Angry Ghosts

by F. Allen Farnham

  She hands the tablet over to him, stating in an exaggerated voice, “All systems green bars, Major. Vessel fueled, primed, and ready for departure. I relinquish command to you.”

  Thompson takes hold of the tablet, but Maiella does not release it immediately. When he looks up at her, she is looking back intensely.

  “I have verified every system aboard personally. For a complete log of these tests, consult file XT497 located in the Config Protocol Subroutine.” She looks at Argo to make sure he was listening as well and releases the tablet.

  Thompson quickly scans the tablet, already sure everything is in order. Handing it back, he confirms, “File XT497, Config Protocol Subroutine. Got it.”

  Turning to her side, Maiella gestures. “May I present Geek Beckert?”

  Thompson steps forward, scrutinizing the young Operator and the fit of his armor.

  “Present arms!” Maiella commands.

  Beckert swiftly draws his machine pistols from the small of his back, spinning them masterfully around his fingers so the grips extend toward Thompson. Thompson snatches both pistols, flipping one to Argo, and the soldiers manipulate all of the switches and actions.

  Once the inspection is finished, they toss the pistols back at Beckert, who grabs them from the air effortlessly and twirls them into the clips on his back.

  “Geek Beckert has been fully briefed on all hardware and software required for this mission,” Maiella explains. “He includes the latest computational ability in his Human Digital Interface, updated with our full catalog of software. In combat, he has proven himself worthy of his rank, certified with highest accuracy and lowest response times of his class.”

  Thompson listens to Maiella’s descriptions, taking her at her word; yet he cannot dispel his skepticism—something in his eyes, maybe.

  As if channeling his doubt, Maiella adds, “I was harder on him than you ever were on me. He has my full confidence.”

  Thompson takes a sharp breath, his skepticism annihilated. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Argo steps closer to the young operator. “Have you flown this vessel, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir!” Beckert answers eagerly. “I’ve logged sixty hours of actual flight time with two hundred forty hours in the simulator.”

  “How does it handle?” Thompson asks with interest.

  Beckert looks around Argo to answer directly. “It’s not as agile as the virus ships, but it has a much higher speed, roughly six point two C.”

  “And you’re familiar with every system onboard?” Argo probes.

  “Yes, sir,” Beckert replies, getting a woeful look about him. “Lieutenant Maiella was...thorough.”

  “Have you made all of your preparations for this rotation, Sergeant?” Thompson inquires.

  Beckert stands tall and straight. “I have.”

  Thompson nods and reaches a hand toward him, which Beckert clasps. “Welcome to the team.”

  Argo does likewise, but when Beckert clasps his hand, the big man gives it an extra squeeze. “We’ll be expecting a flawless performance, Sergeant.”

  Beckert does his best to maintain composure under Argo’s crushing grip. “Ah yes, Lieutenant, I can assure you of that!”

  Argo releases him, and the Geek sighs imperceptibly, flexing his hand to work the blood back into it.

  “Major Thompson,” O’Kai declares while stepping closer to them, “it would be inappropriate to retain the moniker Team Spectre so long as all of its constituents are still viable.” He pauses to look Thompson, Argo, and Maiella in the eye. “Your new team name shall be Forestall as that is the exact purpose of your mission: to forestall the enemy and give us an edge to exploit in evicting them from our original world. You will be as ruthless to the enemy as they were to us, for as long as you draw breath.”

  He reaches out to Beckert, shaking his hand vigorously and laying a compassionate hand on his opposite shoulder. When Argo and Thompson extend their hands in farewell, O’Kai stares at them coldly. Rejected, the two shamed men draw back their hands.

  The counselor steps forward, protest already forming in his open mouth when Keller grabs him back.

  “Counselor!” he grumbles sternly. “Don’t!”

  The counselor turns on his superior to argue, but Keller’s warning look overrules any point he was about to make. He turns around and looks at O’Kai, then from the general, his eyes wander to O’Kai’s supporting officers and across the many faces of the cadre. Their common feature is an icy gaze directed at Thompson and Argo.

  The entire Cadre is glad to see them go.

