The Ghost Fleet

by Trevor Wyatt

  That proclamation elicited a growl.

  “If you won’t tell me your real name, then Ethan will have to do,” Marcus wagged the towel like a lecturer, “Now be still.”

  Ethan obeyed only because his desire to be clean outweighed his desire for murder. The wet towel was soothing against his slits.

  “There. Now I can see who I’m talking to. We’re going to run some more tests on you to try to figure out how you bypassed the thiopental-4, among other things. You’re a unique patient, Ethan,” Marcus stood to rinse the towel and folded it, lowering it over Ethan’s slits, “I’m going to draw some blood now.”

  Ethan flinched as the needle hit its mark. It only lasted a second before the orange capped vial began to fill slowly. He couldn’t do anything and he was beginning to accept that. He let himself relax a little as the cool towel eased his throbbing head.

  Marcus

  After the blood draw, tissue cultures, and a saline drip for dehydration, Marcus ordered an MRI. Far from the cumbersome machine conceived centuries ago, a tech brought a handheld scanner and slowly passed it over Ethan’s body. It only took two minutes.

  “That wasn’t so bad. I’ll be back to check on you later,” Marcus slipped out and rushed down the hall.

  He sat the tablet on the desk to catch the results as soon as they came in, then slumped on his stool. Exhaustion took its toll and he caught himself nodding off more than once. A soft rap at the door startled him enough to jump off the stool. He turned and smiled as he saw Trevor on the other side of the glass and nodded for him to enter.

  “Sir? I need to talk to you about something personal.”

  “Close the door. Sit.” Marcus popped a stim tab and let it dissolve under his tongue.

  “I, um, know about your diagnosis,” Trevor flinched.

  “Huh?”

  “The DID. I’ve known about it for years.”

  “Oh, that,” Marcus gave a dismissive wave, but his heart sank, “It’s under control. Does everyone know about it?”

  Trevor shook his head, “Only me. I’m telling you now because I know what you’re planning. We both know the consequences, Marcus.”

  “Yes,” Marcus sighed, “I’m prepared.”

  “I understand. Since I can’t talk you out of it, I’m with you.”

  Marcus looked at Trevor in horror, “No. I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

  “You don’t have a choice. I’m with you. I would tell you to get some sleep first but that’s a moot point. When you’re ready, I’ll be right behind you,” Like a son lecturing an elderly parent, Trevor stood and gave Marcus a look of stern determination, “Don’t start without me.”

  Marcus felt his determination wilt. He could be brave working alone but Trevor and Becka were the only people he cared about. Well, there was no turning back. The results had not come in yet, but it didn’t matter. He slipped his tablet in one pocket and a bottle of stimulants in the other. Hesitating only a moment, he jerked the office door open and made the long journey back to Section 23. Maybe Trevor would get lucky by not catching up in time.

  Ethan

  It was actually a comfortable bed, after he was cleaned and the pain subsided. No one bothered him after the talkative doctor left. Besides the restraints, his only discomfort was intense hunger. He slipped in and out of consciousness, just thankful they let him sleep.

  He had no idea how much time had passed when the chatty doctor next interrupted him. Just go away and let me die in peace. He wanted to scream, but wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. They can do their poking, prodding, scanning, and incessant talking, but he wouldn’t make it easy for them. The only reason he was still alive was because he was an anomaly, and he knew that wouldn’t last long.

  Marcus barely spoke this time, and he wasn’t alone. The stern woman stood in the doorway, looking pensive. Good. Let her be the one afraid. He threw her a snarl for good measure.

  “We’re just waiting for your MRI results,” Marcus removed the IV, tossing the cannula over the empty saline bag and sat on the stool.

  The woman must have decided she wasn’t needed and walked away, leaving the door open. Marcus watched from the corner of his eye. Once she was out of earshot he leaned in slightly.

