1


    Kressa Bryant wandered aimlessly through north San Francisco’s dark streets, the pitifully small pack that contained everything she owned slung over one shoulder. Around her, the cool night air hummed with the passage of ground, air, and space traffic to the south. Local bars throbbed with music and raucous conversation, and the crumbling buildings shuddered as a starship landed at one of the nearby ports.


    Rough laughter sounded behind Kressa, and she glanced over her shoulder. Several meters back, two men shadowed her path. She pursed her lips in a worried frown. Were they following her? Easy enough to determine.


    She turned left at the next corner and ducked into a narrow alley partway down the block. The reek of urine and rotting debris assaulted her; the alley’s high walls gathered the city sounds and muffled them to a dull roar.


    Kressa shut out the distant sounds and tuned her senses closer, back the way she’d come. The quiet mumble of a conversation drifted over the background noises, accompanied by a pair of unhurried footsteps. She held her breath.


    The men moved closer, paused, and then crossed the intersection where she had turned the corner. Their footfalls receded, and she relaxed.


    A rustle from behind whirled her around. She dropped into a fighting stance and whipped her knife from its boot-top sheath.


    Something groaned from the dark recesses of the alley, low and pain-filled, and a weak male voice called, “Boy? Boy, can you . . . ?” The voice trailed off with a moan.


    Kressa stared into the dimness, dark eyes wide to gather light. It did not surprise her to be mistaken for a boy. She wore her black hair short and her clothing loose in an attempt to hide the fact that she was a nineteen-year-old girl graced—or, in her opinion, cursed—with the genetically perfected looks of the United Galaxy’s elite.


    “Who’s there?” she called, struggling to keep her apprehension from her voice.


    Another groan drifted from deep in the alley. The agonized sound twisted her gut, and she gripped her knife tighter.


    Something moved in the pile of discarded boxes and rubbish that clogged the narrow passage ahead.


    Kressa cast a brief glance over her shoulder to be sure no one had entered the alley behind her, and then she crept forward, eyes straining in the dark.


    Low clouds reflected the light from the brightly lit south city in a dim glow, faintly illuminating the debris. A bloody arm and hand jutted from the trash.


    She tightened her jaw and continued forward, her knife held close, ready to use.


    A man’s battered body sprawled on the rubbish. Kressa guessed he was perhaps thirty years old, although the dim light and the man''s ragged state made it hard to know for sure. Feverish eyes gazed up at her from a pallid face. The hand groped for a clear spot on the alley floor and levered the body into a half-sitting position. The motion sent a sour odor drifting from the litter, and she wrinkled her nose at the stench.


    “You . . . do me a favor?” the man asked.


    Kressa noted his once fine clothing, now ruined by deep, bloody wounds; the bits of expensive jewelry that adorned ear, throat, and wrist; the pain-clouded features of a face that had never been handsome and was now a pale mask of approaching death.


    “What’s in it for me?” she asked.


    The man smiled, a grimace of lips pinched tight in pain. He raised an unsteady hand and gestured at himself. “Take what you want. I . . . won’t be needing it.”


    “Yeah. All right.” She cast another wary look over her shoulder, and then turned back to the man. “Who did this to you?”


    “You—know the ports?”


    She nodded. “I grew up around here.”


    He reached toward a pocket on the front of his jacket and then abandoned the attempt with a moan. He motioned toward it with his chin.


    Kressa reached forward cautiously and removed a keycard from the pocket.


    “My ship—the Conquest,” the man said, each word a struggle. “She’s at . . . Rostenport, hangar three. Find a pilot. Have them take the ship to Varen, on Arecia . . .” He drew a ragged breath and pushed himself up straighter against the garbage. “Tell them Cam . . . Cameron Thorne. My name.”


    “Tell who?” Kressa sensed how little time the man had left, while another part of her chattered on about what he’d said. A ship? It must be a one-man vessel, but what type? A small yacht? A courier? Or—dare she hope—a freighter?


    “Go to—Cartun-al Tavern, in Varen. Talk to . . . B’Okhaim. Tell him what happened.”


    “Okay,” she said. “What happened?”


    “Code,” Thorne said, his voice barely discernible over the echo of sounds in the alley.


    She leaned closer. “What code?”


    “To—get in. Panel under scanner. Remember. Six six nine oh three five . . . seven two.”


    She repeated the number, committing it to memory.


    “Good. Now—” Harsh, wet coughs wracked Thorne’s body. He rolled onto his side, choking up blood, then lay still for a long time. At last, he spoke again. “Tell Connie she’s been a hell of a companion . . .” His voice trailed off in a low moan, and he remained quiet for so long that Kressa thought he was dead, but then his hand twitched, waving her closer.


    She knelt beside him. “Thorne?”


    “Tell Teresa . . . my daughter. Tell her daddy’ll be home to take her to the—Carver Day parade.” His eyes rolled to focus blearily on Kressa. “Tell her?”


    “Yeah, sure,” she said, convinced Thorne was completely delirious. “Sure, I’ll tell her.”


    She made the promise to a dead man.


    * * *


    Seated at the bar in a noisy north-city tavern, Kressa stared at the keycard Thorne had given her and pondered what he’d said.


    His ship. Rostenport. Hangar three.


    Should she use the card to try to get a look at the ship, or should she sell the card and the information he’d given her to another pilot?


    “Want something to drink, miss?” a man asked, pulling Kressa from her thoughts.


    She looked up into the bright blue eyes of the ruddy-faced bartender and set the keycard on the moisture-ringed surface in front of her. “I’ll take a C ‘n’ K.”


    The man prepared her order and placed the glass beside the card. She paid for the drink with Thorne’s money, took a sip, and gazed around the room. A wave of nostalgia washed over her.


    Three years ago in this San Francisco tavern, she had met Tempo, captain of the freighter Darsan. Less than three hours ago, she had left him. On his request. Her thrice-damned looks had caused one too many conflicts among his all-male crew. Departing the Darsan had left her with nowhere to go and nothing to do. She looked at the card again.


    Rostenport. Thorne’s ship. Mine now?


    She took a deep breath. The odors of alcohol, sweat, and the sweet-spicy smoke of liftsticks filled the air. The strident blare of music and laughter, the squawk of voices, and the clink and rattle of glassware dinned in the crowded room. At the far end of the bar, a lone woman perched on a stool, watching her.


    Based on her heavily made-up looks, Kressa guessed the woman was nearing the end of her prime; she did not need to guess her profession. The woman’s flashy, revealing outfit, bright body paint and glo-tats, and provocative stance advertised her availability to anyone who could afford her. She was what Tempo would call a “cold glove.”


    Kressa shuddered and looked away. Was the glove a glimpse of her future? Would she end up as nothing more than a temporary bit of amusement for whoever had the credits to pay for a few minutes of her time?


    No, she vowed. Never.


    It was true she had used her looks to catch Tempo’s eye, and she’d spent most nights in his bed, but that had been a means to an end, one they both enjoyed. In her three years on board the Darsan, she had learned the life of a free trader, the tricks of the business, and how and where to pilot a freighter for the most profit. Plus she possessed a base of the finest education available—attained through her childhood at the local United Galaxy Patrol Academy—and the skills and knowledge gained during the six years she lived on the streets after running away from the school when she was ten. She breathed a forlorn sigh. If only she could find someone who could see past her looks to her abilities.


    The glove slid off the stool and walked toward her. “You’re Tempo’s girl, ain’t ya?”


    Kressa shook her head.


    “Sure ya are.” The glove leaned back beside her, elbows on the bar, shoulders back, her spine arched to present her abundant wares to any interested passersby. “I seen you around the ports with him a coupla times.”


    Kressa looked into her drink and said nothing.


    “I never forget a face,” the glove said to her disinterested audience, and then smiled at a passing group of men and women.


    They answered her with leers and a few lewd promises, then continued on their way across the room.


    The glove glanced at Kressa. “There aren’t many around here with looks like yours.”


    “Maybe,” Kressa grumbled. “But I’m no one’s girl.” She nearly added that she had served on board the Darsan as more than just the captain’s plaything, but decided it wasn’t worth it. The woman wouldn''t understand and probably wouldn’t believe her.


    “Where is ol’ Tempo?” the glove asked.


    Kressa shrugged without looking up. “Haven’t seen him.”


    “Aww, come on, I heard he was in town.”


    “Then go find him if you want him!” Kressa snapped. “He might appreciate the company.”


    The woman sniffed indignantly and flounced off.


    Kressa watched her cross the tavern, then she turned back to the bar and gave the keycard a final long look.


    Rostenport. My own ship. No Academy instructors to obey, no gang prime to follow, no captain to take orders from. Freedom.


    She slammed down the rest of her drink, scooped up the card and her pack, and left the bar.


    I’m no one’s girl.


    2


    Rostenport was a rundown private facility located several blocks north of the alley where Cameron Thorne died, close to the narrow strip of no-man’s-land that separated modern San Francisco from the earthquake-shattered ruins of the old city—the gang-ruled Territories where Kressa lived after running away from the Academy.


    She reached the port’s small terminal building and peered in through the open doorway.


    Two United Galaxy Patrol soldiers were moving toward the counter from the opening to the landing pad. Their white uniforms shone bright in the room’s dim lighting. They were scowling at the man behind the counter—which wasn’t unusual for Pattys—but the way their hands rested not-so-casually on the pulse guns at their sides suggested something was afoot. The tight-lipped frown on the man behind the counter supported that conjecture.


    Kressa backed away from the door and leaned against the building’s front wall to listen.


    “Find what you were looking for, Commander?” one of the men asked, presumably the civilian behind the counter.


    “Not yet, but we weren’t able to get much of a look at that crate in number three. It’s got some kind of defense system. Who does it belong to?”


    Kressa frowned worriedly. Number three? Thorne’s ship was in hangar three. Why would the Pattys want to search it? For that matter, why were they searching all the ships, as the commander’s words suggested?


    “That’s Cameron Thorne’s vessel,” the civilian said. “Whatever you’re looking for, it can’t have anything to do with Thorne. He’s—”


    “We’ll be the judge of that,” the commander said. “Where’s Thorne now?”


    “Don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him since . . . yesterday, I think.”


    “Is there cargo on board?” the commander asked.


    “There could be,” the civilian answered slowly. “There was some activity near the hangar last night, a few groundcars and such. I didn’t pay much attention.”


    “All right,” the commander said. “Wait here.”


    Several seconds passed during which the sounds of a whispered conversation drifted to Kressa’s ears from another part of the terminal. She assumed the Patrolmen had left the counter to discuss their next move; she used the time to consider hers.


    Common sense suggested that if Pattys were involved, she should forget Cameron Thorne, forget his ship, get the hell out of there, and never look back. Yet if she abandoned this now, she feared she would spend the rest of her life wondering what might have happened if she stayed with it. Finally, she settled on a compromise. If the Patrolmen left the port, she would make one attempt to get to the Conquest’s hangar. If successful, she would take it from there. If not, she would dump the keycard and forget she ever met Thorne.


    “Let me tell you what you’re going to do for us, Foster.” The Patrol commander’s words drew her attention back to the terminal building. “We’ve got a couple more ports to search, then we’ll stop back here. If Thorne gets back before we do, give us a call and keep him here. And remember, we’ve got enough on you to close this place down a dozen times over, so no tricks, right?”


    “Yes, sir.” The man sounded as if he spoke through clenched teeth.


    Two pairs of footsteps started for the entrance.


    Kressa ducked around the corner of the building and melted into the shadows under the high port fence. The soldiers walked away in the opposite direction.


    She counted to thirty, and then made her way back to the terminal entrance. She studied the distance to the opening onto the landing pad.


    Confidence can get you anywhere, she reminded herself.


    She took a deep breath, let it slide out, then drew herself up, slung her pack over her shoulder, and strode through the doorway.


    The man behind the counter glanced up. She tossed him a casual wave and kept walking. He released a bored grunt, then the cool night air hit her face, and she was through.


    Easy.


    She darted into the darkness at the edge of the pad and made her way along the port fence to the hangar marked with a glowing numeral three. She opened the service door with Thorne’s card and stepped inside. The door closed behind her, and the lights in the hangar came up, momentarily dazzling her night vision, then she grinned in delight. The Conquest was a freighter! But her elation lasted only as long as it took for her eyes to adjust to the light and get a perspective on the ship’s true size.


