The Price of Conquest

Kressa struggled to make sense of what was happening as something pulled her in ever-changing directions. Up and down ceased to have any meaning, and a horde of tiny, multi-colored insects skittered across her spinning vision. The glowing bugs swept to one side, gathered in a single mass, then exploded in a bright, prismatic flash. Something howled like a fierce wind, followed by the gong of a distant bell, and she tasted flowers. Then, as quickly as they began, the disjointed sensations ceased.

She blinked and looked at the control room screens.

Nothing had changed. The unfamiliar ships and bay surrounding the Conquest sat silent and undisturbed.

"Connie?" she called, half expecting no answer. "What just happened?"

"We were brought into a docking bay by a tractor beam and set down. The bay doors closed. Three point seven seconds passed, then you asked what happened."

"That's it?" Kressa asked. Had she experienced a physical reaction to something, perhaps the stress of her current situation? She didn't normally react that way to stress—or to anything else, for that matter—so maybe it was an effect of the black ship's propulsion system. Moving that fast was bound to have some interesting effects on human physiology. But if that were true, where had it taken her? "You didn't sense any sort of… anything else?"

"A low-level detection field has formed around the ship, presumably to serve as a warning should we attempt to use any weapons."

"I don't think we'll be able to shoot our way out of this, even without the field. Can you pick up anything else on the non-visual spectrums?"

"No."

Kressa pursed her lips and struggled to remain calm. What happens now?

A door on the far side of the bay slid open, and a man stepped through.

His smooth, attractive features suggested he was a bit older than Kressa, perhaps closing in on forty standard years, with sandy-brown hair that just brushed the collar of the maroon-trimmed tan uniform he wore. A gun rested in a holster at his side. Behind him stood several similarly uniformed—and armed—men and women. They all looked reassuringly human, and a tiny slice of Kressa's tension fell away.

A moment later, the Conquest's comm activated, and the man in the doorway began to speak. "Kressa Bryant? This is Jonathan Westlex, captain of the Stingray. Please respond." His voice carried a hint of an accent.

Kressa recognized neither his uniform nor his accent, but the name Westlex sounded familiar. She struggled to recall where she'd heard it, but nothing came to mind. She studied him a moment longer. How in hell did he know who she was?

She keyed the transmit button. "This is Bryant. What do you want, Westlex?"

"I was hoping we could get together for a talk," the captain said. A fleeting smile crossed his face, and he said something to the people behind him that his comm did not transmit. They stepped back, and the door closed, leaving him alone in the bay. He looked at the Conquest again. "May I come aboard?"

Kressa muted the comm. "Connie, scan the bay. Make sure this isn't some sort of trick."

"No changes detected," the computer reported a moment later.

Which means precisely nothing. Kressa looked at Westlex again. He stood in front of the closed door, arms loose at his sides, his features relaxed.

Should she let him on board the Conquest or make him speak from where he stood? He probably believed he held every advantage. Maybe he did. She glanced at the bridge ceiling. Then again, maybe not.

"Connie, extend the boarding ramp and open the main airlock. Code C." She switched the comm back on. "All right, Westlex, come aboard and we can talk."

Kressa used the Conquest's internal monitors to watch the captain cross the bay and climb the boarding ramp. As he stepped through the inner airlock door, the anti-personnel turret on the entrance corridor ceiling swung to bear on him. He hesitated minutely.

"Keep walking," Kressa said over the comm. She could have met him at the airlock, but exposing herself to the open doorway seemed like an unnecessary risk. Besides, making him walk the gauntlet of the Conquest's internal defenses would show him she knew how to take care of herself. "Follow the corridor to its end, then turn right. You'll see the ramp up to the bridge. I'm waiting for you there."

He continued forward; the airlock sealed behind him. He didn't even flinch.

Kressa watched his progress through the ship, amazed by his air of relaxed confidence despite the presence of the anti-personnel guns that tracked his every move.

As he stepped onto the bridge, the overhead turret dropped from the ceiling and spun to cover him.

Kressa rose from the pilot's seat. "Your first move," she said, "is to drop that gun you're carrying and step away from it."

Westlex clicked open his gun belt. "Aren't you being a little paranoid?" He let the belt slide to the floor, and then backed away. "If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

Kressa picked up the belt. "It's not paranoia," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "It's self preservation. So far, it's worked remarkably well." As she spoke, she withdrew the captain's gun from its holster. It felt unusually light and well balanced, but it looked as capable of doing its job as any similar weapon she had handled. She pointed it at the captain. "Connie, you can relax."

After a measurable moment, the overhead turret retracted.

Westlex glanced up at it and then smiled at Kressa. His eyes were a bright blue-green.

"You wanted to talk," Kressa let a menacing edge seep into her tone, "so talk."

