Angry Ghosts (11 page)

“How many can they support?” she asks.

The counselor shrugs. “Once mature, they can support our entire colony, with a ninety percent surplus.”

“Ninety percent
surplus
? At best, we only managed a point-five percent surplus for thirty-eight days!” Looking at Thompson, she goes on excitedly.

“An automated, low-maintenance, surplus food supply.... With more calories, we could advance genetic research, ore procurement, and free up thousands of hours from synthesis repair... Thompson, we could stop our collection rotations
altogether
!”

The counselor watches, fascinated, as the operators bounce along like happy children at just the thought of having enough to eat. He cradles his chin, asking, “How many hours of your day are spent working?”

Thompson gives the counselor a ‘stupid question’ look. “All of them.”

The counselor contemplates the answer, attempting a diplomatic response. “Your lives must be very difficult.”

As the three approach another door, the counselor walks ahead to open it. The door whisks aside, and a rush of cold air sweeps past them. Lights inside flicker and illuminate a vast space packed with tight rows of gray crates.

Thompson gazes in unbridled curiosity, his mouth open in wonder. “What else are you transporting?”

“I have an inventory,” the counselor volunteers. “May I show you?”

Thompson nods in assent, and the three depart to another part of the ship. The counselor guides them into a small compartment with very little decoration, just rows and rows of terminals. Choosing the closest terminal, he pulls out some chairs for his guests. Maiella glides down into hers, but Thompson eyeballs his suspiciously, correctly surmising it couldn’t accommodate his mass. He leans over Maiella’s shoulder instead.

The counselor seats himself and slides in front of the terminal, punching up the basic menus while Maiella pays close attention to the cues and touch commands he uses.

“This is a master list of our cargo holds…” The counselor looks over at them, and they are both riveted to the screen. He can see Maiella eagerly wants to take over. “Do you know computers well?”

Maiella smiles broadly, vainly attempting modesty. “Mm-hmm.”

“Please, go ahead!” The counselor slides aside so she can sit directly in front of the terminal. “Just use this panel here, and touch the letter or number by heading, and…”

She is already way ahead of him. She scans the master list and all of its sublists in seconds. “Did you get all of that?” she asks.

“Yes,” Thompson answers. “Are explanations included?”

“Affirmative... Oh! There are photos!”

The counselor drifts back, watching the two completely absorbed in their search. He studies their interaction, taking in their body language, seeing how seamlessly they function together; the way they anticipate the other’s need or question seems intuitive, and it occurs to him how well they must know each other. Thompson’s hand on her shoulder as he leans over her seems so natural, like they are best friends, perhaps always have been.

He notices their efficiency, how Maiella seems to have already mastered the computer system with minimal instruction. They take in the information almost as fast as the computer can display it. Suddenly, Thompson looks over his shoulder.

“Are these the embryos you spoke of?”

The counselor perks up and slides over to the terminal. Pictured there is a fleshy pink blob. “Yes,” he replies, “and if you press here, you get a description.”

With the counselor’s keystroke, a thick-bodied creature, supported by four thin limbs, appears. A wide white band wraps the midsection of the stout black animal. Maiella and Thompson lean in with amazement, fascinated by the animal’s peculiar shape. “Belted Gall
-o-way,” she reads from the caption.

Again, the two operators dig into the data, pulling up image after image, soaking up the strange and wonderful images like gleeful children. The longer the counselor watches, the harder he finds it to believe these are the cold killers that stormed in earlier.

Thompson straightens up suddenly. “Argo, how’s the repair?”

“Going well,” the Brick answers via radio. “I should be finished in about thirty minutes.”

“How is your escort?”

Argo halts his welding and looks over at Ortega. The Spaniard snaps back to attention, aiming his weapon again. “Just fine,” Argo reports.

“Meet us at this location when repairs are complete. You need to see this.”

“What have you got, Gun?”

“Are you still wearing your visor?” Thompson queries.

“Affirmative.”

“We’re sending you video.”

