by Susan Grant
“I want superiority for my family first and foremost. We Vedlas deserve it,” he said simply. “We have earned it. But, too, perhaps equally, I want contentment for my brother. He, too, deserves it.” Regret flared briefly in the man’s pale eyes. “In the past, I tried to win him that contentment in ways that displeased him. Through this, I hope to regain his favor and secure my family’s reputation. I am escorting you to Chéya’s Fist, an impenetrable outpost at the border of Eireyan space. I have summoned my family to meet us there—if they respond to my message.” His mouth spread thin. “I am not the most liked, or the most trusted man in my family at the moment. But I cannot yet risk announcing that I have you safe. The news may force your would-be assassin to take desperate measures to counter my move. He…is a desperate man. The battleship will follow us there. My father is aboard,” he said with confidence. “As is your future protector.”
Protector. It was the ancient term for husband or spouse. He meant Ché. Her pulse quickened, and a thousand unnamed emotions whirled like seagulls in a storm. Love, longing, anxiousness, doubt. And the sense that in marrying him, she was doing something right. She’d had a similar rush of rightness the day she decided to apply to UCLA, only this was much more powerful. She was, as Klark put it, about to accept Ché as her “protector.” And she was none the weaker for it.
Klark pushed past her and crouched by the dead starpilot, checking him for vital signs as Ilana quickly translated for Linda.
Ilana wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d detected a bit of guilt under all that arrogant posturing and noble, holier-than-thou attitude. Guilt for what? For trying to hurt Ian and Tee’ah? Could it be possible? She could have sworn that when he appeared in the airlock that she was dead for the sin of wanting to marry Ché.
Ilana remembered the night Ché had come to her house, how sure she’d been that he was a killer. She prayed she was wrong again.
Klark stood and wiped his hands. His face was lean, almost as if the bronze skin was stretched too tightly over the bones beneath. He had no dent in his jaw—like Ché’s tense-ometer, a useful little tool for determining worry. Nonetheless, a sense of urgency flowed off him in waves. A rock could have picked up on his apprehension. Why was he scared? Not knowing frightened her. “Someone hurt the pilot,” she said, swallowing.
“On solo missions, a ship’s computer monitors starpilots’ brainwaves and heartbeats. Through these sensors that touch the skin, it is possible to disrupt a body’s nervous system.”
“This disrupt”—damn, if she lived through this, she was becoming fluent in Basic—“it go from ship to man?”
“Yes, it is meant to restart a heart, correct a seizure.”
“But not kill.”
His gaze was grim. “No. Obviously not. But one can program the computer to administer a deadly shock, through nefarious means.” Klark drew himself up to his full height. He was a little shorter than Ché, but there was a brutal sleekness to him, as if he were skin, sinew, and muscle and nothing else. A deadly weapon on legs. “I know who did this.”
Ilana’s stomach sank. Crap. Someone did want her dead.
“Come quickly. We must leave this speeder.” Klark’s mouth twisted. “The little worm despises me. He would be no sadder to see me dead than he would you.” Ché’s brother glanced at Linda. “And you simply because you were fool enough to come on this journey.”
“Oh, boy.” Getting a grip on herself, just barely—now was not the time to puddle to the floor in a quivering, sniffling mass, as much as the thought appealed—Ilana translated for Linda.
Linda grabbed her arm. “We’re going with him, Ilana,” the woman said in a no-arguments tone that Ilana knew all too well. “Pardon my French, but screw the history between you two, honey. He’s making nice. Take it!”
“I’m with you, Linda. I don’t know what’s happening, or what’s going to happen, but…I believe him.” Klark. The nut job jailed for trying to knock off her brother. Well, the Vash made everything complicated, and this was proof.
The women grabbed their gear and abandoned the speeder. Ilana was startled to see a pilot in the seat when they entered the starfighter. The man looked worn-out and apprehensive. “Prince Klark,” he said, “we are being called by one of our battleships. A flagship.”
Klark lifted a brow. “My father. And brother.”
Ilana’s pulse surged. Ché.
