by Susan Grant
He laughed, his boots crunching heavily on the gravel.
The merchants carried the usual items: produce, roasting meats, sundries. The spicy-sweet scent of countless unidentified products filled the air. As she browsed, he examined the crowd and shops, as if he were doing a little window-shopping of his own—though for people, she suspected, not merchandise.
The crowd surged toward a street show just getting under way. Onlookers clucked their tongues appreciatively as an artisan released a flock of rainbow-colored bubble-bots into the air. With a wandlike controller, he sent commands to microscopic computers contained in the bubbles' liquid skin, changing the diaphanous, iridescent orbs into different creatures and flowers and a variety of floating figures, from entwined lovers to children playing.
Ian admired the show unfolding above their heads. "We don't have anything like this on Earth. Not yet, anyway."
"I've seen similar demonstrations"—at the palace, she almost said—"but none performed with such skill and creativity."
One by one the bubbles coalesced into nano-computer-rich droplets and fell into a widemouthed beaker the man held on his head. All around them shoppers applauded and clicked their tongues appreciatively.
Ian's comm beeped. He took it out of his pocket and brought the mouthpiece to his lips. "Stone here." "Look left."
Ian's head turned, and she followed his gaze to where Muffin towered above the crowd. The big man grinned, stowing his comm as he strode toward them. When he caught up to them, he jerked his thumb toward a group of starships docked in a clearing. "The crew of that cargo-runner told me they saw Randall and his men in a pub the night before last." Ian looked interested. "What did they say?" "That Randall's looking forward to doing business." Ian made a disdainful noise. "I imagine he is." As the men lagged behind, deep in conversation, Tee'ah focused on the purpose of her visit to the market, forcing herself to shop quickly and efficiently, sensing Ian was suddenly impatient to return to the ship. She found three high-necked, one-piece, all-weather outfits in a rich bluish gray that could double as both her flight uniform and off-duty clothing; a lightweight, short thermal-controllable coat; socks; undergarments; and two nightshirts. With those purchases in several sacks, she stopped in front of a stand displaying soaps and incense, oils, and assorted medicines.
"I have everything you need." the young vendor called in a husky voice. She scrutinized Tee-ah's cap, her butchered hair and dirty clothes, but tactfully displayed no distaste. "Whatever is your desire… or his"—with an overt smile of approval, she gestured somewhere behind Tee'ah—"you will find it here."
Tee'ah looked over her shoulder, expecting to see Ian, but a tall man, dressed warmly and well, watched her from a stand across the street that was selling fire-cooked meats. The fur-trimmed hood he wore shadowed his features, but she sensed from him an intense, pointed regard. Considering her appearance, she couldn't believe attraction was the cause of his interest, though the Grüman vendor seemed to think otherwise.
So engrossed was the cloaked gentleman with her that he didn't notice at first that the cook was trying to hand him a paper-wrapped skewer. Finally, the vendor tugged on his sleeve and the tall man turned away… but not before Tee'ah glimpsed his eyes.
They were gold, like hers.
Her mouth went dry. He was Vash Nadah.
She fought the urge to bolt to where Ian and Muffin stood, several shops away, talking. Instead she forced herself to watch the man and ascertain his intentions. If he'd come here to "rescue" her and bring her home, would he not have acted already?
The Vash paid for his purchase with a gloved hand. Then, by some miracle, he walked off purposefully, as if he were late for an appointment. Perhaps he was only part Vash. Or he could be an expatriate, like her, desirous of a less restrictive life.
Regardless, he wasn't a Dar guard here to force her to go home.
She let out a shaky breath. Shutting her eyes, she composed herself, then turned back to the stand. "I require hair dye," she said emphatically.
The female vendor uncovered a row of little boxes. "I have the very latest from the outer worlds. Clay-roll," she declared, struggling with the pronunciation.
Tee'ah admired the exotic Earth products, particularly fascinated by the dark colors: black, rich browns, russet and auburn. Clairol, the labels said in almost illegible runes.
"May I have a translation of the instruction manual?" she asked.
