The Ghost Fleet

by Trevor Wyatt

“There’s nowhere to go except Kaselux! What’s the point? You were going there anyway.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  The airlock clangs shut and I hear the deep cough of the shuttle’s thrusters as they come online with their preliminary burn. I know that note; the mains will fire in less than ten seconds and she isn’t going to bother opening the bay’s outer doors. If I don’t want to be sucked out into space, I have to move.

  And move I do, with moments to spare. The shuttle bay’s bulkhead clangs shut behind me as I dive through it, cutting of the roar of the mains.

  I sag against the far wall of the corridor outside the bay. That was close. I get to my feet and am dusting myself off when the security detail burst into the corridor, weapons at the ready.

  Shaking my head at them, I say, ruefully, “She’s gone. I want to know how this happened. I want to know who was responsible for programming those medbots. I want this followed right back to the manufacturer if need be!”

  One of the guards is chewing his lips. He doesn’t look the least bit happy.

  “What?” I snarl at him.

  “There...” The man’s voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again.

  “A corvette—most likely space pirate,” he says. “Must’ve been cloaked somehow. Popped up right on the screens just now, and she slid into its bay, as slick as dammit.”

  “She what? Holy jumping Judas!”

  It’s all I can do not to burst out with a cheer. I can barely believe it. With a fake scowl pasted to my face I stalk back to my quarters, where I pour myself a shot of tequila and toast her successful getaway.

  Sometimes things work out.

  Tales From The Sonali War Vol. 1

  Copyright © 2017 by Pax Aeterna Press

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.

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  Part I

  The Ribhus Incident

  Marcus

  Marcus

  “Doctor Carson.”

  “What?” Marcus’s head snapped up to glare at his assistant, who shoved a bag in his face. From the tone, he guessed Trevor had been trying to get his attention for a while, but he was too intent on the data readings on the tablet.

  “Dinner.”

  Marcus took the bag, which reeked of grease, and smiled in apology, “Sorry, Trev. I just can’t seem to make heads or tails of these readings.”

  “Another all-nighter?”

  “I’m afraid so. You can go. Enjoy your rest.”

  Trevor nodded and turned to go. Before taking that first step out of the office, he hung his head and turned back, “I’ll call your wife,” he sighed and plodded to the office next door, “Eat your dinner,” he called before picking up the phone.

  Trevor was the best assistant Marcus ever had. As the reluctant head of Weapons R&D of Ribhus Industries, he was thrilled to have someone willing to take care of the logistics so he could focus on the science.

  Trevor also made sure that he always ate. He grinned and dug a fat sandwich out of the bag. Trevor found a reference to an old recipe and improvised the ingredients that could no longer be found. He still called it “cheesesteak” although there was no meat nor cheese in it, and Marcus had the suspicion he made the pocket bread from scratch. It was his favorite, and Trevor brought it at least twice a week. Marcus absently took a bite while thumbing through the readouts when the screen froze.

  That could only mean one thing. His gut rumbled in protest when he put the sandwich down and waited. Giant neon orange letters took up the entire screen.

  Alert! Section 23 blinked in and out, filling him with dread as he slipped the tablet in his lab coat pocket and ran.

  “Trevor!” He yelled as he slid the keycard in the lock. Trevor was already two inches behind, waiting patiently for the door. The light turned green and Marcus jerked it open, speeding down the hall.

  Section 23, the reason Dr. Marcus Carson had written a letter of resignation that he was too chicken to hand over to Corporate. With their classified military contracts, he would disappear. Or worse, his wife would vanish. He knew he should have some fanatic patriotism for the Terran Union, but he had seen too much in the two short years since the war began. He had built too much at the behest of the military and Corporate, and held no illusions of innocence. Section 23 was the worst. Taking a deep breath, he slid the keycard down and punched the extra security code into the number pad. He pulled the door open and two elderly security guards blocked the way, staring at him with expressionless faces. They parted to make a path for the two then closed back in. It was almost laughable to think they could protect anything, but the last person to mistake their ages for weakness was still in the infirmary. These were hardened military men, and the toughest employees in the lab. If they were here, shit just hit the fan.

  The Section Head, a stern woman named Edie, met them in front of her office and nodded toward the back, so they followed. If she were walking any faster Marcus would have to jog to keep up. She led them down the endless hallway of cells made of soundproof triple-paned security glass. For added security, taser rifles are ready in their docking stations every third cell. In each cell was a Sonali patient shipped in for experimentation. All of them were in medically induced comas, as if that made it more humane. The only thing they have learned so far is the Sonali had slightly different reactions to electromagnetic frequencies. Not enough to be notable. Edie stopped in front of cell 18 and stared pointedly inside. Ethan rolled his eyes. Edie had the most annoying habit of only gesturing without words. He looked over and saw the problem. The Sonali prisoner was sitting up, staring daggers at them with blue blood running from his eyes and nose.

  “What the hell is that?” Marcus asked.

