Angry Ghosts

by F. Allen Farnham

  The counselor looks down to the floor, gripping his chin. “That said, they suppress their emotions, claiming it clouds judgment. Emotions are there, however, and they are trying to cope with the guilt from having killed our crewmates…”

  “Damn savages,” Gregor grumbles. “How can you think they give a shit about us? We could be their meat for all you know!”

  The counselor looks deep into his eyes. “We don’t expect you to forget your wife, Gregor.”

  Gregor glares silently, angry and wounded. Slumping into a seat, he buries his head in his hands.

  Keller looks at his young officer compassionately, sympathizing, but defers to the counselor.

  “Please, go on.”

  The counselor collects his thoughts and scans the faces around him, making sure he has regained their attention. “Regarding their feelings of guilt, it’s not something you’ll have to take my word on. You’ll see it.”

  He paces in front of them as he continues.

  “Their society seems very skilled, albeit not terribly advanced. All of their gear is reliable and almost indestructible…definitely built to last. Each individual is highly specialized for particular tasks. For example, the three on board call themselves operators, and are further divided into three subgroups called Gun, Geek, and Brick. The big man is clearly the Brick, the tall one the Gun, and the woman the Geek.

  “The Geek seems to be a computer specialist and pilot. Though she claimed to be damaged beyond function, she whizzed through our operating systems, mastering them in minutes. Even so, waiting that long frustrated her, and I can only guess how fast she'd be at full capability.

  “The Brick is the technician, skilled at repairing machine and man. He's the engineer, the doctor, and the demolitions expert all in one. He’s also the one who peeled those blast doors into their current shape.” The group turns at once to the twisted metal, hushed in fearful awe of such strength.

  “The Gun is the combat specialist. He is the strategist, tactician, and leader. He has absolute authority, which the other two never question. He is very guarded yet has allowed a piece of himself to show from time to time. He won’t answer direct questions about his society, except that they recently had a life-threatening setback: half of their ‘Operator Corps’ was killed in an ambush, and these operators are the ones who gather resources for the group. With only half as many to provide for the rest, they looked to different areas, hoping for less risky targets; and hence, here they are.”

  “What else?” asks Keller.

  “Physically, they're quite different. The woman is nearly two meters tall, and she's the shortest of the three. Strength, reflexes, dexterity, the like I’ve never seen before…if these three were at the Olympics, they’d take every medal. Either they evolved or they've enhanced themselves somehow.

  “These operators are the elite of the group, representing the highest level of skill and physical fitness. Above them is a leadership caste, comprised of older, more experienced operators; and they decide all matters for the group. Below the operator caste is a medical/technical caste where most of the original research and development is done. I heard the woman refer to herself as a ‘drone’ once, which could be a worker caste at the lowest echelon. So far, that's my understanding of the organizational relationships.”

  One of the engineers steps forward, trying to put it all together. “So what you’re telling us is these guys come in blazing, expecting us to be the lizards, or some other species; and when they realized we were humans, they stopped?”

  “Yes,” the counselor affirms.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “We believed we were the last of our kind, so it makes sense they did, as well.”

  The man nods thoughtfully. Addressing the group again, the counselor elaborates. “They know, as we do, that being discovered means death. To protect their anonymity, they move through a ship as fast as possible, exterminating anything that could bear witness to their presence. If they can’t succeed, they self-detonate.”

  “Self-detonate?” Keller asks, his eyes nearly bursting from their sockets.

  “That’s right. The ship attached to our hull, and the persons of our guests carry enough explosive to vaporize themselves and most of what they’re close to.”

  "DAMN IT, MAN, THEY'RE WIRED?” Keller rants. “You should have told me immediately!” He gestures toward Gregor, adding, “If one of my officers had acted on his need for revenge, we’d all be dust!”

  Gregor looks over despondently. “Now we truly are their hostages…” For the first time, the group nods in agreement with him.