  Warily, the counselor fades back into his group, taking in the powerful mood. As hard as he fought to save Argo’s, Maiella’s, and Thompson’s lives, in the end he had no idea how badly the cadre needed to exile these three. Every MedTech, Operator, Engineer, and Officer had so perfectly concealed their disgust, managing to work together with them, that the counselor believed they had accepted the three back into the fold.

  What a great irony, he thinks, that he was working on Thompson’s, Maiella’s, and Argo’s behalf so they could go. Now that he sees the naked revulsion, he fully grasps why Keller reined him back: the cadre’s one law was broken, and the guilty must pay.

  Fearfully, he looks at Maiella, an island among her own kind, reviled, and—once Thompson and Argo are gone—completely alone. He searches her face of stone and can see the longing to go beneath the surface. She knows what the future holds for her here.

  “Major Thompson!” O’Kai barks. “You know what is expected of you. I suggest you get to it.”

  Thompson and Argo stiffen, snapping clean salutes. Thompson turns on his heel to Beckert.

  “Board the vessel and begin preflight.”

  “Yes, sir!” Beckert replies. He jogs to the ship then climbs in from below. Thompson steals a glance at Argo, and the big man gives him a nodding go-ahead.

  “General,” Thompson states modestly, “Brick Argo and I know our exile is just. I regret Maiella cannot join us though we understand why.” He pauses and looks his general in the eyes. “If there is any way we can send Beckert home safe, we will.”

  O’Kai weighs Thompson’s words, his harsh glare softening slightly. “That would be appreciated.”

  Thompson and Argo face Maiella. She has maintained her rigid at-attention pose. “Farewell, sirs,” she says.

  The two men step close to her, each gripping one of her shoulders. She reaches out to them as well, and the three desperately fight back the emotions surging through them. Resting their heads together, the warmth from Maiella’s flushed face radiates, and they feel her trembling slightly. Reluctantly, they pull apart, a single staccato sniff escaping from Maiella. Argo points at himself, then at Thompson.

  “You’ll be with us.”

  She blinks hard. With the best smile she can muster, she looks into Thompson’s face.

  Thompson looks into her, feeling her begging him for anything that would allow her hope they will return. His eyes fall to the deck, rising slowly.

  “Be strong.”

  Maiella inhales sharply, straightening her posture. “I will.”

  Thompson inhales deeply himself and turns to Argo, announcing, “It’s time.” Argo nods stoically.

  The Gun is about to join him when he takes a last look at Maiella, soaking her in the way a dying man would soak in a last sunset. Her spotless uniform, her gold contact terminals, her rigid stance, her wrinkled chin from her involuntary frown—all leave an indelible mark in his memory.

  Cueing Argo, Thompson spins on his heel so both of them face O’Kai. Argo synchronizes perfectly.

  “General,” the Gun begins stridently, “Team Forestall requesting permission to depart Cadre One!”

  “Granted,” O’Kai states deliberately.

  The two Operators snap rigid salutes, which the general returns respectfully.

  The Brick and Gun turn in unison, and stride toward the craft. While Argo loads himself in, Thompson walks the ship’s pe
rimeter, inspecting each edge and surface.

  Ortega watches the dour scene, a verse issuing from his hanging mouth, “Thy prophets have seen vain and false things for thee: and they have not discovered thine iniquity, to turn away thy captivity; but have seen for thee false burdens and causes of banishment.”[1]

  Sharon, Keller, and the counselor look in astonishment at the Spaniard still watching Thompson and Argo. Ortega turns his view to O’Kai and finds the general staring back. The ship's pre-flight systems engage with a loud, low hum, distracting both men from their test of wills.

  O’Kai faces his cadre and shouts above the din, “NORMAL DUTY ROUTINE RESUMES IN TEN MINUTES! DISMISSED!”

  The cadre attendees salute in a unified action, bellowing, “YES, SIR!”

  They file from the room with automated purpose, leaving the colonists huddled and confused by what they believed should have been an emotional bon voyage.

