The Star Prince (3 page)

The wind bombarded the shields, harder now. Her ears popped with the oscillating atmospheric pressure.

She clutched the doorjamb, unable to force herself forward— or back— caught between her future and her past, between a crazy wish and common sense. Her uneven breathing became a roar in her ears, amplifying her self-doubt, threatening her resolve. But if she wanted to escape to freedom and independence, she'd have to overcome her childish fears, starting with her terror of the storm.

Go. She grabbed her satchel and propelled herself into a full-fledged run through a labyrinth of white polished-stone corridors she knew by heart. Her cargo pilot coverall allowed her a freedom of movement she'd never experienced in the ankle-length gowns she'd worn all her life. Her lungs burned, her legs tightened, but the exertion brought her joy, as if her body were a fresh-from-the-shipyard starship experiencing light speed for the first time.

She skidded to a brisk walk as she entered the mezzanine of Mistraal’ s spaceport. Cool, dry air and the resonance of the enormous chamber snapped her into instant alertness. From under her pilot cap, she gazed at the dust-glazed sky reflected in an immense but graceful passenger shuttle, newly arrived from the orbital space-city, and packed with hundreds of passengers eager to arrive before the storm.

Slashes of early-evening sunlight fanned over the marble floor, illuminating the travelers exiting the shuttle. Great Mother. She recognized half the people milling about— palace staff and workers… and several members of her father's Security Council.

Praying she looked nothing like a princess, she rolled her shoulders back, swinging her arms in the cocky, casual stride used by the intersystem cargo pilots she'd always admired. And envied. Perspiration trickled down one cheek. Her flight suit clung to her damp skin as she pushed forward against the tide of travelers.

Faster. You must launch before the storm hits.

Eyes downcast, she left the mezzanine behind, walking as swiftly as she could without actually running. A locked door separated the shuttle bay from the passenger area. She shoved her left palm into a hand reader. The receptacle beeped and displayed

ACCESS DENIED.

She steadied herself with a deep breath and again wedged her hand into the reader. STAND BY. An amber light bunked while the unit attempted to reconcile her sweaty, tense palm with what it "thought" her hand was supposed to look like.

Heartbeats ticked by. Tee'ah swore under her breath.

CHECKING… CHECKING…

You'll never see your family again. Heavens, she loved her parents, her brothers, their wives and children. If she ran away she'd cause them untold pain and worry. The muscles in her arm contracted and her fingers stiffened.

CHECKING… CHECKING…

She forcibly relaxed her hand, tamping down on her upsurge of guilt. She had to keep her mind clear, her thoughts rational. She mustn't allow regret to distract her.

VERIFICATION COMPLETED.

The door slid open. Her breath hissed out. She dashed into the vast hangar, her boots thudding against the silver alloy flooring in lonely echoes. The area where the starspeeders were docked was predictably deserted. When she'd accessed the computer in her bedchamber, she'd noted that only gates six and seven were scheduled to have a vessel occupying the bay. One… two… three: she counted the gates as she ran. All were vacant. Her stomach quivered with the unwelcome vision of finding six and seven empty, too.

Four… five… There! She gave a silent cheer. The ship she'd had her eye on was safely docked at bay six to wait out the storm. It was the break she'd counted on.

The starspeeder was small, built for a crew of four. But its oversize engines and sleek fuselage made it fast. She would need that speed to put distance between her and the soldiers her father would inevitably set on her trail— by tomorrow, she figured. She did a quick mental calculation: the stored food and water on the ship, a week's worth for each of its four pilots, would keep her alive during the journey to the frontier.

She eased her hand into her right pocket. Her fingertips brushed the cool, impersonal cylinder of her borrowed laser pistol as she stepped inside the ship's darkened interior. By the heavens, someone was sitting in the cockpit— at the controls.

She almost groaned aloud. The last thing she'd anticipated was leaving behind a witness. Raising her pistol, she moved out of the shadows. "Get up," she said, her voice calm, in fact miraculously so.

The pilot spun around in his chair. His throat bobbed when he saw her weapon, but his hand slid toward the flashing red light that was a direct link to Mistraal's planetary security.

"Touch the comm and you're space dust."

