Angry Ghosts Page 8

  With a deep roar the blast sweeps the team in flame and debris, shuddering the corridor violently. The three leap to their feet and run to the door, seeing a large split down its middle. Gun aims through the split while Brick grabs on to the glowing hot metal, peeling it apart with hands and feet. When too hot to keep his grip, he kicks and punches the split apart. Gun arcs through the gap, somersaulting to the floor and rolls on to his feet. The room is full of smoke and hot shrapnel, but Thompson’s sharp ears hear coughing coming from the far side of the room. With supreme agility, he sails over consoles and upset furniture to bring his weapon down on his prey.

  “No, don’t!”

  Gun stares dumbstruck, his head rocking back like someone just smashed him with an iron bar. Through the smoke, the simple outline of a hand with a thumb and four fingers is outstretched defensively in front of him. He can’t take his eyes off the familiar shape.

  Geek storms up, leveling her pistols at the group. Gun knocks her aim off just in time, and her shots ricochet around the well-built room. When she sees what Gun is staring at, her arms flop to her sides. Her pistols clatter to the deck.

  “We surrender!” the small voice sobs, “just please don’t kill us!”

  A torrent of bewildering emotions seizes the two operators, and they don’t hear Brick’s hammering behind them anymore. Thompson stares through his helmet visor, unmoving, unblinking.

  Impossible…

  He slides his facemask up to look on his victims clearly.

  The small humans look up in wonderment at his appearance, blinking with confusion and disbelief. Gun plants his rifle on its butt, and he sinks to one knee. The huddled group recoils at his approach.

  Once Argo squeezes through the gap he hammered out, he sees Thompson and Maiella looking solemnly toward the floor, unmoving. He checks the corridor behind him to make sure no enemy is advancing on them and stands guard.

  “Odd for them to just sit there,” he says to himself, and he risks a closer look. Peering through the haze, he sees Geek and Gun beside a large console, but little else. He leans in to hear more.

  “I... I am Major Gun Thompson. I...” Thompson looks around, not knowing how to continue. The charge inside him is evaporated; his singularity of purpose is confused, unable to be reconciled with what he sees. He looks over at Maiella for reassurance and sees the wetness spattered all over her. He drops his head with the sickening realization he has done something unspeakable and unforgivable. Self-loathing drapes him like a wet blanket.

  “I will accept full responsibility for your harm,” he utters.

  Maiella sways on her feet and leans into the console beside her with her hip. Her eyes glaze over, and she disappears to some distant place. The huddle of people scoots away in fear while Thompson looks on, mortified. He can feel how terrified these people are of him, and it shames him to his essence. Not knowing what else to do, he resumes his downward stare.

  When the huddle scoots past the console’s edge, Argo’s eyes bulge with disbelief. Realizing that he, too, is a player in the atrocity, Argo looks down at his mailed arms. Drying blood is sprayed all over him. He wipes his hands over himself, vainly trying to clean it away.

  The huddled group spends long minutes contemplating their attackers—these monsters of speed, agility, and ferocity that look so strangely familiar. They study their build, size, features, equipment, and dreary countenance.

  Thompson and Maiella remain perfectly still, permitting the long uninterrupted looks. The small humans see the soldiers are not moving, nor does it seem they are likely to move anytime soon. Whispers begin in the huddle, shushed by the more terrified. Forcing himself through his own confusion and fear, one of the small humans stops cringing, and rises up to his knees. The aged, weathered man straightens his back, looking directly at Thompson who remains statuesque in his downward gaze. The others shake their heads and murmur, all begging him not to bring attention to himself; but he reassures them with a silent wave of his hand.

  A question has formed in this man’s settling mind. He thinks he knows the answer, but despite the visible commonalities they seem to share, there is much that is unfamiliar in this awful greeting.

  Thompson hears the murmur and raises his eyes to see the man who was moments ago begging for his comrades’ lives. The fear is receding as the man studies him intently.

