by Susan Grant
Tee’ah picked up the knife again and stabbed it deep into another fibrous root—one that rather reminded her of Klark Vedla. She remained uncertain why he hadn’t upheld tradition and attempted to bring her home. Certainly the B’kah heir would have. How often had her father remarked that Ian Hamilton had to be more than perfect if he hoped to gain the trust of the Great Council?
And now she was on his ship. Or might be.
Her anxious chopping had turned the root to pulp. Unwilling to waste the vegetable, she slapped it into a pasty pancake. Who would eat that? she wondered. Quin, maybe.
“From firing range to kitchen, eh?” Gredda sauntered into the galley. She picked up one of the berries Tee’ah had glazed with a sticky sweetener before piling them into a miniature conical mountains. “Fresh lalla-berries,” she murmured as she popped it into her mouth. With a smile of amused approval, she inspected the fruit and vegetables Tee’ah had arranged on whatever trays and platters she had found.
Seeing Gredda reminded Tee’ah how fast she’d come to view the crew as a substitute family. But tonight she felt more like an outsider than ever. Likely everyone knew who the captain was except for her. Obviously, despite what had happened between them, Ian didn’t trust her yet.
Gredda sniffed, as if testing the air. Then she frowned. “Where is the meat?”
Tee’ah concerns swung back to a more immediate problem. She spread her sticky hands on the counter. “We’re eating a vegetarian meal tonight.”
“Vegetarian? Bah. We women need our protein.”
Tee’ah stopped short of admitting that she’d be happy to oblige, if only she knew how long to cook the fowl, beef, or the savory sea serpent bundled in the giant chiller in the rear of the galley.
Gredda studied her, her eyes sympathetic as if she’d guessed the real reason for their meatless meal. But she didn’t embarrass Tee’ah by saying so. “I know it is your night to cook, and I do not wish to intrude upon your preparation, but I’d be most pleased if you’d let me make Tromjha beef according to the Valkarian recipe—from my homeworld. These off-world men, they prefer their stew with their suitable-for-babies, cut-up bits of beef. But I say it’s high time they learned to eat meat the way it was meant to be consumed. Are you with me, Tee?” she asked with a wink.
Tee’ah lifted her hands in surrender. “Show me what to do.”
As evening fell, the crew gathered around the dining table. Ian inhaled deeply. “Something smells good.”
“You will like it,” Gredda said, her muscles flexing as she spread a napkin over her lap.
“Tee gave you an advance tasting?” Muffin asked sulkily. “She wouldn’t let me in the galley.”
“Me, either,” Push said.
Tee emerged from the galley, a tray held proudly in her hands. As she walked to the table, her expression was pleasant, but infinitely unreadable. When Ian tried to make eye contact, she avoided looking at him. His mouth twisted in exasperation.
She hurried back to the galley for another tray, making several return visits until three heaping platters of what could only be called vegetable and fruit sculptures sat on the table. They were crooked and misshapen—one even crumbled as they watched it—but the effort that had gone into building each was obvious. No one quite knew what to say.
Finally, an awed Push tapped a hill of berries with his utensil. “Plain old stew would have been fine with us.”
“Wait,” Tee said. “There’s more.” She and Gredda shared a private glance. This time, when Tee disappeared into the galley, she returned with a heavy tray of meat.
“Valkarian steer,” she announced breathlessly and plunked the tray onto the table. Juices ran from fork holes punched in the unevenly hacked-away flesh, filling the tray with a delicious-smelling gravy.
Quin gaped at the steaming hunk of meat. “The paw…it’s still attached.”
“The hoof,” Gredda corrected, her eyes shining with a voracious glint. “The full leg always tastes best. Why you off-worlders mince up perfectly good hunks of meat, I don’t know. On Valkar we rip the flesh from the bone with our teeth. Go on, eat your fill, mechanic.” The hungry twinkle in her eyes turned suggestive. “A real man needs real meat.”
