by Susan Grant
The shop smelled like tobacco and stale incense.
Half-hidden behind an array of computers was a desk littered with surprisingly sophisticated hardware. The cloaker pulled out a chair and sat, leaving her standing. "I'll be happy to fix your hot little speeder," he said. "But I’ll require insurance." "What? I require cloaking, nothing more." "You're wearing the cap of an intersystem cargo pilot, but you're in the frontier, way out of the usual neighborhood, correct? Not to mention that at first sight you look purebred Vash… but you can't be because you're standing here talking to me about a Dar speeder that ain't supposed to be here." He slammed his palmtop onto the desk separating them. "Someone's going to come after your ship eventually. If I'm still on board working when they do, they'll fine me to oblivion. I'll need insurance for that—and to steer them off your trail should they ask about you." He paused, regarding her. "They are going to ask about you, aren't they?"
She studied the sunlight creating patterns on the floor. It seemed the cost of her freedom was rising. "How much?"
"Fourteen thousand credits."
She gave a strangled cough. "Fourteen?" That was most of what she had with her. "Ten thousand," she shot back, her belly twisting from nerves. She desperately needed the cloaker. But she needed her credits, too. "That's all I'll spend."
He plopped his arms over his chest. "Thirteen-five and not a credit lower. As a special favor I'll throw in my expert subterfuge, which is me convincing anyone who asks—at my own risk—that you're not here. Long gone. Off planet. Got it?" His eyes narrowed. "You're dealing with the Dars here. Vash royalty. They'll want back what's theirs."
"There are other cloakers on Blunder." She swallowed tightly, then headed for the exit, praying she was right.
"Twelve, then," she heard him say. "You won't get it any lower. Not under these circumstances."
He was right. She wasn't in possession of just any ship; she'd taken a top-of-the-line Dar starspeeder. Other cloakers might not want to risk the wrath of a Vash royal family by altering such a vessel, no matter how much money she was willing to pay.
She let out a breath and turned around. "All right. Twelve thousand credits."
"For six thousand more I'll resync your thrusters."
She almost snorted. "Do I look like I'm made of credits?"
"As a matter of fact, you do." He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Ever think of putting those looks to use? I mean, grow your hair a bit, a bath, a clean gown maybe. No one would know you weren't genuine." He used his tongue to wet his lips. "Traders would pay good money, real good money, to buy sex with a pleasure servant who looked like a Vash virgin."
Her cheeks flamed.
"I could help get you started, and—"
"No. Thanks." Swallowing, her throat suddenly dry, she whispered tightly, "Just fix the ship."
She backed out the door into the sun-baked plaza. A cruiser landed at the docks, making the ground rumble beneath her boots. Slumping against one of the poles holding up the awning, she pressed her sleeve to her cheeks, blotting rivulets of sweat and what likely remained of her blush of embarrassment.
The tent creaked: then the cloaker eased past her carrying a sack bulging with clinking hardware. "Three standard hours," he called over his shoulder. His facial expression was benign, as if his offer to help sell her body hadn't occurred at all.
Maybe he hadn't meant anything by it. It was a business proposition and nothing else. Men here were merely cruder than what she was used to, and she couldn't expect them to keep their conversations within the boundaries of accepted etiquette. Before long—she hoped—such encounters would no longer mortify her.
Faintly, wind chimes tinkled in another weak breeze. She peered across the plaza to the cafe. Her stomach gave a little flip; the Earth dweller was sitting in the same place, appearing almost forlorn, his hands curled protectively around his tock. She'd bet he didn't care much for Vash rules, she mused wistfully. He was independent, unconventional, maybe dangerous, too. He symbolized all that she had run away from home to find.
Speculatively, she studied him. She had time to kill, didn't she? Three hours. And she was thirsty, too. Besides, the cafe afforded an uninterrupted view of her speeder.
She swiped off her cap, then shoved it into her back pocket. Where she'd worn the hat, her hair was molded to her scalp. But the bottom strands were beginning to curl, exposing her ears to the harsh sun. She attempted to tidy up, using her fingers as a comb—then stopped herself, hands in midair. Heavens, what did it matter what she looked like? In fact, she thought wryly, the more she resembled the other grubby traders around here, the better. Less chance of being recognized, for one thing.
