Gabriel's Ghost

Author’s Note

Gabriel’s Ghost
was inspired by and written to “Put Your Lights On” featuring Everlast on Santana’s album
Supernatural
(copyright 1999 Arista Records Inc.)

Dedication

To Rob, husband of infinite patience who believed in me;

To my wonderful crit parters: Nancy and Darlene, who threatened me with bodilyharm should anything happen to a certain secondary character in this book;

To my feline four: Daiquiri, Doozer, Artoo and Fat Tammi... FUR all your help.

Chapter One

Moabar

Only fools boast they have no fears. I thought of that as I pulled the blade of my dagger from the Takan guard’s throat, my hand shaking, my heart pounding in my ears. Light from the setting sun filtered down through the tall trees around me. It flickered briefly on the dark gold blood that bubbled from the wound, staining the Taka’s coarse fur. I felt a sliminess between my fingers and saw that same ochre stain on my skin.

“Shit!” I jerked my hand back. My dagger tumbled to the rock-strewn ground. A stupid reaction for someone with my training. It wasn’t as if I’d never killed another sentient being before, but it had been more than five years. Then, at least, it had carried the respectable label of military action.

This time it was pure survival.

It took me a few minutes to find my blade wedged in between the moss-covered rocks. After more than a decade on interstellar patrol ships, my eyes had problems adjusting to variations in natural light. Shades of grays and greens, muddied by Moabar’s twilight sky, merged into seamless shadows. I’d never have found my only weapon if I hadn’t pricked my fingers on the point. Red human blood mingled with Takan gold. I wiped the blade against my pants before letting it mold itself back around my wrist. It flowed into the form of a simple silver bracelet.

“A Grizni dagger, is it?”

I spun into a half-crouch, my right hand grasping the bracelet. Quickly it uncoiled again— almost as quickly as I’d sucked in a harsh, rasping breath. The distinctly masculine voice had come from the thick stand of trees directly in front of me. But in the few seconds it took me to straighten, he could be anywhere now. It looked like tonight’s agenda held a second attempt at rape and murder.

I tuned out my own breathing; listened to the hushed rustle of the thick forest around me and farther away, the guttural roar of a shuttle departing the prison’s spaceport. I watched for movement. Murky shadows, black-edged yet ill defined, taunted me. I’d have sold my soul then and there for a nightscope and a fully-charged laser pistol.

But I had neither of those. Just a sloppily manipulated court martial and a life sentence without parole. And, of course, a smuggled Grizni dagger that the Takan guard had discovered a bit too late to report.

My newest assailant, unfortunately, was already forewarned.

“Let’s not cause any more trouble, okay?” My voice sounded thin in the encroaching darkness. I wondered what had happened to that ‘tone of command’ Fleet regs had insisted we adopt. It had obviously taken one look at the harsh prison world of Moabar and decided it preferred to reside elsewhere. I didn’t blame it. I only wished I had the same choice.

Megan Sybil Baker - 6

I drew a deep breath. “If I’m on your grid, look, I’m leaving. Wasn’t my intention to be here,” I added, feeling that was probably the understatement of the century. “And if he,” I said with a nod to the large body sprawled to my right, “was your partner, then I’m sorry. But I wasn’t in the mood.”

A brittle snapping sound started my heart pounding again. My hand felt as slick against the smooth metal of the dagger as if the Taka’s blood still ran down its surface. The sound was on my right, beyond where the Taka lay. Only a fool would try to take me over the lifeless barrier at my feet. A fool, or someone not intent on harming me. At least, not right away.

The first of Moabar’s three moons had risen in the hazy night sky. I glimpsed a flicker of movement, saw him step out of the shadows just as the clouds cleared away from the moon. His face was hidden, distorted. But I clearly saw the distinct shape of a short-barreled rifle propped against his shoulder. That, and the fact that he appeared humanoid, told me he wasn’t a prison guard. Energy weapons were banned on Moabar. Most eight-foot tall Takas didn’t need them, anyway.

The man before me was tall, but not eight feet tall. Possession of the rifle meant he had off-world sources, and probably wielded some power among the other convicts as well.

I took a step back as he approached. His pace was casual, as if he were just taking his gun out for a moonlit stroll. He prodded the dead guard with the tip of the rifle. “Perhaps I should’ve warned him about you. Captain Chasidah Bergren. Pride of the Sixth Fleet. One dangerous woman. But, oh, I forgot. You’re not a captain anymore.”

With a chill I recognized the mocking tone, the cultured voice. And suddenly knew the dead guard and the rifle were the least of my problems. I breathed a name in disbelief. “Sullivan. This is impossible. You’re dead—”

“Well, if I’m dead, then so are you.” His mirthless laugh was as soft as quiet footsteps on a grave. “Welcome to Hell, Captain. Welcome to Hell.”

* * *

We found two fallen trees, hunkered down and stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. It was like old times. Except there was the harsh glow of his lightbar between us, and not the blackness of space.