A flush rose in his face and his hand retreated. Nonetheless, she aimed at his head, praying he didn't call her bluff and make her use the thing. She'd never shot at anything, certainly not a live person, as if she'd actually ever try. Even if she did, she'd no doubt miss and rip a hole in the hull and heaven knew what else, blowing her chance to take the ship.

"Stand up… slowly." Her heart thumped harder in her chest, but somehow she kept her hands steady. "Set your pistol on the comm panel and back away."

The young lieutenant bristled. "Why would I need a pistol doing postflight checklists in the cockpit of an empty intersystem merchant vessel— a docked empty merchant vessel?"

"I said move it! " She advanced on him.

He shot to his feet. "Lady Tee'ah!"

Sweet heaven. She hadn't recognized him, but that didn't mean he didn't recognize her; there were a lot fewer princesses on Mistraal than cargo pilots.

"Honored lady— " From where he stood, he peered under her cap and grimaced. "What happened?"

She forced a scowl. "Bad hair day." He bunked in confusion. "Go," she snapped before he had the chance to respond.

He backed up, hands raised. "You'll need a pilot to fly her."

"I'm flying her."

That threw him. But he recovered swiftly. "Without departure codes you'll never get clearance out of here."

Tee'ah admired his clever efforts to stay aboard to keep the speeder from being stolen. Men like him had made the Dars one of the most respected of the eight royal families. "I have the codes," she said quietly. "And you, Lieutenant, have one standard-minute to clear the bay. Then I'm firing the thrusters."

Exhaling, he climbed down the gangway from the cockpit to the cabin. The muzzle of her pistol matched his progress along the bulkhead leading to the exit hatch. He looked positively forlorn. She gentled her tone. "I left a note of explanation. You won't be blamed."

The pilot shrugged dejectedly. She thought of Captain Riss and prayed that her father's famed benevolence extended to both him and this young lieutenant.

She clutched the pistol in her sweaty hands, waiting for the pilot's measured steps to take him farther into the empty, cavernous docking bay. The instant he was safely away from the ship, she smacked her palm onto the door panel. The starspeeder's hatch snapped shut with a hiss of air. From the viewscreen, she snatched one last glimpse of the displaced pilot staring at her from the safety of the spaceport before he dashed away to find help.

She jumped into the pilot's chair, buckled in, and nipped on the thrusters. The starspeeder shuddered as she turned the craft within the confines of the docking bay. Clearing the hangar, she aimed the ship's nose at the sky and pulled the control stick to her chest, shoving the thrusters forward with her other hand. Acceleration slammed her into her seat as she soared skyward.

The storm had intensified more swiftly than she'd anticipated. Bone-shaking turbulence dislodged her cap, and roiling clouds of dust scoured the forward viewscreen. The airborne particles made the engines whine. Her pulse skipped erratically as her deep fear of the Tjhu'nami threatened to overwhelm her. But as the pale orange sky dimmed into indigo and then the black of space, and stars took the place of the setting sun, the rough air eased. Only then did she tip her head back against the headrest and allow herself a single soft, triumphant laugh. She was free.

"Talk about dropping off the face of the Earth!"

Bleary-eyed from a string of restless nights, Ian slouched in his command chair on the Sun Devil, waiting for his twin sister to finish berating him from the viewscreen attached to his right armrest. His boots propped on a box of produce destined for the ship's galley, he pondered the benefits of ancient technology that allowed the Vash to communicate with minimal lag times over vast interstellar distances. Then he weighed those benefits against the grinding reality of being light years from Earth and pestered by his sister,, real time.

"Ian, do you have any idea how hard it's been trying to get hold of you? Mom said you were in the frontier, but didn't know where. This is so not like you, Mr. Goody-two-shoes."

"Hey, I called, didn't I?"

She snorted. "Mentally, I'd already tossed your ashes into the wind."

"I'm undercover, Ilana. No one can reach me. Remember?"

"Was I supposed to?" She appeared unconvincingly apologetic as she smoothed her bangs away from her forehead. On anyone else, the tangled bleached-blond hair would look like a mop. On her, it looked good, and probably fit her life as a young, single filmmaker living in Santa Monica, California.

