The Price of Conquest

Kressa Bryant picked her way through the narrow, littered streets of Varen's slums. Her dark eyes scanned the ramshackle buildings around her and probed the shadowed doorways and alleys ahead, alert for a trap. She turned a corner beside a derelict four-storey nighthouse and cast a quick glance over her shoulder.

The boy was still following her.

It would be easy to lose him in the twisting lanes and alleys of the pleasure city's back streets, or she could return to the spaceport where she first spotted him and lose him in the crowds there. But she wanted to know why he was following her and why he was being so obvious about it. They needed to have a chat.

Tucking a short, sweat-soaked strand of black hair behind one ear, she glanced back again, lips tight and brow furrowed in feigned concern, then she hurried on, stumbling to keep up the pretense of apprehension.

She led the boy deeper into the rundown, graffiti-scarred backcity where a rough encounter would almost certainly be ignored. The few people she saw paid her no attention. She returned the favor.

With a final glance back to be sure the boy saw her next move, Kressa slipped into an alley. The acrid stench of rotting garbage and human waste, intensified by the oppressive summer heat, wafted around her and left a sour taste in her mouth.

A clumsy pile of broken plasteel shipping crates leaned against the wall a few paces ahead. Kressa darted across the debris-littered ground, slid into the shadows behind the crates, and turned to watch the alley's opening through a crack between two broken containers.

A moment later, the boy's lanky form eclipsed the rectangle of fading daylight. He peered toward the opening at the alley's far end and stepped inside.

He looked about fifteen, half Kressa's age, all arms and legs and dark, sharp-boned features. Stained brown pants ballooned around his legs, and a faded purple shirt, two sizes too big, draped his rangy frame. Given the high summer temperatures, his brown leather jacket, the only garment that came close to fitting properly, looked as out of place as the rest of his attire.

After three cautious steps, he drew a Patrol pulse gun from beneath his jacket.

Kressa pursed her lips at the sudden change in the odds. Although illegal, the Patty energy weapons were common enough on the streets, so she doubted the boy was a Patrol tool. At least it explained why he was wearing a jacket in this heat; carrying the weapon in plain view would be sure to attract unwanted attention, even here in Varen's backstreets.

She drew a deep breath and revised her strategy.

Gun leading the way, the boy crept closer to where Kressa hid. His gaze swept around him, prying into each bank of shadows. An instant before his careful examination revealed her presence, Kressa shoved the unstable pile of crates in his direction.

The boy fired and ducked aside. The corner of one of the tumbling crates exploded from his desperate shot.

Kressa leaped forward and drove her shoulder into his chest, slamming him against the opposite wall. She grasped the barrel of his gun and wrenched it away.

The boy grabbed for it.

Snarling, Kressa swung the weapon out of his reach, hooked a foot around his ankle, and jerked his leg out from under him. He twisted and tucked, hit the ground on the back of one shoulder, rolled, and sprang to his feet. Light from beyond the alley glinted off a long knife in his hand.

Kressa lashed out with her right foot and sent the blade spinning from his grasp. She followed with a second kick that swept his feet back out from under him. He hit the ground again and scrambled back against the base of the wall.

Kressa reversed the gun and swung it to bear on him, breathing hard. "Why are you following me?!"

The boy's face paled. "You… looked like an easy hit."

"Yeah?" Kressa sneered. Dressed in a stained coverall and scuffed leather work boots, and bearing none of the affectations of wealth common to Varen's tourists, she knew there was nothing about her—save, perhaps, for her cursed good looks—that would attract a thief's attention. She aimed the gun between the boy's mud-brown eyes. "Try again."

He met her gaze briefly, then mumbled, "Some guy at the port wanted you shadowed."

"Did he tell you to be so obvious about it?"

He chewed his lower lip and nodded.

Kressa glanced at both ends of the alley to make sure the kid didn't have a partner trying to sneak up on her, then looked at him again. "Does this guy have a name?"

"He, uh… He didn't say."

She scowled. "Sure he didn't. But you know who he is."

"His name's Tyler."

Kressa stiffened. Maybe it's a different Tyler, she told herself, then scoffed. And maybe I'll learn to breathe vacuum.

"Devin Tyler?" she asked, just to make sure. "The bounty hunter?"

The boy's eyes widened.

"You don't know what Tyler does for a living?"

He shook his head.

