Free Angry Ghosts by F. Allen Farnham

Thompson.
    With his free hand, he reaches up to feel the edge of his craft, appreciating its new versatilities. Like his rifle, this ship is a trusted companion, serving faithfully through every difficult mission. It has been frequently modified, though never so radically. He pushes against the dark surface, wondering how all of the new additions will integrate, already preparing for the possibility of their breakdown.
    He looks away from the ship and scans the bay, watching his cadre brothers and sisters toiling despite their handicaps. Never once has he questioned how hard they work to support him and his teams; the quality of their efforts and the durability of their designs have made the difference in many decisive moments in his past. His doubt shames him, and faith restores his confidence. He retracts his hand, satisfied.
    Enyo moves beneath the craft again, stooping below the main hatch.
    “In anticipation of thicker, armor-plated hulls, we've enhanced the cutting depth and power of the laser drills.”
    She pulls out a small remote and taps it.
    Three small plates around the hatch shift aside, and the barrels of the laser drills drop to cutting position.
    She taps another sequence, and the drills shift, lowering themselves to the deck. Condensed vapor rolls off them, partially obscuring the rugged construction and wiring.
    “We used some of the weapon technology from the military ship you captured in these drills. Energy output is tripled. The superconducting elements are more reliable over elevated temperatures, and beam focusing is far better than before. Even with such a short focal length, optimum beam width is maintained at a distance of several thousand kilometers. If necessary, you can use these as a weapon battery to attack although it would likely be more useful to assist you in escape.”
    Argo nods approvingly.
    Enyo taps the remote, and the drills recede into the belly of the craft. With another keystroke, the main hatch opens like a camera iris.
    “It’s time,” the colonel says.
    Thompson nods in acknowledgement. “Maiella! You’re up.”
    Donning her helmet, she duck-walks over and stands up into the hatch, easily hauling herself up. From inside, there is a fair amount of clanking from her hurried storage of gear and weapons. After a minute, she calls out. “All gear stowed. I’m in position. Load next operator.”
    Thompson slaps Argo on the shoulder. Argo throws his helmet over his big head and shuffles to the hatch. Crouching low, he raises his arms and leaps up into the hole, disappearing entirely. More clanking ensues, and the craft sways under his bulk. Thompson starts to move into position, but Enyo grabs his arm. He looks back questioningly, and she is staring at the floor. Looking up suddenly, her eyes are pleading. “Bring them home safe, son.”
    Thompson looks back silently, taking her plea as his foremost command. Calling up into the craft, he orders, “Maiella, begin preflight, all systems.”
    “Aye, sir,” Maiella replies.
    T hompson turns back to face Enyo, regarding her solemnly. “There’s no other option.”
    Enyo extends her right hand toward him, the way an arm wrestler would present a challenge to an opponent. Thompson clasps it firmly in his armored grip; and the two pull each other close together, putting their left hands gently behind the other’s neck, touching their foreheads together. After a moment of silence, they pull apart, left hands sliding from the neck down to the shoulder.
    From inside the craft comes Argo’s deep voice. “All gear stowed. I’m in place. Load next operator.”
    With difficulty, Enyo and Thompson release each other, and he duck-walks to the hatch. Throwing his helmet on, he takes a last look at Enyo. “We’ll see you soon,” he says and leaps inside.
    Maiella is in her recliner on the starboard side, already hardwired into the ship’s consoles. Her goggles flash with various diagnostic commands and start-up sequences. Argo is