Gabriel's Ghost (6 page)

“There’s a tri-hauler waiting for us.
Diligent Keeper
. She’s a regular but engine troubles have her momentarily delayed. Her troubles will be fixed just shortly after we arrive. She’ll head back in-system.”

“And then?” I prompted.

Sully knotted his hands together, glancing briefly at Ren before answering. “Then I put you to work on this small project of mine.”

The one that needed a good, interfering bitch. The one that had made him go against his advisors’ recommendations, search me out on Moabar. Kill a jukor.

The one that could yet get me killed. Moabar Station was restricted to M.O.C. and Imperial Security personnel only. Just because my boots weren’t touching Moabar soil didn’t mean I was free. “Tell me.”

He was still leaning over the back of the chair, his posture casual. His eyes narrowed. “I need you to get me into the Marker Shipyards.”

“Why?”

He hesitated only a second. “We’re going to destroy them.”

“What?” It was a good thing I’d just put my tea down. If I’d been holding the mug, I would’ve dropped it.

“Ren and I’ve spent the better part of the past year following the trail of some interesting rumors. Involving Marker. Involving gen-labs.” He watched me very closely.

“That jukor you killed.”

Ren turned as if he could see me. “I learned of a breeding pair. Sully and I were tracking them. Moabar was one possible destination.”

I turned back to Sully. “Then you knew—?”

He shook his head. “One possible destination. Confirmed now, of course.”

“Or perhaps not.” Ren made a small gesture with his wide hand. “This information is buried deeply. Because we’ve learned of one pair, doesn’t mean there aren’t others.”

One pair was far too many for me. Though it was half a pair now. “If this is coming out of Marker, then it’s an Imperial sanctioned project.”

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“We’ve considered that,” Sully said.

The definitive tone of his answer spoke volumes. This wasn’t Gabriel Ross Sullivan, the poet. This was Sully, the mercenary.

And if the gen-labs were an Imperial project at Marker, my brother, Thad might have knowledge.

I leaned my mouth against my fist. Maybe if I didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true. Thad might well be, as Sully had said, a supercilious ass. But could he condone a project that created mutants, whose sole purpose was death of any living thing they saw? Two hundred and seven men, women and children were brutally, horribly massacred on Corsau Station ten years ago, when a shipment of jukors escaped from the transport ship. It was then the Empire realized the beasts they’d bred to replace border patrol security dogs had evolved into something far, far from that.

The only positive, if it could be said to be that, was that the jukors had escaped onto a station—a closed environment. Had they been dirtside their recapture would’ve been almost impossible. With their genetically enhanced rapid breeding rate, they could easily decimate the population of a small city in months, perhaps weeks.

I pulled my hand away from my mouth. “How many labs do they have? What’s their date for project completion?”

“Those are exactly the kinds of things that I need a beautiful, interfering bitch to find out.” Sully smiled grimly at me. “Would you happen to know of one, Captain Bergren?”

I did. And she knew the shipyards very well.

“You might want to look at this, Brother Sudral.” Drogue leaned back in the chair, swiveled toward our table.

Sully turned. “You have a schedule?”

“Partial. Brother Verno regrets he could not get more.”

Sully swung back to me. “Marker’s made some interesting requisitions as of late. Items one wouldn’t expect they’d need for the two new Arrow-Class destroyers under contract.”

“What office is issuing the requisitions?” Marker was a big shipyard and sometimes served as a waystation for supplies going outbound to small repair facilities. Sully’s mention of schedules told me he’d tapped incoming cargo. But if that same cargo was outbound again, he might be way off in his theory about gen-labs. Though the appearance of the jukor told me at least part of his theories were valid.

“Shipping manifests, best we can tell, are just tagged for Marker.”

“Wouldn’t be.” I drummed my fingers against my mouth. I’d sat in my mother’s office at the shipyards for too many hours, as a child. Helped her sort and code incoming and outgoing requisitions for Marker’s Quartermaster’s Office, Sublight Division. Once in a while something tagged for Enviro or Nav-Pack would come in, erroneously linked to her files by a junior data-tech who hadn’t had his or her second cup of coffee that shift. She’d clean up the file, send it back along with a reprimand.