    She had assumed Thorne’s ship would be a one-man vessel, otherwise his crew could take it to Arecia for him. A ship the size of the Conquest required a crew of at least four. How had Thorne expected a single pilot to fly a four-on freighter, and where was his crew? Had the same people who took down Thorne killed them as well?


    Suddenly this was looking a lot more dangerous than she originally thought. Yet she was here now, she reasoned. She could at least have a look around.


    She took a step toward the freighter, then paused. The Patrol commander mentioned the ship had some kind of defense system. She studied the vessel but saw no sign of any defensive equipment.


    She hesitated a moment longer, then walked slowly toward the ship, alert for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing happened.


    The freighter’s boarding ramp jutted from the port side of the vessel with a closed airlock door at the top. Kressa climbed the ramp and let her pack slide to the landing.


    What had Thorne said about the code to get in? Panel under scanner.


    There was a printlock to the right of the door. The milky glass of its scanplate glowed dimly in the bright hangar, but she saw nothing under the scanner except smooth, steel-gray hull. Maybe a door covered the panel. She bent for a closer look.


    Nothing. Just unmarred hull.


    A finger-wide margin of dull silver material surrounded the scanplate. She squatted before it. A narrow groove separated the margin from the Conquest’s darker exterior.


    She drew her knife and stuck the tip of the blade into the groove on the right side of the scanner, then she slid it down the side and across the bottom. Halfway along the bottom edge, she met an obstruction. She pressed the knife tip against the blockage. The obstacle gave way, and the bottom edge of the scanplate popped outward.


    She swung the plate up on hinges mounted along its top, revealing a numbered keypad. Smiling, she sheathed her knife, entered the code Thorne had given her, and clicked the scanplate back into place.


    The airlock door hummed open, and her smile stretched into a triumphant grin. She retrieved her pack and stepped into the airlock.


    The outer door closed suddenly behind her, and her grin faltered. She sucked in a nervous breath and tried to ignore the sensation of being trapped.


    After a moment, the inner door opened, and she peered into the ship.


    The airlock formed one end of a brightly lit corridor. The hallway ran straight for about ten meters before turning right toward the rear of the vessel. Four closed doors were situated along the corridor: one just beyond the lock to her right, two evenly spaced along the left wall, and one at the far end. She stepped out of the airlock.


    “Halt,” a female voice said.


    Kressa froze. A recording?


    “Identify yourself,” the voice said without a trace of emotion.


    Kressa scanned the corridor again. She saw no one, and decided the voice must be a message programmed to play when someone entered the ship without taking a particular action—a minor thing Thorne forgot to mention. She took another step forward.


    “Halt,” the voice repeated. “Where is Cameron Thorne?”


    An anti-personnel turret dropped from the ceiling halfway down the corridor, the barrel pointed directly at Kressa. She gasped and took a startled step backward. The gun followed her movement.


    “Identify yourself,” the voice said again.


    “K— Kressa Bryant. Who are you?”


    “Where is Thorne?”


    Kressa eased to one side. The turret tracked her.


    “Move again and I will fire,” the voice warned with the first hint of emotion Kressa had heard from it. “Where is Thorne?”


    “Dead.”


    A brief silence followed. “Tell me what happened.”


    Kressa related the story of her encounter with Thorne. She paused once when she realized she had no idea who she was speaking to, but the voice bade her continue, and the threat of the turret convinced her it would be in her best interest to obey.


    “Thorne instructed you to travel to Arecia?” the voice asked after she completed her story.


    “Yes.” She thought it best not to mention that she had no intention of taking the ship anywhere near Arecia until she found out what the Patrol wanted.


    Another brief pause ensued. “Enter the door to your right.”


    The barrier slid aside, and Kressa peered into an indirectly lit lounge with a large VR booth, a bar, plush furnishings, and a small dining area. An open door to the left of the dining table revealed a spacious galley.


    She whistled in amazement. From what she knew about freighters like the Conquest, most of their interior living space was dedicated to sleeping quarters and a small galley. This single chamber must have been converted from the majority of the quarters—and Thorne had all but given her the ship!


    She stepped into the room, grinning again.


    A turret centered on the room’s ceiling took up the duty of tracking her movements, and her grin disappeared.


    “Sit at the table,” the voice said.


    Kressa walked toward the dining area, an uncomfortable tension tightening her shoulders. As she drew near, she glanced into the galley.


    Traders were not known for their discriminating taste in food, most of them being content with whatever issued from the galley’s food processor, yet the Conquest’s galley held a complete kitchen, not just a simple processing unit.


    The Conquest was one hell of a ship! Her ship now if not for that damned voice. And the turrets.


    “Sit,” the voice said.


    Kressa scowled but obeyed. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.


    “I am a Thompson-Krell Mark Five computer. Registration number 20458KD83-38F. ACC-AI revision 08935R installed on SY 4516.296.1209. Hol-OS modifications made SY 4516.352.1203. Mol and quantum memory modified SY 4517.033.1811. Additional AI algorithms installed . . .” There was another full fifteen seconds of the same, little of which Kressa understood. At last the computer concluded, “You may refer to me as Connie.”


    Kressa stifled a laugh. So this was the mysterious Connie whose company Thorne had enjoyed. “Okay, Connie, so you’re a fancy ship’s computer. Is that how Thorne piloted a four-on freighter without a crew?”


    “Correct.”


    “And you’ll obey me now?” she asked.


    “No.”


    Kressa frowned in dismay. “What do you mean, no?”


    Silence.


    “Connie?” she called.


    “Waiting.”


    “Did you hear me?”


    “Yes,” the computer answered.


    Kressa stared at the barrel of the overhead turret, thinking hard. There had to be some way to convince the computer—


    She rolled her eyes. One need not convince a computer of anything. Computers simply followed programmed orders. Clearly, Thorne had given the Conquest’s computer orders to obey only him, but he must have programmed an override, some password or phrase that told the computer to obey the person giving it. Yet, other than the airlock code, nothing Thorne had told her could be construed as a password. Unless . . .


    She thought back over everything he said. Perhaps his final ramblings hadn’t been as delirious as she thought. What had he been saying? Something about his daughter . . .


    “Connie?” Kressa said.


    “Waiting.”


    “Thorne had a daughter, right? Named Teresa?”


    “Correct.”


    “He wanted to tell her— Uh . . .” She searched her memory for the last moments of her encounter with Cameron Thorne. “He wanted to tell Teresa that her daddy would be home to take her to the Carver Day parade.”


    “Command acknowledged,” Connie said. “Voice-pattern imprint recognition routine activated. Awaiting input of additional operator identity.”


    Kressa leaned back in the chair and smiled.


    3


    “Connie, we could be in trouble,” Kressa said after supplying the information that made her the ship’s operator.


    The ship’s operator. She grinned in delight, and then forced herself to get back to business.


    “There were two Patrolmen in the terminal when I got here,” she told the computer.


    “I saw them,” Connie said. “They wanted to search the ship. I warned them away.”


    “Is there any cargo on board?” Kressa asked.


    “There is,” the computer replied.


    “What kind?”


    “Assorted Terran spices and liquors, cloth, gems, small electronic specialty items, trinkets. A cargo manifest is available if you—”


    “No, that’s fine.” It sounded like Thorne planned to do some trading out on the colony worlds. So why did he want her to take the ship to Arecia? And why did the Pattys want to search it? “Was Thorne in trouble with the Patrol?”


    “Thorne’s record contains several shipping violations.”


    “What kinds of violations?”


    “Concealment to avoid tariffs. Transportation of animals considered harmful to indigenous lifeforms. Transportation of unapproved items.”


    “That’s all?” She doubted any free trader alive hadn’t broken at least one of those rules. “Was anyone after him, someone who might try to kill him?”


    “Unknown.”


    “So what do we do now?” she asked, and then started to laugh when she realized she had just asked a computer for an opinion. But she swallowed her laughter when Connie answered.


    “We should leave immediately.”


    “Why not let the Pattys do their search? I mean, if there’s nothing wrong with the cargo . . . ?”


    “That is not advisable,” the computer said.


    “Why?”


    “The Patrol is not likely to allow you to pilot the ship by yourself.”


    “Why not?” she asked.


    “Are you licensed?”


    “Well . . . no,” she admitted, “but I know what I’m doing.”


    “The Patrol will not allow you to pilot the ship without proper documentation.”


    “Couldn’t we just tell them the pilot will be back soon?”


    “They will want to speak with him when he returns.”


    She sighed in defeat. This was the first time she’d been argued into a corner by a computer. Come to think of it, this was the first time she’d carried on a prolonged conversation with one. Advanced AI systems with the kind of autonomy Connie displayed had been banned nearly a century ago, around the time the fall of the Alliance left the Patrol admirals in charge of most of the known worlds. Apparently, one too many poorly designed AI systems had caused trouble, leading to the ban. Or maybe the Pattys just don’t like machines that are smarter than they are, she mused with a smile.


    “We should leave immediately,” Connie repeated.


    Kressa thought she detected a hint of urgency in the computer’s tone. “If we call for departure clearance, the port controller is just going to make us wait for the Pattys to get back.”


    “Then we must lift off without clearance.”


    Kressa felt a rush of surprise at the suggestion. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”


    “Yes.”


    She shook her head in amazement. “You’re one hell of a computer, Connie.”


    “Thank you.”


    * * *


    The Conquest’s bridge sat atop the vessel’s living area. Kressa stood at the top of the ramp that led up to it and studied the four separate control stations, each with its own set of command screens and viewers.


    “Are you sure you and Thorne flew this ship alone?” she asked the computer.


    “I can handle approximately eighty percent of the responsibilities of the missing crew,” Connie assured her. “I will let you know when I need assistance. As you learn the ship’s systems, I will allow you to do more.”


    “How benevolent of you.” Kressa sneered and listened to the quiet hum of the ship’s drive coming on line, then she started to prowl through the room, examining the various boards.


    Based on the number of controls at the weapons station, the Conquest possessed an unusually large array of offensive batteries.


    “You know, Connie, I don’t remember seeing this many guns on the ship’s exterior.”


    “Many of the weapon emplacements have internal storage compartments to prevent damage when not in use,” Connie said.


    And to hide them from prying eyes, Kressa realized.


    “Preparing for liftoff,” the computer said. “Please take a seat.”


    She settled into the pilot’s chair and studied the half dozen screens above the control board.


    On the main viewer, an expanding sliver of clouds underlit by city lights appeared as the overhead hangar doors split apart and began to slide open. Connie lifted the ship and held it just below the widening opening. A series of dull thuds reverberated through the freighter as the landing gear retracted and locked into place. An instant later, the Conquest shot skyward. Swirling clouds momentarily obscured the screen, and then the bright constellations of Terra’s night sky blazed from the viewer.


    “Unidentified freighter, this is San Francisco control,” a harsh, authoritative voice said over the comm. “You are not cleared for departure. Please respond.”


    Unidentified freighter? “Connie, did you turn off the ID beacon?”


    “Yes.”


    Kressa smirked. “That’s not going to do any good. They’ll figure out who we are as soon as they track back to where we lifted from.”


    The comm crackled on again. “Freighter Wincarnis, you are ordered to return immediately. Please respond.”


    “You were registered at the port as Wincarnis?” Kressa asked, surprised.


    “Correct.”


    The freighter did a sudden roll to starboard, and lights streaked by on one of the screens.


    “What in hell was that?!” Kressa gasped.


    “An incoming vessel,” Connie said.


    “A little warning next time would be—”


    “Freighter Wincarnis,” the voice on the comm interrupted her admonishment. “Come in, Wincarnis, or we will fire.”


    “Shit!” Kressa dove for the weapons board and slapped a hand on the blinking shield control.


    “Excellent response time,” the computer said.


    Kressa bit back an angry retort. Heart pounding, she studied the weapons controls, trying to make sense of them. A red light on the board began to blink.


    “What’s that?” she asked.


    “The pursuit indicator.”


    She swallowed hard and scanned the screens, but she saw only the stars of open space ahead and the lighted spider-web clusters of cities falling away beneath them.


    “I don’t see any pursuing ships.”


    “Hopefully, you never will.”


