Chapter 27

Bulma was completely lost in the world of higher mathematics and practical applications of same as she worked on her pet after-hours project: figuring out how Vegeta's armor did what it did. It had remarkable tensile properties — lightweight but strong, rigid but pliable under certain stresses — and, of course, there was that whole question of how the heck it stretched to cover the chest of one large hairy ape and yet snapped back to Vegeta's diminutive dimensions. Well, not all his dimensions were diminutive...

Stop that, she told herself, crossly. That's not constructive. Talk about a relationship that couldn't go anywhere... and that's even if he were interested in you, and he's not...

Sighing, Bulma looked down again at the chestplate propped against the side of her desk. She had tried asking both Vegeta and Radditz about the material used in the construction of the armor, but neither of them knew how it worked, of course, nor did either of them care. Saiyans, she thought, amused. A total lack of intellectual curiosity. She was beginning to think Goku's peculiar habit of living for the present moment might be a heritable trait — although the heritable traits of Saiyans were Chi-chi's problem, not hers. She caught another sigh and crossly told herself to cut it out.

A beeping noise interrupted her thoughts. She tapped on the keyboard and said, "Hello?"

"Bulma?" came Yamcha's voice out of the computer's speakers. Behind his voice, she could hear another one. Female. Figures, she thought.

"Yamcha. You don't have to call me on your dates, you know."

"Huh? Oh. I'm at the Sons. That's Chi-chi. She's, um, kinda upset."

There did seem to be a virulent note to the indistinct tones. "Is everything all right?"

"As long as you aren't Goku or Gohan, yes. Um...are you okay?"

The question was strangely pointed. "Oh, fine. Still trying to figure out this stupid Saiyan armor. Some reason I shouldn't be?"

"No, no," he said hastily. "Look, I have to go mediate before Chi-chi flays flesh with her tongue. Um...you might want to call me after you see Vegeta, next time you do, I mean."

"Yamcha, what are you up to? Is something going on?"

"Nothing. Just...I'm pretty sure, and so is Goku, that Vegeta does like you, Bulma, if 'likes' is the word. I'm just not sure that's such a good thing, that's all." There was a crashing noise; Chi-chi had evidently reached the throwing-pots-and-pans stage. "I've got to go," said Yamcha, sounding harried. "Take care, Bulma."

"You, too." Bulma hit the disconnect key, frowning. Kami knew, she had heard that note in Yamcha's voice often enough over the years to know he wasn't telling her the whole story. I'm going to have to corner Vegeta and wring it out of him. Great. I was hoping I could just hide for how-ever-long it takes for him to pack up and leave... No, I wasn't. I don't know what I'm hoping, dammit, but I do know these numbers aren't going to enter themselves...

Stretching her arms over her head, Bulma frowned at the computer. The answer to this little puzzle eluded her yet, but she would track it down. She reached for her coffee cup—and froze.

Someone was there.

Rotating her chair, she looked up into the glittering, obsidian eyes of the Saiyan Prince.

He looked—angry. Murderous. Fell.

Oddly, Bulma found she was unafraid. "You could try knocking, Vegeta. And you are definitely invading my space. Back it up."

His heavy brows pulled down in the fierce Saiyan scowl. The next thing she knew, fingers bit against the back of her neck as she was pulled roughly, but not painfully, to her feet. She looked into his eyes, not sure what she was seeing there. His thumb brushed against her jaw—once, twice. Yamcha's right, he does like me—if 'likes' is the word—

"You!" hissed the Prince. "How did you do this to me?!"

Maybe likes isn't the word... "Do—? Do what? I don't understand." He was staring at her fixedly, compulsively. Is he going to kiss me? Yikes! Am I going to let him? How would I stop him?

There was an irresistible pressure at the back of her neck. Bulma closed her eyes and puckered up tentatively, just in case, but found her face stuffed against his neck. Wiggling slightly, she managed to prop her chin on his shoulder. He was sans armor, wearing one of the sleeveless muscle-baring sweatshirts and the form-fitting bike shorts her mother provided for him; she could feel the heat of his body, the cut and flex of every muscle. His fingers moved on the back of her neck, alternately relaxing, gripping, relaxing again. Nothing about the rest of him seemed relaxed. His free arm went around her shoulders, the muscles rigid; he turned his head enough to press his forehead against her temple.

After waiting a fascinated moment to see what else he might do, Bulma ventured, "This is...nice."

