Better Off Undead

by Martin H. Greenberg

  He’d use his powers to write his name on the wall of the Command room. They’d come in the next day, see it there, and know he was still alive. Or still around, at least. Then they could work together to figure out how to get him back to a physical form. It had to work. He knew it would work just like he knew he could take on Professor Terrible’s machine all by himself. Hell, the blast of radiation would activate the sensors and get the team in here in seconds. Then he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

  He decided the wall with the hangar doors would be best. It offered the clearest space, and if something went wrong there wasn’t any infrastructure behind it to destroy. He’d just blow a hole into the hangar, which was designed to take a beating anyway.

  Across the room from the wall, he stood feet apart, legs braced, and rubbed his hands, his ritual of preparation. It was certainly good to be doing something again. He straightened his arms, closed his hands into fists, and thought, now.

  Nothing happened.

  Usually, he felt a surge of power in his gut. It flowed up his spine like a gust of hot air, burned through his arms, collected in his fists and fired out in a blast of directed energy. Now, he felt no surge. Nothing welled up in him, no power blasted through him.

  He’d had that power since he was a teenager. Not having it felt . . . wrong. He felt empty. Insubstantial.

  His legs folded under him and he sat down hard. Or pretended to. He was still a matterless form that didn’t actually make contact with the floor. That was it, then. His power had died with his body. He really was finished.

  Time passed and confirmed Ray’s fears. He didn’t sleep, didn’t get hungry, cold, hot, or tired. He was permanently wakeful, permanently insubstantial. Timeless.

  He wandered though the team’s complex, observing, alone.

  He tried. He had to be able to do something, or what was the point of even being here? Rattle a doorknob, make the lights flash, anything. If he was still here, there had to be a reason. Unfinished business or the violence of his death anchored him here. If he could find the reason, maybe this stupid, truncated existence would end.

  But he didn’t want to fade away, go to wherever he was supposed to go. Fade off into whatever afterlife waited for someone like him. Or fade into nothing at all.

  He wanted to be part of the team again.

  He needed a plan. He had to find a way to tell them he was still here. Mr. Steel had the great planning chops on the team. It was why the others deferred to him more often than not. Ray was the spunky comic relief. No wonder he’d been the one to die. More tragic that way, he thought with a huff.

  The team had resources. Computers, high-tech vehicles, alien artifacts that might have sensors that could detect unusual energy signatures—his, for example. Maybe he could influence the temperature of a room. He only had to find the thing he could do, then use it to make his presence known.

  And since he had all the time in the world, he simply tried everything.

  He tried the computers first. He couldn’t make the keyboard do something simple like type “Hey guys, it’s me’’ on the screen. His fingers skidded over the keys. But if he put his hands on the front panel and leaned, he passed through, into the machine’s innards. Then, he was at a loss. If he couldn’t type, he certainly couldn’t do something like pull out wires and circuit boards to crash the whole thing. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything at all. Just the strange, muted sensation he felt every time he tried to touch something solid. Maybe if he thought hard enough, concentrated—sort of like he did when he used his power—he could influence the system on some level.

  He closed his eyes and imagined pushing energy through the computer circuits. Pure thought. Ectoplasm. Whatever.

  “Hey!’’ Something shocked him, like a static charge, and he flinched back. But nothing visible had happened. He lurked in a corner to wait.

  Something had happened. When Mr. Steel tried to access the system the next morning, he frowned, tapped at the keys a few times, then called Gadgeteer on the intercom. “Annie? Something’s wrong with the computer.’’

  “I’ll be right there,’’ she answered.

  When she arrived, Steel said, frustrated, “I can’t access the archive.’’

  She only had to fiddle with the system a moment, her head stuck under the very panel Ray had pushed his ghostly hands through, before she emerged victorious.

  “Just had a burnout in one of the processor’s circuits,’’ she said cheerfully. Ray was a little sad that she’d returned to her chipper self so quickly after his death. Had it been quickly? How many days—weeks—had it been? He hadn’t kept track. He couldn’t tell. She continued, “I’ll replace it and everything’ll be all right.’’

