Ghost Planet

by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  “Actually, yeah. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  After a few beats of silence Murphy’s face fell. “Oh, no. Are you sure?”

  “Jesus. And the academy—did they handle it appropriately? Like we discussed?”

  A clammy finger of dread stirred the contents of my stomach.

  “Jesus. Okay, Lex. Thanks for letting me know.”

  He laid the portable down and looked at Julia. “I’m sorry to do this, but do you think we could continue this another night?”

  “Of course,” Julia replied with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “Lex just got word that the mother—Elizabeth Cole’s mother—”

  He fell silent, and I stood up and moved toward them.

  “What happened?” Julia and I asked in the same breath.

  “She’s killed herself,” he replied softly.

  I don’t remember Julia and Ian leaving the apartment. I remember standing there, trembling and silent, for a couple of minutes. Maybe more.

  Then I gave a loud cry and rushed at Murphy. I slammed against him, catching him off balance, and he fell back against the wall. I drove my fists into his chest and then tried for his face, but he was stronger and kept out of my way.

  “Bastards!” I sobbed, blinded by rage and grief.

  Murphy caught hold of my wrists, twisting me around. His arms tightened around me, immobilizing me against his chest.

  “Stop it,” he muttered, lips right next to my ear.

  “You stop it,” I choked out. I wanted to hurt him, and I kept working at it. But I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother—how she wasn’t really my mother, and how it didn’t matter because I still loved her more than I loved anyone.

  Finding it impossible to free myself from the double-lock of hands around my wrists and arms around my shoulders, I let my body go limp and Murphy eased me to the floor.

  I expected him to release me immediately, but he didn’t. Blood seeped from my injured hand and ran over his clenched fingers. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

  My heart sped up in confusion.

  “Fuck.” He breathed the word, sighing with dismay. Then he released me and retreated to the bedroom.

  Revelations

  Two days later I lay in Aunt Maeve’s bed, staring at the ceiling. I held a pen in my hand, clicking it slowly open and closed. Turning to the wall, I wrote in the smallest possible letters: Don’t let the bastards grind you down. It was something I’d read somewhere. Something called to mind by my situation. I stared at the words, wondering who “the bastards” were. The colonists? The entity responsible for my existence? For my dependence?

  I’d spent the last two days closeted (literally) with the flat-reader and my own dark thoughts. First, I set myself to tracking down the details of my mother’s suicide. I never doubted the truth of it—I knew her too well—but I needed to understand how it had happened.

  My explosion at Murphy had been misdirected. There was no one but myself to blame for what had happened. I’d left Earth knowing how fragile she was. Her depression had been one factor in the “cons” column as I considered my decision to relocate. But all my adult life, she had warned me against allowing her condition to limit me. Though my parents had divorced when I was eighteen, my father had still helped care for her so the burden wouldn’t fall on me. During the bleakest times, she’d stayed with her sister Rachel. I had been allowed—encouraged, actually—to grow up believing her problems had nothing to do with me. That her depression should not touch me. Even so, part of me had always been afraid of turning out like her, and that part had been relieved to move away from her. That was what I couldn’t forgive.

  But I had planned to stay in regular contact with all of them. I thought it would be enough. I’d never expected to die.

  The details I’d wanted had been easy enough to find. The link between my mother’s death and my own death on Ardagh 1 had rendered the story newsworthy, and I found an article that provided the information I lacked. She had overdosed on sedatives no one knew she possessed, had left no note, and had died while her sister was sleeping in the room across the hall.

  With that task completed I’d allowed myself to lie in bed staring at the ceiling. When I wasn’t doing that, I slept. And at night, when the apartment was quiet, I dug around in the fridge and ate Murphy’s leftovers.

  In the pre-dawn darkness of the third day, I packed it all away—the way I did with everything I couldn’t live with but couldn’t change. It was time to rejoin the living, even if “the living” preferred me where I was.

  I got up and dressed in my own clothes so I wouldn’t look raggedy, then made a pot of tea as quietly as I could.

