Kressa had first visited Varen, Arecia’s famous pleasure city, about a year earlier when she accompanied the crew of the Darsan on a brief recreation stop after a particularly profitable run. Her memories of the city consisted of a jumble of lights, sounds, and buildings, and the joyful abandon of people taking advantage of the myriad entertainments Varen offered. She remembered nothing at all about the spaceport.

  Now the Conquest swept in over that port, revealing a vast field laid out across the semi-arid landscape west of the city. Hundreds of ships, from small one-man jumpers to huge passenger liners, formed neat rows on the sunlit landing pad. Terminals, tram stops, hangars, and warehouses lined the edges of the field. East of the huge pad, Varen sprawled in a colorful patchwork, crisscrossed by an orderly network of roads and tramways.

  “Conquest CXJ-14217, you are cleared for landing,” one of the port’s traffic controllers said over the comm. “Guidance beacon lock-on 367D. Welcome to Varen.”

  “Acknowledged, control.” Kressa directed the freighter’s approach from the pilot’s station on the bridge. “Lock-on established. Starting descent. Conquest out.” She switched off the comm. “Connie, take us in.”

  Kressa watched the main screen as the freighter followed the invisible beacon toward her assigned docking site. Moments later, the ship touched down, and Connie directed her through the shutdown and postflight procedures.

  “There are two men approaching the ship,” the computer said as Kressa ran the last of the diagnostics.

  She glanced up from a readout. “Let me see them.”

  The image on the main viewer switched to show two men moving toward the Conquest at a fast walk. They wore the uniforms of port officials.

  “They’re probably cargo inspectors,” Kressa said. “Open the bay doors. I’ll meet them in the hold.”

  As Kressa entered the cargo area through the internal airlock, the two men climbed the ramp formed by the lowered cargo bay doors.

  The man on the left—a chisel-featured, dark-complexioned fellow with the tawny eyes common to many Arecians—studied her with a knitted brow and a hint of a frown.

  “Where’s your captain, miss?”

  Kressa stopped halfway across the bay and leaned casually against one of the shipping crates. “He’s not available. How can I help you?”

  “Registry says you’re carrying,” said the Arecian’s partner, a short, brawny man of apparently mixed ancestry. “We have to check the cargo.”

  She nodded and flashed a charming smile. “I’ve got the docs right here.” She held out the datacard she’d found in Thorne’s room. “I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”

  The Arecian unclipped a reader from his belt, inserted the card, and glanced at the readout. After a moment, he passed the reader to his partner. “Check these for me, Tad.” He looked at Kressa as Tad moved off to begin matching cargo to manifest. “Your captain not feeling well?” he asked.

  “Right now, he’s not feeling much of anything.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “Captain’s a heavy drinker, is he?” Something in his voice suggested he knew that wasn’t true.

  “Not usually,” she said, “but he had one too many this time.”

  “I—see,” the Arecian said in a doubting tone. “You’ve come from Terra?”

  “Yes, sir. San Francisco.”

  “And you picked up the cargo there?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s all on the card.”

  “Uh-huh.” He glanced to where his partner was conducting a surprisingly superficial check of the cargo, and then looked at Kressa again. “You’re sure there’s no way we can see the captain?”

  She shook her head and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry.”

  He dragged a hand across his chin. “Maybe we’ll stop by to see him later.” He glanced at his partner. “How’s it looking, Tad?”

  “Everything checks out.” Tad returned the datacard to Kressa and the reader to his partner. “I’m ready to go.”

  “Is there something you wanted to see the captain about?” Kressa asked, hoping to get some hint about what was going on.

  “Just tell him Lanar stopped by,” the Arecian said.

  The men started to leave, but Lanar paused at the top of the ramp and glanced back. “What’s your name?”

  “Kressa.”

  He continued to look at her.

  “Bryant,” she said. “My name’s Kressa Bryant.” Let him run that through his computers, she mused. He wouldn’t get anything; she stopped using her given name the day she ran away from the Academy.

  With a nod, Lanar started down the ramp beside Tad. They halted halfway to the pad.

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  “Can I help you?” Lanar said to someone below him, a menacing edge in his tone.

  A flutter of alarm momentarily froze Kressa’s breath, and she rushed forward.

  Two men stood at the base of the ramp, Patrol-issue pulse guns drawn and leveled at the inspectors. One of the newcomers pulled something from a pocket and flashed it at Lanar—a Patty ID.

  Kressa swallowed hard and started backing slowly toward the open door into the freighter’s living area.

  “Connie,” she whispered, “there are Pattys here. Why didn’t you tell me someone was coming?”

  “I am not to reveal my existence or capabilities in the presence of unauthorized personnel.” The computer’s voice was quiet, barely discernible over the sounds from the port. “Those are standing orders from Juric Azano. Also, there are too many—” Connie’s voice cut off as the two plain-clothed Patrolmen stepped up the ramp.

  One of the men snapped his gaze into the bay and eyed Kressa suspiciously. He gestured to his companion, and the second Patrolman stepped forward, his gun trained on Kressa.

