Angry Ghosts (19 page)

Munro smiles broadly. “Ah! Good! That is my designation as well! I look forward to d
iscussing practices with her.”

“I’m sure you’d captivate her with your conversation…” Gregor mutters sarcastically. Sharon elbows him in the ribs.

Munro arches an eyebrow, aware of the insult, yet choosing to let it pass. He balls his strong fist and grits his teeth, assuming a swifter pace. Keller and his officers have to trot to keep up, the polished metal walls passing quickly by.

Ahead, the corridor takes a sharp right then arcs smoothly left as if deflecting around something large.

“Colonel,” Ortega calls out. He slows his pace to drag a hand along the convex wall. Munro halts, abruptly turning to face him.

“Yes, Commander?”

Ortega pauses, checking his memory to be sure this feature was not explained earlier, then asks, “Is there something here you couldn’t tunnel through? I don’t see any rooms or passages in this direction.”

Munro nods.
“Beyond this wall stands one of four ground-based UV excimer lasers, our primary defense.”

Orte
ga’s eyebrows lift with interest, and he searches for an access hatch, but the metal walls are uninterrupted.

“How do you get to it?”

“Access is at the silo’s base, 150 meters down.”

The Spaniard
whistles as he grasps the weapon’s scale. “What kind of energy output?”

“Sufficient to perforate six meters of
iron with an effective range of four hundred thousand kilometers. Targeting is handled by four satellites in synchronous orbit, and the beam is directed by omni-directional mirror.”

“What if the mirror get
s hit?”

“There are five backup optics per silo; however, when operating in concert, the four silos can deliver sixty shots per minute at full output. It’s unlikely anything could get close enough to damage them.” Munro turns and resumes his quick pace. Sharon hurries after him; but Gregor, Keller, and Ortega linger, admiring the potent sentry buried in the ground beside them. When Keller turns to ask another question Munro is already way ahead, and the three men run to catch up.

* * * * *

The counselor sits comfortably in Sharon’s navigation station aboard the
Europa
. General O’Kai leans over his shoulder in complete engrossment as the counselor pulls up image after image of plants and animals stored as embryos. His jaw drops with amazement.

“And these life-forms… they assemble your nutrients?”

“After a while,” the counselor explains. “They have to mature before they can start producing.”

“How long?”

“A few months.” The counselor looks up at his guest, and he grins when he recognizes the same expression Maiella and Thompson wore when they first discovered the colonist’s living cargo.

“What do they need?”
O’Kai asks.

The counselor taps some keys, pulling up a schematic of the circular colony structure. Pointing to each section, he explains, “The biosphere was engineered for maximum efficiency and conservation; so basically, all we need is light, soil, and water.”

O’Kai rubs his chin, studying, pondering.

The counselor watches him, accurately guessing his thoughts. “You’re wondering if we could set it up here?”

O’Kai looks down at his guide. “Yes, but we don’t have enough room internally. Could this be set up on the surface?”

The counselor shakes his head. “The domes are designed to withstand a wide variety of pressures, but not a vacuum. Nor could they shield the crops against that intense star of yours. Only a planet with an atmosphere will do.”

“Some of the gas giant planets orbiting farther out have moons that are almost planet size. A few of them have dense atmospheres…but the tidal forces cause quakes and eruptions on a regular basis. How much shaking can those structures take?”

“
The base structure is built for that, where it partially decouples the main structure from the ground. It's rated for about seven point nine, MMS, but it can take a bigger shock than that, I hear.”

“
MMS?”

“
Moment Magnitude Scale? Okay.” The counselor types a conversion query into the terminal and reads the result. “Uhhh, a seven point nine MMS event is a release of around fifty petajoules, give or take.”

O'Kai scowls.
“We measured events over three hundred petajoules.

The counselor reverses the conversion query and reads aloud,
“Ooh, that's almost eight point five...”

“
Could it take that?”

“
Well, not if it was sitting
right on top of it
, but our geologists could map the fault lines and—”

“
Forget it. Much as I want that thing producing close by, we can't risk losing it or anyone operating it. Besides, the radiation from the gas planets would be a real problem.”

The general
stands straight, momentarily stymied, then looks back at the counselor. “Your original mission...you wouldn't have launched without a destination.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you make it?”

The counselor looks away remorsefully. “Uninhabitable. Too many isotopes in the ground.”

“Hmmm,” O’Kai thinks. “You all told us the
Europa
has been traveling for over a thousand years… Could the levels have dropped enough?”

The counselor frowns, shaking his head.
“Soil samples showed uranium, strontium, radium, and radon. Enough to keep that planet hot for eons.”

O’Kai
reaches beside the counselor to pull up the
Europa’s
flight logs. “In all your light years of travel, didn't you come across
anything
with a chance of habitability?”

