Gabriel's Ghost (5 page)

Sully fell into step with us. He’d lagged behind, talking to Ren who walked with one hand on the pallet, the other on his cane. “For good reason. Curiosity tends to be an overrated trait. I’m sure the Empire taught you that at some point. At the moment, your overwhelming gratitude toward me is best expressed through silence. There’s nothing you can contribute at this point, but there’s much to be lost by being premature.”

His sudden formal phrasing irked me. Sully the mercenary. Sully the poet. And now Sully the pedant. “I’m glad to know you think so highly of me.”

He slanted me a glance. “Highly enough to risk my life to save yours. I was outvoted, you know. Fortunately I rarely listen to my advisors.”

“Really? I’d never have guessed.” Nor could I picture him having advisors. In all the years I’d known him, he’d always been the one in command, pilots and techs following his orders.

Sully dropped back, picked up his conversation with the Stolorth.

Drogue and I walked on in silence. We were close enough to the spaceport that I could hear the distant clank and clatter from the cargo hangars. The occasional shout of human voices, the rougher call of the Takan guards. It was a chilly night when we started but now my body felt warm under the robes. I could feel small wisps of hair starting to curl around my face.

Thoughts, equally as annoying, coiled and uncoiled in my mind. You know the system, Sully had said, sitting across from me in the clearing, lightbar between us and a dead Taka at his back. Therefore he needed access to military information, military procedures.

He’d recited my pedigree.

Access to military personnel.

Why? My simplistic early assumptions revolved around money, even a heist of a Fleet payroll ship. Then I saw Ren.

During the Boundary Wars, twenty years ago, Stolorth
Ragkirils
had excelled at interrogating prisoners. Torturing them. I’d seen vids on the results of their handiwork. Or mind work, actually. That’s why seeing one on Moabar so frightened me. Perhaps the Empire had finally realized that more than inmates died on this prison world. Their secrets—co-conspirators, sources—died with them as well.

Reason, and a Non-Human Cultures class I was beginning to doubt, told me a Stolorth wouldn’t adapt well to Moabar’s climate. Ren wore a close-fitting shirt under his tunic. Thermal, probably. I’d seen the edge of the sleeve as he’d sipped his tea.

And the ponds here were all poisonous. At least, poisonous to humans.

Ren might not belong here, but the jukor fit only too well. The Stolorth would best survive on Moabar Station, providing there were no others of his kind. Because a Stolorth
Ragkiril
, sensing Ren’s handicap, would be duty-bound to kill him. That much I did believe, Non-Human Cultures class and all.

We were near the main gate. Drogue touched my arm, passed me the slim ID card. I tucked it into the slit in the front of my belt.

“And your name, Sister?” he prompted.

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“Berri Solaria, Sister of Mercy in the Order of Abbot Eng the Merciful.” I rattled off my ID number, my home convent and the date of my fictitious arrival at the Moabar Monastery. It was nothing compared to what Fleet had me memorize over the years, just to requisition a med-kit. Or to retrieve my personal transmits.

But the consequences of an error in this recitation were vastly more serious. I tried not to think about that, nor about the nervous flutterings in my stomach.

I ended the recitation with the ritual, “Praise the stars.”

Drogue’s face relaxed into a smile.

We climbed a steep rampway. I glanced back. Sully flanked Ren, the ramp not wide enough to accommodate the Stolorth and the pallet. I remember how he’d shielded me in the forest, when we’d first seen the jukor.

No, he’d seen it. And put himself between the creature and me.

Had it been about to spring, then?

With his back to it, Sully would have been killed, immediately.

But his rifle would have fallen into my hands. And in the time it would have taken the jukor to rip Sully apart, I could’ve killed it. I would’ve survived because of Sully’s sacrifice.

The thought chilled me. I almost bumped into a Takan guard who stepped in my path.

“Restricted. Present ID.” The Taka’s voice was harsh and choppy, like most of his kind. I kept my head bowed, folded my hands at my waist. My fingers drifted lightly over the Grizni bracelet under my sleeve.

“Blessings of the hour upon you, my friend.” Drogue beamed a smile that was completely genuine. “Truvgrol, isn’t it?”

The guard’s small eyes darted rapidly as he assessed our group. “Guardian! Blessings. Travel up?”

