The Star Prince

by Susan Grant

  “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.”

  Ché 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 Ché, 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,” Ché 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. Tae 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.

  Ian’s breaths hissed in and out as he ratcheted his arm tighter. “What do you think, Klark? Is this man enough for you?”

  Klark struggled, wheezing. “Barbarian.”

  “You say the word like there’s something wrong with it.”

  Ilana whooped, and Ché regarded her with a bemused expression.

  Ian yanked Klark’s pants and took him down, holding him flat on the cement with an arm bar, a clamp he made even more painful for Klark each time the man attempted to move. With the prince immobile, he pressed his thumb and finger into his neck. Klark’s face turned purple. “Can we safely say this is over now?”

  Klark squeezed out, “You’ll have to kill me.”

  He compressed Klark’s pinned arm. The prince bared his teeth in pain.

  “Leadership is about making choices, Klark. I don’t have to kill you.” He pressed his fingers into the man’s throat until his legs convulsed. “However, that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  Klark’s gold eyes met his. In their depths perhaps the beginning of respect glimmered. Not the respect that came from admiration, though, but the wrong kind: respect born of fear. It’s not what Ian wanted, yet it was a start. “Today we’ll end this battle this way,” he said. He released Klark. “Inflexibility almost caused the Federation to fall seven years ago—to a cult leader, a mere religious fanatic. All because, after eleven thousand years of peace, they didn’t believe he could start a war. But he did. And it cost you tens of thousands of lives. It might have been millions if Rom B’kah hadn’t had the vision to act in time.”

  He sought Tee’s gaze. “It’s time for change,” he said quietly. “I will set the example in my home, and with my wife.”

  Her slow, proud smile gave him hope. Maybe he still had a chance with her.

  With the fight over, Gann pushed his way through the onlookers to Lara. “Commandeered, my eye,” he muttered upon reaching her. “You brought Tee’ah here voluntarily.”

  “I brought her home. That’s what I was paid to do. You never specified where home was.”

  “You helped her,” he argued. “At the high probability of forfeiting the money you need to retrieve your ship.”

  “Yeah, well…” She averted her gaze.

  He cupped her chin between his thumb and index finger and forced her to look at him. “You have a generous and loving heart, Lara. Not the black hole you think is in there.” Her shocked eyes grew moist. “And if you ever again say otherwise, I’ll…I’ll…” Blast, he didn’t know what he’d do. He swept her into his arms instead.

  Her free hand flattened against his chest. “Gann—”

  “I want flying lessons,” he declared.

  She looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “You do?”

  “Teach m
e how to fly. You know, on that amazing ship of yours…as soon as we”—he paused to enunciate the words—“get it out of impoundment.”

  Joy lit up her face. Then her eyes narrowed. “Hey. You know how to fly.”

  He framed her face in his hands. “Ah, Sunshine, not high enough.” Hesitantly at first, her arms slid around his waist. “No, not high enough,” he murmured and brushed his lips over hers.

  They didn’t see the ketta-cat wriggling free of the duffel bag until it was too late. Before Gann could stop it, the creature bolted under and between legs, darting away until it became lost in the crowd.

  “Cat!” Lara yelled. Together they ran after her runaway pet.

  The unmistakable meow of a ketta-cat caught Ian’s attention. Gann looked almost comical as he bent his muscular warrior’s body to the task of trying to retrieve the animal.

  “Cat,” Lara crooned. “Here, cat.”

  The next thing he knew, Tee was hunched over, making kissing noises.

  Ian sighed and met Ché’s equally disbelieving gaze. Why had he ever convinced Gann to bring the animal, when it could have stayed in the car, cooking nicely as the interior hit one-hundred and twenty degrees in the sun?

  Gann made another swipe at the ketta-cat and missed. It brushed against Ian’s leg then padded over to Klark. The crouching man and the animal considered each other. Then the ketta-cat squatted, its tail stiff and upright, and a puddle of bright yellow urine trickled over Klark’s boot.

