Young John brought home a bottle of whiskey. However, he didn’t drink it. John exerted his will. His future consciousness took control of his hands and emptied the bottle into the kitchen sink.
John remembered that he would be called to an interview the next day. He remembered that he had gone to the base hungover, cursing at everyone he dealt with, including the interviewer. This time, he would go to the interview with a clear head.
John was pleasantly surprised to find the person interviewing him that day was none other than Dr. Virginia Maxwell.
That day was a turning point. Afterwards, John and Virginia worked tirelessly for years until they got the crashed alien ship operational again. Just as before, an alien ship arrived in orbit—silent and empty. John and Virginia assembled the same expeditionary team as before.
***
When they gained access to the control room of the orbiting ship, Hammer ordered Denning to give John one more medical scan.
“Tell me how this works again,” Denning said to John. “I’m not sure if I understand. Your consciousness is uploaded into the alien computer; it’s then transmitted across time and space into someone else’s body, and your consciousness takes over that body. Is that right?”
“More or less,” John replied. “I don’t know how it works, but I’m sure it’s the reason I was able to survive the spike when no one else could. I watched myself die, and my consciousness transferred into my dying body. That somehow made me immune.”
“The second time, but not the first,” Denning said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“That can’t have happened the first time the ship crashed. You say your consciousness was trapped in the computer, and you watched yourself die, right? Well, your future consciousness couldn’t have been trapped in the computer the first time the ship crashed into Medicine Hat. It would have been the mind of an alien pilot trapped in the computer, wouldn’t it?”
Hammer slapped his hand down on John’s shoulder. “You’ve done a lot of fine work to get us here,” he said. “Is John still immune to the spike, Doc?”
“He appears to be,” Denning replied.
“Well, let’s see what this thing can do,” Hammer said.
John stepped up to the chair, the spike was flowing through him. “You know, there’s one thing I never told you about the other timeline, Colonel.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“It’s about this ship. You were going to destroy it.”
Hammer laughed. “And what makes you think our plan is any different this time?”
“That’s what I thought,” John said, taking his seat in the pilot’s chair. The peripherals closed in. “No plan survives first contact, Colonel. I was right, you know. We were all born to die, except that I was given a chance to live again. I hope you all get that chance.”
Virginia took a step closer to the chair. “What are you talking about, John? You’re scaring me.”
“It’s okay, Ginny. We’re just going on a little trip.”
Just as the helmet and visor settled on John’s head, the shuttle pilot came over the radio.
“Hammer, do you read me? The shuttle’s drifting away from the ship. The airlock closed, and we’re uncoupled.”
The shuttle pilot stopped talking. There was nothing more to say.
The alien ship had vanished.
Author Nathan Mutch
Nathan Mutch’s first novel, The Unity, is the first book of a planned three-part Science Fiction series. The second book in The Unity Empire Series, A Song for the Dead, was released June 2017.
His current projects include two co-authored books; a stand-alone fantasy novel tentatively titled, Between Realms; and of course, the third installment of The Unity Empire Series.
The first of the two co-authored books is an experimental science fiction mind-bender written (so far) entirely by correspondence. The second co-authored book delves into the Fantasy genre.
Nathan Mutch currently lives in Northern Canada with his family.
Find out more about upcoming projects at www.nathanmutch.com
Lights Out
By Kayelle Allen
He can save mankind. After he does this one important thing. Die.
Chapter One
The air reeked of antiseptic and starch stiffened the pillowcase. If only the mind-numbing jabbering would stop.
Tornahdo pried open his eyes. The flattened blood bag above him, stenciled equipment and gray walls screamed military hospital.
He'd died. Again.
Spanish curses slipped out. His abuela would've taken a switch to him. He made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingertips.
After yanking the tube out of his arm, he pressed a thumb over the entry point. Thankfully, this time, he wasn't writhing on the floor in agony. Well, not yet.
A faceless android in a Ghost Corps uniform loomed over a bank of equipment displaying Tornahdo's name and vitals. First impression was right. Military hospital.
