Gabriel's Ghost

by Linnea Sinclair

  Details, Chaz. Efficiency and security are built on details.

  “Wouldn’t be,” I repeated. He straightened as I stood and motioned toward Drogue’s screen.

  Drogue started to rise.

  “No, sit.” I leaned over the back of Drogue’s chair much as Sully had moments before at my table. The slice of data had been taken from an Imperial transit beacon, recording starfreighter movement in Baris. Overlying that was a ship’s manifest from its departure point at Port January.

  The beacon data logged the ship’s heading, speed, and cargo category. Biohazards and any other potentially dangerous cargo were always routed through the outer lanes, away from populated stations and worlds. Away from commercial passenger traffic.

  A freighter squawking a hazard code would activate an immediate security breach when passing an inner beacon. Patrol ships, like the one I commanded up until six months ago, would pursue.

  A captain could deny what he carried was hazardous. He could claim the wrong code had been logged in his ship’s systems. But he couldn’t deny me and my boarding party access to his ship or his systems.

  I was well used to unraveling altered manifests, tweaking out hidden shipping codes. Breaking into cargo holds, if I had to. I’d built a career on it.

  I studied the data before me. Drogue was right; it was only a partial. A preshipment manifest, not verified and lock-signed. “This isn’t a final. Container codes haven’t even been entered completely in column three.”

  “Brother Verno is working on a source for the final manifests,” Drogue said. “For the moment, this is the best data we’ve been able to get.”

  Brother Verno. At some point I wanted to know why the Englarians were involved, other than the similarity in appearance between Abbot Eng’s soul-stealers and the jukors. But at the moment, the data held my attention. “This comes from Core Central Medical Designers. Their shipping codes always carry an M-432 prefix. Sometimes they ship as Core Em-Ex, but you’ll pick them up from the M-432.” The truncated data told me little more other than pickup and estimated delivery dates. But I knew Sully knew how to read that.

  “How about those four containers that are coded?” Sully leaned one hip on the edge of Drogue’s table.

  “The only thing you need to look for is this section right here: M-432-NH1. All that tells me is nonhazardous, class one. Which means no special care required. Exposure to heat, light, cold permitted. I’d say nonbreakables, hard goods. But you might,” I continued, reaching around Drogue to scroll the data to the left, “look at the container classes themselves. See, they’re not duro-hards. So we’ve got lightweight nonbreakables. You could have four gross of bedpans.”

  “Does Core Central manufacture bedpans?” Sully sounded disappointed.

  “Core Central contracts with a lot of small factories for just about everything. If you’re looking for supplies that would build a gen-lab, though, I’d be watching for shipments from Core Em-Ex. That’s their high-ticket research division.”

  Drogue turned his broad face up to mine. “You have a remarkable memory, Captain Bergren.”

  I shook my head. “Repetitive. I’ve seen this stuff almost every day of my adult life.” And much of my childhood, as long as my mother had been alive.

  Sully folded his arms across his chest. “Now you understand why we need you.”

  A good interfering bitch with a working knowledge of Marker and Imperial shipping? I was far from unique. Every other patrol captain in the Imperial Fleet had my knowledge of cargo codes. And last I knew, over five hundred and fifty people worked at Marker. Many of them possibly had knowledge of Marker’s routines and those same codes I did. But I was the only one sitting on Moabar.

  Some of my unease about my pact with the ghost from Hell subsided. “All right. Count me in,” I told Sully. “But let’s make sure of your information first.” Those five hundred and fifty Marker workers included my brother. I wasn’t going to convict them on partial evidence, or misinterpreted data. I knew only too well what that felt like.

  Newlin came back on the intraship when we were cleared for docking. “Strap down and secure. I mean it, this time.” Evidently he’d heard that ominous thump two and a half hours before. We were a little behind schedule. Newlin said only that the station was having a problem with their escort tugs.

  Ten minutes later a long shimmy rattled through the ship as she was gated to one of the station’s extended docking ramps. Two hard jolts. Clamps secure. We were probably lower level. Luggers usually didn’t rate the better berths. A tri-hauler like Diligent should be somewhat higher, closer to the MOC command center, stationmaster’s office, rec facilities.

