Kressa Bryant wandered aimlessly through north San Francisco’s dark streets, the pitifully small pack that contained everything she owned slung over one shoulder. Around her, the cool night air hummed with the passage of ground, air, and space traffic to the south. Local bars throbbed with music and raucous conversation, and the crumbling buildings shuddered as a starship landed at one of the nearby ports.

  Rough laughter sounded behind Kressa, and she glanced over her shoulder. Several meters back, two men shadowed her path. She pursed her lips in a worried frown. Were they following her? Easy enough to determine.

  She turned left at the next corner and ducked into a narrow alley partway down the block. The reek of urine and rotting debris assaulted her; the alley’s high walls gathered the city sounds and muffled them to a dull roar.

  Kressa shut out the distant sounds and tuned her senses closer, back the way she’d come. The quiet mumble of a conversation drifted over the background noises, accompanied by a pair of unhurried footsteps. She held her breath.

  The men moved closer, paused, and then crossed the intersection where she had turned the corner. Their footfalls receded, and she relaxed.

  A rustle from behind whirled her around. She dropped into a fighting stance and whipped her knife from its boot-top sheath.

  Something groaned from the dark recesses of the alley, low and pain-filled, and a weak male voice called, “Boy? Boy, can you…?” The voice trailed off with a moan.

  Kressa stared into the dimness, dark eyes wide to gather light. It did not surprise her to be mistaken for a boy. She wore her black hair short and her clothing loose in an attempt to hide the fact that she was a nineteen-year-old girl graced—or, in her opinion, cursed—with the genetically perfected looks of the United Galaxy’s elite.

  “Who’s there?” she called, struggling to keep her apprehension from her voice.

  Another groan drifted from deep in the alley. The agonized sound twisted her gut, and she gripped her knife tighter.

  Something moved in the pile of discarded boxes and rubbish that clogged the narrow passage ahead.

  Kressa cast a brief glance over her shoulder to be sure no one had entered the alley behind her, and then she crept forward, eyes straining in the dark.

  Low clouds reflected the light from the brightly lit south city in a dim glow, faintly illuminating the debris. A bloody arm and hand jutted from the trash.

  She tightened her jaw and continued forward, her knife held close, ready to use.

  A man’s battered body sprawled on the rubbish. Kressa guessed he was perhaps thirty years old, although the dim light and the man's ragged state made it hard to know for sure. Feverish eyes gazed up at her from a pallid face. The hand groped for a clear spot on the alley floor and levered the body into a half-sitting position. The motion sent a sour odor drifting from the litter, and she wrinkled her nose at the stench.

  “You… do me a favor?” the man asked.

  Kressa noted his once fine clothing, now ruined by deep, bloody wounds; the bits of expensive jewelry that adorned ear, throat, and wrist; the pain-clouded features of a face that had never been handsome and was now a pale mask of approaching death.

  “What’s in it for me?” she asked.

  The man smiled, a grimace of lips pinched tight in pain. He raised an unsteady hand and gestured at himself. “Take what you want. I… won’t be needing it.”

  “Yeah. All right.” She cast another wary look over her shoulder, and then turned back to the man. “Who did this to you?”

  “You—know the ports?”

  She nodded. “I grew up around here.”

  He reached toward a pocket on the front of his jacket and then abandoned the attempt with a moan. He motioned toward it with his chin.

  Kressa reached forward cautiously and removed a keycard from the pocket.

  “My ship—the Conquest,” the man said, each word a struggle. “She’s at… Rostenport, hangar three. Find a pilot. Have them take the ship to Varen, on Arecia…” He drew a ragged breath and pushed himself up straighter against the garbage. “Tell them Cam… Cameron Thorne. My name.”

  “Tell who?” Kressa sensed how little time the man had left, while another part of her chattered on about what he’d said. A ship? It must be a one-man vessel, but what type? A small yacht? A courier? Or—dare she hope—a freighter?

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  “Go to—Cartun-al Tavern, in Varen. Talk to… B’Okhaim. Tell him what happened.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Code,” Thorne said, his voice barely discernible over the echo of sounds in the alley.

  She leaned closer. “What code?”

  “To—get in. Panel under scanner. Remember. Six six nine oh three five… seven two.”

  She repeated the number, committing it to memory.

