Angry Ghosts Page 5

  “Those ships were already there...” Thompson finishes.

  “That’s right,” acknowledges the colonel, appreciating Thompson’s acumen. “We believe these new ships possess a means of concealing themselves, even while under way.”

  “So this was a trap?” guesses Thompson.

  “We’re sure of it.” Thorskild sets the video back in motion. “Immediately after the new ships appeared, we detected six high-output explosions, which we recognize as our auto-destruct devices.”

  The view screen is washed nearly white from the tandem detonations, slowly fading in intensity.

  “That blast triggered secondary explosions as you can see, and only two stable energy sources remain.”

  “Was our secrecy compromised?” Thompson asks.

  “We’re confident it was not. The virus ships are designed to vaporize completely as well as incinerate anything in their proximity. Because the blast occurred so soon after intercept, we don’t believe it’s possible any of our operators or equipment were captured.” The colonel pauses, becoming eerily bleak. “That must’ve been a difficult call for Zaius to make...”

  Thompson can’t help but remember how Zaius trained him, helped him, and guided him. He rose through the ranks quickly, mostly due to Zaius’s expert direction. Eventually, they split the Operator Corps down the middle, each taking charge of six teams, enjoying the competition with each other to provide the most for the Cadre. Zaius regularly edged him out in that competition, his extra years of experience making him that much wiser in selecting targets. Knowing the man very well, Thompson gets a vivid mental picture of Zaius watching the trap close around him and sealing all eighteen fates with the order, “Self-terminate.” The thought shakes him.

  “Zaius was my instructor,” Thompson states with the slightest warble in his voice. He swallows the emotion like a dry biscuit, restoring the appropriately austere demeanor of a Cadre Operator.

  “Yes,” responds Thorskild, “and he taught you well. Now you must take his place. Effective immediately, you are promoted to the rank of major and will assume command of the corps—responsible for all aspects of collection, training, and candidate selection. You will continue to report to me. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” Thompson shifts his stance. “Colonel, if I am to be the sole administrator of operator affairs, I request two assistants.”

  Thorskild puts a hand to his chin pensively. “Very well,” he concludes. “Review your operators and notify me of your selections.”

  “Sir, I choose Brick Argo and Geek Maiella.”

  The colonel looks up in surprise at the swift response. “Are you certain? There are other fine operators as well...”

  “Positive, Colonel. Their strength amplifies my own, and mine, theirs.”

  Thorskild looks away, contemplating Thompson’s quick choices. “Argo has a solid record... dependable, stalwart, effective. On him, I place no hesitance, but Maiella…” The colonel looks directly into the Gun's eyes. “She has shown emotionality that is...inappropriate for a cadre operator.”

  Thompson does not flinch. “I have served with Geek Maiella from my earliest days, and I've never seen her equaled in systems operation. I am aware of her difficulty managing emotion at times, but she has never allowed it to interfere with her performance or her duties. She's the best, sir, and my conscience can permit me no other choice.”

  Thorskild weighs Thompson’s words carefully, searching Thompson’s eyes for any trace of uncertainty and finding none.

  “Done. Effective immediately, Brick Argo and Geek Maiella are both promoted to first lieutenant and will be your aides. These duties are, of course, in addition to their regular duties. I’ll leave it to you to inform them.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now then,” Thorskild relates as he stands and walks behind his desk, “the Leadership Council is going to convene at 1900 hours today to discuss our future strategy. Clearly, we cannot suffer another loss, so we must devise a plan quickly. Worry has permeated our people, and we need to restore their confidence. We'd like your input at that meeting, Major.”

  Thompson nods. “Aye, sir! I’d be honored.”

  The colonel looks down into his seat then sets himself in it. He slides up to his desk, resting his sizeable arms upon it. “The last piece of business I have for you is to bear this news to your teams. So that all of you could enjoy your R & R, we waited to inform you of our loss. When you inform your teams, do not reprimand any minor shows of emotion—none of us have ever been through such a tragedy, so allowances will be made this time. Let your strength be an example, son. Dismissed!”

  Thompson salutes sternly, spins on his heel and departs, trying to comprehend and sort out everything racing through his mind. Just as he is about to feel overwhelmed, he inhales deeply and clears his mind, forcing himself to accept that eighteen of his brothers and sisters in the corps are truly gone.

  Surges of grief assault him wave after wave, but his conditioning holds fast, the waves coming with less and less intensity each time. Then, they appear before him: all eighteen faces form a revolving circle around him in his mind, mute and staring.

  He rubs his throat, trying to smooth out the lump growing there. Now, each deep breath makes him feel more and more out of control as the memories spill through the emotional dams of his conditioning.

  “They are gone,” he says aloud, forcing himself to hear it in his own voice, forcing the realization home so he can get past it. His strides become longer, more purposeful. “They are gone!” he echoes fiercely, driving down the weight in his chest. Rubbing his face briskly with both hands, he feels the grief changing inside him. It is becoming something else.

  “They are GONE!” he curses, his voice a growl.