The counselor purses his lips, a bit uncomfortable displeasing someone so physically imposing. “This ship was only intended to travel to a preset destination. She isn’t equipped with powerful telescopes or sensitive instrument arrays to discover new
planetary systems, just ones strong enough to keep us from flying into something in our path. We’ve taken the information we
can
collect and have been making educated guesses all this time. It’s the best we could do.”

O’Kai brings his hand up to his mouth, tap
ping with one finger pensively.

“Counselor, how was a world selected for colonization?”

“I’m not an authority on that, General. We had an entire division of geophysicists in our company back on Earth who would—”

“
Earth
,” O’Kai interrupts. “You know where Earth is. You must know, it was your point of origin!”

“Of course, but…
don’t you
?”

O’Kai shakes his head. “In the early days, this facility was smaller
, not designed for self-sufficiency. The first of us had to build new assets to survive, and building new machines meant building new software. We only had the computers on hand at that time, and to store new operating programs we had to clear space. Any data not immediately required for survival was purged…that included information on Earth.”

The counselor looks up
skeptically, then remembers a similar conversation with Thompson months earlier. It was absolutely baffling how these people could have no memory of themselves—no history besides the technological advances that have kept them alive.
Is this some kind of deceit? Are they hiding something?

The counselor digs.
“Thompson didn’t recognize the name, Earth, when I mentioned it to him, but you do. Why is that?”

“There'
s a verbal legacy passed from one general to the next, shared with no one else.”

“
But that makes no—” The counselor censors himself mid-sentence. “I'm sorry, General, but what I mean to say is, why would you keep something like that
from your own people
?”

“Simple. In the beginning, our people longed for their home to great distraction. It prevented them from laboring at full productivity. When people were not told they came from some other place, they accepted their lives here and labored to higher potential.”

“That’s
it
?”

“That’s it.”

The counselor’s head swims with such astounding pragmatism. “Then why pass it from general to general? Why bother?”

O’Kai nods, validating the question. “Our lives are
built
upon service to higher authority. As General, there is nowhere else to advance, no higher post to strive toward. Thus, we must remember Earth and keep our focus over the many years, because every general knows—it is our
duty
to return. Should we forget about our ancient home, that return will never be possible.”

The counselor
leans against the console, propping his head up with a hand, amazed again by such stark practicality.

“Do you know what this facility was intended for before the attack?”

“Genetic research and engineering,” O’Kai answers without hesitation, “but that’s all I know.” No longer able to restrain his curiosities, he reaches past the counselor and pulls up data on Earth: system location, geological conditions, meteorological features. When he finds a photo archive he stops at the first image he sees and marvels.

“You know where Earth is, yet you haven’t returned? Why?”

The counselor becomes defensive, turning in his seat to face the general. “We wouldn’t dare!”

“Why not?”

The counselor swivels a quarter turn, wondering why the general would ask a question with so obvious an answer. “Our ship has
no
defenses whatsoever… and the enemy is sure to be there.”

“How do you
know
?”

The counselor absorbs the question, weighing it. He looks into the terminal then back at the general, finally admitting, “We don’t.”

The two men stare at each other, and in the silence, volumes are spoken.

“Major Ralla,” O’Kai hails through the communicator perched on his ear.

“Ralla here, sir. Go ahead,”
comes his radioed reply.

“Delegate your current assignment and report to the bridge of the
Europa
.”

“Understood. Ralla out.”

Leaning forward again, O’Kai focuses on the Viewscreen.

“Show me
more.”

A soft tone repeats rhythmically, accompanied by the flicker of room illumination. The communication panel at the head of his bunk lights up, and Thompson swats it with the back of his hand to turn it off. Another four hours of no sleep…

He
sits up gruffly, sunken eyes squinting against the bright light. Only his ingrained routine gives him the motivation to get out of bed, and he swings his legs out toward the floor. Rubbing his rough face, he gets to his feet and steps to his hygiene station. A chemically treated towel rests on a rack; and he snatches it, dragging it over himself in the cadre’s version of a daily shower. Letting it drop, he picks up a razor and joylessly scrapes it across the patchy stubble of his beard. His other hand picks up an aging dental appliance and he scours his teeth with it. When done, he spits, then considers his gaunt appearance, the drawn cheeks, the bags under the eyes, the pale flesh. He sneers.

Skipping his usual
calisthenics, the disgraced Gun moves straight to his locker. Neglected armor hangs inside, muted with layers of soot and scorches. After pulling on an unwashed undersuit, he snatches his armor piece by piece from their pegs. In moments, he is fully dressed for duty and he turns to leave, but halts when he catches his reflection in the mirror. A shoddy, slouching figure stares back from his hygiene station. With a growl, he storms out of his cabin and heads toward the manufacturing facility.

