Ship of Ghosts

by David Bischoff

  “Moya is upset.”

  “You think I’m not upset?”

  “We have allowed you the use of her DRDs on condition that you do not misuse them. What have you done to that unit, Rygel? It appears to have terminally malfunctioned.”

  Rygel looked at the upturned DRD, its shiny under-parts exposed, its wheels now motionless.

  “I—I don’t know, Pilot I … I just yelled at it!”

  “Vocal waves cannot short-circuit a DRD—one moment. Moya speaks to me—”

  Silence.

  Rygel looked down the hallway. The other DRDs were gathered in a circle around him. He felt as if they were accusing him. Even a DRD with a slightly mangled antenna was looking at Rygel as though he were a pile of Argan refuse—and a particularly stinky specimen of it to boot. Or was that just his imagination? By the gods, it had to be! Still, what had happened? Rygel touched the device in his ear. What kind of power had this given him? Rygel had always prided himself on a talent for power—what good was being so gifted unless you enjoyed yourself? But the ability to think something dead would be a little disconcerting—”

  “Rygel!”

  Rygel thought about just leaping over the ring of DRDs and making a sprint for it. He knew the secret spots and cubbyholes where he could hide. But no: it would be futile to try to hide from Moya. Wherever he hid, after all, he’d still be in Moya. Moya was everywhere.

  “I’m here,” he said, maintaining an erect posture and regal dignity. He raised an index finger and twirled it in a weak version of a royal signature in the air.

  “Moya is very upset with the way you have been treating the DRDs. She has instructed me to examine the short-circuited DRD and report on what happened. Rygel, Moya’s DRDs are vital to her maintenance. This kind of misuse can lead to sanctions.”

  Sanc—He knew what sanctions really meant. It really meant punishment.

  “I will return in a short time,” said Pilot’s voice.

  Rygel looked around. The eyestalks of the DRDs wavered accusingly. He looked at the vanquished DRD, upturned and motionless, and thought about what Pilot had said.

  Sanctions. Not good. Not good at all!

  * * *

  It was the oddest kiss that John Crichton had ever experienced. It was also the best.

  The kiss from the Queen of All Souls—this ghost-woman who looked so much like Zhaan—tasted of cinnamon and lilies. The lips, though cool, were smooth and silky and had an electric bite that sizzled down to dance on the edges of his synapses. Her touch was firm, but gentle enough to make him feel as though all his nerve-endings had been brushed lightly with starlight. Even though she was a ghost, she had substance. She smelled of a musky, erotic perfume. For the moment, spellbound by her kiss, he could do nothing but let her move her soft and rounded curves up against him. Something deep down inside him responded. Despite his better judgement, he could not help but reach out to pull her in closer.

  With a tinkling laugh, she pulled away. Spun. Danced. Her robes a swirl of color and smoke, giving brief flashes of pale flesh, she moved away and said, “That was so nice, John.”

  Crichton’s mouth was dry. He realized that he had started to sweat. What kind of enchantment had this strange woman put on him? And how did she know his name? Could she read his mind?

  “I can see inside you. Enough to know who you are in many ways.”

  He felt deeply disturbed on several different levels. She was erotic, and yet she was a ghost. The thinking part of him kicked in, and he realized that, for all her unique sensations, what he’d just experienced was a melding of various sensory experiences from his past: bits and patches of women he had known. Karen’s smell, mixed with that Polynesian musk of Aliesha. Rachel’s taste combined with the tangy touch of Anna’s mouth. Oh God, and all the other fantastic women he’d cared for, wrapped into one, and then somehow transported into seduction squared, all made more potent by his own loneliness and need.

  “You … you’re not human,” he objected.

  “I am female.” Her jewel-like eyes glittered. “Let me more than assure you of that.”

  As he managed to clear his head, Crichton looked around him. “I’m not sure if I should thank you for that kiss or curse you. I get the feeling that I really don’t matter. You’re acting as if I’m something special, but if you didn’t think you could use me, I’d probably be dead.”

  She moved toward him again and traced the line of his neck with her finger. “But you are something special,” she said. She tilted her head down and looked at him from under half-closed eyelids.

