The Tide_Ghost Fleet

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  “All the same, you get to step off this rig,” Tag said.

  “I promise I’ll bring you some nice souvenirs to make up for it.”

  “That’d be appreciated.”

  “Maybe some alien blood samples or something.”

  “Even better, bring back the whole alien,” Tag said.

  Kaufman laughed. “We’ll see what we can do.” She guided Tag and Morgan past a couple of awestruck engineers. “How are the experiments going?” She was one of the only crew members aboard the ship that showed interest in Tag’s work, and he enjoyed their conversations on both his work and the scientific theories involved.

  “As good as always,” he replied. As much as he wanted to talk science with her, the sight of the viewport kept all thoughts of microscopes and cellular biology at bay. Morgan had been right. This was a good deal more interesting than the neural cells, and he couldn’t help staring at the beautiful images swirling before them.

  “Here. Saved you both a couple of seats,” Kaufman said. She sat on a bench next to a marine with a Mohawk and another with arms as thick as Tag’s torso. The other half-dozen marines at the table passed around an unmarked bottle, pouring and throwing back drinks.

  The marine with the Mohawk looked Tag and Morgan up and down. “What? You bring us a couple of snacks, Kaufman?”

  “No room for science geeks here,” the other, Williams, said with a derisive scoff. “This table’s reserved for the big boys.”

  “Make room and show some respect.” Kaufman shoved Williams. Tag squeezed in beside her, and Morgan sat across from them. “When we get down on that planet and some alien blows your brain out, these guys will be the ones that put it back in.”

  Williams brushed a hand over his shaved scalp and winked. “Aren’t you growing fresh brains in that lab, Dr. Frankenstein?”

  “He sure is,” Kaufman said before Tag could answer.

  “Though I’m not sure you’d understand how we do it,” Morgan said with a smirk.

  “All I was looking for was a ‘yes,’” Williams said. “I don’t care about all the science mumbo-jumbo.” He downed another glass of whatever he was drinking and leaned closer to Tag. “If I lose mine, why don’t you just grow me a new one? Or better yet, grow me a spare so it’s ready to go when I get back.”

  Kaufman eyed Tag knowingly. “Afraid the doc can’t do that. It takes months to grow a brain, so that’s no dice for you.”

  “Don’t be too hasty,” Tag said. “You’re half right.” Kaufman’s expression dropped. “It takes months to grow a normal-sized artificial brain. But if all I have to replace is one the size of Williams’s, I think I can get that done in a day or two.”

  “That’s cold, Doc. Ice cold.” Williams grinned then poured a drink and passed it to Tag.

  He threw it back. The drink, whatever it was, burned the back of his throat, and he pinched his lips together, refusing to cough in front of the others. It took him a moment to recover as he watched the viewport.

  Something new caught his eye. Not a planet. Not a star. A shadow moved into the outboard cam’s view. The dark silhouette slid over snow-covered Eta-Five like a lurking barracuda.

  “What is that?” Tag said, rising from the table. His pulse quickened.

  Kaufman’s eyes went wide. “Three hells, I thought we were the only ship out here.”

  “We are,” Williams said. He paused for a beat. “Or, we were.”

  Tag’s heart climbed into his throat. The ghostly ship moved to the edge of the cam’s view. For a brief moment, he held his breath. An itching sensation crept into the back of Tag’s mind. The ship loomed larger, closer, then disappeared under the cam’s view.

  This isn’t right.

  “How did we miss something like that?” Morgan asked.

  His question remained unanswered. A huge clanging sound reverberated through the mess, and the Argo shook.

  “All hands to battle stations,” Captain Weber’s voice boomed. “I repeat, all hands to battle stations.”

  Kaufman and the other marines shot from their seats and rushed to the exit. A tide of people flooded between the tables and spilled into the corridors. Startled voices called all around Tag. He looked for Morgan, but the man was already gone.

  A distant explosion echoed through the Argo. The outboard cams went dark, and the viewport crackled then went blank. The ship jolted as if the engines had kicked in again, and it started forward. But the acceleration was short lived. A deafening bang sounded somewhere on another deck, and more yells sounded out. Tag pushed through the other crew members and made his way out of the mess.

  Metal screeched, echoing in the passageway, accompanied by the unyielding wail of klaxons. Malicious red lights spun over the faces of men and women, their expressions wrought with a mixture of panic and gritty determination. Their voices cried out, creating an incomprehensible cacophony in concert with the thunder of heavy footfalls as they dashed to their battle stations, churning around Tag. He needed to get to the medical bay, but he prayed the crew wouldn’t need him there.

  They’ll be fine, he thought as he spotted a contingency of marines donning full power armor rushing through the corridor. But a sinking feeling in his gut told him he was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Tag slammed against the bulkhead, knocked off his feet by a tremor resonating through the ship with a growling roar. Pain coursed through his head where his skull had impacted the shining alloy, and his hand instinctively shot to the site of the injury. He could already feel the knot of bruised tissue that would push up against his skin. But his concern over the contusion gave way to a new threat.

