The Price of Conquest

Kressa's captors took her from the storeroom to what appeared to be a small, stripped-down crew cabin where they searched her, bound her arms behind her back with a pair of security cuffs, and left her with only a single human guard for company.

The room was plain, the monotony of the smooth gray walls, ceiling, and floor broken only by the main door, a tall stool bolted to the floor in the center of the chamber, a half-open washroom door on the back wall, and the radiant white of the guard's uniform.

Kressa took a seat on the stool and gave the guard her best homicidal look. He ignored her. A winning smile got the same disappointing result.

Maybe I should have tried the smile first. She decided to concentrate on keeping her mind clear of considerations of the mysterious someone who wanted to see her. Could it be her father? That seemed unlikely. Surely the glorious Admiral Shaw wouldn't be found on a ship like this. So maybe they were taking her to where he waited. Maybe—

Stop it! she silently reprimanded herself. Think about something pleasant. Think about… Jonathan.

The door whisked open suddenly, and the guard snapped to attention.

Two of the pale-skinned, silver-haired humanoids stepped into the room, a tall male with striking features and a young female. They wore nearly identical silver-gray uniforms. A Patrol captain stood behind them, arms crossed over his chest.

Kressa studied the stout, gruff-looking man, certain she'd seen him before.

"Why if it isn't Patrolman Betz," she said, recognition dawning. "Captain again, I see. Congratulations."

Betz gave her a sour look and pushed past his two companions. "This time you'll earn me a promotion, Bryant, and someday your friend Vel will do the same."

"In whose navy?" Kressa laughed more bravely than she felt and measured the man with her gaze.

Betz had been in charge of Vsuna's defense during the uprising five years earlier. His decision to trust Patrol Commander Dania Vel, a Vsunan native, to go against her people's wishes had cost him the planet, his command, and a number of warships.

"What are you doing in Free Space, Betz?" Kressa asked. "I didn't think you had the balls to come back."

He smirked and began to circle where she sat perched on the stool. "I admit I wasn't looking forward to this mission," he said in a conversational tone, "but the pleasure of seeing you again is quickly changing that." He halted behind her and bent close over her shoulder.

She turned her head to meet his hard look.

"Admiral Shaw has a rather keen interest in you." He ran a hand down her arm and tested the secureness of the cuffs with a vicious tug. "Why do you think that is?" He stepped around in front of her.

Kressa ground her teeth and glared.

Betz studied her for a long moment, hands clasped imperiously behind his back. "As I said, I was not eager for this assignment, but now I think I can begin to enjoy it." He signaled to the guard.

The soldier moved behind Kressa and took hold of her bound arms.

Betz watched with a satisfied smile. "Tell me, Bryant, have you ever met a th'Maran?" He gestured to the two pale-complexioned figures behind him.

Kressa gave them an uneasy glance. They returned her gaze, their silver eyes steady on hers.

"Do you know of their powers over the mind?" Betz asked. "Compared to them, the control of an Ilekian Adept is child's play." He unclipped a flat, palm-sized device from his belt.

Alarmed, Kressa tried to draw back, but the guard forced her to remain upright.

Betz held up the device with a clearly feigned look of concern. "There's no need to be frightened of this. It's simply an aid to humans who cannot control the th'Maran equipment. You see, Bryant, it takes a trained mind—or one of these—to get around this ship." He leaned closer to her, one eyebrow inching up his forehead. "Isn't it interesting that you managed to get so far without such a device? It suggests you share some of the th'Marans' abilities." He returned the instrument to his belt and motioned to the th'Maran woman behind him.

She took a hesitant step forward.

"Saunorel," Betz said to her, "test my theory, girl. See what our prisoner can do with her mind."

The woman glanced at the other th'Maran with a frown.

Kressa followed her gaze, detected the male's slight nod, and returned her attention to Saunorel.

She looked very young, barely a woman. Her narrow face held the same alluring aspects possessed by the priest in Cint-Istep: smooth pale skin, delicate features, and platinum eyes, all framed by a fall of scintillating silver. At this distance, Kressa could distinguish the different colored hairs—dark pewter to star white—that created the shimmering illusion.

The girl stepped up in front of her, and Kressa's eyes drifted helplessly to meet hers. An instant later, Saunorel's mind entered hers, like ghostly fingers probing inside of her skull. Kressa waited until the last possible instant, trying to get a sense of the th'Maran woman's strength and control, and then she slammed her mental shields into place.

Saunorel's eyes narrowed, as if surprised by the resistance, and her pale brows drew together. Exploratory tendrils caressed the barrier, found and probed tiny flaws, and slipped effortlessly through them.

Desperate, Kressa struggled to reform her shields ahead of Saunorel's explorations, but the th'Maran woman sought and touched places deep within her mind, places she sensed only vaguely and did not know how to protect.

