Gabriel's Ghost

by Linnea Sinclair

  His sudden formal phrasing irked me. Sully the mercenary. Sully the poet. And now, Sully the pedant. “I’m glad to know you think so highly of me.”

  He slanted me a glance. “Highly enough to risk my life to save yours. I was outvoted, you know. Fortunately I rarely listen to my advisers.”

  “Really? I’d never have guessed.” Nor could I picture him having advisers. In all the years I’d known him, he’d always been the one in command, pilots and techs following his orders.

  Sully dropped back, picked up his conversation with the Stolorth.

  Drogue and I walked on in silence. We were close enough to the spaceport that I could hear the distant clank and clatter from the cargo hangars, the occasional shout of human voices, the rougher call of the Takan guards. It was a chilly night when we started, but now my body felt warm under the robes. I could feel small wisps of hair starting to curl around my face.

  Thoughts, equally as annoying, coiled and uncoiled in my mind. You know the system, Sully had said, sitting across from me in the clearing, lightbar between us and a dead Taka at his back. Therefore he needed access to military information, military procedures. He’d recited my pedigree.

  Access to military personnel.

  Why? My simplistic early assumptions revolved around money, even a heist of a Fleet payroll ship. That would be a way to divert funds to the rim worlds, and the church could be the perfect cover for getting it there. Then I saw Ren.

  During the Boundary Wars, twenty years ago, Stolorth Ragkirils had excelled at interrogating prisoners. Torturing them, before the Baris Human Rights Accord had made such methods illegal. I’d seen vids on the results of their handiwork. Or mind work, actually. That’s why seeing one on Moabar so frightened me. Perhaps the Empire had finally realized that more than inmates died on this prison world. Their secrets, coconspirators, sources, died with them as well. A Stolorth Ragkiril, well placed, could extract information that would elude even the best detectives. And on Moabar, there were no prisoners’ rights offices with which to file a complaint.

  Reason, and a NonHuman Cultures class I was beginning to doubt, told me a Stolorth wouldn’t adapt well to Moabar’s climate. And the ponds here were all poisonous. At least, poisonous to humans.

  Ren might not belong here, but the jukor fit only too well. The Stolorth would best survive on Moabar Station, providing there were no others of his kind. Because a Stolorth Ragkiril, sensing Ren’s handicap, would be duty-bound to kill him. That much I did believe, NonHuman Cultures class and all.

  We were near the main gate. Drogue touched my arm, passed me the slim ID card. I tucked it into the slit in the front of my belt.

  “And your name, Sister?” he prompted.

  “Berri Solaria, Sister of Mercy in the Order of Abbot Eng the Merciful.” I rattled off my ID number, my home convent, and the date of my fictitious arrival at the Moabar Monastery. It was nothing compared to what Fleet had me memorize over the years just to requisition a med-kit. But the consequences of an error in this recitation were vastly more serious. I tried not to think about that, nor about the nervous flutterings in my stomach.

  I ended the recitation with the ritual “Praise the stars.”

  Drogue’s face relaxed into a smile.

  We climbed a steep rampway. I glanced back. Sully flanked Ren, the ramp not wide enough to accommodate the Stolorth and the pallet. I remember how he’d shielded me in the forest, when we’d first seen the jukor.

  No, he’d seen it. And put himself between the creature and me.

  Had it been about to spring then?

  With his back to it, Sully would have been killed, immediately.

  But his rifle would have fallen into my hands. And in the time it would have taken the jukor to rip Sully apart, I could’ve killed it. I would’ve survived because of Sully’s sacrifice.

  The thought chilled me. I almost bumped into a Takan guard who stepped in my path.

  “Restricted. Present ID.” The Taka’s voice was harsh and choppy, like most of his kind. I kept my head bowed, folded my hands at my waist. My fingers drifted lightly over the Grizni bracelet under my sleeve.

  “Blessings of the hour upon you, my friend.” Drogue beamed a smile that was completely genuine. “Truvgrol, isn’t it?”

  The guard’s small eyes darted rapidly as he assessed our group. “Guardian! Blessings. Travel up?”