  A robotic voice droned through the ship’s comms, “Unauthorized boarding. Unauthorized boarding.” While hell erupted all around him in the SRES Argo, Tag recovered and sprinted for the medical bay on instinct, his mind racing as fast as his feet could carry him.

  “What the hell’s going on now?” Tag yelled out, but he received no answers.

  There weren’t supposed to be any other vessels in this sector of space. No known spacefaring species and no human ships. Yet the warning continued: “Unauthorized boarding.” Whatever—or whoever—was in that mysterious ship had taken them unaware and unprepared.

  The Argo shook more violently than before. Tag fell again and crashed into a nearby engineer wearing a grease-stained coverall. His jaw cracked against the engineer’s shoulder, and his teeth bit down hard on his tongue. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, and his vision blurred. He grabbed a stanchion to brace himself. With fresh pain rattling his skull, he stood on shaky legs then sprinted down the passage. People thronged past him as he pushed forward, ignoring the flashing lights and screaming alarms.

  A new noise pierced the din. An unhealthy grinding sound bellowed through the wide hatch at the end of the corridor. Tag winced, holding his hands up to shield his face, then willed his thumping heart to settle. A dangerous curiosity tugged at him, urging him to peer through the hatch. The open hatch led to the expansive cargo bay, and Tag guessed that was where he’d find the purported unauthorized boarders forcing their way onto the ship. As if to confirm his suspicions, a squad of marines rushed through, clad in gleaming power armor suits and bristling with weapons. The hatch slammed shut behind them. More men and women flowed down the passageway, and Tag was swept up in the current. The crowd started to disperse as the medical bay hatch appeared in the bulkhead to his right. A marine shouldered past him as he made it to the hatch and opened it.

  “Dr. Brewer, I’m back here!” The gruff voice of Morgan cut through the chaos. What in the three hells is he doing in the patient regen chamber? The cylindrical chamber’s blue glass doors slid open, revealing a host of tubes and straps to hold patients in. Morgan stepped out before Tag could vocalize his concern.

  “Just resetting the biosensors,” Morgan offered.

  “Good. Let’s get ’em all prepped!” Tag said.

  He and Morgan rushed to the other chambers. The regen chambers
were designed for life-threatening injuries, internal bleeding, missing limbs, and other horrible maladies. Tag primed the pumps that would deliver painkillers, nanofiber mesh bandages, and engineered cells designed to supercharge the healing response in a patient’s body. They’d only had to use them once when a mechanic on a spacewalk neglected to engage the safety on his hull drill. The man had lost a fist-sized chunk from his calf, but a week of regen chamber treatments had restored the destroyed muscle and tendons. Tag feared the chambers were about to see a great deal more use.

  “What is going on out there?” Tag shouted over the grating sounds bouncing in from the passageway.

  “I don’t have a goddamned clue,” Morgan yelled over the alarms. “Must be pirates or something!”

  “This far out?” Tag replied, nonplussed.

  “Hey, I didn’t exactly have time to stop someone and ask!”

  Tag primed the last regen chamber and strode to the middle of the bay.

  “Set up triage stations,” he ordered.

  “You got it.” Morgan was already digging through a cabinet full of supplies. With a stack of polymer-infused bandages, tourniquets, and other goods in his arms, he spun and dumped everything on a table bolted onto the deck. Then he nodded to another set of crash couches with built-in IV chambers for patients.

  “If anyone—” The ship’s violent shaking interrupted Morgan.

  The sudden motion threw him against Tag, and they both tumbled across the deck. Boxes clattered off the table, and rolls of gauze bounced away. Tag winced as he heard the sound of shattering glass behind him. He twisted to find its source. In the adjoining laboratory, beakers and graduated cylinders fell from the busted-open drawer of a lab bench and broke against the deck, flinging crystalline shards everywhere. A cell incubator door flopped open, threatening to spill its cargo of live, experimental artificial organs and cells. The chaos exploding around him drained away as a burgeoning sense of dread overtook him. The contents of that incubator represented the culmination of a decade and a half of research. Not that it couldn’t be replaced with more hard work, but the synthetic brain resting in there alone had taken him almost two years to fabricate and even longer to design.

  A nearby explosion annihilated those thoughts, and his mind raced instinctively back to the task at hand. He braced himself against the table as the ship rocked and sent Morgan sprawling across the deck. Tag offered him a hand. The fellow medical officer accepted his grasp and stood, rubbing his head.

  “I’ve got a feeling they’re going to need us pretty damn soon,” Tag said. He turned to a humanoid silver droid tethered to its charging station. “M3, on duty.”

  The droid buzzed to life. Digital displays—its “eyes”—shone black and white, and it lurched forward.

  “With me, M3,” Tag commanded. The silent droid followed with a steady, mechanical gait.

  More protesting metal from the passageway accompanied the klaxons. It sounded like a hatch being forced open. Tag peeked into the corridor, and sure enough, someone or something fought to pry the hatch open from the other side as marines rushed to bolster the hatch with a blockade of loose crates.