Kressa wanted to scream. Of all the things she possessed, she held her mind most sacred, the one thing that belonged to her alone. Her gut twisted in horror as the th'Maran woman reached in with such ease to so intimately experience all she was.

Yet Saunorel's probe felt gentle, unthreatening, almost curious, and Kressa realized that the th'Maran's mind was open to a return touch, if only Kressa dared to reach out. But before she could make the decision to do so, Saunorel's presence slipped away.

Kressa stared at her for a moment and then lowered her eyes. She searched her mind for anything Saunorel had taken from her, or left behind, but except for the memory of the experience, she detected no change. Yet would she be able to sense anything altered by a being with such control? She turned her focus outward.

Saunorel was studying her, her gaze intense, brows slightly knitted. She glanced at her th'Maran companion, and something passed between them. Kressa struggled to fathom its meaning.

"Powerful, isn't she, Bryant?" Betz asked.

Kressa continued to watch the two th'Maran.

"Bryant!" Betz snapped.

The guard jerked Kressa's arms, and Betz raised a hand to strike her.

"Captain Betz." The male th'Maran placed a hand on the Patrolman's shoulder.

Betz lowered his hand and glared up at him. "Ciroen, I—"

A single eloquent look silenced him. "Peace, Captain Betz. We will do this my way."

"For now," Betz grumbled, but he backed off.

Ciroen looked at Kressa, and his mind slipped smoothly into hers. She raised her defenses, but he only brushed the barriers, then he pulled back his probe and gazed down at her with a horrifying gentleness.

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Kressa swallowed hard and tried to look away, but Ciroen's eyes held hers with an almost physical tenacity.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You are Kressa Bryant, an Enemy of Unity," he said, the capitalizations plain in his tone.

Kressa tore her gaze from his and looked to where Betz stood sulking behind him. "I think the Patrol's been distorting my reputation."

"Your exploits are well known," Ciroen said.

Indignation flared at the th'Maran's unvoiced accusations, and Kressa whipped her attention back to him. "My exploits according to who? The Patrol? How can you claim to be a practicer of unity when you listen to only one side?"

Ciroen tensed and took a step closer to her, his eyes narrowed in an expression that looked out of place on his otherwise placid features.

Kressa met the hard look with one of her own. Truth hurts, does it?

An instant later, Ciroen's expression softened again, and the taut muscles of his neck and jaw relaxed. Tranquility flowed from him until his entire being radiated control.

"You must be shown the virtues of Unity," he said quietly. "You cannot deny them forever. Our people are meant to join. We do not wish to destroy you, only to show you the truth."

Betz started to speak, then seemed to think better of it and returned to his silent glower.

"I don't think you've discussed your plans with the Patrol," Kressa said to Ciroen. "They have other things in mind for my people. And for yours."

Ciroen continued to watch her. "The Patrol, too, can be shown."

"Ciroen…" Betz growled.

The th'Maran turned his head at Betz's threatening tone, anger again clouding his expression.

The Patrolman clamped his mouth shut.

Ciroen calmed as quickly as the anger had come upon him and turned back to Kressa. "There are those on the Free Worlds who oppose Unity. We must know of these people, the Guard, and of the black ship that aids them."

Kressa studied the th'Maran briefly. Why ask her for information instead of going into her mind and taking it? Perhaps these th'Maran weren't as powerful as she feared. Perhaps they did have limitations.

"I have nothing to tell you," she said.

"You know of the Guard," Ciroen said. "Your freighter was seen with the black ship. Tell us who they are."

"I have nothing to—"

"You'll get nothing from her this way, Ciroen!" Betz shoved past the th'Maran and glared down at Kressa. "If you want something from this one, you've got to use methods she understands."

Ciroen answered without taking his eyes from Kressa. "She must be delivered to Eminence, Captain Betz. There is a Triad there. They will get the information from her."

Betz wheeled to face him. "I will get it from her. This is my mission. I recognized her ship. She is mine!"

Ciroen gave the Patrolman a long look. The th'Maran's features remained composed, but barely contained emotion churned just beneath his control, strong enough for Kressa to sense brushing against her awareness.

"You may do whatever you feel is necessary, Captain," Ciroen said. "She is, as you say, yours. But be cautious, the Triad needs a living subject."

Ciroen turned and stepped toward the door, and Saunorel followed. When the th'Maran woman reached the opening, she paused and glanced over her shoulder at Kressa, her brow furrowed, a slight frown on her lips.

Kressa held her gaze until the door closed, and then returned her attention to Betz, determined to put on a confident front. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what a Triad is, eh, Betz?"

He laughed sardonically. "You don't want to know about the Triad. Give me the information I want, and I'll make sure you never meet them."