  “Are you human?” the older man asks.

  Thompson nods gravely in reply, “Yes.”

  “Then, what the hell are you doing?”

  Thompson answers heavily, “We have standing orders to capture any vessel we encounter and return with it and its contents.”

  The man squints skeptically, squaring his broad shoulders and getting his feet beneath him. “Why did you stop?”

  Thompson hesitates, taking a moment to look him in the eye. The question is like an icy stiletto in his heart. How could I not stop? The idea he could go on…sickening, absurd, abominable.

  “Because the only meaning our lives have is in the protection and support of human life. We have failed in our most urgent duty.”

  The man cocks his bald head in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.” Thompson cannot maintain the eye contact, resuming his downward gaze. “I must insist we return at once.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the man counters, scrunching his thick gray eyebrows together. Rising to his feet, he says, “You said your name is Major Thompson? I am Captain Braemar Keller of the colony ship Europa, and these are my senior officers.”

  Thompson rises quickly to his feet and salutes respectfully. “It is good we encountered you, Captain Keller.”

  “Do any of you require medical attention?” Argo asks.

  A dozen eyes turn to see the gargantuan soldier who somehow approached without them noticing.

  Keller looks over his officers, gently reassuring those on the verge of panic. “No, we’re fine...” He trails off once he sees the glistening spatters on the Brick’s armor, his expression changing to dread. “But my crew...”

  Thompson whirls to face his large comrade. “Argo, retrace our steps. Check for survivors and administer aid. I will join you shortly.”

  Argo straightens his slumping posture and snaps a salute before spinning on his heel.

  Turning back to Keller, Thompson asks, “Who handles navigation?”

  A hand goes up behind Keller, and a middle-aged woman in uniform gets to her feet. “I’m the navigator.”

  “Maiella,” Thompson commands briskly, “work together with this woman to plot our course home. I am going to assist Argo. Call me when calculations are complete.”

  Maiella straightens up as well, saluting sharply. Thompson grabs his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder, and marches off through the twisted blast doors. Maiella collects her pistols, tucks them into the clips on her back, and seats herself at the navigation terminal.

  As Keller looks on warily, his First Officer whispers with Spanish accent, “What’s going on here, Captain? This feels like a hijack, but... I thought we were the only survivors.”

  Keller nods subtly. “I know what you mean. They look regimented and specialized...maybe remnants of some military outpost. I could only guess what made them so big though...”

  “What are we going to do?” the officer asks.

  “We’re going to survive, Ortega, as always. These three could probably kill all of us if they wanted, so they get their way for now.”

  Another man in the huddle, much younger than the others, climbs anxiously to his feet. “Captain, request permission to find my wife and make sure she’s okay.”

  “Not yet, Gregor. Sit tight until we know what’s happening.”

  Gregor steps to his chair, looking like a tightly wound spring, and chews his lower lip with anxiety.

  “Maybe they intend to enslave us?” suggests Ortega as he squints at the armored Geek.

  Keller looks long and hard at Maiella working alongside his navigator. The s
lender soldier has removed her bulky helmet and goggles, and she is listening patiently to the navigator. The armored woman is completely docile, her body language warm and familiar. Something about her suggests gentility—she doesn’t condescend or threaten at all. It's an image that doesn’t jibe with their introduction, and Keller struggles to reconcile the vastly different scenes. He opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it, second-guessing himself.

  “I don’t know,” he admits finally.

  Ortega watches Maiella skeptically, unable to keep from staring at her gold Human/Digital Interface terminals. She looks like an eager pupil, with the navigator leaning over her shoulder, giving instructions. Suddenly, another thought crosses his mind. “But if they are telling the truth... If there are many of them, they could be the protection we’ve needed to start the colony.”

  Keller raises a hand to his chin, eyebrow raised. The two men continue their observations silently.

  * * * * *

  Thompson jogs up beside Argo who is standing over the blasted and scorched remains of either a man or a woman. He doesn’t move at the Gun’s approach.