  The counselor shakes his head. “Please, nothing has changed! True, this ship has resources that would be assets to any culture; but if they intend to enslave us, why are we allowed to roam free? The woman has already shown she can pilot this ship, and the other two have shown they have the skills to keep it running. They don’t need us! They could lock us in the cryo-tubes, fly home, and unfreeze us one by one into bondage.”

  The group considers the counselor’s words carefully, weighing the truth of them. They look to each other for cues, searching for help with their verdict in the faces of their comrades. Beside Keller, Sharon lifts her head from her contemplation.

  “They did insist on handling burial detail, and they did so solemnly. And I know what you mean about them feeling guilty...they looked like children...like children who knew how disappointed their father would be... Like they had failed, utterly.”

  “Even so,” Gregor counters, lifting his head from his hands, “we don’t know what’s waiting for us. What we do know is how dangerous these three are. Can you imagine a whole nest of them? God forbid we should ever disagree with them—they could just strong-arm us into whatever position they like. You said it yourself, Counselor, they’re military…not much for discussion.” Gregor looks at the floor, extending his hands in front of him for emphasis. “We are self-sufficient. It’s only a matter of time before we find a suitable place to live. So why in hell are we even thinking about risking all that?”

  Gregor’s logic stirs the group, leading to assenting murmurs. The counselor nods, forced to recognize the strength of the argument, but it is Keller who answers.

  “I’m glad you mentioned those things, Gregor, because they're important concerns. I'd be disappointed if no one had voiced them. But you all have to consider: the Europa is old. She's nearly tripled her expected service life. And if the list of defects they found in our atmo-processor is any indication, can you imagine how many other issues this ship has? Ones we don’t even know about?

  “But let’s assume she does hold up, and we do find a planet we could live on, and we plant all of our seed and raise all of our embryos...and we’re discovered. What then? Do you really think we’d be left in peace? Who could possibly defend us? We’re technicians, Gregor. We’re farmers. There's no way we could ever feel safe...” Keller trails off, losing himself for a moment in thought.

  “They’re on a different evolutionary path,” the counselor resumes. “We have food, air, and water processors, continuously renewable energy. We have the means to provide for ourselves and many more. They don’t. They have to scrape their lives out of a barren rock!”

  Gregor looks at the counselor skeptically. “If you take their word for it…”

  The counselor drops his chin, looking at Gregor through his eyebrows. “Just look at them. Do you doubt it for even a second?”

  Gregor pops his eyebrows up and looks away, choosing not to answer. The counselor takes it as a confirmation, and addresses the group.

  “They need our life-supporting apparatus. We need their strength and protection. If we could successfully join as one, we could truly live again. We could have meaningful lives...and a home.”

  The last word hangs in the minds of all who hear it, stirring ancient memories. Home. A place one could always find after long travels. Though houses could be bulldozed, no one could ever remove your home, the place of you
r birth. The word held a permanence once, as if inalienable. But in violent, methodical strokes, the enemy has proved how transitory and fragile a home can be.

  After a thoughtful silence, Keller clears his throat. “You both present strong points. It’s a risk, but the potential gain is enormous, and we can’t ignore that. I’ll talk more with them to see what else I can learn, and then we can make a more informed decision. Gregor?”

  Gregor faces the captain, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Sir?”

  “I want you to go to the soldiers’ quarters; and when they wake, ask the leader, the Gun, to meet with me and my officers.”

  Gregor squints in annoyance. “Why me, sir?”

  “Because if you are determined to kill them, then you're going to look them in the eye and see if your commitment wavers.”

  Gregor stands and salutes, barely reining in his distaste. “Aye, sir.”

  The counselor opens his mouth to protest, but Keller shushes him with a hand. Gregor turns and abruptly departs. Once Gregor is out of earshot, the counselor steps in front of the captain with a questioning look.

  Before he can ask, Keller orders, “Go after him, keep an eye on him. Don’t let him see you.”