Inside Argo’s visor, an image of a colossal freestanding structure appears. It is broad and circular at its base, sloping up to a tall vent. Argo stares intently at the image. “What am I looking at, Gun?”

“Everything needed to start a new life,” Thompson responds. “I’ll see you in thirty. Thompson out.”

The counselor strides onto the bridge where Captain Keller is mediating a discussion among his bridge officers and two engineers in gray coveralls. Keller notices the counselor arrive and, with a hand gesture, halts the debate.

“Counselor,” he calls, “please tell us what you’ve learned.”

The counselor thinks carefully as he walks to the circle. “I haven’t spent enough time with them yet to be sure.”

“Then give us your first impressions.” All eyes fix on the counselor as he folds his arms and paces, preparing his words for the impromptu presentation.

“Of the three, there is a clear leader—the tall one is superior rank to the other two—but between the woman and the big man, they may be equal. In conversation, I discovered they spend every waking hour at work, and they had no idea what plants or animals were. All of their food is synthesized, and it is highly labor-intensive to keep those machines operating. It seems mere subsistence is a full-time job for them…”

He trails off, starting a new subject. “They mentioned ore procurement, genetic research, and
collection rotations
. I’m not sure what collection rotations are.”

Sharon, the navigator, unfolds her arms. “Maybe that’s why they’re here. Maybe they collect ships..
.”

“Like pirates?” offers Ortega.

Keller looks to the counselor for a response.

“
Perhaps
like pirates...” the counselor begins, and the group breaks into chatter. He raises his voice to be heard above them. “But their motives are different.” The chatter abates as the group waits expectantly on the explanation.

“It seems like they are just barely hanging on, and they spoke about a recent defeat, how they lost half of their operator corps in an instant.”

“Yes, I remember that,” confirms Keller.

The counselor nods. “The attack on our vessel is most likely an act of desperation. I ask that you reserve your judgment until we know more.”

“
Reserve judgment
?” pipes Gregor. “They’re
murderers
and they may decide to finish us off! Why are we even
discussing
this?”

“I don’t believe they mean us any more harm.”

Gregor rolls his eyes derisively. “That’s easy for you to suppose, Counselor, but did you forget about our dead on deck four? How could you
possibly
think they won’t finish what they started?”

The counselor stares hard at the obstinate Russian. “Because they
stopped
.
We
certainly didn't have anything to do with it.”

The group contemplates the point among themselves, and the counselor gives them time to absorb it.

“Of course we should be
wary
,” the counselor continues, “but I don’t believe we should be
fearful
. We thought
we
were the last people in existence…so it’s reasonable to think they believed
they
were the last as well. Besides, beneath the armor, efficiency, and discipline, they’re…”

“Yes?” presses Keller.

The counselor looks everyone in the eye softly. “They’re human.”

The group of
officers exchange glances, pondering the argument, until fear gets a hold of them again. Shoulders hunch, arms cross.

“I am not asking anyone to drop their guard,” the counselor clarifies. “I’ve only been with them an hour or so. Just reserve your judgment. I see something in them, and if I’m right, these people could be the protection we’ve needed to start the colony.”

“We still haven’t found a suitable planet, Counselor,” Keller warns.

The counselor returns his captain’s stern look. “But we know where one is...”

"NO!” shouts Keller. “We are
not
going back there.
Ever
!”

A heavy pall fills the room. Some look at the floor, some look out the
viewscreen into the depths of space, a very distant and longing expression covering them all.

The c
ounselor watches the range of emotions playing out before him. Having spent long hours in session with each person present, he knows the long years of strangled patience and hope, the crushing weight of uncertainty and anxiety through light years of travel, the simultaneous fear and longing for change in every face.

“We’ve been on this ship a long time, Keller…”

Keller looks hard at the counselor, but doesn’t speak. The tension is thick, and no one dares to cut it until the sound of approaching footfalls interrupts the mood. Soon, Maiella is standing at the twisted metal that used to be the bridge’s blast doors. She flinches at everyone’s simultaneous gaze and snaps to attention.