  He took a deep breath and tried to steel his thoughts. “I guess Pahl and the others weren’t so special, then? Not special enough to live.”

  She laughed a low, melodic laugh. “No, no, John,” she said, putting a cool finger to his lips. “They’re not dead. Ghosts can’t die—that’s why they’re ghosts. They’ll have reconstituted themselves in less than a day. I merely made them forget themselves for a while, in a manner of speaking.”

  “That’s a pretty drastic kind of forgetting.”

  The suggestion of a smile crossed her lips. “Perhaps not drastic enough. They will remember too soon for my taste. Here, we are such stuff as dreams are made on.”

  The line was familiar—and then Crichton remembered that she could see into his mind.

  “I am serious, John Crichton. Dreaming is something that all intelligent creatures do—I know. Our data banks have records of millions of intelligent species from many galaxies. All of them dream.” She looked at him meaningfully. “All. We’re just better at reading dreams. And soon we shall be better at realizing them. The people who brought you here were the Dayfolk. Like all those who live by day, they are slow, blundering, unadventurous. Their lives are daydreams that come to nothing. But you and I shall become acquainted with the night.” She ran her hand down his arm, and her touch made him shiver. Her eyes were dark, and in their depths light glittered like stars.

  She looked at him with those glittering eyes. “Come with me, John Crichton.”

  He fought to resist her powerful attraction, and briefly he pulled away, until his curiosity and her smoky seductiveness made him relax. Like Pahl and the others, he thought, I am beginning to forget myself.

  “Come with you?” he echoed. “Do I have a choice?”

  She smiled slyly. “Choices have led you into trouble, have they not? Let me make the choices now.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “You want to tell me where you’re taking me?”

  “Beyond your dreams, John Crichton,” she said. “Beyond your dreams.” She turned and her train flowed along behind her like velvet fog.

  CHAPTER 15

  Aeryn, D’Argo and Yanor stood in the turret that rose up from the city of the Dayfolk, rising out of the cavern and giving a view across the peaks of the mountain range. Majestic waterfalls surged and fell among the mountains. A river glittered silver amid the emerald hills. Mists swirled amidst the peaks. In a violet sky, galleons of puff clouds cruised languidly.

  “Daytime in the World is beautiful, is it not?” said Yanor. “And some would say the night is equally beautiful.”

  “How can there be night,” said D’Argo, “on the inside of a vessel?”

  “We retain the ways of our homeworld,” said Yanor. “There must always be night and day—the two elemental forces. The World generated by our ship is as faithful a copy as its makers could manage.”

  “A copy of your homeworld?”

  “A copy of our homeworld.” Yanor nodded. “A copy of the way things should be. You have come at a good time. It’s late spring now. The weather is sweet.”

  “Tell us more about this world,” D’Argo said.

  “There,” said Yanor, “off in the mountains to the other side of the crag. You can see a glimpse of the other stronghold of this World: the hold of the Queen of All Souls.”

  “She opposes you,” D’Argo said.

  “Violently,” said Yanor. “When we
set out from our homeworld, uncountable millennia ago, we were of a single mind and purpose: we wanted to explore the universe and map the stars. This we have done.”

  One of the World’s suns had neared the horizon, and the other was sinking lower almost imperceptibly.

  “To aid us in our exploration,” Yanor continued, “we became ‘ghosts’—beings of pure energy who can live forever. But many of us found that eternal life far from home could not satisfy our deepest yearnings. We had seen every world and every star in this galaxy and hundreds of others. What we wanted was the warmth of the sun, the feel of the breeze, the sweet fragrances of growing things and of a living planet. We wanted to live under the warmth of our own suns, not the cold light of distant stars. In this we differ from the Queen and her councillors.”

  D’Argo put his hands on the stone windowframe of the tower. “Why couldn’t the Queen just drop you off back home?”

  “To live again on a planet,” said Yanor, “we must reassume our fleshly bodies. Each of us retains a small core of flesh, deep in the Hole in the World, for just such a purpose. Except for the Queen. In her quest to live among the stars for ever, she has destroyed her fleshly core. She cannot go back. The other Nightfolk stand with her—they have vowed never to go back either.