His smile didn't falter. "First, I'd like to apologize for the way we grabbed your ship without asking, but it looked like you could use some help."

She pursed her lips and gave a curt nod. "All right, thanks for that, but that's not why you're here."

"You're right." He motioned casually to the chair in front of the nav station. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Kressa struggled to retain an air of hostility in face of the man's easy-going attitude. "Go ahead."

He settled into the chair and gazed around the room. "Nice ship, but I thought a freighter this size required a crew of at least four. And I never realized they were so well armed—" he gave the retracted turret another brief glance, "—on the inside."

Kressa scowled. Westlex was right; the Conquest was far from an average freighter, but she had no intention of letting him in on any of the ship's secrets. "Get to the point, Westlex. What do you want?"

"I—that is, we need to contact the Free World Guard. I understand you might be able to help."

Kressa furrowed her brow in feigned bewilderment. "Me?" she asked innocently. "I'm a trader. I don't know anything about the Guard."

Westlex gave her a wry smile, then leaned back in his seat and rested an elbow on the control board behind him. "When you were nineteen years old, the Patrol arrested you for running guns to the Guard. Fortunately, you escaped. Over the next six years, you worked regularly with the Arecian Guard forces. You also participated in the uprising on the planet Vsuna. Soon after that, you dropped out of sight, although unconfirmed rumors suggest you may have been on Ilek. You reemerged a few years later, and since then, you've been working with several different Guard factions while staying officially out of their midst. The Patrol has a price on your head, a figure significantly higher than that normally offered for… people of your type. You have Guard contacts on—"

"Enough!" Kressa interrupted the captain's dishearteningly accurate narrative. "You prove your point. Where did you get that information?"

"The Patrol's internal data network."

A wave of surprise swept over Kressa, mingled with a healthy dose of respect. "You tapped the Patty's main computers?"

Westlex nodded. "Got in far enough to read their general information files and some of their classified stuff. We haven't cracked all of their security codes yet, but we're working on it."

Kressa marveled and then frowned, worried about some of the other things he might have discovered while poking around the United Galaxy's infobase.

"Who else's background have you been probing into uninvited?" she asked. "And why?"

"The 'who' is need-to-know only, although I suspect you know, or at least know of, the others. The 'why' was to find a liaison to the Guard. If it means anything, you were our leading candidate."

"Not to mention the easiest one to find," she said, realizing her nomadic free-trader lifestyle would have made her more available than most other likely Guard contacts.

"You weren't exactly easy to find," Westlex said. "We've been searching for you for quite some time. We thought we finally caught up with you at Arecia three days ago, but you left for Terra about the same time we showed up."

"You followed me from Arecia?" she asked, surprised.

"Not precisely followed," Westlex said, "but we knew when you'd arrive at Terra, so we made sure we got here around the same time."

"Who's 'we'?" she asked.

He sat up straight and looked suddenly ready to get down to business. "I represent a world called Teneia."

"Never heard of it. What's their interest in the Guard?"

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"That takes a bit of explaining."

"I'm in no hurry," she met Westlex's eyes, "unless there's something about why you grabbed me that you haven't told me yet."

"You're not a prisoner, if that's what you mean."

"Then tell me what I want to know."

Westlex paused for a moment, as if considering where to begin. Finally, he asked, "How much do you know about the Alliance War?"

"I know some, and my ship's computer can help with the rest. She's got some pretty extensive history archives."

"Tell me what you know."

Kressa thought carefully before replying. Her foundational knowledge of history came from what she learned at the San Francisco Patrol Academy as a child, but she knew that information was heavily slanted toward making the admirals look good. The details she learned later were somewhat less complimentary. Which version of history was Westlex interested in? Or did he have an account of his own?

"About a century ago," she began slowly, deciding to relate the version she learned after leaving the Academy, "the Alliance formed the Patrol as a peacekeeping force. The admirals spent the next couple of decades transforming it into a military machine, and then tried to use it to take over. The result was mankind's first major interstellar war. The Patrol forces won. After that, the admirals disbanded the Alliance, took control of most of the remaining inhabited worlds, and formed the United Galaxy. The planets lucky enough to escape inclusion became the Free Worlds." She paused to give Westlex a chance to comment.

"Not bad," he said. "Have you ever heard of the Westlex Colony?"

The Westlex Colony! That's where she'd heard his name before. "It was one of the colonies that disappeared during the war, right?"

"That's right. What else do you know about it?"

She gave him a bewildered look. Why not tell her himself? Then she realized he must be trying to put her at ease; allowing her to participate in his explanation rather than act as a passive listener. Or maybe he honestly wanted to determine the extent of her knowledge.