  And it was all right, and no one gave it a second thought.

  When Jetstream made pasta for supper, Ray stuck his face in the steam over the pot of boiling water. He had this idea that maybe the shape of his head would form in the mist. One of the women would look over and scream in surprise, but then one of them—Gadgeteer, probably—would recognize him. Then they could all work together to figure out how to get him out of this predicament.

  But it didn’t happen like that. He held himself over the pot, and the steam wafted in a new pattern for a moment. No more so than it would have if someone had opened the door and let in a draft. No one noticed that the steam moved without a draft.

  He couldn’t do more to the team’s equipment than short out a circuit or two. He could access the closet of alien artifacts, and he even made one of them ping by holding his hand inside it for a minute, but his teammates attributed it to an electrical quirk.

  Despairing, he invaded his teammates’ privacy. Namely, Gadgeteer’s.

  Late at night, he sat by her bed. Even in the dark he could see clearly. Technical journals and schematics lay spread over her comforter. Occasionally one slid off when she shifted or turned over. A glass of water, an intercom, and a couple of half-dismantled gadgets of undetermined purpose sat on the night stand. Then her. She was even cute asleep, wearing an oversized T-shirt, curled up under the covers, hugging her pillow, her hair splayed around her. She frowned a little.

  What the hell was he doing here? Then it occurred to him: that’s exactly what this was. Whatever he’d done, no matter how much he’d tried to fight for what was good and right, no matter how much he’d tried to follow Mr. Steel’s example, his faults came out in the end, and he’d landed in hell. He’d watch his team, his friends, forever, and not be able to help them. Not be able to do anything.

  “I’m sorry, Annie,’’ he said softly. “I don’t even know why. I’m sorry I never said anything. That I never told you how I feel about you. I’m sorry I got myself killed. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you. To tell you everything. But I guess it’s too late. I miss you. I just wanted to tell you that. Even if you can’t hear.’’

  He reached out to smooth a strand of hair from her face. Didn’t affect the hair at all, of course. But he sensed something. A change in the sensation on his fingertips, an anomaly in the air. He felt more than a little creepy doing it. Here he was, watching her sleep, and she didn’t even know it. Now he wasn’t just dead, he was a pervert. Maybe he belonged in hell.

  She turned, lifting her head, and her brow wrinkled. “Ray?’’

  Ray pulled his hands away and stood back. His heart should have been pounding. If he still had a heartbeat.

  She was still asleep, he was sure of it. Her eyes were closed, her body still snugged under the covers, her face still crinkled in that pursed, thoughtful look, like she was in the middle of a dream. Maybe it was just a dream.

  Then, in her sleep, dreaming, she brushed her hand across her cheek, right where his hand had been. “Ray,’’ she whispered.

  “Annie?’’ She was just having a dream. It was only a dream.

  He knelt by her bed and touched her hand like he would have if he was alive. Like he should have when he was alive. A light touch, fingers brushing along her wr
ist until his hand lay alongside hers, their fingers twining.

  And he felt something. Her warmth pressing against him. Her hand moved, her fingers shifting against his, and he felt the pressure of it. Somehow, by some cosmic weirdness, they were holding hands.

  “I miss you, Ray,’’ she murmured, then sighed as she sank deeper into sleep.

  “Oh, Annie.’’

  The next morning, she looked a mess when she came to breakfast. She stuck her hair in a pony tail without brushing it, still wore the T-shirt she’d slept in, with sweatpants and bare feet. Shadows made her eyes look sunken.

  Ray stood back and watched. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Tessa asked, “Annie, are you okay?’’

  “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep very well,’’ she answered.

  “Any reason why?’’

  “Thinking. You know. Still thinking of Ray.’’

  Sitting around the kitchen table, the others nodded in understanding, heads bowed.

  Staring at her empty plate, Gadgeteer continued. “It’s like I can still feel him. Like he’s looking over my shoulder. Like he’s still here. It’s felt that way since the funeral.’’

