Ghost Ranger

by Dayne Edmondson

  “Damn it,” my father said, running a hand through his black hair.

  “It was just a normal day,” I protested. “The teacher had a cold and so did a couple students, but I didn’t think anything of it.” Talking helped me calm down, to rationalize what just happened. “Then some kids collapsed and...it all went to hell. Isabelle shifted, which I still can’t believe, and brought me here. Oh, and before that she was decapitating zombies like it was her job or something!” I was rambling and I knew it, but I couldn’t help myself. “Then she disappeared again, talking about helping to save the world.” I lifted a hand to my forehead where sweat was beading and dripping down my face. “Kimberly stayed home today too. I don’t know what’s going on, Dad.” Terror gripped me in that moment, as all the events crashed down on me at once. My world, literally, was falling apart.

  “Isabelle can take care of herself,” my father said. He sounded completely unconcerned, and unsurprised, by the revelation my best friend could shift. Perhaps he was in shock too? “As for Kimberly, we don’t have time to worry about her right now.” His eyes took on the familiar distant look of him using his communication implant. He forbade me from having my own implants until I turned eighteen, which was still three months away, yet used his own all the time. He claimed it was for his job at the security giant Omnion, but I had my doubts. Why was he communicating with his work during a viral outbreak? Was he really calling in sick at a time like this? Shouldn’t they be evacuating?

  “Dad, what are you wearing?” I thought asking something mundane might snap him out of the funk he appeared to be in.

  It worked. He focused on me but ignored the question. “Show me your arms, now.”

  My eyes widened in surprise. “My arm? Why?”

  “Do it.” The command in his voice was unmistakable. His eyes bored into me.

  I felt compelled to do as he ordered. I rolled my sleeve up. Red marks with black in the center covered my arm. “Am I infected?”

  My father didn’t answer - not at once. He studied the floor and averted his eyes. “You can roll your sleeve back down.”

  I hurried to obey, hand shaking. “Dad, what’s going on? Tell me!” The last word came out as a shout and served to pull his eyes up to meet mine.

  “You’re going to die, Rachel,” he said, point blank.

  The way he said it made me shiver more than being shirtless or the content of the words. He was so matter-of-fact. No ifs or buts, just a statement. He may as well have been saying it was going to rain. I could only hope his prediction of my death would be as inaccurate as the meteorologists. “How do you know that?”

  “Because that’s how the virus starts. First marks appear below the elbow. Fatigue, high fever and sweats follow. Then, a brief time after initial infection, the host dies.”

  He wasn’t doing a wonderful job of reassuring me in that moment. I wouldn’t be nominating him for father-of-the-year. “But...isn’t there anything we can do?” Tears brimmed in my eyes. I wanted my mom in that moment, though I didn’t remember her. Anything would be better than the clinical way he told me of my impending death.

  “Yes, there is,” my father said. His face softened as he saw the emotions warring on my face. “Oh, Rachel.” He embraced me and held me as tears flowed down my face in a torrent. I shook with sobs. “I’m sorry for scaring you. You will die, but I’m going to ensure you don’t stay dead.”

  Not caring about the contradictions in his statement, or the fact that raising people from the dead was impossible, I sobbed even harder.

  We separated after several seconds. My father pointed at the couch. “Lay down and rest - it will slow the spread of the virus a little. You’re sweating already.” He put a hand on my forehead. “And your fever has spiked. Any other symptoms?”

  “Chills,” I said as I stumbled to the couch and laid down. My legs felt weak - like I’d run a marathon. “But I thought that was just from everything that’s been happening. But that’s the virus, isn’t it?”

  My father nodded. “I’ll get you something to drink.” He strode to the kitchen, returning a minute later with a cup filled with cloudy water. “Here, drink this. It won’t stop the spread, but it will make you more comfortable.”

  “How do you know so much about this?” I asked after emptying the glass in three gulps.

  “I’m in the business of protecting people. It’s what I do.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What about...” I stopped, feeling light-headed. My vision blurred and I felt drowsy. “What did you...,” my words ceased as darkness overtook me.

  Chapter 3

  I awoke to a bright light in my eyes. No, not at the end of a tunnel. An examination light suspended above my head.

  I tried to sit up but found I couldn’t. Restraints held my chest and arms and legs to the table or stretcher or whatever I was laying on. My clothes were gone, replaced by a hospital gown. I could move my head, though, and looked around.

  The room was clinical - it reminded me of a doctor’s office or hospital operating room. A table with medical equipment sat to my left, while a chair sat to my right. An empty chair. Where was my father? In fact, the entire room was empty. No...wait...it wasn’t.

  A shimmer occupied a corner of the rectangular room. I squinted and the shimmer resolved into the shape of a person. The shape resolved in detail the longer I stared, until I could see a man - or woman - in black armor standing in the corner, a rifle held in their arms but pointed at the floor.

  “Hello?” I asked, staring at the figure. I felt that if I moved my eyes, I would lose sight of them. I confirmed the theory when I flicked my gaze away and back and had to reacquire my vision of them. “Do you talk?” I asked sarcastically. “Where am I? Why am I being restrained.”

  Still the figure didn’t reply.