"You won't need it," the Grüman merchant replied. "Simply mix the contents of the vials and massage it into your hair, like soap. When the shade is to your liking, rinse with water."
The procedure was primitive compared to DNA-based hair dye, which altered hair strands on the molecular level.
Tee'ah was beginning to like primitive.
Plunking her bags on the ground, she said, "I'll take the brown, please." She needed a better disguise, and a new darker hair shade would be the ideal camouflage. With eye-shaders on, she'd be able to pass for an Earth dweller, as she had in Ian's arms on Donavan's Blunder.
After selecting several cakes of scented soap, mouth cleanser, and menstruation protectors, she let her fingers drift over a selection of little cubes decorated with a holographic floral pattern. "What lovely boxes."
"Twenty credits," the vendor cajoled. "No one sells blockers for less."
"Blockers?"
"Birth-blockers, yes."
Tee'ah felt the blood drain from her face, then rush back in a heated blush. The woman smiled knowingly, as if she knew a great secret Tee'ah did not. Though the vendor was barely past her mid-teens, she seemed much older and wiser. Tee'ah envied the young woman's feminine self-awareness, her apparent worldliness. If only it were possible to fling off innocence like an old coat. "Of course; birth-blockers," she replied in an airy tone that didn't quite work. Cheap, easy, and reliable, birth-blockers were the most popular method of birth control for the merchant class. But that was as far as her knowledge went. She hadn't been taught more, since it was expected she'd remain a virgin until she married and thereafter go right to work producing royal heirs.
But her life's path had changed. She'd changed it.
She was a free woman now. Self-reliant. Open-minded. Women such as herself chose lovers where and when they pleased.
Did they not?
Her mouth went dry. She glanced wildly to where Ian and Muffin chatted outside a neighboring shop. Ian's coat was again hooked on his finger and tossed over his shoulder. The fingertips of his other hand were wedged into the back pocket of his jeans. When he briefly tipped his face toward the sky, the thought of his sun-warmed lips on hers sent a languorous tremor of desire coursing through Tee'ah.
"Which one do you fancy?" the vendor coaxed.
Tee'ah spun her gaze back to the girl. "Which who?"
"Which cube?"
Tee'ah gathered her wits. Heavens, she was behaving like a ketta-cat in heat. She didn't know if it was because she was free to act on her impulses for the first time in her life, or because she'd developed a yen for Earth dwellers—Ian Stone in particular.
"This one will do." She stared at her own hand pushing a brightly colored cube across the table, as if someone else had taken control of her body and the real Tee'ah was trapped inside her, gaping at her actions with abject fascination.
Lovemaking would be the ultimate demonstration of rebellion. Once she lost her virginity, she could never go back to her family.
But simply purchasing birth blockers didn't mean she was going to use them. Yet. "I'll take the hair dye and soap, too," she said in a hoarse voice.
She haggled briefly and indifferently with the vendor, as bargaining was expected, but enjoyed it less than she'd expected. She was still feeling too odd. Then she fished her credits out of her pocket.
Tee'ah's self-consciousness apparently had not been lost on the vendor. The girl pulled up her sleeve, her gaze both wise and understanding. On the underside of her slender arm was a tiny skin patch. "Wear it for one menstrual cy
cle, then remove," she whispered. "It will provide protection against pregnancy for up to a year." Smiling, she added, "For full effectiveness, you must first wait forty-eight standard hours."
"Yes, of course." Tee'ah snatched the shopping bag from the young woman's hand. She whirled away from the stall and bumped into Ian, who had come up behind her sometime during the transaction.
He caught her by the shoulders to keep her from stumbling. "Find everything you need?" he asked.
Her heart pounded a drumroll of disbelief, and she forced herself to look up at him. "Actually, a bit more than I'd intended."
He regarded her, his expression uncomprehending. She was glad he didn't ask what she meant, because she wasn't sure if she could explain it herself.
"But all at a marvelous price," she said. Then she brushed past him so that he would not see the blush she feared was making its way up her neck. "Good thing, too," she called over her shoulder. "The wages you pay me certainly don't go very far." At home, such brashness would certainly have been frowned upon.
