Page 8 of Star Prince

He handed her his tablet. His gaze was cool, discerning, as if he knew what she was all about. She forced herself to focus on the series of numbers and letters scrolling across the screen, a code identifying her ship as a Dar speeder without clearance to be this far from home.

“Stole her, did you? From the Dars.” He broke into a laugh when the rest of the blood no doubt drained from her face. Then he waved at the dozens of ships docked on all sides. “Not to worry; half the ships here arrive with owners other than those who were intended.”

Somehow she kept the quivers in her belly from reaching her hand as she returned his tablet. “What do you want?”

“A little business.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your cloaker.”

“But...” Stupidly she peered into the empty interior of the tent.

“It’s a quiet day. I was out combing for extra work. You simply beat me back to the store.” The merchant lifted the tent flap and waved one arm with a flourish. “After you, my lady.” With a shrug, she went in.

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 purebredVash…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 tablet 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. “Theyaregoing 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—what was supposed to last a year or more. “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’llthrow 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 Dar clan.Vashroyalty. 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 had taken a top-of-the-line Dar starspeeder. Other cloakers might not want to risk the wrath of aVashroyal 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, very good money, to buy sex with a pleasure server who looked like aVashvirgin.”

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 sunbaked 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 café. 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 would bet he didn’t care much forVashrules, she mused wistfully. He was independent, unconventional, and maybe dangerous too. He symbolized all that she had run away from home to find.

Speculatively, she studied him. She had time tokill, didn’t she? Three hours. And she was thirsty too. Besides, the café afforded an uninterrupted view of her speeder.

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