Angry Ghosts Page 3

  The goggles cease their flashing of code, and she lifts them to get a better look at her superior. Like the other soldiers, she bears her share of scars.

  “Geek Maiella,” Thompson hails, “how much of the ship’s systems have you interpreted?”

  “Sixty-seven percent, including navigation, main drive, and weapons.”

  He nods, folds his arms, and leans back against the console. “So what do you think we have here?”

  Maiella looks forward again, lowering her goggles. “She’s fast and light, but with very good weapons—probably designed as a first responder.”

  Thompson kneels beside her. “How fast?”

  “Well, the freighter departed over a month ago, but we’ll catch up in about two days.”

  Thompson’s brow rises in pleasant surprise. “Two days? What kind of drive system is it using?”

  “I’ll let you know when I find out. It’s definitely new.”

  “Two days, eh?” He stands and activates his radio. “Gun Setee, Gun Drusus, respond.”

  “Drusus, here.”

  “Setee, here.”

  “Is your sweep complete?”

  “Yes, sir,” replies Setee. “All crew confirmed dead.”

  “Is there a place we can store the bodies?”

  “Affirmative,” answers Drusus. “We can disable the heaters in one of the compartments near the hull. Won’t take long to get very cold in there.”

  “Good. We have two days until we meet up with the freighter. Go see Brick Argo and have your wounds tended, then police up the bodies and store them. Do it quick, 'cause after that, we’ll inventory the ship. I want a full list of everything she’s carrying and everything she’s capable of. I don’t want any surprises brought home to Cadre One. Acknowledge.”

  “Understood, sir,” answers Drusus.

  “Acknowledged, sir,” answers Setee.

  Thompson switches off his radio and looks down at Maiella. Through all of their rotations together, the young woman never gets flustered. It amazes him how she can be so relaxed, as if the thought of failure never touches her.

  The Geek’s goggles pulse rapidly with code, augmenting the data flowing directly into her brain through the oversized headgear she wears.

  “Excellent work, getting control so quickly,” Thompson says. “It saved us.”

  Her goggles halt their flashing again so she can look at him. “How many blueskins were aboard do you think?”

  Thompson thinks for a moment. “Standing crew of twenty plus fifty troopers. If you count the troops from the other ship, it would have been fifty more.”

  “A hundred and twenty versus nine of us...pretty tall odds.”

  “You evened them nicely.”

  Maiella blushes proudly. She breathes deeply and gets back to work, her goggles resuming their flashing pulses of code. Thompson looks for the nearest body to haul away, and grabs a violently torn corpse wearing the tatters of a black uniform.

  * * * * *

  “Approaching captured freighter,” announces Maiella.

  Thompson looks up from the console he is studying. “Can you give me a visual?”

  Maiella hesitates. “I could have,” she says, pointing to the blackened scorch marks at the front of the bridge, “but it, uh, was disabled.”

  “Is there a backup?”

  “Possibly... hang on....” Her goggles strobe with data and instruction. “There!”

  A small holo-window opens in front of her and displays the bridge of the freighter. Another slim human in armor and goggles, covered in a reddish brown dust, almost leaps out of his seat in surprise. Once he realizes who is hailing him, he calms down, telling someone off screen to reset the auto-destruct safeties.

  “Geek Maiella! It’s good to see you alive! We didn’t know if the plan would work….”

  Maiella smiles demurely. “Lukas, good to see you too. Thompson's plan was perfect. No problem at all.”

  “Any casualties?” the freighter pilot asks.

  “No,” she answers, “we’re all okay.”

  The freighter pilot exhales his held breath in a rush.

  “How about your team?” Maiella queries. “Anyone hurt?”

  “No, we’re in good shape. Resistance was meager. Small crew. Easy.”

  Thompson slides over beside Maiella to look through the Holowindow. “What’s that on you? You’ve been doing some digging?”

  The freighter pilot stiffens noticeably and salutes.

