Page 11 of Star Prince

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 had 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 tears. “Great Mother,” she whispered hoarsely. Her dark-lashed eyes focused, then unfocused. “Another,” she huffed.

“I don’t think you want another. Mandarian whiskeyis 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—thiswhiskey.”She hiccupped. “‘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 meanyou 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.”

“I am…I mean, I can. That is, if you’re interested.”

As she watched him with skepticism, he rummaged through his front pocket and dug out Carn’s old pilot wings, placing them on the table. “The job’s yours if you want it. What do you say, Miss Tee?”

The wings glinted in the hazy sunshine. Her hand crept forward, her long fingers at last closing reverently around the pin. She lifted her gaze to his and smiled. Then her eyes rolled back, and she passed out.

“Tee?”

Ian took off his sunglasses. In the lull between departing ships, a puff of wind ruffled the woman’s hair, accentuating the stillness of the rest of her.

She had to be joking, he thought. No one passed out after two drinks. Did they?

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