His left hand cupped the back of my head, drew my face against his shoulder again. “Damned redhead,” he whispered. “You glow like a jumpgate beacon. Now, hush. Be still for a moment.”
A rush of wind rattled the leaves around us. I ducked my head further down, even though I knew my hair wasn’t that red. It was dark auburn and, after three weeks on Moabar, far from glowing. I doubted the color was Sully’s real reason, anyway. I didn’t know if there was something out there he didn’t want me to see, or if he was simply feeding his ego by playing hero. Either way, I wasn’t about to argue. My strange light-headedness had returned. I needed a moment to steady myself, find focus.
His breathing was deep and even. He turned away from me, his gaze locked on something on the right. As I was hunkered down between him and the large tree, I could only see the outline of his hand on the rifle and the dark, skewed shadows of the forest floor.
“What is it?” I asked as quietly as I could. His fingers threaded into my braid as if he wanted to unravel it. Or, I realized with a blinding flash of stupidity, as if he searched for a way to get a strong and painful grip on me.
I remembered what had been on that Takan guard’s agenda and tried to jerk my head back. Then I heard it.
A wheezing noise. A crackling. The sound that tissue paper would make if it were composed of glass. And another rush of wind, air pushing past me.
My mouth suddenly went dry.
Sully shifted his weight, brought the rifle up to eye level. The faint greenish glow of the nightscope reflected back on his face.
The crackling stopped.
I smelled something foul. My stomach clenched in response. A jukor. A vicious, fanged mutant beast with the distinctive scent of rotting garbage. A breeding experiment by the MOC, jukors were a distorted, hideous version of the imaginary soul-stealers. They’d been bred to combat the very real telepathic Stolorth Ragkirils. The government halted the jukor experiment ten years ago, when it had become apparent the creatures couldn’t be controlled. Not like Takas.
I knew the smell because I’d had escort duty with a ship hauling a pack of jukors to be destroyed. It was a smell I’d never forget.
It was one I knew I shouldn’t be remembering now.
A long wheeze, closer. My heart thudded at the sound. It was scenting for something. Us, most likely. Or its mate. If it chose us as prey, its powerful hind legs and winged upper arms would make it damned near impossible to evade.
If it was scenting for a mate, it would kill any other creature in its path in its lust.
A frightening thought. If it was scenting for a mate, that meant jukors were alive, breeding again, for MOC purposes. Perhaps even new and improved—jukors now resistant to the virus that condemned them to eight-month life spans?
Either way, we were dead unless Sully killed it first. My dagger would barely be able to pierce its hide.
Fingers tugged at my scalp. He was unraveling my braid. I mentally questioned my ghost’s sanity and jerked my head away, frowning.
He yanked it back. His breath was hot against my ear. “Your hair wrap. I need it. Now.”
I swore silently, slapped the dagger back around my wrist, then unraveled the leather and fabric laces. My hair fell almost to my waist, drifting over my arms as I shoved the cords into his outstretched hand. My mind still questioned his sanity.
He thrust the rifle at me. “Keep a lock on it.”
As I brought the nightscope to my eye, I caught a glimpse of Sully grabbing a stout, broken tree limb from the ground.
Two moons dotted the night sky, adding their light. The jagged form of the jukor almost jumped through the eyepiece at me. It was twenty-five feet from us. Upwind. Its long snout moved slowly side to side. I heard the crackling again as it flexed one wing. Barbed tips, like tiny razors, glinted sharp and cruel.
Its lower arms and legs were furred. A hide formed of rock-hard scales covered its chest and back. Only the base of its throat was vulnerable. A soft spot, unprotected.
Damned small.
I moved the rifle slightly as it moved its head.
Sully’s hand covered mine, traded rifle for a leather-and-fabric-wrapped tree branch.
“It will see it, scent it.” He put the eyepiece to his eye again, the greenish glow like a small alien moon on his face.
I understood. The leather and fabric held my scent.
“Beer toss,” he said.
I understood that too. Wasn’t a station brat in civilized space who didn’t. Old pub game.
“On three.” He adjusted his balance slightly. He’d have to move the moment the jukor sprang.