Details, Chaz. Efficiency and security are built on details.

Once she’d even found a weapons req sent by mistake to the uniforms warehouse, a non-secure site. That time her reprimand also resulted in a demotion.

“Wouldn’t be,” I repeated. He straightened as I stood and motioned toward Drogue’s screen.

Drogue started to rise.

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“No, sit.” I leaned over the back of Drogue’s chair much as Sully had moments before at my table. The slice of data had been taken from an Imperial transit beacon, recording starfreighter movement in Baris. Overlying that was a ship’s manifest from its departure point at Port January.

The beacon data logged the ship’s heading, speed and cargo category. Biohazards and any other potentially dangerous cargo were always routed through the outer lanes, away from populated stations and worlds. Away from commercial passenger traffic.

A freighter squawking a Hazard Code would activate an immediate security breach when passing an inner beacon. Patrol ships, like the one I commanded up until six months ago, would pursue.

A captain could deny what he carried was hazardous. He could claim the wrong code had been logged in his ship’s systems. But he couldn’t deny me and my boarding party access to his ship or his systems.

I was well used to unraveling altered manifests, tweaking out hidden shipping codes. Breaking into cargo holds, if I had to. I’d built a career on it.

I studied the data before me. Drogue was right; it was only a partial. A pre-shipment manifest, not verified and lock-signed. “This isn’t a final. Container codes haven’t even been entered completely in column three.”

“Brother Verno is working on a source for the final manifests,” Drogue said. “For the moment, this is the best data we’ve been able to get.”

Brother Verno. At some point I wanted to know why the Englarians were involved, other than the similarity in appearance between Abbot Eng’s winged soul-stealers and the jukors. But at the moment, the data held my attention. “This comes from Core Central Medical Designers. Their shipping codes always carry an M-432 prefix. Sometimes they ship as Core Em-Ex, but you’ll pick them up from the M-432.” The truncated data told me little more other than pickup and estimated delivery dates. But I knew Sully knew how to read that.

“How about those four containers that are coded?” Sully leaned one hip on the edge of Drogue’s table.

“The only thing you need to look for is this section right here: M-432-NH1. All that tells me is nonhazardous, class one. Which means no special care required. Exposure to heat, light, cold permitted. I’d say non-breakables, hard goods. But you might,” I continued, reaching around Drogue to scroll the data to the left, “look at the container classes themselves. See, they’re not duro-hards. So we’ve got lightweight non-breakables. You could have four gross of bedpans.”

“Does Core Central manufacture bedpans?” Sully sounded disappointed.

“Core Central contracts with a lot of small factories for just about everything. If you’re looking for supplies that would build a gen-lab, though, I’d be watching for shipments from Core Em-Ex. That’s their high-ticket, research division.”

Drogue turned his broad face up to mine. “You have a remarkable memory, Captain Bergren.”

I shook my head. “Repetitive. I’ve seen this stuff almost every day of my adult life.” And much of my childhood, as long as my mother had been alive.

Sully folded his arms across his chest. “Now you understand why we need you.”

A good interfering bitch with a working knowledge of Marker and Imperial shipping? I was far from unique. Every other patrol captain in the Imperial Fleet had my knowledge of cargo codes. And last I knew, over five hundred and fifty people worked at Marker. Many of them

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possibly had knowledge of Marker’s routines and those same codes I did. But I was the only one sitting on Moabar.

Some of my unease about my pact with the ghost from Hell subsided. “All right. Count me in,” I told Sully. “But let’s make sure of your information, first.” Five hundred fifty people, including my brother, worked in Marker. I wasn’t going to convict them on partial evidence, or misinterpreted data. I knew only too well what that felt like.

* * *

Newlin came back on the intraship when we were cleared for docking. “Strap down and secure. I mean it, this time.” Evidently he’d heard that ominous thump two and a half hours before. We were a little behind schedule. Newlin said only that the station was having a problem with their escort tugs.

Ten minutes later a long shimmy rattled through the ship as she was gated to one of the station’s extended docking ramps. Two hard jolts. Clamps secure. We were probably lower level. Luggers usually didn’t rate the better berths. A tri-hauler like
Diligent
should be somewhat higher, closer to the M.O.C. command center, stationmaster’s office, rec facilities.

