Gabriel's Ghost

by Linnea Sinclair

  “Waste of a damned good man.” He spat out the words.

  Angry at the universe, then. Milo must have been a friend. I waited, giving him time to compose himself, and took in the sparse room. An arch-and-stave hung on the far wall, over a long, narrow bed half shielded by a privacy curtain. Kitchen panels on the left. Foldout desk on the right with a door beside it that was probably a lavatory. Ren’s quarters had to have a bath. Stolorths could survive without water for forty-eight hours before their gills dried permanently shut.

  In the middle of the room was a long, padded bench, not unlike the ones in the temple. I pushed my hood back, eased down on one end. The stiffness in the set of Sully’s shoulders spoke volumes. And made me want to let him know he wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry.”

  Sully slanted a glance at me, then thrust both hands through his hair this time. “Damn it!”

  He plopped down next to me, the bench wobbling slightly under his weight. He leaned his elbows on his knees, rested his eyes against the heels of his hands. I knew he was concerned over the abrupt change of plans, at the new risks we now faced. But I also felt that Captain Milo’s death pained him on a very personal level. It was an unexpected glimpse at a side of him I didn’t know well.

  This wasn’t Gabriel Ross Sullivan, the poet. Or Sully, the mercenary. This was almost someone else. Someone closer to the man who’d met me in that bar in Port Chalo, who’d seemed to intuitively know I was hurting that night. I had an urge to put an arm around him, say something comforting. But I wasn’t sure who I’d be comforting, or if it would even be welcomed. So I waited.

  He raised his face, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. “Waste of a good man,” he said again, finally. “And no, Milo wouldn’t talk. He didn’t know who I went down to Moabar to retrieve. You learn not to ask questions in this business.”

  “His crew?”

  “Six. Ship was mostly automated. But she’d been running legit for two years now. He was doing me one last favor because I did him one, years ago. The stripers should never have tagged him.” He turned to me. “I don’t make mistakes like this, Chaz. I can’t afford to.”

  I almost pointed out to him that my forged ID card wasn’t perfect either. But now wasn’t the time. “Ren said someone tipped off the stripers.”

  He nodded, calmer. More thoughtful. “That’s of deep concern. If there’s a leak within my crew, I can’t risk bringing you on board. Anyone with half a brain, and a few of those still exist in the government, would eventually discern the value of your particular area of knowledge. Your family’s connections.”

  “My mother’s choice of footwear?” I gave him a half smile.

  He caught it, though the one he gave back was tinged with sadness. “She taught you well.”

  I had a feeling he knew far more about me than I was comfortable with—especially as I had no idea of his source. If we lived long enough to get off Moabar Station, I just might ask him. But inherent in that we was part of the danger. “Maybe Newlin should take me back dirtside. They might not think—”

  “No!” Strong fingers grasped my forearm. “You’re not going back there. We still have options. They’ll take a bit more time, but we have them.” He seemed conscious of his sudden intensity. His grip relaxed, his hand draped over my arm.

  “This is only a setback. It seems worse because of Milo. Well, it seems worse to me. You didn’t know him.” He talked more to himself than to me. “He knew the risks, and that death was one of them. One he would accept only because there was no other choice.”

  Was the breeding of jukors something a man would give his life to stop? Evidently Captain Milo believed so. And it was enough for Drogue, a gentle monk. And for Ren, who was everything I’d been taught Stolorths couldn’t be. If caught, Drogue would most likely face Moabar, as I had. But Ren could well be turned over to his own people. His death, the Empire could honestly say, wouldn’t be on their soul’s slate.

  Sully was, purportedly, already dead. The Empire was large. Add to that the few outlying systems that lived peacefully nearby and there were hundreds of worlds on which Sully could’ve taken a new identity. A new life. Yet, after a two-year absence, he was back, moving again through dark and dangerous shadows. I couldn’t understand why. But then, Sully had always been an enigma to me.

  I almost put my question into words, but his hand had slipped down my forearm and now encircled my wrist. My pulse fluttered under his fingers. His dark gaze held my own, then flicked down to my mouth. I felt a very real heat start in the pit of my stomach, flare up through my chest, singe my cheeks.

