Gabriel's Ghost

by Linnea Sinclair

  A long pause. “You said she was beautiful. She is.”

  Sully snorted. “It’s a requirement for Fleet patrol captains. Disarms the enemy.” He stepped back into the hallway, one hand on the door to keep it from closing. “You want something before service, you’d better move it.”

  He pulled his hand away. The door slid closed on his retreating footsteps.

  Morning meditations, I learned, consisted of two parts: primary or essentials, then, after a short break, secondary or supplications. I sat quietly between Ren and Sully through the essentials, listened to the tinkling of the bells as Brother Clement played them on the raised platform. I mimicked Ren’s and Sully’s posture, head bowed under my hood, steepled fingers touching my forehead. But I had no idea what words went through their minds.

  My own raced over too many things. My strange and unexpected sense of kinship with Ren, a Stolorth. The constant threat of the MOC officers and stripers just outside the temple doors. The Takas I no longer feared—at least, not here on station. Too many of them were Englarian; the temple was half full this morning. Almost all of them would, at some point today, begin Peyhar’s celebrations. Sully confirmed my earlier theory. A station full of mellow Takas was a good thing.

  His anger over Ren’s “seeing” my face—if that’s what it was—had dissipated when Ren and I entered the common room. He talked animatedly about the celebration, complained to Brother Clement about his ever-mounting financial debt to Ren. He was still in a lighthearted mood when we walked down the short corridor and in through the temple’s back door. When the bells chimed again, his right boot snaked around my left. Playing “footsie,” like a mischievous child in church.

  I tilted my face just far enough to catch a glimpse of his. He peered around his fingertips at me, winked.

  Three deep chimes. Brother Clement rose from the short bench in the center of the platform, spread out his arms. “May peace and wisdom fill your hearts today, brothers and sisters. Supplications for the devout will follow shortly.”

  The Takas around me shifted, sighing deeply rumbling sighs. Heads lifted. Some stood, others stayed seated.

  Sully’s hand cupped my elbow. “Come on,” he said softly.

  I glanced at Ren. He nodded, but he didn’t rise as we did.

  I followed Sully to the common room. He pushed back his hood as the doors closed behind us. I did the same, knowing this meant we were safe here. Only in the public area of the temple did we keep our heads and faces covered as much as possible.

  He pulled out a chair. “Sit.” He took the one next to mine.

  I folded my hands on the tabletop. “When do we have to go back?”

  “As long as we were seen at the essentials, that’s good enough for a few hours.” His expression held that familiar arrogance, chin slightly tilted up. “I found us a ship. All you have to do is fly it for us.”

  I straightened. Praise the stars! ran through my head. Shit. I was turning into an Englarian. “Here?”

  “Scheduled to make station tomorrow. I don’t have an ETA yet. But she’s listed on incoming, slated for a berth on Level Six-Green.”

  The temple was Nine-Green. Three levels below us. Not lugger territory. Another tri-hauler, like the Diligent? “How large a freighter?”

  “She’s not a freighter. She’s a Lancer-Class P40.”

  I sat, stunned. My last command had been a Lancer-Class P40. A little peashooter, as Sully had called it. “How in hell are you going to convince an Imperial patrol ship to get us off station?”

  He grinned. “I’m not. You are. I told you, you’re going to fly it for us.”

  “There’s no way—”

  “It’s our best chance, Chaz. You know those ships, their security systems and overrides.”

  “You’re talking about commandeering an Imperial P40!”

  “They can’t court-martial you twice.”

  “That’s the least of my worries. You’re putting the three of us against ten, fifteen officers and crew. Armed officers and crew. Berthed at a military station.” And one of us was blind.

  “Yeah, I know. Sounds like fun to me too.”

  “Sullivan!”

  “It’s the last thing they’ll expect. Surely you appreciate that. I spent a couple of hours last night roaming through the stripers’ reports. They can’t confirm whether Milo sent a warning message, but they suspect he did. There were some scrambled transmits that went through the MOC filters dirtside yesterday. I sent two more last night and back-transed them, just to keep them busy. So they’re watching ships coming up from dirtside. Watching short-haulers and luggers.”