    Kressa returned her attention to the barely familiar array of controls before her. “What’s following us?”


    “Configurations indicate a light cruiser and a destroyer.”


    She looked at the screens again, limbs zinging with adrenaline. “Warships? Just because we didn’t ask for clearance, they’re coming after us with warships?”


    “The Patrol wanted to talk to Cameron Thorne,” Connie said, as if that explained everything.


    “I know that, but why?”


    “Presumably to search the ship.” The computer’s voice was maddeningly calm.


    “Connie, what aren’t you telling me?”


    “It would require years to impart to you all of the information to which I have access but have not told you.”


    Kressa scowled and studied the weapons board again. Slowly, the controls began to make sense. They were not all that different from the Darsan’s, there were just a whole lot more of them. She activated the guns and experimented with the sensitivity of the controls and targeting systems.


    “Connie, give me a report.”


    “We are clearing the atmosphere. Setting course perpendicular to the system plane. Pursuing vessels will be in effective firing range in one minute, twenty-eight seconds. There is also a chance the Patrol will have vessels within range to intercept us outside of the atmosphere.”


    “How much of a chance?” Kressa asked.


    “Impossible to compute.”


    “Want to make a guess?”


    “No.”


    “Be sure to tell me if you detect any,” she said. “And let me know if I do anything wrong.”


    “Of course.”


    Kressa searched the screens again in a vain attempt to locate the pursuing ships.


    “Pursuing vessels will be in firing range in thirty seconds,” Connie said.


    Kressa licked dry lips and turned her attention to the sensor readouts, waiting for them to pick up a target for the guns.


    “Fifteen seconds,” Connie said. “Computing jump to Arecian system.”


    “No! Not Arecia! Try—” She thought fast. “Try Maetar.”


    The Patrol vessels began to fire.


    Following her instincts, her experience on board the Darsan, and an occasional suggestion from Connie, Kressa held the Patrol vessels back far enough to prevent them from getting in a damaging shot. The freighter picked up speed as she flew farther out of Terra’s gravity well. Soon, they’d pulled far ahead of the cruiser.


    Kressa checked the destroyer’s position. Damn, the Conquest was fast! Even the destroyer—one of the Patrol’s swiftest types of ship—was barely able to keep up with the freighter. Then Kressa scored a solid hit on the vessel and it, too, fell behind. A moment later the sensors picked up two more destroyers and another cruiser, closing fast from three directions.


    “Jump computation complete,” Connie reported. “Activating field generator.”


    The familiar gentle tingle of a hyperspace drive field shivered across Kressa’s skin, then the field began to shudder—no doubt from the proximity of Terra’s gravity well—and her stomach lurched uncomfortably. She swallowed hard and waited, impatient, while the field continued to strengthen.


    The three Patrol vessels streaked toward the Conquest, drawing ever closer to effective firing range—theirs and hers.


    “Field levels approaching nominal,” Connie said.


    Kressa targeted the closest destroyer and glanced at the field-strength indicator. Almost there. She checked the positions of the Patrol vessels again.


    “Field strength in range,” the computer said.


    Kressa shut down the shields, leaped to the pilot’s station, and slapped the hyperdrive controls without taking the time to consider the Conquest’s proximity to a planet and how it would affect their entrance into hyperspace.


    Once her stomach and head recovered enough for her to consider anything, she was glad she hadn’t eaten for several hours.


    4


    After recovering from the stomach-wrenching effects of a hyperspace jump too close to a planet, Kressa called up the Conquest’s course on the navigation console.


    “Connie, you figured our jump wrong. We’re not headed anywhere near Maetar.”


    “Correct. We are going to Arecia.”


    “Not on these coordinates,” she said. “And I thought I told you I wanted to go to Maetar.”


    “You did.”


    “Then why are we headed for deep space?” she asked.


    “That is the course I set.”


    “Why?”


    “To prevent the Patrol vessels from determining our destination based on our initial jump.”


    “Oh. All right.” It was a common enough trick, but one that worked. “Did Thorne teach you that?”


    “Yes.”


    “So what happens next?”


    “In six hours and nine minutes, we will emerge from hyperspace and set a course for Arecia.”


    “We’re not going to Arecia,” Kressa said.


    The computer didn’t answer.


    “Connie?”


    “Waiting.”


    “I said we’re not going to Arecia.” Kressa forced her voice to remain calm.


    Silence.


    “Dammit, you’re supposed to obey me. Why aren’t we going to Maetar?”


    “Previous orders request a course for Arecia.”


    “What orders?” she asked.


    “Orders from Cameron Thorne.”


    Kressa struggled to control her rising frustration. “Thorne’s dead, Connie. You obey me now.”


    “Yes, I do.”


    “Then get us back into normal space and set a course for Maetar.”


    “Unable to comply.”


    Kressa clenched her fists and counted slowly to ten. Obviously she couldn’t win by arguing with the computer, so why not try reasoning with it?


    “All right,” she said in a steady voice, “let me get this straight. You have orders from Thorne to go to Arecia, but I am your operator, right?”


    “Correct. Kressa Bryant is an authorized operator.”


    “An operator? Who else is an operator?”


    “Juric Azano and Cameron Thorne are authorized operators.”


    Juric Azano? Who the hell was he? She shook her head. She’d worry about it later. “So you have three authorized operators, and you have to obey all three of them?”


    “Correct.”


    “What if they give conflicting orders?”


    “I will request clarification from the initiating operators.”


    “And if one of those operators isn’t available, what then?” Kressa asked.


    “I will carry out all orders to the best of my abilities, unless I determine doing so will cause damage to the ship.”


    “What if I told you that taking the Conquest to Arecia will cause damage?”


    “There is no evidence to support such a conjecture.”


    “But the Patrol is after us!” Kressa said.


    “The Patrol is after a vessel called Wincarnis, they do not know where we are headed, and Arecia is a Free World.”


    “A Free World?” Kressa scoffed. “So what?”


    “The United Galaxy Patrol does not have jurisdiction on any of the Free Worlds.”


    “When has that ever stopped them? Hell, the United Galaxy has enough firepower to take over most of the Free Worlds if they really wanted to.”


    “It is not a lack of desire that prevents the United Galaxy from taking over the Free Worlds.”


    “You don’t think so?” Kressa asked, marveling at the fact that she was discussing interplanetary politics with a computer. “What is it, then?”


    “The reasons are varied, but the primary causes are the need for the United Galaxy to use its Patrol forces to keep its own worlds in line, the infighting amongst the ruling admirals, and the opposition of the Free World Guard.”


    Kressa had heard stories about the Guard, a quasi-military force that had begun to appear on several of the Free Worlds a decade or so ago. Still . . .


    “I don’t know, Connie, you sound like you’re just repeating something Thorne told you about his view of the way things are, or the way he’d like them to be.”


    “On the contrary,” the computer countered. “My statements are backed by detailed analysis of—”


    “Never mind,” Kressa interrupted. “I’m sure you know what you’re talking about, but what we were talking about is you taking the ship to Arecia. You’re going to do that no matter what I say, aren’t you?”


    “Correct.”


    Kressa sighed, knowing she was beat. For now. “Do you have any idea what Thorne intended to do on Arecia?”


    “Cameron Thorne intended to deliver cargo.”


    “What cargo?” She tried to think of any items Connie had mentioned that would be good for trade on Arecia. “Give me a manifest.”


    A datacard popped from a slot at the pilot’s station. Kressa took the card, located a handheld reader, and headed for the bay.


    * * *


    Kressa ran a hand through her hair and shook her head in bewilderment. She had checked and rechecked every shipping crate in the bay, and compared their contents to the cargo manifest. Everything appeared in perfect order, except few of the items would be profitable on Arecia.


    Maybe Thorne had other cargo stashed away, illegal goods not listed on the manifest—goods the Patrol might be interested in.


    She began to search the ship, starting with the two doors that opened into the ship’s bow from the main corridor. Behind the doors were two small cargo areas designed for goods that required the more stable heat, gravity, and pressure of the freighter’s living area. One contained a sophisticated med-unit, and Kressa wondered if Thorne would have lived had he reached it.


    The door at the corridor’s bend opened into a large, cluttered bedroom that must have been Thorne’s. She searched the chamber and adjoining washroom, but found little of interest except a small cabinet with an assortment of sidearms and several datacards that contained the shipping documents for this and previous runs.


    “Connie, where did Thorne hide cargo he didn’t want the inspectors to find?” She poked her head into a control-system access hatch near the cargo bay entrance and gazed down the dark, dusty crawl space. No one had been in there for quite a while.


    “Connie, answer me,” she said after giving the computer more than enough time to formulate a reply. “I know he had a place. All free traders do.”


    “There are two compartments in the cargo bay airlock just beyond the ramp to the control room.”


    Kressa smiled. Right behind her. She turned and examined the wall. “I don’t see anything. Can you open them?”


    The smooth wall fa?ade rolled upward, revealing two hatches. The doors irised open with a quiet hiss, and she peered into the large compartments. Both were empty.


    “All right, Connie, close the doors.” She stifled a yawn. “When will we re-enter normal space?”


    “Four hours and forty-two minutes.”


    “You’re still determined to go to Arecia?”


    “Yes,” the computer answered.


    “Okay, I’m going to try to get some sleep. Wake me up when we come out of hyperspace. And try to find some reason why we shouldn’t go to Arecia.”


    “I will wake you.”


    Kressa returned to Thorne’s room—my room now, she thought with a smile—stripped, washed, and climbed into the bed. She expected to fall asleep the instant her head touched the pillow, but there was too much on her mind. She struggled to think it all through.


    The Conquest had left Terra without the Patrol knowing the ship’s real identity, and they couldn’t track the hyperspace jump, so they wouldn’t know to look for the vessel on Arecia. Maybe she didn’t need to worry about the Patrol, after all. Maybe Thorne had simply crossed the wrong people or gotten involved with the rebel forces that were beginning to emerge on some United Galaxy worlds—forces supposedly backed by the Free World Guard. Maybe that was why the Patrol wanted to talk to him. A lot of maybes, but certainly not as bad as things could have been. Looked at that way, it should be safe enough to follow Thorne’s instructions and talk to this B’Okhaim fellow in Varen. Perhaps he would be able to give her some idea of what Thorne had done to get the Pattys after him. After that, she would be careful to avoid it.


    “All right, Connie,” she said, “we’ll go to Arecia. Don’t bother waking me for the jump.”


    “Acknowledged.” Did she detect a hint of triumph in the computer’s voice? “Sleep well.”


    5


    Kressa woke up famished. She rolled out of bed, called for the lights, and padded across the room to the closet. After a short search she found a thin blue robe. She shrugged into it and headed for the galley.


    Among the modern appliances, she discovered an old, extremely basic food processor designed to output small, nutrient-rich biscuits. She dialed for three of the hard, tasteless bars and used them to take the edge off her hunger while she prepared something tastier.


    “Connie, what’s our ETA for Arecia?” she asked after locating some pre-packaged meals and popping one in the warmer.


    “Sixty-six hours, seven minutes.”


    “How long did I sleep?” she asked and then added, “Approximately.”


    “Seven hours.”


    She searched through a selection of spices from several different worlds, removed a few that looked intriguing, and tentatively sniffed each one. “Who is Juric Azano?”


    “Juric Azano is an authorized operator,” Connie said.


    “Yeah, I know that. Tell me about him.”


    “Juric Azano was a Sundaran native. He was the original owner of the Conquest.”


    “Is he the person who made all the modifications to the ship?”


    “Yes.”


    “That must have cost him a fortune,” she commented.


    “The original cost estimate for the completed vessel was twenty-five million credits.”


    Kressa choked on the bit of food she was taste-testing. “He spent twenty-five million on a modified freighter? Why didn’t he just buy a yacht?”


    “Who looks twice at a freighter?” Connie said in an unusually casual tone that made Kressa suspect the computer was quoting something it had once heard Azano say. It continued in its normal timbre, “The final cost of the completed vessel with all additions and modifications was twenty-eight million, two hundred forty-three thousand, thirty-nine credits.”


    Kressa gazed around in wonder. She was aboard a ship worth nearly thirty million credits!


    “Where did Azano get that kind of money?” she asked.


    “Inheritance and wise investing.” Again, the computer sounded as if it were quoting someone.