  “When these kick in, it’s imperative you remain perfectly still until I return,” he whispered, digging in his pocket. One last glance back to make sure no one watched and slipped three caplets in his mouth. They tasted sweet and began dissolving immediately.

  His eyes popped open as the stimulants kicked in. Suddenly he needed to move. Needed free. Marcus frowned and shook his head and Ethan forced himself to remain calm. The soft beeping of the monitor sped up, then slowed. Marcus nodded and stalked out.

  Marcus

  Marcus stepped into Edie’s office without knocking, “It’s time to take him to surgical. I’m just waiting for—,” He turned his head in surprise at the little fake cough behind him, “Nevermind.”

  “Shouldn’t I do this?” Edie asked. Marcus didn’t blame her. She was the MD, after all.

  “If this goes sideways, the fault is mine and you’ll get a promotion.”

  Edie frowned her skepticism as Marcus slipped out of the office. But the next second, he came face to face with Trevor.

  “Leaving without you was a hint,” Marcus hissed, “Go back to your office.”

  “I’ve always been behind you. You forgot this,” Trevor handed him his personal tablet, “In six minutes a select few of the doors will glitch. On screen is the route.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you?”

  “Sir, you’re a genius, but you have the planning skills of a teenager.”

  Marcus slipped the tablet in his pocket and detoured to the front door. Luckily there were no interns to worry about, only the guards and Edie.

  “Who thinks of everything, Doctor Carson?” One of the guards asked.

  “Trevor,” Marcus said absently. He approached the guards, standing nose to nose with them.

  “Who is Trevor?”

  “My assistant,” Marcus held his gloved middle fingers up. Their looks of indignation were worth it as he reached up and tapped them each under the chin. The guard on the right collapsed and before the other could react, he switched, touching his own face with the left finger and the guard’s with the right. He collapsed on top of his partner and Marcus ran.

  “Edie!” He barreled into her office, flushed and panting. She jumped from her stool and ran toward him, worry in her eyes. He felt a twinge of guilt as he touched her neck and watched her crumple. She would live, and so would the guards.

  He didn’t have time to properly test it, but they should be awake in an hour, with the last two minutes of memory gone. By using the left glove to ground, touching the head and neck sent a powerful and specific EM pulse to the limbic system. Any more power would fry the brain, but an hour of unconsciousness and two minutes of amnesia were enough. He powered down the gloves as he sprinted back to cell 18 and furiously worked to loosen his patient’s restraints.

  “I didn’t sign up for this bullshit, and neither did you,” He muttered, “Trevor, help me.”

  The Sonali looked at him with dubious eyes and struggled against the restraints. He growled in frustration, but still no words.

  “Stop that. You’re making it harder. Trevor!”

  Ethan settled down and let Marcus work. Finally, the legs broke free so he moved to the abdominal restraint.

  “I can’t help you with this. I’m always behind you, but you’re the one in charge. The best I can do is help you make better decisions,” Trevor said, “Becka and I only want to help you. Listening is your decision.”

  Marcus stopped and turned around, “Becka?”

  “Becka and I only want to help you. Listening is your decision. You’re not eating or sleeping. Your behavior is erratic, and your short term memory is shit. You have to get back on your meds,” Trevor lectured as he chopped vegetables for their dinner.

&nb
sp; Becka sat on the couch with a sympathetic look. When she said he offered to cook them dinner, Marcus was pleasantly surprised. That quickly turned to embarrassment and shame when he realized they were staging an intervention.

  “I’m fine, just...busy,” he shrugged and thought that would be the end of it.

  Becka held his hand and looked him in the eyes with grim determination, “No, sweetheart, you’re not. If you can’t promise to take your meds, we’re going to have to report you to Corporate and Doctor Winslow.”

  With each word, Marcus zoned out a little more. The chatter began, drowning out Becka and Trevor’s chopping. When the chatter finally stopped, Marcus sat on the couch alone, bloody hands draped between his knees. He glanced over to the kitchen entrance and wasn’t surprised. Becka’s body covered Trevor’s, tangled together in a red viscous heap.