She scrubbed her scalp until her hair stood on end, then smiled as she crossed the plaza with deliciously full strides. She was a free woman now, a soon-to-be galactic explorer. Joining the foreign trader for a frosty glass of tock would merely be the first nibble of adventure before she devoured the full feast.
Chapter Three
"A pleasant day to you!"
At the sound of the too-cheery female voice, Ian slid his hands off the bar and pushed himself upright. The last thing he needed was another solicitation from one of Blunder's overenthusiastic pleasure servants. The women were independent contractors who profited from consensual sex, but he didn't partake of their services—unlike every other trader on this godforsaken rock, it seemed. Even if he did, he doubted a around of brainless, bought-and-paid-for sex would keep him from steeping himself in misery over the knowledge that Senator Randall was on Grüma, and he was stuck here.
"Find someone else," he snapped, turning around. "I'm not interested."
The sweet-faced sprite gawking at him took a step back. The wounded look in her wide gold eyes made him feel like a total jerk.
"Sony," he said quickly. "I thought you were… someone else."
"No offense taken." She chose the stool to his left, smoothing her dusty black pants as if she were dressed in a gown and not baggy clothes that could have been borrowed from an older brother. A telltale bulge in her right pocket hinted at a laser pistol. Yet everything else about her indicated a cultivated upbringing—her impeccable posture, the way she clasped her hands primly atop the bar. He couldn't figure out the hairstyle, though. A few red-blond strands clung to her ears and jaw. The rest was spiky and looked as if it'd been hacked away with a machete. A dull machete. Distantly, he hoped he never found himself sitting in her barber's chair.
"I saw you, didn't I?" he asked. "About an hour ago. You were wearing a cap."
"Yes." Proudly she added, "You nodded at me."
"Right…" He folded his arms over his chest and drummed his fingers on his biceps.
She contemplated him in wonder, then shyly averted her gaze. Fidgeting, she appeared to be searching for words to fill the silence. Finally she said, "I imagine the tock's quite good here."
He suppressed a smile. He had no idea where the cute pixie hailed from, but she was proving damned near worth her weight in gold in entertainment value. A whole minute had passed since he'd last dwelled on where—or how—he was going to find another pilot.
"Had worse to drink," he admitted. "But it sure beats the company." He jerked his thumb toward the bartender, who gave a shuddering snore, starling himself half-awake. Immediately the man started asking questions—and then giving himself muttered answers.
The pixie tipped her head to the side and whispered out of the corner of her mouth, "I believe he's seen the back end of one too many freighters."
Ian laughed. The girl's sense of humor was a welcome bonus on a day in which he felt about as light-hearted as a half-ton pickup. "Bartender! Bring the lady a…" He shot her a questioning glance.
"Tock. Iced, if you please."
The bartender started awake, grunted, then unsteadily made his way to the chiller, chatting to himself all the way there. Mumbling, he opened the door and withdrew one frosty mug. Frozen water vapor rose in white streamers, evapora
ting instantly in the hot air. In a display of unexpected agility, he filled the glass with tock and slid it along the bar.
Ian caught the mug and handed it to his new companion. Then he propped his chin on his palm and studied her as she sipped from it. "So… what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
A smile lit her face. "An Earth expression! That's where you're from, is it not?"
"They call Blunder the crossroads of the galaxy," he said carefully.
The ends of her mouth lifted in a cryptic smile. Then she raised her glass. He watched her take a long, thirsty drink. She hadn't answered his question, he thought. But neither had he answered hers.
Companionably, they people-watched in silence. But his eyes kept going back to her. She pretended not to notice, but he knew she was aware of his scrutiny by the color that crept into her cheeks. For a crazy instant,, he pictured himself back in Tempe, Arizona, and they'd just met in one of the places near the campus. He hadn't thought of his college days in ages, and when he had, it was because he missed football and burgers, not the simple, taken-for-granted freedom of taking a woman out on a date. But it was easy to imagine bringing this woman along on a road trip to the canyon. His Harley. The open road. Her slender arms wrapped around his waist—
"Crat! " she coughed out, nearly spilling her drink.
