Angry Ghosts Page 4

  “That is a relief.” Thorskild relaxes, becoming more comfortable. “Where is the ore carrier now?”

  “Because of her slow acceleration, I ordered Geek Lukas to program her to a location we can monitor from safety. If she's intercepted by the blueskins, she'll detonate. After a sufficient observation period, if no alien ships have successfully tracked the freighter, we can send out a team to bring her home. It allowed Team Shade to return with us so we can all be reassigned to another collection rotation.”

  General Dryden tents his hands. “That’s good thinking, Captain, but you need to rest and regenerate before reassignment. Now, tell us about the vessel you piloted home.”

  Thompson gestures to Maiella, who takes over.

  “She seems to be a ‘first response’ military vessel, requiring only a small crew to operate, but could accommodate many more in transport. Much more advanced than anything I’ve seen before. The propulsion is extraordinary both in speed and efficiency. She's also well armed for her size though lightly armored. I was able to completely incapacitate the sister ship with a few shots.”

  Major Eris moves to the edge of her chair, the gold contacts on her head richly accenting her short silver hair. “Were you able to interpret all of the ship’s functions?”

  “Almost, Major,” she continues. “Several systems on board are fully automated, requiring no input. Like life support, for example, and food systems.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, since the blueskins seem to prefer a temperature of thirty-three degrees centigrade and a relative humidity of ninety percent, it was a challenge to stay hydrated.”

  “So that wasn’t something you could take care of in flight?”

  “Not without disassembling the main air processors. We decided it was wiser to endure the elevated temperature and rig a moisture condenser rather than risk a life-support failure in flight.”

  The general recognizes the wisdom in that, looking down the table to the heavily burn scarred man on his right. “Major Grissom, can you build a team to reengineer the life-support system?”

  “Yes, General,” answers Grissom. “I have a team waiting to go aboard as we speak.”

  The woman to Dryden’s left, her longer gray hair tied tightly into a bun, lifts her broad shoulders and clasps her hands on the table. “Were you able to research the food systems onboard?”

  “Yes, Colonel Enyo,” Argo answers, “and I’m pleased to report we were able to assemble small batches of amino acids and proteins. With additional experimentation, we may be able to coax enough out of it to support a standing crew.”

  The council members smile at the good news, murmuring lightly among themselves.

  “Excellent!” commends the general. “Brick Argo, brief Major Grissom and his team on your findings, then you are dismissed for twenty-four hours’ rest and regeneration. Geek Maiella, upload the ship systems control software you interpreted into the catalogue. Then brief Colonel Thorskild on the broader points of the ship’s function, after which you are dismissed for twenty-four hours’ rest and regeneration.”

  He pauses as he looks Thompson over. “Gun Thompson, your skillful planning and good judgment have enhanced our survival, and you have again brought all of your teams home safe. Your continued efforts bring distinction and honor to yourself as well as those who serve with you. You are dismissed for twenty-four hours’ rest and regeneration. We have dispatched two drones to the rec room to attend your needs.”

  In perfect synchronization, the Council stands and salutes respectfully.

  “Thank you, General,” Thompson says. The three operators come to attention and return the crisp salute. Looking left and right at his teammates, Thompson smiles.

  “Let’s go.”

  The three spin on their heels and march out of the chamber. Once they pass the chamber doors, Thorskild leans over to General Dryden, whispering.

  “Shouldn’t we tell them?”

  General Dryden furrows his brow. “Not yet. They’ve earned a rest, and I want them to be able to enjoy it.”

  Thompson puts his arms around Argo and Maiella as he strolls down the corridor from the Council’s chamber, hauling them in close.

  “I’d like to thank both of you for making me look so good in front of the council again.”

  Argo guffaws, “Nothin’ new, Thompson.”

  Maiella punches Thompson in the side playfully. “Yeah, you two are lucky to have me. I don’t know where you’d be without me saving your asses all the time.”