  He brought out his tablet and exited the alert screen. He tapped again to bring up the stats for the Sonali, a low-level officer whom Marcus named Ethan. He sucked in his breath and looked from the tablet to the patient, and back again.

  “That, Marcus, is a clusterfuck,” Edie said, her voice shaky.

  Marcus jerked his head up to stare at her in shock. Edie was the most professional scientist in the entire lab. She never swore. She gave him a Yep, I said that look. He smiled and went back to the stats. They told him the Sonali patient was in Delta sleep with no REM, yet there he was, sitting up and focusing. He glared at each of them in turn as if trying to decide who was in charge.

  “Sleep disorder?” Marcus asked.

  “Negative,” Edie answered.

  “Virus?”

  “Negative.”

  He checked the stats again. There were no spikes in the thalamus, the EEG remained calm throughout. Either Ethan felt no pain, or all the readings were incorrect. Another possibility hit him and his heart began to pound. Whether in excitement or fear, he wasn’t sure just yet.

  “Monitor all of the patients closely. I think this one rejected the thiopental-4.” He refused to call them prisoners. They were patients and Section 23 was a medical lab. It was the only way he could live with himself.

  Edie nodded and they turned to walk back to the offices, and that’s when all hell broke loose.

  Ethan ran straight for them, slamming into the glass and bouncing off. Screaming in rage, he jumped up and did it again, leaving blood smears in his wake. Undeterred, he slammed the glass over and over in a futile attempt to get at them. Trevor paled and looked as if he would vomit, but Edie just studied the behavior like a good scientist. Marcus was fascinated, and a bit frightened at the thought of the patient killing himself, preventing further study.

  Edie’s fingers flew over her tablet. A few seconds later Marcus heard the clunky stomping of the guards r
ushing from the front. Ethan had taken to slamming himself all around the cell, flinging blue blood everywhere. The glass looked like it was filled with blue mist and he found himself wondering how much blood a Sonali could lose before death. They hadn’t experimented with that yet, and he damn sure wouldn’t suggest it. The guards grabbed taser rifles out of their docks without missing a beat, halting in front of the cell. The three doctors backed up until they hit the door of the adjacent cell.

  “On your command, sir.”

  “Don’t kill him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marcus tapped the screen and the cell door slid open. He held his breath and his heart thudded in his ears. Ethan screamed and rushed the guards. They pulled their triggers and he dropped just outside the door.

  After making sure he was actually unconscious, the guards shackled him and dragged him back to bed. It wasn’t until he was secured to the railing that Marcus let himself breathe. He looked to his right. Edie was shaken, but thoughtful. Like him, she probably had a million equations running through her head. To his left, Trevor looked faint but composed. The boy took up cooking two years before when the war started. That was when the focus shifted to building weapons that could match Sonali technology. He said cooking relieved stress and since he had no one to share it with, Marcus ate very well. Chances were, he’d have something for the entire lab tomorrow.

  When the guards finished, he secured the door. He was eager to get away from cell 18, walking as fast as possible. No one else dawdled either, and was sure the bloody Sonali would be the subject of all their dreams tonight.

  Ethan

  Ethan woke up and didn’t know where he was. He tried to look around, but his head wouldn’t move. He couldn’t see much because blue haze filled his vision. He was in a bed. Blinking hurt but cleared his sight enough to see medical equipment and beds on either side. More of his kind lay there, sleeping or dead. The only sound was the gentle beeping of some kind of monitor. He assumed it was for his pulse, but the design was so basic it was hard to tell. That meant humans. He must have been captured and didn’t even remember his name, much less who captured him and why. He only had the feeling he should be ashamed for surviving.

  He sat up and the pain barreled into him. It felt like his head and arm were on fire. He took several deep breaths, squashing the pain until it was tolerable and pulled the needle out of his arm. Once he started to think clearly he turned his head. A skinny human woman in a white overcoat was staring at him in shock. All he could do was stare back. She started furiously tapping her tablet and he knew she was calling for backup. He took the opportunity to glance around, looking for weaknesses in the cell. He was sure the glass was reinforced in some way, but was it reinforced enough?

  Another gawker in an overcoat ran up. His mouth was moving but there was no sound. Finally, he realized that he was gushing blood from his eyes and nose. He glared at them, wondering if they were going to do anything about it. They just stood there gawking, talking, and tapping.

  The old man. He was in charge. Knowing it was futile, he decided to get their attention. They might kill him, or he might bleed out. He refused to disgrace himself further by going quietly. Giving the old man a bloody glare he would never forget, Ethan charged the door.

  He had a miniscule sense of satisfaction at the fear in their eyes before they finally opened the door and shot him down.

  Marcus

  He would never tell anyone how much the sight of the blood soaked Sonali patient haunted him. Trevor knew. He didn’t say a word as they walked back to Section 01.

  “Go home,” Marcus sighed, “There will be plenty of extra work tomorrow.”

  “If you finish your sandwich.”

  He picked up the sandwich and took a bite, “Happy?”

  “No,” But he turned and walked out, calling, “Goodnight,” to the room in general.