  Ray gaped. He knew it; he knew he had to have some influence and wasn’t just floating around here.

  “Why haven’t you said anything?’’ Ray said. No one heard. But he was hopeful, for the first time since the funeral. He rushed to kneel by her chair and put his hand over hers, where it rested on the table.

  “We all feel like that,’’ Steel said.

  “No.’’ She shook her head. “I mean last night, I could have sworn he was right there. Like he’s not really gone. I just . . . I don’t know.’’ She stared at her hand—his hand. Like she could feel him touching her.

  “Please, Annie,’’ he whispered, all his attention turned on her. “Please, believe it. You can figure this out, I know you can.’’ His insubstantial flesh looked solid to his own eyes, but the edges where his hand folded over hers seemed vague, until he couldn’t tell where the lines of his hand ended and hers began. He could speak to her, contact her. He knew it. “Please.’’

  The others watched her as a look came into her eyes—a focused, thoughtful expression. Her inventing look, Ray always called it. It meant the problem she was working on would soon be solved. She’d pulled them out of so many scrapes in the past.

  She glanced to her left, where he knelt beside her. Almost like she could see him. Maybe she could.

  “I have an idea,’’ she said, and rushed away from the table to her workshop. Ray watched her go and wanted to laugh.

  He grinned at the others. “I knew it. I knew she’d figure it out. You just wait, you’ll see.’’

  The other four team members sat in awkward silence, stealing glances at one another. Finally, Mr. Steel said, “I hadn’t realized how much it’s affected her. I thought she was doing all right.’’

  Tessa said, “She loved him, you know. Never said a word about it, but she did.’’

  Cheetah looked up. “Did he—’’ “I think so,’’ Jetstream said. “I’m pretty sure he did.’’

  “I did,’’ Ray said. “Of course I did. I was just too stupid—’’

  “Is she all right?’’ Steel said. “Because if she isn’t, I’ll take her off duty. I don’t want her getting hurt.’’

  “No, you idiot!’’ Ray said, just like the old days, like he always argued with Steel when they were sitting around this very table. “She’s doing her thing, fixing problems. She’s fine.’’

  Tessa shook her head. “I think that would make it worse. This is all she has now.’’

  Tessa was always the smart one, the real brains behind the outfit. Ray leaned on the table next to her. “Listen to her. Let Annie work!’’

  Steel sighed. “All right. But I want everyone to keep an eye on her. If you see anything that seems wrong, let me know.’’

  Ray rushed after Gadgeteer.

  Her workshop was marvelous chaos. The size of a three-car garage, it barely had enough open space to walk across it. She managed to keep pathways clear between various supply cabinets and work areas. Gadgets as large as car engines sat shoved in corners, dismantled. Three tables were covered with smaller devices, all in various states of repair. Boxes with dials sticking out of them and wires trailing away were everywhere. Scorch marks painted the ceiling and walls in a couple of places, results of some less-successful experiments. A blow torch, arc welder, a lathe, a band saw, soldering gear, and other machines Ray couldn’t identify made up the heavy equipment. But in the end, give Gadgeteer a pair of nail clippers and a coil of dental floss, she’d create a device that could move the world.

  She was already working, searching through bins on a set of shelves, pulling out wires and transistors, dials and other, less identifiable electronic detritus. She piled the supplies on one of the work benches, then strapped on her tool belt and got to work.

  “Ray, I don’t know if you’re really here . . . Geez, what if this is all in my head? I’m going crazy. Maybe this is all wishful thinking and I’ve gone completely crazy. Ray, I don’t know if you can hear me . . . but if I have gone completely crazy, I’m blaming you. I mean really, leave it to you to get creamed by your own radiation blast.’’ She actually smiled.

  So did Ray. He stood on the other side of the work bench. “Hey, I apologized for that already.’’

  “I know you didn’t mean to. Nobody could have seen that coming. But you know what I mean.’’

