Free Angry Ghosts by F. Allen Farnham Page A

delicately maneuvering himself in the restricted space, settling into his own recliner on the port side, punching up data on his console. Thompson unslings his rifle and snaps it into its cradle on the close ceiling. His gear he removes piece by piece, snapping it all into place above his recliner. Once stripped to his armor, he slides into his recliner between them, pulling a console across his lap. Tapping rapidly, Thompson pulls up a basic diagram of the ship’s functions.
    “Geek, status of navigation and propulsion,” he calls out.
    “Start-up nearing completion, deep space drive sixty-five percent to operating temperature. Sensors online... navigation systems online... calibrating...” she answers.
    “Brick, status of metabolic support and cryogenic systems?”
    “Performing full-system diagnostics...” Argo answers. “Gun, lean back in your recliner, please... there... full monitoring and metabolic interface achieved. Verifying life support and fail-safes...”
    “Testing interference generators, communications, and laser drill functionality,” Thompson announces.
    His console shows multiple bars, all full and green. Activating his helmet microphone, he hails the base. “Cadre One, this is Team Spectre proving comm link prior to departure. Respond, over.”
    “Team Spectre, this is Cadre One,” the radio buzzes. “Read you loud and clear. What is status of vessel, over?”
    “Completing preflight start-ups and diagnostics,” Thompson replies. “Team secure in recliners, fully interfaced.” Behind him, a whirring sound rises in pitch.
    “Main engine has reached operating temperature,” advises Maiella. “Navigation fully calibrated and updated.”
    “Life-support systems fully operational, metabolic management and cryogenic systems one hundred percent,” states Argo.
    Thompson finishes his diagnostics. “Cadre One, we're green bars, ready for stars, over.”
    “Received, Team Spectre. Clearing bay of personnel. Proceed toward external bay doors and await launch command, over.”
    Thompson taps his console, bringing up a small Holoscreen in front of him showing the forward view from the ship. Smaller screens open beside the large one, displaying side and rear views. In the screens, Thompson watches the technicians finish their last welds and scramble for the exits. Throughout the bay, red lights flash in warning.
    “Take us to the door, Geek,” he instructs.
    “With pleasure.” Maiella’s goggles flash, and the vessel smoothly walks forward on its limbs toward the large bay doors. Once there, Maiella halts the ship. “Cadre One, we are in position. Request permission to depart, over.”
    “Team Spectre, bay air pressure is equalizing. Stand by.”
    The three operators sit calmly in their recliners. Nothing feels any different about this mission—it’s simply out into an unexplored region of space, no more or less important than any of the rotations they have been through. If anything, they feel a slight amount of boredom.
    Thompson double-checks the ship while he waits, ensuring everything is as it should be. Nothing is out of line, all systems seem to be integrating seamlessly.
    “Team Spectre, pressure is equalized, opening bay doors. Stand by.”
    In Thompson’s view screen, the large metal doors slide apart, causing a tiny puff of dust to rise from the crater floor outside.
    “Team Spectre, you are cleared for departure, over.”
    “Cadre One,” Maiella replies, “Team Spectre is departing engineering bay, en route to collection rotation.”
    She engages the mechanical legs again, walking the ship out into the crater. The ship crouches low to the ground, then with full extension, leaps high into the infinite sky. With skillful coordination, she ignites thrusters and retracts the legs into the body of the ship. Thrusters carry them above the crater rim, and the view whites out momentarily from the massive blue-white star nearby. As the screen adjusts, they find themselves near