Angry Ghosts

by F. Allen Farnham

  Anders falls silent. His clear eyes peer out at the counselor from behind his goggles. “We are few... To have them restored…is a tremendous gift. You are to thank.”

  The counselor looks at his feet modestly. “I’m glad I could help.” When he looks up, he sees he is still being intently studied. Curling his face into a question, he asks, “Is something wrong?”

  “O’Kai said you were...different from the others.” He draws a particularly deep breath, and there is a long pause before he adds, “Now I understand.”

  The counselor nods, accepting the colonel’s observation.

  “We do not...understand the colonists. Their motives...elude us. Yet our groups...must combine. You are able...to bridge gaps...in communication. We will depend...on you.”

  “I’m available anytime you need me.” Looking closer at his host, the counselor finally begins to understand what seems so familiar. “May I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you related to Major Ralla?”

  Anders smiles fondly. “Much of my genetic code…pertaining to intellect, cognitive ability...passed on to her. She received some of...my other qualities...as well.”

  “I see,” the counselor notes, stroking his chin, but the resemblance to Ralla raises another question in him. “I’ve worked closely with the cadre leadership council and never heard your name until today. Are you on the council?”

  “No,” Anders answers directly.

  “As a Colonel, how could that be?”

  Anders blinks. “In leadership...speed of word and action...are paramount. I have neither. I advise...with authority. They decide...and act.”

  The counselor leans back in his chair passing his eyes over the chamber again. The screens have never ceased their copious streams of information, and the counselor becomes self-conscious.

  “Have I distracted you from your work?”

  “No. These monitors display...my output. You have not...interrupted.”

  The counselor looks into the monitors with renewed interest, trying to fathom how one person could concentrate on so many tasks at once. As his eyes move from one display to the next, he sees streams of data and code, coupled to images of circuit paths that rotate and change in three dimensions.

  “Are these from the new ship being built?”

  “Yes,” Anders replies and inhales deeply. “Many systems require...massive revisions...and increased efficiency.” He inhales again. “Your colonist engineers...have been great assistance...especially with aerodynamics.”

  The counselor narrows his focus to one particular view of the ship’s exterior—a teardrop sliced in half the long way like the virus ships, but much wider, with three bulges on the flat side.

  Pointing at the lumps, he asks, “Is this where the Operators sit?”

  “Yes. Each occupant...enclosed in crash pod...for free fall after ejection.” He inhales deeply. “We wish to simulate...meteoric event.”

  “If the blueskins investigate the crash site, won’t they find debris?”

  Anders nods slightly. “Operators will detonate...thermal explosives. Will vaporize all...but the smallest particles. Should give the team...a head start.”

  Anders lolls his head to his shoulder, looking at his guest as directly as he can. “Making Geek Maiella...project auditor... very risky. How did you know…she could do it?”

  The counselor smiles with confidence. “What I saw her accomplish on the Europa, I knew she could do anything. And making her responsible for the safety of her teammates?” He shakes his head. “There was no way she would let herself fail. They mean more to her than anything.”

  The counselor looks back at the colonel, and Anders’s amiable expression is gone.

  Instantly, the counselor realizes what he has said. Maiella is, in the cadre’s view, unnaturally attached to her team, yet another disappointment to heap on the pile. He curses himself, being so loose lipped; but at the very least, she is safely in his custody. She will not be harmed. He pushes through his anger with himself, forcing himself to meet the colonel’s gaze again.

  “We are fortunate...” Anders begins, “to have someone...with excellent understanding…of the mind. We do not like the reason...but value that Geek Maiella is functional again. Proves we must stay open...to possibilities we would not have considered...in the future.”

  Relief fills the counselor as he realizes the colonel is admitting his mistake in advocating Maiella’s lobotomy.

  Moving on, the counselor asks, “Argo and Thompson have been sequestered for weeks now. How much longer will they be in special training?”