  I had to be crazy. He was starting to make sense.

  “Plus, there were some antigovernment demonstrations on Tos Faros last week. Now the stripers are sure that’s what the Diligent was doing here. Looking to spring Sheldon Blaine.”

  Blaine’s trial had been about two years ago. He was a flamboyant figure, and I was never quite sure what fueled him: his passion for the throne or his love of newshounds’ vidcams. It was the latter that tripped him up, though. He was caught on camera negotiating the funding for an assassination attempt on Prew so that he could take his rightful place on the throne. He was sent to Moabar for that. I’d been in rather elite company down there.

  “They’re concentrating on anything coming from or through Tos Faros,” I guessed. “Or any crew with Farosian ties.” And not, I hoped, on a ghost and a court-martialed patrol captain who could run a P40 in her sleep. “She’s due in tomorrow?”

  “Updates should be in ops by 1300. I’ll have more then.”

  “Do we know which ship? The captain?”

  “That I do, my angel. Captain’s listed as Kingswell. Ship’s the Meritorious.”

  My mouth hung open for a moment before the words exploded out of it. “Meritorious? God damn you, Sullivan! You know that’s my ship!”

  He was grinning widely, dangerous lights dancing in his dark eyes. “Told you this would be fun.”

  I sat back in the chair and stared at him. The Meritorious. Coming here. With that pompous son of a bitch Lew Kingswell sitting in the captain’s sling. My captain’s sling.

  Sully was right. This was definitely going to be fun. I didn’t even pull my hand away when he reached for it and planted a kiss on my wrist. It just seemed right, somehow.

  7

  Peyhar’s Week celebrations officially began at 1930 hours station time. Our celebrations started a little earlier.

  Sully accessed his link to station ops shortly after 1300 hours. He confirmed the Meritorious, under Kingswell’s command, would arrive at 1100 hours tomorrow, completing her duties as special escort for the new assistant stationmaster. Commander Hilary Burnell was retiring. Commander Izak Chaves got her post.

  Lucky Izak. I wondered whom he’d pissed off to warrant a five-year stint on Moabar Station.

  I’d handled special escort service before; all patrol ships did from time to time, when something small and fast was required. Especially when the dignitary was someone as minor as an assistant stationmaster. So I knew the routine. I spelled it out to Ren and Sully as we lunched privately in Ren’s cabin, the long bench an impromptu table, the floor, our chairs. We sat in various cross-legged or angled positions and enjoyed our celebratory lunch. Sully had even cadged another bottle of wine.

  “It’s going to be by no means easy.” I pointed my fork at Sully, who was still gloating. “If I can get on board, yes, I can take her systems. Then we have to get the crew off. As quietly and quickly as possible.”

  I didn’t like Lew Kingswell. Never had. But I had no grudge against him and whoever his crew was now. I only knew his crew wasn’t mine. My exec and second had stood in my defense. They were demoted, busted down to supply-barge duty somewhere, last I heard. “Sparks,” my engineer, had put in for early retirement, and had sent me a long transmit when I was still in starport lockup. He’d lost faith in the Fleet, he said. And in the Empire.

  His sentiments
were echoed, in one form or another, by the eight others serving under me on that fateful tour of duty. None stayed with the Meritorious, though I doubt they’d been offered the chance.

  So we would face an unknown crew, anywhere from ten to fifteen counting Kingswell—a pompous, loud braggart who took great pleasure in bullying junior officers and crew.

  I didn’t like him, but I didn’t wish him dead.

  Ren dunked the hard crust of his bread in his soup. “Could we stow away, take the ship when she heads back in-system?”

  “Ten or more of them against the three of us? Not great odds,” I told him.

  Sully shook his head. “Workable, if we take them out one, two at a time.”

  “You might be able to take out two, trank and stow them somewhere. But by the time you grabbed crew member three, the other eight or so would notice. You’re talking a P40. This is a small ship. Three decks. Bridge backs up to the captain’s cabin, which abuts common room, crew’s quarters. Whole lower deck’s engines and cargo, or troop space, depending on your orders that tour. Sick bay, weapons, repair, and enviro on second. That’s it.”