  “The Dayfolk and the Nightfolk have struggled for millennia. The Dayfolk seek a savior who can enter the Hole in the World—closed to us since our struggles began—and instruct the gems of power to give us fleshly bodies once more. The Nightfolk seek to enter the Hole in the World and destroy our fleshly cores, so that we will wander the dark universe for ever. Thousands of cycles ago, the engines of our ship failed. We have been drifting in space for an uncountable expanse of time. And since we had no engines, we knew our savior, the Promised One, would have to be sent to us. We programmed our sensors to detect him when he came. And he did come to us, and our sensors did approve him. John Crichton is the Promised One—and I honor you as his companions. He will save us from our exile.”

  They stood in silence, looking out as the shadows of the mountains stretched and lengthened across the plains below.

  A ghost in a flowing robe came to the door of the tower and made a sign with his head. Yanor went out to speak to him. When he came back his face was troubled.

  “This is terrible news,” he said. “We can’t travel at night, but we must leave for the Hole in the World at first dawn. Our intelligence informs us that the Queen of All Souls has captured Crichton.”

  * * *

  The bed was soft and smelled like attar of roses. Crichton lay in a sea of silk. Behind him were plump, comfortable pillows. Before him was a beautiful room, with candles flickering and platters of exotic fruits. On a golden tray before him lay the remains of the meal he’d just eaten, as delicious as any he’d had on Earth: pheasant and wine and delicate pastries.

  “You are feeling better?” asked the Queen of All Souls. Her voice came from the smoky distance.

  Crichton sighed. “OK, you cook up a good meal here. But this doesn’t distract me from the basic fact that your people have taken us hostage.”

  Parting from the shadow came a languid form.

  “How can you say we have taken you hostage when we treat you so well? I have specially replicated your meal from your memories.”

  She moved closer, kneeling and moving slowly across the silk sheets like a lithe panther approaching prey. Her lines were sinuous. She had changed her clothing. Before she had been garbed in a cowl and a mantle. Now she wore only wisps of translucent mist. Her hair flowed sensuously, and the look on her face was pure hot passion.

  It was very strange to be aroused by a ghost. She was just solid enough to see and touch—and just suggestive enough to be pure fantasy. He realized now why all myths had warned of the succubus. He could not help but fall under her spell. Her soft and sensual lips touched his, just real enough to be felt, and yet a whisper away from a dream. Then she pulled away, her eyes glittering.

  “What do you want from me?” he said, mouth dry.

  “I need your flesh, John Crichton.” She was still smiling.

  “You want to kill me?”

  “No. I want to possess you. I will take you places I could never reach and you have never dreamed of.” The succubus that was the Queen of All Souls struck, her hungry mouth bearing down on his, her arms clasping him.

  In an instant her warm flesh was pressed against him, melting into him … moving deep inside him.

  * * *

  Rygel kneeled by the fallen DRD.

  A wisp of acrid smoke curled up into his nostrils.

  Oh dear me, he thought.

  The other DRDs were still clicking and clacking. Perhaps they were even preparing some kind of judgement before Moya could get hold of him.

  Sanctions, Pilot had said. Punishment.

  This was not Rygel’s favorite word. At one time the very concept was alien to him, but being imprisoned and tortured by the sadistic captain, Durka, he well understood the meaning of pain and punishment now.

  He looked down at the upturned DRD. Its limp eyestalks lay motionless, stretched out on the floor.

  Stay calm, fellow, he told himself. Let’s not get your eyebrows in a knot.

  Rygel poked at the DRD. “Hello! Wake up, acolyte! You can get up now!”

  It did not respond, but rocked in place as he poked at it.

  “DRD! I, Rygel XVI, Dominar, order you to rise and take your place,” Rygel said in a commanding tone.

  The DRD continued to rock, but did not respond.

  Rygel fought back panic. What good would panic do now? Rygel’s general rule, when stuck between a rock and a hard place, was to glare at them both and declare his superiority. After a rough life, he was still around, so he figured it must be working.

