The Price of Conquest

When Kressa arrived in San Francisco, it was early evening local time. She docked the Conquest in a hangar at a privately owned spaceport near the outskirts of the old city and began a hasty shutdown of the freighter's systems.

During the three-day hyperspace journey from Arecia, the ship's gravity and atmosphere had shifted gradually from Arecian to Terran standard, easing the transition from one world to the next, but Kressa was eager to get outside and experience the familiar Terran feel as it naturally occurred. It had been a long time since she visited the city where she spent the first sixteen years of her life.

She completed her postflight checks and studied the image on the bridge's main viewscreen. Beyond the open hangar door and the spaceport's outbuildings stood the ruined north city, the Territories where she grew up after running away from the Patrol Academy at age ten.

Some sixty years earlier, a massive earthquake had struck San Francisco, the latest in a string of deadly tremors that finally convinced those people whose houses and businesses rested on landfill and the crumbled remains of buildings destroyed by past quakes that they were living on borrowed time. Wisely, they abandoned the tumbled-down ruins of the old city and built a new San Francisco on more stable land to the south.

But the old city had not remained abandoned for long. Before crews could be sent in to clean away the hazardous, broken buildings, street kids moved in. A half-hearted effort was made to clear them out, but the youths knew the area too well. Finally, the Territories, as they came to be called, were left to the gangs that controlled them.

Most people expected the gang members to kill themselves off within a few months, but they surprised everyone by surviving—and thriving. By the time the authorities decided to make a concerted effort to clean them out, the gangs were too deeply entrenched in the ruins of the old city to be removed by anything short of all-out war. And so the inhabitants of the newly rebuilt San Francisco and the surrounding cities learned to live in the shadow of the Territories with only a narrow buffer of ramshackle houses and illicit businesses left over from the quake.

It was in that stretch of neutral land between civilization and gang territory that Kressa was to meet Jamar Elstra, the Guard contact who would lead her to the th'Maran.

Lowering her gaze from the viewscreen, Kressa turned her attention to the final postflight readouts.

"Well, Connie," she said, noting the positive test results with a pleased smile, "it looks like you're still in working order."

"All of my systems are functioning normally," the computer said.

"I guess the time I spent in training did us both some good," Kressa said as she shut down the last of the postflight systems.

"Hardly."

"You didn't like your vacation?" She made her way down the ramp that led from the control room into the main body of the freighter.

"I would prefer not to stand idle for such long periods."

"What's wrong, Connie, were you bored?" Kressa grinned as she walked along the corridor toward her room.

"I am not capable of experiencing boredom," Connie said, a slightly indignant twang in her synthesized voice. "However, maintaining idle systems is far from stimulating."

"So you were bored."

"I am not capable of exper—"

"Right. Call it what you like." She entered her room and made her way to the cabinet where she kept her weapons. Bending down, she opened the case and withdrew a Teneian stunner.

"You just want to see some action," she accused the computer as she briefly considered the weapon she held. The area of the city she was to visit called for more firepower than the little gun could provide. She pocketed the stunner, reached into the locker again, and removed a small pulse gun. She checked the charge on the weapon, and then straightened and tucked it into a holster at her belt. She pulled on a long overshirt to conceal the gun, and then glanced in the mirror. Satisfied with the effect, she stepped from the room.

"I'm leaving now, Connie," she said as she headed for the main airlock. "Halav said this should be a quick job, so I'm not expecting any trouble. But just in case…"

"I'll be ready."

"That's a good girl. See you later tonight."

"Be careful, Kressa."

"I'm always careful." She stepped from the ship.

Once outside the port gates, Kressa hailed an auto-cab and fed it enough credits to take her as far into the streets of the north city as its program allowed. She walked several blocks farther before catching a second cab, this one with a human operator. She changed cabs one more time before disembarking five blocks from The Edge, the tavern where Jamie Elstra lived and worked. She covered the remaining distance on foot.

The Edge was a four-storey brick dive located on the northernmost border of the neutral area that separated the Territories from civilization. Despite the early hour, a sordid collection of lowlifes packed the dim-lit barroom nearly to capacity. The odors of alcohol, cheap liftsticks, and close-packed humanity drifted from the entrance.