"Connie, help me out here," she said. "What do you have on the Westlex Colony?"

"The Westlex Colony charter was filed by Alliance scout Teneia Dassir Westlex on SY 4474.046. It was the last colony to register before the Alliance colonization program was canceled prior to the Alliance War. The recorded purpose of the colony was exploration and research. The colony settled on the planet Erithel with an initial population of approximately three hundred individuals and grew rapidly until the beginning of the war. After the war, Erithel was found deserted. Investigation into the disappearance of the Westlex Colony and the other so-called lost colonies suggested the colonists left by choice. There were no indications where they went. Little else is known due to loss of records during the war."

Kressa looked at Westlex, brows arched.

"Teneia Westlex was my great-grandmother," he said.

"Yeah? What happened to the colony?"

"It moved to another planet."

"Why?" Kressa asked.

Westlex gave her a quick smile. "Self preservation. The colonists realized their research could be lost or misused if the war came to Erithel, so they moved to a planet Teneia had discovered, a world only she knew of. Later, they named the planet after her."

"What about the other lost colonies?" Kressa asked. "Did your people have anything to do with them?"

Westlex's lips pinched into a thin line. "You know how destructive the Alliance War was, right?"

Kressa nodded. More than once she'd heard the seven-year-long conflict described as the first war in human history to cost more in knowledge and technology than it provided.

"After leaving Erithel," the captain said, "the Westlex colonists took it upon themselves to preserve the information and expertise that was being lost due to the war. To help them, they invited individual scientists, as well as entire colonies, to join them. They planned to reveal themselves and the knowledge they saved after the war was over, but when the admirals ended up taking over, the Teneians decided it would be best to not reveal themselves at all."

"What made them change their mind now?" Kressa asked.

A corner of the captain's mouth curled in a wry look. "I think I had a bit to do with it, along with the rest of my generation." He leaned back in the chair again. "I guess you could think of us as Teneia's rebellious youth, although we're not quite as youthful as we started out." He gave a small laugh. "We decided it was time to reestablish contact with the rest of humanity, and we figured the best way to do that would be to approach the Free World Guard. In exchange, we're willing to assist them however we can." He briefly eyed the gun Kressa held on him. "Do you think they'd like our help?"

Kressa glanced at the weapon, then looked at Westlex again. She wanted to believe his story. Based on what she'd seen the Stingray do, she knew the Teneians would be one hell of an ally in the Guard's efforts to keep the Free Worlds free, but…

"Why?" she asked. "Why come here and offer to fight our battles for us?"

Westlex met her eyes, his expression serious again. "Because we need each other. On our own, neither Teneia nor the Free Worlds can stand up to the admirals. Together, we might have a chance."

Kressa nodded tentative agreement with the captain's words. In the past, the admirals had been too busy with troubles on their own worlds, as well as their petty infighting, to pose more than an occasional threat, but that was rapidly changing. In recent years, Admiral Gaunis had managed to unite most of the admirals under his banner. That fact, combined with Shaw's recent interest in the Free Worlds, could mean trouble in the days or months ahead. If the worst came to pass, the Guard forces would need all the help they could get.

"I still don't understand why you want to get involved," Kressa said. "The United Galaxy isn't a threat to your world. They probably don't even know about it. Why not keep it that way?"

"Because we need contact with other worlds," Westlex said, a hint of strong emotion in his voice. "We're stagnating in our isolation. What good can we do the human race if we preserve their history and technology, analyze it, catalog it, discover and invent new things, but never share it with anyone? One thing we haven't preserved on Teneia is spirit. Hardly anyone there wants to do anything unless it's carefully thought out, planned, reviewed, considered, and reconsidered. Grandma Teneia's original vision of a colony to explore the galaxy, to research and share new technology, ended when we decided to become mankind's library."

Kressa studied him for a long moment, impressed by the seemingly honest feeling behind his speech. But was that all it was: a carefully rehearsed speech?

"That's a nice story, Westlex, but why bother with the Guard? Why not deal directly with the Free World governments?"

Westlex's features twisted in an exasperated look. "Didn't you hear what I just said? I'm tired of doing things by committee, and Teneia is one giant, sluggish committee. I've spent most of my adult life dealing with bureaucrats, trying to get the Stingray built. The only reason I got anywhere at all is because I'm a Westlex. Now that we're finally out here, I'm not going to waste my time waiting while more government officials try to decide what to do."

Kressa pursed her lips to hide a smile. She'd worked with the Arecian Guard closely enough to get a taste of the kind of crap the general had to put up with when looking for any sort of support from the Arecian Senate. While Shaw's sudden interest might give the Free World politicos a legitimate reason to work quickly, Westlex's plan to deal directly with the Guard was probably the wisest choice from a military standpoint. But there was still one thing bothering her.

