Issue 13 - Ray Gun Revival

Featured Artist: Bassem Hassan Pg. 20
The Price of Conquest
by Mik Wilkens
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. The crumbling buildings
shuddered as a starship landed at one of the
nearby ports.
Several meters behind Kressa, two men
shadowed her path. She frowned. 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 noise, accompanied by a pair of
unhurried footsteps.
The men moved closer, paused, and 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, 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 darkness, black 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.
Another groan drifted from deep in the alley.
The agonized sound tightened her gut.
Something moved in the pile of discarded
boxes and rubbish that clogged the narrow
passage. She gripped her knife tighter and crept
forward, eyes straining in the dark.
Low clouds reflected the light from the ports
and the brightly lit south city in a dim glow, faintly
illuminating the debris. A bloody arm and hand
jutted from the trash. Kressa tightened her jaw
and continued forward, knife held close, ready to
use.
A battered body sprawled on the rubbish,
feverish eyes gazing up 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.
Kressa 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
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007