The weapons-grade yapping continued.
"Did you hear?" a youthful voice bragged. "He killed six of 'em last night."
"Yeah, but they don't stay dead. They never do."
"If Ultras didn't come back to life, their plasma wouldn't bring our own people back."
The transfusion of enemy blood healed the hole in Tornahdo's arm in seconds. He thumbed off the red smear and rolled over on the gurney.
An open door led to a sink and toilet built to let gravity do its work. Which meant this was a planet. You hadn't lived until you were in space, floating in zero gravity while your body's final twitches sent your corpse spinning.
Notices on the wall confirmed this was San Xavier in the Colonies of Man. Same place he'd bought it the first time.
This was getting old.
"He's awake." The pair of baby-faced orderlies ceased bickering with each other and blabbered at him.
"¡Silencio!" Pressing fingers against his brow, Tornahdo fought lacerating pain.
"But I was telling him that--"
"For the love of all that's holy, will you shut up!" He levered himself into a sitting position and jammed his hands against his temples. "You're enough to wake the dead."
"Sorry, sir."
"Don't call me sir. I work for a living."
"Yes, sir." Blushing, the orderly swallowed. "Sorry, sir. I mean--"
Mimicking a zipper across his lips, Tornahdo slid off the gurney onto unsteady feet.
The other orderly hustled forward and supported him.
He shook off the touch. Last thing he needed was boys fussing over him. You could bet when immortals came back to life, they didn't put up with nattering attendants.
He stumbled, cursing himself for his clumsiness.
"Sir, let me--"
Fists clenched, he turned on them. "Get. Out."
The slap of running feet ricocheted through his head. Sweet silence eased the pain.
The android paid no attention. Tornahdo was dead. Accounted for. Dismissed.
Two steps and fire erupted in every cell. Why did he not burst into flame? Would his body never get used to this rebirth business? Then the spasms kicked in, bringing the floor up at him with dizzying speed. Clutching for handholds, he crashed into a medical cart, which tipped over, cascading gear and equipment onto him.
When the real pain started, air evacuated his lungs. Every muscle clamped down in a full-body charley horse. White hot pain arched his spine.
Small wonder Ultras writhed on the ground when they revived. If you weren't dead already, rebirth would kill you.
***
Twenty-four hours later, healed and at attention, Tornahdo endured a tongue-lashing by no less than the Ghost Corps Colonial Armada Commandant General. What a mouthful for such a tiny person. He wouldn't have thought he'd rated an officer of her rank.
If a general had thousands to command, why was she slapping around a master sergeant? In the regular army, they'd berated him at the lowest level of incomp
etence. And what was his sin? Getting killed in battle. If you came back to life, why was that wrong?
Plus, if a soldier sacrificed himself saving a platoon, you didn't write him up. You bestowed a medal.
Treat the regular army like this and that whole death-and-rebirth thing was never going to catch on.
While the general droned on about the expense of rebirths and the protocol for ghosts, he counted bullet holes in the fence outside the window. Sixty plus on one panel. Over forty on another. Wasted firepower. Probably a human.
Ultras tended not to miss.
"Are you listening to me, Master Sergeant?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Repeat what I said."
Tornahdo spat it back.
Clasping hands behind her, the general paced. "You were inducted into the corps and promoted because you had the highest rating from a commanding officer I'd ever seen in the regular army. Now that I've reviewed your record, I'm wondering if he inflated your value to get you out of his unit."
He'd wondered the same thing.
"You've been written up for insubordination three times. What is your problem with authority?"
"Ma'am, I have no problem with authority." Imbeciles, yes, but that was another story.
"The death and rebirth of a ghost means the salvation of mankind. Isn't that why you enlisted?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"The purloined blood of an Ultra runs in your veins. Do not take it for granted. It costs the corps a fortune. Do not forget."
Not likely. The corps reminded him daily.