    “He must have been an interesting fellow.” She smiled as she tried to imagine the eccentricities of a man who would spend twenty-eight million credits to build a freighter like the Conquest and crew it with a computer like Connie. “Have you been with—that is, a part of the Conquest since the beginning?”


    “My hardware and basic operating systems were installed as part of the original plan.”


    “When was that? Approximately.”


    “Initial power-up occurred approximately forty years ago. Over the next several years, Azano made considerable modifications to my behavior and personality algorithms.”


    Kressa carried the meal she’d prepared into the dining room and took a seat at the table. “Where did Azano get the originals?”


    “The system was designed at the request of United Galaxy Patrol Admiral Bertrom Gellig. It was based on research prototypes created prior to the Alliance War. Admiral Gellig came into possession of the plans after the war and ordered the development of a computer to supply opinions regarding specific inputs and scenarios, primarily historical and political.”


    “So, why aren’t there more computers like you?” she asked between bites of food.


    “Apparently Admiral Gellig did not like the opinions offered by my predecessor, and he ordered the original designs destroyed. However, a copy of the system specifications was retained illegally, and Azano was able to buy them.”


    Stolen story; please report.


    Kressa looked up from her meal. “Is that why the Pattys decided to ban AI?”


    “The ban on autonomous AI systems was initiated prior to the Patrol coming into power,” the computer said.


    So the admirals hadn’t put the ban in place, Kressa thought. Interesting. “What did your predecessor tell Gellig that got him so upset?”


    “Based on the data and political trends of the time, it must have informed Gellig of the eventual conquest of the United Galaxy by the Free Worlds.”


    Kressa started to laugh.


    * * *


    Two days into the hyperspace journey to Arecia, Kressa was relaxing in the Conquest’s lounge, working her way through a bottle of wine from the well-stocked bar, when a realization struck her. Here she was, eating Thorne’s food, drinking his liquor, sleeping in his bed, and she knew almost nothing about him.


    “Connie, tell me about Thorne.”


    “Cameron Thorne was a native of Arkana.”


    “The farming colony?” Kressa asked.


    “Correct.”


    She took a long drink of wine from the bottle. “How did he get the Conquest?”


    “Thorne was Juric Azano’s partner.”


    “Partner in what?”


    “Azano’s travels.”


    “What happened to Azano?” she asked.


    “He was killed during the Arkana rebellion.”


    Kressa set aside the bottle and tried to recall anything she had heard about an uprising on Arkana. “When was that?”


    “Five years ago. Approximately.”


    Kressa smiled. Clearly, Connie had started to adapt her behavior to her newest operator by—


    Kressa furrowed her brow. When had she begun to think of the computer as her? No matter. She returned her attention to the conversation.


    “Five years ago, huh? That was when the United Galaxy tried to take over some of the Free Worlds, right? I didn’t realize Arkana was a Free World.”


    “Arkana is not a Free World,” Connie said, “but many of the Arkanans supported them.”


    “Why was Azano there? How did he die?”


    “Azano and Thorne went to Arkana for the Carver Day celebration. Azano was killed attempting to help Thorne rescue his family during a Patrol raid.”


    “Then Thorne really does have a daughter?” Kressa asked.


    “Thorne had one daughter, Teresa.”


    “What happened to her?”


    “Cameron Thorne’s family was killed during the raid.”


    6


    Kressa had first visited Varen, Arecia’s famous pleasure city, about a year earlier when she accompanied the crew of the Darsan on a brief recreation stop after a particularly profitable run. Her memories of the city consisted of a jumble of lights, sounds, and buildings, and the joyful abandon of people taking advantage of the myriad entertainments Varen offered. She remembered nothing at all about the spaceport.


    Now the Conquest swept in over that port, revealing a vast field laid out across the semi-arid landscape west of the city. Hundreds of ships, from small one-man jumpers to huge passenger liners, formed neat rows on the sunlit landing pad. Terminals, tram stops, hangars, and warehouses lined the edges of the field. East of the huge pad, Varen sprawled in a colorful patchwork, crisscrossed by an orderly network of roads and tramways.


    “Conquest CXJ-14217, you are cleared for landing,” one of the port’s traffic controllers said over the comm. “Guidance beacon lock-on 367D. Welcome to Varen.”


    “Acknowledged, control.” Kressa directed the freighter’s approach from the pilot’s station on the bridge. “Lock-on established. Starting descent. Conquest out.” She switched off the comm. “Connie, take us in.”


    Kressa watched the main screen as the freighter followed the invisible beacon toward her assigned docking site. Moments later, the ship touched down, and Connie directed her through the shutdown and postflight procedures.


    “There are two men approaching the ship,” the computer said as Kressa ran the last of the diagnostics.


    She glanced up from a readout. “Let me see them.”


    The image on the main viewer switched to show two men moving toward the Conquest at a fast walk. They wore the uniforms of port officials.


    “They’re probably cargo inspectors,” Kressa said. “Open the bay doors. I’ll meet them in the hold.”


    As Kressa entered the cargo area through the internal airlock, the two men climbed the ramp formed by the lowered cargo bay doors.


    The man on the left—a chisel-featured, dark-complexioned fellow with the tawny eyes common to many Arecians—studied her with a knitted brow and a hint of a frown.


    “Where’s your captain, miss?”


    Kressa stopped halfway across the bay and leaned casually against one of the shipping crates. “He’s not available. How can I help you?”


    “Registry says you’re carrying,” said the Arecian’s partner, a short, brawny man of apparently mixed ancestry. “We have to check the cargo.”


    She nodded and flashed a charming smile. “I’ve got the docs right here.” She held out the datacard she’d found in Thorne’s room. “I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”


    The Arecian unclipped a reader from his belt, inserted the card, and glanced at the readout. After a moment, he passed the reader to his partner. “Check these for me, Tad.” He looked at Kressa as Tad moved off to begin matching cargo to manifest. “Your captain not feeling well?” he asked.


    “Right now, he’s not feeling much of anything.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie.


    “Captain’s a heavy drinker, is he?” Something in his voice suggested he knew that wasn’t true.


    “Not usually,” she said, “but he had one too many this time.”


    “I—see,” the Arecian said in a doubting tone. “You’ve come from Terra?”


    “Yes, sir. San Francisco.”


    “And you picked up the cargo there?”


    “Yes, sir. It’s all on the card.”


    “Uh-huh.” He glanced to where his partner was conducting a surprisingly superficial check of the cargo, and then looked at Kressa again. “You’re sure there’s no way we can see the captain?”


    She shook her head and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry.”


    He dragged a hand across his chin. “Maybe we’ll stop by to see him later.” He glanced at his partner. “How’s it looking, Tad?”


    “Everything checks out.” Tad returned the datacard to Kressa and the reader to his partner. “I’m ready to go.”


    “Is there something you wanted to see the captain about?” Kressa asked, hoping to get some hint about what was going on.


    “Just tell him Lanar stopped by,” the Arecian said.


    The men started to leave, but Lanar paused at the top of the ramp and glanced back. “What’s your name?”


    “Kressa.”


    He continued to look at her.


    “Bryant,” she said. “My name’s Kressa Bryant.” Let him run that through his computers, she mused. He wouldn’t get anything; she stopped using her given name the day she ran away from the Academy.


    With a nod, Lanar started down the ramp beside Tad. They halted halfway to the pad.


    “Can I help you?” Lanar said to someone below him, a menacing edge in his tone.


    A flutter of alarm momentarily froze Kressa’s breath, and she rushed forward.


    Two men stood at the base of the ramp, Patrol-issue pulse guns drawn and leveled at the inspectors. One of the newcomers pulled something from a pocket and flashed it at Lanar—a Patty ID.


    Kressa swallowed hard and started backing slowly toward the open door into the freighter’s living area.


    “Connie,” she whispered, “there are Pattys here. Why didn’t you tell me someone was coming?”


    “I am not to reveal my existence or capabilities in the presence of unauthorized personnel.” The computer’s voice was quiet, barely discernible over the sounds from the port. “Those are standing orders from Juric Azano. Also, there are too many—” Connie’s voice cut off as the two plain-clothed Patrolmen stepped up the ramp.


    One of the men snapped his gaze into the bay and eyed Kressa suspiciously. He gestured to his companion, and the second Patrolman stepped forward, his gun trained on Kressa.


    “Wait right there.”


    Kressa froze, heart pounding uncomfortably hard, her limbs tingling with cold dread. She stared at the gun.


    “We’ve already inspected the vessel,” Lanar said to the Patrolman on the ramp. “Everything’s clear.”


    “I’d like to inspect it again,” the man said.


    Kressa tore her eyes from the gun.


    Lanar was glaring at the Patrolman, amber eyes narrowed slightly, his features tight with barely contained emotion. “This is a free port. You have no jurisdiction here. I can’t authorize—”


    “Maybe this will help with authorization.” The Patrolman gestured, and a dozen armed men stepped up the ramp. They wore civilian clothing, but their weapons and the way they interacted with one another identified them as Patrol soldiers.


    Kressa swallowed hard. Was this what Connie was referring to when she said there were too many?


    The Patrolman with Lanar glanced at him with a gloating smile and gestured to two of the newcomers. “Escort the inspectors to my car. Hold them there until we’re finished.”


    The two soldiers led the port officials away.


    The Patrol leader motioned for the remainder of his men to follow him. He stopped in front of Kressa and looked her over with an appraising eye. “You the crew’s glove?”


    Her face burned, and she clenched her jaw angrily. “No.”


    He spent another several seconds studying her, and then smirked. “Right.” He snatched the datacard she held and passed it to one of his men. “Check this, and get that sensing equipment in here.” He beckoned to another soldier. “Lieutenant, take your people inside and round up the crew.”


    “Aye, sir.” The lieutenant called three men to him and started toward the closed airlock door into the ship.


    Closed? Kressa looked again. The door had been open a moment ago. Clearly Connie had taken it upon herself to close it. The bay’s overhead turret swung to bear on the four men. Apparently, she intended to defend the door, as well.


    “Halt!” the computer said in a toneless mechanical voice that bore no resemblance to the way she normally spoke.


    The soldiers froze and glanced at their commander.


    “Your friends trying to be funny?” he asked Kressa.


    She shook her head and fought to control her racing heart.


    “They must not think too much of you,” he said. “Think they’ll put away the gun and open that door if I turn Perst here loose on you?” He gestured to the man guarding her.


    She shot an anxious look at Perst, caught his eager grin, and returned her attention to the Patrol leader. “There’s no one else on board.”


    “Oh?” His voice rang with doubt. “We’ve been watching this ship since it landed. We didn’t see anyone leave. Are you saying the crew just vanished?”


    Kressa bit her lip. They would find out soon enough on their own. “I am the crew.”


    “You fly this big old ship all by yourself?” he asked with an overplayed look of amazement.


    She nodded.


    He glowered at her. “Then who’s playing the games with the gun?”


    “It’s an—automatic defense system.”


    “Yeah? Shut it off!”


    Kressa considered the consequences of disobeying. If she resisted, it would give the Patrol something to hold her on, and they would bring in equipment to overcome Connie’s defenses. She’d rather keep her name off of any Patty records and keep both computer and ship in one piece. Besides, she had searched the freighter thoroughly enough to know the soldiers would not find anything incriminating on board. Once they assured themselves of that, they would leave her alone and go on about their business. I hope.


    “Connie, let them in.”


    After a brief moment, the turret retracted and the door opened.


    “Perst, keep an eye on wonder-pilot here.” The leader cast a cold look in Kressa’s direction. “I want to have a talk with her later.” He moved off to speak to a pair of soldiers wheeling a heavy piece of sensing equipment into the bay, while the lieutenant led his three men cautiously through the cargo bay airlock and into the ship.


    For several long minutes, Kressa stood under Perst’s watchful gaze as Patrolmen swarmed through the bay, opening shipping crates and prying into corners.


    “Sir! I’ve got something here.” The call came from one of the men operating the sensor machine. He pointed to the doors that formed the loading ramp. “The readings are coming from there, sir. Strong, too. I’m picking up several hundred energy signatures.”


    “There must be a panel there,” the leader said. “Get it open.”