As Kressa entered the humid, humming tavern, a dozen pairs of eyes shifted in her direction. Some of their owners tossed suggestive comments regarding her looks, her presence there, and what she could do for them. She ignored them and headed across the dim room to a door in the back right corner, casually watching two toughs engaged in harassing the bartender.

As she moved past the bar, the harried tender stepped toward her, but one of his tormentors thrust an arm across the counter, barring his way. The tough's partner turned his head to peer at Kressa. She returned the probing look, and he glanced away.

Glad it was the bartender and not herself who had to deal with the rough-looking pair, Kressa stepped through the corner door onto a small, dim landing.

To her right, a narrow metal staircase led to the building's upper levels; opposite, a flight of stone steps disappeared into the basement. She turned left and started down the ill-lit stairwell, leaving the noise, smell, and heat of the barroom behind.

Kressa had not seen Jamar Elstra since before she quit her first stint with the Arecian Guard over six years earlier. Soon after that, Jamie had left Arecia to assist the Guard's covert Terran faction, and none of Kressa's subsequent assignments had brought her in contact with him. She wondered if he knew who Halav had sent from Arecia to pick up the th'Maran.

She arrived at a door at the base of the steps and paused to listen to a barrage of feminine giggling coming from the far side of the barrier. She raised an eyebrow and passed her hand before the door's scanplate.

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A muffled chime sounded beyond the door, and the giggling stopped.

"Enter!" a male voice called into the sudden silence.

The door slid aside to reveal a large, jumbled room. An assorted collection of furnishings and fixtures littered the chamber in an odd mixture of worn-out antiques and sophisticated modern equipment. A narrow, curtained opening led out of the room to Kressa's left, and a pillow-strewn sofa covered most of the back wall. Three young women—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—watched her from their positions in front of the sofa.

Kressa stepped inside, and the door closed behind her.

"Bryant?" a deep voice said, its source hidden behind the women.

A masculine hand appeared among them and waved them back. They moved aside reluctantly, and Jamie Elstra's angular, brown-skinned face emerged.

"Damn, Kressa, it really is you!" He sat up, grinning, and motioned the women away.

They cast resentful glances at Kressa, but stepped farther back.

"What are you doing here?" Jamie asked, looking somewhat sheepish as he began to straighten clothing disheveled by the women's attention.

"Didn't Halav tell you I was coming?"

"No, he just said…" He hesitated and turned to the three women waiting expectantly nearby. "Go in the other room, girls."

"Awww, Jame…" The women whined their disappointment, but moved toward the curtained opening.

"Go on," he encouraged them, running a hand through his ruffled, straw-colored hair. "And, Megan…"

The redhead glanced back, eager to please.

"Run up to the bar and get us a couple of beers. And get something for yourself and the girls."

Megan nodded and swayed across the room toward the door. She flashed Kressa a look of jealous distrust as she brushed past.

"I'll be gentle with him," Kressa promised.

With a pout, Megan slipped out the door.

Jamie chuckled as he rearranged the pillows and settled back onto the sofa.

"Go easy on the girls, Kressa. They don't know who they're up against."

She shrugged and took a step forward to peer left after the other two women.

Jamie leaned toward a communication console set into the wall beside the sofa and activated a control. "They can't hear us," he said, and then gave her a long look. "How the hell have you been? And how did you get down here? The guy at the bar's not supposed to let anyone through without my permission."

"He was busy with a couple of much more unpleasant types than myself."

"Oh?" Jamie's brow knitted, but then he shrugged it off. "Well, you're here now. Have a seat." He patted the pillows beside him.

Kressa declined the offer with a shake of her head. "What's with the harem?"

Jamie's face reddened slightly. "You mean the girls? They're just friends from upstairs. There's not much to do around here when I'm not working," he said and then hurried on, clearly eager to change the subject. "To answer your initial question, the general did tell me he was sending someone, but he didn't say who. And I sure as hell didn't expect you. I thought you'd quit the operation for good."