"I needed to ask you a few questions," he said, "but it sounds like you have something for me." Ilana had once said that his eagerness to devote his life to the greater good was as pointless and boring as her dating only one guy at a time. But her love for Rom B'kah was one thing they had in common, and she acted as Ian's eyes and ears on Earth, keeping him updated on public opinion regarding the Federation.

"Well, the Neanderthals are at it again."

"Earth First?"

"Yes. Two anti-Federation rallies— one a couple of weeks ago at the U.N., the other last weekend in Washington."

"No protests overseas?"

"No. Not yet."

He rolled the tension out of his shoulders. Because he and his mother had unprecedented positions in their society, a high-ranking Earth official instigating a bid for independence was bound to attract Vash attention. What member of the Great Council would approve of a prince from a rogue planet?

"Don't let it get you down, Ian. I have good news, too. Randall's on his way to the frontier. A little feet-finding tour, he's calling it."

"No kidding." Adrenaline rushed through him, and he dropped his feet to the floor. Finally, something was going his way. "Have you got anything recorded?"

"A press conference. Ready?"

"Yes. Play it."

Charles Randall appeared on the viewscreen. Dressed in a crisp flightsuit with a NASA emblem, the senator posed comfortably before an array of viewscreens that were clearly part of a new starship. Ironic, Ian thought as he waved Muffin over; the Federation's biggest critic was enjoying himself on a spaceship cut from a Vash pattern with Vash-donated parts.

Muffin settled into the adjacent chair. The recording was in English, of which the man had a limited command. He could use a Basic English translator— a high-tech, palm-sized device that transformed speech to text— but he preferred observing body language, which he said he often found more useful than verbal cues.

"Senator," a correspondent asked once Randall was done rhapsodizing about his upcoming adventure. "How do you reconcile your harsh accusations regarding the Vash with their actions over the past seven years? In exchange for an ordinary trade agreement, they've given us cures for cancer and AIDS, and medical science enabling us to heal newly damaged spinal cords. Yet you say we're better off without them?"

Randall ran a hand over his silver hair, cut in a short military style buzz. "The Vash have indeed been generous with us," he acknowledged. "Light-speed capable spacecraft, cures for devastating diseases; the list goes on and on. But at what cost to us? They've absorbed us completely into their empire." His piercing blue eyes narrowed. "If that doesn't frighten you, it should. The arrangement you call an ordinary trade agreement is the proverbial deal with the devil. We sold our souls for some fancy tech. This may not be what some of you want to hear, but it's reality, folks. It's time we faced it, took action and looked out for our own interests. That's why I'm going to the frontier. For you, for me, for all of us. I want to see what has happened to other planets who have made deals with the Vash. And I want to see what actions will be most favorable for our peoples in the years to come. I expect that detaching ourselves from the Federation is the only way to get what we need. Remember, Earth must come first."

A few journalists cheered.

"Great," Ian muttered to himself. Their eagerness to swallow Randall's sugar pill of sovereignty showed their naivete in galactic history. Independent, power-hungry worlds caused instability; only unity would keep the peace.

"What's your itinerary, Senator?"

"Planet Grüma will serve as my base camp for the month. From there I'll launch several side trips."

Ian drummed his fingers on his thighs. "Grüma." The rural planet was home to the frontier's lively but mostly harmless black market. "I wonder what facts he thinks he'll find there?"

"We can easily find out," Muffin said. "It's close, a day's ride. Maybe two."

Ian scowled. "It might as well be in another dimension without a pilot to fly us there."

When Ilana reappeared on the viewscreen, she searched his face and grinned. "All right. You're going after him?"

"You better believe, I am."

"Hot damn! Ian Hamilton's going to kick some butt. Tae-kwon-dol Make Randall eat his propaganda, would you?"

He replied dryly, "The Vash crown prince duking it out with a U.S. senator? Yeah, that'd go a long way toward helping interstellar relations."

"You know, maybe it would."

Muffin chuckled, and Ian glared at him.

Ilana lifted her hands. "I know, you don't have to tell me. You prefer the thinking man's approach; diplomacy is paramount; 'make love not war,' the Vash Nadah creed. Hey, it worked for most of eleven thousand years, right?" She leaned toward the viewscreen. "But sometimes, you just have to kick a little ass."