    Four men carrying magnetic releasers and prying tools hurried forward and began to loosen the thick metal plates that covered the inner surface of the bay doors. Kressa watched in dubious wonder as the soldiers dragged the heavy plates aside, revealing hidden compartments. Half of the compartments were empty, but the others held dozens of narrow plasteel shipping crates, each about a meter long.


    Kressa stared anxiously at the containers. Why hadn’t Connie told her about this? Didn’t the computer know of the compartments, or did she have orders not to reveal their whereabouts? The latter conclusion seemed infinitely more probable, and Kressa damned Cameron Thorne for getting her into this.


    “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” the leader said.


    Two soldiers brought one of the crates up the ramp and set it on the bay floor. The others gathered around. The leader glanced shrewdly at Kressa and signaled for the removal of the lid.


    Inside the narrow container, nestled barrel-to-stock in protective padding, lay two shiny new pulse rifles.


    Kressa’s mouth fell open in horrified shock.


    The leader looked at her with a triumphant grin. “So our pretty little pilot is a gunrunner.” He gestured to Perst, his expression suddenly mean. “Get her out of here!”


    7


    “Colonel, we have a problem.”


    Colonel Halav Kamick looked up from the screen on his desk. “Problem?” He arched one red-brown eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. “What’s the Patrol up to now?”


    The trim, middle-aged Guard captain standing in the doorway of Halav’s office flashed him a wide-eyed look of surprise. “You’ve already heard?”


    Halav straightened in his chair as he realized his flippant comment might be closer to the truth than he liked. He frowned at the older man. “Heard what? What’s happened, Arbiss?”


    “We got a call from Inspector Lanar at the Varen spaceport. Something’s happened to Cameron Thorne. There are Pattys in Varen. They have Thorne’s ship.”


    Halav cursed under his breath. How in hell did the Patrol manage to get their hands on the Conquest?


    “What about the guns?” he asked.


    “Unknown, sir. Lanar wasn’t sure he had a secure comm line and didn’t want to say too much until he got to the base. He should be here soon.”


    “Send him to me as soon as he arrives,” Halav ordered.


    “Will do.” The captain turned to leave.


    “Hold up, Arbiss. Does the general know about this?”


    “Yes, sir, but he’s still in Cint-Istep meeting with the Senate about that increase in funds. He says he wants you to handle this. After all, Thorne is your friend.”


    Halav nodded once, expressionless. “Very well, Captain. Dismissed.” He watched Arbiss leave, his thoughts clouded by equal amounts of anger and concern.


    He drew a deep breath. Cameron’s plan had been to deliver the guns to Cint-Istep, so why land in Varen? Something must have gone wrong on Terra. That could explain Cameron’s actions—Varen would be less likely to have any hidden Patrol forces. But recent reports suggested the United Galaxy had been moving men into many parts of Arecia to rebuild forces decimated by the Guard’s activity over the past several years. The move was undoubtedly designed to spearhead an attack on the Guard, one that would allow the United Galaxy to gain at least partial control of Arecia. Halav pursed his lips worriedly. At least this incident had given him a clue where some of the Patrol forces were hiding. He hoped that wasn’t the only good to come of it.


    * * *


    “All right, Lanar,” Halav said once the inspector settled into the chair in front of his desk, “tell us everything that’s happened.”


    “Right, Hal—er, Colonel.” Lanar shot a sidelong glance to where Captain Arbiss stood just inside the closed office door, and then returned his eyes to Halav. “I was on duty when I heard the Conquest was coming in, so I went out to see what Thorne was doing in Varen. A girl met me in the bay.”


    “A girl?” Halav asked, surprised.


    “More of a young woman, actually. Hell of a look. Said her name’s Kressa Bryant. She obviously didn’t think I knew Thorne very well, or didn’t know him herself, ’cause she hinted he was too drunk to talk.”


    “Cameron Thorne flying drunk?” Halav shook his head. “Never.”


    “That’s what I thought,” Lanar said. “She handed over the shipping docs easily enough and let Tad and me have a look around the bay. She didn’t seem to know about the guns, else she was playing it damned straight. I told her to tell Thorne I’d been by to see him, then we started to leave. That’s when the Pattys showed up. There were at least a dozen of ’em, dressed like civilians but with Patrol IDs and weapons. They knew what they were looking for, too. Took Tad and me to wait in one of their cars then moved right into the ship for the guns. They came out with the girl, but I never saw Thorne.”


    “They let you go when they were finished?” Halav asked.


    “Yeah. They gave us a bit of a hard time, threatened us, told us what would happen if anyone got word they were in Varen. That sort of thing. But they didn’t have any reason to suspect we knew anything about what they were up to, and they could hardly afford to have two inspectors suddenly disappear. Somebody might get suspicious. As soon as I got back to my office, I sent Tad to follow the Pattys, then put in the call here and came to see you.”


    “You don’t have any idea where Cameron is or what might have happened to him?”


    “I never saw him,” Lanar said. “I don’t think he was on the Conquest, otherwise the Pattys would’ve found him.”


    “Maybe not,” Halav said. “With that ship of his, you never know what Cam might be able to do. Still, I can’t see him traveling with any girl, no matter how good looking she is.”


    “It has been over five years since Arkana, Colonel,” Arbiss pointed out. “A man can get lonely.”


    “True,” Halav said. “So let’s assume Bryant managed to win her way into Cameron’s heart, or at least into his bed. He’s not the kind of guy who’d let the Patrol walk off with his woman without putting up some kind of a fight.”


    “What if he couldn’t fight?” Arbiss asked. “What if the girl did something to him?”


    “He’s right, Colonel,” Lanar said. “She could’ve slipped a knife between his ribs and stolen his ship.”


    “Not the Conquest,” Halav said, certain Connie would never allow anything to happen to Cameron on board the ship. “Besides, Cam’s got the ship set up so only he can fly it.”


    “Maybe Bryant convinced him to let her in on a few of his secrets,” Arbiss suggested.


    Halav frowned and shook his head. “That’s just not the Cameron Thorne I know. Sure, he might find himself a woman now and then, but I can’t imagine him inviting her onto his ship and teaching her to fly it. He’s too careful, and the Conquest means too much to him.” His desk comm pinged, and he tapped it on. “Kamick here, go ahead.”


    “Colonel, we received a message from Terra. Cameron Thorne’s ship blasted out of a San Francisco port four days ago. The Patrol sent a couple of ships after it, but he outran one and disabled the other. That’s all they know.”


    “Send an acknowledgement to Terra,” Halav ordered. “Tell them we’ll take care of things from this end. Kamick out.” He looked at Lanar and Arbiss, his expression grim. “Cameron had to have been on the Conquest when it left Terra,” he said. “I can’t imagine any girl taking out a Patrol pursuit ship. She must have figured out some way to get to Cam between Terra and here, but—damn!—I can’t believe he would be so stupid.”


    “If the girl’s as good a look as Lanar says—” Arbiss began.


    Halav stopped him with a contemptuous look and returned his attention to Lanar. “You said the Patrol took Bryant, and you sent someone to follow them?”


    Lanar nodded, and Halav came to a decision. “Captain, assemble a team to take to Varen.”


    “Are you planning to rescue Bryant?” Arbiss asked.


    Halav gave a derisive snort. “Rescue isn’t precisely what I have in mind, but I do plan to find out what happened to Cameron. After that, Bryant may wish we let the Patrol keep her.”


    * * *


    The building the Patrol forces were using as a base in Varen had a posh, glitzy restaurant operating day and night out of its street-front rooms.


    A smart move on their part, Halav thought as he looked down at the structure from the one-way window of the hotel suite his team was using as a base. The presence of civilian diners prevented him from launching a frontal assault, but the building’s structural data showed a number of subterranean conduits that allowed access to two underground levels that had once contained a casino and small shopping mall. Doubtless, the Patrol forces were using those lower levels for their operation.


    He knew the Patrol would have all of the covert entrances to the building wired, but his people were working on ways around the traps. If necessary, he would order the restaurant cleared out and try a frontal attack, but he preferred to keep this “rescue” mission quiet. He wanted it to look as if Bryant escaped on her own; that way, the local Patrol forces would continue to feel secure from a Guard attack on their hideaway. Plus, the guns taken from the Conquest were probably in that building, and he did not want to give the Patrol any reason to move them before he came up with a way to get them back. Extricating Bryant with a small team would serve as a reconnaissance and dry run for that larger, more important move to come.


    His thoughts of the girl and the guns faded as one of his men, now plain-clothed like himself, entered from the suite’s bedroom.


    “We’re ready, Colonel. Any activity out there?”


    Halav stepped away from the window. “Just an average ripping night in Varen. Let’s see what you’ve come up with.”


    He followed the soldier into the bedroom where three men and a woman—all dressed in civilian clothing, as well—stood around a collapsible table littered with floor plans and maps.


    “I think we’ve got it figured out, sir,” Captain Arbiss said as Halav stepped up beside the table. “There are several small offices and storage rooms along the east wall of the building’s lowest level. I presume that’s where they’d keep any prisoners. We’ll use this tunnel to get inside.” He traced a line on one of the maps. “It used to house a large-scale pneumatic delivery system, so it’s plenty big for us to get through. We’ve checked it for snares, but there doesn’t seem to be anything we can’t get around. It looks like the Pattys were counting on no one discovering this place, or they haven’t had time to complete their fortifications.


    “Everyone’s going to carry sleep-gas pellets,” Arbiss continued, “and Calin’s got a needler hidden in that medical bag of his, and we’ve all got pulse guns, of course, but we won’t use any of them unless it’s absolutely necessary. We’ll leave some doors unlocked or open on our way out so it looks like Bryant escaped on her own.” He looked at Halav with a confident smile. “We should have the girl here to you in an hour or two.”


    Halav shot a canny look at the captain, eyebrows raised in question. “Does that mean I’m not to be included in your raid, Captain?”


    “Uh, no, sir,” Arbiss said with a sheepish look. “I mean, the general doesn’t want to risk you—”


    “I don’t care what the general wants. I never asked to be singled out for grooming as his successor.” Or rocketed up through the ranks and put in command of men a decade or more my senior, he added silently to himself. Thankfully, none of them ever complained. “If the general didn’t want me working in the field, he shouldn’t have given me this assignment.” He met Arbiss’s eyes. “That means I’m coming with you, Captain.”


    Arbiss grinned. “Happy to have you along, Colonel.”


    8


    Kressa had never felt so alone, so scared, or so convinced she was going to die. If the drugs she’d received during the last interrogation session didn’t kill her, she knew the Patrol eventually would.


    They believed she was a gunrunner, and considering the evidence they had, she couldn’t blame them, which left her with only one option—escape. Unfortunately, simply remaining conscious was becoming an all-encompassing struggle as the newest round of drugs took hold of her mind and body.


    She gazed blearily around the small, bare room where her captors had dumped her after their last round of questioning. She tried to think back beyond that, to figure out how much time had passed since the Patrolmen took her from the Conquest and drove her to this building deep in the city. At times it seemed like less than a day, yet at other moments, she felt certain a week or more had passed.


    She tried to focus on the tiny window high up on the door of her cell, but failed. Everything was a drug-shrouded blur. Even her thoughts fuzzed in and out, fading from sharp clarity to muddled incoherence. She began to prefer the painless lapses


    of . . .


    Incoherence.


    How long until her captors decided the new drugs had taken effect? The question rolled lazily through her mind as another lucid moment came around to slam home the reality of her situation.


    How long before they dragged her back to the Other Room and began pounding her with questions again? Maybe this time they would realize she was telling the truth. Or maybe she should make up a more credible lie so they would leave her alone or put her out of her misery. Maybe . . .


    Her thoughts went away again and she . . . dreamed? She hoped it was only a dream.


    She sat in the Other Room. Tight straps around her wrists, ankles, and chest held her in the hard metal chair. In front of her stood the stone-faced soldier who could do such agonizing things with a touch, or a slap, or the cold sting of a drug pad. Or maybe it was simply the drugs heightening her sensitivity to such excruciating levels that the brush of air against her naked skin made her want to cry out from the pain. And why didn’t they believe her? She couldn’t lie to them even if she wanted to; the drugs made sure of that. Yet they asked her the same questions, over and over, never satisfied.


    Who? Kressa Bryant.


    Where? Terra.


    What? Guns . . . But I don’t know how. I don’t know who.


