The Star Princess

by Susan Grant

  That’s why it was different for the Vedlas than for the other families. The Vedlas had survived nearextinction. Passed down from generation to generation through the millennia was the need to be vigilant, to always question, to always keep their clout intact, so that no one would ever become powerful enough to harm them again.

  There was no question in Klark’s mind that Vedla blood was superior to all the rest. It was his goal in life to keep it that way. Because of his purist views, in some circles he was considered a hero. In others, he was a nuisance and even a danger. “It is best to be one or the other,” his father told him. “But not both. The disparity will get you killed, Klark,” he had warned.

  But some things were worth dying for. All true Vedlas felt the same.

  Fifty-seven, fifty-eight…

  His stomach muscles burned. Gritting his teeth, he grunted with each lift of his upper torso. He was stronger than he’d been a standard month ago, and expected to become stronger still. If there was one good thing he could say about incarceration, it was that he’d never been in better shape. Daily now, he put his body through what he would have considered sheer torture in the old days.

  Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one…

  Old days? Not even a standard year had passed between now and then, the days of freedom, of decadent pastimes, of women and other sports, and of the glorious game of politics that ultimately saw him imprisoned in his own home.

  It was merely a setback.

  Seventy-three, seventy-four…

  There were those who considered him finished—in politics and as a man. Bah! They were sadly mistaken. Klark Vedla, second son of the Vedla king, would rise again. And when he did, glory would be his. He would prove to all that the Vedla name stood above the other seven, by ensuring that Ché Vedla, his beloved brother, won his final victory over the humiliation foisted upon him. When it came time, far in the future, to sing out the names of the heroes, Ché’s would be among them.

  Eighty-two, eighty-three…

  Klark kept his eyes focused on the door to his exercise chamber. He took in the burn, the pain, used it to forge his strength, so that it would be there for Ché. Sweat ran in rivulets down his bare chest, over his crossed forearms. It dribbled along his neck and jaw, sprayed by the breaths hissing in and out between his gritted teeth. It was worth it, worth the price.

  “One hundred,” he gasped out, letting his shoulders fall. He hung upside-down for a moment, arms dangling limply, blood roaring in his head.

  Then he saw the guard standing by the entrance to the chamber come suddenly to life. Klark froze, ready to swing upward and release his ankles.

  “Good morning,” a cheery voice rang out.

  It was Hoe, Ché’s eternally effervescent and efficient advisor. With a businesslike bounce in his step, the man strode toward him, walking bent over sideways as if that were the only way to communicate with a man hanging by his feet. In his hand was his ever-present computer, and he was waving it. For the first time, Klark saw that Hoe was upset. The man’s cheeks were ruddy, and there were shadows under his sharp eyes.

  “What is it?” Klark inquired.

  Hoe tipped further to the side. “It is terribly important, my lord.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the door guard, somehow without throwing out his neck in the process. “And confidential.”

  “You heard him,” Klark yelled to the guard. “Leave.”

  Klark knew the guard would not go; they never did. They merely moved their post to outside the room. “Is it Ché? Is my brother in danger?”

  Hoe hesitated just long enough to worry Klark. “He is uninjured, my lord. There is a problem, however. One that could be construed as danger.” He was still standing sideways. “Will you be coming down, sir?”

  “Oh, I suppose I must.” Lifting up, Klark opened the ankle cuffs, holding on to them as the device lowered him gently to the mat below. “I couldn’t bear it if you injured your back,” he added.

  Hoe gave a half-smile as he poured Klark a refreshing drink. The man never seemed completely comfortable around him. It was as if he were afraid of him. Well, Klark supposed he’d earned it. No one could say he didn’t deserve his reputation.

  He donned a robe, tying the belt around his waist, before taking the glass of icy ion and botanical infused fluid Hoe offered. Without having to be told, the advisor trailed him outside to his balcony. The scent of fresh-cut greens wafted in the breeze; at this early hour, the army of palace gardeners was already busy. The vast ocean sparkled in the sunshine.

