Gabriel's Ghost (2 page)

“If I’m funding anything, it’s freedom for a cause. I’ve found, since my untimely but useful demise, that this place can provide me with a source of cheap, willing labor.”

“Willing being the operative word, I take it?”

“Willing being the operative word, yes.”

“Doing what?” I knew many of Sully’s operations before Garno: stolen cargo, weapons, illegal drugs, ships and everything that fell in-between.

I just couldn’t see why he’d chosen to seek me out. My expertise lay in none of those areas. Unless he’d lost his pilot, needed someone to captain a ship for him. But why come to me? He could have his pick from those who lined the barstools in any spaceport pub.

But then, I’d ignored his all-important earlier comment. My mother wore army boots.

“You know the system,” he told me. “You were born and raised in it. Your parents, and your parents’ parents were. I know your personnel file. Captain Chasidah ‘Chaz’ Bergren. Daughter of Engineering Specialist Amaris Deirdre Bergren and Lt. Commander Lars Bergren. Sister of Commander Thaddeus Bergren, currently second in command at the Marker Shipyards. Granddaughter of Lieutenant—”

I held up my hand. “I know who I am.”

“So do I.”

“Good. Then you know my mother’s been dead for almost twenty years, I haven’t spoken to my father in over ten. And my brother, since the trial, won’t permit my name to be mentioned within earshot. What’s the point?”

“The point, my lovely angel, and no, don’t look so skeptical. 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. So if I say you’re lovely—” He reached as if to touch my chin with his fingertips. I jerked back, almost fell off my log. I dragged my boot heel in the dirt to keep my balance.

“Don’t tumble for me yet, darlin’. We have business to attend to first. As I was saying, the point is death has afforded me a new perspective. A new maturity, if you will. While my goals haven’t changed, my methodology had to. That’s where you come in.”

“A mere captain of a pea shooter squadron?”

“That’s Fleet’s appraisal of your talents. Not mine.”

“No, you always called me an interfering bitch.”

“If you must quote me, please be accurate. A beautiful interfering bitch.”

“Get to the point.”

Megan Sybil Baker - 9

“Gladly. I find I’m in need of one particular beautiful, interfering bitch. Can’t think of one better. So tell me, my angel, are you ready to leave this veritable paradise and make a pact with the ghost from Hell?”

I turned the dagger in my hand, watched the light play over the blade. I’d been willing to sell my soul earlier for a nightscope and a laser pistol. On Moabar, that would guarantee survival.

Sully was offering me more. He was offering me a way off Moabar. Freedom. On Hell’s terms, but freedom nonetheless.

I nodded, stuck my hand out. “Officer’s agreement.”

He clasped my hand firmly, then went down on one knee and brought it to his lips.

I pulled my fingers away from his mouth, angry at the invisible firemoths that seemed to dance across my skin at his touch. “This is a business deal, Sullivan.”

He sat back on his heel, grinning. “Whatever you say.”

“Damn straight.” I pushed myself to my feet, transferred the dagger to my right hand and started to let it wrap around my left wrist. Then stopped. He’d retrieved the rifle and now stood towering over me, his dark eyes glinting brightly from the lightbar in his hand.

I let my fingers close around the hilt of the dagger, kept it between us as I followed him into the forest. Maybe I’d hold onto it this way, for a while. Just in case my ghost’s good humor dissolved like mist from the moons.

* * *

Sully tabbed the lightbar down to half-power, just enough to guide us over fallen logs and rock-filled ditches. He held it lowered, our bodies blocking its telltale glow. I lengthened my strides to match his.

The only sounds were our footsteps crunching against the carpet of brittle twigs, the occasional slap of a branch against our jackets. His, like mine, was black, spacer-issue plain.

We slipped like shadows between the shaggy trees. It was as if I were twenty-two years old again, back in basic training, on a dirtside recon exercise. Sully moved that way too, with a cautious grace. A bright patch of moonlight cascaded through an opening in the forest canopy. As one, we edged around it.

I caught a wry, half-smile on his face. He angled his mouth down to my ear, echoed my thoughts. “Feels like boot camp.”

I hated boot camp, thirteen years ago. But it had taught me some invaluable lessons. Apparently, Sully had learned them as well, though I couldn’t remember any stint in the military on his dossier. I was about to ask where he’d trained when something glinted ahead of us, far off to the right.