  I made a mental appraisal of how much longer I’d be in the MOC’s company. Another five, ten minutes until we were cleared to disembark. If I ran the station, there’d be another ID check. But then, I tried to run my life, and my ship, the way my mother had taught me. Details. Ask questions. Get facts.

  If they did recheck ID, that would delay us another five. Then we had to find the lifts, find the Diligent. Fifteen minutes. Sully had said they’d file for departure as soon as we were on board.

  Half hour. Forty-five if they were having a problem with the tugs. I’d be generous. An hour. An hour to wait and then I’d be heading in-system. Free.

  It’s still too easy.

  Sully unsnapped his harness as I did. “You stay with Drogue.” He stepped away from me, headed for Ren. A light touch of his hand on the Stolorth’s elbow preceded his quip. “Showtime.”

  Hazy silver eyes turned toward Sully. “I’m ready.”

  Wilard arrived to escort us off ship. All conversation ceased as we filed after him toward the airlock. Drogue touched the wide belt at his waist, signaling I should have my ID ready.

  Okay, five minutes, Chaz. This is the toughest part. You can do this.

  Drogue didn’t know the Taka waiting at the bottom of the ramp. We went through the ritual greetings but without the easy familiarity of the spaceport.

  “Blessings of the hour to you, Brother.”

  “Blessings of the hour. Guardian?” The Taka spent much more time on our ID cards than his kin dirtside. When he tapped his vest’s comm badge and growled in a request, my heart stopped for a few beats.

  An MOC officer in a dark brown uniform appeared quickly. Female, mid-fifties. Short dark hair with one wide streak of silver on the left. Her almond-shaped eyes showed only boredom as our cards processed through a second time.

  Then her right hand rose. “Sister Solaria?”

  I’d taken perhaps two steps past her. A slight chill of fear rippled through me. I forced myself not to flinch, turned slowly, plastered what I hoped was a holy—and wholly innocent—look on my face. “Praise the stars, Sister. How may I assist you?”

  Her name tag said Tran, D. “Your immunizations aren’t up to date.”

  Minor problem. Go to Medical, get a hypospray. Not a minor problem. My bioprints wouldn’t match the real Berri Solaria’s. But they would match Chasidah Bergren’s in the MOC’s central files.

  Drogue spoke up quickly. “An error, I am sure, Officer Tran. Sister Solaria is one of our most active missionaries. She would not be permitted to carry on her work unless she had full medical clearance.”

  “I’m aware of that, Guardian, but her card file shows—”

  “Perhaps I can assist.” Ren’s soft tones flowed over Drogue and Tran, standing almost nose-to-nose.

  I waited to see her reaction to the Stolorth’s presence. Most people would have backed up a step. Or five.

  Tran peered up at the silver-tinged face under the hood. “Brother Ren Ackravaro. Back again?”

  I didn’t know if her recognition of Ren was a good or bad sign. Things were starting to look slightly less easy.

  “Final trip for a while, I’m afraid. Moabar’s winters and I do not get along.” Ren motioned toward me, knowing where I stood, I guessed, by the sound of my voice. “Sister Solaria’s medical files were appe
nded at the convent. Perhaps they were entered incorrectly?” Ren held his card toward Tran. “Ours came through the Guardianship in Dafir. Perhaps if you compare them?”

  “It might just be a difference in origination code.” Sully lightly touched Tran’s shoulder as he offered her his card. “Could we trouble you to make sure this is not the case before we must experience a delay at Medical?”

  Tran stared at Sully for a moment. Then, obviously taken in, as most women were, by that slow, sexy smile of his, she shrugged and slid the three cards through again. Sighed. “Someone logged them with the wrong parameters. They’re fine. Jalvert?”

  The Taka stepped over. I caught a brief flash of irritation in the small eyes. Didn’t like an MOC officer correcting his mistakes, most likely.

  “She’s clear. Just a skewed entry.”

  Drogue bowed. “Our apologies. We often have our young novices do the clerical work. I appreciate your diligence, Officer Tran.”