  “Chasidah.” I heard my name whispered so softly that for a moment I thought I’d heard it in my mind. But it was Sully’s voice I’d heard, and it was Sully’s face now so very close to mine.

  I don’t know what frightened me more. The very real hunger I saw in his eyes when his gaze flicked back up, or the fact that the hunger wasn’t only his.

  I bolted up from the bench. You’re losing your mind. It’s the stress. Lack of sleep. And an overabundance of one extremely enigmatic, very sexy male.

  I buried my unbidden emotions and forced myself to refocus on the real problem: the MOC, the stripers, the reappearance of the jukors.

  “Time’s not on our side right now, Sullivan.” I adopted my official Fleet-issue-the-captain-is-speaking-now tone. “Station can put us all in a lockdown, peel back ID by ID. This is what they do every time it’s even hinted the Farosians are involved. I know the routine.”

  His only response was a slightly surprised expression. Did he think I didn’t understand the problems we faced?

  “Staying together,” I told him, “is the biggest risk. You, me, Ren, Drogue. You might as well hand them your whole operation in a duro-hard.”

  I hoped his silence meant he was considering my words. But there was that slight puzzlement in his expression. Something in his heated gaze again sent a little flare-up inside me. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m not sending you back down.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  He studied me for a long moment. “Valid ones.”

  I wanted to call him an idiot. I wanted him angry, not offering me this odd mixture of patience and something I couldn’t define. I wanted him to see what I saw, the lives he risked, including his own. I didn’t want his to be one of them. I wasn’t worth it.

  I was on Moabar for a valid reason. Whether or not I believed the Empire’s evidence against me, fourteen people were dead because of a decision I’d made while in command.

  And now Nathaniel Milo. Make that fifteen. I didn’t want to count the Takan guard. He’d attacked me first—an action that still puzzled me. But I had bigger problems at the moment than one Taka’s bizarre behavior.

  “Reach Newlin. Or anyone. Send me back while you still can.”

  His chin lifted. “I never pegged you for a coward.”

  “I’m not,” I snapped. “I’m an Imperial Fleet officer, trained to assess a situation and make decisions, based on facts. There’s no shame in pulling back, regrouping.”

  He rose. “Martyr doesn’t suit you either, my angel.”

  His flippant use of the affectionate term grated. “Damn you, Gabriel Sullivan, listen to me!”

  He grabbed my shoulders so quickly I didn’t have time to step back. His eyes were dark yet empty—his touch almost searing. When he spoke, bitterness, pain, and frustration mixed in his deep, harsh tone. “I’m already damned, consigned to a Hell I can never escape. It haunts me, consumes me. Until all that’s left are things that make me feel a pain I hope to God you never have to feel. Anger and pain are very valid reasons for what I do. Remember that.”

  He released me and turned abruptly away.

  I hugged my arms tightly around my middle. In all the years, in all the situations I’d faced Gabriel Ross Sullivan, I’d never seen him as deeply angry, as deeply hurt, as I had just now.

  The sound of
the door sliding open startled me. Ren followed Drogue in. The Guardian’s round face showed clear signs of tension. “This is most disturbing,” he was saying.

  I slanted a glance toward Sully and caught his gaze fixed on Ren. Ren’s face tilted questioningly and out of the corner of my eye I saw the slightest shake of Sully’s head. A dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

  A sharp chill crept up my spine.

  I’d seen a vid in training years ago. Two Stolorth telepaths having a conversation. To the listener, the questions and answers were disjointed. Until the teacher pointed out to watch for movement. All humans and most humanoids unconsciously tilt their heads when listening. All humans and most humanoids nod, even in response to their own silent thoughts. Stolorth Ragkirils were no different. Certain gestures stubbornly remained, even if the words were silent.

  I started adding up the gestures, the answers to questions unspoken. Something I sensed but couldn’t before define. Ren might be more than an empath. In spite of Sully’s protestations, in spite of what Fleet had us believe, Ren might have the ability to communicate telepathically. Link his mind to another’s. To Sully’s, I was beginning to suspect.

  Ren stated he couldn’t link with his own people. He never said whether he could link minds with a human.