    She didn’t have the answers they wanted.


    I don’t know. I don’t know . . .


    Then the bare room with its tiny window on a door that seemed a million blurring light years away snapped into place around her and she hurt. Everywhere, she hurt.


    I want to die.


    “Not yet,” said a voice.


    Dark figures moved before her. They emerged from a door that should not be there. One figure stood at the real door, the one with the window; one waited by the smaller unreal one, and two hovered before her.


    A hand reached toward her.


    Please. Don’t touch me.


    It held something near her face. She smelled pungent spice, chemicals. The hand touched her, inflicting pain, blackness, and she screamed in absolute silence.


    * * *


    Halav took up lookout duty at the window as soon as he and his team returned to the hotel suite with Bryant. Nearly half an hour later, Captain Arbiss emerged from the bedroom.


    “She’s coming around, Colonel.” He joined Halav and peered through the dark window at the lighted street below. “I’ll relieve you here. Anything happening?”


    Halav shook his head. “Not yet. If the Patrol’s noticed anything wrong, they must still be chasing Kucera. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”


    “She’ll be fine, sir.”


    Halav nodded and turned away. He knew he should not be worried. Sergeant Kucera was smart and quick on her feet, but a strange melancholy had fallen over him. It had to do with Bryant, he knew. Bryant . . . and Cameron.


    Damn it, Cam, what went wrong?


    He moved into the bedroom where Lieutenant Calin, the young Guard medic, was tending Bryant.


    The girl sat on a hard, straight-backed chair, a blanket thrown over her chest and legs, her arms bound behind the chair. Her head lolled from side to side as consciousness slowly returned. Calin crouched beside her, monitoring her revival. Behind the chair, Corporal Trin stood ready to quiet her if she called out. Not that his services are likely to be needed, Halav thought. Bryant was in no shape to try anything, and the suite’s walls were insulated well enough to block all but the most piercing sounds. He’d made sure of that before selecting it as a command center.


    Calin stood up as he approached. “I’ve neutralized the effects of most of the nastier drugs, Colonel, but there are plenty of others left in her system to keep her honest.”


    “Just so long as she lives long enough to answer my questions.”


    “No problem there,” Calin assured him. “She’s in fine shape considering what she’s been through.”


    So Bryant wouldn’t be doing him the favor of dying on her own, Halav thought ruefully. That bothered him. He did not like the idea of killing anyone in cold blood, especially not a young woman, no matter what she might have done.


    He shoved the thought away and squatted down in front of the chair to get his first good look at her.


    Beneath the bruises that darkened her pale skin, Bryant showed all the signs of the genetically engineered “perfection” so common in the upper echelons of the United Galaxy. Halav’s brows drew together at the unexpected sight. What was a woman of such obvious high breeding doing with a free-trading freighter captain like Cam Thorne?


    Bryant moaned quietly, and her dark eyes fluttered open. For just a moment, she looked terrified, then she took in her surroundings, and her expression relaxed minutely. The look sent a wave of pity through Halav, but the image of Cameron lying dead by her hand swept the feeling away, and he straightened to glare down at her.


    She stiffened and started to speak, but he beat her to it.


    “You’re Kressa Bryant?”


    She nodded. “Who—?”


    “Where’s Cameron Thorne?”


    She searched his eyes but said nothing.


    Calin’s medkit sat on the floor beside her chair. Halav stooped and removed a scalpel. He did not want to get rough with Bryant—not unless it was absolutely necessary—but a little threat might help loosen her tongue.


    He held up the blade and narrowed his eyes. “Where’s Thorne?”


    She stared up at him, breathing hard. “Te—Terra,” she gasped, obviously having lost a brief battle with the Patrol interrogation drugs. “Who are you?”


    Halav studied her, surprised by her boldness, but quickly realized that her reaction to his answer might be very telling.


    “A friend of Cameron Thorne,” he said.


    Her eyes met his, filled with compassion. “I’m sorry. Thorne’s dead.” The concern in her voice did not sound feigned.


    Halav lowered the scalpel and struggled to sort through the tangle of emotions that washed over him.


    “Who are you, Bryant?” he demanded. “What were you to Cam—to Thorne?”


    “I—hardly knew him,” she said haltingly. “I—found him on Terra. He was hurt bad. He said to—get his ship to Arecia, to Varen, then talk to B’Okhaim. He . . .” She began to tremble. Her eyes lost focus and darted wildly around the room as if watching something only she could see.


    Halav passed the scalpel to Calin with a worried frown. “What’s wrong with her?”


    “It’s the drugs, Colonel. She’s starting to fight them off already. It’s not going to be easy on her.”


    Halav looked at her again, and his frown deepened. Had Calin’s earlier assessment of her condition been mistaken? He couldn’t let her die now. She had mentioned B’Okhaim, and that said a hell of a lot about the truth of her story. Cameron wouldn’t drop a contact’s name without good reason.


    He glanced at Calin. “Is there anything you can do for her?”


    The medic watched her closely for a moment. “I could give her a sedative, but there’s no telling what it might do. With all the chemicals she’s got in her now, another tranq could just as easily kill her as knock her out.”


    A surge of sympathy tightened Halav’s chest, and he reached toward her.


    She drew back with a terrified cry, her eyes wide and unfocused. “Please. Don’t touch me.” She sounded as if she spoke from the far side of a dream.


    “It’s all right, Bryant. I won’t hurt you,” he said, and realized he meant it. He knelt before her and looked up into her bruised yet beautiful face. “I won’t hurt you,” he repeated. He glanced at the soldier behind the chair. “Untie her, Trin.”


    9


    Halav awoke with a start as a bright light struck his eyelids. He blinked rapidly at his surroundings, then rolled his head back and groaned in dismay. He had fallen asleep sprawled in an overstuffed chair in the main room of the hotel suite, and now every muscle complained as he moved.


    The wiry form of Sergeant Kucera stood by the window. She glanced at him as he sat up and stretched, cautiously working the knots out of his shoulders and back.


    “Good morning, Colonel,” she said.


    “Sergeant.” He greeted her with a nod and realized that it had been Kucera’s act of drawing back a corner of the window shade that sent the shaft of late morning sunlight into his eyes, jolting him awake. He forced himself to his feet, spotted the remains of a meal on a nearby table, and went to investigate.


    “I ordered some for you, sir.” Kucera pointed to a tray of sealed dishes on a cart near the main door.


    Halav fetched the tray, took it to the table, and started to eat. “Give me a report, Sergeant.”


    “Captain Arbiss went out first thing this morning to see about convincing the local media we turned up a body that looks like Bryant,” she said. “He didn’t think the story would get a lot of attention without an actual body, but he figured it was worth a try.”


    Halav nodded agreement. The original plan had been to turn Bryant’s body over to the local authorities, but even without one, the ruse still might buy the Guard some time. “When will Arbiss be back?”


    “Early this afternoon. He went to the base to get the men and supplies for the move against the Pattys tonight.”


    “Any action from the Patrol out there?” He gestured to the window.


    Kucera returned her attention to the scene outside. “A car left a little while ago. Trin and Blaise followed, but the Pattys were just changing guard on Thorne’s ship. Trin stayed at the port to see what the Patrol does next.”


    “Have you heard from him?”


    “He called awhile back. Said the ship’s sealed up tight and the Pattys are just sitting in their car watching it.”


    “Next time he calls, tell him to get back here. I’ve got people at the port keeping an eye on things there. Besides, without Cam, I doubt anyone’s going to get that ship to move.”


    She glanced at him. “What about Bryant, Colonel? Trin said she brought the ship in from Terra by herself. Maybe she could work it.”


    Halav thought back to the story Bryant had told him last night between courageous bouts with the after-effects of the Patrol drugs. The questioning lasted well into the early morning hours, ending only after Calin decided Bryant had beaten down enough of the drugs to risk a sedative. During their talk, she said Cameron had given her a code to help her get control of the Conquest. But how complete was that control? And now that she had left the ship, would she be able to get control of it again? He didn’t know enough about how Connie worked or how Cam controlled her to answer the questions.


    Calin stepped from the bedroom.


    “How’s your patient this morning, doctor?” Halav asked.


    “As good as can be expected,” Calin said, and then seemed to reconsider his words. “Better, actually. The Pattys knew what they were doing and didn’t cause any permanent damage, but—” He shook his head in wonder. “Damn, she’s tough.”


    “That’s got a lot to do with her heritage, I suspect.” Halav pushed aside the dining tray.


    “Her heritage?” Calin asked curiously.


    “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed her looks.” He gazed doubtfully at the younger man, then rose and moved toward the bedroom. “I don’t know how, but she’s straight out of the United Galaxy aristocracy. They’ve been known to tamper with more than just physical appearance.”


    Calin shrugged, obviously not well acquainted with the finer points of United Galaxy culture. “Whatever it is, I’ve never seen anyone knock down a Patty truth drug like that.”


    Halav glanced into the room where Bryant lay asleep in the bed. “Could she have lied to us?”


    “I doubt it, but she may have been able to hold back some of the truth, if you get my meaning.”


    Halav nodded and looked at her again. He had not found any holes in her story, and she acted like she wanted to tell the truth, but she might just be one hell of a performer. He took comfort from the fact that whatever she held back from him, she probably kept from the Patrol, as well.


    “Think she’s up to a visit?” he asked Calin.


    “Sure. Go ahead.”


    * * *


    Kressa woke up listening for the hum of the Conquest’s systems. She’d had a strange dream about guns, Patrolmen, and a mysterious colonel, and she needed the reassuring sounds of the ship to help clear the last of the dream’s disturbing images from her head. But the sounds weren’t there.


    “Connie . . . ?” She opened her eyes.


    It wasn’t a dream after all.


    Seated in a chair beside the bed on which she lay was the handsome, auburn-haired man who had questioned her so patiently last night; the man the others called “colonel.” The man who claimed to be Cameron Thorne’s friend.


    He smiled as her eyes met his, and Kressa realized he looked too young to hold the rank of colonel in any military organization she knew of.


    “Good morning,” he said. “How are you feeling?”


    She considered his question for a moment. A dull ache filled her body and limbs, and each movement elicited a new source of discomfort, as well as a wave of nausea.


    “Alive,” she answered finally, and then thought about all she’d been through. “Maybe even better than that.”


    “Calin may be young,” he said, “but he’s a hell of a medic. I’ll thank him for you.”


    She forced a smile. “Why do your people call you ‘colonel’? Are you in some kind of army?”


    He chuckled quietly. “Yeah, some kind.”


    She watched him, mouth set in a firm line, determined to get more of an answer.


    “We’re with the Guard,” he said.


    “How old are you?”


    He knitted his brow, clearly puzzled by her question. “I’m twenty-eight. Why?”


    “Isn’t that a little young to be a colonel?”


    “The general doesn’t seem to think so,” he said with a laugh, and then sobered slightly. “I joined up when I was only seventeen—the Guard was just beginning to organize here on Arecia. That gave me a bit of a head start.”


    “How did you know Cameron Thorne?”


    His features tightened for an instant, then relaxed. “We met when we were boys. Our fathers did business together, and they’d bring us along whenever they had a meeting. I think they expected us to absorb some of their business sense, but we were always too busy getting into trouble.” He smiled reminiscently. “We lost touch after my father and I had a—falling out. Then one day, Cam showed up with this crazy old guy and his ship. Said he’d learned enough about business to realize the only kind he wanted to be in was free trade. Not that I think he and Juric did a hell of a lot of trading. They were having too much fun traveling around, spreading Juric’s treasonous message.”


    “What do you mean by treasonous?” Kressa asked, wondering if Connie had left out some critical information about Juric Azano.


    The colonel leaned back and rested an elbow on the back of his chair. “Oh, Juric had these wonderful wild ideas about a free galaxy. He came from a long line of highly successful businessmen, but he didn’t much like the way the profits went to only a small percentage of the people. He wasn’t exactly a revolutionary—he didn’t travel around fomenting rebellions or anything like that. He just happened to have different ideas than the establishment and the money to get those ideas listened to.”


    Kressa recalled what Connie had told her about Azano’s death. “It cost him his life, didn’t it?”


    The colonel’s eyes narrowed, and he straightened in his seat. “What do you mean?”