  “Wait right there.”

  Kressa froze, heart pounding uncomfortably hard, her limbs tingling with cold dread. She stared at the gun.

  “We’ve already inspected the vessel,” Lanar said to the Patrolman on the ramp. “Everything’s clear.”

  “I’d like to inspect it again,” the man said.

  Kressa tore her eyes from the gun.

  Lanar was glaring at the Patrolman, amber eyes narrowed slightly, his features tight with barely contained emotion. “This is a free port. You have no jurisdiction here. I can’t authorize—”

  “Maybe this will help with authorization.” The Patrolman gestured, and a dozen armed men stepped up the ramp. They wore civilian clothing, but their weapons and the way they interacted with one another identified them as Patrol soldiers.

  Kressa swallowed hard. Was this what Connie was referring to when she said there were too many?

  The Patrolman with Lanar glanced at him with a gloating smile and gestured to two of the newcomers. “Escort the inspectors to my car. Hold them there until we’re finished.”

  The two soldiers led the port officials away.

  The Patrol leader motioned for the remainder of his men to follow him. He stopped in front of Kressa and looked her over with an appraising eye. “You the crew’s glove?”

  Her face burned, and she clenched her jaw angrily. “No.”

  He spent another several seconds studying her, and then smirked. “Right.” He snatched the datacard she held and passed it to one of his men. “Check this, and get that sensing equipment in here.” He beckoned to another soldier. “Lieutenant, take your people inside and round up the crew.”

  “Aye, sir.” The lieutenant called three men to him and started toward the closed airlock door into the ship.

  Closed? Kressa looked again. The door had been open a moment ago. Clearly Connie had taken it upon herself to close it. The bay’s overhead turret swung to bear on the four men. Apparently, she intended to defend the door, as well.

  “Halt!” the computer said in a toneless mechanical voice that bore no resemblance to the way she normally spoke.

  The soldiers froze and glanced at their commander.

  “Your friends trying to be funny?” he asked Kressa.

  She shook her head and fought to control her racing heart.

  “They must not think too much of you,” he said. “Think they’ll put away the gun and open that door if I turn Perst here loose on you?” He gestured to the man guarding her.

  She shot an anxious look at Perst, caught his eager grin, and returned her attention to the Patrol leader. “There’s no one else on board.”

  “Oh?” His voice rang with doubt. “We’ve been watching this ship since it landed. We didn’t see anyone leave. Are you saying the crew just vanished?”

  Kressa bit her lip. They would find out soon enough on their own. “I am the crew.”

  “You fly this big old ship all by yourself?” he asked with an overplayed look of amazement.

  She nodded.

  He glowered at her. “Then who’s playing the games with the gun?”

  “It’s an—automatic defense system.”

  “Yeah? Shut it off!”

  Kressa considered the consequences of disobeying. If she resisted, it would give the Patrol something to hold her on, and they would bring in equipment to overcome Connie’s defenses. She’d rather keep her name off of any Patty records and keep both computer and ship in one piece. Besides, she had searched the freighter thoroughly enough to know the soldiers would not find anything incriminating on board. Once they assured themselves of that, they would leave her alone and go on about their business. I hope.

  “Connie, let them in.”

  After a brief moment, the turret retracted and the door opened.

  “Perst, keep an eye on wonder-pilot here.” The leader cast a cold look in Kressa’s direction. “I want to have a talk with her later.” He moved off to speak to a pair of soldiers wheeling a heavy piece of sensing equipment into the bay, while the lieutenant led his three men cautiously through the cargo bay airlock and into the ship.

  For several long minutes, Kressa stood under Perst’s watchful gaze as Patrolmen swarmed through the bay, opening shipping crates and prying into corners.

  “Sir! I’ve got something here.” The call came from one of the men operating the sensor machine. He pointed to the doors that formed the loading ramp. “The readings are coming from there, sir. Strong, too. I’m picking up several hundred energy signatures.”

  “There must be a panel there,” the leader said. “Get it open.”

  Four men carrying magnetic releasers and prying tools hurried forward and began to loosen the thick metal plates that covered the inner surface of the bay doors. Kressa watched in dubious wonder as the soldiers dragged the heavy plates aside, revealing hidden compartments. Half of the compartments were empty, but the others held dozens of narrow plasteel shipping crates, each about a meter long.

  Kressa stared anxiously at the containers. Why hadn’t Connie told her about this? Didn’t the computer know of the compartments, or did she have orders not to reveal their whereabouts? The latter conclusion seemed infinitely more probable, and Kressa damned Cameron Thorne for getting her into this.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” the leader said.

  Two soldiers brought one of the crates up the ramp and set it on the bay floor. The others gathered around. The leader glanced shrewdly at Kressa and signaled for the removal of the lid.

  Inside the narrow container, nestled barrel-to-stock in protective padding, lay two shiny new pulse rifles.

  Kressa’s mouth fell open in horrified shock.

  The leader looked at her with a triumphant grin. “So our pretty little pilot is a gunrunner.” He gestured to Perst, his expression suddenly mean. “Get her out of here!”