  I’d been avoiding Murphy since the night of the dinner date. The isolation was getting to me, but I almost felt worse in his presence. And I’d convinced myself that Murphy was irrelevant—that I couldn’t expect help from him or anyone. If I wanted to save myself, I’d have to do it in spite of him.

  But hiding in the closet was causing me to lose focus, and that was dangerous. And I wouldn’t get far with my research using only publicly available resources.

  It was time to get out of the apartment.

  The windows grayed with the coming dawn and I made a second pot of tea. I heard the whisper of Murphy’s door as he crossed from his room to the bathroom, and I thought about how strange it was to live so intimately with a man I hardly knew. A man who would have been my supervisor.

  For a moment during our lunch in the café, I’d even suspected he was flirting with me. Who was I kidding? I had flirted with him. There was no point in denying the chemistry. It had knocked the breath right out of me when we met in Dublin all those years ago. But like other uncomfortable realities I’d stuffed it down. What would have happened if I’d gone with him to the pub? Would our lives be different now? Would I be alive now?

  Murphy emerged from the bathroom and I watched him walk into the kitchen and flip on the hot water kettle. His eyes scanned the countertops and finally came to rest on the teapot, sitting six inches in front of me.

  How badly did he want that cup of tea?

  Having prepared for this, I pushed a second cup in front of the chair beside me and filled it. Without waiting to see what he would do, I said, “I think you should go back to work, Murphy. I won’t make trouble for you. I know I didn’t exactly follow through on that promise a few days ago, but under the circumstances maybe that can be overlooked.”

  I watched the steam rising from his cup, and so did he. In the spirit of demonstrating my intention to behave, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, leaving him to drink his tea or pour out the pot and make more, as he chose.

  When I returned to the kitchen neither the teapot nor the cup appeared to have moved, but Murphy was pulling on his coat.

  I slipped back into the closet for my sweater. It wasn’t heavy enough for the climate, but apparently Aunt Maeve had been wearing the only coat she owned when she vanished. I grabbed the pad I’d been using for taking notes and thought about the flat-reader, but I could hear the wind picking up outside, lashing rain against the window.

  As I hurried back to the kitchen I saw Murphy drain the teacup and replace it on the table. He headed for the door and I followed, congratulating myself on the small triumph. He might not be talking to me, but he was no longer treating me like I was contagious.

  Murphy is irrelevant. This was as true as ever, and it was good to remind myself. But I needed at least a minimal level of cooperation from him if I hoped to make progress with my research.

  We exited the building into a gust of wind that practically blasted me back through the door. Ice-cold needles of rain pricked my skin and I gave a yelp of surprise. My hair and clothing were soaked in seconds.

  Murphy hesitated under the shallow awning, useless as protection against this angry storm. I tugged the edges of my cardigan around my notepad, cursing myself for being too proud to dig through the clothing at the ghost depot. I
’d not make the same mistake again.

  As I swiped at a raindrop trickling down my nose, I turned to ask him how long he intended to make me stand there shivering—but before I could, he shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the ground.

  Confused, I watched him step away from the building and start off in the direction of the counseling center. I glanced down at the pile of navy fabric.

  No time to analyze. Tucking my notes in the top of my skirt, I reached for the coat and shoved my arms in, buttoning it all the way up. The dark wool was still warm from his body, and it had that clean, lightly spicy smell I remembered from the sofa.

  Exposed now to the wind and lashing rain, Murphy moved fast and I jogged to catch up.

  The low, black ceiling of cloud gave the feeling of night coming on. As we hurried along, we passed others so muffled in their coats I could see little of their faces. I was thinking that on a day like this I would have been willing to stomach the tram, but then I realized the tram wouldn’t be running. I wondered whether violent storms like this were common, and I remembered what Murphy had said about the recent, subtle disruptions on the planet. I watched the tall trees crowded close around the colony bending like soda straws in the wind. Not what I’d call subtle.