“One.” The word was a soft rustle of leaves.
I rose slowly, becoming part of the tree on my left.
“Two.”
I started my windup.
“Three.”
I hurled the branch high, arcing it upward in the clear moonlight. The dark form lunged. Powerful wings shot out, pushed downward. An unbearable stench rolled toward me just as three flashes of light erupted on my right.
Sully: springing, moving, firing.
The dagger snapped into my hand. If he missed, or only wounded it, it would be here in seconds.
A roaring sound. An enormous blot of darkness descending from the air at an unbelievable rate of speed. Wings beating, fingered forelimbs yanking itself through the trees at us.
Sully, firing. “Run!”
He hadn’t hit the jukor’s throat.
I bolted sideways, headed for the thickest brush, hoping it would snag a wing, entangle an arm.
Branches whipped at my face, but the only pounding footsteps I heard were mine.
I stopped, spun about. Saw Sully drop to the ground, roll, come up firing again as the jukor’s barbed wing slashed inches from his body.
Shit! I plunged back through the trees just as the jukor roared and slammed Sully to the ground.
2
The hideous body of the jukor reared back, then flailed sideways. It landed almost at my feet, a tangle of wings and limbs. Its long head lolled to one side. In the bright light of the moons I could see a sizable hole in the charred flesh of its soft throat.
I heard Sully cough, gag. “Hell’s ass! That thing stinks!”
I jumped over the beast’s hindquarters, fell to my knees on the hard ground beside him. “You okay?”
He grasped my arm. I helped him into a sitting position. He was breathing hard. He wiped one hand over his face, then grimaced. No doubt the jukor’s oily scent was on his skin as well.
“Hell’s ass,” he said again. The poet, never at a loss for words, repeating himself.
“You missed the first time.”
He nodded, still gasping for air. “You noticed.”
“I’ve never bagged one. Not even in the old sims.” There were no jukors in the new training sims since there were, we were told, no living jukors. And why learn to kill something that no longer exists? We had to be content to hone our hand-to-hand combat skills on simmed mind-sucking Stolorths and giant Takas. Plus the usual crazed human scenarios.
Sully struggled to his feet. I grabbed his elbow, stood up with him. He leaned one hand on my shoulder for a moment. “This is not,” he said, looking down at me, “a fortuitous turn of events.”
“Maybe it’s time you tell me what in hell is going on.”
“I will. But I think it best we keep moving.” He stepped back toward the barely discernible path we’d followed. Turned, probably because he didn’t hear my footsteps.
I was wrestling to rebraid my thick, now totally disheveled hair. I hurried up to him, arms angled awkwardly behind my neck.
“I prefer it down.” He reached to smooth the wild strands from my forehead. “I’ve told you that before. Remember?”
“Too bad.” I ducked away. Yes, I remembered. Even though it’d been almost three years. I was glad he couldn’t see the flush of color on my cheeks. I brought the braid over my shoulder, fished in my pants pocket for a small tie.
W
e picked up our pace. The moonlight was bright, the lightbar no longer needed. I kept a vigilant watch ahead, and to the left. Sully did the same, to the right. From behind we were vulnerable.
Nobody’s perfect.
But that night, nearly three years ago, almost could have been. If Sully hadn’t been perpetually on the wrong side of the law, if I hadn’t been shaken back to my senses by my ship badge pinging an incoming transmit advisory that had interrupted kisses far more passionate than I’d ever experienced. It had left a lot of questions unanswered. But it had soothed a deep ache in my heart, if only for a little while.
It had been strictly a physical attraction, aided by one too many pitchers of the Empire’s finest ale. But that night I’d desperately needed to know that I was attractive.
He’d confirmed that, in a dark little bar in Port Chalo where Fleet captains and known smugglers could leave their reputations and vocations outside the doors for a while. Then my ship badge had pinged, saving me from making a fool of myself. Doing yet another thing that would have shocked my ever-righteous brother.
