The Star Princess

by Susan Grant

  Slavica laughed and put in, “It’s called wedding fever, baby. And you’d better watch out.” She lifted up her left hand. A ring twinkled in the overhead halogen lighting. “It’s contagious.”

  Ilana snorted. “I have a natural immunity.” Her parents’ failed relationship would have turned even Cupid into a cynic on the subject of commitment. “That’s not the issue, though. Getting to the wedding is.”

  “I thought they had a private jet,” Slavica said.

  “They have a spaceship.” Sweat prickled between her breasts. “A fleet of them.”

  Flash regarded her from where he relaxed in a chair on the opposite side of the room. His hair was jet black and his eyes were blue—a killer combination. It was probably why she’d fallen into bed with him their sophomore year at UCLA. It hadn’t taken much more in those days to charm the pants off her. She was a little more circumspect now—by her standards, which never seemed to match anyone else’s—but one thing she had with Flash Giordano that she didn’t with any of her other former flings was a lasting friendship.

  “I thought you went to a class last week,” he said. His legs were propped on a sad little ottoman, one foot crossed over the other. He’d been reading a script and only now gave any indication that he’d paid attention to their conversation.

  She cleared her throat. “Class?”

  “Ilana…” His tone conveyed everything; he didn’t need to say anything more. Ilana remembered that, growing up, her father had possessed the same knack. When he’d been around.

  “You must mean Fly Without Fear for Dummies.”

  Flash regarded her as he flicked a pencil against his stomach. “How’d it go?”

  Ilana let her hair fall over her eyes as she rummaged in the bag for another Corn Nut. “I stayed for the intro.” She could fudge facts with the best of them, but lying…well, she had never been very good at it.

  “How long?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes. Or maybe five.”

  Leslie and Slavica gave her the kind of pitying stares that only long-term friends and co-workers could.

  “Okay, I don’t know how long I was there,” Ilana finally blurted. “It felt like an eternity.”

  “So, the ‘dummies’ stayed and you left.”

  “Shut up, Flash.” She glared at him as she switched leg positions, dangling the shoe on her other foot. She spilled the remains of the bag of Corn Nuts into her hand. Salt sprinkled everywhere.

  “But…both your parents are pilots.” Slavica spread her hands and waited, as if expecting enlightenment.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ilana said in a nasal voice, pretending to report a breaking news story. “In a horrible mishap of genetics, the ‘flying’ gene was found to be missing from every single strand of Ilana Hamilton’s DNA.”

  Slavica nodded sympathetically. “That’s sad.”

  “Sad? No. Inconvenient, yes. But I’m working on it.” She was the creative twin, she reasoned. Ian had inherited the flying gene and a host of other traits Ilana lacked, such as self-sacrifice and duty, honor, country—all that. At first, Ilana had seen her brother’s eagerness to devote his life to the greater good to be as pointless and boring as dating only one guy at a time. But she’d come to respect him for it. As long as he and the rest of her family didn’t expect the same from her.

  No, the Vash life was not for Ilana. Those royals overprotected their women, while giving the single men unlimited freedom. The men got live-in courtesans, who weren’t prostitutes but members of a glorified, respected guild that had existed for almost eleven thousand years. Royal women were expected to remain cloistered virgins until they married.

  Ugh. Hypocrisy in action and enough double standards to make her blood boil. True, her family was busy trying to initiate changes in the patriarchal Vash society, but it would be a slow, careful process, taking years if not generations. As it stood now, only Rom’s home world of Sienna didn’t require royal women to live by the old rules. There, Ilana’s mother was an active pilot, commander of the space wing. But everywhere else, Jas put up with the Vash games out of love for her husband. Ian, too, respected his adopted culture. But then, he was an outsider preparing to take over Rom’s role as king—he couldn’t afford to appear too eager to dismantle the system.

  Although her family reassured her that the Vash supported Ian, privately Ilana still worried, even feared for his life.

  She frowned. The Vash Nadah reminded her of a pack of snarling dogs. That jerk Klark had been the worst of them. Lucky for him, the dude was locked up light-years away from where she could get her hands on him.