  He wasn’t easily dissuaded. “Let’s leave it as an option.”

  “We can leave it as an option, but not a top choice. Keep in mind that an action taken in the lanes could result in a mayday. Could result in a response from Fleet, in the form of a cruiser or, worse, destroyer. Then you’re facing down the big guns. No, we need to take the ship here, on the rim, slip somewhere out-system for a while. Keep them wondering.”

  Sully’s lips curved in a teasing smile. “Is that what I used to do to you?”

  I laughed. “I never wondered about you, Sully. You were consistent in your inconsistencies. I never had any trouble finding you in the midst of some wild escapade.”

  He leaned his elbow on the bench. “Did it ever occur to you that’s because I wanted you to find me?”

  I shot him a disbelieving look. “Did it ever occur to you that you have a difficult time admitting you’re not infallible?”

  “Why,” he drawled, “would I admit to something that’s not true?”

  I touched Ren’s arm. “No more wine for him. He’s delusional.”

  A deep, soft laugh, like water tumbling over stones.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “we still have a problem to solve. And less than four hours in which to do it.” Our presence would be required at the temple ceremonies this evening. Drogue had insisted on that.

  Sully poured another round of wine. “We could invite them to Peyhar’s. Get them all furry on honeylace.”

  “Kingswell doesn’t get furry. He swaggers around, finds something he thinks is small and weak, then beats on it and claims victory.”

  “Delightful. Introduce us, will you?”

  “You don’t fit the requirements.” He wasn’t remotely small or weak. He’d picked me up last night without a struggle.

  “Won’t his crew take some liberty here?” Ren asked. “There are several pubs popular with off-duty station security and MOC personnel.”

  And it was a long run from in-system. “Depends on their tour. More than likely they didn’t come from Aldan or Baris Prime, but ran an intercept to a cruiser that had Chaves on board.”

  “Even if they intercepted at Dafir,” Sully said, “it’s still a good week at top speeds to Moabar.”

  “True.” I sipped my wine, played with some scenarios. The Empire was gridded on an ancient linguistic–numeric character set. The inner quadrants were Aldan and Baris, Prime through Four. Further out were Calth and Dafir, Prime through Six, with Six being rim. Moabar was in No-Name Quadrant E-5. A good seven-day run for a P40 from Dafir Six. My own trip from the Imperial prison on a starport in Baris Three took three weeks and two jumpgates just to get to Dafir Six and the waiting MOC transport ship.

  So it was a week back to Dafir for Kingswell and his crew. “They just might take liberty.” Ren’s idea began to have some possibilities. “In shifts, of course.”

  Ren splayed his six-fingered hand against the bench. “Working on the most negative scenario. Captain plus crew of fourteen. How would liberty be structured?”

  “On an unsecured port, small shifts, minimal exposure. But this is a secure port. Very little commercial traffic. Mostly military, government. No civilians.”

  “Except us,” Ren said.

  “You’re clergy. The government loves you because you keep the Takas happy.” That was true. We had standing no-interference orders on Englarians.

  “So if they take liberty, or can be encouraged to take liberty,” Ren continued, “we will then have a much smaller onboard situation to deal with.”

  Sully made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Then all we have to do is break docking clamps, drop into the lanes, and offer prayers, of course, that no one in ops or departure control notices our slight transgression. Or the alarms blaring on their consoles.” He leaned toward me. “That’s the risk, Chaz, of pulling anything right here.”

  He was opting for the stowaway scenario. But he was wrong. “We’re not going to have to blow the clamps. Ops will gladly withdraw them. And we’ll get clearance to undock as well.”

  Station might figure out something was wrong when we hit the lanes, but we’d have at least ten minutes on any pursuit ships at that point. And my little P40 could do a lot with ten minutes if she were up to speed.

  Ren smiled. “I believe the captain has a plan.”

  I smiled back, knowing he couldn’t see it but hoping he could feel it. “Yes. I do.”

  Sully arched a dark eyebrow.