  “Yes, sir, Gun Thompson! We’ve inventoried the ship cargoes; and she’s carrying raw ores of Tungsten, Vanadium, Iron, Germanium, and Silicon, plus two very high-quality ore excavators. The diamonds on the augers are bigger than Argo’s fist!”

  “Is that why you’re covered in ore dust, Sergeant?”

  The pilot looks down sheepishly. “We were waiting a long time for you, and, uh… and....”

  “You tried them out.”

  The slim pilot looks up, jutting his lip, contemplating whether he should try to explain, but decides against it. “Yup,” he replies, “we did.”

  Maiella brings a hand up to her face to hide her chuckling. Thompson buries his amusement. “Get yourselves ready to return.”

  “But, sir, it’ll take us eight more months to pilot this freighter to the planned position.”

  “You and your team will be returning with us. We can get home sooner, which means we can all be on another rotation sooner. Program the freighter for a circuitous route—full fail-safes—if any ship approaches and doesn’t transmit the access code...” Thompson begins.

  “…overload power plant, induce feedback harmonics to propulsion, maximum output,” finishes the pilot. He is about to sign off, but looks up hopefully. “One more thing, sir. Does your ship have any food synthesis machines?”

  Thompson looks back, crestfallen. “Yeah, but it only spits out varieties of that cellulose garbage we can’t eat.”

  The pilot looks down sadly and raises his head. “Maybe one of the other teams has found something, yeah?”

  “Let’s hope so, Lukas. Gun Thompson out.”

  Maiella switches off the Holowindow, sorry to end on such a somber note. The richness of their cargoes is impressive, but thus far, they have been missing the one component they need most: edible compounds for their food synthesizers. It means, yet again, they will have to liquefy the bodies of the dead for nourishment.

  “I guess we should be grateful this ship was so well staffed,” Thompson says bitterly. Maiella closes her eyes, forced to contemplate the grim source of their sustenance.

  “I’m going down to the personnel hatch to receive the freighter team,” Thompson says heavily. “After that, I’ll be helping repair any damaged bulkheads. Call me if something comes up.”

  Maiella nods silently, resuming her duties as the tall soldier walks out of the bridge. When the freighter team is safely aboard, she sets the course home and engages the engines at high speed.

  Coming Home

  Maiella takes the main engines off-line, decelerating into a vast solar system. At its center, a bluish white star shines intensely, and the ship streaks by enormous gaseous planets on its way to a rocky ring still billions of kilometers away.

  The distance closes swiftly, and the vessel glides to a halt several hundred thousand kilometers from a massive, but ordinary-looking asteroid. Aligning the vessel’s antenna, Maiella transmits a coded message.

  “Cadre One, this is Team Spectre returning from gathering rotation. Mission successful. Awaiting acknowledgement, over.”

  There is a considerable time delay before the clipped and staccato reply comes. “Team Spectre, transmit identification protocols, over.”

  Maiella conjures the code sequences mentally, sending all of the data through her headgear without lifting a finger. Her goggles flash, indicating a hugely complex series of alphanumeric sequences intermingled with patterns and shapes. “Transmission complete. Awaiting further instructions, over.”

  Again, th
ere is a long delay.

  “Identification protocols verified.” The voice warms considerably, adding, “We’re glad you’re back. Proceed to 4-1-8. A shuttle will be waiting for you. Inform Gun Thompson that the Leadership Council is convening and that he is expected for debrief.” There is a slight pause. “Can’t wait to see you all! Cadre One out.”

  Maiella thrusts the ship forward and looks at Thompson beside her. “Did you get that?”

  “I did,” he replies.

  When he turns to face her, she is looking at him with big, brown, hopeful eyes. He stares at her, unable to keep a straight face.

  “Yes, you and Argo will join me for debrief.”

  Maiella hops in her seat, grinning broadly. She resumes her navigational duties and peeks at Thompson who looks back with mild fatherly disapproval. Immediately, she straightens her posture, suppressing the giddy child within. She arches an eyebrow. “Approaching synchronous orbit, sir.”