  Fire ignites inside him, and his hands curl into fists. Rage makes his whole body shake, turning his face bright red. He shuts his eyes, and his mouth falls open into a silent scream. Halting in his tracks, he turns to the wall and throws himself against it, battering it with all of his might. The metal-clad wall thuds dimly, caving under his onslaught, absorbing the brunt of his anger as his calloused hands pound again and again. At last, the rage fades.

  He props himself against the wall, staring at the dent he made in metal plating four centimeters thick, and he relaxes his aching fists. He straightens his posture and uniform, stepping to the closest communication panel. After a deep inhale and slow exhale, he is ready.

  “Attention!” he calls through the intercom, a drop of blood seeping from one of his knuckles. “Brick Argo and Geek Maiella report to Gun Thompson’s quarters immediately.” Releasing the intercom button, he marches off to meet his teammates.

  * * * * *

  Thompson sits quietly at the edge of his bunk, watching the effect the news is having on his team. Argo kneels on the floor, hands on hips, head bent in sorrow. Maiella sits across a chair, leaning sideways against its back, and stares off into space. To the distance, she mumbles, “They just weren’t good enough, is all…”

  Argo and Thompson look over at her in shock. To emphasize her point, she stands and departs, leaving the two men staring confusedly at one another.

  The door seals behind her, and Maiella looks up and down the corridor. No one is there. Still wearing the stony expression, she strides away. For a while, she maintains her stoicism, but the corners of her mouth will not maintain the façade. A lone tear forms in the corner of her eye. She swipes it away angrily.

  Sniffing hard, she tries to regain her composure then loses the fight. Her face shatters and her legs buckle, dropping her to the floor. Tears pour, and it takes all of her strength not to wail. Panic grips her suddenly. She scans the hallways to make sure no one is watching. When she sees it is clear, another avalanche of anguish descends over her, her shoulders bouncing with muffled sobs.

  A doorway opens behind her, and she jumps to her feet, walking quickly away. Thompson and Argo step into the corridor, calling after her.

  “Maiel
la.”

  She blinks hard and lowers her head, squeezing out any remaining tears. Discretely wiping them away, she thinks, They can’t see me like this.

  “Maiella!”

  She pretends not to hear, squelching any show of emotion well. By the time Argo and Thompson catch up to her, she has rebuilt her stone-faced expression. Thompson spins her around to look into her cold face.

  “Maiella?”

  “What is it?” she demands icily. “I have duties to attend.”

  Her performance is convincing, but Thompson sees right through it. He reaches out to put his arms around her.

  “No!” she shouts and pushes off hard. Despite her strength she cannot break his grip.

  He draws her in close, and Argo encircles them both.

  Maiella struggles to free herself, then gives up. Helpless in their strong arms, she bursts, letting it all go. The three stand in the hallway, unmoving, heads together, while Maiella sobs longingly for those she will never see again.

  Securing a Future

  Thompson takes a seat at the flat side of a large semicircular table. Filling out the rounded side is the Leadership Council. All the same faces are present, but the joviality is gone, replaced by grave determination. General Dryden opens the meeting.

  “Major Thompson, thank you for joining us. The purpose of this meeting is to analyze the new threat to our operator crews and devise a strategy to counter that threat. Before we begin, have your teams been informed of our loss?”

  “Yes, sir,” Thompson answers.

  “How did they take it?”

  “Hard, General, but they are strong.”

  Dryden looks deeper. “Any decrease in productivity?”

  “Initially, yes,” Thompson begins, “but all understand it cannot be changed and are prepared for accelerated rotation.”

  “So soon?”

  “They are strong, sir.”

  Dryden nods approvingly. “Good. We need them to be.” He looks to his right. “Colonel Enyo?”

  Enyo, her longer silver hair tied back from her angular face, leans forward in her seat and taps the console set into the table. A three-dimensional hologram projects up from the table’s center, displaying some very hazily resolved ships in space. “Here is the reconnaissance from the event…”

  With another tap, she sets the image into motion, playing the same video Thompson watched hours earlier. The distinct patterns of interference appear from the intercepting operator teams followed quickly by the appearance of three hazy oblong figures. Enyo freezes the image.

  “This is our best resolution of these new vessels. They are roughly fifty percent larger than the vessel Major Thompson and his teams recently collected. After analyzing their energy outputs, configuration, and offensive posture, we have determined them to be warships. Major Thompson, have you ever encountered a vessel that could conceal itself in such a way?”

  “No, ma’am, I have not,” he replies.

  Major Grissom looks over from the left edge of the table. “Is this a new technology, or could it be another species entirely?”

  “Evidence points to your first suggestion, Major, that it is a new technology. The energy signatures and the basic form are very similar to vessels we have regularly monitored. Thus, we are convinced this is a new tactic to counter our assaults. Unless we can overcome it, we will need to find a new source to gather from.”

  “But the only other traffic we have seen is what we think was a ship over three hundred times farther away, in another direction!” Grissom says.

  “And there is no evidence of another species to gather from out there,” adds Thorskild. “With our reduced operator corps, not only would we be stretching out our collection rotations too much just going out and returning, they might not find anything when they get there.”

  The council breaks into murmuring among itself.

  “What if we were able to capture such a ship?”

