Free Gabriel's Ghost by Megan Sybil Baker Page B

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, unwrapped my dagger in defense. 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. And if we couldn’t sleep, perhaps a small draught of honeylace. Strictly to enhance prayer and meditation, Drogue said.
    I knew I’d decline. I never touched narcotics, illegal or legal. I like my beers, my Imperial brown ales just fine. A gin and soda on occasion, but I was very particular about the gin. Glory seeds, honeylace or a dozen other chemical combinations held no interest for me.
    Megan Sybil Baker - 40
    Another man in monk’s garb that 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. Or, like Sully said, the less everyone knew, the safer we all were.
    Thick slices of bread—baked, not replicator issue—were stacked in the center 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 were 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. It was a meal, six months ago, I never thought I’d have again. Prison rations were replicator issue, square bars with no flavor but, we were told, more than sufficient nutrition. Moabar offered the same.
    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 auto-door 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 awhile. My mind