The word purloined hadn't been used in his hearing before. Now that he thought about it, how did they get the Ultra blood infusing his body? Were captives volunteering?
Surely not. Their hatred of mankind was legendary.
What did it matter? Ultras were the enemy. They deserved no mercy.
"Master Sergeant, you made us all proud by your service. You volunteered for the corps and your commanding officer recommended you at the perfect time. Three Ultras were captured during the Raid on San Xavier. Ultras you helped take out of the war. Your death at the retaliatory Siege of San Xavier meant you had a chance to fulfill your promise to serve."
"Thank you...?" Why was she telling him what he already knew? "Ma'am."
"The corps will not forget your service, or the promise made to support your family." Coming to a stop before him, she bared her teeth in a deceptive, political smile. "Counting you as missing in action means long-term benefits for your loved ones. Wouldn't it be a shame if your body was found and that ended?"
The usual heat of Ultra blood beneath his skin plummeted. Tornahdo remained aloof and calm, as if he faced a firing squad. A good soldier never forgot a threat.
"The corps spent far too much to toss you out and start over. But be aware, that indulgence extends only so far." The general stuck her face in his. "Are we clear?"
Clear as brittle ice on a bottomless lake in the deep of winter. Menacing. Jagged. Cracking underfoot.
He unclenched his jaw. "Yes, ma'am."
"In the regular army, you shield each other. This is Ghost Corps. Humans are expendable."
He'd spent twenty years fighting an enemy that believed the same thing. So the corps was better--how?
"You are not a human shield, Master Sergeant. You have a single duty. Which is?"
"Ma'am, kill Ultras."
"That's right. This is your second rebirth. We don't know how many more you can experience without harm."
The word none came to mind but Tornahdo kept his trap shut.
"Your enhanced blood gives you enough stamina to kill the enemy. Do your duty. Nothing else. Tell me." The general folded her arms. "Will you draw enemy fire again?"
Yes. Always. That's what set humans apart from Ultras. Humans protected each another. Although for her, he'd make an exception. "Ma'am, Ghost Corps regulations require that I do not."
"See you keep that in mind, Master Sergeant."
"Yes, ma'am."
She fluttered a hand dismissively. "Get out of my sight."
Chapter Two
Last patron in the bar, Tornahdo sat in a dark corner and drank. Too bad the Ultra blood coursing through his veins meant he'd never get drunk again. If ever he needed a good buzz, it was now.
He tossed back the whiskey he'd been nursing. Ghosts drank for free as a thank you for service, so Tornahdo never binged. It cost the barkeep profit and did no good anyway.
His family believed him missing. He couldn't go out in public. Ghosts got call signs, not new identities. He'd earned his by the way he fought, which, according to those who'd been resurrected with him, was a tornado.
"No, he's Hispanic-Terran," one had said. "He'd pronounce it different. We'll call him Tornahdo."
To which he'd offered a sweeping bow. "Sí. Gracias."
If taken prisoner, Ultras wouldn't find out who his family was, or who other ghosts were. Like any cover story, the more you lived it, accepted and believed it, the more solid it became. He was Tornahdo. Every minute. Every day. Right now, he fought the urge to kick into full Tornahdo rage and slam through a certain officer's quarters.
On his desk, his former commander had a framed quote, hand-stitched by his wife. "Stress: the body's reaction to not being allowed to throttle an idiot." How many times had he shouted that Tornahdo was stressing him out? More than he cared to admit.
But today, he knew exactly what that quote meant.
As he started to rise, the shielded doorway glimmered. No one but ghosts and military personnel had access. Tornahdo waited to see who'd arrived.
In popped a skinny ghost who'd been resurrected minutes before Tornahdo and had taken that as a sign of superiority.
And just like that, the day went from bad to oh-god-kill-me-now.
Ravenstongue strutted up to the bar. "Whiskey. Hurry up." He smacked the top. "Let's go!"
The man's minions swooped in, two hungry buzzards landing on a death wagon.
