Gabriel's Ghost (3 page)

Megan Sybil Baker - 13

experienced. It had left a lot of questions unanswered. But it had soothed a deep ache in my heart, if only for a little while.

It had been strictly a physical attraction, aided by one too many pitchers of the Empire’s finest ale. But that night I’d desperately needed to know that I was attractive.

He’d confirmed that, in a dark little bar in Port Chalo where Fleet captains and known smugglers could leave their reputations and vocations outside the doors for a while. Then my shipbadge had pinged, saving me from making a fool of myself. Doing yet another thing that would have shocked and puzzled my ever-righteous brother.

Though not quite as much as the appearance of the jukor shocked and puzzled me right now. I shoved the troublesome memory away, returned to my productive habit of analyzing my situation, gathering facts. Sully hadn’t seemed to be surprised by the creature’s appearance. Had he heard that the Empire was resurrecting the project? That was one of the many questions plaguing my mind as we walked. Questions that had been stilled by a need for silence, for stealth.

But after Sully’s firing of his rifle, any pretense of a silent approach on our part was just that: pretense. Plus, my need for answers was growing. “Where’re we going?”

He pointed over the treetops, past the higher moon, into the star-filled sky. “Second star to the right—”

“—and straight on ’til morning? Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Lit of the Ancient Homeworlds, 101. Where are we going, Sully?”

“Most immediately, to a secure dwelling, within a fifteen minute walk from the spaceport. Eventually, to the spaceport itself.”

I threw him a questioning glance. “You are suicidal.” The spaceport was M.O.C. controlled. More Takans to the square inch than anywhere else on Moabar, save perhaps for the Temple on Solstice-Day.

“Most definitely not. I assure you I have a lusty—” he leered down at me “—interest in life.”

The path curved, narrowing. We were shoulder to shoulder, or rather, my shoulder to his arm. He smelled more than faintly of jukor. “I hope this secure dwelling of yours has a bathtub.”

“That bad?”

I shrugged. “Unique.”

“It has. As well as a change of clothing. Which is required for us to access the spaceport. Our shuttle leaves in about two hours.”

It occurred to me, not for the first time during our trek, that this might all be a setup. Sully could be an Imperial agent for the M.O.C. or any of the numerous ministries. They were trapping me, testing me, baiting me. I couldn’t figure a reason but then, I’d never known a government to require reasons to act.

However, there were far more politically important and dangerous prisoners on Moabar. I was a mere pebble in the asteroid field of personalities on the prison world.

It also occurred to me that my brother could’ve hired Sully to kill me. Or to put me in a position where the M.O.C. would. That would nicely clear up for Thaddeus—not my half-brother Willym, who’s only nine—the stain I’d placed on the family name.

Sully increased his pace, he seemed disinclined to further conversation. That gave me time to think, as well. When we approached the edge of the forest, twenty minutes later, my dagger was back in my hand. He kept just inside the line of trees, paralleling a narrow, graveled road. Behind me, it went to the spaceport. Every few minutes, lights from the tower beacons strafed our path.

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At a curve in the road, he took my arm, hesitating when he saw the dagger in my hand. “Still don’t trust me, Chaz?”

“You noticed.”

“Wait for the tower lights to pass again. We’ve got to cross the road, pick up the path over there.” He pointed to the thick trees. “Wish our nocturnal luminaries weren’t so enthusiastic this evening. But then again, it is definitely romantic.” He let his voice drop to a sexy drawl.

“Your fragrance, Sully. I can’t tell you how it makes me feel.”

He chuckled. The lights approached, flared. We ran just behind them.

The woods closed around us again. He resumed his dogged pace. I quickened my stride. “How are we getting on a shuttle? Without the M.O.C. noticing us, that is.”

“With M.O.C. permission, of course.”

And M.O.C. rifles pointed at me as I tried to board? I grabbed a handful of his jacket with my left hand, yanked. “Damn it, Sullivan!”

He stumbled, stopped and glared at me with obsidian eyes.

I glared back. “How much did Thad pay you?”

“Thad?”

“Thaddeus. Commander Thaddeus Bergren. Second in command at Marker. Firstborn of the Bergrens. What did he pay you to set me up?”