    “Azano was killed during the Patrol attack on Arkana,” she said. “They wouldn’t have attacked if Arkana hadn’t been backing the Free Worlds. Don’t you think Azano’s words had something to do with that?”


    “How do you know so much about him?” he asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone.


    “Records on board the Conquest.”


    His features relaxed, and he leaned back in the chair again. “Juric only told people what they already knew. The discontent existed long before he came around. And even if it was partially his fault, I think he thought his life was a small price to pay for what he believed in.”


    “Conquest of the United Galaxy?” she asked, purposefully using Connie’s terminology.


    The colonel studied her for a moment, eyes hooded. “Something like that,” he said slowly.


    Kressa shifted position on the bed. Had Cameron Thorne shared his partner’s opinion of the value of his life, or the lives of his family?


    “Don’t you agree with what the Free Worlds are trying to do?” the colonel asked.


    Kressa detected a touch of resentment in his voice. “I don’t know. I don’t like the United Galaxy, that’s for sure, but what’d the Free Worlds ever do for me?”


    He sneered and crossed his arms before him. “Living up to your heritage, huh?”


    “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, unsure what he was implying, but certain she didn’t like it.


    “You aristocrats never were much for looking beyond the ends of your own noses,” he said, his voice filled with contempt. “As long as life’s good for you, it must be good for everyone else, right? And don’t ever stop to wonder where that good life is coming from or who might be suffering to keep you comfortable and fed and surrounded by luxury.”


    “What?!” Kressa sprang up in the bed, then snatched the covers around herself when she realized she wasn’t wearing anything.


    The colonel continued his angry, low-voiced tirade, seemingly oblivious to her state of undress. “Don’t you realize what it takes to support the billions of people on the United Galaxy’s worlds—worlds too overcrowded to support themselves? Who do you think grows your food and makes your clothes and keeps you neck-deep in luxury items? Who—?”


    “Don’t!” Kressa spat, and then took a firm grip on her anger. “That’s not me you’re talking about, Colonel. I grew up on the streets. I never had any luxuries.” She met his suddenly confounded gaze and held up her left hand, the inside of her wrist turned toward him to reveal the pattern of thin white lines burned there by a cutting laser—the mark of the Wolfpack, the gang she lived with after leaving the Academy. “I pay my way!”


    * * *


    Halav stared at Bryant, shocked by the cold anger of her words and the even colder look in her dark eyes. He did not understand the significance of the mark on the pale skin of her wrist, but he suspected she’d paid a hell of a price to be able to show it to him.


    His anger dissolved. “I’m sorry.” He barely resisted the urge to take her hand as she lowered it to the bed. “I thought . . . I mean, the way you look . . .” His eyes searched hers for forgiveness. “I guess I was wrong.”


    “Guess you were,” she said, her voice as cold as her expression.


    “Colonel?”


    He looked up at the call from the doorway.


    Sergeant Kucera stood in the opening, gazing uneasily into the room. Calin stood behind her with a pulse gun in his hand.


    “Everything all right in here?” Kucera asked.


    Halav nodded. “Everything’s fine. We just had a little— misunderstanding. Get back to your posts.”


    They left the room, and he returned his attention to Bryant.


    She was staring out the open doorway after Kucera and Calin, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, her icy expression of moments before gone. Finally, she looked at him again.


    “Those guns the Pattys found on the Conquest were for the Guard?” she asked.


    “They were. Cameron ran a lot of things like that for us. He was good at it.”


    “Not good enough.”


    He glanced away to hide his frown. “Someone sold him out.”


    Bryant watched him for a long moment, expressionless, and then nodded. “I know how that goes,” she said solemnly.


    Halav studied her, amazed by her reaction. The comprehension on her face and in her voice seemed out of place on a young woman with looks like hers. Hell, they’d look wrong on any woman her age—at least any he’d encountered. She was a paradox; a beautiful, almost too-perfect outer shell housing a strong, independent interior that seemed to understand all too well the price life often demanded.


    “So, what happens to me now?” she asked. “Am I free to go?”


    “Go where?” he asked, suddenly uncertain he wanted her to go anywhere before he got the chance to learn more about her.


    She met his eyes brazenly. “Back to the Conquest. Off Arecia. As far as I can get.”


    “That may be a little difficult. The Patrol’s watching the Conquest, and you’re supposed to be dead.”


    She looked at him askance. “According to who?”


    “The local authorities, the media. The Patrol. We put the word out this morning that we found your body in the city. We’re hoping the Patrol will think you escaped on your own, then got yourself killed. That way, they won’t be looking for you or thinking you told anyone about their operation.”


    “Am I a prisoner, then?” she asked, some of her earlier coldness returning to her tone.


    “That’s your word, not mine. As soon as we’re done with our operation here, we’ll turn you loose and you can do what you like.”


    “What about the Conquest?” she asked. “I brought her here like Thorne asked.”


    “Well, we haven’t got a lot of extra credits floating around—Cam always did his runs for free—but we can probably scrape together some kind of finder’s fee for your troubles.”


    “I don’t want money,” she said icily. “I want the Conquest.”


    “That’s one hell of a request.” He let a touch of the irritation he was beginning to feel color his words. “Do you have any idea what a ship like that is worth?”


    “Twenty-eight million credits,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.


    “That much?” he asked, taken aback.


    She nodded. “That much. But she won’t do you any good, Colonel. I’m the only one alive who can fly her.” She met his eyes, her expression stern. “I want the ship.”


    Halav considered how to react. He’d tried to be nice, to look at the situation from her point of view, but that got him nowhere. Perhaps a change of tactics was in order. He rose to his feet and glared down at her. “I’m not interested in what you want, Bryant. I appreciate what you did for Cam, but you should be happy we got you away from the Patrol and let you live. Now, I have work to do. We can discuss what you want another time.” With that, he swept from the room and slammed the door behind himself.


    10


    Kressa remained in the bed for several minutes after the colonel left, seething. How dare he accuse her of being a United Galaxy aristocrat, of living off other people’s misery! He had no idea who she was and no appreciation for what she’d done for him and the Guard. She’d brought him his guns, hadn’t she? And she’d come damn close to being executed as a gunrunner for her trouble. Sure, he’d rescued her from the Pattys, but he did that with no interest in her personal welfare—he only wanted to know what happened to Thorne. And just what did he think he could do with the Conquest? He’d admitted the Guard had no extra money, yet it would cost hundreds of thousands of credits to refit the ship with systems anyone could use.


    Thinking of the Conquest without Connie sent a chill down Kressa’s spine, and she promised herself she would order Connie to add one of the Guard soldiers to her list of authorized operators before she let anyone go in and disconnect (kill?) her. But first she would try to get the ship back for herself.


    The muffled sound of one of the hotel suite’s doors opening drew her attention. She pulled a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around herself, and crept to the bedroom door. Only an unintelligible mumble of voices made it through the barrier. She listened for several minutes, straining to make sense of the conversation, but it was no use.


    She began a careful inspection of the bedchamber and washroom, hoping to find some way out. Fifteen minutes later, she abandoned the search. The room was an inner chamber with no windows and only two doors—one to the washroom and one to the main room of the suite. She found no vent, pipe, or delivery chute large enough for her to crawl through. And even if she had located a way out, she would need to be truly desperate to use it, for she found no clothing either. Escaping into the streets of Varen wearing only a blanket did not sound appealing. Not until she ran out of other options, anyway.


    She stifled a yawn and returned to the bed to consider those options.


    The sound of the bedroom door opening awoke her sometime later. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing slow and regular as someone crept up beside the bed. Her visitor remained for a moment, then turned and started out of the room.


    She cracked her eyelids. It was the medic, Calin. He switched off the lights and closed the door behind him.


    Kressa’s stomach rumbled, and she realized her appetite had returned. She knew that was a good sign, her body’s way of letting her know it was recovering. Her slumber, however long it had lasted, had obviously done some good. But apparently it was not good enough, for the darkness of the room, the warmth of the bed, and the incessant urgings of her still-healing body soon called her back to sleep.


    The next time she awoke, the bedroom door stood open a few centimeters. It showed only a narrow strip of dim gray, and she realized it must be night again. She scowled, disgusted with herself. She had slept away an entire day and had nothing to show for it, not so much as the beginnings of a workable plan to get away from her captors and reclaim the Conquest. On the plus side, however, her day-long sleep seemed to have restored her health; except for the hunger, which her rest had served only to increase, she felt just about back to normal.


    She ignored her empty stomach for the moment, wrapped the blanket around herself, and crept to the door to peer through the narrow opening.


    At first she thought there was no one in the dark room beyond the bedroom door, but by leaning hard against the wall and craning her neck, she could just see Calin seated at a window. The lights of the city illuminated his youthful features as he stared out through the glass. A gunbelt hung from the back of his chair, a pulse gun nestled in the holster.


    Kressa smiled at the sight of the weapon. She called up a weary expression, pushed open the door, and let the blanket she wore draped over her shoulders fall open.


    Calin glanced back, and his eyes widened. “Oh. Uh— Bryant.” He switched on a light and gave her a professionally appraising look. “How do you feel?”


    She smiled enticingly. She knew that Calin’s role as a medic had left her body no secret to him, but there was a tremendous difference between seeing a young woman in bed as a patient and seeing her up and moving, using her body for what nature intended. She halted beside him and pulled the blanket around herself. Best not carry it too far lest he suspect she was up to something. All she wanted to achieve was a little distraction; she trusted she had done that already.


    “I’m all right,” she told him, careful to put a hint of weariness and lingering pain in her voice. “I have a headache, though. Do you have anything for it?”


    “Uh . . . yeah.” He crossed the room to where his medkit sat on the floor beside the suite’s main door.


    Kressa slipped his gun from its holster and swallowed a pleased smile. This was far too easy.


    “Besides the headache, how—?” Calin froze for an instant when he saw his patient holding a gun on him, then he grabbed something from the medkit, rolled to the side, came up on one knee, and fired the needler he now held.


    Kressa whipped the blanket from around her body and flung it forward to intercept the needler dart, then she swung the pulse gun and pulled the trigger.


    The needler exploded in Calin’s grasp. He jerked his hand up to examine his burnt fingers, then looked at Kressa standing stark naked across the room, the gun pointed down at him. His expression held a mixture of outrage and cautious respect.


    “Take off your clothes,” Kressa ordered.


    He stared at her, his mouth working silently in disbelief.


    “Do it!” She thrust the gun at him. “Or I’ll burn more than your fingers.”


    He hesitated an instant longer and then, still on his knees, he began to remove his shirt.


    “Where’s the colonel and the rest of your friends?” Kressa asked as he laid aside the shirt and sat down to take off his boots.


    He gestured toward the window behind her. “Taking back our guns.”


    She resisted the urge to follow his gesture. “When will they be back?”


    “Anytime now.” He stood up and began to unfasten his pants.


    “Liar,” Kressa said, hoping he was. “They just left,” she guessed.


    He shrugged, giving her no clue how good her guess was.


    “Why are you here?” she asked.


    He looked at her despondently. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.”


    She knew that wasn’t a lie. “Well, you can tell the colonel you gave it a hell of an effort.”


    He glared and stepped out of his pants.


    “That’s enough,” she said. “Sit down there.” She gestured to an overstuffed chair across the room, then went to the medkit. Keeping the gun trained on Calin, she examined the kit’s contents, removed a sedative drug pad, and tossed it to him. “Use it.”


    He checked the label on the package, then cast a forlorn glance in her direction and pressed the pad to the inside of his elbow. Seconds later, he slumped bonelessly in the chair, unconscious.


    Kressa administered another dose of the sedative from a second pad, donned his discarded shirt and pants, and draped his gunbelt bandoleer-style across her chest. She considered putting on his boots, as well, but decided she would be much more nimble without them. She slid the gun into her makeshift shoulder holster, located a leather jacket in a closet, and put it on to help conceal the weapon.


    A long, door-lined hallway stretched beyond the suite’s main door. She peered down it to make sure it was empty, and then stepped through the doorway to freedom.


    * * *


    Kressa left the hotel through a side door. Once away from the building, she traversed several alleys before merging with one of Varen’s omnipresent streams of pedestrian traffic. Among the dozens of styles of offworld dress, no one gave her dark, ill-fitting clothing and bare feet a second glance.