  The questioning glance turns to relief, and the counselor pads quietly off after Gregor.

  Turning to his engineers, Keller says, “My friends, the ‘Geek’ has identified a list of malfunctions on our atmo-processor as long as my arm. They're ordered by priority. Please get started, and the ‘Brick’ will join you shortly. He’s real big, so try not to be intimidated when you see him. Any questions?”

  “Thousands, sir,” replies the tall engineer.

  Keller smiles. “Same here. Dismissed!”

  Sharon and Ortega divide the engineers into teams and lead the noisily chattering groups out to their assignments. Keller watches them leave. Once he is alone, he sighs deeply and looks out through the viewscreen into the emptiness of space.

  Understanding Loss

  Gray smoke billows in large whirling vortices. Through the haze, glowing figures—visible in infrared—hunch over with arms in front of them, bracing themselves against the thickened air and confusion.

  Pang! Pang! Pang!

  The smoke strobes with weapon flashes, and the glowing figures lurch backward. Panicked screams pierce the misted air, and the remaining figures flee. A giant shadow sweeps by in pursuit.

  A slender shadow rushes by in the opposite direction, and the smoke strobes again.

  B-r-r-r-r-ak-kak!

  A low tone crescendos and rises in pitch, discharging explosively down an adjacent corridor.

  Baaahh-rrrrooooooommmmm!

  A distant rumble mingles with the tortured shrieks of things dying.

  The air clears slightly, permitting longer views down the unlit corridors as they glide by. More glowing figures are visible…

  Pang! Pang!

  The radiant images snap at the waist and drop.

  The journey halts at a large metal door, round and dark gray. A giant shadow shoves past, planting a device on it.

  The device erupts savagely, shuddering the deck plates.

  Smoke roils, and the giant shadow pushes apart the door’s white-hot remnants. Gliding through the gap, the room beyond is hazy and dark, punctuated by fragments of incandescent shrapnel. At the far edge, a huddle of glowing figures crouches behind a console.

  Sailing over the consoles and furniture, the intent to kill is strong and purposeful until a glowing hand thrusts up—a flat palm with four extended fingers and a thumb—a human hand.

  “No! Don’t!”

  Thompson startles himself awake, jerking up from his bunk. His breathing is shallow and rapid, sweat rolls off his face. He scans the room, but bright light from the open door makes it difficult to adjust. Squinting, he holds a hand up against the light and finds Gregor only a meter away. The man holds Thompson’s large rifle, aiming it squarely at the operator’s face.

  Thompson looks first at his own weapon in Gregor’s hands then into Gregor’s eyes. Neither moves.

  “If they’d listened to me, you’d be exploding from decompression right now.” Gregor’s voice is twisted with hate and disgust, his expression a visual definition of loathing. Thompson calmly studies the man, gauging his conviction, finding it inexorable.

  “Why is that?” asks Thompson.

  “Because I’d have launched you out of the FUCKING AIR LOCK, that’s why!”

  As Gregor seethes, Thompson recognizes him. He first saw him on the bridge and later when Captain Keller was identifying the bodies. During the burial ceremony, Thompson was kneeling to lift the body of a blonde-haired woman when Gregor shoved him away violently, shouting at him to get away, not to touch her. Later on, he looked over his shoulder and saw Gregor pressed against a stainless cryo-tube, sobbing desperately. He ponders the memories, putting them all together.

  “You had a special bond with the light-haired woman...”

  “She was my wife, you FUCK!”

  Thompson has never heard the words “wife” or “fuck,” but the context is plain enough. “What I’ve taken from you I can never replace.”

  “Yeah? That’s the first thing you said right!”

  Thompson turns to look at Maiella. She is lying on her side, facing the wall. “I'd understand your loss.”

  “Like hell! What would you know about that? You don’t even have feelings, you fucking zombie!”

