Free The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald Page A

defense, but when it came to keeping an eye on the rest of the galaxy, Prime was the only place to be.
    In keeping with Prime’s importance, the Officers’ Club there boasted the best food of any Space Force base on Galcen, which wasn’t saying that much—and the best wine cellar of any base in the galaxy, which was saying a great deal. Commander Pel Florens, whose ship left orbit in the morning for a long, dry patrol of the Mageworlds border zone, had already accounted for most of a bottle of prewar Infabede red while listening to his onetime Academy roommate Jervas Gil.
    Commander Gil, an undistinguished-looking officer whose medium height, medium weight, and thinning hair of a medium shade of brown tended to fade from memory almost before he left the room, was not happy. He had confined himself to plain water from the table carafe, and to three cups of cha’a, strong and dark—not from preference, but because he had the duty—while he unburdened himself to his friend.
    “I tell you,” he said, “it isn’t fair. I was set up.”
    “What’s not fair?” Florens asked, a bit muzzily.
    Commander Gil’s head, if not happy, was clear. He signaled to the waiter for another cup of cha’a and enumerated his grievances.
    “Here I am—career Space Force, first ground tour in five years, and what do I get? Flag Aide to the Commanding General! Career enhancing, right? Guaranteed my own command after this, right? Wrong! Dead people don’t get command, and by the time this is over, I’ll be dead.”
    Florens poured the last of the Infabede red into his wineglass. “Cheer up. It can’t possibly be as bad as a Mageworlds patrol.”
    “Oh, yes, it can,” said Gil. “All day, telling sweet little old ladies that General Metadi absolutely does not speak at flower shows. When I’m not arranging surprise inspections. Or writing holiday greetings to the troops. Or talking to the holovids. I’d take two Mageworlds tours back to back and I’d smile if it meant I never had to talk to another reporter.”
    He glanced at his chronometer, gulped the last of his cha’a, and stood up. “Hate to leave you like this, Pel, but I want to get some sleep before I go on watch. If somebody starts a war between midnight and zero-eight-hundred Standard, I’m the lucky son of a bitch who gets to wake up the General.”
     
    The flames of G. Munngralla’s Five Points Imports lit up the Med Station scoutcar, hovering on its nullgravs above the muddy street of downtown Namport. Ari and Munngralla hit the door at a run and hurled themselves into the aircar’s cargo bay. Llannat slammed the door back across the opening and dogged it shut. “All right, Jessan,” she shouted, “go!”
    The aircar sprang forward and up, leaving the confusion in the street below to dwindle out of sight. Ari pulled himself up to a sitting position on the floor of the cargo bay, and saw Llannat already working over Munngralla’s blaster burns with antibiotic cream and bandages from the aircar’s kit.
    “You’re a bit early,” he said. “Not that I’m objecting, you understand.”
    “She had a feeling,” came Jessan’s voice from the pilot’s seat. “So we decided to hustle on along. And it does look like you’ve surpassed yourself. What was it—arson?”
    “Nobody told me, either,” Ari said, struggling to his feet and making his way up to the empty seat next to Jessan. He collapsed onto the upholstery with a groan, his head ringing. “Damn, I’m tired.”
    “Don’t go to sleep yet,” said Jessan. “We have a contact on an intercept course—and he’s not transmitting a Security identifier.”
    Ari remembered the blood trail down the staircase. One of the attackers had managed to call for help, and get it.
    He cursed under his breath—and then cursed again, more quietly, at the stab of headache that followed. “Try to shake them,” he muttered. “They aren’t very nice people. And I think they’re mad at us.”
    Jessan answered