Gabriel's Ghost (10 page)

He thought for a moment. Or perhaps, read some more of my emotions. “Sully is very worried about you. But I’m his friend, not his spy. He knows what you’ve been through. His respect, and faith toward you, is greater than you realize.”

“I don’t think he trusts me.”

“He trusts you, Chasidah. He fears you do not trust him.”

“I believe in what he’s trying to do. Shut down an illegal gen-lab.”

“So do I, or I’d not be here.” He ran his hand across the row of hooks on the wall by the bed. Both our robes hung there. He fingered the small tag at the neckline, correctly chose his own. Touch-labeled, like the playing cards Sully carried.

He draped the robe over his arm. “Chasidah...”

When my name hung in the air without anything further I nodded, then remembered again he couldn’t see that. “Umm?” The universal noncommittal.

“May I ask… may I request a small favor in return?”

“Sure.” After all, he’d just answered my prying questions.

“May I see you?”

“See me?” I didn’t quite understand.

“Yes, see you. I’d like to see your face. I’ve not… I’d like to believe, in spite of our beginnings dirtside, we are friends. Am I presuming too much?”

“No, you’re not.” I thought I understood his request. Blindness was an infirmity unknown in humans in the Empire. I’d read accounts, in ancient history classes in the Academy, of times when blind humans could ‘see’ a face through touch. “If you touch my face, you’ll know what I look like, is that it?”

He nodded. “If this is too intrusive, tell me. I just, it’s just that I’ve not known anyone like you before.”

“Don’t know many court-martialed Fleet captains turned prison escapees, is that it?” I grinned wryly.

A small laugh. “You are unique, Chasidah Bergren.”

“I’m not the one with blue hair and six fingers,” I quipped.

I sat on the bench. Ren dropped his robe to the floor and sat facing me, his back to the door. He raised both hands, cupped my face. His touch was soft yet firm. His clouded silver eyes watched me, unmoving.

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Both thumbs moved up my jaw, fingers traced my ears, moved across my cheekbones, down my nose. Ren’s explorations reminded me of a sculptor, examining the details of a carving. I was very aware he was male, but there was nothing intrusive, nothing erotic in his touch.

“I have freckles,” I told him. “But you can’t feel those.”

“Freckles?”

“Tiny darker spots of pigment, across my cheeks and nose. I was always told they were cute, when I was little. Once I passed the age of twelve, I hated them.” I hated being cute, though I long ago resigned myself to the fact that the description probably fit.

“Ah, freckles. Kisses from the suns on the face.” His fingers brushed across my brows. I closed my eyes. He softly touched my lids, my lashes.

“What color are your eyes?”

“Like my hair. Brown and gold.”

His hands cupped my jaw again. “Sully told the truth, then. You’re a beautiful woman.”

I laughed off the compliment. “I have a feeling Sully thinks all women are beautiful.”

“That’s not what he tells me.”

I didn’t have an answer to that one. But I remembered the fool I saw in the mirror in the monastery, and the obsidian eyes watching her. And I remembered a mouth brushing mine, in that dark bar in Port Chalo. Gabriel Ross Sullivan was a dangerous man, who played dangerous games. I didn’t even know the rules.

Ren held my face a moment longer. “Thank you.” He leaned his forehead against mine. I felt a strange calmness, a warmth flutter through me.

Then a sound, a hushed whoosh. And a sharp intake of breath.

“Lovely. What do we have here?” The voice was harsh, deep, very male. Very Sully.

I jerked back. He stood in the doorway in his monk’s sand-gray robe. His dark brows were slanted into a frown.

Ren turned toward the door. His hand drifted down, casually clasped my wrist. A slight pressure, a squeeze. Reassuring warmth traveled up my arm from his touch. “Sully. Blessings of the hour. We were going to get tea.”

“Really?” One word, heavily laced with sarcasm.

“Sully.” Ren’s voice was a combination of gentleness and firmness. I didn’t know how he did that. He should give classes in the Academy.

A long pause. “You said she was beautiful. She is.”

Sully snorted. “It’s a requirement for Fleet patrol captains. Disarms the enemy.” He stepped back into the hallway, one hand on the door to keep it from closing. “You want tea before service, you’d better move it.”

He pulled his hand away. The door slid closed on his retreating footsteps.

