Ghost Planet (2 page)

“Yes,” I assured him. “I’m fine.”

“Good. There’s a café just down the street. The salmon eggs Benedict is amazing. What do you say?”

I had never eaten salmon. Salmon had long since exited the food chain on Earth. The last farm had shut down before I was born, pulled under by antibiotic-resistant disease.

My stomach grumbled resentfully—and audibly—at the memory of the stale pastry I’d eaten on the transport. Murphy smiled.

“Shall I take that as a yes?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, flushing. “I’m starving.”

He turned down the street and I followed. “It’s only a few blocks, so I thought we’d skip the tram. Unless you’re cold?”

“It feels good to be outside.” Not to mention the fact I got queasy just
watching
the tram whoosh back and forth above the pedestrian walkway.

As we headed down one side of the double row of four-story, modular buildings, Murphy asked, “Did you come here directly from Seattle, Elizabeth?”

“I did. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you don’t seem to have the cough. I wondered if you’d been on holiday.”

I gave him a quizzical look. “The cough?”

“Everyone coughs for the first few weeks, until their lungs clear out. I don’t think people on Earth even notice it anymore. But you’ll notice once you’ve been here a while. You can always pick out the new arrivals.”

“Huh.” Then, right on cue, I sneezed, and both of us laughed.

“
Gesundheit
. Maybe you’ll turn out to be allergic to clean air.”

“Maybe I’m more evolved than the rest of you. You know … adapted to pollution.”

“Ah, that’s going to be a problem. Though I suppose we could fix something up for you. Burn some garbage in your flat, if you like.”

“Perfect. I’ll feel right at home.”

Again we laughed and I felt the tension easing from my body. This wasn’t so bad. New Seattle was shiny and clean, and outfitted more like a vacation destination than a scientific outpost—we’d passed two coffee shops and one gourmet grocery store in the two blocks we’d walked. The planet was green and beautiful—I’d never seen so many gigantic, thriving trees in my life. And perhaps even more important to my day-to-day quality of life, my new supervisor had a sense of humor.

But this comfortable sense of optimism evaporated as I studied the faces passing by in the street. It was easy to pick out the colonists—they all looked fit and were dressed in subdued, earthy fabrics. And they all appeared oblivious to the aliens that shadowed them. I couldn’t help wondering if over time they really had become oblivious, or if it was all just good acting. Then it struck me that Murphy’s ghost had been following us for two blocks and I hadn’t given her a second thought. I resisted the urge to glance back.

The ghosts themselves varied in age and appearance, but they all wore the same haggard, vacant expressions. Colonists were not permitted to speak to them, and as far as I could see they didn’t speak to each other. Creepy as it was to watch them slogging along behind the colonists, to me they looked more beaten down than threatening. And that had been the purpose of the protocol—to subdue them through neglect, and end the epidemic of psychological disorders sparked by their sudden appearance.

“I understand you and your colleagues have really helped to turn things around here,” I said, trying—but failing—to extend the cheerful note of our earlier exchange.

Murphy gave a tentative nod. “No question the protocol and the counseling program have improved the colonists’ ability to adjust to life here. But it’s still too early to say. We’re incredibly lucky our patron has remained committed to the project through all the controversy.”

Our patron
—he meant green technology investor John Ardagh. When scientists aboard a U.S. explorer discovered the planet, Ardagh consulted his crystal ball and moved in quickly, securing a ninety-nine-year lease on what appeared to be a desolate rock with a few sterile puddles of water. But from the moment scientists set foot on the planet, impossible, wonderful—and profitable—things had begun to happen.

“Our Global Recovery Pact investors, on the other hand, have grumbled pretty loudly. The costs associated with the lawsuits alone have been astronomical.”

Murphy stopped in front of a glass door with a sign that read C
AFÉ
T
ULIPE
. The hand-painted lettering and floral flourishes added a touch of warmth to the sleek building front. He waved the door open and gestured me inside.

“Looks to me like you’re managing to keep the lights on,” I observed, as we scanned the busy café for an empty table.

“Indeed,” he said, chuckling. “That’s thanks to our self-sufficiency.”