  He was obviously blind. I still believe that negated his ability to rip a mind apart. So why not admit to a limited telepathy? I didn’t have answers. And didn’t like when I didn’t have answers.

  “We must sit, discuss things,” Drogue said.

  I sat, somewhat more cautious, on the end of the bench. I didn’t like being lied to. But there was nothing I could do about it right now. I recognized it could all just be conjecture, an overreaction on my part.

  However, the first chance I had, I was going to ask some serious questions. And not of Sully; we had a shared past that raised other issues, dragging us off topic. I had to talk to Ren.

  I took a deep breath, settled myself down. Calm, professional.

  Sully leaned back against the desk, his arms folded much as mine had been a few minutes ago. Classic defensive posture. Ren sat on his bed, drew the curtain back to the wall. Drogue stood in the middle of us.

  “We have lost Brother Nathaniel. This saddens me, as I know it saddens both of you. But we have greater concerns.”

  “What’s the status on the Diligent?” Sully asked.

  “She has eluded pursuit to this point, I am told. At least, her capture has not been announced. The Fleet has been alerted.”

  “What did the MOC learn?” Ren asked. “And from whom?”

  Drogue shook his head. “The stars, in their wisdom, have not yet convinced the authorities on station to share that with me. I only know the temple is not under suspicion. They stated we were free to continue with the festivities and rituals for Peyhar’s Week. I strongly suggest we do so.”

  Peyhar’s Week. NonHuman Cultures 101 again. An Englarian holiday of celebration and renewal. Glory seeds and honeylace would be shared. A station full of mellow, happy, eight-foot-tall guards wasn’t a bad idea at all.

  Still, I wanted off Moabar Station. “Can we get another ship in that time?”

  “Of course.” A Sully-like smirk accompanied his words.

  “Is there somewhere I can stay until then?” I asked Drogue. “I don’t think my ID will pass a second scan. I’d prefer it if the stripers could forget they ever saw Sister Berri here.”

  “The wisdom of the stars blessed me with a different idea. If you’ll permit me?” Drogue motioned to Sully, who nodded, obviously curious. Ren sat forward on the bed.

  “The stripers, as you call our security force, would find it odd that Sister Berri Solaria not participate in Peyhar’s. You have been seen on station, as has Brother Ren Ackravaro. Your absence would cause remarkings. Your person would not.”

  “Best place to hide is in full view,” Sully quipped.

  “Wait a minute. I can talk the basic lingo. Praise the stars. Blessings of the hour. But I’ve never been to a Peyhar’s celebration and my NonHuman Cultures class was a long time ago. I’ll sweep out the temple, fold prayer rugs, whatever. But I’m an obvious amateur—”

  “Virgin,” Sully put in.

  “And not a sacrificial one,” I snapped back. Damn him! He was baiting me again.

  “She has a point,” Ren said. I thought I began to see a pattern. Sully gets me riled and then Ren empathically reads me like a datascreen on max download. Wonderful.

  I didn’t care that Ren knew I was afraid. I was hardly a virgin, but my ignorance of the Englarians was wide and vast. I hated going into something without the facts, unprepared. No details.

  Sully was disagreeing. “She’ll be functioning as an acolyte. Most of the focus will be on Drogue and Clement. She just has to put in a few appearances. If a ship gets here that we can use, we’ll just say we had the call to meditation.” He shrugged, shot a glance at Ren, who turned, almost as if he could feel Sully’s gaze on him.

  “Brother Sudral sees well.” Drogue turned to me. “Formal festivities start tomorrow. I suggest we all get some rest. I can assure you the temple is secure. I’ll provide you with some basic descriptives of the ceremonies, if you like, Captain Bergren.”

  “Please.”

  Ren stood. “You may have my quarters. The office has room for a cot, which will serve me well.”

  “No, I can’t put you out.” My answer was automatic. Yet even as I declined his offer, I knew it was more than that. Of all of us, Ren was the least adapted to a human environment, the most in need of special accommodations. In spite of my suspicions, I had no desire to see him inconvenienced. I doubted the office had a bathtub.