The fingers gripped again, hard. "Nice," he repeated against the side of her face, the word harsh, his breath warm against her skin. She tried to turn her head, but the fingers locked, restricting her movements. Then she tried to bring her arms up under his to rest against his shoulder-blades, but he stiffened at her touch and, suddenly, was feet away from her. Legs wide apart, arms crossed, he looked her up and down, shook his head once and levitated backwards, out the open window. Bulma stared at the curtains as they flapped in the ki-created breeze, lifting one hand to absently massage the back of her neck.

"Weird," she finally said to herself. "Weird is the word."

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Outside Bulma's window, Vegeta pressed his back against the building, arms outstretched, eyes screwed closed. This is insane! I can't possibly want that pale, scrawny thing! Let alone— He thumped his head against the building, feeling plaster crack under the blow. The position abruptly reminded him of the last seconds of a condemned prisoner. Pulling away, mouth twisting in scorn, the Prince hovered, rarely indecisive.

I haven't been honest with myself, he finally admitted. I haven't liked what I've sensed in my own mind, and I've shut things out that can't be shut out. That has to end, and end now. He grimaced, looking up at the sky. Self-knowledge is the path to power, he reminded himself, brutally. Charging up, he sped into the upper atmosphere and paused for a minute, waiting for the planet's rotation to bring the part of the world he needed under his feet before dropping back down.

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Night on Vejiitasei was very, very dark.

Not that the King had anything to compare. Unlike his son, he had never been off world, never looked up at night skies crowded with stars from the arm of a spiral galaxy, never seen light reflecting off a dozen small planetoids. He had seen Vejiitasei's moon, of course — a smirk pressed against his mouth — but there was so much to experience in oozaru form that admiring the moonlit royal gardens was not high on the list of priorities.

How fortunate his son was, to see all those other moons that usually only the off-world troops witnessed. And how little the brat appreciates it, the King thought wryly as he stood on the rough-paved walkway of the garden surrounding the palace, looking at the faint, faint stars, wondering which one currently hosted the heir. Vegeta's latest off-world adventure at last offered some hope that Vegeta was beginning to take an interest in the picayune details of running a vast Empire. Of course, his awesome physical abilities would help keep the Associate Worlds in line once he came to power, but even a world-hopping King could not be everywhere at once. That was where statecraft came in. And if Vegeta couldn't bring himself to be even slightly diplomatic; well, the time of the last Super-Saiyan had been rather...chaotic. And that one had not even been King! Yes, the King mused, his son's reign was likely to be one of those the guards made up stories about for generations to come. What a shame he was going to miss all the fun...

The scouter over his eye blipped, interrupting his reverie. Startled, he turned his head to snap at some fool-hardy King's Guard, "I said I wanted to be alone!"

There was the shifting and creaking of armor as a figure sank to a knee, head lowered, fist flat against the ground. The King stood astonished, not immediately believing the profile flashing across the lens. It was, after all, one he had not seen in nearly half a century. "Are you insane or just suicidal?" he queried. "The palace is forbidden to you, warrior. Leave before you are seen and I must destroy you."

A low, rough voice came out of the darkness. "These are the palace grounds, my King, not the palace proper."

The King smiled slightly. "A technicality; very good. Did that over-smart third-class husband of yours coach you, or did you come up with that yourself?"

No answer. The figure remained with dark head bowed.

"Feh," grunted the King. "I'm in no mood for games. What do you want?"

"Our request to visit Chikyuu was denied. No reason was given. I wanted to see why."

The King said, more harshly than he meant to, "Why do you think, bitch?"

The head raised at that, eyes flashing. The King's night-sensitive eyes could see the face perfectly: the high cheekbones, the full mouth, the terrible scars that marred the jaw, the throat. The rough voice remained unemotional. "Bardock and I have years of unused leave. Neither of us is a security risk. There appears to be no reason for the denial. I was hoping to get one from you."

"In the dead of night outside of audience hours? Did you think I would be so overcome by your presence I would grant you whatever you desired?" Contempt was laced through the King's even voice. "As ever, my former captain, you overestimate yourself. The denial has nothing to do with either of you. We have not yet set up parameters for visits to Chikyuu, only for an exchange of technology. There is much work left to be done before any Saiyan tourists go to the planet." He smiled, coldly. "No matter what reasons they may have for wanting to go there."

After a pause, "My apologies, sire," the warrior muttered, "for disturbing you. That was as Bardock thought. I was the one who doubted."