  Ilana hopped down from her stool and walked to a wide window overlooking a sun-drenched parking lot in downtown Burbank. Even after five months, memories of the day her brother was attacked still unsettled her. Klark Vedla’s arrogance had made her skin crawl. And yet, it was an image of Klark’s older brother Ché that remained stuck in her mind all these months. Stuck, like a splinter in her foot.

  Eons of arranged marriages—powerful warriorprinces joining with beautiful women—had given Ché high cheekbones, a long straight nose, and hair and skin in a striking warm bronze that made it look as if he’d overdosed on sunless tanning cream. But unlike what Ilana had seen of Klark, a self-aware, almost tolerant quality mellowed Ché’s supreme confidence. And curiosity, too. About her. She’d seen it when she’d met his piercing pale gold eyes.

  The curiosity went both ways. What girl wouldn’t wonder what such a tall, athletic, broad-shouldered body looked like without all those silly capes?

  Hell. Ché was just another tight-assed pretty-boy prince. Ilana wanted nothing to do with him, or with any of the spoiled rich of the galaxy’s royalty; their rampant snobbery and class awareness, their grating, suffocating attitudes on the subject of monogamy and commitment, which she’d learned long ago was a dangerous proposition for any sane woman.

  That’s right.

  She hunched her shoulders and shoved her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. Her mother would disagree with her attitude, of course. Tee’ah would, too. And now, apparently, so would Slavica, if that engagement ring was anything to judge by. But Ilana was happy with her life the way it was, and she intended to keep it that way—where she held the reins of control, not a man.

  Someone had to wear the title of black sheep of the family. It might as well be her.

  Chapter Three

  Ché rubbed his hands together. Ilana Hamilton had appeared to be clever, from what he could remember, her reputed unruly spirit aside. Surely, understanding his rank and position in her adopted culture, she would assist him once he arrived on Earth. If not, he supposed, he would find his own way.

  He turned around, triumphant at the idea of traveling to Earth. The council members and Hoe stopped speaking to stare at him, hopeful smiles forming on their startled faces. His sudden change of mood must have unbalanced them.

  Inhaling deeply, he strode across the balcony. “I must be off to other duties. Good day, gentlemen.”

  He walked through his bedchamber where a lone maid attended his rumpled bed. Passing his clothing repository, he snatched a clean Bajha suit, shoes, and a case containing his sens-sword, then continued on into the morning hush of the palace corridors.

  Before he reached his destination, footsteps sounded behind him. Hoe. “I’m going to see Klark,” he told the advisor, who fell in step beside him. “He owes me a round of Bajha.” During which Ché would determine what his brother knew of this sudden mad shove to the altar, if anything.

  “The council’s proposal caught you off guard.” Hoe’s concern for Ché’s welfare shone in his seamed face.

  “It was not the subject I thought I’d be facing over my morning tock.”

  “But it’s good—a good plan.”

  “Speak for yourself, Hoe.”

  “Look at the positives, my lord. Now you won’t have to attend the B’kah wedding, looking…so alone. You’ll arrive with your new queen on your arm, the most eli
gible of all the available princesses, and the B’kah wedding will be a much happier occasion for all.”

  “And our Vedla family pride will remain intact.”

  Hoe beamed. “Precisely.”

  Ché stopped by a set of heavy double doors and punched in the code to enter Klark’s living area—a large suite of rooms with access to a vast locked and guarded garden and exercise arena. Klark certainly wasn’t suffering during his imprisonment, but he was alone, kept from communicating with his political cronies. With a nanocomputer implanted in his neck, he could not leave the palace without setting off an alarm.

  After his code was accepted, Ché glanced into the retinal scanner. It beeped in recognition, allowing him past. Hoe did the same and followed him into a softly lit foyer. A black polished stone floor gleamed under their boots.

  Klark met them, dressed in white from head to toe in an as-yet-unfastened Bajha suit, serenely sipping from a cup in his hand. His hair was wet and slicked back from his face. He shared Ché’s features—the high cheekbones, long straight nose, and cleft chin of their clan—but he was harder, leaner in appearance.

