Free Angry Ghosts by F. Allen Farnham Page B

the old mothballed freighter, now a hive of activity.
    Numerous ships cluster in various stages of ass embly and disassembly around that ancient freighter, bleached and tarnished by centuries of solar radiation. Shuttles buzz to and fro, ferrying parts and laborers.
    Muting his helmet microphone, Thompson scowls. “That’s where we ought to be...”
    Argo and Maiella look over at him, nodding wordlessly in agreement.
    Continuing their ascent, Thompson catches sight of the gleaming warship he and his teams recently collected. It stands a lonely guard over the huge operation at a significant distance. Seeing it further vexes him that after all th e good he has done, he should be excluded from the most important mission the cadre has ever undertaken.
    Any operator would be qualified to take this mission out to deep space , he reasons. Yet brooding will change nothing. General Dryden has given his orders, and they must be obeyed. Period.
    “We have achieved minimum safe distance to engage deep space drive,” alerts Maiella.
    “Very well. Lock in navigational coordinates.” Reactivating his helmet microphone, Thompson hails base. “Cadre One, we are ready to depart. Note date and time of mission start, over.”
    “Team Spectre, time and date noted in mission log...” The voice becomes more personal. “Bring us something good, okay? Cadre One out.”
    “We always do. Team Spectre out.” Thompson kills his helmet microphone and looks over at Maiella. “Let’s do it.”
    Her goggles flash with calculations and engine controls. “In three...two...one... Mark.”
    The ship’s drive surges with a burst of white light, and the craft leaps away into the abyss.

The Arms of Somnus
     
     
    Something is beeping.
    Thompson is barely aware of it, yet an urgent, repeating tone draws him through the murky folds of slumber, carving past his blunted senses to find consciousness within.
    The sound is a beacon, a singularity in the distance, summoning him, reeling him toward it. It gets closer, stronger, clearer. He cracks open one eye.
    The smeared red glare of a flashing diode assaults his vision and blinks in synch with the tone, its color conveying the same urgency as the sound. He strains to focus, and the thick fog of his eyes recedes to a haze, giving the light a halo with each flash.
    As his sight clears, he squints at a cramped cockpit, every centimeter covered in frost. The red light continues to flash in unwavering tempo, its light refracted by the crystals of ice around it. He can feel the iris of his eye dilating and constricting as his eyes adjust, and he notices more lights around the cockpit in random locations, all red or deep orange. Disorientation swallows him whole.
    What is this place?
    He searches for clues around him, noticing first his legs extending away from him. He cannot feel them. With tremendous effort, he turns his stiff neck to each side, finding two other people in the space with him, frost still covering their bodies.
    Who are they?
    At once, the numbness yields to biting cold, sending spasms down his length. He sits amid the twitches and jerks of his own sinews, now hearing something loudly clacking together. He cannot see anything moving, nothing that could make such a sound, but the sound seems to surround him, very near. At last he realizes—it is his teeth.
    Thompson tries to focus on the flashing red diode on the console before him.
    “Gith-ththhts—tgh geh...” His own voice is unrecognizable as he slurs through syllables, attempting to voice-command the console. Rather, he gropes clumsily with his right hand, flopping his armored fist into various buttons. Grazing the bright flashing one, a small holoscreen opens in front of him.
    proximity alert. proximity alert , it reads over and over.
    Thompson recoils from the bright white letters, shrinking back in his recliner. His head sways loosely on his shoulders, and he blinks to recover equilibrium. Once steady, he peers at the Holowindow,