"He's a Patty freelancer." She didn't bother to keep the disgust from her voice. "Do you know who I am?"

Another headshake.

She sneered again. "Not too bright, are you, kid? Think you can muster the brains to tell me why Tyler wanted me followed?"

"He wanted to know where you were going?"

She tightened her grip on the gun. "Why?!"

The boy swallowed hard—a bit too melodramatically, Kressa thought—and his eyes darted from her face to the gun, then back again. "He didn't tell me nothin'. Truth! Just said to shadow you. And… to let you know I was there." He gazed at her with a pitiful look. "He said you wouldn't mess with me."

"Looks like he was wrong." She put more cold anger than she felt into her tone, hoping to scare some sense into the kid.

The boy said nothing, his pathetic look still in place.

Kressa sighed quietly. She wasn't about to fall for that old sympathy trick, especially since he was too old to pull it off. Still, his gutter accent and streetwise demeanor reminded her of her own youth, although she'd been sharp enough to never hire out to any freelancing scum like Devin Tyler.

She cast a final appraising glance at the boy, popped the energy cell from his gun, and dropped it into her pocket. Then she held the gun out to him, grip first.

He stared at it, wide eyed.

"Go ahead," she said. "Take it."

He scrambled to his feet and snatched the weapon.

"Now, put it away."

He pulled aside his jacket's lapel and slid the gun underneath. Bright crimson flashed from his inside jacket pocket, and the hazy memories inspired by his presence sprang into sharp focus. Surprised, Kressa studied him anew, her right thumb absently stroking a patterned scar on the inside of her left wrist. Could he be—? She cut the thought short. Not likely. That was years ago and light years away.

"You got a name?" she asked.

He closed his jacket over the gun. "Cody."

"Take my advice, Cody, stick to honest crime. Bounty hunting's a nasty way to make a living… or get yourself killed," she added with a meaningful glare.

He held her gaze for an instant and then glanced into the street.

She nodded toward the opening. "Quick, before I change my mind. And don't forget your blade."

It took him only a moment to retrieve his knife, leap over the scattered crates, and disappear into Varen's darkening streets.

Kressa stared after him and blew out a long, slow breath.

So Tyler was looking to take her again, she mused. Interesting. She thought their last confrontation convinced him she wasn't worth his time or the price the Patrol had put on her head. Apparently he'd found fresh motivation. But they were on Arecia, one of the Free Worlds; United Galaxy bounties didn't apply here. Not that it would make any difference to Tyler. Still, if he were serious about catching up with her, why hire the kid? She pushed a hand through her short hair. Whatever the reason, he must have some scheme in mind. Before she tried to puzzle her way through that, she needed to find out why he was after her again. She knew just where to do that.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

* * *

Kressa stepped from the dark, smoke-filled common room of Varen's Cartun-al Tavern into the bright hallway that ran behind the back wall. Only a single door showed on the long stretch of corridor, but she knew of several concealed openings. For this visit, however, she went to the one obvious door and palmed the announcer plate. A moment later, the door slid aside, and she stepped into Thellan B'Okhaim's familiar office.

Less than three meters on a side, with age-stained walls and a high ceiling, the room contained only a cluttered metal desk and two chairs. The strong smells of alcohol, apprehension, and a prime liftstick filled the chamber. The 'stick's sweet smoke blued the air.

"Good to see you, Bryant," the big man seated behind the desk said. His deep voice boomed in the small room, and white teeth flashed within his coarse, gray-streaked beard.

Kressa smiled at him. "Hello, B'Okhaim."

He motioned to the chair before his desk. "Have a seat. You here for a job?"

She took the proffered chair. "Actually, I need some information."

He studied her, brown eyes narrowed slightly. "What d'ya need to know?"

"I got into town this afternoon and picked up a shadow at the port." She shifted in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position on the hard, straight-backed chair. "We had a little chat. Devin Tyler hired him." She tried unsuccessfully to read B'Okhaim's suddenly blank expression. "What would you know about that?"

"You been out of touch lately?"

"I've been doing some trading out on Taas and some of the other colony worlds," she told him. "Not a lot of news out there."

"Any money to be made?"

"Maybe," she said, in no mood to provide the information broker with free information. "But that's not why I'm here."

B'Okhaim hesitated for a moment, lips pursed, and then met her eyes. "I'll tell you what I'm gonna do for you…" He leaned back until his shoulders rested against the grimy wall behind him, chair creaking in protest. "You take this job I've got, and I'll tell you what I know about Tyler and about what the Pattys are up to."