  I turned my head and looked in the other corner. Again, I had to stare for several seconds before I could make out the armed guard standing there, but it had seemed to come easier. “Will you talk to me?” I asked. “Please? I just want to know where I am.”

  Talking to the second figure seemed to work, for they turned their head from side-to-side as if looking for someone else who could be the target of my gaze.

  “Yes, you. I see you turning your head. Where am I? Why am I here.”

  “One moment,” the first figure said in a distinctly masculine voice, causing me to flop my head to the other side and look at him. “The doctor has been alerted that you are awake.”

  “Oh, lovely. The doctor. Where’s my father?”

  The man didn’t reply.

  I growled in frustration and struggled against the restraints, my muscles bulging. For just a moment, I thought the restraints were going to give way. But that must have been my imagination. Still, the guard in my line of sight lifted his rifle ever-so-slightly. Was he afraid of me?

  The door to the room slid open, thankfully in my line of sight, and a man in a white coat entered. He was balding and with white hair around the side of his head. He smiled in what he probably thought was a reassuring way. “Hello, Rachel,” he said.

  “Hello,” I said cautiously. “Where’s my father?”

  “He is...otherwise indisposed. He will be with us shortly, however.”

  “Otherwise indisposed?” I repeated. Was he dead? Wounded? Infected? What did indisposed mean? I clenched my fist in frustration.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Sinclair asked, declining to elaborate.

  “Like a prisoner,” I said honestly. “You’ve got me bound like I’m in a psychiatric facility.”

  “It’s for your own safety, I assure you,” he said, stepping toward her. “What do you remember before passing out?”

  I fell silent for several moments as I struggled to remember. “I remember I was at school. People started showing signs of infection - they started killing each other. I fled, and my friend, she shifted me home.” That no longer felt quite so strange to say aloud. “Then my father said I was going to die but...be resur
rected. And then he gave me something to drink and I fell asleep. Was it all a dream?” I prayed it was all a dream - though if it was a dream it was the most vivid one I’d ever had.

  Dr. Sinclair’s smile turned to a frown. “I’m afraid it was no dream, Rachel. Your planet was the victim of a terrible bio-weapon and you did indeed die.”

  “But...we’re talking right now. So, if I’m dead, is this heaven? It doesn’t look like the stories.”

  The doctor’s smile returned, and he chuckled. “I’m glad to see you’re being humorous about this. It is reassuring and suggests the treatment was a complete success.”

  “Call it gallows humor,” I shot back. “What treatment?”

  He sat down in the chair next to my bed and folded his hands. I knew that look. He was about to start lecturing. “When you fell asleep the virus in your body continued ravaging your body.”

  “Could you use a nicer verb than ravage?” I asked.

  The doctor blinked and pursed his lips. “Very well. The virus spread through your body uncontested and killed you. That was the bad news.”

  “I didn’t know this was a ‘good news,’ ‘bad news’ thing,” I remarked.

  “The good news is I was able to develop a treatment for the condition.”

  “To reverse the virus? Did you cure me?”

  “Sadly, no.” He didn’t sound sad. “The damage done by the virus is irreversible. Your blood has been transmuted to another substance entirely. Trying to now transfuse blood into your veins would kill you...for good.”

  “Then what did you do?” I asked, curiosity warring with fear and anger.

  “While you were dead, your brain shut down. The neural pathways in your brain deteriorated. You were, in effect, brain-dead. When the virus reanimated your body, including re-starting your heart and pumping oxygen to your brain again, your body awoke, in a sense, but your higher brain functions were inactive. Only the pre-frontal cortex remained preserved by the virus. That is the section which governs things like hunger and primal emotions.”

  “Hence zombies,” I quipped. “The people died and were resurrected as mindless, hungry beasts, essentially.”

  “Correct. Unable to be reasoned with, unable to even understand language, the zombies feel only intense hunger and raw emotion.”

  “Then how are we having a conversation right now about this?”

  “We used nanites to bridge the neural connections inside your brain.” He made gestures with his hands to illustrate. “We essentially rebuilt the roads and bridges and infrastructure of your brain to model exactly how it was before your death.”

  “How did you know what my brain looked like before my death?”

  “We scanned your brain upon arrival to the Nightblade when you had yet to die. Then we implanted you with a full suite of implants and injected you with nanites programmed to repair the damage caused by brain death. Then all that was left was the wait and pray.”

  I pointed to my head, or tried to, given the restraints. “Well, it clearly worked. The science and waiting part, not the praying.” I didn’t believe in any deities. If a God existed he hadn’t done squat to save my mother all those years earlier, so why should I give him my devotion?

  Dr. Sinclair’s expression brightened. “Yes, I am pleased by the results of the experiment.”

  “Experiment?” I repeated. “You weren’t sure this would work?”

  “Well...” Dr. Sinclair stammered. “It was a hypothesis. Time was of the essence. Your father signed off on the procedure, knowing the risks. It was the only choice.”

  “Was I the first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you treat others after me?” Were there others like me strapped down in other rooms? Did they have armed guards?

  “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “Did their treatments work?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” he replied. “They have yet to awaken but were treated some time after you.”