  Thompson looks at Argo and winks. “You know, you’re right, Maiella... NOW!”

  Argo and Thompson ambush Maiella, lifting her up off her feet. She squeals in protest as Argo throws her over his broad shoulder and Thompson slaps her backside over and over. “We’d be a couple of assless operators, right? Huh? Isn’t that right, Maiella?”

  Argo spins her around, and Thompson continues his paddling while she shrieks in between the howls of her own laughter. All three come to an immediate halt, however, when they look down the corridor and see they are being watched.

  “Ahem,” begins Thompson, retracting his arms behind his back. “As you were.”

  Argo sets Maiella on her feet, and she puckers her mouth to contain the remnants of her laughter.

  Making sure the people viewing them can hear, Thompson adds, “I won’t have this kind of behavior on my watch.” For an extra zing, he nudges both with his elbows.

  Argo purses his lips and looks at Thompson with good-natured vengeance. Maiella replies to Thompson in an equally amplified voice, “Yes, of course, sir,” then mouths silently, “I’m going to get you...”

  The three adopt a more military posture and resume their path down the corridor, nodding soberly at the technicians who spied them as they pass.

  “I’m going to get clean,” announces Thompson. “How about you two?”

  “I’ll be in after I brief Major Grissom,” answers Argo.

  “The upload will only take a few minutes,” says Maiella, “so I’ll be right behind you.”

  Thompson nods. “All right. See you soon.” The three split up and head off to their destinations.

  Thompson strides into the Cadre Operator’s rec facility. Before him are several shower stalls, various rows of metal cabinets, and flat stainless steel tables with raised edges and a drain at one end.

  Standing statue-like against the far wall are two humans, male and female. They are tall and appear physically fit; but they are shaved bald, and their bare scalps end at metal domes from the mid-forehead up. Dark lenses hide their eyes and are attached with wires, which retreat beneath the metal caps. Both are dressed in white jackets, emblazoned with large numbers, and white slacks, immaculate and well pressed. Their arms hang rigidly to the side, save their right forearms, which stick straight out, supporting a thick white towel.

  Thompson halts before a deep and wide metal cabinet, unlocking the plates of his armor. The rush of fresh air immediately cools his sweaty skin and unleashes a hefty waft of perspiration. He turns his head from the noxious onslaught.

  Working the close-fitting plates off one at a time, he sets them inside the cabinet. His undershirt, ordinarily light gray, is streaked with yellow. Finally, he works off the last of his plating, standing in his skintight under suit. The shirt he raises over his head, nearly gagging from olfactory overload.

  “Gah!” he groans with a grimace.

  Wadding it up, he searches for the laundry bin and shoots the shirt at it, easily hitting the mark. He does the same with his pants and strides to one of the shower stalls. His brawny physique is deeply cut with thick muscles, scarcely any trace of fat at all. Even more than his face, his entire body bears myriad scars from slices, tears, perforations, and burns.

  Closing the door to the stall, he punches the button and hot jets of water with detergent scrub him head to foot. He raises his arms, allowing the jets to work, enjoying their relaxing massage. Moments later, the jets cease and a grea
t rush of warm air sweeps through the chamber, vacuuming the water down through the drain in the floor, whisking it off to the recycling system. Thompson stands in the stall, disappointed by the shower’s brevity.

  “Drone three-one-six, towel.”

  The female drone steps stoically away from the wall and stands beside Thompson’s stall. When he opens the stall door, she is waiting there, arm fully extended with the towel on the end of it. Thompson takes the towel and drags it all over himself, securing it at his waist. Drone 316 returns automatically, resuming her position at the wall.

  Thompson stands in the cool air for a moment, steam rising off him, and chooses a table. He loosens the towel, draping it across himself as he lay facedown. Like someone would instruct a computer, Thompson calls out, “Drone three-one-six, activate program: massage back and shoulders.”