Crat was the Basic equivalent of "shit." His hand over his pistol, Ian followed her fearful gaze to the docks, where one of the local merchants was arguing with a dozen soldiers in crisp silver-trimmed blue uniforms and shiny black boots. Vash Nadah elite guard. The medium-sized cruiser he'd seen land a short while ago sat nearby. More soldiers were tramping down the boarding ramp.
Ian regarded the woman with heightened interest.
"Dar security forces. On Blunder. What brings them so for from home, I wonder?"
Wild-eyed, the sprite swung her attention to him. "They'll see me," she said fervently. "They'll take me back." Her chest rose and fell in increasingly deep breaths.
"Listen, if you're in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help. I—"
"No." She shut her eyes as if praying, then whirled around to watch the scene unfolding on the docks. The focus of the argument appeared to be centered on a sleek speeder parked behind them. Several groups of soldiers broke off from the gathering and strode across the plaza, heading their way. The curious crowd of bedraggled traders and merchants parted to let the big men pass.
"Your eye-shaders!" The woman snatched Ian's sunglasses off his face, shoving them on before he had the chance to react. She bumped her stool closer to his. "Put your arms around me."
He hesitated for a heartbeat. He didn't like to jump into situations blind. On the frontier—anywhere—it was an easy way to end up dead.
"Please," she beseeched him.
Wordlessly he drew her to him. She was quivering. Instinctively he tightened his arms around her.
The soldiers made their way through the shops; others walked through the bars, asking questions, their weapons in their holsters. Apparently they didn't consider their quarry dangerous. But when a pair of officers veered their way, Ian felt the woman go rigid.
"Greetings, Earth dwellers," the robust officer called to them.
The woman lifted her head. "Greetings!"
"My apologies for disturbing you. We're gathering information on some stolen goods. I'm in search of a tall woman, looks Vash, has short hair. She's wearing a blue flight suit—or was the last time she was seen. Have you seen her?"
They shook their heads and chorused, "No."
Clearly taken with the prospect of chatting with exotic Earthfolk, the officer leaned casually on the bar while his partner peered behind barrels and rooted through a pile of trash, before trying in vain to question the semiconscious bartender, who'd added more imaginary friends to his somnolent dialogue.
Waiting for his partner to finish, the officer lifted the visor of his helmet and dabbed at his forehead. "Hot weather, this."
Before Ian could answer, the pixie chimed in. "On Earth, Ah-ree-zona is worse." She kissed Ian on the cheek. "Is it not?"
Ian gaped at her.
The officer winced in understanding. "With all due respect to the B'kah's Queen Jasmine, I'll not be taking any trips to Earth anytime soon."
Apparently satisfied that what they were searching for was not in the cafe, the men bade them good day and departed.
Immediately, the girl scooted away from Ian. Her eyes darted skyward at the telltale high-pitched whine of speeder thrusters. Her jaw clenched and unclenched, as if she was fighting hard to control her emotions. A screech rattled their glasses as the sleek vessel—the one the Dar security men had been arguing over—soared overhead so low that the bar's stools danced across the patchwork flooring. Then the speeder streaked across the sky and disappeared on the horizon.
"There goes my ride," she whispered.
"And look—there go those Dar soldiers, back to their cruiser. That's what you wanted, right?"
"Yes." She dragged her attention back to him. "Thank you for… your help."
"I aim to please, ma'am." He plucked his sunglasses off her nose. "Obviously they were looking for you. So what'd you do? Or not do?"
She blinked at him in the bright sunshine but gave no answer. Somehow he hadn't expected she would. Blunder was a place for secrets, and this pixie evidently had more than her share. Her appearance alone was enough to pique his curiosity. She had the classic sculpted features of Vash royalty—high cheekbones, a long, perfectly formed nose, and pale gold eyes that tipped up at each end—but she was more animated, more genuine than any of the wife candidates he'd met at court on Rom's home world of Sienna.
