The Price of Conquest

"How can you be sure Governor Shaw won't decide he's made a mistake and come after you?" Connie asked.

Kressa raised her head slowly from the navigation board.

It was after midnight. Only the dim light of the idle control boards and the holographic image of Richard Shaw projected from the data card Emre had given her lit the Conquest's bridge. The room was silent.

Kressa had listened to the first few moments of Shaw's message to Emre before deciding she felt too much like an eavesdropper. After that, she turned off the sound and simply watched the projection, staring at the animated visage of her father as she made her way slowly through a bottle of liquor that left her feeling numb but completely sober.

Earlier in the evening she had released the sorrow cordoned off in the back of her mind and let the pain of Emre's death run its course before accepting its truth. Emre was gone. The children were gone. She had lost friends before and survived the experience. There was nothing she could do about it except try to make their deaths mean something.

"Kressa, what if Governor Shaw decides that—"

"I heard you, Connie." This was—what?—the sixth way Connie had phrased the same question: Could Shaw be trusted?

Kressa did not know the answer.

Two Patrolmen had followed her from the Governor's Base to the spaceport, but they did not try to stop her when she slipped in one of the port's side entrances and made her way to the Conquest. They were still out there now for all she knew, waiting to see what she did next, where she went. Or maybe waiting to make sure she stayed out of trouble.

At least Shaw had lived up to one promise: Nothing had bothered the Conquest.

"I don't know, Connie," she said before the computer could come up with a seventh way to phrase the question. "I think we have to trust him. We came here with a job to do, and…" She paused. She had started to say "we can't let Emre die in vain," but Connie still did not believe Emre had ever been there. "...the Confederacy's counting on us," Kressa finished.

She stared at the projection of her father for several more minutes, and then came to a decision.

"Shaw said he could hold Gaunis off for maybe two days; I'll give him one. I'm going into town to see what I can find out about House Moorlan and the diamond mines. If I haven't discovered anything promising by tomorrow midnight, we'll go back to Arecia and tell them it's a lost cause. In the meantime, you sit tight until I get back."

"And if you don't return by midnight tomorrow?" Connie asked.

"Give me a couple more days before you start to panic."

"Then what?"

She shrugged. "Then I guess you'll just have to improvise."

"Be careful, Kressa."

* * *

By nightfall the following day, Kressa was poorer several hundred credits, but rich with information about House Moorlan and some interesting facts about several of the other Houses, as well.

The good news, and most important, was that the Moorlans still existed, but the House was in sorry shape. Due to the influx of United Galaxy-manufactured black diamonds, Moorlan had been forced to close up its mining operations. At the time, Moorlan was the second largest House on Calton, so there were financial reserves to fall back on, but those reserves disappeared quickly as people deserted the House. Yet the desertions helped streamline Moorlan and enabled them to hold off the worst of the vultures that came to feed off of what remained. Today, Moorlan lived off the income of a few taverns, casinos, and shops, and a small collection of university concessions and tourist stores. They still owned most of the virtually worthless diamond mines, but it was a sad state for the once powerful Moorlans.

House Moorlan's biggest problem today, and one that seemed to be threatening nearly every other organization on Calton, was Salkair House. Over the past several years, the Salkairs had taken over two rival Houses, obtained controlling interests in three others, and bought half the local Patrolmen. It had even been suggested that Salkair was behind the introduction of the synthetic black diamonds, having used it as a means to curtail the growing power of the Moorlans.

Kressa, as well as many of the people she spoke with, found the abrupt emergence of a single supreme House disturbing. The tradition of several separate Houses controlling the land and businesses of the planet's single large continent went back thousands of years to Calton's aboriginal tribes. When the scout ships of the Alliance arrived, the native humans simply adapted their tribal customs to the newcomers' technology. But during all of the ensuing decades of growth and change, no House had ever grown as strong as the Salkairs were today. Yet it was that very growth and change that was enabling Salkair to take over, for most of the House's power stemmed from their control of off-world goods.

Technologically, Calton was only pseudo-modern. To prevent an economy-threatening inrush of new technology, there were rigid restrictions on the import of products from other planets. Instead, local industry manufactured close, but far from perfect, imitations of off-world goods. Still, imports from other planets were not particularly difficult to procure, given the right House connections and the understanding that for trade purposes, all goods were said to have been manufactured by local industry. It was a planet-wide charade controlled almost exclusively by the Salkairs, but no one knew—or no one would say—how the House pulled it off. And it was giving the Salkairs far too much power.

But the state of Calton's Houses was not Kressa's real concern. Her interest was in contacting one of the Moorlan representatives. After losing the two Patrol shadows who began following her as soon as she left the spaceport, she'd put out the word that she was interested in doing business with House Moorlan, and then made her way to one of the Moorlan's less impressive holdings, a small bar located near one of the university complexes. There she would wait until her midnight deadline three hours hence, and hope someone from the House arrived to speak with her.

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She was just starting in on her second non-alcoholic beverage when a short, swarthy, pleasant-looking man stepped through the tavern's front door. She thought she recognized him from her dealings with House Moorlan years ago.

She had chosen a table in the back of the bright room where she had a good view of both the front and back doors, with a short dash to the latter. The newcomer's eyes met hers and lingered in brief, amused acknowledgement, as if he'd been told who to expect but hadn't actually believed it, and then he stepped up to the bar to order a drink. Kressa relaxed and tried to recall his name.

Fenner, she thought. That was it. Berton Fenner.

Fenner had always been easy to work with, and it was reassuring to know that some of Moorlan's good people remained with them.

As she waited for Fenner, Kressa's attention was drawn back to the front door by the arrival of three armed men. The newcomers had the same dark complexions as Fenner, but none of his amiable looks or easy smiles. Fenner eyed their arrival suspiciously from the bar.