Understanding suffused Quin’s face. As the two crewmates considered each other in what appeared to be a new light, Tee’ah took her usual place next to Ian.
“Great dinner,” he said in her ear, trying hard to forget it was the same sweet little lobe he’d nibbled before he’d almost devoured the rest of her.
She kept her attention trained on her empty dish. “Thank you.” She pushed one of the fruit trays in his direction. “Eat, please.”
“After you. You had quite a morning,” he added playfully in hopes of coaxing her out of her obvious sudden shyness.
She blushed. Finally, he thought. A reaction.
“Some…carrot-flowers,” he offered.
“P’wulla-squash florets,” she corrected. “Just one, please.” Again she fell silent.
He sighed. “We’re going to talk about this later,” he whispered.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I beg to differ.” He hated to lose their spirited rapport all because they’d made out in a meadow. Yet when his mind fast-forwarded to his future, to the enormous responsibilities he’d undertaken and the promises he’d made, he knew it was the best thing for them both.
Yeah, he thought. And lima beans are supposed to be good for you, too.
After dinner, Tee’ah loaded dirty dishes into the sterilizer and wiped the counter clean of seeds, bark and vegetable scrapings. Next she prepared a tray of tock and coffee.
The laughter and conversation of her cheery, well-fed crewmates rolled through the hatch from the dining room. If circumstances forced her to leave the ship, she’d miss them terribly. Worse yet, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Ian. His quiet concern at her silence had only endeared him to her further, but the only way she’d hold on to her new life was to avoid her old one. There was no escaping that.
She threw her cloth into the sterilizer, grabbed the tray and mugs—among them her favorites: the round-eared rodent Ian called “Mickey Mouse,” and another emblazoned with an impossible starship and the Earth runes BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY!—and walked through the hatch.
Over the tock and coffee, Ian set out the evening’s plans. “Since we haven’t made much headway with our daytime watch for Randall’s comings and goings, I thought we’d head into town tonight and see if we can find him at one of those restaurants.”
“We’ll go back to that bar,” Gredda proposed. “And you can sing us a song, Captain.”
“We can go to that bar”—Ian grimaced behind his mug of coffee—“but don’t expect me to provide the entertainment.”
Muffin asked, “Whose turn is it for watch?”
Tee’ah almost raised her hand. The idea of watching Ian sing, albeit badly, was more than she could bear right now.
“Mine again,” Push spoke up glumly. “I guess you’ll have to have fun without me.” The cargo handler’s shoulders drooped.
Tee’ah found herself thinking how unfair it was. Why should he be forced to stand watch when the very last thing she felt like doing was merrymaking? “No, Push. I’ll stay.”
Everyone glanced her way.
“I feel sick.” At least that was the truth, she thought. Besides, no one should care which crewmember stayed aboard the Sun Devil, as long as one did.
Ian appeared more than worried; he looked downright guilty. Had he figured her out? “How sick?” he asked.
“Just…sick.” She managed a wan smile.
“All right,” he said resignedly. “Push goes. You stay.”
Rising Gredda mumbled something affectionate about Tee’ah needing more meat in her diet. One by one, the rest of the crew stood. They wished Tee a speedy recovery, then followed the brawny woman into the corridor to don coats for the walk into town.
Ian remained behind.
Movin
g his chair closer, he leaned toward Tee’ah. “Now we can talk.” He radiated heat, the fragrance of soap, and his own unique scent, making her again acutely aware of the hard, finely toned body he hid beneath his clothing. “What happened between us today bothered you, didn’t it?”
No. The secrets between us do.
“You have every right to be upset,” he continued. “I took things too far. I apologize.”
His acute self-consciousness surprised and charmed her. “You’re forgetting that I started it all!” she said.
“You may have started it, but I sure didn’t fight too hard.”
“No”—she smiled—“you didn’t.”
He frowned. “It was unprofessional. It won’t happen again.”