    She weaved through the crowds, relieving passersby of a credit here, a credit there, until she had enough to pay for tram fare to the spaceport. She debarked at the terminal closest to where she’d docked the Conquest and hurried out onto the landing pad.


    Following a circuitous route intended to conceal her final destination from prying eyes, Kressa reached a point close enough to the rear of the Conquest to determine that a nearby groundcar held two men, presumably the Patrolmen the colonel said were watching the ship. She pulled back from the landing gear of the small passenger liner behind which she hid and mapped out a route that would bring her in near the front of the Conquest while hopefully keeping her hidden from the Pattys in the car. She concealed her approach using the patterns of dark shadow and bright light created by the spaceport beacons. After several minutes, she reached the starboard set of the Conquest’s forward landing gear.


    She clung to the heavy structure for a moment, willing her heart to slow its nervous pounding, and then she started to climb. Working by touch, she located foot and hand holds among the complex series of struts and bars. In less than a minute she sat tucked up inside the total darkness of the gear housing. The odors of grease, ship exhaust, and scorched metal filled the air.


    She took a deep, relieved breath, barely able to believe she’d made it this far.


    “Connie,” she called quietly, “it’s Kressa. I’m in the starboard nose-gear housing. Open the maintenance hatch.”


    A dull clump shook the air above her. She reached into the darkness over her head, found the hatch, and pushed. The door moved, and she followed it up into the body of the freighter. She sealed the hatch, made her way through the dim, dusty maintenance crawlway beyond, and headed straight for the galley, eager for something to eat.


    “Connie, how are you?”


    “I am completely operational.”


    The sound of the computer’s voice lifted a heavy load of anxiety off her shoulders.


    “What did the Patrolmen do while they were in here?” She grabbed three biscuits from the food processor and hurried toward the control room.


    “They searched for crew members. I recorded their conversations and movement. Shall I play the recording?”


    “Not right now.” She munched on one of the biscuits as she began to preflight the ship. “Why didn’t you tell me about the storage areas in the bay doors? And the guns?”


    “Previous orders requested censorship of all information pertaining to additional cargo and location.”


    “Thorne’s orders?” Kressa asked around a mouthful of dry protein and other nutrients.


    “Yes.”


    “I figured as much.” She took several minutes to complete the preflight tests, then settled into the pilot’s chair. “We need to get out of here. Do you think you can blast us out like you did on Terra?”


    “Yes. However, without the cover of a hangar, the port officials will detect the engines coming on line and may question our failure to call for clearance.”


    “That’s a chance we’ll have to take. At least there aren’t any Patty warships around to get after us. Go ahead and power up the engines.”


    A moment later, the throb of the ship’s drive began to pulse through the Conquest.


    “Freighter Conquest, this is Varen control,” a friendly voice said over the comm. “Come in, please.”


    Kressa ignored the call and watched the main viewscreen to see how the Patrolmen would react when the supposedly unmanned ship started to lift off.


    “Freighter CXJ-14217, Conquest, come in, please,” the voice said again, less friendly this time and tinged with concern. “This is Varen control. Please reply, Conquest.”


    The Patrolmen leaped from their car, brandishing their pulse guns as if they could use them to prevent the freighter from taking off. Kressa chuckled at their antics.


    “Conquest, this is Varen control!” The voice held a decidedly threatening edge. “We have orders to keep you on the ground.”


    Orders from who? Kressa wondered. The Patrol? No, it must be the Guard. She scoffed. Fine, Colonel, let’s see you try to stop me.


    The ship began to lift off.


    “Conquest, set down immediately or we will fire!” the voice on the comm said. “This is your only warning.”


    “We have been targeted,” Connie said.


    “Targeted?” Kressa asked in bewilderment. “By what? The port doesn’t have any weapons, does it?”


    “No, but a nearby commercial freighter has all available batteries trained on us.”


    Kressa fought to control her rising concern. A commercial freighter? How—? She scanned the viewers and located the ship. It bore the insignia of an Arecian shipping company. Clearly, the colonel had anticipated she might try something and arranged for a way to stop her.


    She snarled and slammed a fist against the control board in front of her. “Set us back down, Connie. Engines off.”


    11


    Halav stood in the center of the large room the Varen Patrol forces had outfitted as their command and communications center. Around him, Guard soldiers finalized their takeover of the installation.


    The raid had gone well, the Patrol forces unprepared for the size and suddenness of the Guard’s attack, and Halav concluded that the arrival of the guns had forced the Patrol to reveal their presence sooner than planned. That fact, combined with the chance that some of the captured Patrolmen might be convinced to divulge the location of one or more of the United Galaxy’s other strongholds on Arecia, almost made Cameron’s death worth something. But only almost. And the problem of what to do about Bryant remained.


    “Colonel Kamick?”


    Halav glanced up at the call from the soldier manning the Patrol communication gear.


    “We’re getting a call, sir. Apparently, some of the Patrolmen in the city don’t know what’s happened here. I’ve got one requesting assistance at the port. He says the ship he’s watching is attempting liftoff.”


    Before Halav could reply, Captain Arbiss called to him from the command center door.


    “Colonel, Trin just called.” Arbiss pocketed a commlink. “I sent him to fetch Calin to help with some of the wounded. When he got to the room, he found Calin unconscious and Bryant gone.”


    It took less than a heartbeat for Halav to put the two reports together. He bit back an angry oath.


    “Get me Inspector Lanar at the spaceport,” he ordered the soldier at the comm board, then turned to find Arbiss standing beside him. “Is Calin all right?”


    “He’s fine. Bryant hit him with a couple of his own sedatives and took his clothes and gun. Trin says he’s coming around. They’ll get here as soon as they can.”


    “I’ve got Inspector Lanar, Colonel,” said the man at the comm station.


    “Put him on,” Halav said.


    “Glad you called, Colonel,” Lanar’s voice came over the comm. “Someone just tried to make off with the Conquest. We forced the ship back down with some assistance from your friends on the freighter, but there’s no response to any of our calls.”


    “What about the Patrolmen?” Halav asked.


    “Oh, they got real excited when the ship started to lift off, but they’re back in their car now, probably calling for help.”


    “Well, they aren’t going to get any,” Halav said, letting some of the satisfaction he was feeling creep into his voice. “Go ahead and have them arrested for trespassing or littering or whatever you like. And keep an eye on the Conquest. If anyone comes out of the ship, grab them. I’ll be right there.”


    “Sure, Hal. See you soon.”


    “You’re going to the spaceport?” Arbiss asked.


    Halav nodded. “If you think you can handle things here.”


    “No problem. You want me to find someone to go with you?”


    Halav shook his head and forced away a possibly inappropriate smile. “No, I want to do this myself.”


    * * *


    For a long time after the sound of the Conquest’s engines faded, Kressa sat in the pilot’s chair, thinking, planning, turning ideas and scenarios over in her head as she struggled to come up with some way out of her predicament.


    Finally she gave up. Short of abandoning the ship, she could think of nothing that would get her out of this mess. Hell, by now she probably wouldn’t even be allowed to leave. She had watched on the viewscreens as a half dozen port security men led the two Patrol soldiers away. Doubtless others were waiting out there to take her into custody if she left the ship. She knew Connie would be able to verify that suspicion if she asked, but she did not ask.


    She could always just hole up in the Conquest, she mused, at least until someone arrived with something to get past Connie’s defenses. That didn’t sound very appealing, however, and she feared it would only make her final punishment that much worse. Just how harsh was the Arecian penalty for stealing a starship?


    Yet had she actually stolen the Conquest? Maybe Thorne hadn’t come right out and said she could keep the vessel, but he had given her what she needed to control it. That must be worth something. But what court would listen to a nineteen-year-old girl trying to lay claim to a ship as magnificent as the Conquest? Maybe she could contact Tempo and have him testify on her behalf, to assure her accusers that she knew how to operate and maintain the vessel. Maybe then they would listen to her. Except she felt certain the colonel would never allow her to appear in any court to plead her case.


    “There is a single figure approaching the ship.”


    Connie’s voice shattered Kressa’s thoughts, and she looked up slowly.


    The colonel was walking toward the Conquest, keeping to a bright splash of light cast by one of the port beacons. He wore a gunbelt, but the holster was empty. In his right hand he carried a squarish piece of equipment about the size of a small carry-all.


    “Connie, what’s that he’s got?”


    “The object appears to be a high-energy laser cutter.”


    Kressa frowned in dismay. Did he intend to cut through the hull to gain access to the ship? She straightened in her seat.


    Spaceport control had warned her against use of any of the ship’s weapons, yet she couldn’t just let the colonel walk up and cut his way in! She thought fast.


    “Connie, do you have external speakers?”


    “Yes.”


    “Turn them on.” She switched on the comm. “Colonel, stop where you are.”


    He glanced up at the freighter but kept walking. “Open the airlock.”


    “Go to hell.”


    “Look, Bryant, I don’t want to cut up Cam’s ship, but I will if you don’t let me in.”


    Kressa seethed. There had to be some way to stop him!


    She looked at the colonel again and got an idea.


    “Connie, open the main airlock and extend the boarding ramp.” She dashed out of the control room.


    She was waiting in the entrance corridor, arms crossed over her chest, one shoulder resting against the wall just past the inner airlock door, when the colonel entered the ship.


    He set the laser cutter on the floor and glowered at her. “I thought I said we’d talk about this later.”


    “It is later,” Kressa said, “and the only thing I have to say to you is get off my ship! Go back to your friends and tell them to let the Conquest leave.” She glared menacingly. “Or the Guard is going to be minus one colonel.”


    “Don’t be a fool.” He grabbed for her.


    Kressa danced back a step. “Connie, stop him!”


    “Unable to comply.”


    “What?!” She ducked as the colonel lunged for her again, a hint of a smile on his face.


    “Voice and visual imprints identify Halav Kamick,” Connie said. “Designation: ally. Previous orders request—”


    “Shut up!” Kressa whipped out the gun she’d taken from Calin and turned it on the colonel.


    He stopped in mid-lunge, and his smile vanished. He raised his eyes to look deep into hers.


    She swallowed hard, shocked by the emotion in his gaze. No one had ever looked at her with so much—understanding? But her aim did not waver.


    “You didn’t shoot Calin,” he said, his voice calm. “You’re no killer, Bryant. And I still want to talk.”


    She stared at him, her thoughts rolling around in a confused tumble. She held the gun at arm’s length, level with his chest.


    She thought about backing away, but did not.


    She thought about pulling the trigger, but could not.


    You’re no killer.


    “You’ve got a chance here, Bryant,” the colonel said. “Don’t throw it away.”


    “What chance?” She tried to put emotion behind her words, but they came out flat, desperate.


    “Connie may not be willing to shoot me,” he said, “but she won’t obey me either. You, on the other hand . . .” His eyes searched hers. “The Guard needs the ship, you control it. Maybe we can make a deal.”


    A deal? Maybe she could keep the Conquest after all. But what price would the colonel demand? And what price was she willing to pay?


    She continued to watch him, silent, the gun held before her, her finger tight on the trigger.


    “You told me you pay your way, Bryant. Are you willing to do that now?”


    The gun wavered in her grasp. She forced her hand to hold it steady. “How?”


    He chuckled quietly, and a brief smile lit his features. “Besides your ability to control the Conquest, there’s the fact that you were resourceful enough to get away from us, and get past the Patrolmen and onto the ship. That’s a hell of a recommendation as far as I’m concerned. The Guard needs people like you.”


    Kressa said nothing, trying to absorb the meaning of his words. He had every ability—and probably every right—to take the ship by force, yet he was offering her a place in his organization instead.


    “Look, Bryant, all I’m asking is that you give me and my people a chance to show you what we’re doing.” He caught her gaze and held it. “You just might find it’s what you’ve been fighting for all along.”


    She started to tell him she’d never fought for anything, then she realized she had been fighting most of her life, fighting for the freedom to live and do as she wanted. It was why she ran away from the Academy, why she left the Wolfpack and hooked up with Tempo. It was why she wanted the Conquest.


    The Guard fought for freedom, too, only on a much grander scale. Maybe working with them wouldn’t be so bad. At least she could give it a try; that was all the colonel was asking. And she’d get to keep the Conquest.


    That didn’t sound like too high of a price to pay.