Free Conquerors' Legacy by Timothy Zahn

for it without triggering the credit red flags Bronski had undoubtedly set up on the Cavanagh accounts.

Problem three, Cavanagh had privately added, was how to stay alive while they dealt with problems one and two.

"Your bag looks undamaged," Kolchin said, running his fingers along the material. "No thorns embedded or anything."

"Good," Cavanagh said, studying the young man's dirty and unshaven face. Kolchin was being very professional about this, certainly: inquiring closely after his employer's health, sympathizing with him over foot blisters and sore muscles and venom burns, sharing in his fears about the continual danger there. But beneath it all, despite it all, it was obvious that the young bodyguard was enjoying this adventure immensely.

And Cavanagh could hardly blame him. Kolchin had been trained as a Peacekeeper commando-trained with the best and brightest warriors the Commonwealth had to offer. The job of personal bodyguard hardly ever even scratched the surface of his abilities. Now, for probably the first time since Cavanagh had hired him, Kolchin was getting the chance to actually use his combat, stalking, and survival skills.

Cavanagh could only hope that that wasn't the real reason Kolchin had brought them down in the wilds of Granparra in the first place.

"Good," Kolchin said, checking his watch and then peering up at the sky. "You might as well get a little more sleep. It'll be another couple of hours before we can get moving."

"I know," Cavanagh said, rubbing his knuckles into tired eyes, his hands tickling against two weeks' worth of beard growth as he did so. He desperately wanted to sleep, certainly; this little field trip through the Granparra outback was as physically and mentally exhausting as anything he'd tackled since his own stint in the Peacekeepers thirty-six years ago. "I think I'll do a little work first. I still haven't got the ablative part of the scheme balanced properly, and I want to be ready to hit the ground running when we get back to Avon."

"If you want to," Kolchin said, glancing out into the darkness around them. "There'll probably be several hours after we get to the dock before Piltariab shows up."

"If there are, I can work then, too," Cavanagh growled. "And probably also all of next week, after we find out we still don't have enough money to buy the infusers. Maybe we'll wind up spending the whole war here-then I'd have lots of time to work."

Kolchin's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "I only meant-"

"I know what you meant, Kolchin," Cavanagh sighed, waving a hand in tired apology as fatigue overtook the brief flash of anger. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired."

"Yes, sir," Kolchin said, his voice studiously neutral. Perhaps he was finally getting tired too.

More likely, he was wondering whether his boss was beginning to lose it. Cavanagh wouldn't blame him on that one, either. After all, the whole reason they'd run from Mra-mig in the first place was to avoid the quarantine Bronski had planned for them, a quarantine designed to protect the startling and potentially devastating secret that the legendary deterrent weapon CIRCE didn't exist.

Cavanagh had argued vehemently against any such quarantine. With his daughter and two sons still in deadly danger from the Conquerors, he had no desire to let anyone lock him uselessly away where he couldn't do anything to help them. But Bronski had refused his plea, at which point Kolchin had ended the discussion with a drawn flechette pistol and a quiet promise to use it if necessary.

And so, of course, they'd wound up here on the Granparra mainland. As effectively cut off from civilization as they would have been in any quarantine Bronski could have devised.

"I understand your concerns, sir," Kolchin said. "But this last sale should have us pretty close to what we need. And if Piltariab was able to get your message to Bokamba-andif he's willing to lend us the difference-we could conceivably get out of here tonight."

"Perhaps," Cavanagh