Gabriel's Ghost

by Linnea Sinclair

  “Ren didn’t ask me to apologize to you. But he did give me facts I didn’t have before. They reinforced my feelings.”

  “For me?”

  I thought my subsequent actions in the corridor were self-explanatory. I was sure I broadcasted everything in the appropriate colors. But then, even Ren had questioned the source of my sadness that morning. Identifying an emotional resonance evidently didn’t include the source, or motivation behind it, even for an empath. Especially for an empath.

  Which also answered an unasked question of mine. If he were a telepath, he’d know what I thought. And why I felt what I did.

  “Would it help if I told you what I thought when you kissed me yesterday, after the Peyhar’s service? I believe it was something in the order of a desperate desire to take your robe off, with my teeth.” I stared hard at him, ignored the heat rising to my cheeks.

  A smile played across his lips. “That would be totally acceptable behavior.”

  “Not when you’re furred. And talking about adding me to your list of women.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. Gabriel, the poet, the wordsmith, at a lack. Gabriel, chagrined. “There’s no list of women.”

  “Good.”

  “But you’re still uneasy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re an empath, like Ren?”

  He met my question with a long silence. “Fear. I couldn’t bear losing you over this darkness that lives deep inside me.”

  “Is that how you think of yourself?” I asked softly. He’d told me he’d been consigned to Hell. Is that what it felt like, being an empath?

  “It’s how everyone thinks of me.”

  “Everyone thinks I murdered the fourteen officers and crew of the Harmonious. Do you?”

  “No.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Well, then.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. “It’s not the same. When the truth about you comes out, and it will, you’ll be exonerated. The truth about me is only damning.”

  “That’s not—”

  His finger pressed against my lips again. “Hush. One last question.” He didn’t wait for my nod. “Can you accept me as I am, now, on faith? With what you know, and nothing more?” He paused. “I fear that your need for facts, your need for explanations, for things that perhaps can never be explained, will destroy the only chance we have. And I’ll lose you.”

  His fingers brushed against my cheek, then tucked a strand of hair around my ear. His voice was hoarse when he continued. “I promise, I swear, I will never hurt you, could never hurt you. This is no lie.” He hesitated, his gaze searching my face. “I do not lie.”

  A memory surfaced: one of three moons had risen. We sat across from each other as we had a hundred times before, but this time, the blackness of space didn’t separate us.

  Though I may be a veritable walking list of negative personality traits, the one thing I am not, and never have been, is a liar. It’s my great downfall, Chaz.

  I reached for him as I stood. My arms wrapped around his neck. His thighs closed around my legs, locking me to him. His hands framed my face.

  “Can you accept me as I am, Chasidah?”

  I wondered what Kingswell and Tessa had seen haunting the fathomless depths of Sullivan’s obsidian eyes. I saw a ghost, locked in his own personal Hell. And a man, badly in need of a shave. And an answer.

  I gave him mine. “Yes.”

  13

  Intraship trilled, halting a kiss that could have run away into something we truly didn’t have time for right now with only two of us able to run the ship. Something I didn’t know if I was quite ready for right now. Just because I’d given Sully my trust didn’t mean I was any less confused. But I was very aware of the pain he carried. I didn’t want to add to that.

  I reached for the touchpad. “Bergren.” My voice was distinctly throaty. His arms wrapped around my waist. He rested his face on my shoulder.

  “A transmit incoming, I believe,” Ren said. I could hear the soft ping from the comm panel over the intraship.

  “On our way.” I angled back to Sully, brushed my hand up the side of his face, which was rough—through his hair, which was soft, sprinkled lightly at the temples with silver. His eyes half closed, briefly. He was still in the pleasure mode. Heat rippled down my arm when I touched him. I wondered how he did that, but I’d agreed. No questions.

  He exhaled a long sigh. “Alterations can be made to convert some of the systems, like communications, to voice response.”

  Like Ren’s clock, or the commissary panels in the temple common room. Ask, it tells you. Tell it, it does. That would help. Reality dictated we were still looking at only two of us who could handle the ship. That most likely meant two twelve-hour shifts, one his, one mine. For the next two weeks.