  “Ralla and her staff…simulating as many contingencies...as they can conceive. When she feels...they are ready…she will release them. After that…they will integrate...with new teammate...Geek Beckert.”

  “Beckert?” the counselor echoes as he recalls the induction at the arena.

  The name also conjures a recollection of one of the cadre’s more interesting personalities. In the psychological profile interview, Beckert seemed bright, optimistic, and unusually curious. He had a thirst for not just knowledge, but understanding. There was no doubt he would make an outstanding Geek even to Thompson’s and Argo’s standards, but the counselor gets a twinge of sadness at the thought of someone so young being sent on a mission with no hope of return.

  Beckert’s inquisitive mind made him an ideal student, and the counselor wishes he had more time to spend with an open-minded operator—one who could learn and understand the colonists’ ways would go far toward helping ease tensions between the two groups. The feeling may be a bit selfish, he realizes, but being the only liaison between the two groups has been a crushing burden. Having someone to share that burden would have been welcome.

  “Yes, I remember Beckert,” the counselor recalls. “He’s an excellent choice. Fearless, stalwart, intuitive...”

  He trails off, remembering the awful beating he took at the hands of his fellows and the crowd around him just watching. Yet Beckert survived, and the swells of pride in his swollen face proved his spirit was completely uninjured. He was tough and definitely Operator material, no question.

  “You left out...sensitive.”

  The counselor looks at Anders who is managing a slight smile. He is shocked a cadre officer would even acknowledge such a thing.

  “I agree,” the counselor replies, “but how do you mean?”

  Anders’s deep inhale dislodges some phlegm, and he coughs for a moment, slowing the flow of data on all monitors. Once his fit passes, the look of pain fades and the data resumes its pace.

  “I read your brief...to General O’Kai. Saw Team Spectre improve. Made me curious...what else you...had insight into.” The colonel readjusts himself on his recliner. “I read your archive...from the Europa. More than a thousand years...you've served as ship's counselor. Saw deaths...and new lives.”

  The counselor nods in recognition.

  “Of it all,” Anders continued, “I’m intrigued by your assertion…‘emotions are extensions of instinct…. Can guide toward correct action...when data is missing.’”

  The colonel’s eyes roll up to the low ceiling as he continues quoting the counselor’s archive.

  “‘When facing difficult decisions...the way we feel…can supply clues toward the best choice.’” Anders looks off into the far end of the room. “Intriguing concepts. Possibly why Team Spectre survived so long.”

  The counselor cocks his head, a little surprised at what he is hearing. “Are you revising the operator’s code of behavior?”

  “No,” Anders counters decisively. “Allowing for...greater creativity…and intuition. Extending perception to all sources...including the irrational.”

  The counselor buries his disappointment, but not fast enough for Anders to miss. The withered man looks back hard, yet sympathetic.

  “We still cannot permit...attachments among the Operator Corps. Attachments cause hesitation...at crucial moments...conflicts in decisions.
An Operator must remain…stoic, ready to act on any order...no matter the consequence.”

  Lowering his head, the counselor yields to the colonel’s mandate. “I understand.”

  A soft tone at the door sounds. “Colonel, it is time.”

  Anders looks toward the door, opening it without lifting a finger, and three MedTechs file in. Turning his face to the counselor, he adds, “Please excuse me, Counselor. I am glad you came... Needed to thank you personally…for all you have done...what you are still doing, every day.”

  The counselor smiles warmly back, appreciating the rare show of gratitude. He stands from his seat so he can get out of the MedTechs’ way.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  The three take positions around Anders, gently cradling him, lifting him slightly, then delicately setting him down on his back. The counselor steps backward toward the door, watching as the numerous monitors around the colonel halt their flows of code, save data, and power down, leaving the room a little darker and quieter than before.

  Anders is only visible in the gaps between the MedTechs, and the counselor sees what care they take not to jostle or mishandle him as if he were the greatest of irreplaceable treasures. They open his shirt, revealing a long seam in his torso, extending from his throat down through his lower abdomen. One of them leans close to him, speaking into his ear, and he nods.