  Thompson nods wordlessly, the look of disapproval faded. “Argo,” he calls into his headset.

  “Sir?” comes the soldier’s reply via radio.

  “We’ll be disembarking momentarily. Get a technical detail together regarding the onboard systems. I want your assistance at debrief.”

  “Understood. Brick Argo out.”

  Maiella guides the ship closer toward the planetoid, every square kilometer of it pocked with deep craters. As she glides the ship around the great rock, two monumental parabolic reflectors appear on the horizon.

  “We’re home,” she announces.

  Slowing drastically, she maneuvers toward the reflectors which stand sentry beside a wide and shallow crater. Eleven enormous ships, some long and sleek, others as wide as they are long, hover in the general vicinity. Long tethers attach them to the facility built into the crater walls below. As promised, a shuttle is waiting at position 4-1-8, and she halts her vessel beside it.

  “Cadre shuttle, this is Geek Maiella. You are cleared for docking. Proceed to forward personnel hatch for loading. Team Spectre out.”

  Her goggles flash a rapid sequence of shutdown commands, and the background hum from the ship’s drive systems gradually fades away. She unhooks the many lanyards and filaments connecting her to the consoles, which automatically retract into her headgear. Liberated from the consoles, she leans over each arm of her chair to pick up her machine pistols. She gets to her feet and gives each weapon a quick flip around her finger before clipping them onto the small of her back. Thompson is beside her, heavy rifle slung over his right shoulder.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  Maiella nods quickly.

  “Let’s go.” The two of them head off to the shuttle.

  As quick a walk as it is, Argo is already there, listening as Geek Lukas explains a small device he holds. The Geek wraps up his explanation and puts the device in Argo’s big hands.

  Thompson can see Lukas’s armor is much cleaner than before. He grips Lukas’s arm, rotating it at the shoulder and inspecting underneath the overlapping plates. It is just as clean.

  “Much better,” says Thompson. “Any grit in the joints?”

  “No, sir! I thoroughly stripped and cleaned it of ore dust. One hundred percent operational.”

  “Good. These suits have to last us a long time.” Thompson shifts to a less commanding stance. “What have you got there?”

  Lukas looks over at Argo for assurance, and Argo gives him the nod.

  “Sir, I was explaining the results from our efforts to reengineer the food machines on board. We made some progress, just recently.”

  Thompson raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Good! Positive results are always welcome to the Leadership Council.” Turning to Argo, he asks, “Are you ready to present your findings?”

  Argo nods. “We’ll need to research much further before we present any conclusive findings, but I can let the council know what we’ve learned so far.”

  “Very well,” Thompson acknowledges.

  A quick clanking jolt beside them tells them the shuttle has arrived, and the air lock doors slide aside. Thompson pats Lukas on the back.

  “Go ahead.”

  Lukas smiles and hurriedly steps into the shuttle, shouting a joyful greeting to the pilots within. Down the corridor, heavy steps of the other cadre teams echo in rapid pace. They salute as they pass Thompson, Argo, and Maiella, and like Lukas whoop with joy to see the shuttle pilots. Thompson looks at Argo and Maiella, tossing his head toward the shuttle. They nod and file in. Taking a quick head count, Thompson finds all aboard.

  “All right, that’s all of us. Let’s go!”

  “Aye, sir!” the pilots reply and spin forward in their seats. Another jolting clank and the shuttle is free of the ship, descending swiftly toward the crater below. Already, a large hangar door is opening in the crater wall ahead. With practiced precision, the pilots guide the shuttle in, setting it down perfectly in the docking station. Rugged clamps attach to the craft, drawing it back against the inner wall and locking it in tight.

  The shuttle door slides aside, and the soldiers look into a crowd of elated people amassed before them. With wild shouts and cheers, the two groups throw themselves together and mingle in loud welcomes and bear hug embraces. The soldiers wrap their arms around all of their scarred and crippled brethren as desperately relieved to be home as their cadre brothers and sisters are desperately relieved to have them home. Above the noisy hoots and shouts, a team of MedTechs can just be heard forcing their way through the mass, searching for any signs of injury among the teams.