"I did, but… things change. In case you hadn't noticed, working for the Guard is no longer a losing proposition."

"How much longer do you expect that to last?"

There was enough honest concern in Jamie's tone to worry Kressa. "What do you mean?"

"You don't think Gaunis is going to stand by forever and let your Confederacy get away with independence, do you?"

"Is he planning something?" Kressa asked.

"I don't know. He's finally left Terra, so he must be up to no good."

"Has he been spending a lot of time here?"

"Yeah, he's been here quite a bit since he lost the Kinsa. He's always been fond of Terra as a power base, and I think he's been trying to strengthen his hold. He's spent most of his time in Geneva, but he made a few trips to the local base here in Frisco."

"Are your forces here holding up all right?" Kressa asked.

Jamie waggled his hand in a so-so motion. "We're surviving, but ever since Shaw picked up several of our people in London, we've had to lie low. They knew a lot about us."

"You know I was in on that London job," Kressa said. "I was supposed to pick up the guns."

"I heard that. Sorry about what happened."

She flashed him a forgiving look. "No harm done. Not to me, anyway. But I would like to know who gave you the tip about those guns."

"A guy named Garrett Atkins."

The name sounded familiar, and Kressa considered it for a moment. "Do I know him?"

"Probably not."

"Is he one of ours?" Kressa asked.

"He's helped out a few times, but I don't think it was out of any great belief in our cause. Still, he doesn't seem like the deceptive type."

"They never do." Kressa sighed. "Do you think he was in on the set-up?"

Jamie shrugged. "I guess he might have been, but he could have been set up, too."

Kressa nodded distractedly, still mulling over the name Atkins. "How deep do you think the set-up went?"

"Who knows? It definitely went a lot farther than London. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Shaw arranged the whole thing just to get his hands on someone with the Guard."

Kressa nodded again, well aware of what the capture and subsequent interrogation of the Guard's London operatives had done to aid Shaw.

"What about this Atkins fellow?" She began to pace, worried thoughts trying to worm their way into her consciousness. "Is he still around? Does he know where you're living?"

"I've seen him a few times, but we haven't said more than a couple of words to each other. I guess he might know where I'm staying nowadays, but I just moved in a few months ago." He cocked his head at her. "Why all the interest in Garrett?"

"Devin Tyler, who I'm fairly certain was involved in the set-up, had a partner named Garth Atkins." She stopped her pacing and turned to face Jamie. "Did Garrett ever mention him?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Garth was a Patty freelancer, and he got killed for his trouble. If Garrett's his brother, or some other relation, he may have followed in Garth's footsteps."

Jamie sat up straight, lips pinched together worriedly, but Kressa waved a comforting hand in his direction.

"There's nothing to be done about it now," she said. "Just keep an eye out for him. Meanwhile, I believe you have some addresses where our friends are staying."

"Sure do. I—"

The door chime interrupted him. He started to invite the visitor in, but Kressa shook her head sharply and held a finger to her lips.

Jamie clamped his mouth shut, brow furrowed in question.

Kressa drew her pulse gun.

"It's only Megan," Jamie whispered, rising to his feet.

"Would Megan signal?"

The door announcer chimed again, followed almost immediately by a muffled pounding.

Jamie scowled. "Whoever it is, they must've followed you here."

"No one followed me," Kressa said with certainty. "Is there a back way out of here?"

"This way."

Kressa followed him toward the curtained opening where the two women had disappeared. As they approached, a shriek sounded from beyond the curtain.

"Jame—!" A crash cut the call short, followed by silence.

Jamie flung the curtain aside and charged into the room. An instant later, he backed through the opening, arms held well away from his body.

The dark-haired woman stepped out in front of him, a large Patrol pulse gun leveled at his chest. She started to swing the gun toward Kressa, but Kressa was a split-second faster. Her shot burned into the woman's chest. She staggered back with a gasp, clutched at the curtain, and collapsed, tearing the material from its moorings.

Jamie glanced at Kressa.

She met his gaze, her expression under tight control.

"I was set up!" he spat.

"Welcome to the club."