  “Good. Now—” Harsh, wet coughs wracked Thorne’s body. He rolled onto his side, choking up blood, then lay still for a long time. At last, he spoke again. “Tell Connie she’s been a hell of a companion…” His voice trailed off in a low moan, and he remained quiet for so long that Kressa thought he was dead, but then his hand twitched, waving her closer.

  She knelt beside him. “Thorne?”

  “Tell Teresa… my daughter. Tell her daddy’ll be home to take her to the—Carver Day parade.” His eyes rolled to focus blearily on Kressa. “Tell her?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, convinced Thorne was completely delirious. “Sure, I’ll tell her.”

  She made the promise to a dead man.

  * * *

  Seated at the bar in a noisy north-city tavern, Kressa stared at the keycard Thorne had given her and pondered what he’d said.

  His ship. Rostenport. Hangar three.

  Should she use the card to try to get a look at the ship, or should she sell the card and the information he’d given her to another pilot?

  “Want something to drink, miss?” a man asked, pulling Kressa from her thoughts.

  She looked up into the bright blue eyes of the ruddy-faced bartender and set the keycard on the moisture-ringed surface in front of her. “I’ll take a C ‘n’ K.”

  The man prepared her order and placed the glass beside the card. She paid for the drink with Thorne’s money, took a sip, and gazed around the room. A wave of nostalgia washed over her.

  Three years ago in this San Francisco tavern, she had met Tempo, captain of the freighter Darsan. Less than three hours ago, she had left him. On his request. Her thrice-damned looks had caused one too many conflicts among his all-male crew. Departing the Darsan had left her with nowhere to go and nothing to do. She looked at the card again.

  Rostenport. Thorne’s ship. Mine now?

  She took a deep breath. The odors of alcohol, sweat, and the sweet-spicy smoke of liftsticks filled the air. The strident blare of music and laughter, the squawk of voices, and the clink and rattle of glassware dinned in the crowded room. At the far end of the bar, a lone woman perched on a stool, watching her.

  Based on her heavily made-up looks, Kressa guessed the woman was nearing the end of her prime; she did not need to guess her profession. The woman’s flashy, revealing outfit, bright body paint and glo-tats, and provocative stance advertised her availability to anyone who could afford her. She was what Tempo would call a “cold glove.”

  Kressa shuddered and looked away. Was the glove a glimpse of her future? Would she end up as nothing more than a temporary bit of amusement for whoever had the credits to pay for a few minutes of her time?

  No, she vowed. Never.

  It was true she had used her looks to catch Tempo’s eye, and she’d spent most nights in his bed, but that had been a means to an end, one they both enjoyed. In her three years on board the Darsan, she had learned the life of a free trader, the tricks of the business, and how and where to pilot a freighter for the most profit. Plus she possessed a base of the finest education available—attained through her childhood at the local United Galaxy Patrol Academy—and the skills and knowledge gained during the six years she lived on the streets after running away from the school when she was ten. She breathed a forlorn sigh. If only she could find someone who could see past her looks to her abilities.

  The glove slid off the stool and walked toward her. “You’re Tempo’s girl, ain’t ya?”

  Kressa shook her head.

  “Sure ya are.” The glove leaned back beside her, elbows on the bar, shoulders back, her spine arched to present her abundant wares to any interested passersby. “I seen you around the ports with him a coupla times.”

  Kressa looked into her drink and said nothing.

  “I never forget a face,” the glove said to her disinterested audience, and then smiled at a passing group of men and women.

  They answered her with leers and a few lewd promises, then continued on their way across the room.

  The glove glanced at Kressa. “There aren’t many around here with looks like yours.”

  “Maybe,” Kressa grumbled. “But I’m no one’s girl.” She nearly added that she had served on board the Darsan as more than just the captain’s plaything, but decided it wasn’t worth it. The woman wouldn't understand and probably wouldn’t believe her.

  “Where is ol’ Tempo?” the glove asked.

  Kressa shrugged without looking up. “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Aww, come on, I heard he was in town.”

  “Then go find him if you want him!” Kressa snapped. “He might appreciate the company.”

  The woman sniffed indignantly and flounced off.

  Kressa watched her cross the tavern, then she turned back to the bar and gave the keycard a final long look.

  Rostenport. My own ship. No Academy instructors to obey, no gang prime to follow, no captain to take orders from. Freedom.

  She slammed down the rest of her drink, scooped up the card and her pack, and left the bar.

  I’m no one’s girl.