That was because she wasn't a royal, he quickly assured himself. Vash princesses rarely left their homeworlds. And when they did, they didn't come to places like Donavan's Blunder. The idea was inconceivable. The protocol that kept Vash Nadah women cloistered dated back to the years before and during the Great War, a period of anarchy when the protective measures were necessary. Eleven thousand years later, the galaxy was stable and safe. Yet the customs restricting royal women remained. Strange that the religion binding the galaxy together was based on a feminine entity, the Great Mother, when the highest-ranking women in the eight royal families spent their lives in the shadows.
Thoughtful, he sipped his tock and studied the young woman next to him. Plenty of upper-class merchants carried Vash Nadah blood, so this one must have royalty as her ancestors.
"Everything I had was in that ship," she said glumly. "Now I'm stuck on Donavan's Blunder with a really bad haircut, a quarter of the credits I came with. And these"—she sighed—"are my only clothes."
She sagged forward on the bar, supporting her chin with her hands. "I don't think it can get any worse than this."
Ian lowered his drink. "I've had a pretty lousy day myself."
They shared lingering commiserating grins.
He asked, "Buy you another tock?"
"No. This calls for something stronger." She pounded her fist on the counter. "Bartender—Mandarian whiskey!"
The old spacehand came to life, reaching under the bar for a dusty red bottle and uncorking it.
The woman tossed a few credits on the table. "Order yourself some spirits—what's your name, anyway?"
"Ian."
Her expression tightened in alarm before her eyes narrowed in concentration. She scrutinized him as if she thought she knew him—or hoped she didn't. "Ian… ?"
"Ian Stone," he finished for her, using the alias he'd chosen for his surname.
"Ah." She swallowed. "Ian. Your given name is common on Earth, is it not?"
He smiled innocently. "Very."
She relaxed and shook her head. "What will you have, Ian Stone? I'm buying."
He chuckled. "I'll stick with tock, but thanks."
She grabbed the cup the bartender handed her and tossed the contents into her mouth. Her breath exited in a wheeze and her golden eyes filled with tea
rs. "Great Mother," she whispered hoarsely. Her dark-lashed eyes focused, then unfocused. "Another," she huffed.
"I don't think you want another. Mandarian whiskey is potent stuff. If you're not used to it—"
"Who says I'm not used to it? Why, I drink all the time, every day, morning and night. I brush my teeth with the stuff. Yes, that's what I do. No one keeps me from my whiskey!"
Anger blazed in her eyes. "I've followed orders my entire life. No more." She shoved more credits across the bar. "Your glasses are too small," she informed the bartender. "Hand me the bottle."
He shifted his watery eyes to Ian, his brows raised questioningly. Ian shook his head ever so slightly, and the man wedged the cork into the bottle.
"Hey!" The pixie swiped for the whiskey, snatching it from the barman's gnarled fingers. "I paid for it, didn't I?" Her hand was unsteady as she poured another glass.
Ian groaned, folding his arms across his chest. Well, he knew what he was doing this afternoon: baby-sitting. With this heat, that liquor, and the girl's obvious low tolerance for the stuff, she was going to be feeling pretty low, pretty fast.
"Quite good, this Menerian—Manarian—this whiskey." She hiccuped. " 'S'cuse me."
"What's your name, pixie?"
She tilted her head at the Earth word. She seemed to be having a tough time focusing on his face. "Tee—" She clamped her mouth shut. "Just Tee."
"Tell me your story, 'Just Tee.' You say you lost your ship. Who'd you work for? The Federation merchants?"
"Had my own ship." Her lips compressed into a resolute line. "It's all right. I'm not afraid of hard work. Someone will need a pilot."
Ian grabbed her upper arm. "You mean you fly?"
She wedged a wrinkled cap out of her trousers and fit it on her head. Above the brim was the faint outline of a pair of wings. "There. See?"
He gave a whoop of delight. "An intersystem cargo pilot—with no speeder!"
She frowned at him with accusing eyes. "Thought you were's'posed to be making me feel better."