“They moved quickly,” Klark told her, as if she understood the intricacies of this unfolding plot. “Don’t open communication with them. We’ll leave for Chéya’s Fist, as planned.”
When the pilot hesitated, Klark barked, “Now, Ensign!”
“But—but they have our coordinates. They’ll follow.”
Klark groaned, glancing at Ilana as if looking for support in his irritation with subordinates. “Of course they’ll follow. That’s the point.” He pointed a determined finger at the stars ahead. “Now go! We will lead them onward in a merry chase.”
Linda, hugging her purse to her lap, took one of the empty seats in the fighter and buckled her seatbelt. The woman was a trouper, but Ilana had no doubt she’d be hearing about this for years. Maybe the rest of her life. Speaking of which, it’d been at least an hour since Linda had harassed her for her worst-case-scenario neuroticism. Too many far-fetched things had happened in too short a period of time for Linda to argue that philosophy. Hah.
Klark stayed by Ilana’s side. The urgency he radiated was making her twitch. He could use one of her Valiums. He turned to her and said: “When we reach Chéya’s Fist, you must marry without delay.”
“What?” she blurted out in English. “Today?” Marry? Help! She wasn’t quite ready for this.
Klark’s face contorted with hatred. “Yes. Before the man who wishes to prevent the union does so. Do you understand? The longer we wait, the more likely those who wish to stop the union will do so. Your family will not be able to attend in person, but you will see their images on the comm—though we do need a B’kah witness, according to the Treatise of Trade, and I am hoping via two-way comm is sufficient.” Klark looked positively frazzled. Wedding fever. “My family will be there, whether they realize the reason or not. The attire, the documents, the ceremonial oils—it is all in place.”
“You make my wedding? You invite the guests? Choose place?” Klark Vedla, wedding planner. She had to be dreaming.
He tried to make light of her amazement. “The ceremony, if done properly, would last seven days. We don’t have that luxury, I’m afraid.”
“I happy, Klark,” she assured him. “Very happy! I not want a week of ceremony.” Shoving curls away from her forehead, she pressed one hand to her brow as she regarded the man she saw in a new light: a troubled soul, maybe, but one loyal to his brother—out of love, not obligation. “No trick?” she asked quietly.
Fluidly he brought his fist to his chest and dipped his head in the traditional show of Vash fealty. “You have my word, Princess.”
Princess. He’d actually called her princess, a title she’d never thought she’d hear from this racist’s lips. Who’s held on to more prejudice? her conscience demanded. You or him? The fact that she couldn’t answer the question quickly and without reservation gave her the answer. She’d been wrong on a lot of things about Ché’s people. She nodded back. “Let’s go to the wedding.”
As the battleship approached Chéya’s Fist at top speed, Ché’s doubts threatened to overwhelm him. Hoe had produced proof that incriminated Klark. And yet Klark had brought the woman Hoe accused him of trying to kill…to Chéya’s Fist. And, as if bringing Ilana to a highly guarded outpost wasn’t inexplicable enough, Klark had apparently invited Ché’s mother, Queen Isiqir, and his sisters, Tajha and Katjian, to join them there—and had contacted the B’kahs, inviting them, too! Security had documented all the transmissions from Klark’s fighter. Ché could see their cruiser now, docked at the Fist along with Klark’s stolen starfighter.
Ché’s father stood beside him. “Has Hoe
arrived?”
“No. I expect to hear from him soon.”
“It is good, to want him here.” Approval shone in his father’s gaze. “I will let you handle the situation as you wish. I will intervene only if necessary.”
Ché nodded. “I hope it will not come to that.” If he was wrong about Hoe…He gave his head a curt shake. He did not want to ponder any further the lifelong loyalty and almost fatherly devotion of his advisor—and what it may have led the man to do. Patience. He must say nothing to Hoe yet. He must not give the man the motivation to flee, should he have reason to do so. Better to lure him into the net Ché had cast. Then, if Hoe had helpers, he’d snare them as well.
And then he’d obliterate all of them.