Despite her worries about his identity, despite her fears of losing her freedom, Tee’ah’s disappointment rushed to the surface before she could stop it. Or analyze it. And the gleam in his eyes told her that he had seen. Heat flooded her face. She masked her embarrassment with a blasé and—she hoped—worldly explanation. “Even if it does, don’t be concerned. Casual, uncomplicated liaisons are what I prefer. No need to make more of that kiss than what it was.”
A mixture of astonishment, disappointment, and relief flickered across his expressive face. “Well,” he said slowly. “I’m glad we got that cleared up.”
“Captain,” Muffin’s voice rumbled from down the corridor. “We’re ready.”
Ian pushed his chair backward. All business again, he told her, “Activate the security locks on the hatches. Then you won’t have to stand watch if you don’t feel well. Let the computer do the baby-sitting.”
She snorted. “Like when I flew through the asteroids? No thanks.”
“Quin says the computer checks out fine. I believe him, or I wouldn’t leave you here alone.” He stood. “Get some sleep.”
She doubted she would.
Quietly, she walked with him to the cockpit. From there, she watched him depart with the rest of the crew. Even after all five of their shadows vanished into the ink-black woods, she continued staring out into the night, listening to the sound of her breathing in the silent, empty ship.
“Computer—play ‘Melody of Cyrrian Flutes,’ ” she said, settling into the pilot’s chair. Soft music filled the ship. She propped her boots on the navigation console and tried to keep her mind off who Ian was—or who he was not.
As long as he doesn’t know who you are, you’re safe.
Yes. Surely she was safer now than ever before. The crown prince’s ship was the last place anyone would expect to find her.
A brisk scrabbling noise from outside invaded her thoughts. She dropped her feet and sat up, cocking her head. Grüma was home to a variety of wild creatures, but like the traders who frequented the local bars, they were mostly harmless. Mainly they participated in long, active nights of foraging and caterwauling. Likely the lingering scent from their dinner of roasted meat had brought a few of the animals closer than usual.
She fetched her pistol from the storage drawer at her station and turned up the ship’s exterior lights. Two muffled thumps emanated from the hull, as if the sudden illumination had startled whatever was out there. Her heartbeat picked up. If it was a marauding, carnivorous beast, it was a large one.
She scanned the exterior of the ship using an infrared, heat-seeking enhancement that displayed objects according to temperature. The scanner showed a few small life-forms in the darkness beyond the fringe of light ringing the Sun Devil. Several animals foraged closer to the ship—rodents, or something similar. She kept searching.
Grüma was filled to the brim with people of all backgrounds. She’d heard Quin and Gredda talk about some of the more unsavory merchants whom they said preyed on empty ships, stealing parts for sale on the black market. But someone might want to do harm to the Sun Devil for other, far darker reasons, someone who didn’t want them following the Earth-Senator Randall—a target who took on an entirely new and fascinating significance now that she suspected the crown prince himself was spying on him.
She cursed her habit of concocting elaborate schemes of intrigue, a consequence of growing up among Vash royalty. She had no reason to believe that anyone was plotting anything. Nonetheless, if Ian was who she thought he was, his position made him a natural target for assassination—especially given his non-Vash heritage. And while she doubted anyone would make an open attempt on his life in the central part of the galaxy, making his death look like an accident in the frontier might be feasible. Even those who loved Rom B’kah might not investigate too thoroughly the mistaken death of his improper heir. Then a “proper” prince could assume the throne—a prince like Ché Vedla, the man she would have married.
Foreboding chilled her. No wonder Ian was keeping a low profile.
Another thump jolted her attention to the ship’s engine-status display. A green rectangle representing the main access panel to the number-one engine thruster went from green, to blinking amber, to steady red, telling her the panel was now ajar. Had she not seen the undeniable evidence displayed on the schematic, she wouldn’t have believed it—or the equally shocking image on the infrared scanner. A human-sized shape crouched near the thruster. Someone was trying to damage the ship!