  Thompson takes a deep breath, his extra bit of height allowing him to look over the crowd. For a moment, his teams’ successful return has let them forget the grinding agony of their work-filled lives and the impairment of their bodies, broken by injury and twisted from genetic defect. Before it swells too large, he checks his pride, mindful of his duty, and looks down to the MedTech in front of him.

  “Are you injured in any way?” the MedTech demands.

  “No, I’m well.”

  The MedTech smiles, cupping the tall man’s arm before moving on to the next soldier with an identical query.

  Thompson looks over the crowd of ecstatic faces rejoicing in reunion and catching up on the long months apart. It swells his heart all the more to know he has been able to protect and provide for them all, even at the ultimate risk to himself and those under his command.

  Reluctantly, he peels himself away, tapping Maiella and Argo. Immediately, their demeanor returns to the austere; and they march through the cadre hallways, preparing to report.

  The doors to the council chamber slide at their approach, and the trio steps into a room five meters square. A semicircular table sits at the opposite end from them, flat side facing them. Filling out the round side are the five council members who stand as the team enters. They are all tall and strong like the soldiers and similar in appearance, only modestly different with the amount of decoration on their chests, the gray in their hair, and the greater number of visible scars. Their charcoal gray uniforms are spotless, though faded and threadbare in the tight-fitting shoulders and neck.

  Thompson, Argo, and Maiella halt their march with a stomp, rigidly standing at attention and snapping the crispest of salutes in unison. The general, who stands at the middle of the table, returns the respectful salute and allows a smile to crack his marble face.

  “It’s good to have you home. At ease!”

  With clocklike precision, the three unlock their helmets and lift them off, tucking them in the crook of their left arms. Thompson’s short hair is salt-and-pepper gray, belying his young face. Argo’s is also going gray, but retains more of the black. Maiella’s hair is little more than long stubble between gold terminals on her head. The golden terminals, solid ovals no more than two centimeters across, are embedded in a seemingly random pattern from her hairline in the front, over the parietal and temporal regions, to the occipital near the base of her skull.

  As the general sits, the
other council members do likewise.

  “Any casualties?” he asks with concern.

  “No, sir,” replies Thompson. “All teams one hundred percent.”

  The council exhales at once, relaxing in their seats.

  “Good, good,” says the general, folding his strong hands together and leaning on his elbows. “Tell us how it went, Captain.”

  “Team Shade successfully acquired a big ore carrier, dispatched its crew, and departed for the rendezvous point. We monitored from a secure distance.”

  “Did the ore carrier get out a distress signal?”

  “It tried, sir, but the interference generators Colonel Thorskild designed functioned perfectly.”

  Colonel Thorskild leans forward on his thick, powerful arms. “Were you able to surround the vessel before it tried to broadcast?”

  “Yes, sir,” Thompson replies. “From our vantage points, we confirmed any transmissions from the ore carrier were overwhelmed by our interference.”

  The colonel, satisfied, sits back in his seat.

  “So what happened next?” asks the general.

  “We waited in stasis near the location the ore carrier was collected. It was only a matter of weeks this time before the blueskins came to investigate. Two fast-moving ships arrived, alike in every way. We successfully boarded one, liquidated her crew and complement. The sister ship grappled and attempted to repel our teams, but,” he looks appreciatively at his female comrade, “Geek Maiella efficiently interpreted the alien weapon systems and destroyed the sister ship. Our vessel was collected completely intact.”

  “Did either of these ships get out a distress call?” asks Thorskild.

  “No, sir. Before we attacked, we monitored some ship-to-ship communication, noting the transmissions were sent and received by an antenna array on the vessels’ spines. The vessels were traveling parallel, so we clustered our virus ships around one, knowing the proximity would be sufficient to overwhelm the other one’s array as well. Even if the companion vessel was able to send a signal, its effective range would be less than two hundred thousand kilometers at best, and we did not detect any vessels even remotely close to that distance.”