“I never pegged you for an easy kill,” I told him. Which was true. The reports of his death two years ago had actually surprised me more than his reappearance just now. That simply disturbed me. I balanced the dagger in my hand, not yet content to let it wrap itself around my wrist. “When I heard what happened at Garno it sounded too easy. I didn’t buy it.” I shrugged and pushed aside what else I’d thought, and felt, when I’d heard the news. My opinions and feelings about the death of a known mercenary and smuggler mattered little anymore.

He seemed to hear my unspoken comment. “It wasn’t planned to fool anyone with a modicum of intelligence. Only the government. And, of course, their news-hounds. But tell me the news of my passing pained you,” he continued, dropping his voice to a well-remembered low rumble, “and I’ll do my best to assuage your fears.”

A muted boom sounded in the distance, rattling through the forest. Another shuttle arriving, breaking the sound barrier on descent. He turned toward it, so I was spared answering what I knew to be a jibe. Regardless, I had no intention of telling him about my pain.

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Patches of light and shadow moved over his face. Sullivan’s profile had always been strong, aristocratic, dominating the Imperial police bulletins and Fleet patrol advisories. He had his father’s lean jaw line, his mother’s thick dark hair. Both were more than famous in their own right, but not for the same reasons as Sully. They were members of the Empire’s elite; he was simply elusive.

The lightbar reached full power. It was almost like shiplight, crisp and clear. He turned back to me, his lips curved in a wry smile, as if he knew I’d been studying him.

He’d aged since I last saw him, about six months before his highly publicized demise. The thick, short-cropped black hair was sprinkled with silver. The dark eyes had more lines at the corners. The mouth still claimed its share of arrogance, though, as if he knew he’d always be one handsome bastard.

However, something else had changed, something deeper inside him. It was nothing I could see, sitting there under the canopy of the forest. It was something I knew. Because I
was
sitting there with Gabriel Ross Sullivan and I was still alive.

All the more reason to ignore his attempt at taunting me. His existence had been far more troublesome in my life than his purported passing. “What went down on Garno? You cut a deal?” Moabar or death had been offered to a lot of people, though not me. Most chose death. I hadn’t had that luxury.

He snorted. It was a disdainful sound I remembered well. He shoved the rifle almost to my nose. “What’s this look like? How long have you been here, three weeks?”

I knew what it was. A rifle. Illegal. Damn difficult to come by. They didn’t wrap around your wrist like my dagger, or fit in the sole of a boot.

A thought chilled me. Maybe the Taka weren’t the only guards the prison authorities used.

“Yeah, three weeks, two days and seventeen hours. You know what they say about how time flies.” I held his gaze evenly. His eyes were dark, like pieces of obsidian, unreadable. “That’s a rifle. Norlack 473, Sniper model. Modified, it appears, to handle illegal wide load slash charges.”

He laughed. “On point as ever, Bergren. Dedicated captain of a peashooter squad out in no man’s land. Keeping those freighters safe from dangerous pirates like me. Then they damn you, ship you here and still every inch of you belongs to Fleet Ops.” He shook his head. “Your mama wore army boots and so do you.”

“What do you want, Sully?” I jerked my chin toward the dead Taka far to the right of us in the clearing. “You cleaning up after him? Or finishing what he didn’t?”

He turned the rifle in his hands. “This isn’t Fleet issue. Or prison stock. This is mine. Contraband, wasn’t that how your orders phrased it? Stolen. Modified.” He paused and pinned me intently with his obsidian gaze. “Mine.”

We’d had conversations like this before, most often with me on the bridge of my small patrol ship, in the captain’s sling. He’d be on the bridge of whatever fast vessel suited his fancy that week, his pilot and bridge crew flickering in and out of the shadows behind him. He rarely answered anything directly. He threw words at you, phrases, like hints to a puzzle he’d taunt you to solve. Or like free-form poetry, the kind that always sounded better after a few beers. I’d heard he used to write poetry, had won awards for his verse. He loved to play with words.

I didn’t. “Okay. So no deal was cut and you’re not working for the Ministry of Corrections. Don’t tell me you’ve added Moabar to your vacation plans?”

He laughed again, more easily this time. But not easily enough for me to put my dagger back around my wrist.

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“A resort for the suicidal, but faint at heart? Don’t bother to slit your own throat, we’ll do it for you.” He gestured theatrically. “It could work. If I couldn’t market it, hell, no one could.”

“Not a lot of repeat business.” I couldn’t help myself. I had to say it.

“Ah, but that is the operative word. Business.”

“Is it? What are you funding here, prison breaks?” If he wasn’t with the M.O.C., then he had to be working against them. But I’d never heard of any successful escapes from Moabar. There was no prison, per se. No formal structure. Just an inhospitable, barely habitable world of long frigid winters that brought airborne viruses, and bleak, chilled summers. Like now. I was lucky my sentence started when it did. I’d have time to acclimate. Others, dumped dirtside in the midst of a blizzard, often died within hours.