The Ghost Fleet

by Trevor Wyatt

  Soon later, the shuttle touches down and I exit.

  I see my husband standing alright and well, a series of high ranking officers including Colonel Masters standing with him. It appears they are all waiting for him, while he waits for me.

  The moment I set foot on the paved ground, I make a dash for him, forgetting all decorum as I leap into his waiting arms.

  Ashley

  We sit in stunned silence in Admiral Flynn’s office in Armada Command and watch a multi-camera replay of the outbreak of violence that occurred on the grounds of the Diplomatic Headquarters.

  I am sitting right next to my husband, while Admiral Flynn sits behind his desk. The hologram stands to the left of Flynn’s massive office and the sound is crisp and clear.

  I can feel as the laser blasts cut down fleeing protesters. I watch as energy shield flare up and shatter upon heavy disruptor fire from the Marines. I watch as more and more of the protesters take final stands, refusing to retreat or surrender.

  “This is just so bad,” Admiral Flynn mutters to himself.

  For a moment, I cut my gaze from the horrifying replay and glance to look at my husband. I can see the extreme sadness and pain in his eyes and on his face.

  My heart begins to bleed and clenching my fists is all I can do to keep myself from pulling him onto my breast and stroking his hair to make him feel better. I can’t fully imagine what he must be feeling right now.

  I know that the terrible war that lasted for five years between us and the Sonali is what really motivates him to push all the red tapes and hindrances, to bring all known species into a peace agreement and to establish a galactic council. I know he’s especially motivated because he feels he was responsible for the war.

  For four and a half billion human deaths. For five billion Sonali dead.

  Now that his plans are all but destroyed by the increasing onslaught against everything he’s working on, I wonder what he must be thinking.

  I wonder what he must be feeling.

  I squeeze my hands together a bit because I want to say something sweet to him. I want to let him know that I love him and that I trust him. I want him to know that we can still salvage this, even though I don’t know if we really can.

  But I can’t do that. Not right now.

  I just want to do all I can to make him feel better. I want to expunge the sadness from his heart and blot out the pain from his being. I want all of these to go away and I am willing to do all that it takes.

  Even if I wanted to, I’m interrupted—by the day.

  There is a loud explosion from the replay.

  “Damn!” Admiral Flynn notes.

  My gaze shifts to Admiral Flynn.

  Admiral Flynn sits on his huge swivel chair, a drape of the emblem of the Terran Armada taking up the background behind him. He is perfectly impassive as he observes the gory display captured on camera with clinical attention.

  He doesn’t seem ruffled by the screams of pain and cries of help. He’s not even moved as protestors are mowed down by Marines, nor is he disturbed, at least not that I can see, by the repeated automatic laser fire and when there is a huge explosion in the grounds of the building, he doesn’t flinch.

  I wonder if he’s actually watching the video or if he’s thinking of something else.

  I return my gaze back to the viewscreen in time for the feed to cut to Lucien Parker. His face is smudged with smoke and blood. His dress is covered in blood, tears and burn marks.

  Lucien is not holding any weapons, but his hands are darkened, supposing he had hefted a disruptor. A reporter stands beside him, a tall lady of Indian descent who asks him a question that I don’t hear clearly. Lucien obviously catches the question.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the Sonali or the Tyreesian or the Nakra or whatever fucked up aliens there might be on this world,” he replies.

  “What we are saying is that we want them to leave our planet. Our Union. Before they came, there was already difficulty in getting jobs. We were already overpopulated. How the heck is it right to bring these fuckers in? To bring Sonali merchants in who put human shops out of business? To bring Tyreesians to do security for corporations when humans can’t get jobs? On top of that, they go and take our houses and breathe our air. Especially when they haven’t even pledged any allegiance to the Union,” he spits out.

  “We never agreed to this,” Lucien continues. “The officials never asked our opinion. This is dictatorship and it is strictly forbidden by our constitution. We are here to exercise our rights and say these aliens should go.”