  “Tugs.” My gaze switched from Sully to Ren, then back to Sully again. A second eyebrow slowly rose. “When we came in on Chalford’s ship, we were delayed because the tugs were busy moving a couple of luggers off dock due to interface malfunctions. What if we can duplicate those problems at Six-Green Three? Kingswell’s not going to have his ship sit with no fresh water and only intermittent power. And no trans link. He’ll have to move to another berth and won’t call back a full crew on liberty to do so. Engineer probably, and helm. Plus, he won’t need a tug. P40s are designed for close maneuvering.”

  “And we’ll just happen to be on board,” Sully said. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.

  “Fancy that,” I told him.

  Ren, beside me, let out a quiet sigh. “Praise the stars.”

  “No. Praise Chaz. The best interfering bitch in the quadrant. Maybe,” Sully added, reaching for my hand, “even in the entire damned universe.”

  He planted a soft kiss on my wrist, winking at me from over my own fingers.

  Brazenly, with a newfound confidence, I winked back. It had begun to feel as if I had a chance at winning this game.

  Showtime. Not the more dangerous one, taking the Meritorious. We were still a few hours from that. But the beginning of Peyhar’s, with me in a silver gown and gauzy, hooded robe, standing on the raised platform of the temple. Sully, in a deeper gray robe, stood next to me. We were both to the right of Drogue and Clement in the center, wearing bright gold robes trimmed with wide bands of silver.

  All eyes were on them. Yet I felt exposed and tried to keep my face shadowed. Which wasn’t easy with the lights shining on the large arch-and-stave behind me on the platform.

  Clement struck the chimes, Drogue’s voice lilted into a songlike prayer. Ren, in dark gray like Sully, moved down the center aisle with two other acolytes, swinging incense lanterns left and right.

  The temple smelled smoky-sweet. A very mild mixture of glory seeds and some harmless herbs, Drogue had told me shortly before the ceremony. Relaxing, but far from intoxicating.

  The Takas and a few humans on the bench seats breathed deeply, almost as if one. I fought the urge to sneeze, focused instead on the mural on the back wall: Abbot Eng again, red cape billowing, with a glowing soul-stealer kneeling before him. No, not kneeling—collapsing, the abbot’s stave sticking out of its spine. Long black hair, matted with blood, fell almost to the gr
ound, hiding the demon’s face. It was naked from the waist up, wings unfurling from a muscled back. Its silvery glow was muted, fading. Wonderful image to hold in your mind while you breathed glory-seed fumes.

  Yet an oddly appropriate one. According to legend, a few thousand years ago Eng had fought the soul-stealers. Now his followers would be taking up the same fight against jukors, the distorted lab-bred version of their mythical cousins.

  The chimes tinkled again. Sully touched my arm, indicating we should step back to the wall.

  My sole function, and Sully’s, was to hand Drogue and Clement the sacred objects from the low table behind us. All I could think about was taking back the Meritorious. The slow, languid movements of the ceremony felt like torture.

  I caught a slight nod of Drogue’s head, the first signal. I turned to the table, reaching for a metal flask. Sully’s warm hand covered mine for a moment. I looked at him in surprise.

  “Relax.” His voice was just above a whisper, his small smile just the slightest curve of his mouth.

  My heart pounded. Every time I thought of my ship, adrenaline raced through me. I gave him a short nod as I handed him the flask. “Okay,” I whispered back.

  I picked up the metal plate with four squat goblets, held on to the plate with both hands.

  “Breathe,” he told me as we walked to the center of the platform.

  I didn’t want to breathe. The incense tickled my throat. I inhaled deeply anyway. Fleet had taught me long ago how to stay focused. This was far from my first mission.

  Clement took the plate from me; Drogue took the flask. A short invocation, then Drogue and Clement drank the liquid in one swallow.

  Honeylace, I realized belatedly. Good thing those goblets were small.

  Drogue smiled at me, took the remaining two goblets from the plate, held them out to Sully and myself.

  They expected me to drink this stuff? Tomorrow would be tough enough without a hangover.

  Drogue must have caught my frown. “Sip and put it back,” he said softly.

  I tilted the goblet, let a drop fall on my tongue. Sweet, cloyingly sweet. I placed it, full, on the tray.