  He said nothing more. But at the doorway, he stopped. He pulled me abruptly against him, his mouth coming down hard on mine, demanding, claiming. Sparks danced through me.

  Just as suddenly he drew back and rested his face against my forehead for a moment. “Thank you,” he whispered, as breathless as I was. His hands found my shoulders, pushed me back slightly. He grinned, a wry, quirky Sully grin. “Regrettably, we have work to do.”

  The transmit was from Admiral Weston Rayburn, commander of the Sixth Fleet. My stomach churned for a second. The Meritorious was part of the Sixth; Rayburn was my CO. Had Kingswell remembered me?

  Rayburn’s recorded transmit said otherwise. The Empire wouldn’t tolerate such actions from Farosian terrorists looking to force the release of Blaine. If we returned the ship now, we would be granted fair treatment in the Imperial courts.

  No mention of Kingswell or his lieutenant.

  I deleted the transmit. I’d already been through the Imperial court system. Their version of fair treatment didn’t interest me.

  I went back to the desk in Kingswell’s quarters—my quarters—and retrieved the datapad. Sully checked my patches, verified everything through the command console. Then he altered the Meritorious’s ID.

  I tackled the comm panel, converted what I could to voice-mode activation and response. But things like weapons, helm, and navigation needed eyes.

  That took us almost four hours. Commissary panels still produced nothing but water, tea, and coffee, though now to voice commands. We couldn’t get the sublights to crank over seventy-five percent. That would add an extra day or two to our agenda.

  Ren looked tired, his shoulders sagging as he sat at the comm station. Almost eight hours had passed since we’d left Moabar Station.

  I pushed out of my chair, went over to him, and unraveled his braid full of lake and ocean and river colors. “There’s a hydrotub in sick bay. Go soak. I’ll rebraid this when you’re finished, if you want.”

  He tilted his head back in my hands, eyes closed. “I should be of more help.”

  “You’re an immeasurable help.” I didn’t know how to explain to Ren that much of my faith in Sully was because of Ren’s trust in him. Ren knew the facts. His acceptance became mine.

  “Go play fish, Ackravaro.” Sully watched us, leaning one elbow on his armrest, half swiveled in his chair on the other side of the bridge. “It’ll be a struggle, but I think we can handle the universe by ourselves for an hour.”

  Ren straightened, grinning. He moved out of his chair in a graceful, fluid movement. His hand rested briefly on my shoulder as he passed me. Warmth flared.

  He stopped at the hatch tread. “One million, seven hundred four thousand, two hundred twenty-one.”

  It took me a moment to place the figures. The amount Sully owed him for losses at cards.

  Sully stood and pointed toward the corridor. “Off my bridge, you swindler!”

  Ren’s laughter echoed in the corridor.

  I put my hands on my hips and faced Sully. “It’s my bridge, thank you.”

  “Is it, now, my angel?” Two long strides and his arm slipped around my waist. He turned me in a half spin, lifting me
up. My arms went around his neck and then I was in his lap. And he was in my chair, the captain’s chair.

  He pulled me against him, his mouth against my ear. A deep voice, incongruously gentle, whispered, “Hush. Just let me hold you.”

  Heat seeped into me, brushed my senses. I relaxed, lay my head on his shoulder, and closed my eyes. “It’s still my bridge, Sully.”

  Laughter rumbled quietly in his chest. He kissed my cheek. “Mine,” he said softly. “Mine.”

  We were still there, indulgently idle, talking quiet nonsense when Ren returned. He handed me his comb. Sully lifted me off his lap, depositing me on my feet with a sigh. “I can’t live on tea until we hit Calth. Where’s the base unit for the panels?”

  “Deck Two, amidship,” I told him as he left.

  Ren sat at comm. I combed out his hair, did my basic three-strand braid.

  I’d promised Sully no questions, but I didn’t think asking Ren about who I’d face when we got to the Boru Karn violated that. Or what could be shared with those on Sully’s ship about events on the Meritorious. And what yet might have to be done. “Who knows, besides you and me?” I hesitated. “About Sully.”

  A thoughtful silence was my answer.