  The Stolorth offered me a small smile. “The temple has a baptismal pool, if that’s your concern.”

  Was my concern that apparent? Or was it something else? My suspicions over his minor mind talents surfaced again. Maybe they weren’t so minor. “None of us can afford to be less than optimum right now.”

  “Then know that I would do nothing to jeopardize your safety, or my own.”

  Or Sully’s?

  It hit me then. They didn’t trust me. That’s why Ren was here, to see if Chaz Bergren, former Imperial Fleet officer, would cooperate. As if I’d say no, let me stay on Moabar. It was just starting to get cozy down there.

  I had to get Ren alone. Surprisingly, that thought didn’t discomfort me as much as it should have. Amazing how three weeks on Moabar can suddenly make one more receptive to a wide range of ideas and experiences.

  “I’ll compromise,” I told him. “Bring the cot in here. I’ll use it. It’s probably more my size, anyway. Then you can have your own bed and bath. It shouldn’t be for more than a day or two, at best. Unless you’d feel uncomfortable with me here?”

  I felt and heard, more than saw, Sully straighten and push away from the desk. He hadn’t counted on my offer. Good. Nothing works better than divide and conquer.

  Ren’s reaction surprised me. His mouth softened, some of the lines disappeared from around his clouded eyes. His face tilted slightly, as if he weren’t sure if he should be amused by my offer or even believe it at all.

  Several hours ago I’d run from him in fear. Now I was telling him that I, a human female, trusted him, a Stolorth male. Or rather, I knew I had to convince him to trust me.

  I had a feeling he knew that as well.

  We ate a small meal in the temple common room at about the time those on station would be having dinner. It was a way to force our bodies into the station’s rhythm.

  Another man in monk’s garb, who Drogue introduced as Brother Clement, came in just as we were dishing out the stew. He greeted me with a reassuring pat on my shoulder and a promise that the stars would keep me safe. But he called Sully “Brother Sudral,” so I was unsure of exactly what Clement knew, or didn’t. But, like Sully said, the less everyone knew, the safer we all were.

  Thick slices of bread—baked, not replicator issue—were stacked in the cent
er of a round table not unlike the one at the monastery dirtside. Clement led the Prayer of Thanksgiving. He was about Drogue’s age, mid-fifties, with skin the color of my favorite Imperial ale and glossy silver curls. He had a wiry build, a rumbling laugh, and a demeanor that was much less serious than Drogue’s. He ate a bowl of stew, then wrapped some bread in a napkin and left, pleading a file full of unread theological treatises in his quarters.

  “He’s quite the scholar,” Ren told me. He’d relaxed noticeably since our pact to be roommates. Sully alternated between unconcern and dropping into long, serious conversations with Drogue. I heard ship names mentioned. None was familiar to me, and I knew a fair amount of the freighters that worked the Empire’s rim worlds.

  We finished the stew, the bread, and a bottle of dry wine. I helped Drogue stack the dishes in the scrub unit, swiped down the table with a handvac. Sully and Ren were by the door, talking. By all appearances it was a friendly discussion. Then Drogue headed for the temple. Last-minute preparations for the festival to be checked one more time. He declined any offer of help. “You know where the cot is in the storage room, Brother Sudral? Good. Blessings of the hour, my friends. Morning meditations at six. Listen for the chimes at quarter of.”

  I followed Ren to his quarters. “You don’t use a cane on station?” I remember he’d left it in his quarters.

  Ren seemed slightly puzzled. “You thought it was for guidance. No, Moabar’s climate disagrees with my body. I find my legs and my back much weakened by the cold.”

  “Makes me do all the work,” Sully intoned, but his voice was light. The anger and darkness I’d sensed in him earlier were gone. He flipped the latch on a narrow closet door next to his quarters. “I’ll get the cot while you rest your aching bones.”

  Ren chuckled as we stepped inside, then tabbed off the autodoor so it would stay open. “You’re tired,” he said as I sat on the bench.

  “Slightly frazzled, yes,” I agreed. “But I probably won’t fall asleep for a while. My mind is still sorting through too many things.” Did he know what they were? I wanted to open the door to that discussion. “Will that bother you, keep you awake?”