His gaze flicked down to the dagger I held between us. His rifle was slung over his back. Foolish move on his part. If he’d studied my dossier as he’d claimed, he knew I ranked consistently high in my division in small weapon, hand-to-hand combat competition. And not just in sims. I didn’t care that he was at least ten inches taller than me, outweighed me by probably eighty or more pounds. He’d have to swing the rifle around to flick off the safety, and then turn it on me.

I’d have the dagger in his chest, or his throat, by then.

“Problems with sibling rivalry, Chaz?”

“Sullivan!” My warning tone was clear.

“Think, Chasidah Bergren. Think. Who am I? Who is your esteemed brother? Spit and polish company man, all the way. Him, not me. I’m the antithesis. The anti-hero to his hero. Even in the abstract we could not coexist.

“In the flesh, he resents my family’s wealth, where yours had none. I’m the wastrel. He finds that appalling.” He shook his head. “I don’t know which pains me more, my angel. That you think so low of me that you believe I’d accept employment as a common assassin. Or that you see me not only to be a vulgar cad, but one who’d work for your supercilious ass of a brother as well.”

He’d obviously met Thad at some point. The description was accurate.

But he was right. Thad might wish me dead, daily. But there were light-years between him and Sully, in more ways than one. And I was on Moabar. That was the same as being dead. For Thad to have me killed would only be redundant.

I let go of his jacket. “I need answers. I don’t like walking into things blind. What you’ve told me so far sounds too easy, too convenient. If getting off Moabar is a simple as a change of clothes and boarding the shuttle, why isn’t everyone doing it?”

He grinned and in spite of his pungent odor, still managed to exude a rakish charm. “Because they don’t have me to help them. Come on. Drogue’s waiting for us. And I’ve got to evict Ren from the bathtub.”

Megan Sybil Baker - 15

* * *

Moabar hadn’t always been a prison world. It was the only human-habitable world in Quadrant E-5, a region so remote it didn’t even warrant a name, like the inner quadrants of Aldan or Baris. A region otherwise worthless to an Empire thriving on galactic trade and the conquest of neighboring systems.

History vids said Moabar had been acquired as the result of the spoils of victory. Reality said Moabar was part of the Empire because no one else wanted it.

The Empire tried colonizing it, farming it. But the soils that produced lush, thick forests in abandon were caustic to edible plants. They withered, died. Colonists fled.

A scientific research team moved in next. But the atmosphere corroded their equipment. And the winters brought a strange plague-virus. Most died. Those that could make it to the shuttles, fled.

So the Empire decreed it a penal colony. Well-being of lifers was not their concern. Survival of one winter’s frigid temperatures and plague-filled storms was luck. Survival of two was a miracle. Three guaranteed an immunity to the virus, but never the cold.

Yet, Takas thrived on it. I thought of all this as I stared at the ‘secure dwelling.’ Sully’s secret.

A Takan monastery.

A low, sprawling stone structure that appeared suddenly as the forest thinned. Lights from the spaceport stroked its mottled surface, flared in its tall windows. We were closer to the port here than we were on the graveled road.

Englarian religious symbols were carved into the wood-planked gate—the arch-and-stave chiseled over the doorway. The Taka had had no religion until Jared Eng had preached to them, some three centuries past. We had vids on that, too, in the academy’s required Non-Human Cultures class.

I followed Sully through a back door that opened at his code. Evidently we were expected.

I stepped cautiously into a large communal room, a kitchen, replete with the aroma of a meal recently finished. Something salty, tangy hung in the air. Three long wooden tables were on my left, with benches. One round table on my right, with six high backed wooden chairs. Behind that, a long cook top and the matte metallic doors that fronted most refrigeration units.

A thick clear coating covered the flagstone floor. Our footsteps echoed to the high ceiling, and left smudgy marks, forest mementos, behind.

“Brother Sudral? That you?” A voice called out from a hallway adjacent to the kitchen.

Sudral?

“Aye,” said Sully.

Brother
Sudral? I shot him a glance. He winked.

A squat man, human, bustled through the arched doorway. Englarian monks were usually human, though I’d heard they recently were accepting Takas to their ranks. All were, however, devoted to the care and spiritual enlightenment of Takas.