"You ever took things too personally," noted the King, dispassionately. "How fortunate that your son does not. I have been very pleased with him, warrior. His time spent in the off-world forces makes him uniquely suited for the Heir's service, moreso than any of the planet-bound Palace Guards. Once his Elite rank has been confirmed, I expect him to go far. Perhaps as far as you. Hopefully he will not be as cavalier in throwing his career away."

The warrior visibly struggled for a suitable reply. Finally, "I am grateful that you have not held my weakness against my son," she said, but her tone was anything but appreciative.

The King smiled down at her without humor. "You could have done so much better than a third-class squad leader."

"I am content with what I have, my King."

"Feh," snorted the King. "I could have cared less if you bonded with all the off-world troops, woman; it was none of my concern. It was when you announced in open court that you were more than merely married to Bardock that you left me with little choice."

"You left me with none," she snapped, her attempt at servility collapsing. "Once my requests for a transfer were denied, it was the only way left for me to go off-world with my husband."

"Ah, yes. The curse of bonding. Suddenly your desire to be with your mate outranked your duty to your King. And should an assassin pop up, whom would you consider it your duty to protect, I wonder?"

"I was never remiss in my duty to you, my King."

"We will have to disagree there, warrior. Once you bonded to Bardock, you betrayed your oath to put me first. You were so weak you couldn't even keep it to yourself. Thankfully bonding is among the various third-class ailments long ago weeded out of the royal bloodline. I can not imagine how it lingered in a line that has produced as many Elites as yours."

She looked up at him, steadily, one corner of her mouth twisted in visible scorn. "That is why I prefer the company of the off-world troops to that of Elites, sire," she said, coldly. "They do not delude themselves with witty words."

"That clever tongue of yours amused me half-a-century ago, woman," said the King, harshly, after a fraught pause. "But that was long ago even as Saiyans measure time. Get away from here before I forget that I once valued your service."

She stood, towering over him for a second before bowing deeply, and turned to leave.

"Riiki."

She paused, a black silhouette in the black night. If not for the scouter's reading, the King thought he could mistake the jagged outline of her all-encompassing hair for that of Radditz. "You know that the King's Guards die with the King," he said, unemotionally. "Your Chikyuu-based offspring is likely to be—safe—where he is, but you might counsel your other son not to challenge for the next available opening. In fact, you might suggest that he wait for ... a time. My son will need loyal guards about him once he becomes King, and I would not doubt Radditz's fidelity to him."

"I thank you for the suggestion, my King," came the low voice out of the darkness, "but my son is Saiyan, and Saiyan offspring never listen to their parents."

For the first time since she invaded his garden, the King felt a twitch of amusement. "True. They would hardly be Saiyan if they did, no?"

There was a wry chuckle, then she continued on her way. The King once more turned his face to the dim sky, completely dismissing her from his thoughts.

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The single most uncomfortable place on Chikyuu looked as unwelcoming as that first night, a little over two short/long months ago. He was ill prepared for the place. The human clothing offered even less protection against the cold than it did against opponents. As soon as he landed, he discovered an unexpected disadvantage to the shoes Mrs. Briefs called 'sneakers;' they were completely ineffective at keeping snow out. The only thing standing between him and freezing to death, Vegeta thought sourly, was the limited protection his ki proffered him. But he needed to pry the truth out of his head; it was the hardest part about the self-knowledge needed to control his power, since sometimes there were things one did not want to know about oneself; and even a bare modicum of comfort might prevent him from doing that.

He dropped his ki shield and let the full cold hit him, hoping it would clear his thoughts. He sat cross legged on the powdery snow, shivering, teeth clenched against unseemly chattering. Hands draped over his knees, head bowed, the Prince ruthlessly wrestled his mind into places his mind did not want to go.

He broke down barriers, opened mental doors that had slammed shut. He went back much farther than Chikyuu and his first meeting with Bulma, some fifteen years, examining every dusty corner, every stored memory since Rigel Seven. He tripped, as usual, across that one strange thing that his mind simply refused to grasp and, instead of shrugging and continuing on, forced himself to linger. The mental barriers seemed to shatter into blue and green shards, then Vegeta found himself gazing into pools of clear, golden light.

Zarbon. Although Vegeta didn't physically move, his mental self flinched.

There were things about the alien Vegeta had never consciously acknowledged, an unheard of — bond (how he was beginning to loathe that word) developed over years. It was no wonder he blocked it off; he had no idea what it was. He never would have known if he hadn't lived with Bulma's family the past several weeks, if he hadn't seen that fool Kakarott throw himself in front of Gohan earlier in the day. The Prince nodded his astral head even as his invisible lip curled in self-derisive scorn — the thought that such a thing could exist between a Prince of the House of Vejiitasei and an alien mercenary was revolting. But his refusal to deal with Zarbon's place in his life, his secret craving for the alien's approval, was what had been behind his occasional loss of control, those strange outbursts of power. He knew now; flinching against it, loathing his own weakness, he still accepted the truth. No wonder I've been flaring up at him. This is — damned un-Saiyan.