  Eyes watering, Lara snatched the animal and hurried away. Gann gave Ian a two-fingered salute and went after her.

  Klark glowered at the droplets glittering on his boots. “I rescind the challenge,” he managed past gritted teeth.

  “I hope so.” Tee made her way to the sullen prince. Ian let her pass by. More than anyone, she deserved her piece of Klark. “And an apology is forthcoming, too, I hope. Because of you, one of Ian Hamilton’s pilots drank himself to death, and you almost killed his entire crew by tampering with his ship. You humiliated me where no one could see, and you almost killed me that night in the woods. You never challenged us outright, always from the shadows, where you were certain you wouldn’t be caught. You’re a cowardly, meddling bastard, Klark. Men like you give us Vash a bad name in the frontier. If you weren’t already crouched there bleeding, I’d kick the stuffing out of you. Now do what is right and show your respect for your future king.”

  Klark’s hunched shoulders and lowered eyes gave the impression of humble repentance. But as he crouched before them, his forearm balanced on one upright knee, Ian saw disdain flicker in his eyes, at odds with his outward compunction.

  His hand curled into a fist. “This was not the outcome I’d conceived. But you were the clear victor, Ian.” His knuckles turned white. “Perhaps, today, I have learned something about Earth dwellers.”

  Ian replied, “And I’ve learned some things about the Vash. Some traditions don’t translate well into our changing society—the old treatment of the frontier, the enforced isolation of royal women, this sort of bloodletting,” he added, tasting the salty tang in his mouth. “But I don’t want to alienate the supporters of the old ways. We can work together on the subject, Klark, you and me, when we feel more like speaking to rather than thrashing each other.”

  Klark’s mouth almost curved. “Yes; when we’re ready, my lord.” He exhaled. “Now, I await your judgment.”

  Ian turned and said to the elder Vedla prince, “Your brother committed several very serious crimes. He needs to be punished.”

  “Agreed,” said Ché.

  “Determine what that punishment will entail. Then brief me on what you decide. We need to all work together in fairness and forgiveness for a better galaxy.”

  Gratitude and respect flashed in Ché’s eyes. Ian’s spine tingled as he once more glimpsed the future. Not only had he made an ally today, he’d formed a friendship—one he sensed would become indispensable in the years to come.

  Tee’s hand came to rest on Ian’s arm. “You say we’re a team. Why, then, have we not fought as hard for us as we have against Klark?”

  He ran his hand over her hair. “I don’t know,” he said wearily. “But I say we start.”

  Her gaze shifted to Ché, the man she was supposed to marry. Ian braced himself. In a quiet, respectful tone, Ché said, “Princess Tee’ah, even if we had been officially promised, I would release you.”

  Ian knew Tee’ah struggled to tamp down on what would be a tactless show of joy and relief. “I thank you,” she said in a hushed voice.

  Exultation surged through Ian. He grabbed her hands. “We’ll bring together the old and the new, the Federation and the frontier. Your blood and mine.” He listened to himself in amazement. He was sounding more Vash by the minute.

  The crowd didn’t seem to mind. Again, they began to chant, “Say yes, say yes!”

  In the dead of night, on a harsh desert world, a signal left an ancient palace and began a long, silent journey through the lonely reaches of space. Made possible by paradoxical technology, whose origins were lost in history, the stream of data made its way toward Earth, finding its final target with a little help from Ilana Hamilton and a KCAL-TV news crew. When the slightly larger-than-life-sized, three-dimensional holographic image of the galaxy’s king appeared on the L.A. rooftop, awe silenced the crowd.

  Luminous radiance flickered like St. Elmo’s fire over Romlijhian B’kah’s projected deep-blue, floor length cape. Stony faced, he stood before them, his arms folded over his chest. His features were rugged, resolute, and when he cast his unflinching gaze around the roof, as if searching for someone, most fought the urge to duck. But not Ian, Tee’ah thought, who clasped her hand in a warm, reassuring grip and led her across the windy helipad to meet the king.