For all its immense size, the battleship slid gracefully into its docking bay. Chéya’s Fist was a military space station on the border of Eireyan space and what was once considered the “uncivilized” wasteland. The space station was rugged and spare, and filled with those who would give their lives to defend Eireya, even though the galaxy had been at peace, except for a few short periods, for over eleven thousand years. The Vedlas had learned the hard way never to let their guard down. And, yet, that was exactly what he had done, Ché thought, reflecting on the man who had deceived him.
As his father prepared for deboarding along with the councilmen, Ché’s comm chimed, telling him of a private message. “Greetings, Hoe.”
Hoe appeared weary. As well he should, Ché thought. “My estimated time of arrival at the Fist is point-five standard hours,” the advisor said without Ché having to ask. The man then sighed deeply, and with great sadness. “Again, I am sorry for the tragedy today. Princess Ilana, she was so young. Too young to lose her life.”
Ché’s lip curled with malice. “I…find it difficult to converse on the matter.” Thickness in Ché’s voice came from horror, not the grief it seemed to mimic.
“Understood, my lord. We will find Prince Klark, and we will handle the matter quietly and decisively. I spoke to your father, and he agrees.”
Ché sensed his father and Councilman Toren standing somewhere behind him, glaring darkly at the small comm screen. They’d approved of the trap Ché had laid for Hoe by inviting him to meet them at Chéya’s Fist, and choosing not to tell him that Ilana had made it off the speeder alive. Soon they’d be able to tell by the emotions of both men, Klark and Hoe, who was the one who’d meant to murder Ilana.
Ché knew. It seemed obvious. But to prove it to all, he needed this game to play out to its utter conclusion.
Ché closed the comm and shoved it into his pocket. His mouth lifted in a snarl. “Betrayal,” he muttered. “It does not taste pleasant.”
His father nodded in quiet empathy. “The pain is unlike any other.”
Ché glowered as he tromped down the airlock and into the outpost. Ahead in the crowd of greeters, he saw a flash of wildly curly blond hair looking so vibrantly out of place. “Ilana,” he murmured. In that moment, all that mattered was to touch her again, to hold her. His relief at finding her unharmed pierced him like the sharpest blade. He strode off the battleship and into the arrivals hall, where Ilana saw him striding toward her.
“Ché!” He glimpsed blue eyes that were moist with tears of joy as she ran into his arms. He hugged her back in a most un-Vedlalike fashion, gripping her close, his eyes shut, until he had breathed in her essence, pulled her into his very soul, and come alive once more.
He moved her away, his chest tight. They seemed to soak up each other’s features, to the apparent delight of the surrounding Vedlas and staff. To them, his “possession” of Ilana Hamilton was quite a coup. To see her respond so favorably to him only increased family pride. And then Ché saw Klark.
Klark stood still, surrounded by guards, but without shock cuffs or any other indication that he was an escaped prisoner. Unarmed, in a space station full of loyal Vedla soldiers, there wasn’t anywhere he could go. He had to have known that before coming.
Klark turned his gaze to the floor. It was as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at the brother he had so disappointed.
Ché took a step toward him. “Wait.” Ilana grabbed his forearms. “Remember the garden carts,” she whispered desperately. “How you and Klark used to hijack them from under the gardeners’ noses. You always took the blame. Even when it was Klark’s idea.”
“I was the older,” Ché replied.
“You felt responsible.”
“Why, yes.”
“That’s what he feels. Your brother. He’s ready to take the blame for the sabotage to my speeder because he feels responsible for what he did to Ian and Tee’ah.”
Great Mother. Ilana must have thought he was about to berate Klark, and felt compelled to defend him. Ché pressed his lips together to keep the love and relief he felt from showing in his face. That the woman he wanted to marry had somehow made peace with his brother, a man she had every right to despise, gave him the personal proof he needed: Hoe was the traitor. Hoe was the one who didn’t want him to marry Ilana. And had tried to murder her to prevent it.
A commotion in the big hall announced another arrival. Ché thought—and hoped—it was his advisor, but a hulking man tramped inside with a copper-haired Earthwoman.
“I don’t believe it.” Ilana squinted at the pair. “It’s my father’s bodyguard. Muffin!” She waved.