  I’d been dreading the return to the counseling center, and the smug security guard, but all of that was forgotten in my relief to be out of the weather. I passed through the scanner anticipating that infernal beep and was not disappointed.

  It was early still, and the center was quiet. I followed Murphy up to the third floor.

  We paused outside a door with Murphy’s name stamped on it in big block letters, and someone called from down the hall, “I didn’t know you were coming in.”

  I turned to see Lex headed toward us, carrying a shoulder bag and a coffee cup. Her ghost trailed behind her—an older man, maybe midfifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and dark almond eyes. He had the classic glassy-eyed stare.

  Murphy gave her a tired smile. “Neither did I.”

  “Things settling down?” she asked, her eyes flickering in my direction.

  I managed to overcome an urge to knock her coffee out of her hand so I could watch it splatter all over her white jacket. Let’s see you ignore that.

  “Starting to,” he replied. “How are you managing here?”

  “We’re fine. Braden took your three regulars, and I’m taking new arrivals. The schedule’s pretty thin for the next several months—thinner since the transport accident.”

  “There’s a shock. Listen, my regulars are all pretty much ready to transition over to maintenance only. I’ll authorize it today. Braden needs to stay focused on the next round of workshops.”

  Murphy walked into his office and Lex followed, saying brusquely, “Stay out here.”

  This seemed to be directed at both me and her ghost, and her ghost sank obediently into one of the half dozen chairs lined up against the wall in the hallway. I straightened my shoulders and followed them in. Playing nice so I could get time out of the apartment was one thing. Letting them treat me like a dog was another.

  The office was divided by furniture into two areas—a desk and an armchair on one side, and a sofa, a few smaller chairs, and a coffee table on the other. Murphy moved to the desk and Lex sat down across from him. I stationed myself by the window at first, where I could most easily see them both. But the thrashing of the forest mere meters away made me uneasy and I relocated to the sofa.

  Murphy flipped open a laptop and slid it aside, resting his gaze on Lex.

  “Any crises?”

  “Nah. You know I would have called you.”

  One corner of his lips lifted. “Do I? How long have you wanted my job?”

  She laughed. “Not anymore. I don’t want the planet sending me any sexy men from my past.”

  Murphy and I both stared at her. His grin faded. “You think I’ve been targeted because of my role here?”

  I could see Lex’s profile, and her eyes widened. “Holy crap, Irish, are you joking? The Ghost Protocol creator gets upgraded to that, just by coincidence?” This statement was equal parts gratifying and offensive. “Honestly though, it’s brilliant.”

  Murphy’s frowned deepened. “So what’s the point of it?”

  “You really can’t see it?”

  “I want to hear what you think.”

  “Well, to trip you up, obviously. To get you to violate your own protocol. We can’t very well enforce it if we don’t follow it.”

  Distasteful as this was, I couldn’t help admitting she had a point. It made sense. I could seduce Murphy; Aunt Maeve could not.

  The only problem with her theory was that I had no intention of seducing Murphy.

  Murphy’s gaze had shifted to the window and he seemed lost in thought.

  “Irish…” began Lex.

  He turned, blinking at her. “Hmm?”

  “What’s up with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated. “Can I say something that may piss you off?”

  “The fact that you’re asking permission makes me think I’d have to be an idiot to say yes.”

  “Very funny.” She sat back and crossed her legs. “Okay, here’s the thing. I’m looking at you, and I’m thinking you’ve changed since Friday. Your brain is foggy. I can see you’re not sleeping. Maybe not surprising under the circumstances. But I’m looking at her, and certainly she’s quieter, but…”

  Murphy glanced my direction. My heart gave a thump of surprise as our gazes locked briefly.

  His features hardened as he returned his attention to Lex. “What are you trying to say?”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “The events surrounding her arrival have been tragic. To someone with … gentlemanly instincts, she might look a little like a damsel in distress.”

  “Lex—”

  “It concerns me that she’s wearing your coat, Murphy.”