"The Patrol, huh?" Kressa knew he'd thrown out that scrap of information to make sure he got her attention. "Tell me about the job."

"It's for General Kamick, and he could really use your help on this one. Admiral Shaw's been showing a lot of interest in Arecia and the other Free Worlds lately. Word is he's planning to try to bring them under his control, so the Guard's in sore need of—"

She cut him off with an impatient glower. "Nix the sweet talk, B'Okhaim. What is it you want me to carry?"

"Guns."

"I don't move guns," she said. "You know that. Besides, I'm sure you've got plenty of suicidal types lined up. Let them do it. I'll pay you for the information I want."

B'Okhaim shrugged. "Suit yourself, but it's a damned good job, and the Guard's offering a ten percent bonus for delivery this week. Your Conquest is the only ship around that can make that bonus."

She sighed, attracted to the offer despite her better judgment. It is for Halav, she reasoned, her head filling with fond memories of General Halav Kamick, commander of the Arecian Guard. And she could always use the money. Plus, getting out of town by taking the run was sure to foil whatever Tyler had in the works.

"How much does it pay?" she asked.

"Five now, ten when you deliver. Plus the bonus."

"Add another five for the risk, and I'll think about it."

B'Okhaim's lips twisted in a sour expression. "Look, Bryant, I'm giving you the information you want. That should be worth something."

"Is it?" she asked.

He scowled.

"All right," she said. "Three for hazard pay, but I'll need it up front." She watched the almost visible numbers wink behind B'Okhaim's eyes as he weighed her offer against the value of the information he had.

Finally, he nodded. "Agreed." He dug a data pad and card from the hodgepodge on his desk, made a hasty notation, and passed the card to Kressa. "You'll pick up the goods on Terra, in London, then bring 'em back here. The details are on the card under our standard code. The general's men will meet you in Cint-Istep to—"

"Did you say Terra?" Kressa interrupted, suddenly far less certain she wanted the job, good money or not.

"Something wrong with that?" B'Okhaim asked.

"You failed to mention I'd be moving guns off such a prime piece of United Galaxy real estate," she said. "Are you sure you don't want to up that hazard pay?"

He raised an eyebrow. "About that information…"

She sighed. An argument now would get her nowhere. "All right. What do you have for me?"

"Not much on Tyler, I'm afraid. He showed up on Arecia a few days ago, made some contacts. Nothing of real interest. As far as I know, he hasn't accepted any new bounties recently. He was probably at the port and saw you arrive. He knows your ship, doesn't he?"

Kressa nodded and forced away a frown. Devin Tyler knew her ship, all right, and far, far too much about her.

"That must be it, then," B'Okhaim said. "Tyler spotted the Conquest, realized you were in town, and decided to take advantage of it."

"But why have me followed?" she asked. "And why make it so obvious? He told the kid to make sure I knew he was there."

"To scare you, maybe? Get you to run?"

"I already thought of that. What good would it do?"

B'Okhaim shrugged. "You know Tyler better than I do."

"I thought I did." She sighed in consternation. "Do you have any idea why he'd come after me again?"

"That's an easy one. Admiral Shaw reissued your capture warrant. He wants you alive."

Shaw? A chill clutched Kressa's gut. "Why?"

B'Okhaim's brow wrinkled. "I haven't heard any specific reasons, but I should think they're fairly obvious."

Obvious? Could he know about—? She killed that thought before it could fully form. Impossible. That was one piece of information even Thellan B'Okhaim had never uncovered.

"They're not obvious to me," she said.

"If Shaw's going to take the Free Worlds, he'll need information about the different Guard factions: their strength, where they're located, that sort of thing. There aren't many people with knowledge like that."

"Except me," Kressa said with a worried frown. "Are you sure that's all he's after?"

"I'd assume. Isn't it enough?"

She hoped it was.

* * *

Varen was coming into its full nocturnal glory when Kressa left B'Okhaim's office. Exuberant masses of tourists filled the walkways, the din of their conversations competing with the cacophony of noises issuing from the casinos, nightclubs, and other entertainment centers. The smells of sweat, exotic incense, pungent spice, and perfume swirled through the air.