  In the background, a few surviving protesters carry alien weapons for the cameras and yell their support for their leader.

  The reporter asks, “So, who exactly are you angry with? The aliens? The fact that they are taking the jobs and houses and materials? Or the government that didn’t consider your opinion?”

  Lucien replies almost immediately.

  “You see, Tracy, these are all different heads of the same problem, which is the occupation of our world by aliens. So our qualms are with the aliens that are not reasonable enough to realize we’re over populated and struggling to survive, knowing that there is still the ongoing project of sending relief materials to Earth.”

  I dimly begin to realize just how savvy Lucien Parker is.

  “Or has everyone forgotten that?” Lucien asks the camera. “That is our primary reason for being in space—not to make friends with other species who want to rip us off and suck us dry. I have doubts with the government that seems to have forgotten its fundamental responsibilities to protect us, ensure a just environment for us and to fairly seek our means of sustenance.”

  “Before now, unemployment rate was at a two percent planetwide here in New Washington. Do you know what it is now?” Lucien asks.

  Tracy, the reporter, does not reply.

  Lucian answer, “Eight percent as of last night, and it’s only been a year since they fully moved in. At that rate, our economy will collapse and we’ll all be put out of our jobs.”

  Lucian takes a deep breath and looks away from the reporter and into the camera and to billions of humans and aliens across the galaxy and continues his emotional speech.

  “We will not stop until we are heard,” he vows. “We will not stop until justice prevails. We refuse to be cheated out of our heritage because of an insensitive government. We reserve the right to determine what happens to us as a species.”

  The vitriol is there. Calm and contained, but just as dangerous. Lucien continues, “And now I speak to all aliens living in New Washington or any other Terran Union planet. You are not wanted. You are not safe. Did you see what happened to Leader Greer of the Tyreesian who were under the protection of Armada Command?”

  Both Jeryl and Admiral Flynn lean closer as Lucien continues, “We are near you. We are watching you. We will strike if you do not return to your world. You have been warned. Leave us. For us, the only good alien is a dead alien.”

  The feed is cut off.

  I am a bit shocked when this happens because I have been gripped tight by Lucian’s passionate rendering. I am still buzzing with the panic that must be spreading through the species that have been approved for the Alien Integration Program.

  I try to control my breathing, slowly turning my attention back to Admiral Flynn before us.

  He observes me quietly then switches to observe Jeryl beside me.

  After a moment’s scrutiny, he says, “This presents some problems on negotiations, no?”

  “Only a few,” Jeryl says with a sarcastic chuckle.

  But I know he’s only nervous. A huge, massive wrench has been thrown into his plans. I can imagine many aliens packing up and booking the next flight back to their home world.

  When Admiral Flynn doesn’t respond to Jeryl’s feeble play at sarcasm, Jeryl sits up and clears his throat.

  “I’m more worried about the delegates,” Jeryl says. “The accords we seek hinges on the delegates’ agreemen
t, not some local terrorist’s speech, however exertion he seems to put into it.”

  This is my cue, so I speak up.

  “Well, they’re all on board The Seeker,” I begin. “There’s no safe place right now for them than there. No external threat can come to them. Also, any surface to space missile will be detected long before it gets within range for us to be incapable of doing anything about it.”

  Jeryl looks at me and smiles weakly as I continue, “Perhaps, I can put my tactical officer and navigations officer on high alert. Plus, my security personnel have the delegates and are making sure they’re well-guarded. The only harm that can affect them is an internal one and as far as I am concerned, there is no anti-alien sentiment or sympathizer onboard my ship.”

  Jeryl jumps in, nodding. He turns to Flynn, “Has Armada Intelligence discovered the cause of the explosion?” he asks.

  Admiral Flynn doesn’t reply immediately. He blinks, flashes me an uncomfortable look, and looks away from both of us. My alarm bells go off. He’s about to lie to us.

