Gabriel's Ghost (18 page)

‘Gabriel’s damned,’ he’d told me. As if he weren’t Gabriel.

His fingers moved under my chin. “Truth, now. I want to know if you still think it wise to come down the corridor after me.”

He withdrew his hand and waited.

I thought of his lecture on wisdom. And other times I’d heard this tone in his voice, when he’d played the poet, the pedant. They’d almost always been times of intense emotion. Like Port Chalo. I’d written off his words that night because of the beer. But he was sober now, though no less intense.

I wasn’t sure I understood him. I needed, however, for him to understand me. There was too much at risk here, in too many ways.

“Were my actions wise? I’m a Fleet officer, trained to assess situations, act on the facts. I don’t think ‘impetuous’ has ever been noted in my service record. Obviously, there’s a lot I don’t know about you. But there’s a lot I do know, after six years. Especially after the past few days.

“But I’m also not a fool,” I added softly. “I have fears.”

“Because of risks you don’t understand.”

“Oh, some I understand very well.” I breathed a small, harsh, laugh. “I have had my heart trashed. That’s not in my service record, either.”

His slight frown was encouraging. By all I held holy, I did have some secrets left, even from an empath.

“That’s not at risk, here.”

“I’ve heard that before, too.”

“Chasidah—”

I touched my finger to his lips, mimicking his gesture of moments ago. “Hush.”

He gave me a small smile, wistful yet oddly warm.

I took my hand away. “So was my coming after you wise? I owed you an apology. It wasn’t my intention to say hurtful words. I said them because I was, I am hurting. And confused. I told you the other night. There are a number of things in my life that I’m not handling well, that confuse me. You’re one of them.”

Megan Sybil Baker - 86

“Because of what happened with Kingswell?”

“And because of what happened, or didn’t happen, in Port Chalo.”

“I never regretted my choice of career until I met you,” he said, his wistful smile fading. “I had certain commitments to fulfill. Once they were, I had what I thought was a plan. A reinvention of Gabriel Ross Sullivan, if you will. Into someone Chasidah Bergren would meet in an Officers’s Club. Not in one of the disreputable bars in Port Chalo.”

“I would’ve preferred Port Chalo to Moabar.”

“I would’ve preferred it as well. Then Kingswell, and what I had to do, wouldn’t be an issue of confusion. One that, if I could clarify, I would. But with that issue, my answers are long, complicated. I can’t guarantee clarification is a solution. It hasn’t been, for me.”

Growing up an empath in a society that condemned mind talents hardly provided any avenues for clarification. I could see why his friendship with Ren was important. I could also see why my acceptance of Ren was equally as important to him.

His gaze flicked down to the desktop, then back to my face. “Gabriel has another question.”

I nodded.

“Did you come looking for me, freely, or because of Ren?”

“Ren didn’t ask me, or tell 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 didn’t evidently 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 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 still have confusion.”

“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 Gabriel had 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.”

Megan Sybil Baker - 87

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

“That’s not—”

His finger pressed against my lips again. “Hush. Gabriel has 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? Gabriel,” he paused, “fears your need for facts, your need for explanations for things that perhaps can never be explained, will destroy the only chance he has. And he’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. “Gabriel does 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 amnot, 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?”

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

I gave him mine. “Yes.”

Chapter Thirteen

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 were 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 him, 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, sexy 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 C.O.. 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. It didn’t apply to me. Plus, 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.

Megan Sybil Baker - 89

I tackled the comm panel, converted what I could to voice-mode activation and response. Enviro and systems analytics as well. 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 hydro tub in sickbay. 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 and 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, you wastrel!”

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, “Gabriel wants to hold Chasidah.”

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. His 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, amidships,” 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 Gabriel. Sully.” I didn’t know if Ren knew of Sully’s odd way of referring to himself and to his empathic abilities.

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?

Megan Sybil Baker - 90

“No.”

Ren’s answer told me he understood my question.

“Drogue?”

“No.”

That meant Brother Clement didn’t. Or Sister Berri, who seemed well known in the Englarian community. Enough that Sully had easily copied her ID.

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 to distant himself from his son. 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 Rossetti’s 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—”