  The leaders halt their buzzing, riveting their eyes upon Thompson. General Dryden looks sternly at the new major, intrigued. Colonel Thorskild speaks first however.

  “Major Thompson, we admire your ferocity; but as you saw, this ambush destroyed half of our operator teams in one stroke. We cannot allow the loss of any others. The most vital resources on this rock were depleted centuries ago—we must protect our gathering ability!”

  The council members all nod in agreement, except the general who puts a hand to his chin.

  Thompson considers Thorskild’s words carefully.

  “There's no question you're correct, Colonel. Our teams must endure and be rebuilt if we are to survive.” Gesturing to the video, he continues, “The reason our teams were lost is because they were ambushed. They could not have anticipated this threat. We can, and we understand its potential.”

  General Dryden rubs his chin as he listens. “What’s on your mind, Thompson?”

  The Gun breathes in and out purposefully. “What if…we set an ambush?”

  The murmuring begins again, but more thoughtfully this time. Dryden silences them by leaning forward and asking, “You have a plan?”

  “Do we have a ship of little use, say, one of the earliest freighters we collected? We could attach our virus ships to its hull and deploy to deep space. Once sufficiently distant from our home, we could activate its transponder beacon. The virus ships would detach and wait nearby.”

  “What we’ve seen of the blueskins proves they're highly intelligent,” argues Grissom. “No doubt, they’d be suspicious of one of their missing ships appearing out of nowhere after hundreds of years. They’d assume a trap.”

  “I agree, Major,” states Thompson, “and that’s what I am counting on. First, I don’t believe they could resist the opportunity to investigate a ship they believed was lost or destroyed so long ago. Second, assuming a trap, they are likely to send their best weapons to be ready.” Thompson scans the faces in front of him. “Until recently, our methods have been sufficient to capture nonmilitary vessels. Now these vessels are being escorted, and we should risk capturing more military targets if we are going to continue collecting successfully.”

  From the far right edge of the table, Major Eris chimes in, “I see where you’re going with this. It’s an opportunity to counter this new threat to our operator teams and gain a heavier punch when we encounter something unexpected. The enemy's getting seasoned by our attacks, and if we don’t adapt, it won’t matter how many operators we have. They won’t be coming home again.”

  “I see your point, Eris,” concedes Grissom, “and I think you and Thompson may be right. But if they're invisible, how would we detect them to attack?”

  “The video shows the ships demasking before engaging our operator teams,” explains Enyo. “It's likely, therefore, that any such vessel would demask before interacting with our bait ship...”

  Grissom finishes the statement for her, “At which point, our teams could engage and capture.” The murmuring resumes.

  General Dryden tents his hands. “That’s very creative, Thompson, but suppose they use the same tactic as before—suppose they send in nonmilitary vessels to process the bait freighter while the stealth ships remain masked. If your teams attacked the nonmilitary vessels, the stealth ships could ambush just as before. If no attack is made, we lose the freighter and have wasted precious gathering time.”

  The heightened energy in the room ebbs, and Thompson looks down in thought; then his head springs up suddenly. “We’ll use a double decoy!”

  The council members look at each other with skepticism as Thompson explains.

  “We’ll need a decoy virus ship as well. We can program it to attach to any vessel that approaches within a certain distance. If a masked ship is present, it should reveal itself to combat the dummy attack. Then our teams can move in and capture.”

  General Dryden smiles. “So how many operators will you need, Major?”

  “For best chance of success? All of us.”

  Council members launch
into heated “no’s!” and “out of the question’s!” rejecting the thought outright, save Dryden, who silently considers it. Thompson watches him, shifting his view occasionally to the others still arguing among themselves but focusing on the general, waiting to see what his decision will be. Before long, the arguments at the table end; and like Thompson, the council members look to Dryden, curious what he will decide. Once all is quiet, the general looks up from his contemplation.

  “We have set a dangerous precedent: the attacks on our ancient enemy escalate in cost for both sides. Our only advantage lies in our anonymity—they must continue to believe they were successful in their genocide nine hundred years ago. If they were to discover that humans still live, and how few we number, we could not last long.

  “I knew our successful collection rotations would not go on forever without setback. The enemy has adapted, and unless we learn about their new capability, every operator we send out faces unacceptable odds. We must act quickly to counter their new advantage. Thompson’s plan is bold and shrewd, but if the enemy arrives in force, we do not have enough teams to engage more than three such vessels. To try would be a level of risk I will not accept. The choice I make now is unsettling, but we are in a corner, and waiting can only harm us. We will proceed with Major Thompson’s plan.”

  Dryden scans his peers, taking in the damage his words have caused. Dismay is emblazoned on several faces. To their credit, none of them argue, and they set their resolve to implement his decision. When he is sure he has their complete attention again, he continues.

  “A contingency will be added to this plan, however, should more than three stealth ships appear. We will make the bait ship a bomb. If there are too many enemy ships to engage, we can detonate, disabling or destroying as many of the enemy ships as possible. The confusion will allow us the initiative, and resistance will be uncoordinated. Worst case, if there are still too many active ships to engage, the teams will be ordered to slip away quietly and return to base. Because they will ride out on the bait ship, they will be fully fueled and can make the return voyage.