  An illusion, that freedom, Klark thought, scrutinizing the fair-weather sky. As if the locator surgically implanted in his neck weren’t enough, palace security had erected a force shield all around his balcony. One could break through it without injury, but the breach would alert Security within an instant, simultaneously putting out a warning on computers all through the palace. Why bother, Klark reasoned, when there were more efficient ways of escape? He’d figured out nearly all of them by now, and remained within his quarters only to please Ché. He owed his brother that, at least.

  Klark sat down at a table of polished tree sap made stone-hard after millennia spent deep underground—on a planet that no longer existed, reduced to mere molecules after its parent star went supernova five thousand years earlier. When Klark felt like brooding, he’d get drunk on Heart of Taj ale and stare at the bizarre creatures frozen forever within the depths of the amber, until he’d convinced himself of the insignificance of his suffering within the grand scheme of existence.

  At times, it even worked.

  But there was no need for that on this fine day. “Sit, Hoe,” he said magnanimously. “Join me and tell me what you have learned.”

  Hoe dispatched a servant for a carafe of tock and another pitcher of the beverage Klark drank after exercise. They sat in silence, Hoe awkward and Klark amused, until the servant arranged the beverages on the table and left once more.

  Hoe began without preamble. “I have failed, failed in my monitoring of the prince’s activities. The images are weeks old. The articles, as well. It will not happen again. I have found the reason for the lag and repaired it.” Sighing, he offered Klark his computer. “These were taken from a series of what the Earth-dwellers call newspapers. I’ve translated them for you. But the images need no translation.”

  Warily Klark took the computer from Hoe. “‘Earthbound Cinderella looks for prince?’” he murmured, glancing up. “‘Cinderella?’”

  “An Earth fable of some sort. Involving a cleaning woman as the central character, and a prince as her mate.”

  “Ah.” Klark frowned and read on. Princess Ilana Hamilton was photographed in the arms of an unidentified man only hours later…He lowered the computer. “Unidentified man, my eye. That’s Ché.”

  Hoe nodded gravely. “I, too, am sure of it.”

  Klark’s attention dipped to the screen. He studied the dark, blurry image of Ilana Hamilton with a tall, shadowy form he knew with all certainty was his brother. Then he skipped forward to another article. This one had photos of Ilana only: Ilana at work; Ilana at play; Ilana thrusting out her tongue at whoever had taken the pictures. But other than the first image, no Ilana holding on to Ché. “Great Mother.”

  “So you saw it,” Hoe moaned.

  “To be frank, I wish I hadn’t.” His brother sat in what looked like a giant cup of tock. Klark winced. “Look at him—his knees are nearly touching his ears!”

  “It is an amusement ride, apparently. One made for very small children, it would seem. Only he is not riding with a child.”

  Klark slid the computer across the table. Hoe caught it, clutching it in fidgeting hands. “No, indeed. Ilana Hamilton is very much a woman.” In many of the photos, Ilana had held a camera to her eye. The camera was large, resembling the contraption she utilized at work, if it wasn’t the same one altogether. She created entertainment for Earth-dwellers. Was she documenting Ché’s visit for that purpose? Was he actually agreeable to such
a bizarre circumstance? Ché was normally a very private man. Yet here, viewed at the other end of a primitive image-making device, he appeared quite cheerful. “My brother has changed,” Klark murmured.

  Hoe looked miserable. “I knew this would happen. I knew there would be trouble if he came within a light-year of that girl. If he had taken Princess Ilana to bed, and only that, it would be merely another scandal—a manageable one, at that. But he appears to be with her almost constantly.”

  “How did you discover this? Do you have a spy in place?”

  “I would have sent spies, but the prince made me swear not to. Had he not made me give my word…” Hoe sighed. “But I have been watching all available Earth media forms since the day the prince arrived.” His face darkened. “I would have caught this sooner, but with some of the more primitive periodicals, there is a lag between dissemination in print and availability in the transmittable format our comm equipment can receive.”