The interior was warm and brightly lit—sunlight simulators, I suspected, for dosing the dreary-weather blues. The rainy climate took its toll in depression, as did the more obvious risk factors: the ghosts lined up like surplus waitstaff along the walls of the cafe, obscuring a mural of giant pink and yellow tulips.

Murphy’s ghost had remained outside, and was now peering in the window with the rest of the ghost overflow. Her eyes fixed on Murphy with such an expression of hopeless longing that I shivered and looked away—though not before discovering the resemblance. A family member, then. I wondered if they’d been close.

We made our way to a table in the back, and Murphy slipped my chair out for me before taking his seat. It was stuffy in the small, overcrowded room, and both of us peeled off our sweaters.

Resting his folded arms on the table, he gave me a bright smile that melted what was left of any first-meeting tension. The fact that my new supervisor was both charming and handsome was now quite literally staring me in the face, and a new kind of tension took hold.

“I can’t get over the feeling we’ve met before,” he said. “I saw your picture in your file, of course. But I don’t think that’s it. You seem …
familiar
.”

Now that we were sitting close, talking face-to-face, I had the same feeling. But it didn’t make sense. “Have you ever been to Seattle? Or the university there?”

Murphy shook his head. “I haven’t. I was only in the states once, when I was a boy. How about you? Have you visited Ireland?”

“Yes, I…” As I continued to study his face, it came to me.

His eyebrows lifted. “Do you have it?”

It seemed an impossible coincidence. “Did you go to Trinity College?”

“I did.”

“Did you do tours there? For visitors, I mean. Tourists.”

“Yes!” Murphy’s eyes went bright with recognition. “That’s it! Wow. Small universe, eh?”

“No kidding.” I had total recall now, though it was nearly ten years ago. I remembered finding him attractive, in a brainy, old-world sort of way. And I had been a sucker for his accent. But it hadn’t been an option at the time.
Nor is it now
, I reminded myself.

“I remember you very well, actually.” His gaze lifted to the top of my head. “Especially your hair.”

I laughed, blushing from my hairline to my toes. “That’s all anyone ever remembers of me.” My unruly mass of blond curls, which must be quite a spectacle now after the assault by wind and rain.

“Not true. I remember you asked interesting questions.” He grinned. “Loads of them.”

This did nothing to cool the heat of my embarrassment. At this point I also managed to swallow my tongue.

“I’m fairly certain I invited you and that surly-looking fella you had with you to the pub after the tour. But you raced off to catch a bus.”

My heart stirred in hibernation, giving a heavy thump of protest. I folded my hands in my lap and smiled thinly. “He wasn’t always surly. He didn’t travel well.”

Was I ever going to stop making excuses for Peter? Old habits. I had to keep reminding myself he wasn’t my fiancé anymore.

Mercifully, a pixie-like waitress with spiky, lavender hair appeared with menus. I studied mine without really seeing it, haunted by the metaphorical ghosts of my old life. I wasn’t likely to see any of them—my parents, my friends, Peter—for several years, maybe longer. Like all prospective immigrants to Ardagh 1, I’d been required to undergo both physical and psychological evaluations back on Earth. My counselor had expressed concern that I was running away—accepting a job far from home to make it impossible for me to take Peter back. I remembered the look on her face when I told her she was absolutely right, and that I didn’t see how it made any difference. As a Ph.D. candidate in psychology I’d had my fill of psychoanalysis. I’d wanted them to stamp my forehead and let me go.

“What looks good, Elizabeth?”

“Um…” I glanced from him to the waitress, who wore the long-suffering smile of forced tolerance that was a hallmark of her trade. “You said the salmon was good, right? I’ll have that.”

“Two house specials, and”—he looked at me—“coffee?”

I was only an occasional coffee drinker—though I consumed tea by the potful—but the heavy, nutty aroma of espresso was impossible to resist. “Cappuccino?”

“Great idea—two cappuccinos. I think that’s it.”

The waitress gave him a grateful smile and snatched up our menus. As she headed for the kitchen with our order, I saw a teenage boy seated against the wall near the doorway, arms folded around his sharp knees. Pale and almost skeletal, with dark depressions under his eyes, he tracked her with his gaze.

It sent another shiver through me.