Though not quite as much as the appearance of the jukor shocked me now. I shoved the troublesome memory away and returned to my habit of analyzing my situation, gathering facts. Sully hadn’t been surprised by the creature’s appearance. Had he heard that the Empire was resurrecting the project? That was one of the many questions plaguing my mind as we walked. Questions that had been stilled by a need for silence, for stealth.
But after Sully’s firing of his rifle, any pretense of a silent approach on our part was just that: pretense. Plus, my need for answers was growing. “Where’re we going?”
He pointed over the treetops, past the higher moon, into the star-filled sky. “Second star to the right—”
“—and straight on till morning? Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Lit of the Ancient Homeworlds 101. Where are we going, Sully?”
“Most immediately, to a secure dwelling within a fifteen-minute walk from the spaceport. Eventually, to the spaceport itself.”
I threw him a questioning glance. “You are suicidal.” The spaceport was MOC controlled. More Takas to the square inch than anywhere else on Moabar, save perhaps for the temple on Solstice Day.
“Most definitely not. I assure you I have a lusty”—he leered down at me—“interest in life.”
The path curved, narrowing. We were shoulder to shoulder, or rather, my shoulder to his arm. He smelled more than faintly of jukor. “I hope this secure dwelling of yours has a bathtub.”
“That bad?”
“Unique.”
“It has. As well as a change of clothing. Which is required for us to access the spaceport. Our shuttle leaves in about two hours.”
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that this might be a setup. Sully could be an Imperial agent for the MOC or any of the numerous ministries. They were trapping me, testing me, baiting me. I couldn’t figure a reason, but then, I’d never known a government to require reasons.
On the other hand, there were far more politically important and dangerous prisoners on Moabar. I was a mere pebble in the asteroid field of personalities on the prison world.
It also occurred to me that my brother could’ve hired Sully to kill me. Or to put me in a position where the MOC would. That would nicely clear up the stain I’d placed on the family name, a stain that rankled Thaddeus, though not Willym, my half brother. He was only nine, still innocent of what it meant to be part of a military family.
Sully increased his pace. He seemed disinclined to further conversation. That gave me time to think. When we approached the edge of the forest, twenty minutes later, my dagger was back in my hand. He kept just inside the line of trees, paralleling a narrow, graveled road. Behind me, it went to the spaceport. Every few minutes, lights from the tower beacons strafed our path.
At a curve in the road, he took my arm, hesitating when he saw the dagger. “Still don’t trust me, Chaz?”
“You noticed.”
“Wait for the tower lights to pass again. We’ll cross the road, pick up the path over there.” He pointed to the thick trees. “I wish our nocturnal luminaries weren’t so enthusiastic this evening. But then again, it is definitely romantic.” He let his voice drop to a sexy drawl.
“Your fragrance, Sully. I can’t tell you how it makes me feel.”
He chuckled. The lights approached, flared. We ran just behind them.
The woods closed around us again. He resumed his dogged pace. I quickened my stride. “How are we getting on a shuttle? Without the MOC noticing us, that is.”
“With MOC permission, of course.”
And MOC rifles pointed at me as I tried to board? I grabbed a handful of his jacket with my left hand, yanked. “Damn it, Sullivan!”
He stumbled, stopped, and glared at me with obsidian eyes.
I glared back. “How much did Thad pay you?”
“Thad?”
“Thaddeus. Commander Thaddeus Bergren. Second in command at Marker. Firstborn of the Bergrens. What did he pay you to set me up?”
His gaze flicked down to the dagger I held between us. His rifle was slung over his back. Foolish move on his part. If he’d studied my dossier as he’d claimed, he knew I ranked consistently high in my division in small-weapon, hand-to-hand combat. And not just in sims. I didn’t care that he was at least ten inches taller than me, outweighed me by probably eighty or more pounds. He’d have to swing the rifle around to flick off the safety, and then turn it on me. I’d have the dagger in his chest, or his throat, by then.
“Problems with sibling rivalry, Chaz?”
“Sullivan!” My warning tone was clear.