  In a fluid motion, one of the MedTechs opens the seam its full length while another swoops in with a suction nozzle. Anders gasps with discomfort, grunting and writhing under the onslaught while they work to clear the intruding fluids.

  Suddenly, the counselor feels embarrassment for having lingered too long and turns to give the colonel his privacy.

  The sight brings bitter memories of Earth’s hospitals where such a man would have led a desolate life, devoid of dignity, little more than an embarrassment to his family. Here at least, despite his handicaps, he is venerated and cherished.

  Stealing one last glance, he sees they are already zipping him up, and he wears an exhausted but much more relaxed face. It is a difficult thing to reconcile: how ruthless and aggressive these people can be, yet how compassionate as well. He stores that last look and exits the chamber quietly.

  All as One?

  Thompson slaps on his armor the same way he has done hundreds of times before. With all of Major Ralla’s “training”, he has practically been living in it, though today is different. Today, he is going to strap into the cadre’s newest ship, not just its simulator. Ordinarily, he would be exhilarated at the thought of commanding the latest in cadre/colonist technology; but as he clamps his chest plate into place, he truly understands that he is not coming back.

  The possibility of any kind of return was not designed into this new craft. It is a one-way transport, designed to obliterate itself on impact with its destination. And this is an entire planet of his enemy. He cannot kill them all. He will probably not even make a dent. The best he can hope for is to survive long enough to provide some useful intelligence, something the cadre could use to gain some kind of edge in a future assault. He hauls his reinforced boots over his feet and suddenly sits up straight.

  He is never going to see Maiella again.

  The thought troubles him so deeply that no amount of concentration will dismiss it. He pauses to think about her, images flashing by of her sitting at a ship’s console, controlling the entire vessel easily or streaking down a corridor, both pistols blazing. He remembers her smooth style, her infallible skill, and her grinning confidence on every mission. That is when he nails it: he is afraid to go without her.

  Thompson squashes the emotion quickly once he recognizes it. He reaches out for his helmet, but something lingers. Is that really what is bothering him? He sets his helmet next to himself as he thinks more about her. Again and again, he sees her smiling face, always confident, never worried, that is, until they boarded the Europa...

  He ruminates over his memories of her: play wrestling in slippery oil, rapidly defeating the computer security on a captured ship, seeing her asleep after a difficult day. He scarcely notices how calming it is just thinking about her.

  An ache begins in the center of his chest. Confused, he thumps his fist into it until it goes away. Whatever else it is that is bothering him will have to wait, he reasons, and he stuffs thoughts of her deep down.

  Returning to business, he finishes gearing up, checks his rifle thoroughly, and strides to the door. He pauses, looking back into his chamber, wondering who it will be assigned to; and after clicking the light off, he turns and marches down the corridor.

  His long strides carry him through the familiar corridors, and soon he comes to the memorial.

  IN HONORABLE SERVICE, THEY GAVE THEIR ALL, the heading reads.

  The memorial has expanded a great deal since he has last seen it. Hundreds of faces are laser etched into the smooth metallic wall with lifelike detail. Across the top and larger than the others are the Generals. Thompson scans them from the beginning, stopping on Dryden, gazing long at his old general’s weathered features.

  He seems so much older than I remembered…

  Beneath are the Colonels, Majors, Captains, Lieutenants and Sergeants: each and every Operator who served on the Council or fell in the line of duty. His eyes quickly seek out Enyo, and the sight of her triggers a distant spark. She was the last one he saw before leaving on the mission, and her final order to him rings clearly.

  “I brought ‘em back safe, Colonel,” he says to her image, as though it could offer him the approval he sought.

  His eyes drift through the ranks and he finds Zaius, his old instructor. Settee and Drusus are close by as well, looking exactly as he remembered them. But where is Lukas? That fresh-faced Geek covered in ore dust…nowhere in the ranks of Operators.