“It’s time for me to commune with my brothers on station, help in temple matters there. We have a wonderful Peyhar’s Week festival planned. One in the temple here, as well. Brother Frannard will be leading you.”

“Frannard, yes!” The Takan’s shaggy head nodded. Evidently Frannard was a popular figure.

“Will you require our ID passes? You know Brother Sudral, Brother Ren Ackravaro. Sister Berri Solaria… I do apologize. Have you not met Sister Berri?”

I could almost feel the Taka’s gaze on me. My heart pounded in my ears. I steepled my hands in front of my face, bowed low. To a Taka. A few hours ago, I’d killed one.

Truvgrol mimicked my gesture. “Blessings,” he growled out.

“Praise to the stars in the Abbot’s holy name. May fortune smile upon you this week, brother Truvgrol.” I raised my head slightly, handed him my card. He passed it through the scanner, barely looking at it.

“Good journey, good journey.” He waved us on.

I quietly let out a small sigh of relief.

We were similarly waved through three more checkpoints before we were admitted to the spaceport itself.

I pulled the hood of my robe closer. Even Drogue’s presence wasn’t completely reassuring now that I was in a closed building, with M.O.C. personnel hurrying back and forth through the gray-walled main terminal. Drogue nodded at faces I would only glimpse at, nodding as well.

“Praise the stars. Blessings of the hour.” I kept my voice bland, uninteresting.

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Sully had booked passage on one of the Chalford fleet supply ships, a squat short-hauler contracted to M.O.C. service. The ship had come in a few hours before; might even be the one that had punctuated my first conversation with Sully with its booming entry. The ship was berthed at Cargo Dock One.

Moabar Prison Spaceport had three docks; one passenger, two cargo. Dock One was down a short corridor the jutted off to the right. A solitary window just before the rampway afforded me my first view of the ship.

Chalford’s
Lucky Seven
was a B10-Class ‘load-up-and-go’ or ‘lugger’ as they were called in the freighter trade. Compact ships with dirtside capabilities, which the larger starfreighters lacked. What wasn’t cargo holds were engines; heavy-air and sublight. Luggers had no jump drives.

And no passenger cabins. A ruddy-faced crewmember escorted us to the lounge. His suitpatch said Chalford Cargo Services. Wilard, P.—Navigation.

“Bulkhead seats got harnesses.” He pointed to three pairs of fold-downs. “Don’t unstrap ’til you hear the all-clear from the bridge.”

I watched him leave.
This is too easy. Much too easy
. Pull a robe over my head, flash an ID card with a religious symbol, walk off Moabar and into freedom.

This is too easy
. I chose a seat from the pair nearest the exit out of habit, folded down the armrests. My throat suddenly seemed dry, my hands cold.

This is too easy
. I tried to think about what P. Wilard was doing on the bridge at nav. The captain would be running through his or her preflight, doing a last minute systems check. I knew the routine well.

But that little voice in the back of my mind wouldn’t shut up.
This is too easy
.

Sully unfolded the seat next to mine. “You’re frowning, Sister. Don’t tell me flying makes you nervous.”

I was about to remind him of all the hours I’d logged at the helm when I realized our conversations might well be heard on the bridge. I answered as I hoped Sister Berri would. “I was trying to decide which of the Twelve Blessings I’d recite for our departure. Perhaps you have a suggestion, Brother Sudral?”

I snapped the harness across my chest. Sully glanced at Drogue and Ren on his right. Bright orange straps crisscrossed the front of their pale robes.

“I’m fine,” Ren said.

Sully hadn’t asked. Ren must be used to Sully’s almost protective attitude by now, anticipated it. He stared straight ahead, one hand resting lightly on his cane tucked through the straps.

“I always enjoy the Blessing for Good Fortune through Purity of Effort,” Drogue said. “Permit me to lead.”

“That was about to be my suggestion as well.” Sully turned back to me, dropped his voice to a low rasp. “However, perhaps later we could perform the lesser known Invocation for the Convergence of the Male and Female Physical Essences—”

Intraship chimed twice. It was followed by a man’s voice, sounding bored. “This is Captain Newlin. We’ve got clearance. Push-back coming up.”

I closed my eyes, leaned my head back against the padding of the seat, waited for the jerk-and-thump as we were towed to the taxiway.