* * *

Morning meditations, I learned, consisted of two parts: primary or essentials, then after a short break, secondary or supplications. I sat quietly between Ren and Sully through the essentials, listened to the tinkling of the bells as Brother Clement played them on the raised platform. I mimicked Ren and Sully’s posture, head bowed under my hood, steepled fingers touching my forehead. But I had no idea what words went through their minds.

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My own raced over too many things. My strange and unexpected sense of kinship with Ren, a Stolorth. The constant threat of the M.O.C. officers and stripers just outside the Temple doors. The Takas I no longer feared, at least, not here on station. Too many of them were Englarian; the Temple was half full this morning. Almost all of them would, at some point today, began Peyhar’s celebrations. Sully confirmed my earlier theory over tea. A station full of mellow Takas was a good thing.

His anger over Ren’s ‘seeing’ my face—if that’s what it was—had dissipated when Ren and I entered the common room. He sipped tea, talked animatedly about the celebration, complained to Brother Clement about his ever mounting financial debt to Ren.

He was still in a lighthearted mood when we’d walked down the short corridor and in through the Temple’s back door. When the bells chimed again, his right boot snaked around my left. Playing ‘footsie,’ like a mischievous child in church.

I tilted my face just far enough to catch a glimpse of his. He peered around his fingertips at me, winked.

I fought the urge to stick out my tongue, and thereby reducing us both to errant ten-year olds.

Three deep chimes. Brother Clement rose from the short bench in the center of the platform, spread out his arms. “May peace and wisdom fill your hearts today, brothers and sisters. Supplications for the devout will follow shortly.”

The Takas around me shifted, sighing deeply rumbling sighs. Heads lifted. Some stood, others stayed seated.

Sully’s hand cupped my elbow. “Come on,” he said softly.

I glanced at Ren. He nodded. But he didn’t rise as we did.

I followed Sully to the common room. He pushed back his hood as the doors closed behind us. I did the same, knowing this meant we were safe here. Only in the public area of the Temple did we keep our heads and faces covered as much as possible.

“You want tea?”

I shook my head. “Maybe later. Do we have to go back?”

“As long as we were seen at the essentials, that’s good enough for a few hours.” He pulled out a chair. “Sit.” He took the one next to mine.

I folded my hands on the tabletop.

He did the same. His expression held that familiar arrogance, chin slightly tilted up. “I have us a ship. All you have to do is fly it for us.”

I straightened. Praise the stars! ran through my head. Shit. I was turning into an Englarian. “Here?”

“Scheduled to make station tomorrow. I don’t have an E.T.A. yet. But she’s listed on incoming, slated for a berth on Level Six Green.”

The Temple was Nine Green. Three levels below us. Not lugger territory. Another tri-hauler, like the
Diligent
? “How large a freighter?”

“She’s not a freighter. She’s a Lancer-class P40.”

I sat, stunned. My last command had been a Lancer-class P40. A little peashooter, as Sully had called it. An Imperial patrol ship. “How in hell are you going to convince an Imperial patrol ship to get us off station?”

He grinned. “I’m not. You are. I told you, you’re going to fly it for us.”

“There’s no way—”

“It’s our best chance, Chaz. You know those ships, their security systems and overrides.”

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“You’re talking about commandeering an Imperial P40!”
“They can’t court-martial you twice.”
“That’s the least of my worries. You’re putting the three of us against ten, fifteen officers

and crew. Armed officers and crew. Berthed at a military station.” And one of us was blind. “Yeah, I know. Sounds like fun to me, too. I can’t wait.” “Sullivan!” “It’s the last thing they’ll expect. Surely you appreciate that. I spent a couple of hours last

night roaming through the stripers’ reports on us. They can’t confirm whether Milo sent a warning message but they suspect he did. There were some scrambled transmits that went through the M.O.C. filters dirtside yesterday. I sent two more last night and back-transsed them, just to keep them busy. So they’re watching ships coming up from dirtside. Watching short-haulers and luggers.”

I must be crazy. He was starting to make sense.

“Plus, there were some antigovernment demonstrations on Tos Faros last week. Wish I could claim credit for that, but I can’t. Now the stripers are sure that’s what the
Diligent
was doing here. Looking to spring Sheldon Blaine.”

