-to-planet cargo runs.

Ian thought of what he had 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 would 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 tock 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.”