  Klark waved his hand at a grouping of large white pillows on a like-hued rug. “Join me while I finish my tock.”

  Ché glanced down with longing. The carpet was plush, the pillows soft. He fought the almost overwhelming desire to lie down there, close his eyes and fall asleep, if only so he could awaken and find out that the news of his impending marriage was a bad dream.

  Klark cocked a golden brow. “You look tired.” His eyes twinkled, indicating that he assumed correctly what Ché had spent the hours before dawn doing. He was right, to a degree, but that wasn’t what had truly wearied him.

  “I will change into my suit,” Ché replied curtly and ducked into the dressing room. His white one-piece outfit was stiff, coated with a protective rubbery substance on the outside. Grimly he closed a series of fastenings from each ankle to the neck, and lastly pulled on flexible white boots that were as comfortable as his choicest slippers.

  Clearly and understandably curious about Ché’s black mood, Klark followed as Ché exited the dressing room and entered the arena. The doors slammed behind them, leaving the white-walled, featureless chamber silent—except for the pitter-pat of Hoe’s boots as the advisor climbed the stairs to spectator seats above the padded playing floor. Ché and his brother began their twice-weekly practice session with a merciless series of stretches and lunges.

  “My plans for the next few months have changed, Klark,” Ché said, breathless. “I would like to discuss them with you.” He then lifted his clublike sens-sword. “Lights,” he called, plunging the arena into darkness.

  Bajha was an ancient game based on intuition and instinct. Those skills, when honed, made a man a superior warrior, an exceptional pilot, and, some said, a better lover. But Ché also practiced Bajha to reach a higher state of consciousness, which he found particularly useful when he needed to think, like now.

  “I am to marry within the next few months,” he explained.

  “Marry!”

  Ché swerved at the sound of Klark’s voice. Muscles tense, his combat instincts vibrating in readiness, he held his sens-sword in front of him in a sure, twohanded grip. “Councilman Toren visited me this morning and unveiled his master plan.” His voice echoed hollowly in the cavernous room. “ ‘Beat the crown prince to the altar,’ he told me. And in doing so, preserve Vedla pride.”

  Ché paused to listen. He was certain he’d heard a muffled laugh. “You find it funny, dear brother?”

  “It was a chuckle of commiseration. Only the other day you were waxing poetic about the rewards of bachelorhood—and before you had even finished your second ale.”

  Klark’s voice had come from a different direction than Ché expected. But even as that thought registered, he sensed that Klark had moved again.

  Slowing his breaths, Ché stared wide-eyed into a wall of complete blackness. “You make it easy when I can hear you, Klark.”

  But not with his ears. It was completely dark, but he did not need his eyes. The neurons in his body hummed, pointing to his prey. Sharpened from years of training in Bajha, Ché’s senses guided him. Following their ancient, mysterious direction, he inched closer.

  The goal of the game was to find his opponent without the aid of the usual five senses. To target Klark, Ché relied on the blood coursing through his veins, his tingling pores, and the prickle of tiny hairs on his body, while he clutched his blunt sens-sword in his fists.

  Of course, it made it all very difficult when playing Bajha to try to have a conversation at the same time. On an unspoken signal, he and his brother both went silent, giving in to the game.

  Klark attacked, and Ché evaded him expertly. Then Ché whirled and swung in a return strike. But Klark was ready for him. His sens-sword whipped so close to Ché’s torso that Ché could feel the rounded blade disturb the air as it whooshed past. But Klark never knew when to stop, it seemed. It was his weakness, and Ché knew it. When Klark came at him again, silently howling a battle cry that Ché could feel in the marrow of his bones, Ché swung his weapon in a brutal arc from above his head and down, then sharply to the left.

  The impact of Klark’s parry shocked him, took his breath. Ché had not expected to find Klark’s sword there. An answering grunt of surprise came from Klark as their swords collided. Shocked or no, they pushed forward at the same time, blades slithering down to lock hilts. A fountain of brilliant violet light erupted at the point of contact, and then both sensswords vibrated, signaling a hit.