He tried to trace it back to a moment in time, and found that he could; the incident five years after Rigel 7, when Vegeta had been surrounded by Saiyans, facing a powerful enemy on another renegade Associate World. The one who leapt between him and a killing ki blow had not been any one of the off-world soldiers but Zarbon. The Prince looked down at his dying trainer in irritation, wondering where the hell he was going to find another high ki sparring partner in this section of the galaxy. A hideously damaged Zarbon squinted up at him through closing, fading eyes and murmured, "Little Vegeta."

And something in the Prince—ripped wide open.

The rest was hazy, but he remembered nearly destroying the planet in his rage and standing over the med-techs threatening them with every slow death he could think of until they pulled Zarbon through. Zarbon lectured him, as usual, on losing control; his father screamed about the damage Vegeta inflicted on a valuable commodity. And Vegeta himself locked the strange experience away, acknowledging that it happened without ever understanding what it meant. It's a wonder I didn't vaporize myself years ago, he thought in irritation.

But the even stranger thing between Bulma and himself was untraceable. There was no single point when repressed attraction became — Ug. Vegeta couldn't bring himself to think the word, even as he struggled to deal with the consequences of what it meant. It was the most forbidden bond of all to a Prince of the House of Vejiitasei. He finally accepted it as well, but unlike accepting Zarbon, acceptance did not bring him ease. It meant the overthrow of too many things, both for himself and Vejiitasei. He considered a number of options, walking away being one of them, but snorted. This was the ultimate challenge for a Saiyan; he did not turn his back on challenges. And that, he added with a touch of dark humor, takes care of the nosebleeds.

So, Vegeta finally thought, opening his eyes as he stood up. It's true. I've been afflicted with that strange off-world virus that usually only sickens the ground troops, that drives even the occasional Elite to transfer off-world if it hits them. If I were any other than the Heir, it would cost me everything; position, power, everything. It should have been bred out of the House of Vejiitasei eons ago. But then, I'm not sure they ever isolated which gene it was, exactly, just as they never figured out the precise genetics behind the Super-Saiyan...

He wrinkled his nose. Feh, I can't believe I'm freezing my ass off thinking about allelic frequencies. I will have to get the scientific slaves working on it, though. I don't want this hideous thing to happen to our children.

And something twisted, hard, in his gut, because he knew he was basing everything on one simple assumption and his newly-shattered world would fall apart a second time if it proved to be false. He put his arms around himself and hugged hard, just for a second. The voice that sometimes spoke in his head, the one that sounded like his father, snapped, What makes you think it will be different for you, fool? Remember what happened to the last married ruler. Remember why his Heir decreed that there would be no more uncontrolled breeding in the House of Vejiitasei. Who are you, to go against millennia of law?

The Prince raised his head, squaring his shoulders. I am Vegeta, he snarled at the voice. I will be King. The King is the law. Once I am King, I cannot do wrong.

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After consideration (and a couple of high speed trips around the globe to warm up) he tracked down Radditz, asking him a question of such personal import that if the Prince had been a lower ranking warrior Radditz would have been well within his rights to kill him on the spot. As it was, Radditz stared at him for a long moment before he turned his head away, an act of near-incomprehensible defiance. Vegeta fixed him with those terrible dark eyes and warned, as his tail looped and lashed and struck the back of his own legs in his agitation, "You are wasting my time, baka."

A faint touch of red spread across the other man's cheekbones. "Yes," he admitted between clenched teeth. "Yes."

After a pause, Vegeta wondered, "Why in hell did you let the third class bitch have him?"

His head snapped around at that. Radditz stared at his Prince with unvarnished fury in his eyes.

"Don't throw your life away, warrior," Vegeta said gently, dangerously. "You are as nothing to me."

The glare did not abate. Radditz's words were clipped. "He fought for her, killed for her. It was his place to say no, not mine. Why in hell do you let that low-class human Yamcha sniff around your—"

Vegeta flared into full battle aura. The concessive force pushed Radditz back, his braced feet digging furrows into the ground as his hair whipped behind him. "Is that what you wanted to know, Vegeta?" he snarled. "Can you survive if she says 'no'? You can. It's a terrible half-life, filled with crumbs and sleepless nights. It will be torture to be in her presence, torture to be away from her. You'll never be whole again. But you can survive it."