When he arrives,
Argo is already there, waiting outside the entrance. The Brick only looks slightly better, his armor having received at least a cursory wipe down from the last shift. Like Thompson's, Argo's eyes are dark and retreated from sleeplessness. Snapping a salute, he hails Thompson with a raspy voice.

“Good morning,
Major. Brick Argo present for duty.”

Thompson returns a respectful salu
te with half the energy. “Morning, Lieutenant. As you were.”

Argo’s posture relaxes, and he
asks, “You getting any sleep?”

“The usual.
You?”

“Somewhat. After the trial, I…I can’t keep their screams out of my head. I
—”

“I know,
Argo. Me, too. Where’s Maiella?”

The big man looks at the floor. “H
asn’t reported yet.”

“
Again?
”

Argo looks up, nods reluctantly, and resumes his downward gaze.

Thompson's face curls with shortened temper. “Get started. I’ll haul her ass in shortly.”

“
Aye, sir.”

Argo salutes then takes hold of
the heavy entry door. When it opens, raging noise of heavy industry pours into the hallway. The Brick moves through then seals the door behind himself, ending the growls and clanks of fabrication.

Thompson
breathes deeply, grits his teeth, and marches down the corridor to Maiella’s quarters.

Standing at her door, h
e firmly jabs the buzzer. There is no reply. He tries the latch. It is locked. With exasperation, he barks, “Voice recognize, Major Gun Thompson, lock override,
execute
!”

The lock disengages, and Thompson thrusts the door aside. He peers into an unusually dark room. “
Maiella
!”

There is no answer.

He strides into the darkness, seeking out the hygiene station to activate the lighting there, when something fragile crunches beneath his boots. He halts mid-step, understanding why the overhead lights are not on. Anger climbs his spine.

After an exasperated
exhale, the Gun continues to the hygiene station and flicks on its lights. Turning around, he sees shiny bits of glass and plastic littering the floor, confirming what he already knew. Directly above, the illumination panel has been shattered with a fist-sized hole in the middle of it.

Thompson’s eyes drop to Maiella’s bunk, and he finds her lying on her back, still wearing her armor from the previous shift. Her eyes are open, staring an infinite path through the ceiling. He looks at her, vexed, but sigh
s deeply before addressing her.

“Are we going to do this
every
morning, Lieutenant?”

Her expression is unchanged, stoic. “Why not?” she asks gloomily.

“
on your
feet
, soldier
!”

Maiella ends her distant stare and
rises from her bunk to stand at an exhausted attention. Thompson looks into her face, which is still sooty from her work in the foundry several hours ago. The grime is even except for a few cleaner tracks running down hollowed cheeks.

Thompson glares hard at her, trying to sound convincing despite his own battle with futility. “Our shift began two minutes ago, Lieutenant. We have
work
to do.”

“What’s the point, Thompson?” she asks softly.

Thompson struggles for an answer. “The
point
? We’re
operators
, Maiella. We're
counted
on.”

“For
what
? To drag big pieces of metal together and weld them?
Drones
do our work, Thompson.
Drones
!”

Thompson’s face petrifies. “You’d prefer we
were
drones?”

Maiella
blanches in horror and drops her face submissively. “No.”

He snatches a treated towel from her hygiene station and throws it at her. “Then get yourself
together
. These fits of yours are
exhausting
, Maiella. And it doesn’t matter
what
we do, we
deserve
our assignment, and we
will
perform it without question or hesitation.
Understood?
”

“Yes,
sir
!” she answers sharply, rubbing the towel over her face and hands. The soot from her face and the flecks of blood from her knuckles disappear, leaving a much more presentable soldier behind. She steps around her superior to retrieve her helmet and gauntlets from the floor, then she stands before him.

“I’m ready.”

Thompson reviews her warily. “All right. Move out.”

Maiella hustles through her open door and waits outside for Thompson to join her.

“Disable lock override,” he orders plainly, and the door to her quarters glides shut behind them. Squaring their shoulders, the two march down to the manufacturing facility.

When they arrive
, Argo is already hard at work swinging a thick lever, manually extruding long beams of hot metal. He sees the two and waves them over. He grunts with the exertion, trying to shout through gritted teeth.

“We have sixteen tons of corridor braces to form, but the metal press is down! If I have to keep pumping them out manually, we’ll only make two tons in our shift!”