  Everyone assumed they ran away together, case closed.

  Ethan

  Marcus ran into the room with wild eyes and began tugging at the restraints like a madman. He kept looking back and yelling for someone named Trevor to help. Ethan didn’t fully understand what was happening, only that the good doctor was trying to set him free and had either gone mad, or overdosed on those stimulants. Impatience got the better of him and he struggled until Marcus chastised him. He wasn’t helping. He settled down and wondered at this man who helped him, all the while acting as if he wasn’t even there.

  Legs freed, torso freed, then Marcus froze and turned around, “Becka?” He didn’t move, just stood there listening to nothing.

  It was time to break his silence. It seemed a foolish protest now, so he lifted his foot and pushed Marcus, “Doctor!” He winced as the raspy word stung his throat.

  Marcus stumbled a couple of feet and shook his head before rushing back to his side, at last freeing his arms.

  Ethan jumped out of the bed, bare feet slapping on the tile, “Why do you free me?”

  “I’m a researcher. I don’t do dissection,” he pulled out the tablet, “Two minutes.”

  Ethan grunted and followed Marcus out the door. They ran down the corridor, each grabbing a taser rifle as they pass. The doctor was not only helping him to escape, but trusted him with a weapon. He set it to the maximum power level and kept running until they reached the front door. He smirked in approval at the guards heaped in front of it.

  Marcus glanced at the tablet. Ethan looked over his shoulder. The route was outlined in red with a timer counting down. One minute ten seconds.

  “Now we wait,” Marcus said.

  Ethan nodded and stared at the guard on top. No, that wouldn’t do. He nudged him with a foot and he rolled off the second guard. Yes, that was better.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Clothes.” He set the rifle down and yanked on the boots. They slid off the dead man’s feet with ease so he set them aside and took the pants. They were loose, but would stay up. He pulled them on, followed by the boots. Those were too tight and the shirt would never fit, and one look at the blue skin would be a giveaway, but it was better than an infirmary gown.

  The route turned green as the countdown reached zero. Marcus stepped over the guards and opened the door with ease. He shouldered the rifle and fiddled with his strange gloves. Most doors were closed and all the corridors looked the same. If not for the map, he would be lost in the first turn. They ran in silence, both occupied with watching for trouble.

  The stimulants made him hyper-alert and more than a little paranoid. He could have sworn someone was following them more than once. When he looked back the corridor was empty. How big was this place. They had already made five rights and seven lefts, and the doctor showed no signs of slowing down as they passed through one section door after another. It was strange. Why had they not encountered any humans yet? His question was answered as Marcus slowed them down, half jogging to next door.

  “Those were closed sections. Here it gets interesting,” He whispered and grabbed the handle, “Go!”

  Ethan readied his rifle and Marcus yanked the door handle. They sprinted across the corridor, ready to fight. Open section doors sprinkled the path, but most inside were too busy to notice. For a moment he thought they would make it to the end. The door was only a few paces ahead.

  “Hey!” A voice behind them shouted.

  They ducked their heads and sped up, pushing the stimulants to their limits. They reached the door just as a siren began wailing. Marcus opened it and let Ethan through. Glorious fresh air filled his lungs and he inhaled deeply, smiling back at his cohort. He froze that way. The crazy slag stood just inside the doorway with that wild look in his eyes again. Three guards closed in behind him.

  “Shoot me,” Marcus said.

  Ethan shook his head.

  “Shoot me! The building will go on lockdown and you’ll have a chance. Do it now!”

  “Why?” They could escape together. The order made no sense.

  “Atonement,” Marcus said simply. The wild look in his eyes died, replaced with emptiness.

  Ethan nodded, “My name is Zehlege,” he confessed and fired. Atonement was a concept he knew all too well.