  “Gregor and Marsh?” I prompted, trying to make my question clearer. Obviously they knew Sully. But did they know what Sully could do?

  “No.”

  Ren’s answer told me he understood my question.

  “Drogue?”

  “No.”

  That meant Brother Clement and others at the Moabar temple didn’t. Then I wondered about Winthrop Sullivan’s unconditional rejection of his son. If he’d known his son was an empath, had mind talents that much of the Empire viewed with condemnation, that might explain his vehemence. But Winthrop had died before he could accomplish it legally. Sullivan was still a Sullivan.

  It had been left to Sully’s mother to fulfill her husband’s wish to clear the family name. I’d occasionally caught her elegant features gracing the society vid clips before she was killed. Sophia Giovanna Rossetti Sullivan, often on the arm of someone like First Barrister Darius Tage or another of the Empire’s elite. The Rossettis had money too. I’d seen estimates of the combined wealth. It was staggering—at least, to my Fleet-issue pay-grade way of life. “Did his mother know?”

  “His mother preferred to believe he was dead, Chasidah.”

  Okay, I heard that. No more questions. I wrapped a tie around the end of Ren’s hair, then swiveled his chair around. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. You don’t seek out of curiosity, but out of concern. You must learn to ask him these things, though. He needs to explain—”

  “He said he can’t. Won’t.” Ren didn’t know what Sully had asked of me. Acceptance on faith. No questions. I made a small, helpless gesture with my hands. “I’m not trying to circumvent that. I just don’t want to do something stupid.”

  “He will tell you what you need to know about Marsh and Gregor,” Ren said after a moment. “And the others who come and go. But as for Gabriel Sullivan …” Ren reached out his six-fingered hand toward me. I clasped it. Warmth flooded me. But something else. Certainty. Trust. Compassion. Courage. He pulled his hand back, smiled. “That is all I can tell you.” Then he headed down to Deck Two.

  I sat in my chair, swung the command controls around, and stared out at the starfield. I thought about wisdom and trust. And faith. And risks. And empaths. And about how very much I had yet to learn.

  Not surprisingly, exhaustion set in after we had dinner in the small ready room. It wasn’t the best of dinners; selections were limited by a recalcitrant commissary unit. But it was sustenance, filling and reassuring.

  I angled the microscreen in the middle of the round table so that it faced me, giving me current status. Everything the bridge knew was there, but in condensed, no-frills form. A P40 could run on autoguidance, but not for very long. And not without someone, somewhere, monitoring the basics.

  Sully and Ren were talking about Sheldon Blaine and the Farosians. I tuned them out. I propped my chin in my hand, watched the data, watched distance and time trickle, watched autoguidance keep us on course. If anything large or small tickled long-range sensors, they’d start screaming. Should something get by long range before the bridge could respond, short range would automatically bring shields to max, weapons online. And scream louder.

  Good ship, my little P40.

  A warm hand on my shoulder jostled me. “You’re falling asleep, Chaz.”

  “Huh?” I was facedown on the table, my cheek resting on my crossed arms. I lifted my head. Blinked. Sully came into focus.

  “I had an hour’s rest in the hydro,” Ren said. “I can stand watch, four, six hours if you need me to.”

  I sat up. “We need to work out shifts. We need—”

  “Sleep. We need some sleep.” Sully pulled me to my feet. “Let Ren take these four hours. I’ll take the next eight. We’ll work it from there.”

  “It’s my ship,” I grumbled as he propelled me toward the door. “I’m responsible—”

  “You’re exhausted. So am I. Ren’s the only one with half a brain left.” He turned me to the left, toward my door, hit the palm pad.

  “I should shower.” But damn, the bed looked really good.

  “Shower when you wake. It’ll help.”

  No argument there. I sat on the edge of the bed, undid my boots. The bed sagged next to me. Sully was doing the same.

  I stood, undid my belt.

  Sully stood, doing the same.

  It hit me that I wasn’t going to bed alone.

  My fingers hesitated. It was only a small lack of movement, a half a breath skipped—but they hesitated.