  “They’re all dead, Thompson.”

  Thompson sniffs hard and surveys the scene. “We’ll collect the bodies and assemble them here.” He takes a step away, but notices Argo is not following. The big man is still staring at the gore in front of him.

  “Argo?”

  Finally, Argo faces him. “We found others like us. Our own kind! It’s the greatest thing we could ever have found. We’ll have fresh DNA to breed out genetic flaws. We’ll have access to their star charts and the full range of their exploration, their technology…”

  He looks down at the body.

  “But we killed them, Thompson. That outweighs everything.” With his eyes to the floor, Argo walks past Thompson on his grim task.

  Thompson studies the pained expression in the remains of the face, the burns, the avulsions, the viscera, and Argo’s words echo in his mind, We killed them Thompson… The awful truth chills him and knots his stomach.

  “Calculations complete, Major,” buzzes Maiella in his radio.

  “Already?”

  “Affirmative. The navigator is very efficient.”

  “Apparently so,” Thompson agrees. “Argo and I are policing the casualties. We’ll be presenting them in fifteen minutes for identification.” Silence is his only reply. “Maiella?” he calls.

  “Understood, out,” Maiella states coarsely. Thompson sighs and lifts his helmet off slowly. His hair is longer and lies matted to his head with perspiration. Wiping his forehead with the back of his arm, he sets to work assisting Argo in their bloody task.

  Friend or Foe

  Keller looks over the covered remains of the slain. Near him stand his bridge officers, another man in a long white coat plus twelve men and women in stained coveralls and tool belts. Many of them clutch each other, mumbling a few words between the anguished sobs.

  Keller lifts blotchy white-and-red sheets, identifying the bodies. Ortega records names and titles. Some of the bodies are so violently dismembered and burned, it requires a personal effect for him to be sure: a distinctive ring, a name badge, a necklace, a tattoo. He steals a glance at the weapons slung over the operator’s shoulders and shivers at their horrific power.

  The bald captain moves from sheet to sheet down the double row. Each time he announces another name, the three cadre operators cringe as though smashed by a truncheon.

  At the end of the rows, Keller brings a hand up to his mouth, facing the terrible reality he had feared for so long. But it did not come at the hands of the reptilian aliens like he thought it would. It came from his own kind. The thought is so bizarre it scarcely registers as possible. He looks over at the three newcomers with their drooping shoulders and lowered heads.

  Breaking his glance, he turns to the man in the white coat, waving him over. The white-coated man hastens over, and Keller whispers to him.

  “Counselor, I want you to observe these three and prepare a psychological profile. Specifically, I want to know if they’re sincere or if they mean to deceive us. Bring it to me when you’re done.”

  The counselor nods and shuffles aside. Keller turns to Ortega, asking, “What is the tally?”

  Ortega gravely reviews his count, answering, “Seventeen dead.” All around him, his crewmates sob with loss.

  Thompson steps forward. “We request the duty of disposal.”

  Gregor pushes off from the person trying to console him. “Disposal?” he roars. “These were people, you murderous piece of shit, not trash!”

  Keller steps in front of Gregor, wrestling with his own emotions to maintain some semblance of control. He lowers his head and extends his arms, hoping to bar Gregor’s way to keep him from starting a fight—a fight Gregor would certainly lose. He looks up, catching Gregor’s fiery glance and shakes his head gently. Gregor’s teeth grind together, but reluctantly he lets it go.

  Keller lowers his arms and turns to face the newcomers. “Major, these people were very close to us.” He looks around at the seventeen red-and-white sheets laid orderly beside each other. “We need to mourn for them first.”

  Thompson blinks in non-understanding. “Mourn?”

  The group looks at each other, murmuring in disbelief. Gregor launches from his clustered crewmates.

  “You hear that? These three were just gonna take out the garbage!” He whirls toward Thompson in a rage, bellowing like a wounded lion. “You bastards probably knock each other off left and right, but these people you MURDERED meant something to us!”