  “It’s time for me to assist with temple matters on station. We have a wonderful Peyhar’s Week festival planned. One in the temple here as well. Brother Frannard will be leading you.”

  “Frannard, yes!” The Taka’s shaggy head nodded. Evidently Frannard was a popular figure.

  “Will you require our ID passes? You know Brother Sudral, Brother Ren Ackravaro. Sister Berri Solaria … I do apologize. Have you not met Sister Berri?”

  I could almost feel the Taka’s gaze on me. My heart pounded in my ears. I steepled my hands in front of my face, bowed low. To a Taka. A few hours ago, I’d killed one.

  Truvgrol mimicked my gesture. “Blessings,” he growled.

  “Praise to the stars in the abbot’s holy name. May fortune smile upon you this week, Brother Truvgrol.” I raised my head slightly, handed him my card. He passed it through the scanner, barely looking at it.

  “Good journey, good journey.” He waved us on.

  I quietly let out a small sigh of relief.

  We were similarly waved through three more checkpoints before we were admitted to the spaceport itself.

  I pulled the hood of my robe closer. Even Drogue’s presence wasn’t completely reassuring now that I was in a closed building, with MOC personnel hurrying back and forth through the gray-walled main terminal. Drogue nodded at faces I would only glimpse at, nodding as well.

  “Praise the stars. Blessings of the hour.” I kept my voice bland, uninteresting.

  Sully had booked passage on one of the Chalford fleet supply ships, a squat short-hauler contracted to MOC service. The ship had come in a few hours before, might even be the one that had punctuated my first conversation with Sully with its booming entry. The ship was berthed at Cargo Dock One.

  Moabar Prison Spaceport had three docks: one passenger, two cargo. Dock One was down a short corridor that jutted off to the right. A solitary window just before the rampway afforded me my first view of the ship.

  Chalford’s Lucky Seven was a B10-Class “load-up-and-go”—or “lugger,” as they were called in the freighter trade. Compact ships with dirtside capabilities, which the larger starfreighters lacked. What weren’t cargo holds were engines: heavy-air and sublight. Luggers had no jumpdrives.

  And no passenger cabins. A ruddy-faced crew member escorted us to the lounge. His suit patch said Chalford Cargo Services—Wilard, P.—Navigation.

  “Bulkhead seats got harnesses.” He pointed to three pairs of fold-downs. “Don’t unstrap till you hear the all-clear from the bridge.”

  I watched him leave. This is too easy. Much too easy. Pull a robe over my head, flash an ID card with a religious symbol, walk off Moabar and into freedom.

  I chose a seat from the pair nearest the exit out of habit, folded down the armrests. My throat suddenly seemed dry, my hands cold.

  This is too easy. I tried to think about what P. Wilard was doing on the bridge at nav. The captain would be running through his or her preflight, doing a last-minute systems check. I knew the routine well.

  But that little voice in the back of my mind wouldn’t shut up.

  Sully unfolded the seat next to mine. “You’re frowning, Sister. Don’t tell me flying makes you nervous.”

  I was about to remind him of all the hours I’d logged at the helm when I realized our conversations might well be heard on the bridge. I answered as I hoped Sister Berri would. “I was trying to decide which of the Twelve Blessings I’d recite for our departure.” I snapped the harness across my chest. “Perhaps you have a suggestion, Brother Sudral?”

  Sully glanced at Drogue and Ren on his right. Brig
ht orange straps crisscrossed the front of their pale robes.

  “I’m fine,” Ren said.

  Sully hadn’t asked. Ren must be used to Sully’s almost protective attitude by now, anticipated it. He stared straight ahead, one hand resting lightly on his cane tucked through the straps.

  “I always enjoy the Blessing for Good Fortune through Purity of Effort,” Drogue said. “Permit me to lead.”

  “That was about to be my suggestion as well.” Sully turned back to me, dropped his voice to a low rasp. “However, perhaps later we could perform the lesser-known Invocation for the Convergence of the Male and Female Physical Essences—”

  Intraship chimed twice. It was followed by a man’s voice, sounding bored. “This is Captain Newlin. We’ve got clearance. Push-back coming up.”