  The woman nodded, waved us on. “Praise the stars.”

  “Praise the stars,” I called back to her. For the first time, I meant it.

  No one said a word until the four of us were alone in the lift.

  “I thought we cleared up that glitch in the program.” Sully glanced over at Ren.

  “I believed we had as well.”

  How could Ren see to program if he was blind?

  Sully flashed me a wry smile. “Sorry, my angel. I guess I’m not perfect after all.”

  My first inclination was to reply with some biting comment in agreement. But two could play at this flirtation game. I went with my second. “Pity. Wedding’s off, then.”

  I was rewarded with a moment of surprised silence, then a deep chuckle. “Perhaps two weeks on the Diligent with me will convince you to change your mind.”

  I wasn’t even thinking about the next two weeks. I still needed to get through the next two hours.

  The lift doors opened on Corridor Level Seven-Blue. Brown MOC uniforms wove past freighter blues, greens, and grays, and past security’s darker gray with the telltale white stripe up the pant legs. The hulking, furred presence of the Takas towered over all.

  I was just shaking off the chill of fear from Tran’s questions. I wanted to run, board the ship, seal the airlock. We walked instead at a leisurely pace.

  “We’ll part company at your ship,” Drogue said. “We’ll meet again, praise the stars, under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “I hope so.” Pleasant circumstances sounded wonderful. “I appreciate your help.”

  “No, Sister. We appreciate yours.” Drogue held my gaze for a moment. Clearly, Sully’s mission was personal to him. I had two weeks with Sully and Ren to find out why. Not that it mattered, overall. If someone in the Empire was breeding jukors again, that was sufficient reason for me.

  “What berth are we looking for?”

  “Seven-Blue Nineteen, I believe.” Drogue glanced back at Sully, who nodded.

  We were at Berth Twelve. Then Fourteen. At Sixteen I fought to keep from quickening my pace, played my little time game in my mind. Ten minutes to board. Half hour, maybe forty-five minutes to get clearance to undock.

  At Eighteen I stopped dead in my tracks. A thin chill raced up my spine. Bright yellow security ’bots ringed the next airlock, lights flashing. Sully’s hand splayed against my back. His voice growled in my ear. “Stay here.”

  I had no intention of getting anywhere near the security ’bots, or the half dozen MOC guards and security stripers standing in a tight knot under the illuminated 19 on the overhead. Illuminated in orange: ship under security seal or quarantine.

  “Face me,” Sully ordered.

  I did, turning away from the scene that sent my heart into my throat. Drogue and Ren kept moving. Their credentials weren’t forged like mine. Or Sully’s. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. And I don’t like it when I don’t know.”

  “They’re under a Code Orange.”

  “I can’t imagine Milo doing anything to elicit that. He excels at being cautious.”

  “An accident? Crew problem?”

  “Milo’d never let anything on ship get to the docks. He knows better.” Sully frowned, his gaze over my shoulder.

  “You’re sure it’s the Diligent?” Ships switched berths for any number of legitimate reasons.

  He answered my question with a squinting of obsidian eyes, then, “Still reads so.”

  Shit. Easy was disappearing fast. “Options?”

  “Let’s cross that— Ren. Talk to us.”

  The Stolorth stepped next to me, bowed to Sully, fingers steepled. “Brother Sudral. Sister Berri. I feel a need to meditate. I suggest we return to the temple and pray.”

  Oh, shit! So much for easy. I bowed my head as Ren and Sully flanked me. “Where’s Drogue?” I asked quietly.

  Berth Seventeen. Sixteen. “He will meet us at the temple,” Ren said.

  Fourteen. Twelve. “The MOC stripers received information a certain ship was to assist in a prison break.” Ren’s voice was as calm as if he were commenting on the color of the decking below our boots. My heart pounded. Berth Ten. “That information pointed to a ship called the Diligent Keeper,” Ren continued.

  Sully was silent. A cluster of blue-uniformed freighter crew strolled by, laughing.

  As we passed Berth Nine, Ren added, “An attempt was made to take the ship, two hours past. The Diligent broke dock. However, I regret that her captain, Nathaniel Milo, is dead.”

