The Star Prince (33 page)

Ilana's face lit up. "Lara, you're brilliant." She tapped her finger against her cheek. Then she turned to the reporter nearby. "You network signatories have an agreement, right? That any breaking news of world significance can be spontaneously pooled at the authority of the net on the scene?"

"That's right." The reporter studied her. "Why?"

"The crown prince of the galaxy is about to choose his future queen. Right here. Right now!"

The reporter's eyes veered toward Tee'ah and Ian, arguing passionately in hushed voices.

"He could very well be the next king of the galaxy," Ilana said, "if he's approved, and if we Earth-types support him. Just think, a hometown boy in charge. As Rom B'kah's stepdaughter, I can provide the insider narration, if you want: Ladies and gentlemen, watch as we establish— today, right before your eyes— a thrilling new star-spanning dynasty in which we— Earth— play a crucial role!"

"I'll call my producer." The reporter pressed her cell phone to her ear.

Ilana paced in short, tense bursts. Lara bit the inside of her lip, opening and closing her fists. The transaction seemed to take forever.

Finally, the reporter lowered her cell phone. "We got it!"

"Yes!" Ilana gave Lara a high-five.

The reporter shouted to her cameraman, "Pool it, global!" and she gestured frantically for him to start filming.

Around the globe, televisions and computers flicked on to catch the breaking story. Satellite coverage shared by the different nets around the world began a simultaneous feed. Then, with just a two-second lag, the image of Tee'ah and Ian began popping on screens from Kalamazoo to Karachi to Kazakhstan.

Ian caught up with Tee on a windswept helipad commanding a spectacular view of the city and a hazy glimpse of the ocean beyond. "Maybe I'm not being clear. I want to many you, Tee."

She spun around, her eyes anguished, her hair wild. "No. I'll not ruin your chance for the throne!"

He advanced on her. "That's why you left, isn't it? You feel you need to protect me— from you."

Her expressive face gave him his answer. He reached for her. She backed away. "You need a traditional wife. I can't be that woman. Royal life suffocates me. I want to fly, to make my own choices."

"Why would I stop you? I don't support the old traditions, you know that."

"That's what you say now, but you'll change," she said with conviction.

"I won't!"

"You already have. On the Quillie you told me that I could no longer work for you, that the job was too dangerous. Those were your exact words." Her hand crept to her chest and balled into a fist. "I know," she whispered. "I felt every one."

"It was a knee-jerk reaction. I didn't mean you couldn't… that I'd… " He exhaled. "I was caught off guard, Tee. I reacted badly, and I apologize. I won't change into a traditionalist; I promise you. You know Vash custom, we have to be promised for a year before we can get married, time to get to know each other, to see what we're really like. And at the end of that year… you'll be free to walk away."

She gave him a grudging nod that told him she didn't believe he wouldn't ultimately go back to the Vash way of thinking. Or maybe she was still worried their engagement would keep him from becoming Rom's heir.

"A lot happened over the past few days, Tee, life-changing things."

Now she looked worried. "What, Ian?"

"Rom didn't care for the way I was handling the frontier situation. He ordered me back to Sienna." He lowered his voice. "I didn't go."

"He did?" Her voice rose. "You disobeyed the king?" She grew as pale as a Vash could get. "Is that what you meant when you said you broke the rules?"

"You can't follow them all the time, pixie. You taught me that. The right path isn't always the one everyone uses. Sometimes you've got to go your own way." He took her hands in his. "You have to believe me, Tee, when I say I won't make you live in the traditional way. Isolation should be a choice, not a law. I'm American; I've always felt that way. Being the crown prince won't change that, or how I feel about Earth and my family. Or you, sweet pixie."

Fascinated, Earth's population watched the exchange— in pubs, in cars and shopping malls. In the Oval Office where a weary president argued with an incensed senior Vash trade minister, Senator Charlie Randall rose to his feet.

"I don't believe it," he said, pointing to a television mounted on the wall. "There's our boy."

Ian pulled her snug against him. Cheek to cheek, breaming in unison, he rocked her back and forth. "So, what do you say?"

"Don't do this," Tee said in a tight whisper.

"Give me one reason why not."

" The welfare of all comes before the desires of the few.'"