Ian only laughed. He caught up to her. "Prove your worth to me, and maybe I'll give you more."
"I got you here to Grüma, didn't I?"
"Beginner's luck."
"Bah! Talent and skill, and don't ever forget it, Captain Stone." She pretended to scowl at Muffin, who watched their exchange with interest. "That means you, too."
The man raised two plate-sized hands. "Any pilot who doesn't turn me into a smoking crater wins my thankful admiration. I'd keep her happy, Captain," he advised.
"After all," she continued, "a happy pilot means a happy captain."
"Does it now?" The corners of Ian's eyes crinkled. Although his weariness was obvious, he appeared to be enjoying the banter as much as she.
The two men took most of her packages for the trek back to the ship. Once back in the woods surrounding the city, coolness washed over Tee'ah, and a deep hush thickened the air, broken only by occasional birdsong. But the path was stained with patches of bright sunlight. Days on Grüma were a third longer than Mistraal's, creating a noon hour that seemed to last forever.
Ian buried one hand in his coat pocket as he walked alongside her. "If what you said was true, 'a happy pilot means a happy captain,' then that leaves me no choice but to ensure your job satisfaction. I'm at your service, ma'am," he said.
She remembered the one sack she hadn't let either of the men take; it had the birth-blockers inside. What if she told this man that her job satisfaction hinged on taking him as a lover? A slow, hot flush crept up her neck. She was far from ready to admit such a thing, let alone fully accept the idea herself. But the seeds of possibility had sprouted.
A princess should be seen and not smelled.
As Tee'ah stood in front of the mirror in her quarters, her fingers submerged knuckle-deep in gooey hair, she failed to see the humor in her joke. Nor could she decide what she liked least about Clay-roll, the muddy stains it left on her forehead and temples, or the wretched odor.
But she needed to disguise herself, a point driven home during the disturbing encounter with the cloaked Vash in the market. As long as the possibility existed that she'd encounter her own kind, she had to take steps to avoid recognition.
She lathered her scalp and sneezed until her eyes watered. It was difficult to believe Earth dwellers chose to use such disagreeable products when more advanced techniques were available. Perhaps they clung to antiquated practices to preserve their culture—not unlike the Vash Nadah, she thought wryly, who insisted on safeguarding their women from the outside world as if the horrific war that drove them to do so raged yesterday, instead of eleven thousand years ago.
She peered at the viewscreen on the wall. Quin would soon be finished with his repairs to the ship. Then they'd eat a quick meal before the launch. As she rinsed her hair in the sink, Tee'ah hoped the dying process was complete; she'd worn the substance for barely an hour.
Bracing herself, she lifted her head. Her hair stood up in tufts, dark tufts, but not at all the shade she'd expected.
"Dear heaven," she murmured. Her hair was green.
"Tee!" Push's voice came over the ship's comm. "If you want to eat before we launch for Baresh, you need to do it now."
"I am coming." She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hair was the color of the algae-topped mud puddles that collected under the vast indoor gardens at her father's palace. And it smelled worse. Hastily she shampooed again, but the sweet-scented cleanser was no match for the tang of residual chemicals, reminiscent of rotten eggs. Nor did it alter the brownish-green tint to her hair.
Crat. Why hadn't she insisted that the merchant include instructions? Her stupid error echoed every stumble she'd taken so far since leaving Mistraal. First her entire escape was witnessed. Then her star-speeder was confiscated on her first stopover in the frontier—with all her possessions aboard. And her one attempt to alleviate her misery had turned into a drunken escapade that ended with her coming aboard the Sun Devil—the one bright spot, she conceded, in a black hole of blunders.
She let out a long, weary breath and forced herself to face the woman in the mirror. Each one of her mistakes could have ended her dreams of freedom. But they hadn't. Nor would her slime-hued hacked-off locks, she vowed. The way she saw it, the chances of Dar security spotting her in a search had just diminished another stress-reducing iota.