  Thompson returns the glare, not needing to understand the words to feel their edge. “We have emotions…” His gaze drops to the floor. “We just… manage them.”

  “Well, you’ve got the others pissing sunshine, but I see through you, slaver. When we get to your base, all your friends are gonna come onboard and force us to do your dirty work. I’m not going to let that happen.”

  Thompson looks up. “I appreciate your protective instinct, but reality will be quite different.”

  “Oh yeah?” Gregor smirks condescendingly.

  Thompson nods. “The first thing that will happen will be a joyful welcome.” He peeks briefly at Maiella. “The next will be our trial, judgment, and exile.”

  Gregor brings his eyebrows together, dropping his guard a bit. “What?”

  Thompson swings his legs over the bunk’s side to sit upright at its edge. Placing his hands on his knees, he regards Gregor squarely.

  “Our cadre exists around one principle: human life is precious. Everything we do and strive for is to protect and to provide for our fellows. Anything less is harm to the whole.” He pauses, looking around at nothing in particular. “We've gone far beyond harm here, and we know the consequence. Everyone knows.” His eyes focus distantly as he recites. “Anyone who harms, or allows to be harmed, another human is a threat and must leave the cadre.” He resumes his serious gaze at Gregor. “It’s our only law.”

  Gregor squints at his opponent. “Bullshit,” he says, but lowers the rifle anyway.

  “I sense that your loss has been greatest, so it's your testimony I'll request at our trial.”

  Gregor stands in silent disbelief, taking a half step back and letting the rifle hang down by his side. Thompson turns once more to contemplate Maiella’s gentle slumber. “You didn’t come to kill me, for you would have done so. Why are you here?”

  “The captain…he wants to speak with you, on the bridge.”

  Thompson rubs his face. “Tell him I will present myself in seven minutes.”

  Gregor nods and slowly backtracks. Before he leaves, he props the rifle up on its butt beside the door and steps into the corridor. He does a double-take when he sees the counselor leaning just outside. The two men have a wordless conversation in a split second, and with a single nod, Gregor admits to the counselor there may be more to the operators than he was willing to see.

  Part Two

  The months pass in a blur of activity. Most of the time is spent restoring the aged ship’s systems, and there is hardly a spot the operators have not wedged themselve
s through or into to verify the entire vessel is secure and functional.

  Gradually, the operators come to be accepted by the crew; but the differences in routine and custom are difficult to span. Requests to join in a game or music recital are rebuffed for duties elsewhere. Attempts at conversation rarely go beyond a couple of sentences. And the operators’ work habits make every colonist feel lazy by comparison.

  There is little to identify with.

  Still the results of their efforts are impossible to ignore. While every system on board benefits from their special attention, the little things are noticed most: a shine on an old handrail, fresher air in congested areas, the silence of well-lubricated doors as they whisk aside. Even the background noise of the ship is quieter and more constant (no one noticed how loud it had become over the centuries until the reactors were re-aligned and properly calibrated). It is as if the operators have given the colonists a brand-new ship.

  When the end of the journey approaches, none of the colonists are prepared, having focused so heavily on their “worker bees,” as they called them. Suddenly, they are faced with the imminent reality of the unknown. What will happen now? Apprehension sweeps the ship like a plague. Despite the fact that Maiella, Thompson, and Argo have become familiar faces, the colonists cannot help but fear the untold numbers of people as physically menacing as these three operators.

  Prodigal Return

  Maiella guides the enormous colony ship into a familiar solar system. The bulk of the vessel proves no challenge for her as she intuitively compensates, smoothly decelerating to two hundred thousand kilometers away from her base and home.

  “Cadre One,” she hails, “this is Team Spectre returning from collection rotation. Mission successful. Awaiting acknowledgment, over.”

  A long silence ensues.

  “Repeat, Cadre One, this is Team Spectre returning from collection rotation,” Maiella echoes. “Respond, over.”