“I have been ordered to learn your ship’s operation and assume the duties of your”—she swallows hard—“your fallen.”

Keller looks queerly at her. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” she replies and stands patiently.

“Please, over here.” To everyone else’s surprise, Sharon gestures Maiella to a chair at her console. Maiella strides over and sits, listening politely as Sharon explains functions and control.

Ortega stands quietly and sidles up beside the counselor. “I went to academy two years to learn navigation. This
chica
is going to learn it in a few months, I suppose?”

The counselor redirects Ortega’s attention to Maiella. “Watch.”

With a few instructions, Maiella accelerates the pace, intuitively accessing higher functions. Like before, she moves nearly at the speed of the machine, causing the group to gape in awe. Fascination elbows their unease aside and, subconsciously, they move closer. The Geek pauses, suddenly swiveling in her seat to face Keller, and the group lurches back.

“My team requires a portal unlocked,” Maiella states. “Can that be done from here?”

“Yes,” Sharon coaches. “Here…where are they? Okay, right here.”

“How about I just go?” volunteers the counselor.

Keller nods in approval. "Go."

“Ship Counselor en route to your location,” Maiella radios. She returns to her task, and again, fascination fills the group of officers… except for one.

With the others captivated by Maiella’s ability, Gregor slips away. He looks over his shoulder to make sure no one notices him leaving and climbs the ladders and stairways down to the improvised morgue.

Standing before the door, he extends his hand to the door panel and realizes he is shaking. He balls his fist angrily and punches the button. The door whisks aside, and a rush of arctic air sweeps by him, condensing his breath. He wraps his arms around himself, bracing against the chill.

Stepping into the dimly lit room, he finds seventeen bodies beneath bloodstained sheets, arranged in two parallel rows. Most of the sheets cling wetly, revealing gender, build and extent of injury.

He remembers them all, but one burns strongest in his mind. Summoning the courage to find her, Gregor’s hands rise up to his face and rub briskly, his wedding band very cold against his cheek. Instinctively, he is drawn to one of the still figures toward the back of the room. Apprehension knots his stomach and shortens his breath.

He looks across the red blotches and irregular lumps in the sheet below him. A single lock of corn-silk hair juts from the top, and the sight of it makes him hyperventilate.

Furiously, he pounds himself in the chest, trying to beat down the burning in his heart, trying to get his breath back. After multiple strokes, he kneels, steaming in the cold air with grief carved deeply into his features.

He takes hold of the sheet and pulls it back gently. It sticks somewhat, revealing the face of a petite woman in her late twenties, her expression locked in the pain and surprise of her death. Drying blood flecks her porcelain face and mats one side of her hair. Unable to look anymore, he turns away, but all he finds around him are more sheet-covered bodies. Bitter tears stream down his contorting face, and his mouth falls open with despair. Salty drops descend on her, absorbing into the collar of her white uniform.

Gregor wipes a hand across his hot eyes and sniffs deeply. With his other hand, he pulls the sheet down past her chest where large holes have been stamped into her by a high-caliber pistol. His teeth clench. Fists clench. Face flushing with heat, the chilly air no longer touches him. He looks across her body, how her white medical uniform is tattered with bullet holes and marred with dark splotches. But his eyes stop at her name tag; and when he reads the name,
Iskra Petrova
, the emerging rage smothers in her loss.

“Iskra...” he stammers, scooping her limp body up into his arms. Pressing her hard against him, he rocks her back and forth. “Moy-ah kra-see-vai-yah... moy-ah kra-see-vai-yah...”

He holds her tight for a long time, supporting the back of her head, desperately wishing she would hold him back. She is so cold against his skin. So cold…

Sniffing hard, he lays her down and places her hands over the holes in her chest. Her expression looks less pained than it did before. The small difference matters greatly.

Realizing he is going to be missed by the others soon, he reaches for the edge of the sheet and draws it over her face. When his hand passes in front of him, he sees the blood all over it. He holds both of his hands in front of him and stares at the palms…at her blood, at her life, that was stolen from him.