Kressa shook her head. "Sorry. Like I told your pale boss, I have nothing to say."

Betz scowled, then he drew a thin-bladed knife from a sheath at his belt and began to toy with it. He felt the edge of the blade with the ball of his thumb and tested the point with a cautious fingertip.

Kressa eyed the weapon suspiciously. A Patrolman's standard arsenal did not include a blade, and she feared Betz had brought this one specifically with her in mind.

"One way or another," he said, his inspection of the knife complete, "I'm going to enjoy this. If you don't talk now, it will simply mean your father will need to—"

Kressa swallowed a surprised gasp, and Betz's dour expression brightened.

"Surprised?" he asked coyly. "Your relationship to the admiral is not as secret as either of you believe. Perhaps if there was not such a strong family resemblance…" He brought the knife close to her face.

She tried to pull away, but the guard tightened his grip.

Betz set the tip of the blade against her left temple and let it slide down her cheek and along her jaw, its razor edge scratching delicately against her skin. He eased the point under her chin, forcing her head back, and studied her face.

"Yes," he purred, "an amazing resemblance." He flicked the knife away, cutting deep.

Kressa suppressed a cry, then sat stone-faced as a trail of blood rolled under her chin and along her throat.

Betz pinched the tip of the knife between a thumb and forefinger to remove the blood that clung to it. "But let us not linger on you and your father." He rubbed his fingers together to wipe away the crimson stain. "Let us discuss you and the Guard." He bent close to her. "Talk to me, Bryant. Make it easy on yourself."

She met his eyes but remained silent.

"You're damned stubborn." He peered at her closer, as if truly seeing her for the first time. "But very beautiful." He ran the back of his index finger down her cheek, tracing the path the knife had drawn, and then slid his hand behind her head. He began to gently knead her neck, then bent closer still, a crooked smile on his lips.

Kressa closed her eyes, convinced both he and the guard could hear the terrified pounding of her heart.

"So beautiful," Betz whispered, his lips millimeters from her skin. He twisted his fingers into her hair and wrenched her head back. "What a waste!"

Kressa's eyes flew open.

"What is that black ship?!" Betz demanded, his breath hot on her skin. He pressed the knife against her throat. "Who does it belong to?"

She clenched her jaw.

With a snort of disgust, Betz jerked the knife away and snapped her head forward.

Head hanging, Kressa took a deep, shuddering breath and called up a mental technique she had learned on Ilek. She focused her attention inward, banishing all sense of her surroundings. Her breathing slowed, became shallow; her eyelids drooped shut, and reality drifted away…

Awareness returned a seeming millennium later, striking with a heavy backhand.

"No tricks, bitch!"

Kressa gasped in pain and dull surprise. She lurched forward. Her sudden move broke the guard's hold, and her shoulder caught Betz square in the groin.

The Patrolman doubled over, a strangled scream caught in his throat, and his knife clattered to the floor. The guard grabbed Kressa and jerked her back onto the stool.

Betz straightened after several long moments, breathing hard, rage plain in every line of his body. He limped forward, scooped the knife from the floor, and jammed it into its sheath. He glared at Kressa for several seconds, and then slapped her hard. He brought his hand back for a second blow, then a third. He continued to hit her.

Through the haze of pain, Kressa heard his rasping breath and his grunts of satisfaction as each blow landed. Finally, the assault ended.

Kressa's face burned, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

Betz stood before her, taking slow, deep breaths. "Now, about the black ship…" His calm tone feigned disinterest in the beating.

Kressa stared at the floor.

Betz grabbed the front of her shirt with one hand and yanked her to her feet. He took her throbbing face in his free hand, his eyes blazing into hers. "Look at me when I talk to you, Bryant! Got that?"

She held his gaze, glaring her defiance.

His fingertips dug into the tender skin of her face. "Are you going to talk now?"

She continued to glare.

"I can't hear you." He shook her. "Are you going to talk?"

"No!"

He backhanded her to the floor and kicked her in the belly. She groaned and curled onto her side. He brought his foot back for another kick.

Kressa steeled herself and glared up at him. "Go to hell."

With a snarl, Betz drew his pulse gun and aimed it at her head.

Helpless, resigned to whatever happened next, Kressa waited.

After a moment, Betz's angry expression faded, and he lowered his gun. "You think you've beaten me? Think you've driven me to put you out of your misery?" He shoved the gun back into its holster. "You're wrong. When we reach Eminence, you'll discover real misery. You'll find out what it's like to have your mind torn apart by a th'Maran Triad." He leered down at her. "Maybe when they're through with you, the admiral will give you back to me." He beckoned to the guard and turned toward the door.

Kressa raised her head and held it up long enough to watch the men leave. The door closed behind them, and she curled around her aching belly, her mind grasping for the soothing numbness of unconsciousness.