  Thompson’s eyes rise higher and higher until he finds a grizzled yet commanding face, HDI contacts gleaming on a bald cranium. A wide grin crosses the Gun’s face.

  “General Lukas…good for you.”

  Thompson’s eyes wander the wall, marking how with time the Operators begin to look more and more alike, until he comes to a gap. A Major and, directly beneath, two Lieutenants have been scoured from the wall. His gauntleted hand reaches out to the space, and he looks up to the heading above the Memorial again. IN HONORABLE SERVICE…

  Bowing his head, he marches away.

  It seems like only moments before he is standing at Argo’s door. He buzzes for entry, and it promptly slides open. On the far side, Argo stands armed and armored, saluting crisply.

  “Major,” the big man states respectfully.

  Thompson returns the salute and nods. “Present arms.”

  Argo unslings his cannon, spinning it a half turn, and halting it at a forty-five-degree angle in front of his chest.

  Thompson hefts the large weapon, arching his back to support it, yet still handling it comfortably. He turns it over, checking every angle, action, and display until he is satisfied of its condition.

  Passing the cannon back, Thompson looks Argo in the eye. The two men stare wordlessly at each other, and in that silence, volumes are spoken: their shared experience, their brotherhood, their disgrace, their joy to serve again, and their acceptance of life’s end.

  Argo hauls his weapon’s strap to his shoulder, and Thompson reaches out to him.

  “You ready?” the Gun asks.

  Argo’s eyes are steel. “Aye, sir.”

  Nodding solemnly, Thompson orders, “Let’s go,” and the two soldiers march in step down the corridor.

  “Where’s Beckert?” Argo asks.

  “In the bay, wrapping up final checks with Maiella.” Thompson smiles at the thought of her. “At least we'll get to see her before we go.”

  Argo nods, with a slight grin.

  For the remainder of their path, the men stride without speaking, soaking in the last looks at their treasured haven, their home. They see no one else, and their footfalls echo abnormally loud in the empty halls
.

  Ahead, they recognize the broad corridor leading to the primary hangar bay. The long path seems to have passed by too abruptly, giving them both an uncomfortable twinge. Lowering their heads, they press forward to the large, heavy doors ahead.

  At their approach, the bay doors grind apart. Bright illumination pours through the widening crack, forcing the soldiers to squint. As their eyes adjust, they see a large gathering of colonist and cadre alike clustered around a perfectly black shape at the center of the bay. Both of them are familiar with the design of this new craft, but this is the first they have laid eyes on it. It has the same two-dimensional appearance as the virus ships, though is easily twice as large. The front is bulbous and round, which tapers back to a narrow tail. The underside of the craft is flat, save three modest bulges arrayed across the ship’s beam, with four articulated struts that suspend it from the deck.

  Argo and Thompson keep pace as they stride into the bright bay. All eyes fall on them, and many of the colonists hoot and whistle as if they were celebrities.

  Narrowing their focus, the two soldiers march directly toward the ship, and the small group clustered there.

  O’Kai, Munro, Ralla, the counselor, Keller, Ortega, and Sharon all turn their attention to the heavily outfitted soldiers at once. Thompson and Argo stamp to a halt, saluting with perfect synchronicity.

  “Gun Thompson and Brick Argo reporting as ordered, sir!” Thompson announces.

  O’Kai salutes back. “At ease. Are you fully equipped and prepared?”

  “Yes, sir, we are.”

  Maiella steps out from behind one of the underside bulges on the craft. Beckert emerges behind her, fully armored and equipped.

  O’Kai turns to her. “Is all in order?”

  “Affirmative, General,” she replies and hands over a tablet she had tucked under her arm. O’Kai scans it and hands it back to her.

  “Proceed,” he mandates.

  Maiella steps past him to stand at attention before Thompson and Argo, saluting rigidly. Thompson takes in her appearance, pleased to see her after the months spent apart. Her hair is cropped evenly below the height of her HDI terminals, and her charcoal uniform is immaculate.