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."

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.

"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."

"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.

"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 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.

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?"

Tran stared at Sully for a moment. Then obviously taken in, as most women were, by that slow, sexy smile of his, she shrugged and tabbed at the screen. She slid the three cards through again. Sighed. "Someone logged them with the wrong parameters. They're fine. Jalvert?"

The Taka stepped over. I caught a brief flash of irritation in the small eyes. Didn't like an M.O.C. officer correcting his mistakes, most likely.

"She's clear. Just a skewed entry."

Drogue bowed. "Our apologies. We often have our young novices do the clerical work. I appreciate your diligence, Officer Tran."

The woman nodded, waved us on. "Praise the stars."

"Praise the stars," I called back to her. For the first time, I meant it.

No one said a word until the four of us were alone in the lift.

"I though we cleared up that glitch in the program." Sully glanced over at Ren.

"I believed we had as well."

How could Ren see to program if he were blind?

Sully flashed me a wry smile. "Sorry, my angel. I guess I'm not perfect after all."

My first inclination was to reply with some biting comment in agreement. But two could play at this flirtation game. I went with my second. "Pity. Wedding's off, then."

I was rewarded with a moment of surprised silence than a deep chuckle. "Perhaps two weeks on the Diligent with me will convince you to change your mind."

I wasn't even thinking about the next two weeks. I still needed to get through the next two hours.

The lift doors opened on Corridor Level Seven-Blue. Brown M.O.C. uniforms wove past freighter blues, greens and grays, and past security's darker gray with the telltale white stripe up the pant legs. The hulking, furred presence of the Takas towered over all.

I was just shaking off the chill of fear from Tran's questions. I wanted to run, board the ship, seal the airlock. We walked instead at a leisurely pace.

"We'll part company at your ship," Drogue said. "We'll meet again, praise the stars, under more pleasant circumstances."

"I hope so." Pleasant circumstances sounded wonderful. "I appreciate your help."

"No, sister. We appreciate yours." Drogue held my gaze for a moment. Clearly, Sully's mission was personal to him. I had two weeks with Sully and Ren to find out why. Not that it mattered, overall. If the Empire were breeding jukors again, that was sufficient reason for me.

"What berth are we looking for?"

"Seven-Blue-Nineteen, I believe." Drogue glanced back at Sully, who nodded.

We were at Berth Twelve. Then Fourteen. At Sixteen I fought to keep from quickening my pace, played my little time game in my mind. Ten minutes to board. Half-hour, maybe forty-five minutes to get clearance to undock.

At Eighteen I stopped dead in my tracks. A thin chill raced up my spine. Bright yellow security 'bots ringed the next airlock, lights flashing. Sully's hand splayed against my back. His voice growled in my ear. "Stay here."

I had no intention of getting anywhere near the security 'bots, or the half dozen M.O.C. guards and Security stripers standing in a tight knot under the illuminated "19" on the overhead. Illuminated in orange: ship under security seal or quarantine.

"Face me," Sully ordered.

I did, turning away from the scene that sent my heart into my throat. Drogue and Ren kept moving. Their credentials, I surmised, weren't forged like mine. Or Sully's. "What's going on?"

"I don't know. And I don't like it when I don't know."

"They're under a Code Orange."

"Obviously. But I can't imagine Milo doing anything to elicit that. He excels at being cautious."

"An accident? A fire?" A supposed engine malfunction that had become real? "Crew problem?"

"Milo'd never let anything on-ship get to the docks. He knows better." Sully frowned, his gaze over my shoulder.

"You're sure it's the Diligent?" Ships switched berths for any number of legitimate reasons.

He answered my question with a squinting of obsidian eyes, then, "Still reads so."

Shit. Easy was disappearing fast. "Options?"

"Let's cross that-Ren. Talk to us."

The Stolorth stepped next to me, bowed to Sully, fingers steepled. "Brother Sudral. Sister Berri. I feel a need to meditate. I suggest we return to the Temple, and pray."

Oh, shit! Easy hit a jumpgate and was gone. I bowed my head as Ren and Sully flanked me. "Where's Drogue?" I asked quietly.

Berth Seventeen. Sixteen. "He will meet us at the Temple," Ren said.

Fourteen. Twelve. "The M.O.C. received information a certain ship was to assist in a prison break." Ren's voice was as calm as if he were commenting on the color of the decking below our boots. My heart pounded.

Berth Ten. "That information pointed to a ship called the Diligent Keeper," Ren continued.

Sully was silent. A cluster of blue-uniformed freighter crew strolled by, laughing.

As we passed Berth Nine, Ren added, "An attempt was made to take the ship, two hours past. The Diligent broke dock. However, I regret that her captain, Nathaniel Milo, is dead."

"Bastards." Sully's voice was harsh, bitter. My downcast gaze saw his fists clench.

Moabar Station suddenly felt very small.

Seven. I noticed Ren's cane now tucked through his sash, as if it were no longer needed. "Authorities believe a ship, with the escapees, is due in at seventeen-hundred, station time. Manned by supporters of Sheldon Blaine and possibly with Blaine himself on board."

That was four hours from now. I wasn't Blaine-I had no royal blood in my family-and I was already here. That was no guarantee they wouldn't look at all ships making station within a much larger time window, triple check all IDs. Especially if they were watching for Farosians; a small but pervasive band of terrorists based on Tos Faros, who upheld Blaine's claim to the throne.

We passed Berth Five. "There will be much security activity until they determine whether or not Captain Milo warned the other ship in time to abort the escape."

Or whether it had come in earlier than anticipated.

The Temple was two levels up. We stepped into the lift with an M.O.C. officer on my right, two Takas behind us.

"Praise the stars. Blessings of the hour." I tried not to listen as my voice shook. Fear and anger, again. Just like the shuttle trip dirtside. Fear at being discovered, interrogated, tortured. Being sent back to Moabar was the least of my worries.

Anger. To come so close. To be stopped, not just in my attempt at freedom. But to be stopped from unmasking the gen-labs, the jukors. Somewhere during that trip on the Lucky Seven my reasons to leave Moabar had shifted. The picture had become larger, encompassing more than just Chasidah Bergren's personal survival. It brought in Drogue's and Ren's and Sully's as well.

Sullivan. I had no idea what the Empire would do when they found out he was still alive.

No, I knew what they'd do. And that's what really frightened me. There wouldn't be enough left of him to ship down to Moabar.

He should've listened to his advisors.

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