  Marcus put the sandwich down and closed the office door. The readings from earlier would have to wait as he brought out the tablet and set it on the desk. He fished his keys out of the other pocket to unlock the middle drawer and slipped a second tablet out of its hiding place above the lip. This one was identical to the last with one difference. There was no uplink to the corporate cloud. It was where he kept all his private notes. Corporate didn’t need to know every little idea he had, and he didn’t like to give them over until they were fully formed into a cohesive plan of action.

  The project in his head was simple enough and should be finished by sunup. Call him old fashioned, but he worked things out much better when he wrote by hand, the way people used to do in the olden days—before humanity left for the stars. He pushed the button to clear the wall-sized eraser board and flicked on the auto stylus. He had the board half full by the time the lab went dark and the last intern left.

  He used the opportunity to raid all the intern workstations for tools and equipment. If he calculated correctly, he should be done just before Trevor arrived in the morning. He loaded up on caffeine and more potent stimulants he shouldn’t have. Even so, he felt himself slipping into the trance that always occurred when he was embroiled in a new project. He never knew what he had done until looking it over again. This time he was lost in a spin of unknown voices screaming at him, like being at a crowded concert. He couldn’t distinguish one from the other, but his hands kept moving as if they understood everything.

  The alarm went off and he snapped out of it. The board was full and the desk was a wreck with bits of electronics scattered everywhere. In his hands were two devices. One clearly labeled “left” and the other “right”. They looked like gloves with all but the middle fingers missing. He slipped on the fingers and made sure the band down the palms were straight before cinching the wristbands. It was a good fit. He thumbed the micro buttons and they powered up silently. A gentle thrum against his palm tells him it was good to go. These beauties used one’s own bioelectricity as a battery, the tips of the fingers positive and negative ends, respectively. Not a powerful weapon, but good for more discreet operations. Ribhus Industries would be pleased if he let them have it. Most likely a good bonus if he submitted it.

  Marcus had just enough time to clean up and hide his personal tablet before Trevor showed up with a box full of food containers. From the looks of him, he didn’t sleep at all. Marcus hadn’t expected him to, but he had to get out of this blasted place. He set the box down on the nearest station. One of the interns would distribute it later. Marcus waved him over, bringing up the stats on Ethan.

  An alert flashed across the screen as he walked into the office. New orders for Section 23, Cell 18. Exploratory surgery followed by a full necropsy. In other words, cut him open. When he bled to death, cut him open some more. To buy time, Marcus requested preliminary diagnostics first, to make sure they had gained all the intel possible.

  “You look sick,” Trevor was genuinely concerned, he was just that kind of man.

  Marcus silently handed him the tablet. It took a moment for the implication to sink in, but then all the color drained from his face as well.

  He handed the tablet back and sat on the stool beside Marcus, “What should I do, sir?”

  Marcus just looked at him a moment, considering the hidden inference of the question, then shook his head, “When I tell you to go home, go. No questions.”

  Trevor gave a firm nod, “Remember before the war when Ribhus looked for cures and designed equipment to make the food industry more productive? Ah, well,” he sighed and stood, shuffling out the door. It was the shuffle of a conquered young man.

  Marcus would pity him if he didn’t feel the same. As it was, they were stuck, and there was nothing to be done about it. Not if they wanted to survive. One word of contention and he would never see his Becka again. Trevor would never cook another meal. It seemed wrong that he was more afraid of Ribhus Industries than the entire Terran Union, or the Sonali for that matter. It wasn’t the life he envisioned fresh out of University, but when the war started, he and everyon
e else had no choice. At first, the money was good. But now...it wasn’t enough. Not for what they wanted.

  The tablet flashed with the answer he was waiting for. The green light for further testing before exploratory surgery. He hoped they would take their time responding so he could prepare, but at least the answer was affirmative.

  Ethan

  The cell door slid open and the misnamed Sonali squinted at the intruder. He had actually managed a few hours of sleep and hated the disturbance. After they bound him to the bed, they never bothered to check on him. He had crusted blood all over himself and it was starting to itch. At least the bleeding had stopped, but his slits pulsated into the back of his skull. The glaring light exacerbate the agony, which he channeled into anger. Even if he didn’t have the opportunity for revenge, he would rather die angry than hopeless. The older doctor from the day before rolled a stool next to the bed and perched, studying Ethan closely. The Sonali tried to pour all of his hatred into his slits, aware that he was in no way threatening.

  The doctor finally relaxed with a tiny smirk, “It seems you’ve overcome the effects of the thiopental-4. The only creature, human or otherwise, to do so. How did you do it?”

  Ethan only glared.

  “I know you understand. We embedded a translator chip in your ear. So, how did you do it?”

  I want to rip your spine out and use it as a garrote.

  “Hmm. Since I’m doing all the talking, you should know I ramble. Well. I see your bleeding has stopped. Let’s wash that dried shit off you,” he walked to the small sink, slapped on obnoxious orange nitrile gloves, and wet a towel, “My name is Dr. Marcus Carson. Since I don’t know yours, I’ve called you Ethan.”