Kressa had never felt so alone, so scared, or so convinced she was going to die. If the drugs she’d received during the last interrogation session didn’t kill her, she knew the Patrol eventually would.

  They believed she was a gunrunner, and considering the evidence they had, she couldn’t blame them, which left her with only one option—escape. Unfortunately, simply remaining conscious was becoming an all-encompassing struggle as the newest round of drugs took hold of her mind and body.

  She gazed blearily around the small, bare room where her captors had dumped her after their last round of questioning. She tried to think back beyond that, to figure out how much time had passed since the Patrolmen took her from the Conquest and drove her to this building deep in the city. At times it seemed like less than a day, yet at other moments, she felt certain a week or more had passed.

  She tried to focus on the tiny window high up on the door of her cell, but failed. Everything was a drug-shrouded blur. Even her thoughts fuzzed in and out, fading from sharp clarity to muddled incoherence. She began to prefer the painless lapses

  of…

  Incoherence.

  How long until her captors decided the new drugs had taken effect? The question rolled lazily through her mind as another lucid moment came around to slam home the reality of her situation.

  How long before they dragged her back to the Other Room and began pounding her with questions again? Maybe this time they would realize she was telling the truth. Or maybe she should make up a more credible lie so they would leave her alone or put her out of her misery. Maybe…

  Her thoughts went away again and she… dreamed? She hoped it was only a dream.

  She sat in the Other Room. Tight straps around her wrists, ankles, and chest held her in the hard metal chair. In front of her stood the stone-faced soldier who could do such agonizing things with a touch, or a slap, or the cold sting of a drug pad. Or maybe it was simply the drugs heightening her sensitivity to such excruciating levels that the brush of air against her naked skin made her want to cry out from the pain. And why didn’t they believe her? She couldn’t lie to them even if she wanted to; the drugs made sure of that. Yet they asked her the same questions, over and over, never satisfied.

  Who? Kressa Bryant.

  Where? Terra.

  What? Guns… But I don’t know how. I don’t know who.

  She didn’t have the answers they wanted.

  I don’t know. I don’t know…

  Then the bare room with its tiny window on a door that seemed a million blurring light years away snapped into place around her and she hurt. Everywhere, she hurt.

  I want to die.

  “Not yet,” said a voice.

  Dark figures moved before her. They emerged from a door that should not be there. One figure stood at the real door, the one with the window; one waited by the smaller unreal one, and two hovered before her.

  A hand reached toward her.

  Please. Don’t touch me.

  It held something near her face. She smelled pungent spice, chemicals. The hand touched her, inflicting pain, blackness, and she screamed in absolute silence.

  * * *

  Halav took up lookout duty at the window as soon as he and his team returned to the hotel suite with Bryant. Nearly half an hour later, Captain Arbiss emerged from the bedroom.

  “She’s coming around, Colonel.” He joined Halav and peered through the dark window at the lighted street below. “I’ll relieve you here. Anything happening?”

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  Halav shook his head. “Not yet. If the Patrol’s noticed anything wrong, they must still be chasing Kucera. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

  “She’ll be fine, sir.”

  Halav nodded and turned away. He knew he should not be worried. Sergeant Kucera was smart and quick on her feet, but a strange melancholy had fallen over him. It had to do with Bryant, he knew. Bryant… and Cameron.

  Damn it, Cam, what went wrong?

  He moved into the bedroom where Lieutenant Calin, the young Guard medic, was tending Bryant.

  The girl sat on a hard, straight-backed chair, a blanket thrown over her chest and legs, her arms bound behind the chair. Her head lolled from side to side as consciousness slowly returned. Calin crouched beside her, monitoring her revival. Behind the chair, Corporal Trin stood ready to quiet her if she called out. Not that his services are likely to be needed, Halav thought. Bryant was in no shape to try anything, and the suite’s walls were insulated well enough to block all but the most piercing sounds. He’d made sure of that before selecting it as a command center.

  Calin stood up as he approached. “I’ve neutralized the effects of most of the nastier drugs, Colonel, but there are plenty of others left in her system to keep her honest.”

  “Just so long as she lives long enough to answer my questions.”

  “No problem there,” Calin assured him. “She’s in fine shape considering what she’s been through.”

  So Bryant wouldn’t be doing him the favor of dying on her own, Halav thought ruefully. That bothered him. He did not like the idea of killing anyone in cold blood, especially not a young woman, no matter what she might have done.

  He shoved the thought away and squatted down in front of the chair to get his first good look at her.

  Beneath the bruises that darkened her pale skin, Bryant showed all the signs of the genetically engineered “perfection” so common in the upper echelons of the United Galaxy. Halav’s brows drew together at the unexpected sight. What was a woman of such obvious high breeding doing with a free-trading freighter captain like Cam Thorne?

  Bryant moaned quietly, and her dark eyes fluttered open. For just a moment, she looked terrified, then she took in her surroundings, and her expression relaxed minutely. The look sent a wave of pity through Halav, but the image of Cameron lying dead by her hand swept the feeling away, and he straightened to glare down at her.

  She stiffened and started to speak, but he beat her to it.

  “You’re Kressa Bryant?”

  She nodded. “Who—?”

  “Where’s Cameron Thorne?”

  She searched his eyes but said nothing.

  Calin’s medkit sat on the floor beside her chair. Halav stooped and removed a scalpel. He did not want to get rough with Bryant—not unless it was absolutely necessary—but a little threat might help loosen her tongue.

  He held up the blade and narrowed his eyes. “Where’s Thorne?”

  She stared up at him, breathing hard. “Te—Terra,” she gasped, obviously having lost a brief battle with the Patrol interrogation drugs. “Who are you?”

  Halav studied her, surprised by her boldness, but quickly realized that her reaction to his answer might be very telling.

  “A friend of Cameron Thorne,” he said.

  Her eyes met his, filled with compassion. “I’m sorry. Thorne’s dead.” The concern in her voice did not sound feigned.

  Halav lowered the scalpel and struggled to sort through the tangle of emotions that washed over him.

  “Who are you, Bryant?” he demanded. “What were you to Cam—to Thorne?”

  “I—hardly knew him,” she said haltingly. “I—found him on Terra. He was hurt bad. He said to—get his ship to Arecia, to Varen, then talk to B’Okhaim. He…” She began to tremble. Her eyes lost focus and darted wildly around the room as if watching something only she could see.

  Halav passed the scalpel to Calin with a worried frown. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “It’s the drugs, Colonel. She’s starting to fight them off already. It’s not going to be easy on her.”

  Halav looked at her again, and his frown deepened. Had Calin’s earlier assessment of her condition been mistaken? He couldn’t let her die now. She had mentioned B’Okhaim, and that said a hell of a lot about the truth of her story. Cameron wouldn’t drop a contact’s name without good reason.

  He glanced at Calin. “Is there anything you can do for her?”

  The medic watched her closely for a moment. “I could give her a sedative, but there’s no telling what it might do. With all the chemicals she’s got in her now, another tranq could just as easily kill her as knock her out.”

  A surge of sympathy tightened Halav’s chest, and he reached toward her.

  She drew back with a terrified cry, her eyes wide and unfocused. “Please. Don’t touch me.” She sounded as if she spoke from the far side of a dream.

  “It’s all right, Bryant. I won’t hurt you,” he said, and realized he meant it. He knelt before her and looked up into her bruised yet beautiful face. “I won’t hurt you,” he repeated. He glanced at the soldier behind the chair. “Untie her, Trin.”