Rubbing his neck, Tornahdo leaned back in his chair. Why hadn't he gone back to the barracks five minutes ago? If he left now, Ravenstongue would see it as a retreat.
Leaning against the bar, the lanky ghost surveyed the empty room. His gaze reached Tornahdo and he motioned toward the others. "Boys, look who it is."
Tornahdo gave a single nod.
The minions jostled each other, snickering. "It's the dust devil," the short guy put in.
"Yeah," the second replied in a high, whiny voice. "Why's he here?"
"Good question." Ravenstongue picked up the whiskey and slugged it down, slid it back with a signal for more. "Smart people are home in bed."
Which made Ravenstongue what?
"Maybe he's trawling for women," Short Ghost offered.
Whiny Ghost giggled. "Women without better options."
Tornahdo had stopped by his quarters and disarmed himself because he hadn't trusted himself with a weapon. Too bad. Right now, his hand itched to wrap around the butt of his regular-army-issue gun.
Easy enough to put down all three before the first reached his table.
They could let the general bitch them out for dying in the wrong place.
These gonkheads would try him. He was counting on that. He trailed a fingertip through a wet spot on the table and bided his time. Besides, better to let them come to him. That way, it was self-defense. The fact they were all armed and he was not made it obvious. He needed no weapon. The day hadn't dawned when he needed a gun to take out vermin.
At last, Ravenstongue sauntered toward him. "Why you here?"
Tornahdo kicked back in his chair. After stretching out his legs, he crossed his ankles. "Why do you care?"
"Big ops tomorrow. Lights out in ten. Time for you to go home and go to bed."
Behind the bar, the keeper closed up shelves and battened down doors.
"Yeah?" Tornahdo flicked a hand toward the door. "I'll follow you out."
"I'm not leavin'. Didn't you hear? We passed inspection with
the highest scores. Got a free night out." Ravenstongue jabbed a finger toward Tornahdo. "But you gotta go home like a good boy."
In no kingdom in the galaxy would that happen.
Ravenstongue lifted two fingers, signaling his cohorts.
The keeper ducked behind the bar while the goons flanked their wannabe boss, imbecilic grins in place.
A pair of demons usually sat on Tornahdo's shoulders. The bad demon laid out strategy while the good demon discouraged action. Tonight, the good demon flipped a middle finger toward Ravenstongue with a not-so-subtle suggestion to kick his ass.
Tornahdo took his time rising, slid his chair under the table. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'You gotta go home like a good boy.'"
Hanging his thumbs in his belt, Tornahdo gave him a slow smile. "Go back to the bar, finish your drink and we'll pretend we're all friends and leave together. This is your last chance for a peaceful end."
"Peaceful." With a scoff, Ravenstongue jerked his head toward Short Goon. "You hear that?"
"Yeah. Maybe we oughta do what--"
Ravenstongue jabbed him with an elbow.
"I mean, yeah! I heard that." He leaned close. "We gonna?"
"No, you idiot." Ravenstongue rolled his eyes. "Shut your face and back me up."
How did these hotheads enlist? The corps must have been desperate for bodies. Literally. A fighter's corpse they could reanimate. Which was a sobering thought.
Was that what the corps thought of him?
"Go home, Ravenstongue. Take your friends with you. Be a man and end this."
The ghost sneered. "I'm no man. I'm a ghost. Don't know what you are."
"All right." Tornahdo spread his hands. "We'll do this your way." He gestured toward Short Ghost. "Go ahead and leave. Nobody will hear about it from me."
The guy patted his chest. "Me?" He lurched toward Ravenstongue. "Can I go?"
"No, you can't go, you moron. Stay here and back me up like a man." He glanced at Tornahdo. "Like a ghost. Like a ghost who's a man."
"Well, then--" Tornahdo motioned to the other minion. "I guess that leaves you."
"Me?" Whiny Voice squeaked. He shot a look at Ravenstongue, who was red-faced and clenching his teeth. "No. I don't think I can do that."
The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology) Page 24