  “As far as forensic analysis shows and based on our little understanding of the Tyreesian collective technology, it was a malfunctioning of the takeoff thruster that caused a compound reaction and destroyed the shuttle.” Admiral Flynn says.

  “That can’t be true, sir, and you know it,” Jeryl replies almost immediately. “Takeoff thrusters don’t usually kick in within the planet’s atmosphere. They only come in after the ion drives have brought the shuttle beyond the planet’s atmosphere.”

  Admiral Flynn smiles. “You really have been to a lot of planets for you to understand how these things work.”

  There is an uncomfortable silence.

  “Sir, what are you not telling me?” Jeryl asks. “If there’s something funny going on here, I need to know.”

  Admiral Flynn’s face goes dark as he remains silent. He’s not going to say anything more to Jeryl.

  Jeryl tries one more time.

  “Sir, it’s imperative that I remain in the loop. This negotiations and their future may very well be hanging on tenterhooks. I need to know if this were an accident or if it were a premeditated act of terrorism and violence that was committed to coincide with the non-human, anti-alien protests. Or, were these Terran nationalists?”

  Admiral Flynn draws closer to us, leaning into his desk.

  “I can’t say anything to you at this moment. But I wouldn’t rule out nationalists. Or, even the Terran Union.” Admiral Flynn says in a conspirator’s tone.

  And I lean back.

  The Terran Union?

  Sometimes, I really hate this fucking job.

  Ashley

  After the disaster of a meeting and the ever-worsening day, Jeryl proclaims that we need a night out. I can’t argue about that. Kindred Spirit, a flip-band we both like, is playing downtown at a club called The Ledge, a place we’ve been to several times in the past. It’s not exactly a high-society kind of place, but the food’s good and I like the band, too. We dress down a little—I show him more skin than I can when I’m on duty, which I know he likes—and call for a cab.

  At first he’s animated and happy—real Earth-imported whiskey will do that to anyone—stroking my thigh and making suggestive remarks (which he knows I like) but by the time we’re about halfway to our destination he’s fallen silent and is staring out the window at the light-filled city canyons as we wing through them. The skyways are full tonight, but the robot cab has no trouble avoiding other vehicles. It’s merely one of a flock of similar cabs. New Washington has the best traffic-control AIs in the Union. It has to.

  I try to distract Jeryl but he just responds to me with grunts or nods. When we get to The Ledge, I’ve had enough of his lousy mood, because it’s put me in one.

  I climb out of the cab and stalk to the edge of the landing stage while he pays our fare. We’re on the 51st floor, part of the building’s entertainment zone. Other nearby buildings have similar zones, each one geared toward a specific species. The different races have, it turns out, little tolerance for what others find amusing or diverting. The Ledge is entirely in human territory.

  Cabs layered with provocative advertising images and private air cars enameled with family crests float past the landing, avoiding antennae and other appurtenances projecting from the rooftops. Their warning lights flash variously carmine, amber and acid green.

  Normally I’d be enchanted by the sight of the Union’s most commercially powerful planet wearing its glittering evening finery, but unless Jeryl cheers up, this evening is going to be a failure.

  I hear his footsteps behind me as I gaze out over the city. “Ready to go inside?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I snap without looking at him. I’m being bitchy and I know it, but I feel justified. “Are you going to be cranky all night?”

  “Look, Ash, I’ve had a day. That asshole Terran Nationalist really pulled one over on all of us today. And I thought I could forget about it, but I can’t get the images of the fucking protestors out of my head, no matter how hard I try.”

  I can tell by his tone that he isn’t willing to pick a fight with me; he’s simply overwhelmed. I drop the bitchiness. “It’s more than that, baby. I can tell. You’ve dealt with assholes from a lot of species. I know it grates on you, but you’re good at it. It’s why you have the position you have.”