  "GREGOR! STAND DOWN!” Keller yells.

  Thompson and Argo take it on the chin, but for Maiella, the accusation is a devastating direct hit. Her lip involuntarily juts out, a deluge of desolation and despair washing over her as she disables the safety on her machine pistol. Thompson hears the soft click-click and whirls around.

  “Maiella… Maiella!”

  Snapping out of her trance, she resets the safety, blanks her expression, and stares straight.

  Gregor never heard the safety latch, but he sees her taking her hand away from her weapon. His eyes go wide with hatred and panic, believing she was about to draw on him instead of herself. He backpedals, his mouth turned down at the corners, staring daggers through all three of them.

  “We don’t know this word you use, mourn,” Thompson explains, powerful waves of emotion threatening to overwhelm him completely, “but I can see it relates to loss. We lost half of our operator corps in a split second, so we know the meaning.” His eyes flare suddenly. “Apparently, you have the time to indulge such emotions,” the Gun counters. "WE DO NOT. Merely surviving requires our full attention!”

  Fearing a showdown, the counselor steps between them.

  “Everyone, please! This is a terrible moment for all of us, but we must keep perspective!”

  He pauses, turning a full circle in the midst of the assembly, looking everyone in the eye. “After all the light years of travel, we thought we were the last survivors of Earth and her colonies. Here, in the depths of space, fate has reunited us. What are the odds?”

  The counselor scans the faces around him, his eyebrows arched. No one speaks. Few even look at him. He takes a breath before turning back to Thompson.

  “We appreciate your willingness to assist. However, we must care for our dead in our own manner.”

  “Understood,” Thompson replies, embarrassed by his outburst.

  He takes a tentative step toward the counselor, one hand gripping the other. “It was not our intent to devalue your comrades... I think we use different words for similar things.” He suddenly gets a very distant look about him, and he faces the others in the room.

  “As far as we can recall, no human has died by an operator’s hands. We are the first to do so, and it is unbearable. We know what we have done, and that is why we must return immediately…so we can be judged for this crime.” Thompson turns and whispers a word to his team. At once, the thr
ee begin to leave.

  Keller calls out to them, “Major, where are you going?” Thompson halts as the others continue.

  “We are going to check hull integrity at our point of entry and reinforce it if necessary.”

  Keller points to the counselor and Ortega. “These two will go with you and assist.” Ortega’s face contorts with unspoken protest. The counselor simply nods and complies.

  Thompson studies Keller skeptically, decides not to argue, and strides down the corridor after his team. Ortega makes his way after them, pausing beside a wall sconce of small arms. The counselor shakes his head disapprovingly, but Ortega ignores the counselor’s visual chiding and pulls a thin rifle from its clamp. Ortega stares back with determination as he strides past, loading and readying the weapon. The counselor turns to Keller with his shoulders raised, and the aged captain shakes his head to never mind and motions him to hurry along.

  When the operators have marched from sight, the crew breaks into chaotic shouts at their captain. Keller steps into their midst with arms raised, having to shout to get their attention.

  * * * * *

  Maiella, Argo, and Thompson stride briskly down the corridor, making the counselor and Ortega hustle to keep up. The counselor tugs at Ortega’s sleeve, urging him to let some distance form between them and the three soldiers.

  “What should we do?” the counselor asks.

  “Just keep watch and let me know if you see them do anything odd.”

  “Odd... You mean other than boring through our hull and killing seventeen of us in ninety seconds?”

  “Yes, other than that.”

  The counselor goes quiet a moment and speaks with admiration. “I admit, I am fascinated. They seem so...evolved. They’re tall, fast, more agile than any of us...and so disciplined. Their society must be highly organized, most likely military in origin. Their attack, so swift and efficient...they seemed so inhuman... But in the little I’ve seen, I can see they are human. Did you see how ashamed they were when the captain spoke the names?”