  Another dozen marines formed a half-circle perimeter around the barricaded hatch. Tag felt their palpable anxiety as nervous fingers twitched near the trigger guards of their pulse rifles. The narrow passage prevented the lines of marines from stretching more than three or four across; they stood several rows deep. Another low rumble sounded from within the cargo bay, and the hatch door gave way, knocking over the wall of crates like so many tumbling toy blocks. Thick black tendrils of smoke billowed out, clogging the corridor, and the acrid scent of burning plastic stung Tag’s nostrils.

  An audible whir buzzed on behind the persistent alarms. The air filters had gone into overdrive, sucking at the smoke and desperately cleaning the pollutants out of the ship’s atmosphere.

  But smoke wasn’t the only thing pouring in from the cargo bay. Flashes of arcing blue light zipped through the dense black clouds. They looked like pulse rounds but shone more brilliantly and proved more devastating than any Tag had ever seen. A torrent of the incoming blue pulsefire burst against the bulkhead around the marines, leaving burns and fissured alloy. One round slammed into a marine’s chest armor. The polymeric chest plate cracked, and she flew back with splayed limbs. Her head snapped against the bulkhead as the others around her fired into the mushrooming fog.

  “I got her!” Tag yelled to Morgan. He ducked under the barrage of gunfire, ignoring each devastating round whistling past, and sprinted, dodging between the stanchions along the passage. Before he reached the marine’s limp body, another shrieking azure round pierced the visor of a nearby marine. The helmet—head still inside—flew off the man’s body and bounced along the deck like the most macabre kickball Tag had ever seen.

  Professional coldness and practiced medic instincts took over Tag’s mind, and he ignored the devastating fatality as he leaped over the now-headless body. He dodged under another fusillade, then dove to the first injured marine. Her fingers trembled in spastic clenching and unclenching motions as he grabbed her wrists. The busted power armor added an extra fifty pounds to her already-muscular frame, and he grunted, dragging her to the med bay as more rounds ricocheted through the passage, whining over his head.

  Unflinching marines returned a deluge of orange pulsefire to the attackers, who were still sheltered by the smokescreen. Their return fire did nothing to quell their unseen enemy. Another marine went down in a flurry of blue pulsefire, and Morgan dashed to help the man. Even while the marine’s blood pooled out from a massive hole in the glove over his right hand, he fired into the cargo bay, holding his kicking rifle with his good hand.

  “M3, help!” Tag shouted, lugging his charge past another motionless casualty.

  The droid rushed down the passage, past Morgan and the marine with the injured hand. Its metallic face was devoid of any outward signs of fear as it reached Tag and his patient, and it wrapped its thin, pearly fingers under the injured marine’s legs. Incoming pulse rounds singed an open hatch, barely missing the duo as they hauled the marine into the med bay. Tag gave the M3 droid a slight nod, and it let go of their patient. Hot crimson liquid pumped out of her chest plate. He unlatched the suit near her neck, and the hissing, automatic servos finished the job. Armor plates around her arms, torso, and legs split open and slid back, revealing the woman within the armor. The face shield retracted. Sweat coursed over his forehead, and his fingers trembled. He recognized the wounded staff sergeant.

  “Kaufman,” he said. “You there? I’m going to take care of you, okay? You’re going to be all right.”

  Kaufman’s eyes remained closed, and the color had already begun its slow march from her face. Charred fabric outlined a wound in her sternum; lifting it revealed a gory mess. All of Tag’s medical training still didn’t prevent the pang of squeamishness turning his stomach over at the sight. He grabbed a spray of coagulating agents and doused the wound in chemicals to staunch the profuse bleeding. Nearby open regen chambers hummed as they awaited their patients. Thank the gods he and Morgan had prepped all of them. Even so, he wasn’t sure if Kaufman would survive the short journey from her armor to an idling chamber. Still, he reached under her armpits, warm liquid oozing over his fingers from her wounds, and, with the droid’s help, hoisted her from her mechanical shell.

  “Stay with me, Kaufman. Please, stay with me.”

  Her breathing waned in increasingly shallow, staccato gasps. Three hells, he was surprised she was breathing at all. He and the droid slid her body into the regen chamber, and then his hands flew over the holoscreen next to it. With practiced ease, he selected the proper emergency treatment protocols and stood back while the chamber did the rest. He let a long breath escape his lungs and wiped his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand.

  She’s safe.

  If the gods had any mercy, the regen chamber might breathe life back into her.

  More agonized
screams echoed from the passage. With his hands still covered in crimson, he hurried back to wade through the carnage once again. He was a meter from the hatch when he saw Morgan. The medical assistant was dragging an unconscious, maimed marine just outside the bay. Streaks of red marred the medical assistant’s clothes, but Tag couldn’t tell if the blood belonged to Morgan or the marine.

  “Help me out here!” Morgan cried.

  But before Tag reached the hatch, another robotic voice came over the ship’s comms, replacing the repeated warning of an “unauthorized boarding.” This one simply said, “Emergency containment activated.”

  The hatch slammed shut.

  END OF ETERNAL FRONTIER EXCERPT

  Find the rest of book here, http://amzn.to/2d2TeJn, or check out AnthonyJMelchiorri.com.

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