  I closed my eyes, leaned my head back against the padding of the seat, waited for the jerk-and-thump as we were towed to the taxiway.

  All hatches were sealed. Ship was secure. I was either headed for freedom or into a trap. Either way, there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it right now.

  I listened to Drogue recite the blessing. Purity of Effort. I guess the road to—and from—Hell was paved with good intentions.

  The tow disengaged from us at the taxiway with a final shimmy. The heavy-airs, which had been idling, were thrown to full. A muted roaring rumbled through the ship.

  Then we were moving, rising, my back flattening into the seat.

  I was free. Or I was dead.

  4

  Artificial gravity kicked on with a thud. Something, somewhere, hadn’t been strapped down. I only hoped someone hadn’t been underneath it when it fell.

  Captain Newlin sounded the all-clear. I was already unhooking my straps. Habit. My body knew the routine, knew the feel of a ship as her heavy-airs kicked off and sublights switched on. I wriggled the stiffness out of my shoulders. The lights on the commissary panels on the opposite wall beckoned. Tea, hot, with plenty of sugar. My mouth felt chalky.

  Sully’s eyes opened when I stood. Whether he’d been sleeping, daydreaming, praying, or plotting through most of our ascent I didn’t know. I was just thankful he’d been quiet. He had a marked tendency to try to bait me. I was too tired, and too wary, to want to play his games right now.

  “Two hours to station,” he told me.

  I remembered my trip down, three and a half weeks ago. Seven of us had started our sentences together that trip. We were all quiet, fear and anger hanging heavily in the silence on the small transport ship. None of us was a fool; we knew what awaited us on Moabar.

  I was still afraid. I had no idea what awaited me on station, or beyond that. Fear sharpened the senses. Mine had to match my dagger if I were to survive.

  Sully followed me to the commissary panels, leaned one shoulder on the bulkhead as I tabbed in my request for tea. His lazy smile reminded me of our encounter on Port Chalo and made me force my mind back to the business at hand.

  “Who’s running us in-system?” The unit’s hum provided a nice, bland background noise to my quiet question, in case someone had the lounge rigged for listening.

  Sully arched an eyebrow. “You sound very sexy when you whisper.”

  I shot him a warning glance. “Brother Sudral—”

  “Drogue’s known Newlin for a long time.” He glanced back at Drogue, seated at a far table. He was focused on a microscreen slatted out of the tabletop in front of him. “And Newlin knows better than to ask questions. Or be concerned with what happens in the lounge. He’s not going to risk losing his glory-seed connection.”

  “Newlin’s Takan?” His voice had sounded human. Which he was, I realized as my brain caught up with Sully’s words. Glory-seed connection. Takas wouldn’t need a connection or a source for a narcotic that was legal for them. They could grow them, chew them, or distill them into honeylace: a nectar they used to reach a meditative state during their religious festivals.

  Festivals run by Englarian Guardians.

  Sully watched me with a bemused smile as if he knew I’d answered my own question. “Newlin’s always glad to assist the followers of Abbot Eng whenever he can. And Chalford likes to keep Newlin happy because it’s hard to find crew willing to work the Moabar run.”

  I cupped my tea in both hands and headed for one of the small tables. “He better not be doing shots of honeylace on the bridge.” Or he wouldn’t know which of the six stations spinning in front of him was the real one.

  “Not quite regulation?” Sully leaned his forearms on the back of the chair next to mine, then reached over and, with a brush of his hand, pushed my hood back. I didn’t jerk away this time. I finally caught on. Just as he baited me with his words, he liked to see my reaction to his touch. It was a game with him: let’s see just how nervous we can make this very proper, respectable, military-born-and-bred female. Whose mother wore army boots.

  I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to play his games anymore. I regarded him coolly.

  He chuckled. “Don’t fret. Newlin’s been flying this bucket for years.”

  A typical Sullivan nonanswer, which in no way reassured me the captain wasn’t in some drug-induced fog. The only thing I did know now was that I didn’t have to be cautious with my questions. “In-system, Sully. How we’re getting there?”