  O’Kai sends his officers ahead, holding his place a moment longer. He marches straight for Ortega, head lowered, halting a very short distance from him. He peers down at the Spaniard with menace.

  “False burdens and causes of banishment...?” he paraphrases vehemently.

  Without flinching, Ortega answers, “That’s right.”

  Beneath his steel exterior, O’Kai boils. Squinting at Ortega, he asks in a low, harsh voice, “And how is it that you survived, Commander? Did you carve your living space from irradiated stone? Did you find a way to provide for your people when they had nothing? Can you protect them from our enemy?”

  Ortega can only stare back, but it is answer enough for O’Kai.

  “Then never again presume our ways are inferior to yours.” About-facing, the towering general marches off after his officers.

  His face ablaze, Ortega whirls around to his captain. Before he can even speak, Keller cuts him off.

  “Let it go,” he orders sternly.

  Ortega turns to Sharon, Gregor, and the counselor for backup; but they are silent.

  “We know how you feel, Javier,” Keller adds, “but let it go.”

  Ortega watches O’Kai stride out of sight, and he shakes his head.

  Keller claps him on the back, saying, “C’mon. Let’s go give those three their proper send-off. We have a party to host.”

  To emphasize the point, the low hum from the ship rises in pitch as more systems reach operating temperature. Ortega acquiesces and faces the humming ship.

  “Just a moment, Captain. There’s something I need to do for them.”

  Keller nods his head in approval and strides toward the milling group of colonists. Throwing his arms up, he hollers above the noisy ship.

  “Everyone, your attention! We're moving up to the Europa. I know this was a little more somber than we hoped, but we all worked hard on this project, and you deserve a party! We’re meeting in rec rooms five, six, and seven. Bring your appetites...” He gets a sly grin. “And the bar is open ALL NIGHT!”

  The crowd whoops with tension release, their cheers momentarily eclipsing the ship’s cycling engines. Sharon and Gregor gently shepherd the hooting group toward the waiting shuttles in the bay.

  Ortega stands before the smoothly roaring ship, placing a hand over his heart. The other hand he extends to the ship, making contact. Bowing his head, he prays.

  Inside the craft, Beckert is strapped in and linked via multiple cables. As he is watching his system monitors, he catches sight of Ortega leaning against the hull.

  “Major,” he calls with an intrigued glance, “have a look at this.”

  Thompson stops buckling in and leans over to Beckert’s displays. “What’s he doing?” the Geek asks.

  Jutting his lip, the Gun raises his eyebrows. “No idea.”

  Beckert pays it no more mind and resumes his tasks, but Thompson continues to watch. After another moment, Ortega looks up and, with the hand that was over his heart, draws a cross in the air. His lips move in inaudible speech, and he withdraws to the waiting shuttle.

  “Life support fully green,” Argo alerts. Cryo-recliners fully green. Technicals fully green.”

  Thompson slides back into his recliner, clicking the harnesses. The humming pitch rises suddenly.

  “Main engines coming online,” Beckert states. “Reactant intermix optimal. Navigation updated and calibrated, course laid in.”

  Thompson activates his own screens, streaming data from both of his teammates. Every system displayed is operating perfectly.

  “Green bars, ready for stars,” Thompson states with comfortable familiarity. “Take us out, Geek.”

  Beckert scans the bay to be sure everyone has exited or boarded a shuttle. “Cadre One, this is Team Forestall. Confirm bay is evacuated, over?”

  “Team Forestall, evacuation is confirmed. Pressure equalizing. Proceed toward external bay doors.”

  “Understood, Cadre One,” Beckert replies, and the craft sways gently as he guides it forward on its articulated legs.

  Thompson studies the inside of the craft, getting used to the setup and arrangement. It is not so different from the virus ship, just a bit roomier. His eyes trace the seams in the bulkheads, and he recognizes the edges of his egg-shaped compartment.

  The swaying of the craft alerts him to a new feature he had not suspected. As the vessel rocks, his recliner compensates by cradling him in all directions, keeping him level. His eyebrows rise with interest as he explores the sensation.

  “Geek, why aren’t our recliners secured?”