Kressa gave the crowds a wistful look, wishing she could join them in their merrymaking, but she had a difficult task ahead of her. Even with her contacts in Varen, it would take most of the night to obtain the documentation she needed for a trip to Terra. And with Shaw after her and Tyler in town, she had to be extra cautious.

Shaw… A worried shudder shivered through her. What was she going to do about that little problem? Was the admiral really only after information, as B'Okhaim suggested, or had he finally decided to get her out of the way? On a positive note, Terra was not in Shaw's jurisdiction, and given the borderline feudal nature of the United Galaxy, there was little chance the admiral would be anywhere near a system he did not control.

Holding that small glimmer of reassurance foremost in her mind, Kressa shot a cautious glance around, stepped into the busy flow of pedestrians, and made her way the few short blocks to Varen's famous Street of Temples.

One of the highlights of Varen, the street had begun decades earlier as a single small temple intent on saving the souls of those who partook of the pleasure city's decadence. Over the years, the number of churches had grown until, today, the street stretched for several city blocks. Less than half of the temples represented true sects; the rest were strictly high-profit business ventures, but the tourists didn't seem to mind.

As usual, the Street felt like a circus. Believers and sightseers thronged the bright avenue in waves of wide-eyed humanity. Kressa tried to shut out the din of the masses and the piercing cries of the priests and pseudo-priests who stood before many of the temples, calling to her as she passed, promising everything from instant salvation to eternal life. She brushed aside alms boxes and collection plates thrust at her and rolled her eyes at the wrathful rhetoric that followed in her wake as she failed to hand over what the criers clearly believed was her compulsory tithe.

A number of the Street's faiths centered around the mysterious gods or beings who had planted the seeds of human life on the dozens of worlds upon which they existed. No religion had ever proven the existence of any such beings, but neither had any science ever come up with a testable hypothesis explaining the evolution of nearly identical human species on so many worlds.

Kressa found the mystery intriguing, but believed it was a worthless exercise to support this strictly spiritual side of the search for an answer. Besides, she had not come to the Street for divine guidance; she had better ways to spend her money.

From the rear of the Church of Ans, Raunell Danlei ran a thriving business in electronic counterfeiting, forgery, and other forms of deception. Although Danlei's expertise was likely to separate Kressa from a significant portion of her money, it would be worth it for the ability to get herself and the Conquest onto Terra with no questions asked.

As Kressa neared the Church of Ans, something plucked at her attention.

A modest new temple stood beside the church. Two robe-shrouded priests spoke quietly to a crowd of men and women gathered before it. Now that they had her attention, Kressa could make out the priests' lightly accented voices; although soft, they came clearly through the din that filled the congested roadway. Curious, she paused to listen.

Among the calls of the street's other barkers, the preachings of the new priests held a unique ring. Where the other cries requested money for their rites and services, the newcomers made no such entreaty. As Kressa listened to the priests' quiet, enchanting voices, their message became clear: Humans must heed the will of their creator; all peoples and all worlds must unite.

Kressa frowned. Was this some Patrol ploy? A Patty trick designed to convince the Free World citizens to accept United Galaxy rule through their inherent human need for spirituality? On the surface, the priests' suggestions might sound good, but Kressa had seen far too many examples of what life was like on worlds ruled by the admirals, worlds harshly and unfairly divided into the haves and the have-nots.

With her initial curiosity rapidly turning to concern, she studied the priests, trying to determine what lay beneath their flowing robes and heavy cowls. An upraised arm briefly revealed the pale flesh of an elegant, long-fingered hand; a chance beam of light glinted from bright eyes set within a face of chiseled marble. The brief glimpses left her with an eerie impression of alienness but no clue to the priests' identity. A shiver of foreboding rippled along her spine, and she turned her attention to the crowd.

The men and women stood silent and staring, nodding now and then, seemingly enraptured. Her frown grew. If these priests could so easily influence people, they might represent a threat to the sovereignty of the Free Worlds. She needed to report them to—

Panic seized her. Her chest tightened, and her breath caught in her throat. She had to get away! She turned and shouldered people aside in her rush to get clear.

A moment later, she halted her headlong flight to grasp at a thought, but it slipped away. She glanced back, brow furrowed. She studied the two priests behind her, the silent gathering, and tried to recall what had disturbed her, but the feeling was gone.

For just a moment, the lack of remembrance concerned her, then that faded, as well, and she turned her back on the scene, her thoughts switching to the long night of work ahead.