  The lights and cameras followed them. Her neck tingled. She knew the events transpiring today would echo through the years, and that her children would want to hear of them again and again.

  They stopped in front of the radiant image. Rom’s expression remained unchanged.

  She’d expected Ian to bring up Earth, or even Klark, but he began with a matter of the heart. If she’d ever doubted she’d come first with this man of honor, her reservations were erased in that glorious and frightening moment.

  “You don’t approve of my relationship with Tee’ah. Nor does the Great Council.”

  Nor my father, she thought.

  “But whether or not you give us your blessing, I want to marry Tee’ah—if she’ll have me.”

  She squeezed his hand. Why couldn’t two people who were in love defy the galaxy?

  She forced her chin up a notch. She’d hijacked a starspeeder, cruised through asteroid fields, shot at intruders, yet she was terrified of speaking to the king. “My lord, I love Ian. I want to spend my life with him, whether or not my father approves—though I do regret it if he does not. I love my family and miss them, but if tradition is more important to them than my happiness, I’m prepared to live with the consequences of my actions.”

  “And you, sir,” Ian said, “are going to have to do something about the frontier. Have you read my report on the conditions on Barésh and the worlds like it? The situation is contemptible. How could the Vash not know? It’s inexcusable. We ought to be ashamed. The abuse of the frontier must stop.”

  “You’re right,” Rom said.

  Ian’s hand clamped over hers. “My lord?”

  “We have not given the frontier the attention it requires,” Rom went on, seemingly oblivious to their shock. “And so over the years, as we’ve added many more worlds, things slipped through the cracks. I never would have allowed such suffering to continue had I known about it. That I wasn’t aware of the problem tells me that our management of the region must change. I hereby assign Earth as the sovereign administrator of the frontier. This is more power than any planet other than a Vash homeworld has ever held. But the situation requires it. Perhaps you and Tee’ah will opt to live there part of the year, in the
tradition of a typical Vash homeworld. How the particulars will work, regarding Earth’s reporting to the Trade Federation, you may discuss in your upcoming meetings in Washington. Until then, I offer Earth and the worlds of the frontier my official apology.”

  This was not what Tee’ah had expected. Nor had Ian, judging by the expression of disbelief on his face. She wondered if Rom had been testing them all along. If so, she hoped they’d passed.

  Tenderly, she touched her fingertips to Ian’s bruised jaw. “Now everything you came here to achieve has come to pass,” she whispered.

  His smile turned sly. “Not yet.” Wait, his eyes told her.

  Ian dropped to one knee. Tee’ah knelt beside him.

  “ ‘My loyalty for life,’ ” Ian told Rom and pressed his fist over his heart.

  “A Vash princess deserves no less,” Rom said in a quiet voice. “Nor do you, Ian, from your future wife. Yes, of course, you’ll marry Tee’ah. I never meant for anything else since you first mentioned her. Show the galaxy that you feel as I do—as your mother and I do. Bring us together; unite us in peace.”

  Fingers linked, they rose. Then, with billions, perhaps trillions looking on, Ian took Tee’ah’s shaking hands in his. “Rom B’kah chose me to carry on his legacy,” he said. “Never will I forsake the man who sacrificed so much to bring the galaxy peace. Nor, my love, will I ever forsake you.” He squeezed her hands. “I ask for your promise of marriage.”

  The cry “Say yes” rose once more into a thunderous chant.

  Tee’ah wound her arms over his shoulders. “Yes, Earth dweller. Yes.”

  “Now everything I’ve wanted has come to pass,” he murmured in her ear.

  Tears in her eyes, she kissed him enthusiastically on the mouth.

  Around the globe cheers erupted. In the United Nations, diplomats applauded, and the Vash chief envoy embraced a thoroughly bemused female Secretary General.

  In Sydney, a bedraggled Vash tourist was dragged back into the bar, where he was offered more foaming glasses of beer than he’d be able to drink in a lifetime. But it would be said, much later, that he put forth his best effort for galactic peace.