  Beckert looks over his shoulder. “These pods are like big crash helmets. If we hit at an angle or on a slope, we’ll be isolated from any kind of sudden spin…” A kid-like grin stretches from ear to ear. “We’ll be less likely to be liquefied on impact.”

  Argo glares from his side of the craft. “Comforting.”

  The swaying abates, and Beckert radios, “Cadre One, we are holding at external bay doors, awaiting clearance, over.”

  “Team Forestall, stand by,” comes his response.

  Thompson spends the time reviewing his screens, assuring himself all is operating smoothly when his mind wanders and the heavy feeling he had in his cabin returns. There is the familiar anticipation of a new mission, not to mention the thrill of being the first Cadre Operator ever to experience their ancestral world, Earth. Even so, it is outweighed by powerful feelings of loss: loss of companions, loss of home, and more poignantly, the imminent loss of life. His mind reviews a visual catalog of people and things he will never see again. Most difficult of them all to accept is Maiella. Then he remembers.

  “Beckert, pull up file X-ray, Tango, Four, Niner, Seven in the Config Protocol Subroutine.”

  “But, Major,” Beckert protests over his shoulder, “there is no Config Protocol Subroutine.”

  “Trust me, Sergeant, you'll find it.”

  Beckert finds it to his great surprise. “Uh, all right, sir, I have it.”

  “Send it to my and Argo’s display.”

  Beckert complies, and in a flash, a window opens in Thompson’s and Argo’s screens. From it, Maiella’s face smiles warmly at them. She takes a step back, and they can see she is wearing her charcoal grays. It seems she recorded the video shortly before their send-off.

  “Hello, Gentlemen!” she grins mischievously. “You probably knew I couldn’t let you go without getting some last words in.”

  She pauses, a dark cloud arriving over her. Shaking her head, she shoves the gloom aside, forcing her smile back.

  “I had to tell you both how proud I was to serve with you. I’d like to have told you in person, but with the whole cadre there, well...I’m sure you understand.”

  The gloom returns, and she looks to one side. “Uh...” she starts, then clears her throat, and faces forward again. “I know what we did was horrible. And we could never in thousands of lifetimes make up for it. It should be me in there with you, not Beckert....” She looks at her feet for several seconds.

  “Maybe if I had triple-checked the NavChart
s, or if I had plotted our course more carefully, we never would have flown through the...” Both of her hands grip her skull.

  “And my HDI wouldn’t have been damaged, and...” She drops her hands, looking away.

  After a lengthy sigh, she faces her audience again. “I let you both down. It hurts to know that...and because of that, I can’t be there to look out for you.” Her head droops with melancholy. “That hurts the most.”

  Raising her head, she has new vigor. “That’s why I was so hard on Beckert. If I can’t be there for you, I had to make sure whoever is there was good enough.”

  Her eyebrows rise, and she loses herself in thought for a second.

  “Yeah, he’s inexperienced, but he’s the best Geek I’ve ever seen, and I know he’ll be able to handle his end.”

  She leans closer to the screen, smiling.

  “He’s really good...” Looking away, her smile straightens; and with frank candor, she adds, “Better than me.” Her eyes peer out through the screen. “I pushed him to a degree you wouldn’t believe. I put everything I know into him, so at least a part of me will be with you.”

  Thompson looks over from his screen at Beckert, and the young Geek is oblivious, concentrating on his tasks. Thompson smiles fondly at him, stirred by Maiella’s endorsement and comforted at the thought of some part of her traveling with them. When he looks back at his screen, Maiella’s face is wracked with sadness.

  “I don’t know how to say good-bye!” she sobs at last. Fearfully, she looks over her shoulder, concerned someone may have heard the outburst. Pulling herself together, she places one hand in the other. “And I don’t know how to let go...”

  Her eyes glance over her shoulder again, making sure no one is around. When she turns back, her face is a mask of detached indifference.

  “The cadre would just as soon I walk out of an air lock. I even considered it, but now? I don’t care about that anymore. And yes, the colonists are good to me...” She breaks off mid-sentence, struggling for the words. “But because of what we did, I’ll never be one of them.”