  If Murphy was as startled by this as I was, he did a masterful job of concealing it. I plucked nervously at a button as I waited to hear what he would say.

  Rain pelted the window. The trees moaned and cracked in the wind.

  Finally, in a voice taut with warning, Lex said, “Murphy, you can’t fuck around with this—with her. You know that.”

  “Of course I know that.”

  “Then why the hell—”

  “Lex, listen.” He leaned on the desk. “I appreciate your concern, and you haven’t pissed me off. You’re right that I’m tired. And you’re right that she’s been … more challenging. But I really am fine.”

  Lex sat unflinching under his blue-eyed intensity, and I had to respect her for that. At last she stood up, saying, “Just promise me you won’t be too proud to ask for help if you need it. You can call me day or night.”

  “I promise. And I do appreciate it.”

  “You want to get lunch later?”

  “Tomorrow. Julia and I are having lunch after your session today.”

  Ah, this was excellent news. Another chance to talk with Ian.

  Lex smirked at Murphy. “Perfect. A woman with no tolerance for competition ought to keep those gentlemanly instincts in check.”

  Murphy pulled his laptop in front of him. “Goodbye, Lex.”

  * * *

  Murphy worked at his desk, and, stranded without Net access, I was left to stare out the window or entertain myself elsewhere until Ian showed up.

  The storm had finally retreated, leaving the battleground littered with pinecones, fallen branches, and other organic debris. A friendlier breeze now played in the treetops, and sunlight danced across the understory. There were few places on Earth so lush, green, and alive. The planet’s warming had led to overgrowth of its hardiest species, which, with the help of high levels of toxins in the air and soil, had easily choked out the more fragile life. Earth’s ecology was severely out of balance.

  Global governments continued to dump money into green technology and cleanup was underway, but co
untless species had already been lost. It was no wonder the Ecosystem Recovery Project kept a death-grip on Ardagh 1, despite the indigenous challenges.

  Turning from the window, I studied Murphy. He appeared absorbed by work, and not likely to leave his office anytime soon. Figuring I had at least an hour until his lunch with Julia, I slipped out into the hallway to explore the rest of his floor.

  I discovered Lex’s office nearby, as well as the office of Braden Marx, whom Lex and Murphy had mentioned earlier. Both of these doors remained closed when I approached them—secured from the inside.

  But the one unmarked door opened as I approached, and I stepped inside. A vacant meeting room with a conference table and chairs, and a display screen taking up most of one wall. As in Murphy’s office, the earthy tones, comfortable furnishings, and wall of windows facing into the forest helped to soften the clinical setting. Two huge Chinese characters—stark black lines sweeping across salmon-colored parchment—hung on the wall opposite the display. The placard underneath bore the artist’s name and the word Hope.

  As I considered testing the length of my tether by going down to the second floor, it occurred to me the display was probably a live terminal.

  “Display on.” My voice sounded hollow in the empty room.

  The video flashed to life, and a female voice prompted, “Authorization?”

  “Manual,” I replied. “Audio off.”

  A login box appeared. So far so good.

  I walked to the end of the table, feeling under the edge until I found a keyboard drawer. I sank into a chair and typed “gmurphy.” This much I knew from trying to access counseling center records on my first day with the flat-reader. That same day, I’d also spent some time researching Murphy, in part so I could make educated guesses about his password. But I’d worried about tripping security wires, and after a few failed attempts I’d given up.

  Here I was again, before the blinking cursor. Hopeless.

  My notebook lay on the table in front of me and I leafed through it now, thinking back over what I’d read. Academic and professional profiles, public records, news articles, interviews. Murphy had been born near Cork, Ireland, an oldest child with three sisters. His parents ran a dairy farm. He had a glowing academic record and considered multiple research posts when he graduated. He received a grant from the Irish government to lead the Ghost Protocol effort on Ardagh 1. He was a reader, liked to cook, and ran for exercise. He remained close to his family, and sometimes on weekends he rode down from Dublin to help his aging parents with heavier chores. He’d never been married.