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All hatches were sealed. Ship was secure. I was either headed for freedom or into a trap. Either way, there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it right now. I listened to Drogue recite the blessing. Purity of Effort. I guess the road to—and from—Hell was paved with good intentions. The tow disengaged from us at the taxiway with a final shimmy. The heavy-airs, which had

been idling, were thrown to full. A muted roaring rumbled through the ship. Then we were moving, rising, my back flattening into the seat. I was free. Or I was dead.

Chapter Four

Artificial gravity kicked on with a thud. Something, somewhere, hadn’t been strapped down. I only hoped someone hadn’t been underneath it when it fell.

Captain Newlin sounded the all-clear. I was already unhooking my straps. Habit. My body knew the routine, knew the feel of a ship as her heavy-airs kicked off and sublights switched on. I wriggled the stiffness out of my shoulders. The lights on the commissary panels on the opposite wall beckoned. Tea, hot, with plenty of sugar. My mouth felt chalky.

Sully’s eyes opened when I stood. Whether he’d been sleeping, daydreaming, praying or plotting through most of our ascent I didn’t know. I was just thankful he’d been quiet. He had a marked tendency to try to bait me. I was too tired, and too wary, to want to play his games right now.

“Two hours to station,” he told me.

I remembered my trip down, three and a half weeks ago. Seven of us had started our sentences together that trip. We were all quiet, fear and anger hanging heavily in the silence on the small transport ship. None of us were fools; we knew what awaited us on Moabar.

I was still afraid. I had no idea what awaited me on station, or beyond that. Fear sharpened the senses. Mine had to match my dagger if I were to survive.

Sully followed me to the commissary panels, leaned one shoulder on the bulkhead as I tabbed in my request for tea. His lazy smile reminded me of our encounter on Port Chalo and made me force my mind back to the business at hand.

“Who’s running us in-system?” The unit’s hum provided a nice, bland background noise to my quiet question, in case someone had the lounge rigged for listening.

Sully arched an eyebrow. “You sound very sexy when you whisper.”

I shot him a warning glance. “Brother Sudral—”

“Drogue’s known Newlin for a long time.” He glanced back at Drogue, seated at a far table. A microscreen was slatted out of the tabletop in front of him. His face was relaxed. He seemed to be enjoying whatever he watched or read. “And Newlin knows better than to ask questions. Or be concerned with what happens in the lounge.

“He’s not going to risk,” he continued as I pulled the capped mug of tea from the dispenser, “losing his glory-seed connection.”

“Newlin’s Takan?” His voice had sounded human. Which he was, I realized as my brain caught up with Sully’s words. Glory-seed connection. Takas wouldn’t need a connection or a source for a narcotic that was legal for them. They could grow them, chew them or distill them into honeylace, a nectar they used to reach a meditative state during their religious festivals.

Festivals run by Englarian Guardians.

Sully watched me with a bemused smile as if he knew I’d answered my own question. “Newlin’s always glad to assist the followers of Abbot Eng whenever he can. And Chalford likes to keep Newlin happy because it’s hard to find crew willing to work the Moabar run.”

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I cupped my tea in both hands and headed for one of the small tables. “He better not be doing shots of honeylace on the bridge.” Or he wouldn’t know which of the six stations spinning in front of him was the real one. I put my mug down.

“Not quite regulation?” Sully leaned his forearms on the back of the chair next to mine, then reached over, and with a brush of his hand, pushed my hood back. I didn’t jerk away this time. I finally caught on. Just as he baited me with his words, I figured out he liked to see my reaction to his touch. It was a game with him: let’s see just how nervous we can make this very proper, respectable, military born-and-bred female. Whose mother wore army boots.

I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to play his games anymore. I regarded him coolly.

He chuckled. “Don’t fret. Newlin’s been flying this bucket for years.”

A typical Sullivan non-answer, which in no way reassured me the captain wasn’t in some drug-induced fog. The only thing I did know now was that I didn’t have to be cautious with my questions. “In-system, Sully. Can you tell me now what this is all about? How we’re getting there?”

Ren’s cane lightly clacked against the chair on the other side of me. He sat down, threaded the cane through a small loop on his belt. It took a moment for my stomach to unclench. He was blind, harmless. I focused on Sully.