  Klark studied the images again. Ché and the Earth princess certainly looked cozy—Klark knew his brother well enough to tell. He’d never seen Ché behave in such a way with any female, in court or with any he had picked from the ranks of the courtesans. It was not unusual for a young royal to develop misplaced feelings for a pleasure server, and when it occurred, the family always intervened. But Ché, had always been stronger than that. He did what was best for the family, unfailingly, even to the detriment of his happiness, as it was with the sudden wedding plans foisted upon him.

  “My brother is a model Vedla,” Klark said thoughtfully. “Never has he given the family any cause for concern. But I wonder…in the midst of his holiday, his personal pleasure, if he is of a mind to think of his future, to see the tremendous consequence that a union with the Earth princess would bring to our family.”

  “He is not ‘of a mind!’ Look at his face. He is in love with her!”

  “Of course he is. There can be no other explanation for his presence in that…cup.” Klark shook his head. He would never have allowed himself to become that witless with any female, and he would have thought Ché would be immune to such foolishness, as well. Alas, these images proved he was not. Ché might be a Vedla, but in the most basic of ways he was only a man.

  That meant it was up to Klark to save the Vedlas from certain humiliation, if Ché’s love-boggled mind blocked his common sense.

  Klark spread his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Bring him home to us, Hoe. Immediately.”

  “But the prince gave orders not to summon him until a wife is chosen.”

  “Then choose one.” Buffoon.

  “I can try to speed it along.”

  “Do. Tell Toren, as I cannot communicate with him.”

  Hoe frowned in thought. “Toren and his people have narrowed the field down to two.”

  “Good, good.”

  “One is a princess, seemingly agreeable, but her intended has balked. The other is the daughter of a high-ranking noble, but very young. Thirteen, fourteen, I cannot recall. But Toren assures me they will decide very soon, my lord.”

  Excitement surged through Klark, as it had done a heartbeat before his sens-sword contacted Ché’s the day their Bajha match had ended in a draw. That game was an omen of sorts. For the conclusion to the game he played now would prove equally startling to his brother. “I need Ché home. Now.”

  “Excuse my impertinence, sir, but you saw the way he is with the Earthwoman. He may protest.”

  “He agreed to return when it was time. He will not do otherwise. He is a Vedla. Now go. Do as I ask of you, if you care at all about Prince Ché and the status of our family.” Klark pushed to his feet and left the advisor alone at the table, staring after him. “I don’t care how you bring Ché home, only that you do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ilana shouted over the noise of the engine. Her face reflected excitement, to Ché’s delight, and not fear. But then, they were only on the ground. “This is a blast. Can I try driving—I mean taxiing?”

  She put her feet on the rudder pedals without him having to show her. Wisely, she did nothing else as Ché steered. They traveled straight along the taxiway, needing only slight corrections. “Ready to taxi solo?” he asked.

  Her sunglasses hid her eyes, and the headset with its wraparound microphone hid her mouth. “Ready.”

  He pulled back his feet, and she was steering the craft. She whooped again. He laughed. “You were born to fly, Ilana.”

  “Hey, that doesn’t mean I want to. But this is fun!”

  “Like driving a ground car, yes?”

  “If it wasn’t so damn noisy.”

  The plane was indeed primitive. The air-conditioning barely compensated for the direct summer heat. The noise from the engine roared through the cockpit, and the vents brought in the scent of fuel and heated electrics. Ché was aware of the smells only because they were absent in the modern craft that he flew. Or perhaps “sanitized” was a better word. This was flying the way it once had been, millennia ago. Back to the basics. Noise and sensation. But Ché flew with one goal: to bring Ilana into the sky, to hand her the control she needed to blunt her fear if not conquer it outright.

  And yet each time he took the Cessna into the sky, each time he left the ground behind, he felt like one of the birds that soared above the shore on Eireya. The sea-raptor, the symbol of his family. Sleek and strong and deadly—like a Vedla.

  “There,” Ché told her. “Intersection Quebec. Make a right turn.” He felt Ilana’s right foot depress the rudder pedal as she completed the turn. “We will stop there, at that line.” A painted yellow line separated the taxiway from the active runway.