Vigorously, she towel-dried her hair and tried to scrub the spots of brown from her forehead. Her hair looked somewhat better after she combed it off her forehead, but the fuzzy ends curled as they dried. She pressed them down, but they sprang up again. Defeated, she threw down her hands and dashed to the galley.
The noise and laughter pouring from the chamber spurred memories of the bustle of the dining hall in which she'd taken her meals with her family. It seemed she would not be able to stop missing them as easily as she'd cut her ties. Clutching her hands together, she waited for the heaviness in her chest to pass. Then she skulked through the hatch, hoping the crew was too engrossed in their meal to notice her hair.
Ian calmly folded his napkin and stood. It was a show of respect practiced by all Vash Nadah males when a woman entered a room, but not one she'd expected from an Earth dweller. Before she could ponder his behavior, conversation ceased. A few spoons clanked into bowls and Quin began choking. Gredda pounded him on the bade
"Her hair…" he sputtered.
Tee'ah was unable to resist the opportunity to torture the man. "I do have an extra box of hair color in my quarters. I planned to save it for a later date. However, perhaps I shall reserve it for you, my dear mechanic, should you decide to join me on the"—she winked—"wild side."
Red-faced, Quin wheezed something at her. Gredda and the others chuckled appreciatively.
As he pulled out her chair and seated her, Ian appeared thoroughly entertained. "Nice 'do," he said.
"I'd been wanting to try something different."
"It is that."
Smiling, she turned her attention to her meal. His gaze was totally without censure. Perhaps it meant that she was one step closer to being accepted as a member of his crew, green hair and all.
Chapter Nine
Gann found Lara in the Quillie's cockpit. She must not have heard him drop down from the ladder, for she remained as still as a statue, her petite dancer's body nestled in the pilot's chair as she stared out the enormous curving viewscreen at the bow. They were traveling at many times light speed, and had been for most of the day, racing toward Padma Eight, a boisterous little planet known for its cargo operation and where, according to Lara, pilots went looking when they needed a job. Gann hoped Princess Tee'ah would be one of them.
Lara brought her hands to her eyes and rubbed.
Noticing, Gann said, "You've been on duty long enough, Lara."
At the sound of his voice, she went rigid, but she did not turn around.
"It's my turn to watch the computer fly the ship," he added.
"My shift's not over," she returned
coldly.
"It's been eight hours."
"I'll take eight more, then."
"You're a workaholic."
"Actually," she said, glancing at him with hollow, haunted eyes, "I'm an insomniac. You might as well go back to sleep, because I won't be able to."
He thought of suggesting a few mutually enjoyable activities that would certainly tire her, but he held his tongue. "So take a sleep-inducer. In eight hours I want you back here, on tracking duty, refreshed and ready to go."
"Bah. No drugs. That's a Vash weakness." Her tone was cold, but stopped short of overt disrespect.
"I said you're relieved of duty, Ros. Go to bed. That's an order."
"Fine." She stood with her back to him as her fingertips tapped over the navigation computer. "We're on course, on schedule. I show atmospheric entry on Padma Eight in sixteen-point-two standard hours." Without looking up, she pushed past him. I’ll be back in eight."
Gann folded his arms across his chest. He had been raised to celebrate and appreciate the differences between men and women, but Lara was unlike any female he'd ever encountered. She was devoid of warmth, of softness, of anything he remotely associated with femininity.
And it roused his curiosity.
"All right, Miss Sunshine, what is it about me, or maybe men in general, that's so blasted distasteful to you?"
She turned. Her face conveyed an air of fragility, but the muscles flexing beneath the skin of her slender limbs indicated endurance and strength. Dim, bluish light illuminated the cockpit, bleaching her tawny complexion. "You have no idea, do you?"
"Why don't you enlighten me?"
The cavernous chamber in which they stood rang with mechanical emptiness, but it didn't come close to matching the desolation in her eyes. "This conversation falls outside the parameters of my job description. You hired me to track for you, not to be your friend."
"True," he replied.
"You pay me, I get my ship back. Then we go our separate ways. It's that simple. Don't ask for more than that, because you won't get it."