Instinctively I flattened against a tree. My fingers tightened on the dagger. The lightbar blinked out as my heart rate picked up. Then my face was in Sully’s chest as he clasped me in a protective move. I flinched back involuntarily, surprised, not only by his action, but by a rush of heat that seemed to encompass me. Then it was gone and I tagged it as nothing more than adrenaline fighting against a severe lack of sleep. He pushed me to my knees, crouched down with me. He flicked the safety off the rifle, angled it up.

His left hand cupped the back of my head, drew my face against his shoulder again. “Damned redhead,” he whispered. “You glow like a jumpgate beacon. Now, hush. Be still for a moment.”

Megan Sybil Baker - 10

A rush of wind rattled the leaves around us. I ducked my head further down, even though I knew my hair wasn’t that red. It was dark auburn and, after three weeks on Moabar, far from glowed. I doubted the color was Sully’s real reason now. I didn’t know if there were something out there he didn’t want me to see—or he was simply feeding his ego by playing hero. Either way, I wasn’t about to argue. My strange lightheadedness had returned. I needed a moment to steady myself, find focus.

His breathing was deep and even. He turned away from me, his gaze locked on something on the right. As I was hunkered down between him and the large tree, I could only see the outline of his hand on the rifle and the dark, skewed shadows of the forest floor.

“What is it?” I asked as quietly as I could. His fingers threaded into my braid as if he wanted to unravel it. Or, I realized with a blinding flash of stupidity, as if he searched for a way to get a strong and painful grip on me.

I remembered what had been on that Takan guard’s agenda. I tried to jerk my head back. Then I heard it.

A wheezing noise. A crackling. The sound that tissue paper would make if it were composed of glass. And another rush of wind, air pushing past me.

My mouth suddenly went dry.

Sully shifted his weight, slowly brought the rifle up to eye level. The faint greenish glow of the nightscope reflected back on his face.

The crackling stopped.

I smelled something foul. My stomach clenched in response. A jukor. A vicious, fanged mutant beast with the distinctive scent of rotting garbage. A breeding experiment by the M.O.C., jukors were a distorted, hideous version of ancient, imaginary soul-stealers. They’d been bred to combat the more current, very real telepathic Stolorth
Ragkirils
. The government halted the jukor experiment ten years ago, when it had become apparent the creatures couldn’t be controlled. Not like Takas.

I knew the smell because I’d had escort duty with a ship hauling a pack of jukors to be destroyed. It was a smell I’d never forget.

It was one I knew I shouldn’t be remembering now.

A long wheeze, closer. My heart thudded at the sound. It was scenting for something. Us, most likely. Or its mate. Either option was a bad one. If it chose us as prey, its powerful hind legs and winged upper forearms would make it damn near impossible to evade.

If it were scenting for a mate, it would kill any other creature in its path in its lust.

A frightening thought. If it
were
scenting for a mate, that meant jukors were alive, breeding again, for M.O.C. purposes. Perhaps even new and improved? There might be another new and improved one around in the forest, somewhere.

Either way, we were dead unless Sully killed it first. My dagger would barely be able to pierce its hide.

Fingers tugged at my scalp. He
was
unraveling my braid. I mentally questioned my ghost’s sanity and jerked my head away, frowning.

He yanked it back. His breath was hot against my ear. “Your hair wrap. I need it. Now.”

Hair wrap? I swore silently, slapped the dagger back around my wrist then as quickly, and as quietly, as possible, unraveled the leather and fabric laces. My hair fell almost to my waist, drifting over my arms as I shoved the cords into his outstretched hand. My mind still questioned his sanity.

Megan Sybil Baker - 11

He thrust the rifle at me. “Keep a lock on it.”

As I brought the nightscope to my eye I caught a glimpse of Sully grabbing a stout, broken tree limb from the ground.

Two moons dotted the night sky, adding their light. The jagged form of the jukor almost jumped through the eyepiece at me. It was twenty-five feet from us. Upwind. Its long snout moved slowly side to side. I heard the crackling again as it flexed one wing. Barbed tips, like tiny razors, glinted sharp and cruel.

