Page 11 of Star Champion

Klark drummed his fingertips on the table. Then he called out, “Con, send someone to collect my plates.”

“Summoning galley attendant,” the disembodied female voice replied.

Klark folded his napkin into a precise square and placed it to the right of his bowl. Taking his tablet with him, he stood. At nearly eye level a pair of kestrels soared past, a mated pair. He paused at the balustrade to enjoy the aerial acrobatics as they hunted for fish, looking a lot like bajha played in the sky. It never ceased to fascinate him how two individual creatures could maintain such a singular, focused resolve. Seemingly on instinct alone, each one trusted that the other would be at their side.Two equal halves that together are greater than one.With an inexplicable, soul-deep regret, he realized it was the kind of bond he was not destined to experience.

Then he frowned. Waxing poetic about mated birds, was he? What on Eireya was wrong with him? It must be his lovesick teenaged sister Katjian’s fault.

He shifted his glare to scores of scavenger gulls cawing and tussling with each other. Now, that was more like it. The scavengers reminded him more of the world of chaotic human communication he was used to. They wheeled above a trawler chugging toward shore, loaded with bounty for the communal evening meal at the palace. Fishing boats had followed the identical course day after day for a dizzying number of centuries, undoubtedly beset upon by a similar cloud of gulls.

In another familiar daily sight, a solitary figure came into view along the shore path, dressed as always in a severe, neck-to-boots charcoal-gray outfit.

“Ah. Uncle Yul. Right on schedule.” Klark’s mouth pulled into a deeper scowl at the sight of King Rorrik’s younger and only brother. The grim bachelor prince hiked along the shore every afternoon after lunch, passing below Klark’s balcony so reliably that he could set his timepiece to it. Uncle Yul was not as unsettling as the table of entombed, extinct creatures, but ran a close second.

Wisely, a palace gardener driving a cart laden with cuttings gave the man a wide berth.

“Go, Ché! Go!” Two giggling boys scrambled into a gardener’s cart left unattended, the elder taking the steering wheel, and off they went.

In a heartbeat, the memory pulled Klark back to the joy-filled days of being a youngster here, how he and Ché used to hijack the carts from under the gardeners’ noses. They would ride, riding all through the manicured grounds and sometimes the beach until they had either crashed or were caught. Ché always took the blame, because he was older and insisted on being the one to talk their way out of it.

“How dare you allow Ché to bear the responsibility for your antics while you stand by silently like a disgraceful little coward?”

The warm memory vanished like the sun behind a cloud, replaced with one of Uncle Yul dragging Klark away by the arm for a “private discussion”. How old was Klark when that happened? No more than four or five. It was the only time they ever were alone. To this day he could not remember where exactly on the palace grounds the drubbing took place—only that Uncle Yul had been seething and Klark was so stricken at being the sole focus of that fury that all his mind retained of the moment were the words his uncle hurled, each one landing like a gut punch.“Is this the way you want others to see you? Is it? Spineless, gutless, unworthy of the Vedla name? You are the second son, boy. Can you not grasp what this means? You have but one duty in this life—one! And that is to protect your elder brother, the crown prince. No matter what he does, what he says, no matter where he goes, you’re accountable for it. Next time trouble finds the two of you, you are to bear the brunt of it. If you ever bring shame to this family by doing otherwise, you will answer to me. Now, go! I’ll be watching you,” he shouted as Klark fled.

Klark released the railing after realizing he had been gripping it as if his life depended on it. Standing there, opening and closing a cramped hand, he used his bajha skills to settle down.Damn you, Uncle Yul. To this day, he avoided his uncle’s knowing, judging eyes, but there was only so much one could do to escape relatives at the palace.

Toren was right—he needed to get away for a while.

But not for the aimless vacation he and everyone else expected of him. He would schedule a starship of his own and rendezvous with the goodwill tour. Together with Skeet and Xirri they would run that amateur through the paces.

For the first time in a very long while Klark felt the prickle of genuine anticipation. Like Skeet, he enjoyed a challenge almost as much as he enjoyed winning.

Going over in his mind the arrangements to be made, his mind churning with ideas, he spun on his heel to walk inside—and collided with a cloud of perfume, soft skin, and silken hair.

Fingernails scraped down his arm, lips brushing the side of his throat. “Greetings, Your Highness.”

Klark moved the woman back to arm’s length, then dropped his hands from her sun-warm shoulders. She was undressed more than she was dressed in a pale green netted creation fastened loosely to various piercings of gold body jewelry and leaving little of her perfect figure to the imagination. “Why are you here?”

Her mint-green eyes, a synthetic shade, searched his face with bemusement. “It’s Thirdday.”

“Thirdday.” He gave his head a shake. “Yes, yes, of course.” With his thoughts on the Barésh-based amateur, he had forgotten all about his standing appointment with this courtesan, whom he allowed to enter his quarters the same day every week when a kitchen server arrived to tidy up. To their right, a galley boy was discreetly gathering up the last of the dirty dishes. Inside waited Klark’s bedchamber where he would have normally taken a few hours’ pleasure with the woman, or anywhere else around the suite her nimble fingers led him. “Your services are not needed today,” he said. “You may go.”

He allowed her to precede him indoors then waved her toward the exit. The woman blinked as if she could not believe she had been so speedily dismissed. “A massage instead, Your Highness? A perfect salve for sore muscles. Or perhaps a relaxing shampoo?”

“I require nothing of you. Please cover up and go.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.” She bowed humbly, her jewelry tinkling as her fragrant hair spilled over one shoulder. His loins had little reaction at the sight of her bejeweled breasts swinging freely behind the netting.

I’ll train that amateur myself, he was already thinking as he returned to his desk, a holo-keyboard appearing with an eager swipe of his finger. Certainly, he could send the others in his stead—a prince was nothing else if not a master of delegation—but he wanted control of this project, this labor of love. His ode to his love of the sport.

In the next moment, he wondered if he had lost his mind. A commoner amateur had little hope of panning out to be a worthy player, after all.

But what if?

Indeed, what the hell if? If Team Eireya were to win the galactic title, it would go a long way toward erasing his recent stumbles, allowing him to start the process of restoring the family reputation that he had tarnished. How could he not take this opportunity? Even if it meant a journey back to Barésh, that stinking pit of humanity, to track down an aptly named and elusive Sea Kestrel with enough raw talent to be worth the trouble. Or, so he hoped.

CHAPTER3

“Let’sget this show on the road, you dozers. We’re burning daylight.” Jemm stalked around the tug before starting her fifth and final delivery of the day, inspecting the vehicle for broken parts, thumping her gloved fist on a bumper here, smoothing her palm over a dented panel there, even though the loaders were still hard at work stowing the last canisters of ore in the trailer. The men’s muscled, sweating bodies swayed in unison as they hoisted and stacked the heavy tubes. They were running late, way late—today of all days, the one time she needed to beontime.

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