Rostenport was a rundown private facility located several blocks north of the alley where Cameron Thorne died, close to the narrow strip of no-man’s-land that separated modern San Francisco from the earthquake-shattered ruins of the old city—the gang-ruled Territories where Kressa lived after running away from the Academy.

  She reached the port’s small terminal building and peered in through the open doorway.

  Two United Galaxy Patrol soldiers were moving toward the counter from the opening to the landing pad. Their white uniforms shone bright in the room’s dim lighting. They were scowling at the man behind the counter—which wasn’t unusual for Pattys—but the way their hands rested not-so-casually on the pulse guns at their sides suggested something was afoot. The tight-lipped frown on the man behind the counter supported that conjecture.

  Kressa backed away from the door and leaned against the building’s front wall to listen.

  “Find what you were looking for, Commander?” one of the men asked, presumably the civilian behind the counter.

  “Not yet, but we weren’t able to get much of a look at that crate in number three. It’s got some kind of defense system. Who does it belong to?”

  Kressa frowned worriedly. Number three? Thorne’s ship was in hangar three. Why would the Pattys want to search it? For that matter, why were they searching all the ships, as the commander’s words suggested?

  “That’s Cameron Thorne’s vessel,” the civilian said. “Whatever you’re looking for, it can’t have anything to do with Thorne. He’s—”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” the commander said. “Where’s Thorne now?”

  “Don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him since… yesterday, I think.”

  “Is there cargo on board?” the commander asked.

  “There could be,” the civilian answered slowly. “There was some activity near the hangar last night, a few groundcars and such. I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “All right,” the commander said. “Wait here.”

  Several seconds passed during which the sounds of a whispered conversation drifted to Kressa’s ears from another part of the terminal. She assumed the Patrolmen had left the counter to discuss their next move; she used the time to consider hers.

  Common sense suggested that if Pattys were involved, she should forget Cameron Thorne, forget his ship, get the hell out of there, and never look back. Yet if she abandoned this now, she feared she would spend the rest of her life wondering what might have happened if she stayed with it. Finally, she settled on a compromise. If the Patrolmen left the port, she would make one attempt to get to the Conquest’s hangar. If successful, she would take it from there. If not, she would dump the keycard and forget she ever met Thorne.

  “Let me tell you what you’re going to do for us, Foster.” The Patrol commander’s words drew her attention back to the terminal building. “We’ve got a couple more ports to search, then we’ll stop back here. If Thorne gets back before we do, give us a call and keep him here. And remember, we’ve got enough on you to close this place down a dozen times over, so no tricks, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man sounded as if he spoke through clenched teeth.

  Two pairs of footsteps started for the entrance.

  Kressa ducked around the corner of the building and melted into the shadows under the high port fence. The soldiers walked away in the opposite direction.

  She counted to thirty, and then made her way back to the terminal entrance. She studied the distance to the opening onto the landing pad.

  Confidence can get you anywhere, she reminded herself.

  She took a deep breath, let it slide out, then drew herself up, slung her pack over her shoulder, and strode through the doorway.

  The man behind the counter glanced up. She tossed him a casual wave and kept walking. He released a bored grunt, then the cool night air hit her face, and she was through.

  Easy.

  She darted into the darkness at the edge of the pad and made her way along the port fence to the hangar marked with a glowing numeral three. She opened the service door with Thorne’s card and stepped inside. The door closed behind her, and the lights in the hangar came up, momentarily dazzling her night vision, then she grinned in delight. The Conquest was a freighter! But her elation lasted only as long as it took for her eyes to adjust to the light and get a perspective on the ship’s true size.

  She had assumed Thorne’s ship would be a one-man vessel, otherwise his crew could take it to Arecia for him. A ship the size of the Conquest required a crew of at least four. How had Thorne expected a single pilot to fly a four-on freighter, and where was his crew? Had the same people who took down Thorne killed them as well?

  Suddenly this was looking a lot more dangerous than she originally thought. Yet she was here now, she reasoned. She could at least have a look around.

  She took a step toward the freighter, then paused. The Patrol commander mentioned the ship had some kind of defense system. She studied the vessel but saw no sign of any defensive equipment.

  She hesitated a moment longer, then walked slowly toward the ship, alert for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing happened.

  The freighter’s boarding ramp jutted from the port side of the vessel with a closed airlock door at the top. Kressa climbed the ramp and let her pack slide to the landing.

  What had Thorne said about the code to get in? Panel under scanner.

  There was a printlock to the right of the door. The milky glass of its scanplate glowed dimly in the bright hangar, but she saw nothing under the scanner except smooth, steel-gray hull. Maybe a door covered the panel. She bent for a closer look.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Nothing. Just unmarred hull.

  A finger-wide margin of dull silver material surrounded the scanplate. She squatted before it. A narrow groove separated the margin from the Conquest’s darker exterior.

  She drew her knife and stuck the tip of the blade into the groove on the right side of the scanner, then she slid it down the side and across the bottom. Halfway along the bottom edge, she met an obstruction. She pressed the knife tip against the blockage. The obstacle gave way, and the bottom edge of the scanplate popped outward.