With that frightening, casual speed that was beyond even Saiyan vision Vegeta was suddenly in front of him, one hand snaring his tunic to pull Radditz down so his face was even with Vegeta's. The Prince's gaze was cold. "I am mated to the Earth woman. I've been in my future wife's mind, Radditz. Can you say that about the 'friend' you've been dancing around for so many years?" He saw the flash in Radditz's eyes, the quickly masked agony, and dragged Radditz's defiant face to his. "You thought it was because he was an off-worlder?" Vegeta asked quietly, cruelly. "He doesn't want you, Radditz. That's why." He released the other man so suddenly Radditz couldn't get his balance and fell to his knees. "Live with it," Vegeta said, his voice still soft. "If you can."

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Radditz stayed on his knees long after Vegeta powered up and flew away.

And even though he wasn't in rut and there was no moon and nothing was happening with his hated personal chemistry to make him behave like an animal, he wailed and howled and pulled at his own hair, ripped apart by emotions he didn't understand or even believe existed.

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There was something...off...about Vegeta. Zarbon regarded the monitor screen and the Prince's tight, scowling expression with concern. Vegeta had clearly been in a tussle, a fading bruise marking the sharp edge of his jaw. Even his skin tones seemed awry. "Are you all right? You look a little—dare I say it?—blue."

Vegeta snorted, and Zarbon relaxed. The Prince sounded normal enough. "I've just had a very enlightening meditative experience at high altitude," said the Prince, crossly. "I almost froze to death,baka. I rue the day I let you talk me into this whole 'center' nonsense."

"As do the many, many worlds you've been able to conquer because of it, my Prince."

Another snort; the taut lines marking Vegeta's face softened slightly. "Eh, a small price to pay for power," he agreed with a odd, quiet smile. "What do you want that can't wait, baka?"

"Just some quick info about our schedule. We are being inundated with requests for shore leave," Zarbon told Vegeta's image, sardonically. "Apparently word got out that the humans are more than vaguely Saiyan in appearance, they can actually interbreed successfully with Saiyans. I have a host of third-class warriors suddenly thinking they might get mates and offspring. Are we going to be there long enough to do whatever-it-is Saiyans do when they're in courtship mode, or do I hold them at bay? "

Vegeta raised a hand to the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. "Oh, perfect. As if the lower classes don't have enough problems with uncontrolled breeding! No, no, and again, no. In fact, declare Chikyuu off limits to all Saiyans for the foreseeable future. This is a surprisingly dangerous place to be for any length of time, Zarbon, even for a Saiyan."

"You are remembering the whole interbreeding successfully thing, right?"

An expression Zarbon couldn't interpret crossed the Prince's face. Then Vegeta began to laugh, a strange, uncontrolled note to the sound.

Zarbon regarded him, startled. "Oh-oh. Do I take that as a 'no'?"

"You do not," snapped the Prince, the laughter abruptly shutting off. "Zarbon, do you think I would leave a horde of half-Saiyan brats here? You raised me better than that, baka."

After a pause — what an odd thing to say! -—Zarbon said, "Well, I would hope I had. No, I would never suspect you of uncontrolled breeding, my Prince." That garnered yet another strange noise from the Prince, who again raised his hand to his forehead, this time to rest his head against his palm, obscuring his face. What ails the boy? Zarbon wondered in gathering alarm. "We'll be there in a few hours," he told Vegeta urgently, suddenly wishing he could be there even faster. Something about the Prince's behavior made him think Vegeta needed him.

"What are you babbling about? You'll be here when you get here," the Prince told him with that maddening Saiyan logic as he dropped his hand, fixing Zarbon with a cool-eyed stare. "I've survived this cursed place for two months without you, baka; I'll be fine for another day or so."

"It'll be less than that," Zarbon said slowly, feeling as if the Prince were sprinting ahead of him in some word game he didn't know the rules to. "Are you and Radditz coming straight on board, or—?"

"I am. I don't know or care what Radditz's plans are."

Zarbon's alarm spun off in a new direction. "He's all right?"

The Prince's mouth took on a cruel curve. "Physically, I suppose so. Mentally—well, you'll have to ask him that whenever you get here, won't you?"

Zarbon was suddenly staring at a blank screen. For a moment, his mind was just as blank. Then, getting to his feet, he raced toward the bridge, determined to hound navigation unmercifully until the techs found some way to get extra speed out of the battle ship.