  After you’d declared your superiority to that rock and to that hard place, though, you had to do something.

  He went over the sequence of events. He’d tripped over the DRD. He’d been angry at it. He had yelled. Most of all, however, he had directed brutal thoughts its way.

  Hmm. Could the energy generated in his mind from his rage have been focused directly upon the DRD in such a way as to short the poor little guy out? This certainly appeared to be the situation, as strange as it sounded. The DRD had experienced some kind of overload from Rygel’s anger.

  But Rygel had been enraged many times in his life, and no one, either physical or mechanical, had keeled over from it—to Rygel’s great chagrin. Why would a mere thought do away with this DRD?

  Rygel scratched his ear and remembered the furze. Had that somehow allowed him to concentrate his thoughts and direct their power? And if that was the case, could Rygel undo the damage? Well, certainly not with a screwdriver and chewing gum. He was no technician. However, they were all assuming that the DRD was dead. Perhaps it was just in a kind of motorstasis, overwhelmed by Rygel’s powerful thoughts.

  Rygel kneeled down by the DRD again and placed his hand on the little guy.

  OK, Rygel thought. Visualize.

  He kept his hand on the DRD. He closed his eyes and pretended he was back on his home planet.

  Rygel was in a field. There was the delicate scent of waffa flowers in the air. He could hear the excited chatter of children as they played Bang-Your-Head against the Chuckle Wall.

  How Rygel loved the little children! The way he licked them was very popular with the populace, and many a citizen had pictures of Rygel with their infant’s head in his mouth, gnawing playfully.

  Suddenly there was a scream. Oh dear, what has happened? It seems a youngster has bounced his head against the laughstone too hard and is now unconscious. Oh, great ruler Rygel, come and heal my young one. Make his crushed head better!

  “Heal!” said Rygel. “Heal!”

  One hand was on the DRD, the other was on the device on his ear. He could feel it growing warm, energy coursing through him, flowing down his hand into the DRD.

  “Heal!” said Rygel. “Please?”r />
  The little wheels of the DRD spun. Its eyestalks wobbled.

  Rygel opened his eyes to see the DRD, newly alive again, flip itself back onto its wheels. It spun around in a circle, then skittered over towards its fellows, touching eyestalks with them.

  Rygel’s eyes were wide. At first he only felt vast relief. But when the DRDs grouped around him, eyestalks bowed, as if filled with awe, he began to feel something he seldom felt in these many cycles of exile and pain.

  He felt … royal.

  He’d done it! Him alone!

  He felt a surge of energy, and it seemed to come from the DRDs, who were now moving towards him. One reached out with its eyestalk and touched his ankle tentatively. “Yes, my child. It is me!” said Rygel. “More than Rygel XVI, Dominar: Rygel … the Healer … and…”

  Dare he say it? Why not!

  “Rygel the Messiah. The Glorious One! Deliverer of DRDs from their chains of bondage. Flock, flock, my little ones! Worship me and you shall be saved!”

  A voice suddenly broke out from above him. “Rygel, what do you think you’re doing?”

  He cringed, but then remembered the miracle that had just occurred.

  “I am communicating with the DRDs,” he said.

  “What of the fallen one?” said Pilot. “Moya is getting contradictory information. She is most concerned.”

  Rygel beamed. “Pilot! I have fixed—I mean healed—the poor little fellow!” He pointed at the DRD, which wiggled its eyestalks enthusiastically.

  “My word!” said Pilot. “Yes, he does seem active again. Oh yes, Moya will be most pleased!”

  “She’s pleased now, and you know it. And you can tell Moya that maybe soon I will be speaking with her directly. I have the power now!” Rygel tapped his head knowingly.

  “Remarkable. Excellent. Some sort of projectional mental powers, in tandem with the energies of the DRDs. Add the energies of Moya … My word! Rygel! Do you realize what we have here?”

  “A new religion! And I’m the Chief Savior!” said Rygel happily.

  “No, I think not. However, with a little work, we might well have the faculties to communicate with the alien ship. Rygel, I am very pleased with you, and Moya is very pleased with you as well!”