“Think, Chasidah Bergren. Who am I? Who is your esteemed brother? Spit-and-polish company man, all the way. I’m the antithesis. Even in the abstract we could not coexist. In the flesh, he resents my family’s wealth where yours had none. I’m the wastrel. He finds that appalling.” He shook his head. “I don’t know which pains me more, my angel. That you think so little of me that you believe I’d accept employment as a common assassin, or that you see me not only to be a vulgar cad but one who’d work for your supercilious ass of a brother as well.”
He’d obviously met Thad at some point. The description was accurate.
But he was right. Thad might wish me dead, daily, but there were light-years between him and Sully—in more ways than one. And I was on Moabar. That was the same as being dead. For Thad to have me killed would only be redundant.
I let go of his jacket. “I don’t like walking into things blind. What you’ve told me so far sounds too easy. If getting off Moabar is as simple as a change of clothes and boarding the shuttle, why isn’t everyone doing it?”
He grinned and, in spite of his pungent odor, still managed to exude a rakish charm. “Because they don’t have me to help them. Come on. Drogue’s waiting for us. And I’ve got to evict Ren from the bathtub.”
Moabar hadn’t always been a prison world. It was the only human-habitable world in Quadrant E-5—a region so remote it didn’t even warrant a name, like the inner quadrants of Aldan or Baris. A region otherwise worthless to an Empire thriving on galactic trade and the conquest of neighboring systems.
History vids said Moabar had been acquired as the result of the spoils of victory. Reality said Moabar was part of the Empire because no one else wanted it.
The Empire tried colonizing it, farming it. But the soils that produced lush, thick forests in abandon were caustic to edible plants. They withered, died. Colonists fled.
A scientific research team moved in next. But the atmosphere corroded their equipment. And the winters brought a strange plague-virus. Most died. Those who could make it to the shuttles fled.
So the Empire decreed it a penal colony. Well-being of lifers was not their concern. Survival of one winter’s frigid temperatures and plague-filled storms was luck. Survival of two was a miracle. Three guaranteed an immunity to the virus, but never the cold.
Yet Takas t
hrived on it. I thought of all this as I stared at the “secure dwelling.” Sully’s secret.
A Takan monastery.
The low, sprawling stone structure appeared suddenly as the forest thinned. Lights from the spaceport stroked its mottled surface, flared in its tall windows. We were closer to the port here than we were on the graveled road.
Englarian religious symbols were carved into the wood-planked gate, the arch-and-stave chiseled over the doorway. The Taka had had no religion until Jared Eng had preached to them, some three centuries past. We had vids on that too, in the academy’s required NonHuman Cultures class.
I followed Sully through a back door that opened at his code and stepped cautiously into a large communal room: a kitchen, replete with the aroma of a meal recently finished. Something tangy hung in the air. Three long wooden tables were on my left, with benches. One round table on my right, with six high-backed wooden chairs. Behind that, a long cooktop and the matte metallic doors that fronted most refrigeration units. A thick clear coating covered the flagstone floor. Our footsteps echoed to the high ceiling and left smudgy marks behind.
“Brother Sudral? That you?” A voice called out from a hallway adjacent to the kitchen.
“Aye,” said Sully.
Brother Sudral? I shot him a glance. He winked.
A squat man, human, bustled through the arched doorway. Englarian monks were usually human, though I’d heard they recently accepted Takas to their ranks.
The man wore the traditional monk’s garb of wide-legged pants and high-necked overtunic in a coarse, grayish-tan fabric. Thick-soled brown boots explained his otherwise silent approach.
“Blessings of the hour, Guardian Drogue.”
“Blessings of the hour upon you, Brother Sudral.” Drogue steepled his hands in front of his face and bowed.
I’d seen Drogue before, once or twice. The rank of Guardian granted him access to all MOC buildings on Moabar, just as it would in any Imperial station or port. I remembered seeing his round, almost cherubic face when I’d picked up my allotted supplies—two blankets, a folder of ration chips, and the ubiquitous and useless pamphlet of MOC Rules and Regulations—when I’d arrived dirtside, and perhaps another time after that. But Englarian monks were the least of my concerns. Sanctioned by the Empire, they were in no position to make a difference in the life of a disgraced Fleet captain, wrongly convicted or not.
Gabriel's Ghost Page 2