The man wore the traditional monk’s garb of wide-legged pants and high-necked over-tunic in a coarse, grayish-tan fabric. Thick-soled brown boots explained his otherwise silent approach.

“Blessings of the hour, Guardian Drogue.”

Megan Sybil Baker - 16

“Blessing of the hour upon you, Brother Sudral.” Drogue steepled his hands in front of his face and bowed.

I’d seen Drogue before, perhaps once or twice. The rank of Guardian granted him access to all M.O.C. buildings on Moabar. Just as it would in any Imperial station or port. I thought I remembered seeing his round, almost cherubic face when I’d picked up my allotted supplies— two blankets, a folder of ration chips and the ubiquitous and useless pamphlet of M.O.C. Rules and Regulations—when I’d arrived dirtside, and perhaps another time after that. But Englarian monks were the least of my concerns. Sanctioned by the Empire, they were in no position to make a difference in the life of a disgraced Fleet captain, wrongly convicted or not.

Drogue’s bright-eyed gaze ran up and down my length, or lack of. “Captain Chasidah Bergren. Yes.” He stuck out his hand.

I accepted it.

“You are well?” he asked.

I tried to place his accent. South system, Dafir? Possibly. “All things considered, yes.” Some of my wariness returned. The Englarians were invariably cooperative with the government. I still had visions of a firing squad as a reception committee, Sully’s protestations to the contrary notwithstanding.

“Considering we had an intimate encounter with a jukor.” Sully clapped Drogue on the back then hesitated, holding his arm near the man’s nose.

Drogue’s head jerked backwards. “Praise the stars! Yet you live.”

“I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. Where’s Ren? Soaking?”

The bathtub. I remembered Sully’s earlier comments. Could water immersion be a little known Englarian ritual?

“He left the hydro not ten minutes ago. He should be down shortly. He knows time is a factor tonight.”

Sully pushed up the sleeve of his black jacket, glanced at his wrist. “Hour forty-five. You’ll be ready? I need to soak this stench off me first. Feed her some tea, will you?” He jerked his thumb at me.

His abrupt dismissal rankled me. Especially as I’d been thinking so kindly of his kisses earlier. “Sullivan—”

If was as if he’d heard my thoughts. The fingers that moments ago pointed at me grabbed my hand. He planted a long kiss against the inside of my wrist before I could jerk back. “I won’t be long, my angel. Every second we’re apart pains me. I promise I’ll return to your side with all due speed.”

“You stink. Go wash, or whatever it is you’re going to do.”

“Come bathe me. The touch of your hands could restore my weakened form.”

My hands wanted to smack him a good right cross on the side of his jaw. He appeared anything but weak. His wide shoulders filled out his jacket only too well. There was any number of derogatory appraisals of Gabriel Ross Sullivan over the years. But none of them ever suggested he was anything less than extremely pleasant to look at.

Why were all the handsome ones always such bastards?

I smiled at Drogue. “I’d love a cup of hot tea.”

The short man grinned affably, motioned to the round table. “Sit, please, sit! I will make a cup. I’m sure Ren will join us, momentarily. You too, Brother Sudral, when you have finished your ablutions.”

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“Tea’s about all we’ll have time for.” He strode for the arched doorway, turned. “She’ll need more time than you think to get changed, Drogue. Likes to fuss with her hair. So get her moving, as soon as possible.” His footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Kettle in hand, Drogue watched Sully’s retreating form. I caught his eye before he turned back to the cook top. “Would you please explain to me what’s going on?”

He put the kettle on the thermal grid, tabbed it on. “Brother Sudral’s said little?”

“Brother Sudral talks in circles.”

“For security purposes, I’m sure. Should we be captured prior to departure, none of us would be able to place the mission at risk.

Mission? Involving Englarian monks and the ghost of a poet turned mercenary? All suppositions. I stuck to what I did know.

“You don’t seem surprised we ran into a jukor.”

He placed a steaming cup of fragrant tea in front of me. His smile was still pleasant, but something flickered in his eyes, something tense laced his words. “Little surprises me at my age, captain.”

He wasn’t, in spite of his bald head, that old. Fifties at most. My father was older. “It’s Chasidah. Or Chaz. Jukors were banned. Exterminated.”

“I’m a theologian, not a scientist.”

He was also frequently at the spaceport.