  “How long was I asleep? Or how long have I been...what do I call it? Un-living? Undead? Risen?” I asked.

  “We have been using the term undead. And to answer your question, it has been twenty-four hours since the treatment began.”

  “Wow. I slept like a baby, huh?” Not waiting for an answer, my gaze flicked to the guards in the corners. “What’s with the guards?”

  “They are here for your protection, Rachel.” He furrowed his brow. “I was surprised to receive a report that you could see through their cloaking fields. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said warily. “They looked like blurs at first, then resolved into armed guards.”

  “Remarkable. That suggests a significant augmentation in your ocular processing capabilities.”

  “If you say so. I don’t feel so remarkable. I just want to see my father. Where is he?”

  “As I said, he is...”

  “Cut it with the otherwise indisposed crap,” I snapped, eyes bulging and anger raging through me. I flexed my arm and felt the restraints creak. “Where is my father?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw two of the guards lift their rifles, pointing them at me. “Come on, you bastards!” I shouted, flexing further. Just a little more and the restraints would give, I just knew it. I was dead already - what more could they do to me?

  “Enough!” A voice came from the door. My father’s voice.

  My head snapped to the side and I felt all the fight drain out of me as I gazed on my father. He looked harder than the last time I’d seen him. The glint in his eyes, of silent amusement at the goings on around him, was gone, replaced by an intensity I couldn’t recall seeing before. And his clothes. Gone were the casual clothes he often wore when working from home. And his current attire was not even his work uniform. He wore a...navy uniform? With emblems pinned to it and medals hanging off. “Father,” was all I could say, feeling slightly embarrassed at the outburst he’d witnessed. “You’re here.” Tears brimmed in my eyes and I began sobbing uncontrollably - unable to even wipe the tears from my eyes due to the restraints.

  My father approached, glaring at the guards in the corners that I could see and to his left. It took me a moment to realize there were probably other guards in that corner too, cloaked similarly. I did not want to be the object of that glare, that was for sure. When his gaze again fell on me it softened at once and he took my hand. “I’m here, sweetheart.” He took in the restraints and looked to Dr. Sinclair, who stood next to him. “Are these restraints necessary, Doctor?”

  Dr. Sinclair cleared his throat and averted his eyes before speaking. “Sir, they were a necessary precaution during the procedure. We explained...”

  My father lifted a hand and the doctor fell silent. I raised my eyebrows at that. He had the power to silence the doctor? “I understand that. Are they necessary now, after the procedure was clearly a success?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good.” He proceeded to unstrap my arms, chest and legs. “Is that better, Rachel?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling and sitting up. Not being treated like a prisoner any longer felt good. I chanced a glance at one of the guards. They were back to standing at ease, rifles hanging loose and pointed nowhere near me. “Are the guards necessary too?”

  My father raised an eyebrow, as if surprised I had detected the cloaked guards. But he nodded. “Those, unfortunately, are necessary. For your protection, not for protection from you, however. They will never raise their rifles to you again.” Another hard stare toward the guards followed, emphasizing his point.

  “Where am I? The doctor said I was on the Nightblade. Is that a ship?” I felt like I had heard that name before but couldn’t pinpoint it. Then my eyes fell on his uniform and I pointed at it. “And where did you get that?”

  My father cleared his throat and gave one of his half-smiles. “Well, that’s a long story, my dear.”

  “I’ve got all day,” I said, spreading my arms wide to indicate the empty room.


  “This may come as a shock to you.” He sat down in the chair. “And I want you to understand that I kept this information from you for your protection, truly.”

  Dread settled in my stomach. “Just tell me. The suspense is killing me...again.” I smirked at my wit - the whole being dead and then not thing was going to be comedy gold for years to come.

  My father took a deep breath, as if he were about to tell me he was dying too. “My real name isn’t Franklin Chaskey. It’s Dawyn Darklance, and I am the supreme commander of the Federation military.” He paused, waiting for my reaction.

  At first, I didn’t react. My mind spun. Dawyn Darklance? The name stirred up memories of countless stories in history books and pop culture alike. The Battle for Tar Ebon, the First Imperial War, the Battle of the Line and so many more. All featuring that name. My father’s name. “That means,” I began, “you’re an eternal?”

  My father nodded. “Yes. I am over two thousand years old.”

  I put a hand to my forehead, trying to process what he was telling me. “That makes me...” I looked at him questioningly.

  “When you were conceived, nanites from my body became part of yours. They have been inside you since you were born.”

  “So, I am an eternal too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, you’re really dropping the bomb shells today. What’s next, my mom is alive?”

  My father frowned. “I wish I could tell you she was. She died bravely, though.”

  “Yeah, yeah, defending a space station, so you told me. Is that even a true story?” How many falsehoods had he told me over the years?

  “Every word of your mother’s story was true. Even how we met was true - I just didn’t tell you my position in the story.”

  “Deception through omission is still a lie,” I said, quoting his own words back to him. “You lied to me, Father.”

  My father acknowledged my observation with the nod. “Yes, I did, and I regret that the deception was necessary. I chose to raise you in anonymity out of a desire for you to grow up normal.”