Blaine’s trial had been about two years ago. He was a flamboyant figure who claimed a distant relation with Emperor Prewitt the Third. Or the Emperor’s mother. Or mother’s cousin. Nothing had ever been confirmed except for his part in funding an assassination attempt on Prew so that he could take his rightful place on the throne.

He was sent to Moabar for that. I’d been in rather elite company down there.

“They’re concentrating on anything coming from or through Tos Faros,” I guessed. “Or any crew with Farosian ties.” And not, I hoped, for a ghost and a court-martialed patrol captain who could run a P40 in her sleep. “She’s due in tomorrow?”

“Updates should be in Ops by 1300. I’ll have more then.”
“Do we know which ship? The captain?”
“That I do, my angel. Captain’s listed as Kingswell. Ship’s the
Meritorious
.”
My mouth hung open for a moment before the words exploded out of it. “
Meritorious
? God damn you, Sullivan! You know that’s my ship!” He was grinning, widely, dangerous lights dancing in his dark eyes. “Told you this would be fun.” I sat back in the chair and stared at him. The
Meritorious
. Coming here. With that pompous son-of-a-bitch Lew Kingswell sitting in the captain’s sling. My captain’s sling. Sully was right. This was definitely going to be fun. I didn’t even pull my hand away when he reached for it and planted a kiss on my wrist. It just seemed right, somehow. Like my getting the
Meritorious
back.

Chapter Seven

Peyhar’s Week celebrations officially began at 1930 hours station time. Our celebrations started a little earlier.

Sully accessed his link to station ops shortly after 1300 hours. He confirmed the
Meritorious
, under Kingswell’s command, would arrive at 1100 hours tomorrow, completing her duties as special escort for the new assistant stationmaster. Commander Hilary Burnell was retiring. Commander Izak Chaves got her post.

Lucky Izak. I wonder whom he’d pissed off to warrant a five-year stint on Moabar Station.

I’d handled special escort service before; all patrol ships would from time to time, when something small and fast was required. Especially when the dignitary was someone as minor as an assistant stationmaster.

So I knew the routine. I spelled it out to Ren and Sully as we lunched privately in Ren’s cabin, the long bench an impromptu table, the floor, our chairs. We sat in various cross-legged or angled positions and enjoyed our celebratory lunch. Sully had even cadged another bottle of wine.

“It’s going to be by no means easy.” I pointed my fork at Sully, who was still gloating. “If I can get on board, yes, I can take her systems. But I have to get on board first. And we have to get the crew off. As quietly and quickly as possible.”

I didn’t like Lew Kingswell. Never had. But I had no grudge against him and whoever his crew was now. I only knew his crew wasn’t mine. My exec and second had stood in my defense. They were demoted, busted down to supply barge duty somewhere, last I heard. “Sparks,” my engineer, had put in for early retirement, and had sent me a long transmit when I was still in starport lockup. He’d lost faith in the Fleet, he said. And in the Empire.

His sentiments were echoed, in one form or another, by the eight others serving under me on that fateful tour of duty. None stayed with the
Meritorious
, though I doubt they’d been offered the chance.

So we would face an unknown crew, anywhere from ten to fifteen counting Kingswell, a pompous, loud, braggart who took great pleasure in bullying junior officers and crew.

I didn’t like him, but I didn’t wish him dead.

Ren dunked the hard crust of his bread in his soup. “Could we stowaway, take the ship when she heads back in-system?”

“Ten or more of them against the three of us? Not great odds,” I told him.

Sully shook his head. “Workable, if we take them out, one, two at a time.”

“You might be able to take out two, trank and stow them somewhere. But by the time you grabbed crew number three, the other eight or so would notice. You’re talking a P40. This is a small ship. Three decks. Bridge backs up to the captain’s cabin that abuts common room, crews’ quarters. Whole lower deck’s engines and cargo, or troop space, depending on your orders that tour. Sickbay, weapons, repair and enviro on second. That’s it.”

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He wasn’t easily dissuaded. “Let’s leave it as an option.”

“We can leave it as an option, but not a top choice. Keep in mind that an action taken in the lanes could result in a mayday. Could result in a response from Fleet, in the form of a cruiser, or worse, destroyer. Then you’re facing down the big guns.