  As the purple light faded, Ché saw his own astonishment clearly reflected in his brother’s eyes.

  “Lights,” Ché gasped. The illumination came up, revealing him practically nose to nose with Klark. “Give?” his younger brother inquired, breathless.

  “To hell I’ll give!” Ché gasped. “It’s a draw.”

  Hoe, who had been watching the match through an infrared enhancer, called down from the stands, “I have never seen a draw in Bajha, myself. But this was a draw if there ever was one.” He glanced apologetically at Ché. “My lord.”

  Klark lowered his sens-sword and offered Ché his hand. “Good match,” he said. “And interesting.”

  “To say the least.” Gripping each other’s wrists, the brothers inclined their heads, formally ending the match.

  After stripping off their Bajha suits and changing into robes, the two refreshed themselves with a cold ionic beverage back in Klark’s main chamber. Lounging amongst the floor cushions, Ché brought his sibling up to date with the council’s secret plans. Hoe listened quietly in the background, as he had in nearly every significant conversation Ché had made in his life that concerned political matters or important affairs of the family. Ché trusted him implicitly. It was his brother that he still doubted from time to time.

  “Great Mother. I must say I’m impressed by the councilman’s cleverness,” Klark murmured with approval.

  Ché’s mouth twisted. “I thought you would be.”

  “I knew nothing of it, by the way,” Klark admitted without anyone having to ask.

  “Nothing at all? Preliminary plans? Hints?”

  “Tedious as it is, I am enduring my isolation as sentenced. I don’t ask, and no one tells.” A corner of Klark’s wide mouth twitched, telling Ché that his cynicism and biting wit had survived his captivity.

  Ché rubbed his chin. “Then the wedding scheme is truly the doing of an concerned Vedla council. I suppose I should feel relieved. Grateful. Our family cannot afford another scandal. Our father no doubt feels the same.”

  “But you said Father didn’t tell you of the plans himself.”

  “Correct.” Ché glanced at Hoe. “He let Toren do the dirty work for him.” Then he shrugged. “Perhaps he feared that his feelings for me as a son would interfere with the necessary politics.” While his father was often distant and distracted, Ché and the rest of his siblings—a brother and two sisters—had never doubted
the man’s love.

  A servant glided in with a plate of tock and sweet cakes, a bowl of boiled eggs, and a tray of paper-thin strips of crunchy smoked sea serpent. When the food was dispensed, Ché draped his arm over one bended knee and watched his brother eat. “I’m going to take myself a holiday, Klark,” he said after a moment.

  “A holiday, eh?” Klark nibbled on a strip of fried serpent. “A bachelor’s last hurrah?”

  Ché grinned. “You might say that.”

  “My lord,” Hoe interrupted. “I was not advised of this, er, vacation.”

  “I have just now decided upon it.”

  The picture of efficiency, Hoe took out his palmtop. His hand hovered over the screen. “When and where are we to go?”

  “Not we. I will travel alone. Nothing personal, mind you,” Ché added.

  “As you wish.” Hoe typed furiously. “I will organize a small security detail. No more than six or seven for bodyguards and general security. Then, your personal chef and valet will accompany you—”

  “No staff. No guards. No one from the palace. I wish to travel alone in anonymous fashion. An entourage will only call attention to my identity.”

  Hoe’s dismay was obvious. “It will never be approved.”

  Ché lifted a brow. “Approved by whom, Hoe?”

  Ché himself approved all palace comings and goings, but Hoe was undeterred. “Leave the entourage at the palace, but take the bodyguards. Traveling without protection simply isn’t safe.”

  “I am trained in the deadliest form of unarmed combat in the galaxy,” Ché replied coolly. “I can well handle myself without a legion of babysitters.”

  Seeking support, Hoe turned to Klark, who in turn studied Ché, his expression reflecting not disapproval but concern. Ché knew his brother would do anything for him, die in his place if it came to that. “Have you decided on a destination?” Klark asked.