The big man whirled in her direction and closed the distance between them in a few long strides. He shook his head in incredulity. “I chased you here all the way from Earth,” he said in English.
“He did,” said his companion, rolling her eyes.
“Earth?” Ilana demanded. “Nobody told me. Why were you there?”
“To guard you from Prince Ché.”
Ché and Ilana glanced at each other in surprise. “I would say that your mission was a failure, then,” Ché said with good humor.
Muffin grinned. “I think not.”
Ilana extended her hand to the bodyguard’s companion. “Hi. I’m Ilana.”
The woman smiled. “Yeah. I know. Copper Kaminski,” she said, and then the women shook hands in Earth-dweller fashion.
Councilman Toren came forward. “Can you act as witness?” he asked Muffin. “We need a representative from the B’kahs here in person to make the binding legal. As it is, we’re pushing all the rules. That one we cannot break.”
Muffin squared his enormous shoulders. “I will act as the representative of the B’kahs,” he proclaimed. Copper gazed up at him with admiration.
Ooh, Ilana thought. Was this budding love?
She heard grumbling in the crowd, and Hoe, Ché’s advisor, entered the room.
Hoe looked as if he’d seen a ghost. The room went silent. He was not as adept as Ché at hiding his emotions. The advisor stopped abruptly, almost tripping over his feet as he stared at Ilana. Revulsion and shock fought for dominance over terror. “She is alive,” he managed hoarsely.
The expression she saw in Ché’s face broke her heart. Ché flicked a hand at the guards standing near Klark. “Arrest him.”
“Yes—arrest Prince Klark,” Hoe cried out. “He tried to kill the Earth princess. He—”
But the guards left Klark and swarmed around Hoe. Ché moved Ilana away from the struggle. “We picked you a princess. A Vash princess,” Hoe yelled.
Ché walked closer to the fray. “Ilana of the B’kahs is a princess. To see her otherwise is an insult to our people…and to my judgment as your future king.”
Hoe continued to spew a lifetime’s worth of misogynistic, racist crap, while the stoic Vedlas encircled him, their pale eyes cold. “Take him away,” Ché told the guards.
Ilana watched the scene unfold, her heart in her mouth. So, Ché’s advisor had been behind what had happened. He’d been the one that had mucked up Linda’s passport. As the guards led Hoe away, amazingly, the sourness of hate didn’t fill her, as it had after Ian’s attack. There was only a deep calm, a confidence that this time justice would be
done. Gah. Maybe she was more Vash than she thought. Was stoicism contagious?
Ché took her arm. “He may not have acted alone. We will not know for certain until after investigation. Your safety is in jeopardy until our union is official.”
Official. Union. Her heart flipped. She was getting married, here and now. She gulped, smiled. “Can I at least shower and change first?”
“I was going to ask the same of you.” Ché grinned as two women approached. They were younger than Ché, and beautiful as only highborn Vash princesses could be. Ché’s sisters, Ilana thought.
“Tajha and Katjian,” Ché said with an older brother’s affection. “They will help prepare you.”
In the princesses’ eyes, Ilana read curiosity and happiness. Yeah, they were going to be all right, she thought, wondering if they’d ever consider trading their long dresses for shorts and spikes and helping her organize a Vash women’s soccer league.
“Come,” Tajha said, smiling.
“You, too,” Ilana told Linda.
“Don’t worry,” her assistant said. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
One phrase kept repeating itself in Ilana’s mind as the two silent, exotic women lead her from the room. What the hell am I doing?
Chapter Twenty-five
Ilana caught sight of herself in a mirror, and her breath caught. She looked nervous…and pretty. Like a bride. She gulped.
Her hair was a pile of ornate braids woven by Ché’s sisters. The gown they’d brought for her was made of white silk, or something like it, and shot through with opalescent threads of every color in the rainbow. Tinted nano-computers created a three-dimensional prism effect, shimmering as she moved. The bodice was snug and modestly cut. Sleeves hugged Ilana’s arms to the wrist, where they ended in a point that reminded her of the dresses she’d seen at Renaissance fairs. Vash modesty kept a running theme all the way to the hem of the lushly flowing skirt that swept the floor.