  He slides an arm around my waist. “Flynn isn’t telling us something,” he mutters, almost to himself.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  I feel his sigh, and press a little closer to him. Damn, the man feels good.

  “I mean he isn’t telling us something,” he says. “He knows something, something big. I think he wants to share it but he can’t. I’d bet you a hundred creds that Armada Intelligence has lowered the boom on him.”

  I scoff. “Flynn? Since when has he been afraid of Intelligence?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s it, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “If they can intimidate him, then it’s got to be big.”

  “Do you think it’s something that could affect your negotiations for the Council?”

  “I don’t know what else it could be,” Jeryl says. We turn away from the cityscape and head for the drop tube that will take us down to The Ledge.

  “I don’t understand.” I say. He steps aside and lets me enter the tube first. I step off into space, hovering there. “You think the negotiations are at risk? But how could that be, when everyone’s safe aboard The Seeker?”

  “But are they?”

  I hear the thud-thud-thud of Kindred Spirit’s bass increase as we descend. I want to dance; I don’t want to be discussing work. But he needs to. “What do you mean?” I ask him.

  “Well, look what happened to the Tyreesians. Their entire delegation—wiped out!”

  “But that was an accident. Malfunctioning thrusters. No one could have foreseen it.”

  I say the words, but I know inside how hollow they are. Jeryl was right when he said takeoff thrusters don’t kick in till a shuttle reaches the edge of a planet’s atmosphere. I know. I looked it up afterwards.

  We’ve been trying to fool ourselves.

  Because the alternative is something much, much worse.

  We have arrived at The Ledge’s level. We come to a halt and the drop-field gently pushes us forward as the glass door slides open. We step odd onto solid flooring as Jeryl asks, “If the Tyreesians don’t agree to send replacements, if they pull out of the Accords, then what?”

  “Do you think that could happen?” We are walking down the corridor toward the bar, and I have to raise my voice to be heard over the band.

  He shrugs. “I don’t make Tyreesian policy,” he says. “Unfortunately. But if they do pull out, then the Irivani, the Reznak, and maybe even the Drupadi could possibly leave as well. And where would that leave the Galactic Council?”

  “I never thought that was a good name,” I say. “I mean, it’s not as if it represents the entire galaxy, just a small chunk of
it.” This is a pet peeve of mine, and he knows it, but before he can say anything I add, “So do you want to find out what Flynn knows, or what?”

  He is saved from answering right away because we are entering the club. There are a few free tables, so we slide into its seats and order martinis from the cocktail waitress. She’s wearing a sheer one piece wraparound made of Vozelian silk. I eye Jeryl to see where his eyes land. Her nipples are sticking out and she’s obviously clad to get tips. But even she’s unable to move Jeryl out of his dour reverie.

  Instead, we order as if she was fully clothed. I take vodka, but Jeryl is a gin man, with olives rather than my preferred twist. The waitress sashays away.

  He is watching the couples dancing to Kindred Spirit, and this close to the band, a conversation isn’t possible until they break. I stand, take his hand. And pull him toward the floor. “A couple of tunes,” I say. “Then the drinks will be here.”

  When he smiles I immediately feel better: he won’t be a drag on the night after all. We allow the music to take us away for a few minutes.

  I love to dance, and although it isn’t his favorite activity, we go a couple of times a month because he is a good husband and likes to see me happy. It’s an endearing quality. After two more songs, the band announces a fifteen-minute break. We head back to our table where two autocold glasses wait for us, condensation beaded on their sides.

  The Ledge makes a good martini; it’s one reason we come here. After a couple of sips he says, “After the war ended, the Armada has kept all the information about it classified.”

  I shrug my acknowledgement. Everyone knows this.

  “That’s everything; tactical info, strategic info, scientific and technological...all locked down in the name of Union security.”

  I shrug again. Where’s he going with this?

  He leans back in his seat. “Don’t you find that a little odd? It’s like a bunker mentality that you can’t really see unless you’ve lived outside of the Union.”