  Marcus dropped and the door swung shut. The last thing he saw was the dismay of the torpid guards before it slammed.

  TUS Terror

  I am sitting with a group of commanders in the officer’s mess of the TUS Terror. The four of us are gathered around a small square table 6. Commander Tadius is to my right, while Commander Hadley sits to my left. Across from me is Commander Chen. Commander Tadius is the head of security, while Commander Hadley is head of engineering. Commander Chen is the science officer.

  “Okay,” I say, bringing their attention back to me. “We only have a few minutes to talk before one of us gets called.”

  They nod in agreement.

  There aren’t a lot of officers about the TUS Terror, so the officers’ mess hall is quite small. There are only about five tables and three sets of food dispensers. The TUS Terror is an attack frigate; small in comparison to some of the front line vessels the Armada is throwing at the Sonali. At the moment we are the only officers in the mess, and we have the door closed so no passersby would see us.

  “It’s getting difficult out there, Craig,” says Tadius, my good friend for over ten years. Tadius is a tall, square chested black man with a bushy mass of hair that is lined with streaks of white. He’s a married man with two kids, who are all living in New Washington.

  Commander Tadius is an exemplary officer, with a track record that speaks for itself. Tadius would never complain about anything, even if he couldn’t do anything about it. He’s the kind of guy that would prefer to suffer in silence than say something. However, the tides of the war, which are terribly against us has brought forth the angry man in him.

  He’s laid back against his chair, with his hands folded across his barrel chest. He shakes his head, his eyes filled with fear. “It’s bad out there.”

  “Worse than what Command is letting out, I assure you,” I say. I am not one to be suggestive of anything untoward. I form my opinion and keep them to myself when they’re negative. However, when I see someone else, especially a colleague leaning towards the same opinion, I conclude that it wouldn’t exactly be suggestive if I let them know that I felt the same way they do.

  The truth is, we’re losing the war. The death and destruction has been on a catastrophic scale. The Terran Council and the President, instead of pushing for a cease-fire or a diplomatic solution, are putting more and more pressure on the Armada and the Council of Corporations.

  They are pressuring the Armada for more results, and this pressure filters right down to even new recruits. They are pressuring the corporations, especially those ones involved in manufacturing and building starships. Under this level of tension and stress, especially now that we are on the brink of total loss, mistakes are being made.

  Captains are leading their crews to needless death because of the need to win—the rush to win. Admirals are no longer spe
nding as much time strategizing. No one is thinking tactically now. With one colony being destroyed almost every week, with the Armada stretched thin across our borders, and with our borders thinning and thinning with time, everyone is throwing everything to stop the irrevocable advance of the Sonali.

  And the Sonali seem to realize that we are now desperate. They’re taking their time, mounting strategic attacks and destroying us one after the other. They aren’t pressing their advantage when one is created, because they outgun, outclass, and out power us more than three to one.

  The corporations that are rushing to produce more starships to meet up with the losses, but they can’t keep up.

  This isn’t what we signed up for. No, it isn’t. We didn’t sign up to be slaughtered by an aggressive race across the stars. Yes, we want to save the Terran Union. Yes, we will gladly give everything for the Union, but we can’t do so needlessly. We can’t keep sacrificing the lives of our officer and soldiers without cause.

  It’s one thing to give one’s life for the cause; it’s another thing to give one’s life for the cause when there’s a better option. Nevertheless, I realize the need to keep up with the war. Utmost care and caution need to be rendered to ensure that we are not rushing to hasten our destruction. As it is now, we are on the brink of loss.

  “I hear Command has reduced the number of months for new recruits to eighteen months,” Commander Chen says, with a disgusted expression on his face. “I wonder what they learn within two months. Our ships are now filled up with half-baked conscripts, a lot of whom have no discipline nor regard for the guiding principles that form the Armada.”

  “Do we still have guiding principles?” I say. Even though I try to hide it, my voice is thick with bitterness.

  They all look at me, impassive.