  I felt Sully’s quizzical, gentle gaze on me. Goddamned rainbows. It’s not fear, I wanted to tell him. I’m not afraid of you. But I was. I knew that. And I knew he knew that.

  I finished unthreading my belt, hung it on the hook on the wall. Stripped off my pants, hung them up too. Thought about faith, about risks. About all that Ren could tell me about Gabriel Sullivan.

  I pulled my shirt over my head, realized I didn’t have anything to sleep in other than the thin T-shirt and underpants I had on now. The closets were probably full of Kingswell’s things. I wasn’t ready to touch them yet. Nor go searching for Tessa’s.

  Hell. I turned around. Sully stood by the bed, shirtless, bootless, his pants unzipped and angled halfway down his hips.

  By all that was holy, he was magnificent. His arms and chest were sculpted with muscles, his shoulders wide. His was a body I could explore for hours, or just as easily curl against, feeling safe and protected. Warmed.

  His gaze caught mine again, quizzical, gentle. Reading me. His pants dropped to his ankles. He picked them up and tossed them onto the small chair. Then he held out his hand.

  “It’s okay. I’m just going to hold you until you fall asleep.”

  I took his hand.

  Warmth.

  When I woke, it was 0820. Sully was gone, the bed empty. But the rumpled covers and dented pillow told me I didn’t dream falling asleep in his arms. I rolled over. His clothes were absent from the hooks.

  I’d slept for a little under six hours. The Meritorious had switched to station time when it had docked at Moabar. So the 0822 was accurate for my body as well.

  The shower helped. Kingswell’s towels. Kingswell’s soap. I’d strip the cabin later, when shifts were worked out and I had my off time allocated.

  My clothes would go in the laundry as soon as I could scrounge something out of another cabin, from a female crew member left behind at Tamlara’s. Not from a lieutenant who wouldn’t remember a woman with long auburn hair, a man with six webbed fingers, and another man with hauntingly dark obsidian eyes.

  I threaded my belt through the loops of my pants as I stood in front of my desk. Bridge status danced on the microscreen. I tapped on intraship. “Captain’s heading for the bridge.”

  “Bring coffee,
” came the reply. Sully.

  Ren wasn’t there. “Soaking,” Sully said, sitting comfortably in my chair, legs crossed. He took a mouthful of coffee, closing his eyes in appreciation. And probably, I suspected, to ignore the fact that I stood next to him, waiting for him to vacate my chair.

  “How long have you been up?”

  “About two hours.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Feels rather nice sitting in the captain’s chair.”

  I gave up on dislodging him and sat at engineering, sipping my coffee. We worked on shift schedules. He argued against two twelves. “This isn’t the damned Fleet.”

  We settled for eight on—six on the bridge, two on standby—four off for Sully and myself. Ren would work his schedule to overlap ours, but no more than four on the bridge by himself. There still could be bogies out there, searching for a ghost ship.

  In jump it would change. In jump there were no bogies. We were all ghosts. But jump was five days away.

  I stayed up for another few hours, tinkering. I coaxed the commissary panels to remember they could make fruit. I also found that the ship had had two other female crew members besides Tessa. I pilfered some clothes. I was looking for shirts for Sully and Ren when Sully found me.

  “It’s past your bedtime.”

  “These look like your size. Maybe Ren’s too.” I shoved three shirts into his arms. All were plain, scoop-necked, long-sleeved. Two were dark blue, one dark gray.

  “Bedtime.”

  “I’m really not tired—”

  “You will be if you don’t reset your body clock. You go on duty at 1800.” He tucked the shirts under one arm, wrapped the other around my shoulders. “I’ll read you a bedtime story.”

  Ren was in the corridor. Sully handed him the shirts. “Chaz’s been shopping. Keep what fits. I’ll take what’s left. I’ll be back on the bridge shortly,” he added, guiding me into my cabin.

  Our cabin.

  I pulled off my boots, stripped down. Washed my face, unbraided my hair. I grabbed my pilfered comb and ran it through my hair as I padded back to the bed. Sully sat on the edge, fluffing pillows.

  He turned, stopped fluffing. “Stars have mercy,” he said softly.