"Who's to say this isn't for the good of the many? I'm from the frontier. You're from one of the eight original families. Yeah, things are going to be a little touchy until the Great Council finds a wife for Che, but it'll settle down. Come on; I love you, Tee. And you love me. Let's get married. To hell with what anyone thinks!"

From nearby came the sound of a crowd whooping and whistling.

Ian lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder. Holy Toledo. His sister, the news crew, everyone, had formed a half-ring around the helipad.

Ilana's finger came up against her lips. She shook her head, her eyes urging him not to say anything. Keep going, she mouthed. You're doing great.

Ian was at a loss. Should he capitalize on this fortuitous impromptu forum, allowing the world to eavesdrop on a conversation that should have been private, so he could show Earth that he was human, fallible, and on their side? The day he said he'd be Rom's heir, he'd agreed tacitly to a public life. But this was crazy.

"Say yes! Say yes!" The chant started with a whisper from Ilana's lips. Then Lara took up the chorus, followed by the others on the rooftop.

Ian realized that they were urging Tee to accept his proposal. But she'd shut her eyes. What looked like a prayer formed on her lips. She was going to turn him down, he thought with gloomy certainty.

"Say yes! Say yes!" The cheer spread quickly. Images of the events taking place on a rooftop in Los Angeles streamed into deep space, destined for planets all over the civilized galaxy.

Her eyes opened and she swore.

Ian's mouth quirked. "That's not exactly the answer I was after."

"No." She pointed into the crowd. "I thought I was imagining it. But look."

Ian squinted past the lights aimed at him. A pair of newcomers walked toward them. They had smooth amber skin and coppery-blond hair. Both were tall and broad shouldered, with eyes as pale and aristocratic as Tee's.

"It's Klark," Tee whispered. "On the right."

Ian's voice was low and lethal. "I can't believe he had the balls to hunt me down on my home planet." Was Klark so completely evil, or was he just stupid? The man on the left raised his hand in greeting. Every muscle in Ian's body tensed. Klark had brought his older brother, Che— the man who had every right to claim Tee as his own.

Chapter Twenty-one

Ian set his jaw and met the gold, coolly rational eyes of his unexpected adversary. Che carried himself with the inbred insolence so characteristic of royal Vash Nadah men. And why not? Che held all the cards— on his own homeworld and here on Ian's. All the prince had to do was imply Tee was by rights his, and it would hurl everything into chaos.

Ian glanced at Tee. She looked stricken. He wanted to reach for her, to hold her tight. One last time. He doubted she'd marry Che. More likely, she'd run deeper into the frontier to "save him from ruin" and pick up the reins of her original plan. He'd lose her either way.

Che and Klark stopped in front of him, both a full head taller than he. Che's regal, deep-green cloak swirled around his boots as he dropped to his knees. "Greetings, my prince," he said, bowing his head.

The show of respect threw Ian. "Rise," he said, and extended his hand.

Klark made a hissing noise. "Che, what are you doing?"

Che took Ian's wrist in the traditional Vash handshake, gripping his arm with passion not evident in his composed expression. Then Che nodded in Tee's direction. "My lady."

"My lord," she replied softly.

They held each other's gazes for a few moments longer than what made Ian comfortable. Both had been children when they'd first met. Neither could have imagined the consequences of their doomed arranged union. When Che finally spoke, Ian realized he'd been holding his breath. "I am experiencing a family crisis that disturbs me greatly," he said with a glance at Klark. "I ask for your guidance in choosing the best way to proceed."

"Go on," Ian said carefully.

Klark grabbed Che's arm. "This is not what we planned! You were to challenge him."

"No," said Che. "That's the old way. Rom is correct. We're the generation who can ensure a future of peace— but only if we adapt as times change." He waved his hand at Ian and the crowd surrounding them. "Times have changed."

"You would give the reins of our kingdom to this barbarian?"

The crowd sensed something had gone wrong. Their cheers turned to boos. Ian glanced from brother to brother. "What's going on?"

"We formally challenge your claim to the throne," Klark declared. "It's a ritual fight of ancient origins, fought without weapons and not to the death." He paused. "Though at times that happens."

Ian wracked his brain, thinking of all the readings he'd studied, and came up empty-handed. "I've never heard of a ritual challenge."