"If you came to help the Free Worlds, why didn't you keep firing on the Esprit?" she asked. "I saw what your first shot did. You could've blown them into the black."

Westlex shook his head. "No, we got lucky. We only did that much damage because the admiral didn't know we were there and hadn't yet raised the Esprit's shields. Besides, I didn't come here to start a war. Hopefully, that little show of power will convince the United Galaxy to let us deal with the Free Worlds without interference."

Kressa scoffed and wondered who was crazier: Westlex for his naïve idealism or her for listening to him.

"The admirals are not going to idly stand by while a third party enters the picture," she said.

"We're hardly your typical third party," Westlex said. "We can take care of ourselves." He hesitated and gave her a searching look, brows drawn together. "Would you really have wanted us to try to destroy the Esprit?"

"Well… yeah. Why shouldn't I? One less admiral to worry about. One less flagship."

"But I thought…" He glanced away, his curious expression replaced by a more thoughtful look.

"What?" Kressa asked, suddenly worried where the conversation was headed. She tightened her grip on the gun.

Westlex didn't appear concerned by her whitening knuckles, if he even noticed them. Instead, he met her gaze, lips pursed and brow furrowed slightly.

"What?" she asked again and forcibly relaxed her grip on the weapon.

"Some of the things I read in the Patrol's files…" He shifted in his seat. "That is, some of the things I couldn't read. Information about your past. It's all classified under Admiral Shaw's security code. So I did some checking into his background. He had a daughter, Tara Katherine Shaw. She disappeared from a Terran Patrol academy when she was ten. Based on her description and what I'd read about you, I… Well, I assumed you were her."

Kressa swallowed hard. She had never told anyone about her and Shaw, and as far as she knew, no one had ever guessed, or even suspected. She glanced away, a denial forming on her lips, but she knew her reaction had already revealed the truth.

"Then it's true?" Westlex asked. "You're Tara?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No, I'm not Tara. I'm Kressa Bryant. Tara Shaw died the day she ran away from the Academy."

"But Shaw is your father?"

The gun sagged in Kressa's grasp, and she started to turn away. She stopped herself. "He is. Biologically. I—barely knew him." She hoped Westlex didn't notice the tremor in her voice.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

Kressa clamped down on her emotions and gave an indifferent shrug. "Nothing happened. He stuck me in the San Francisco Academy right after I was born. I got sick of it, so I ran away." She hesitated. She'd left the Academy with the naïve intention of finding her father after deciding that his visits—the highlight of her young life—were too few and too far between, something she didn't like to admit, even to herself. "I wanted to get away from all the sleep-training in math and science," she continued, "and the United Galaxy's distorted version of history. And I was tired of having Patty propaganda pounded into my head. So I left." She kept her voice cold and moved the gun just enough to remind the captain she held it. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't go spreading the information around. I can do without the bad publicity."

"Need-to-know basis only," he assured her. "I—"

A low tone interrupted him.

"Excuse me, Kressa," he said and then spoke into the air, "Westlex here."

"Aerhom here, Captain," a remarkably clear male voice said, sounding as if the man who spoke stood right beside Westlex. "Is everything all right in there?"

"Everything's fine, Commander." He looked at the gun Kressa held on him. "We're… discussing things. Did you need something?"

"Lieutenant Satra picked up some readings she'd like you to take a look at."

"I'll be there shortly. Westlex out." He returned his attention to Kressa.

"How do you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

She waved the gun toward the area where the voice had come from. "Talk to your people like that. Where's the transceiver?"

"Oh, that." He gave a dismissive wave. "It's built into the uniform."

"Must be nice."

Westlex shrugged. "It's actually fairly old tech, from before the war. We just improved the clarity and range. If you'd like, you can come to the bridge with me and get an idea of what else we have to offer. After that, you can decide for yourself whether or not to introduce us to the Guard."

Kressa considered the offer. She'd found no real holes in the captain's story—none she could prove, anyway—and he had rescued her from Shaw. Agreeing to go with him wasn't a promise to get him in touch with the Guard; it was just a chance to see more of his ship, something she felt certain would prove interesting.

"All right, I'll go." She slipped his gun into its holster and handed it back to him. "Sorry about that."

He stood up and took it.

The overhead turret reactivated and centered on him.

He slung the belt around his hips and fastened the catch. "The gun wouldn't have worked anyway. There's a biometric sensor in the grip. Only I can fire it." He smiled apologetically. "I wouldn't have brought it at all, but my first officer insisted. He thinks you might be dangerous."

Kressa studied him for a moment, trying to decide whether or not he was serious. Unable to make up her mind, she gestured toward the ramp out of the control room. "Let's go see this ship of yours."