  “Bastards.” Sully’s voice was harsh, bitter. My downcast gaze saw his fists clench.

  Moabar Station suddenly felt very small.

  Seven. I noticed Ren’s cane now tucked through his sash, as if it were no longer needed. “Authorities believe a ship, with the escapees, is due in at seventeen-hundred, station time. Manned by supporters of Sheldon Blaine and possibly with Blaine himself on board.”

  That was four hours from now. I wasn’t Blaine—I had no royal blood in my family—and I was already here. That was no guarantee they wouldn’t look at all ships making station within a much larger time window, triple check all IDs. Especially if they were watching for Farosians: a small but pervasive band of terrorists based on Tos Faros, who upheld Blaine’s claim to the throne. They maintained that their research showed the emperor’s paternal grandmother—the much lauded Dowager Empress—to be an impostor, an infant substituted for one stillborn ninety years ago. That put the succession of Prewitt II and Prewitt III in question. A shuttle accident credited to the Farosians killed Prew’s father, Emperor Prewitt II. Prew surrounded himself with impenetrable security and, as his father had, ignored the Farosians’ requests for genetic verification testing.

  We passed Berth Five. “There will be much security activity until they determine whether or not Captain Milo warned the other ship in time to abort the escape.”

  Or whether it had come in earlier than anticipated.

  The temple was two levels up. We stepped into the lift with an MOC officer on my right, two Takas behind us.

  “Praise the stars. Blessings of the hour.” I tried not to listen as my voice shook. Fear and anger, again. Just like the shuttle trip dirtside. Fear at being discovered, interrogated, tortured.

  Anger, to come so close. To be stopped—and not just in my attempt at freedom. But to be stopped from unmasking the gen-labs, the jukors. Somewhere during that trip on the Lucky Seven my reasons to leave Moabar had shifted. The picture had become larger, encompassing more than just Chasidah Bergren’s personal survival. It brought in Drogue’s and Ren’s and Sully’s as well.

  Sullivan. I had no idea what the Empire would do when they found out he was still alive.

  No, I knew what they’d do. And that’s what really frightened me. There wouldn’t be enough left of him to ship down to Moabar.

  He should’ve listened to his advisers.

  5

  The doors to the Temple of Abbot Eng the Merciful, Moabar Guardianship, looked like all
other commercial-establishment doors on station: auto double-wides in green, the color designating this level. They were flanked on the left by a wide window. But these doors were stenciled with the arch-and-stave. Through the large window, rows of benches facing a long raised platform were visible. The wall behind it was backlit. An outline of the Englarian symbol filled most of it. No one sat on the benches at this hour, but as we walked by, I caught a glimpse of a robed figure moving past the platform.

  The entrance to the temple offices was through a single green autodoor a few feet farther down the corridor. It slid open as Ren approached. That meant the temple doors weren’t locked. Locked right now would be preferable. It wouldn’t stop the MOC or the stripers, but it might slow them down.

  We entered a short gray-walled corridor with bright overheads and three doors. The one to my left I assumed went into the rear of the temple. Another, directly ahead, was marked Temple Office. The last door was just to the right of that.

  I thought we were going to the office, but Ren stopped and held out one hand in Sully’s direction, halting him. Perhaps they were having second thoughts about coming here?

  “My quarters, for now,” Ren said. “I’ll wait in the office, in case anyone else comes in.”

  Anyone else, I knew, meant stripers. Ren’s presence here was official. Ours wasn’t.

  I followed Sully through the doorway on the right. Another hallway, longer, with five doors this time. Three left, two right. The first on the left was open. I glimpsed a round table and a commissary panel. The others must be sleeping rooms. Ren’s quarters were the last door on the right.

  I let out the breath I was holding when the door cycled behind me. “How much did Milo know?” I was in damage-control mode now. Don’t accept that you’re boxed in. Gather the facts. Look for loopholes, options. There had to be options.

  Sully pulled back his hood, ran his hand over his short, dark hair. His mouth was a thin line, but I didn’t know if he was angry at himself, or Milo, or the whole damned universe.