  She swung the plate up on hinges mounted along its top, revealing a numbered keypad. Smiling, she sheathed her knife, entered the code Thorne had given her, and clicked the scanplate back into place.

  The airlock door hummed open, and her smile stretched into a triumphant grin. She retrieved her pack and stepped into the airlock.

  The outer door closed suddenly behind her, and her grin faltered. She sucked in a nervous breath and tried to ignore the sensation of being trapped.

  After a moment, the inner door opened, and she peered into the ship.

  The airlock formed one end of a brightly lit corridor. The hallway ran straight for about ten meters before turning right toward the rear of the vessel. Four closed doors were situated along the corridor: one just beyond the lock to her right, two evenly spaced along the left wall, and one at the far end. She stepped out of the airlock.

  “Halt,” a female voice said.

  Kressa froze. A recording?

  “Identify yourself,” the voice said without a trace of emotion.

  Kressa scanned the corridor again. She saw no one, and decided the voice must be a message programmed to play when someone entered the ship without taking a particular action—a minor thing Thorne forgot to mention. She took another step forward.

  “Halt,” the voice repeated. “Where is Cameron Thorne?”

  An anti-personnel turret dropped from the ceiling halfway down the corridor, the barrel pointed directly at Kressa. She gasped and took a startled step backward. The gun followed her movement.

  “Identify yourself,” the voice said again.

  “K— Kressa Bryant. Who are you?”

  “Where is Thorne?”

  Kressa eased to one side. The turret tracked her.

  “Move again and I will fire,” the voice warned with the first hint of emotion Kressa had heard from it. “Where is Thorne?”

  “Dead.”

  A brief silence followed. “Tell me what happened.”

  Kressa related the story of her encounter with Thorne. She paused once when she realized she had no idea who she was speaking to, but the voice bade her continue, and the threat of the turret convinced her it would be in her best interest to obey.

  “Thorne instructed you to travel to Arecia?” the voice asked after she completed her story.

  “Yes.” She thought it best not to mention that she had no intention of taking the ship anywhere near Arecia until she found out what the Patrol wanted.

  Another brief pause ensued. “Enter the door to your right.”

  The barrier slid aside, and Kressa peered into an indirectly lit lounge with a large VR booth, a bar, plush furnishings, and a small dining area. An open door to the left of the dining table revealed a spacious galley.

  She whistled in amazement. From what she knew about freighters like the Conquest, most of their interior living space was dedicated to sleeping quarters and a small galley. This single chamber must have been converted from the majority of the quarters—and Thorne had all but given her the ship!

  She stepped into the room, grinning again.

  A turret centered on the room’s ceiling took up the duty of tracking her movements, and her grin disappeared.

  “Sit at the table,” the voice said.

  Kressa walked toward the dining area, an uncomfortable tension tightening her shoulders. As she drew near, she glanced into the galley.

  Traders were not known for their discriminating taste in food, most of them being content with whatever issued from the galley’s food processor, yet the Conquest’s galley held a complete kitchen, not just a simple processing unit.

  The Conquest was one hell of a ship! Her ship now if not for that damned voice. And the turrets.

  “Sit,” the voice said.

  Kressa scowled but obeyed. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  “I am a Thompson-Krell Mark Five computer. Registration number 20458KD83-38F. ACC-AI revision 08935R installed on SY 4516.296.1209. Hol-OS modifications made SY 4516.352.1203. Mol and quantum memory modified SY 4517.033.1811. Additional AI algorithms installed…” There was another full fifteen seconds of the same, little of which Kressa understood. At last the computer concluded, “You may refer to me as Connie.”

  Kressa stifled a laugh. So this was the mysterious Connie whose company Thorne had enjoyed. “Okay, Connie, so you’re a fancy ship’s computer. Is that how Thorne piloted a four-on freighter without a crew?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you’ll obey me now?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Kressa frowned in dismay. “What do you mean, no?”

  Silence.

  “Connie?” she called.

  “Waiting.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the computer answered.

  Kressa stared at the barrel of the overhead turret, thinking hard. There had to be some way to convince the computer—

  She rolled her eyes. One need not convince a computer of anything. Computers simply followed programmed orders. Clearly, Thorne had given the Conquest’s computer orders to obey only him, but he must have programmed an override, some password or phrase that told the computer to obey the person giving it. Yet, other than the airlock code, nothing Thorne had told her could be construed as a password. Unless…

  She thought back over everything he said. Perhaps his final ramblings hadn’t been as delirious as she thought. What had he been saying? Something about his daughter…

  “Connie?” Kressa said.

  “Waiting.”

  “Thorne had a daughter, right? Named Teresa?”

  “Correct.”

  “He wanted to tell her— Uh…” She searched her memory for the last moments of her encounter with Cameron Thorne. “He wanted to tell Teresa that her daddy would be home to take her to the Carver Day parade.”

  “Command acknowledged,” Connie said. “Voice-pattern imprint recognition routine activated. Awaiting input of additional operator identity.”

  Kressa leaned back in the chair and smiled.