The tallest of the three, apparently the leader of the small group, gestured his counterparts toward the Moorlan man, and then strode toward Kressa.

He had angular features, not unpleasant to look at, and long, straight black hair tied back and braided from the base of his skull to nearly the small of his back. He glanced meaningfully at the back door. Kressa followed his gaze.

Two dark, thickly built men entered and moved toward her. Their hands rested on the pulse guns at their sides, and they nodded silent acknowledgment to the first man.

Kressa sat up straight as the three men converged on her table. She let one hand settle casually close to the pulse gun hidden beneath her loose overshirt. Her other hand toyed idly with the rim of her drink.

Without waiting for an invitation, the tall leader and one of his back-door counterparts took seats at her table. The third stood between her and the rear entrance.

She made a final sweep of the room with her eyes.

Fenner was gone, and the two men who arrived with the leader had taken up positions on opposite sides of the room. Two Patrolmen in local uniforms stood to either side of the entrance. They watched the activity in the bar with seeming indifference.

The sudden tension in the room made Kressa wonder who was on whose side. Were those Shaw's soldiers, or had they been bought by House Moorlan? Or did they belong to whatever House her three visitors represented? The ease with which the men had come into a Moorlan establishment and taken control suggested they could be only one thing if not Moorlan: Salkair.

She focused her attention on her three visitors. "Good evening, gentlemen."

"We hear you're looking to do business with House Moorlan," the leader said, his voice low and edged with a hint of menace.

"Could be." Kressa settled back in her chair. With odds as bad as these, it was foolish to be too ready to fight.

"What kind of business?" the leader asked.

"I think that's something I should only discuss with a Moorlan," she said and took a sip of her drink.

"What have the Moorlans got that we don't?" the second sitting man asked.

Kressa silently thanked him for the information that he was not with the Moorlans, and then let her gaze drift to his two companions. "Tact. Manners." She continued her scan of the room. Her eyes paused briefly on the other two men and the Patrol soldiers at the door, and then she returned her gaze to her immediate companions. "Finesse."

No one spoke.

Kressa took another swallow of her drink, and then set her glass on the table. "How can I know what you have when I don't know who you represent?"

"Who do you represent?" the leader asked.

"The people I work for are interested in doing business only with House Moorlan," she said. "If there was any chance you could help me, I would be happy to discuss it with you. As it is—"

"As it is," the leader said and grabbed her wrist, "you are looking to do business with House Moorlan, and we are looking to do Moorlan business."

Kressa sighed and tried to ignore the man's tightening hold on her wrist. "I doubt you have the authority to represent House Moorlan on the matter I—"

"What matter?!"

Kressa tried to pull her arm back, but his hold remained firm. She met his dark eyes and said nothing.

"I'm going to give you one chance," he said. "Either you tell us your business with Moorlan or we make the remainder of your stay on Calton very unpleasant."

The standing man took a step closer.

Kressa glanced at him, wondering whether or not to take the leader's threat seriously. Should she tell him what she had come for? Certainly it would be no more risky than telling the Moorlans. But no, that was wrong, it would be more risky, much more.

The Moorlans would keep her request private, allowing themselves to start up a new, very lucrative business venture of which their enemies would be unaware. But if these men represented Salkair, and there was no reason for her to believe otherwise, they would need to make some aggressive moves in order to obtain access to any of the diamond mines. Such actions were sure to be noticed, and the last thing the Confederacy wanted was their interest in the ore a main topic of conversation on Calton where some discerning Patrol ear might pick it up.

She had to keep her business secret, whatever the cost.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," she said, pulling lightly—and ineffectively—at the hold on her wrist. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

The leader glared at her for a moment, and then released her wrist and motioned to his companions. "Take her to the car."

The two men drew their pulse guns and signaled for her to accompany them out the back door. Around the tavern, patrons looked on with curious glances. The Patrolmen did not move.

Aware that resistance would only serve to aggravate an already bad situation, Kressa allowed the three men to escort her into the dark alley behind the tavern. A large black groundcar waited outside the doorway. One of her escorts opened the back door, gestured her inside, and then slipped in beside her. The leader moved to the far side of the vehicle to sit on her other side. The third man slid into the driver's seat.

The driver keyed the engine to a quiet purr and glanced back at the leader. "Where to, Mister Lusk?"

"Downtown," Lusk said. "Our guest has an appointment with The Salkair."

The driver nodded, eased the car forward, and pulled out of the alley onto a main thoroughfare.

Kressa knew the Calton Houses referred to their top man by the House name, but she was not sure that meeting The Salkair would add to her life expectancy—not that it seemed particularly long at the moment.

For now, it seemed wisest to trust in Salkair House's need to keep her alive, and in her captors' good natures. After all, they had not been so unkind as to take her weapons from her. That fact alone suggested they meant her no ill will, despite Lusk's threats. Probably the rough treatment and threats inside the tavern were just to see how far she'd let them push her. Unfortunately, odds had it they were taking her someplace where the treatment would get a bit rougher, unless she talked.

She sighed quietly and gazed out the front window as the dark streets whipped past. In less than two days on Calton she'd had to contend with Gaunis, Shaw, and now the Salkairs, and she had seen only one member of the House she came to deal with. She was no defeatist, but she knew when she was beat. If she got out of this mess alive, she would go straight back to the Conquest and get the hell off-planet. And she was fairly certain she had a way out.

All the Salkairs wanted was the reason behind her visit and a chance to do the Moorlan's business. She couldn't tell them the truth, but if she were to play it tough for a while, and then come up with a story to convince the Salkairs she'd decided to deal with them, maybe they'd let her go to make arrangements with her employers. Except she wouldn't be coming back from making those arrangements.