Issue 13 - Ray Gun Revival

The Price of Conquest, by Mik Wilkens Pg.
time I’ll burn more than your fingers.”
He hesitated an instant longer and then, still
on his knees, he began to remove his shirt.
“Where’s the colonel and the rest of your
friends?” Kressa asked as he laid aside the shirt
and sat down to take off his boots.
He gestured toward the window behind
Kressa. “Taking back our guns.”
She resisted the urge to follow his gesture.
“When will they be back?”
“Anytime now.” He stood to unfasten his
pants.
“Liar,” Kressa said, hoping he was. “They just
left,” she guessed.
He shrugged, giving her no clue how good her
guess was.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He frowned. “To keep an eye on you.”
She knew that wasn’t a lie. “Well, you can tell
the colonel you gave it a hell of an effort.”
He glared and stepped out of his pants.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Sit down there.”
She gestured to an overstuffed chair across the
room, and went to the medkit. Keeping the gun
trained on Calin, she examined the kit’s contents,
removed a sedative drug pad, and tossed it to
him. “Use it.”
He checked the label on the package and
peeled away the protective covering. With a
despondent glance in her direction he pressed
the pad to the inside of his elbow. In seconds he
lost consciousness.
Kressa gave him another dose of the sedative
from a second pad, donned his discarded shirt
and pants, and draped his gun belt bandoleerstyle
across her chest. She considered putting on
his boots as well, but she would be much more
nimble without them. Slipping the gun into her
makeshift shoulder holster, she located a short
leather jacket in a closet and put it on to hide the
weapon.
A long, empty hallway stretched beyond the
suite’s front door. She peered down it and stepped
through the doorway to freedom.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 13, January 01, 2007
#
Kressa left the hotel through a side door. Once
away from the building, she traversed several
alleys and merged with one of Varen’s omnipresent
streams of pedestrian traffic. Among the
dozens of styles of offworld dress, no one gave
her dark, ill-fitting clothing and bare feet a second
glance.
She weaved through the crowds, relieving
passersby of a credit here, a credit there, until she
had enough to pay for tram fare to the spaceport.
She debarked at the terminal closest to where
she’d docked the Conquest and hurried out onto
the landing pad.
Following a circuitous route intended to
conceal her final destination from watching
eyes, she reached a point close enough to the
rear of the Conquest to determine that a nearby
groundcar held two watchful men, presumably
the Patrolmen the colonel had mentioned. Pulling
back from the landing gear of the small passenger
liner behind which she hid, she mapped out a
route that would bring her in near the front of
the Conquest while hopefully keeping her hidden
from the Pattys in the car. She concealed her
approach using the patterns of dark shadow and
bright light created by the spaceport beacons.
After several minutes, she reached the starboard
set of the Conquest’s forward landing gear.
She clung to the heavy structure, willing her
heart to slow its nervous pounding, and started