Its lower arms and legs were furred A hide formed of rock-hard scales covered its chest and back. Only the base of its throat was vulnerable. A soft spot, unprotected.

Damned small.

I moved the rifle slightly as it moved its head.

Damned small.

Sully’s hand covered mine, traded rifle for a leather and fabric-wrapped tree branch.

“It will see it, scent it.” He put the eyepiece to his eye again, the greenish glow like a small alien moon on his face.

I understood. The leather and fabric held my scent.

“Beer toss,” he said.

I understood that, too. Wasn’t a station brat in civilized space who didn’t. Old pub game.

“On three.” He adjusted his balance slightly. He’d have to move the moment the jukor sprang.

“One.” The word was a soft rustle of leaves.

I rose slowly, becoming part of the tree on my left.

“Two.”

I started my windup.

“Three.”

I hurled the branch high, arcing it upwards in the clear moonlight. The dark form lunged. Powerful wings snapped out, pushed downwards. An unbearable stench rolled toward me just as three flashes of light erupted on my right.

Sully, springing, moving, firing.

The dagger snapped into my hand. If he missed, or only wounded it, it would be here in seconds.

A roaring sound. An enormous blot of darkness descending from the air at an unbelievable rate of speed. Wings beating, fingered forelimbs yanking itself through the trees at us.

Sully, firing. “Run!”

He hadn’t hit the jukor’s throat.

I bolted sideways, headed for the thickest brush, hoping it would snag a wing, entangle an arm.

Branches whipped at my face. But the only pounding footsteps I heard were mine.

I stopped, spun about. Saw Sully drop to the ground, roll, come up firing again as the jukor’s barbed wing slashed inches from his body.

Shit! I plunged back through the trees just as the jukor roared and slammed Sully to the ground.

Chapter Two

The hideous body of the jukor reared back, then flailed sideways. It landed almost at my feet, a tangle of wings and limbs. Its long head lolled to one side. In the bright light of the moons I could see a sizable hole in the charred flesh of its soft throat.

I heard Sully cough, gag. “Hell’s ass! That thing stinks!”

I jumped over the beast’s hindquarters, fell to my knees on the hard ground beside him. “You okay?”

He grasped my arm. I helped him into a sitting position. He was breathing hard. He wiped one hand over his face then grimaced. No doubt the jukor’s oily scent was on his skin as well.

“Hell’s ass,” he said again. The poet, never at a loss for words, repeating himself.

“You missed the first time.”

He nodded, still gasping for air. “You noticed.”

“I’ve never bagged one. Not even in the old sims.” There were no jukors in the new training sims since there were, we were told, no living jukors. Why learn to kill something that no longer exists? We had to be content to hone our hand-to-hand combat skills on simmed mind-sucking Stolorths and giant Takas. Plus the usual crazed human scenarios.

Sully struggled to his feet. I grabbed his elbow, stood up with him. He leaned one hand on my shoulder for a moment. “This is not,” he said, looking down at me, “a fortuitous turn of events.”

“Maybe it’s time you tell me just what in hell is going on.”

“I will. But I think it best we keep moving.” He stepped back toward the barely discernible path we’d followed. Turned, probably because he didn’t hear my footsteps.

I was wrestling to rebraid my thick, wavy, now totally disheveled hair. Stupid, but all I could think of was the debris and leaves that would attach themselves to me if I didn’t. I hurried up to him, arms angled awkwardly behind my neck.

“I prefer it down.” He reached to smooth the wild strands from my forehead. “I’ve told you that before. Remember?”

I ducked away. “Too bad.” Yes, I remembered. Even though it’d been almost four years. I was glad he couldn’t see the flush of color on my cheeks. I brought the braid over my shoulder, fished in my pants pocket for a small tie. With hair like mine, it’s absolutely necessary to carry extras.

We picked up our pace. The moonlight was bright, the lightbar no longer needed. I kept a vigilant watch ahead, and to the left. Sully did the same, to the right. From behind we were vulnerable.

Nobody’s perfect.

But that night, four years ago almost could have been. If Sully hadn’t been perpetually on the wrong side of the law. If I hadn’t been shaken back to my senses by my shipbadge pinging an incoming transmit advisory that had interrupted kisses far more passionate than I’d ever