Angry Ghosts (24 page)

“Yes, I remember Beckert,” the counselor recalls. “He’s an excellent choice. F
earless, 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 M
edTechs 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.

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 him
self 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, the
y 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 immaculat
e.

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 finger
s 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 skeptici
sm 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 sh
amed 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.