  Ren’s cane lightly clacked against the chair on the other side of me. He sat down, threaded the cane through a small loop on his belt. It took a moment for my stomach to unclench. He was blind, harmless. I focused on Sully.

  “There’s a tri-hauler waiting for us. Diligent Keeper. She’s a regular, but engine troubles have her momentarily delayed. Her troubles will be fixed just shortly after we arrive. She’ll head back in-system.”

  “And then?” I prompted.

  Sully knotted his hands together, glancing briefly at Ren before answering. “Then I put you to work on this small project of mine.”

  The one that needed a good, interfering bitch. The one that had made him go against his advisers’ recommendations, search me out on Moabar. Kill a jukor. The one that could yet get me killed. Moabar Station was an MOC facility. Just because my boots weren’t touching Moabar soil didn’t mean I was free. “Tell me.”

  He was still leaning over the back of the chair, his posture casual. His eyes narrowed. “I need you to get me into the Marker Shipyards.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated only a second. “We’re going to destroy them.”

  “What?” It was a good thing I’d just put my tea down.

  “Ren and I’ve spent the better part of the past year following the trail of some interesting rumors. Involving Marker. And gen-labs.” He watched me very closely.

  “That jukor you killed.”

  Ren turned as if he could see me. “I learned of a breeding pair. Sully and I were tracking them. Moabar was one possible destination.”

  I turned back to Sully. “Then you knew—”

  He shook his head. “One possible destination. Confirmed now, of course.”

  Ren made a small gesture with his wide hand. “Because we’ve learned of one pair doesn’t mean there aren’t others.”

  One pair was far too many for me. Though it was half a pair now. “If this is coming out of Marker, then it’s an Imperially sanctioned project.”

  “We’ve considered that,” Sully said.

  The definitive tone of his answer spoke volumes. This wasn’t Gabriel Ross Sullivan, the poet. This was Sully, the mercenary.

  And if the gen-labs were an Imperial project at Marker, my brother Thad might have knowledge.

  I leaned my mouth against my fist. Maybe if I didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true. Thad might well be, as Sully had said, a supercilious ass. But could he condone a project that created mutants whose sole purpose was death of any living thing they saw? Two hundred and seven men, women, and children were brutally, horribly massacred on Corsau Station ten years ago when a shipment of jukors escaped from a transport ship. It was then the Empire
realized the beasts they’d bred to replace border-patrol security dogs had evolved into something far, far from that.

  The only positive was that the jukors had escaped onto a station—a closed environment. Had they been dirtside their recapture would’ve been almost impossible. Their short life spans notwithstanding, their genetically enhanced rapid breeding rate ensured they could easily decimate the population of a small city in months, perhaps weeks.

  I pulled my hand away from my mouth. “How many labs do they have? What’s their date for project completion?”

  “Those are exactly the kinds of things that I need a beautiful, interfering bitch to find out.” Sully smiled grimly at me. “Would you happen to know of one, Captain Bergren?”

  I did. And she knew the shipyards very well.

  “You might want to look at this, Brother Sudral.” Drogue leaned back in the chair, swiveled toward our table.

  Sully turned. “You have a schedule?”

  “Partial. Brother Verno regrets he could not get more.”

  Sully swung back to me. “Marker’s made some interesting requisitions as of late. Items one wouldn’t expect they’d need for the two new Arrow-Class destroyers under contract.”

  “What office is issuing the requisitions?” Marker was a big shipyard and sometimes served as a way station for supplies going outbound to small repair facilities. Sully’s mention of schedules told me he’d tapped incoming cargo. But if that same cargo was outbound again, he might be way off in his theory about gen-labs. Though the appearance of the jukor told me at least part of his theories were valid.

  “The shipping manifests, best we can tell, are just tagged for Marker.”

  “Wouldn’t be.” I drummed my fingers against my mouth. I’d sat in my mother’s office at the shipyards for too many hours as a child. Helped her sort and code incoming and outgoing requisitions for Marker’s Quartermaster’s Office, Sublight Division. Once in a while something tagged for enviro or nav-pack would come in, erroneously linked to her files by a junior data tech who hadn’t had a second cup of coffee that shift. She’d clean up the file, send it back along with a reprimand.