She reached for the main comm at the same instant the interior of the ship went dark. False lights sparked in her eyes with each thud of her heart, which sounded like it was about to explode. “Captain, this is the Sun Devil; do you read?”
There was no answer.
She tried again. “Return to the Sun Devil—immediately.”
The comm was dead. All power to the ship must have been cut off, the security locks included, she realized with a disconcerting sense of vulnerability. Luckily the hatches locked mechanically upon total power loss and couldn’t be opened from the outside without dismantling the hatch itself. But if the trespasser wanted to, he certainly could force his way inside given enough time.
He wasn’t going to have that time; she’d make sure of it.
She grabbed her pistol and an auxiliary flashlight. Then she released the manual door lock to the main entry hatch. It lifted with an overly loud hiss. Frigid air hit her like a slap in the face. The temperature outside was far colder than she’d expected. As she stepped out, a twig snapped beneath her boots. She winced. Then, shivering without her jacket, she inched forward, peering around the fuselage to the aft part of the ship.
She aimed the flashlight and her weapon into the darkness, bracing herself. “Who goes there? Identify yourself,” she called. The beam of her light illuminated a cloaked intruder—and the pistol he aimed at her head.
A blazing streak of light whizzed past. She dove toward the ship, seeking cover. The air crackled. The ground nearby exploded and burned where her opponent’s shots grazed the dirt. Heavens, she was in a gun battle! Unless people made easier targets than produce boxes, she was in deep trouble.
There were more shots. Her ears were ringing. She peeked around the fuselage and tried to see her attacker. He fired and almost hit her. She retaliated blindly, fearing that if she stopped firing, his next volley would kill her. But her shots went wild. There was an answering burst of light inches from her shoulder, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Then the intruder bolted into the woods.
She chose a tree and fired above his head, thinking she could stop him by dropping a tree limb on his head. A crisp beam of green-tinged red streamed out from her pistol. With an ear-splitting crack, the smoldering branch crashed to the ground, barely missing her fleeing assailant.
Full of adrenaline, she jumped after him. Startled birds, woken from their slumber, took to the sky as her attacker crashed through the trees. Then, just before he disappeared, he cast a glance over his shoulder. Her heart stopped, and so did she. She knew those eyes, so like her own. And that face; it was imprinted in her memory.
“Klark!” she screamed after him. She reeled with fury. A primitive, bloodthirsty urge to finish the kill urged her to again give
chase, but common sense held her back. Gulping air, she lowered her pistol and sagged with spent terror against the Sun Devil’s fuselage. The acrid odor of hot metal and charred wood stung her nostrils.
She’d hoped she’d seen the last of Klark, that he’d satisfied his need for vengeance by humiliating her in the arcade. But he was back and he’d almost killed her. What did he want—her very life for spurning his brother? That was insane.
When her legs stopped quivering, she jogged around to the thruster. She found the cowling hanging open and the torn-apart innards of the engine exposed. Clutching the fabric of her flightsuit to her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut. In the arcade Klark had said this wasn’t about her, but she hadn’t believed him. Now she understood.
He wanted to destroy Ian.
Chapter Fourteen
Fists deep in his pockets to fight the effects of the cold night air, Ian walked alongside Muffin, half-listening to Push, Gredda, and Quin’s humorous reminiscences as they all tromped back through the woods.
After a drink in the nearest bar and a sweep through town looking for Randall, in which they came up empty-handed, they’d unanimously called off the evening early. Randall was obviously holed up back at his ship.
It was just as well—Ian wanted more time to work on his proposal. He knew that his detractors expected him, as an Earth dweller and frontiersman, to be incapable of holding his own in serious negotiations, but they were wrong. When he confronted the senator, he would have several coherent, well researched plans—or at least the bare bones of them. That had always been his strength: forethought and discipline.
A shot rang out in the distance. Screeching birds exploded out of the trees nearby, but an intense exchange of pistol-fire drowned out cries.