“
Maiella!
” Thompson yells above the shrieking machinery, “
Check out the logic controls and software for defects! Argo, get into the access corridor and check for mechanical obstructions or failures! I’ll take over here!
”

Maiella and Argo nod and disappear on their missions. Thompson squints at th
e thick lever Argo was pumping, and he swings his arms to limber up. Taking the handle with both hands, the Gun plants one foot on the floor and one foot on a small flange jutting from the enormous, sweltering machine. Preparing, he retreats to that singularity of mind then heaves with all of his might to ratchet the metal press at nearly the same pace as Argo.

* * * * *

Colonel Shao-Lo stands at attention, her appearance spotless. “Download of the colony ship’s star charts is complete, and Major Ralla is heading the team of analysts. The colonist navigator, Sharon Jones, and several of her astronomers are assisting the process.”

“Good,” O’Kai
says from his office chair. “Go on.”

“Cadr
e energy production has fallen five percent, but the deficit can easily be compensated by patching the
Europa
into our power grid. Munro estimates it could easily supply another hundred and fifty megawatts. More if necessary.”

O’Kai thinks aloud,
“That would let us take the solar collectors off-line for overhaul.”

“They’ve needed it for some time
, now.”

“Have Munro meet with me to plan the task. Next?”

“Food and water processing aboard the
Europa
can supplement another fifteen percent of our nutritive requirements, but only so long as the balance of her crew remains in cryo-stasis.”

The general leans on his elbows. “Then we’ll have to convince Keller to keep them frozen a while longer. Are the colony foodstuffs superior to ours?”

“
Oh, Yes!
” Shao-Lo straightens up, regaining her composure. “
Ahem
. Affirmative, General, both in nutritive content and in
other
ways.”

O’Kai reads between her words, easily surmising the colonist’s diet is much more palatable than tubes of amino
proteins and fortified bars of carbohydrates.

“Very well. What else?”

Shao-Lo sucks in her cheeks. “Operator Team Spectre missed their sixteen-ton quota by eight tons due to a fault in the extrusion press. The fault was discovered to be a seizure from overheating caused by a missed lubrication interval. Team Spectre was able to complete the repair after ten hours but could not increase production to compensate.”

“And who was scheduled to perform the lubrication interval for the extrusion press?” O’Kai queries.

“Team Spectre.”

O’Kai
smashes his fist into his desk. “We can’t afford these
shortages
!” He sits back in his chair, shaking his head. “What if the colony ship wasn’t here to cover our gaps in production, Shao-Lo?”

The colonel stands solemn and silent. O’Kai looks away and slides his chair closer to his desk, folding his hands. “I want your direct assessment, Colonel. Should they be reconstituted?”

Shao-Lo looks up from the floor remorsefully. “Yes, sir. I believe they should.”

O’Kai searches for the slightest uncertainty and finds none. “Thank you, Colonel. That will be all.”

Shao-Lo snaps a brisk salute and spins on her heel, marching out. Scarcely a moment passes, and the buzzer sounds at his door.

“Come!” the general shouts as he digs into his data terminal. “Did you wish to add something, Colonel?” He looks up, surprised to see the counselor standing before him. “Counselor? How may I assist you?”

The counselor steps forward reservedly. “General, I'd like to request some of your time.”

O’Kai checks his schedule in his terminal. “I have thirteen minutes until I inspect the ore processing facility. What’s on your mind?”

The counselor lifts his eyebrows. “Now? Well, okay then.” He selects a chair opposite the general and seats himself. “I understand Thompson, Argo, and Maiella have made another mistake, one which put your maintenance schedule behind.”

O’Kai's eyes narrow
suspiciously. “I’m not sure how you heard about that, but yes, it’s true. They missed a critical maintenance interval that led to a breakdown.”

“It’s going to get worse.”

O’Kai continues his wary gaze at the counselor, surprised the man is not making excuses for the three operators. “I didn’t expect you to say so…but I think you’re right.”

The counselor’s expression shifts to concern. “What will become of them?”

“I’ve had two recommendations from my senior staff for reconstitution. It would be a terrible loss of abilities, but we
cannot
afford any more careless accidents. We’re only just hanging on as it is.”

The counselor nods in sad understanding. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a slim disk and passes it to the general.

“I know I have no authority in your internal affairs, General. But I've thought a lot about Argo, Maiella, and Thompson; and I’ve prepared a brief for you. I ask you to please read it before you make a final decision.”

O’Kai takes the disk and loads it into his terminal. The counselor
looks on, pleased, as the general reads.

To:
General O’Kai, Senior Council Member, Supreme Cadre Authority

From:
Counselor, Soshiba Varicorp, Colony Ship Europa, PhD, PsyD, Scientist-Practitioner, Clinical, Experimental, Therapeutic Psychology and Psychobiology

Re:
Analysis of underperforming subjects: Major Thompson, Lieutenant Argo, and Lieutenant Maiella

General O’Kai,