  Ilana brought the airplane to a jerky stop. She laughed, and he smiled at her delight. Her black top had ridden up. A slice of soft golden skin showed above her jeans. That place on her stomach would be the perfect spot to kiss, he thought, forcing his gaze back outside. “I’ll ask tower to clear us to taxi down the runway. We can go a little faster.”

  “Okay.” She seemed game. When it came to the rides at Disneyland, she was a daredevil. It made it even more confusing as to why she was so opposed to flying.

  “Tower, Cessna Five-alpha-kilo. Request a high-speed taxi down runway two-two.”

  “Five-alpha-kilo, cleared for high-speed taxi down two-two.”

  “Hold on with me, Ilana. Lightly. Not too hard,” Ché instructed.

  She grabbed hold of the steering yoke with both hands.

  “As we gain speed, she’ll want to fly, so you’ll have to hold down pressure to keep her on the runway.”

  Ilana swallowed. “And me, too.”

  He put her hand on the throttle and let her follow his forward movement as he pushed the knob in. The engine noise increased. The propeller spun faster. The tension in the cockpit fairly crackled as they gained speed.

  The little plane danced lightly on its wheels. “She wants to fly,” Ilana called out.

  “Hold her down. Pull back on the throttle, too. We’re going a little too fast.”

  Ilana did neither. “What would it take to fly?”

  To fly? “Now?” He peered straight ahead. The airplane was loaded so lightly that there was more than sufficient runway left to allow takeoff.

  “Yes. Now. I…I want to do it. I want to do it before I chicken out. Before I have to think about it.”

  Swiftly, not wanting to lose the chance, Ché grabbed the radio. “Tower, Cessna Five-alpha-kilo request takeoff.”

  “Five-alpha-kilo, cleared for takeoff.”

  He grabbed Ilana’s moist hand and together they pushed the throttle full in. He used the rudders to steer. She held on to the yoke. “As we lift off,” he said, “I’m using the yoke to keep level, steering, almost like a car.”

  The noise drowned out all extraneous noise except their shouts. But not Ilana’s resounding shriek as the wheels lifted away from the paved surface.

  Then they took to the air. “Oh, my God, Ché. Oh, my God.”

  His hear
t sank. Holding the yoke, he glanced over at her. She was rigid as a board. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Easy, Ilana. I’ll get us down on the ground right away. You are doing great. Just great. There is no need to worry. I can fly. We are safe.”

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  “Hang in there,” he urged, using more of his newly acquired Earth slang.

  She said something. He didn’t hear what. “Louder, Ilana. I can’t hear you.”

  “Can I hold the yoke with you?”

  Stunned, he looked sideways. “You want to continue?”

  When she turned, he saw the joy lighting up her face. He felt the answering surge of pleasure in his heart. “This is no worse than any roller coaster, Ché. Noisier, but a whole lot less rocky.”

  “Fly, then.”

  “Fly?” He could see her gulp.

  His grin broadened. “Take hold of the yoke. Lightly.”

  He still wasn’t sure of her reaction. If she were to panic on the controls, he’d have to hope for the strength to break her free.

  But her hands closed around the yoke in a normal grip, if a little tighter than most. Ché received clearance from approach control to fly along the coast. Keeping a watch on the enormous passenger transports not that far below them, lumbering on and off the runways at Los Angeles Interstellar Airport, he urged the little craft higher.

  LAX-I had a boggling amount of traffic crawling on its surface, but only one starcraft that he could see. It must have earned its name from occasional space transport that landed there. Despite the free exchange of technology with the rest of the Trade Federation, it would be a number of years before Earth became a true spacefaring society.

  Yet the Earth-dwellers still had the singular pleasure of flying the primitive Cessna, Ché thought. Here, one could still fly in the manner of the earliest aviation pioneers.

  Ilana sat to his left, her mouth pulled back in a smile. Her breaths had slowed, but he could still see the pulse throbbing in her throat. The buzz of the engine filled the small cockpit. Radio chatter was almost continuous. But the sky was brilliant blue, as was the sea below. The closest clouds lay far to the west like a folded-back quilt.