I made a mental appraisal of how much longer I’d be in the M.O.C.’s company. Another five, ten minutes until we were cleared to disembark. I didn’t know if we’d have to pass through an ID scan again. We’d come in as approved commercial transit, not prisoners. In theory, it was always possible the lugger could have been intercepted between Moabar and the Station, taken cargo or passengers off or on. If I ran the station, there’d be another ID check. But then, I tried to run my life, and my ship, the way my mother had taught me.

Details. Ask questions. Get facts. Something the Imperial Fleet and the M.O.C. had been known to ignore.

If they did recheck ID, that would delay us another five. Then we had to find the lifts, find the
Diligent
. Fifteen minutes. Sully had said they’d file for departure as soon as we were on board.

Half-hour. Forty-five if they were having a problem with the tugs. I’d be generous. An hour. An hour to wait and then I’d be heading in-system. Free.

It’s still too easy
.

Shut up.

Sully unsnapped his harness as I did. “You stay with Drogue.” He stepped away from me, headed for Ren. A light touch of his hand on the Stolorth’s elbow preceded his quip. “Show time.”

Hazy silver eyes turned toward Sully. “I’m ready.”

Wilard arrived to escort us off ship. All conversation ceased as we filed after him toward the airlock. Drogue touched the wide belt at his waist, signaling I should have my ID ready.

Okay, five minutes, Chaz. Five minutes. This is the toughest part. You can do this.

Drogue didn’t know the Taka waiting at the bottom of the ramp. We went through the ritual greetings but without the easy familiarity of the spaceport.

“Blessings of the hour to you, brother.”

“Blessings of the hour. Guardian?” The Taka spent much more time on our ID cards than his kin dirtside. When he tapped his comm badge and growled in a request, my heart stopped for a few beats.

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An M.O.C. officer in a dark brown uniform appeared quickly. Female, mid-fifties. Short dark hair with one wide streak of silver on the left. Her almond-shaped eyes showed only boredom as our cards processed through a second time.

Then her right hand rose. “Sister Solaria?”

I’d taken perhaps two steps past her. A slight chill of fear rippled through me. I forced myself not to flinch, turned slowly, plastered what I hoped was a holy, and wholly, innocent look on my face. “Praise the stars, sister. How may I assist you?”

Her name tag said Tran, D.. “Your immunizations aren’t up to date.”

Minor problem. Go to Medical, get a hypospray. Not a minor problem. My bio-prints wouldn’t match the real Berri Solaria’s. But they would match Chasidah Bergren’s in the M.O.C.’s central files.

Drogue spoke up quickly. “An error, I am sure, Officer Tran. The Guardianship has even more stringent medical requirements than the Empire. Sister Solaria is one of our most active missionaries. She would not be permitted to carry on her work unless she had full medical clearance.”

“I’m aware of that, Guardian, but her card file shows—”

“Perhaps I can assist.” Ren’s soft tones flowed over Drogue and Tran, standing almost nose-to-nose.

I waited to see her reaction to the Stolorth’s presence. Most people would have backed up a step. Or five.

Tran peered up at the silver-tinged face under the hood. “Brother Ren Ackravaro. Back again?”

I didn’t know if her recognition of Ren were a good or bad sign. Things were starting to look slightly less easy.

“Final trip, for awhile, I’m afraid. Moabar’s winters and I do not get along.” Ren motioned toward me, knowing where I stood, I guessed, by the sound of my voice. “Sister Solaria and I are heading in-system. There’s much work to be done at the orphanage in Kressal on Walker-Three.”

Tran glanced at me. “You’re a teacher, Sister?”

“We’re all teachers and students to each other,” I said softly. “I guide the poor orphans through the light of Abbot Eng shining his wisdom through me.”

“Sister Solaria’s medical files were appended at the convent. Perhaps they were entered incorrectly?” Ren held his card toward Tran. “Ours came through the Guardianship in Dafir. Perhaps if you compare them?”

“It might just be a difference in origination code.” Sully lightly touched Tran’s shoulder as he offered her his card. “Could we trouble you to make sure this is not the case, before we must experience a delay at Medical?”