  “I think I do,’’ he said. It was easier to blame somebody: Professor Terrible’s killer robot, Jetstream for not getting there in time, Steel for not having a good game plan. Hell, he could blame Gadgeteer for not stopping the robot in time. But he wouldn’t. In the end, he’d been the one in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just one of those things. In this line of work, he couldn’t expect to live forever.

  She didn’t hear him, didn’t respond. But it didn’t matter.

  He watched her work. A few hours into the project, Mr. Steel stopped by. “Annie? I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay.’’

  “Can’t talk, working,’’ she said in a monotone, without turning around. Steel left, looking worried, and Ray wanted to throttle him. Didn’t he recognize her when she was at her best?

  As she often did when she was working, she forgot to eat and fell asleep at the work bench, slumped over, head resting on folded arms, screwdriver still clutched in her hand. She was sleeping when Tessa brought her a sandwich. She set the plate down and lightly touched Gadgeteer’s hair. “Poor kid,’’ she murmured, then started to turn away.

  Ray was waiting for her. He grabbed her wrist, or tried to. As always happened, matter became slippery and uncertain under his touch. She passed right through him. But she paused, shivered, and rubbed her arm, the very spot he’d touched.

  “She’s right, Tessa,’’ Ray said. “Listen to her. I’m still here. I’m right here.’’

  Tessa shook her head and walked away.

  Annie hadn’t invited the rest of the team to watch the test of the pair of model devices she’d built, but they came anyway. They all wanted to see what she’d been up to for the last week of tinkering. They all had a look of pity in their eyes.

  She explained the devices. “Theoretically, a ghost should leave some kind of trace on the environment. Radiation, a psychokinetic trail, something. So it’s just a matter of building a sensor sensitive enough to detect the smallest trace of such evidence.’’

  “Haven’t people already tried this?’’ Jetstream said. “There’ve been ghost hunters doing this sort of thing for ages.’’

  “But they’re not me, are they?’’ she said, smiling. “This one, I’ve programmed using the last EEG reading taken of Ray’s brain. If that pattern still exists, is still active, it should find it. The second I’ve programmed with the spectrographic signature of his energy beams. It’s unique to him. If he’s here, any part of him, then that signature sh
ould be here too.’’

  They looked like any of a dozen gadgets she’d created over the years. Small, square, metallic, definitely not pretty to look at. They tended to look jury-rigged and vaguely unreliable, with multicolored wires looping out of them and mismatched buttons. These each connected to a remote control with an LCD screen. She pointed the first one toward an open space and switched it on. The screen on the remote lit up; that was all. Only Ray heard her murmur, “Please, help me out with this.’’

  He stood right in front of the sensor. He stood far away. He jumped up and down, waved his arms, shouted. Gadgeteer stared at the screen like she might develop laser eyes and bore a hole through it. But nothing happened. She picked up the device, aiming it in one hand, holding the remote in the other, and walked around the room, sweeping it back and forth, a ghost-hunting Geiger counter. Ray kept in front of it the whole time, even gripping the machine—at least as much as he could in this state. Still nothing.

  Jaw set, Gadgeteer put the first device aside and switched on the second one. No one said anything; the tension in the room was brittle. No one wanted to be the one to tell her she was crazy to think this would work.

  “Come on, come on,’’ Ray muttered. “Work, dammit!’’

  But this was the device designed to read his radiation blast signature. He no longer had that power. He had no reason to think it would detect him without it.

  Again, not a click, not a blip, nothing. When Gadgeteer set the sensor back on the table, her hands were shaking.

  Tessa tried to sound comforting. “Annie, I know you miss him, we all do, but—’’

  “Don’t—just don’t even start,’’ she said, her voice low.

  Ray was desperate. “Annie, don’t give up, please. Come on, I’m right here, you know it! You’ll find a way to prove it!’’

  He touched her hands where they covered the device. And something happened. A faint run of static sounded from the sensor, and the screen on the remote flashed green. Gadgeteer froze. Hand in hand, just like they had been the other night, they stood, and the sensor hissed his presence.