Che scowled at his brother. "My brother makes it sound common. In fact, it has never once been enacted, and it won't be now."

Klark threw off his cloak. "If you won't do what is right, I will." Klark's hate-filled gaze settled on Ian. "I hereby challenge you, Earth dweller, in the name of my brother, Prince Che, firstborn son of the Vedlas, the rightful heir to the throne."

Ian's neck muscles tightened. Though it was tempting, he wouldn't stoop down to Klark's level. Always the best way around a racist's ignorance was a thoughtful, non-threatening approach. "It's obvious we're in disagreement here. We can solve our differences without violence. By talking— "

Klark's fist came out of nowhere and caught him in the jaw. He staggered backward, his eyes watering from the knifelike pain. Tee's cry carried above roar of the crowd. Her fear for him invaded his psyche.

"Coward. Unschooled savage." Klark swung at him again. This time Ian blocked his fist, absorbing the shock with his open hand. The impact sent him to his knees, and Klark's boot arced toward his face. But because of his Tae kwon do training, his hands were already there. He hooked Klark's leg by the ankle and swept the prince onto his back.

Around the globe, outrage reigned. In the United Nations, talks between diplomats and the Vash chief envoy broke down. In a bar in Sydney, Australia, the patrons turned angry eyes toward a lone Vash tourist.

"Hey, mate. You're not welcome here." In a commotion of fists and jeers, he found himself tumbling over the sidewalk. Soaked with beer, he landed in a heap by a parked car.

In the White House, the president bellowed, "This is the man you want to bring to the negotiation table, Randall? Our cool-headed mediator?"

"What would you have him do, Mr. President, put his tail between his legs and run?" The senator exchanged glances with Rom's trade minister. "My money's on Hamilton," he drawled. "How about yours, Vash?"

Sprawled on his back, Klark groaned.

Ian had spent his teenage years practicing martial arts, earning his black belt. But fighting on pavement was a lot more serious— and painful— than landing on mats. Rubbing his throbbing hand, Ian stood over his opponent. "Klark, you made your point. Now let's work things out. This isn't what Rom would want." Not that he had any right to say what the king wanted or didn't, seeing that he was here against the man's orders. "I'll help you up."

The prince nodded humbly and raised his arm. Their hands clasped. Then Klark yanked him off balance and hurled him over his head.

The world spun, and Ian landed hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Choking, tasting blood, he writhed over the cement, his neck and back burning with pain. He was vaguely aware of the shouting crowd, his sister and Tee trying to reach him but being held back. He tried to get up, but almost passed out. He couldn't see, and his ears rang so loudly he couldn't hear anything else. All he'd ever believed in was solving conflict through reason. Now, ironically, he stood to lose everything he valued on the outcome of what was nothing more than a street fight.

Klark's boots crunched back and forth on the pavement. Bitterness spewed out of him. "Is this the man you want as king?" he called. "Look at him, squirming on the ground like an unearthed invertebrate. He wants to talk, eh? It's because he can't fight."

"Enough," Che told his brother.

"Enough, is right. If he can't stand up for what he believes in, how is he supposed to defend the galaxy?" Klark's laughter echoed across the rooftop.

Ian growled. Now he was starting to get pissed. Hot damn! Ian Hamilton's going to kick some butt. Toe kwon do. His sister's words the day he'd learned Randall was coming to the frontier came back to haunt him. "You prefer the thinking man's approach," she'd teased. "Diplomacy is paramount; 'make love not war,' the Vash Nadah creed. Hey, it worked for most of eleven thousand years, right? But sometimes, you just have to kick a little ass."

Klark loomed over him. "Are we finished already, Earth dweller? Are you ready to relinquish your claim to the throne and hand it over to a real man?" Grabbing Ian's hand, the Vash prince yanked him to his feet with one hand and hurled a punch with his other.

Ian blocked the strike and hit Klark in the chin. A roundhouse kick sent the stunned prince to the ground. "Actually, I'm going to kick your butt."

The crowd went wild. Klark rose and came at him again, albeit wobbly. Ian blocked his kicks, sent him sprawling again. Clearly enraged, blood dribbling from his split chin, the Vash climbed unsteadily to his feet and threw another punch. Ian ducked. Instantly he had Klark in a choke hold.