Justin Stanchfield: Ghosts Come Home

“Dev…” She struggled to her feet. “Let the authorities handle this.”

“Piss on the authorities.” He pulled the door open, the faintly stale air outside the apartment spilling in. Dev took his wife in his arms, her pregnant belly hard against his own. He held her, not quite sure which of them was shaking the most. “By the time the emergency teams are dispatched, this will be a retrieval mission, not a rescue. I can be there before they even have their ship fueled.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“This is about her, isn’t it.” Letha said it as a statement, not a question. Dev flinched, the words sharp as a slap to the face.

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” She glared at him. “At least be honest with me if you can’t be honest with yourself. If that was me out there instead of her, would you be so quick to throw your life away trying to bring me back?”

He bit down on his lip, holding in an angry, senseless reply. “I love you,” he finally said. “I don’t care what you might think, I love you.” Dev slid the door open and stepped out of the apartment. By the time he reached the trans-rail he was running, his back soaked with sweat, thoughts of Letha and his unborn child all but forgotten in his need to reach Kammie Tule before what hope remained faded to zero.

He swam in a sea of numbers, his enhanced nervous system calculating the outbound vectors nearly as fast as his shuttle’s computers. He had gambled, taking an extra fuel tank rather than a survival pod, instinctively suspecting that reaching the damaged starship and bringing it back would give any potential survivors a better chance. Besides, Dev reasoned, hating to admit it, a pod couldn’t accommodate all of the volunteers and crew, forcing him to damn at least half of them to almost certain death.

“Four-Eight Uniform?” Departure Control tried for the third time in less than two minutes to contact him. He continued to ignore them. “Four-Eight Uniform, do you read?”

He bit down on his lip, knowing full well how much trouble he was facing when he returned. Dev seriously considered turning his telemetry off but decided against it. If nothing else, the official emergency teams could follow his signal. Again, the speakers in his headset crackled, the words echoed on his text-screen.

“Four-Eight Uniform? Mr. Verlain?” A brief pause. “Dev, if you can hear me, be advised that we strongly advise you not to attempt a rescue on your own. However, in case you are hearing this, the most recent scans of the debris cloud indicate a region of density 11 degrees south by 14 degrees west of the solar axis, receding at 38 KPS from Oasis. We can’t be certain this is the tug, but we are dispatching our own teams to that region.”

Dev nodded to himself, silently thanking the nameless voice for the tip. He made a slight course correction, aiming toward what he could only hope was the tug, the flight computer confirming what he had already calculated. If the tug had been at jump velocity he would use nearly his entire fuel reserve just to reach them. He stared out the tiny forward window at the bulk container grappled in front of him, wondering if the extra fuel it held would be enough. No matter how he played the numbers it would be close.

Too close.

For a moment he considered sending a private message back to Letha, but decided against it, the commo gear aboard his shuttle far too primitive to keep the news-hounds from intercepting his words. Things were going to be bad enough between them without his broadcasting their private turmoil across the nets.

Ahead, most of his view blocked by the fuel tank, he saw a diffuse glow, spilled fuel, and water from the exploded canister illuminated by sunlight. Dev’s fingers tightened around the armrests, the foolishness of what he was doing only now sinking in. Any debris he encountered, no matter how small, would be as lethal as a missile at the velocities they were moving. His mouth tightened into a grim line as he began transferring the fuel from the external tank into his ship. Although the combustible mixture wouldn’t ignite in vacuum should the tank rupture, it was under pressure and the resulting burst would be enough to send him out of control.

Time hung, the simple concept of minutes no longer bearing any real meaning as he rushed outward. The cloud in front of him continued to grow, becoming less defined the closer he approached. Dev checked his own speed and saw he was moving at nearly 60 KPS, fast enough to overtake the wreckage. Reluctantly, he shut down his engines to conserve fuel for the return flight.

To his left, just at the lower edge of the fuel tank, he saw a twinkle. Dev leaned forward against his restraints, holding his breath, not sure he had actually seen anything. Just as he began to pass it off as wishful thinking, he caught the reflection again. Something large enough to be seen by the naked eye was out there, tumbling and occasionally reflecting back at him. He focused his radar on the region, pushing the sensors to their maximum. A small dot flickered into existence on the screen, bright red against the cooler yellows and blues in the simulated view.

“That’s got to be it,” Dev whispered, trying to convince himself. If he changed course now and the object wasn’t the tug, he wouldn’t get a second chance. He felt cold inside despite the sweat pooling between his shoulders as he made the minute course adjustments, the change in vector so slight he barely felt it in the seat of his pants. Now, all he could do was wait.

His gaze traveled outward, not to the debris cloud, but beyond it to the unblinking stars. For the first time in years he began to daydream about being out there, traveling between worlds instead of pushing freight containers. Suddenly, he craved the rush, the danger as enticing as the need for sex or food. Something within him had awakened, but whether it was the accident and his insane rescue attempt, or simply having Kammie flung unexpectedly back into his life, he couldn’t say. No, he corrected himself. He didn’t want to say, the possibility that every emotion he felt right now, from guilt to longing to abject fear was inspired by the same genetic twists that left him addicted to a woman he could never have.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispered under his breath.

Dev shut his eyes and tried to think of Letha, but it was Kammie Tule he saw, her blue eyes wide with terror, imploring him to hurry. He sighed and gave in, letting his mind sweep outward, searching. Something pulled at him, as if an invisible hand had just reached into his chest and closed around his windpipe, dragging him forward. She was alive. She had to be.

He let his eyes open again. The twinkle was back, brighter now and more regular. He checked the radar and was surprised to see he was within 400 kilometers of the object and closing fast. He fired the maneuvering jets and turned his shuttle around, the tail now pointing forward. Dev watched the timer, tensing as the counter fell to zero and the main engines roared back to life.

Vibration pounded against him, g-forces shoving him from behind as the restraints cut into his shoulders, his breath coming in ragged gulps. Dev tried to watch the burn timer, but the panel was only a blur. Just as he feared he was going to lose consciousness, the engine cut out, the sudden stillness unnerving. Dev shook his head to clear it, breathing deeply as he checked the flight-board.

The radar went blank, then returned, showing the object he had been tracking now less than three kilometers away. Dev looked out the window, pushing the nose of the shuttle down slightly to clear the view. A lopsided grin creased his face as he caught sight of the tug. Again, he fired his thrusters and moved toward the wounded vessel.