  The female drone obediently steps away from the wall again, grabbing a small container along the way. Applying some of the container’s contents to her hands, she begins kneading Thompson’s back and shoulders. Tension dissipates as the rough knots and lumps from the mission are smoothed away.

  The door to the facility whisks aside, and Thompson looks up to see who is joining him. Maiella smiles back, waving a hand. She hurriedly unlatches the plates of her armor, tossing them piece by piece into another cabinet. She, too, seems offended by her own odor and strips quickly. Thompson peeks up at her as she strolls to her stall, taking in her lithe shape, strong limbs, deep striation, and numerous scars. He pays particular attention to the golden HDI terminals on her head, studying them with interest. The shower jets blast again, followed by the familiar rush of air, and Maiella strolls out, no towel at all. Thompson watches her, resting his head on his broad arms.

  “Wow...” he says.

  She smiles in appreciation, giving him a once-over as well. “Wow, yourself...” She hops up on the adjacent table and lies prone.

  “Drone three-one-seven,” she calls. “Activate program: massage back and shoulders, please.” The male drone steps away from the wall, grabbing a container of oil like the first and applies it. The drone works the oil into her aching muscles, and she groans with relief as her sinews unknot.

  “Why do you always say please to the drones?” Thompson poses. “They’re not sentient, you know.”

  Maiella shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I feel sorry for them.”

  Letting it go, he shakes his head, lying on the side of his face so he can look at her. He studies her golden terminals curiously. Maiella opens her eyes and sees him looking. She closes her eyes again. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was looking at your HDI terminals ... Did they hurt going in?”

  Maiella shrugs. “I don’t remember. I was very small when I was inducted to SysOps... I think I went to sleep and woke up this way, actually.”

  “I like the way they look...” he starts. “Makes you different from the others.”

  “Why, because all the newer Geeks get silver contact terminals instead of gold?”

  “Mm, hmm.”

  She looks off into space, rubbing her scalp. “I’d like to be able to grow my hair out more, but if I do, it gets in the way. I have to keep it pretty close.”

  “Well, I think it looks great.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that,” she smirks. Looking at the drone massaging Thompson, she asks, “How’s your massage?”

  “Not bad. Yours?”

  “Okay.” She frowns. “I think the program is incomplete.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” Maiella rolls on her side, facing Thompson. “They just don’t have any feel. Drone three-one-six, Drone three-one-seven, halt program!”

  The drones take a step back and wait patiently. Maiella slips off the table, taking a container of oil in hand. With the other hand, she zips Thompson’s towel away.

  “Hey!” he protests.

  “Uh, uh,” she counters. “I have a point to make. Now lie down.”

  Warily, Thompson complies.

  “The massage program is pretty good," Maiella explains, "but it leaves out a very important part of the anatomy.” Coating her hands with a liberal portion of oil, she slaps them hard on Thompson’s rear. “The ass should not be overlooked.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Maiella shushes him. “I’m giving you a proper massage.” She uses a similar massage technique on his backside, and he wrinkles his face confusedly.

  “There, isn’t that better?” she coos.

  “Yeah, I guess so...ahh! HEY!”

  Maiella’s teeth are clamped securely into his cheek. He whirls over, making her lose her grip.

  “I told you I’d get you back...” She leers.

  “Oh, I get it,” he laughs. “You save my ass so you can sink your teeth into it?” Thompson grins while shaking his head. “Once again, Maiella, you’re right! The ass is very important...”

  He lunges for her. She tries to stiff-arm his assault, but her oily hands slide right across his chest. He gets her in his grip, wrestling her across his knee, finishing, “...and should not be overlooked!”

  Maiella cackles like a child, pleading with him to stop in between her tears of laughter. Just when he is about to give her another paddling, her thrashing upsets the container of oil, and they both slip off the table to the floor, landing with a heavy thunk. The two rub their bruised parts ruefully and, catching sight of each other tangled in a heap, burst out into a whole new round of cackling.