“It’s okay to be afraid, Elizabeth.”

My eyes snapped back to Murphy. Despite his lack of counseling background, he was having no trouble reading me.

“It doesn’t matter how much they prepare you.” His expression was warm, and genuinely concerned. “It takes getting used to.”

“I
am
anxious about it,” I admitted. “I’m not sure what to expect.”

“Maybe I can help with that. Do you have an idea about the form it will take?”

I shook my head. “I thought I would have it easy because no one close to me has died. But now I’m not so sure. The idea of a stranger following me around everywhere is pretty unsettling.”

Murphy’s eyes hadn’t left my face. I fidgeted under the directness of his gaze. “It’s important to remember they’re
all
strangers. Aliens. In that sense, it doesn’t matter
who
it is. Any reaction, whether the face is familiar or not, is yours alone. It’s purely affective.”

“You’re saying it’s all in my head,” I said wryly.

He broke into a grin. “I suppose I am. Sorry.”

“I do see what you’re saying, Dr. Murphy—Murphy. And I agree, to a point.” Fifteen minutes into getting to know my new supervisor and I was about to start arguing with him. “But they’re all different, with distinct personalities, right? Or at least with the same personality as the person they’re mimicking. An abusive, alcoholic husband is going to be much harder to deal with than an ancient, dotty grandmother.”

“Absolutely. But keep in mind our new screening program weeds out anyone with a dead, abusive spouse, just like we weed out those who’ve lost young children. And no matter the ghost’s Myers-Briggs personality type, strict adherence to the protocol typically yields results in one to two weeks. At that point they’re all pretty much the same as what you see here.” He waved his hand at the room.

We paused as the waitress delivered our lunch. I inhaled the steam coming off the plate and my stomach growled again. I took a bite of the egg/salmon/hollandaise mixture and experienced a moment of sensory ecstasy.

“No wonder people stay here,” I murmured, watching a trickle of bright orange egg yolk.

Murphy laughed. “I love being around new arrivals. Helps me remember not to take the good stuff for granted.”

We exchanged few words as I wolfed down my lunch. The waitress brought our cappuccinos and cleared away the empty plates.

“I wanted to ask you about Cliffside,” I began. “You said no one was hurt?”

I watched the tiny spoon going around the rim of his cup as he replied, “Yes, we were lucky. Because of the instability here, all of our structures adhere to the strictest earthquake and severe weather standards. But the damage was pretty extensive.”

I sipped my cappuccino and wiped foam from my mouth. “I understood the planet was geologically stable for several years before colonization began.”

“That’s true. But we’ve seen some changes in the last year.”

My hand shook a little as I set down my cup. I waited for him to go on.

“I know they’re not talking about this at the academy,” he said gravely, “and my colleagues and I have made our views about that known. We don’t think people should come here without having all the facts. But here you are.”

“I’m afraid you
are
frightening me now, Dr. Murphy.”

His mouth relaxed into a smile. “Then I’ll preface the rest by saying I don’t believe we’re in any immediate danger. If something catastrophic were to happen, all colonies stand ready to evacuate. The changes I’m talking about have been, for the most part, gradual and subtle. Shifts in weather patterns, the occasional tremor. The more alarming aspects involve the ecology. We’ve seen accelerating rates of disease and decreasing fertility. Many of the specimens we’re sending back to Earth end up flushed into space, either dead or dying.” He sighed, rubbing at one side of his jaw. “It seems we no sooner got over our first major difficulty than we came right up against another.”

I was beginning to view my reassignment to the larger colony in a new light. I had to admit I had romanticized the Cliffside residency, its remote location overlooking the sea. The facility there had been established for colonists who’d succumbed to depression, a sort of last attempt before sending them home. New Seattle gave me a sense of safety in numbers. And its proximity to a major transport hub didn’t hurt.

“I’m guessing you’re thinking about transport schedules and return trips to Earth.”

I glanced up, answering Murphy’s searching look with a smile. “Not yet.”

“Well, if I can’t scare you away, no one can. Not even them.” Again his gesture indicated the ghosts, and I glanced at the window. I couldn’t see Murphy’s ghost anymore, but quite a crowd of them had gathered out there.