  The door to the facility slides open, and Argo steps into the room. His square jaw drops when he sees them piled on each other, looking up at him like mischievous kids that have been caught by a parent. He folds his huge arms in front of himself and smirks, just shaking his head.

  Hard Times

  Thompson’s eyes flick open a second before his bunk-side alarm panel goes off. It only gets a couple of beeps out before he ends it with the edge of his hand. Sitting up in his bunk, he wipes the sleep from his eyes. The panel begins beeping again, and he looks at it curiously, large red letters flashing the word ORDERS.

  After entering his identification number, an image of Colonel Thorskild appears.

  “Captain Thompson, belay usual duty routine and report to my office by oh-six-hundred.”

  As abruptly as it begins, it is done, and the panel flashes the word END in the same large red letters. Thompson contemplates the message and looks at the corner of the panel where the time reads, 0530. Emerging from his bunk, he stands, stretches thoroughly, and performs a rigorous calisthenics routine including one-handed push-ups in a handstand position, intricate yoga forms and several rounds of shadow kickboxing.

  When finished, he towels off the tiny amount of sweat and applies a fine powder to his body, after which he dons his charcoal gray uniform. From the choker collar bearing his rank to the blue-piped trousers to his polished black boots, he is immaculately dressed. Checking the bunk-side panel, he reads the time as 0555 and departs for the colonel’s office.

  He reaches his destination at the stroke of 0600 and buzzes for entry. From a small speaker beside the heavy door, the colonel’s deep voice says, “Enter.”

  The door slides aside and Thompson steps through. Upon sight of the colonel, he stands at attention and salutes.

  “As you were,” Thorskild declares. He lifts his massive frame from behind his desk, walking around it to sit on the front edge. “Captain, I’ve got some bad news. Teams Strike, Thrust, Blade, Soar, Focus, and Talon have all been lost.” Thorskild swings the monitor on his desk to face him. “Here is the video…”

  The colonel gestures toward the screen, but Thompson does not respond—Thorskild’s words have sunk like daggers into his chest.

  Thompson recalls everyone in those teams, all of whom he served with. The grim look of hard times descends over his face. He tries to speak, but falters. Embarrassed by his emotion, he steels himself and says clearly, “Sir, that’s exactly half of our Operator Corps.”

  The colonel looks T
hompson over, noticing his emotion and how he choked it down. “Yes, they were. Their loss has injured us terribly.”

  “What about their DNA stored in the MedLabs?”

  Thorskild shakes his head. “Cloning efforts seldom made it past initial meiosis. The embryos that did form were terribly mutated. Our genetics are so heavily modified now that cloning was a long shot anyway, and they didn’t take. They are truly gone, son, and we can’t bring them back.”

  Chagrinned, Thompson looks at his feet, wondering what to do. As hard as it was, resources were collected just at the rate they were needed; but now, how could they keep up? Out of the entire cadre of four hundred, there were only thirty-six who were free enough of incurable defects to enter the Operator Corps. The rest suffered from some combination of disability or deformity, and they could never survive the demands of collection rotations.

  Now the number of able operators is cut in half. How will they maintain the flow of resources? Who will be available to properly train new operators? How will they recover from this? All these questions rise in his mind at once, but one question attains supremacy.

  “How did it happen?”

  The colonel looks down at the monitor on his desk. “Here is our best set of images. These two energy sources were our targets, large cargo vessels.” He advances the video several frames. “Here, our teams intercepted as we can detect our signature interference patterns from all six virus ships in that vicinity.” He advances the video further. “You can see the virus ships intercepting, three per vessel.” Letting the video roll, the colonel points to the screen. “Now watch here, here, and here...”

  To Thompson’s astonishment, three more large energy sources appear, seemingly from nowhere. The colonel pauses the video.

  “Moments after intercept,” Thorskild continues, “these vessels, presumably military, appeared in formation. We have reviewed this data extensively and found no evidence of a space-time distortion or gravitational anomaly in the area, which means…”