Nicholas Smith - Ghosts

Stopping midway down the aisle, he pulled back a faded red curtain to reveal an empty bunk. The bed and the shelf next to it were covered with books and candles, but the woman he had come to see was gone.

“ Christ ,” Weaver muttered.

“I thought you weren’t big on him anymore.”

Weaver spun around to see Janga, in a coat stitched together from colorful rags. Her waist-length gray hair was neatly combed. She made her living selling herbs and tinctures, but Weaver hadn’t come here to buy a bottle of her “medicine.”

“What can I do for you, Commander? I was just about to head up to the trading post before they turn the alarms back on.”

“I can’t stay long anyway,” he said.

She sat down on her bed and spread the coat over her legs. Weaver checked outside for eavesdroppers. A boy and a girl, about five and six years old, peeked out of their stall across the aisle. Their parents or caregivers were nowhere in sight. Both had lumpy growths on their foreheads, and their curious eyes were centered on him. The girl waved at him with a hand missing all but two fingers.

He smiled and waved back, then reached into his pocket. The girl smiled when he pulled out two pieces of candy made from hardened jam. After tossing them across the aisle, he drew the curtain closed and pulled the single wooden chair up to Janga’s bed.

He sighed. “I’m sure you know the ship’s in trouble again.”

Her thin lips stretched into a grin, and she lit a candle and placed it on the table in front of him. The light flickered over her wrinkled face.

“Did you come all this way to tell me what I already know?”

He kept his voice low. “It’s more than the energy problem.”

“The rudders,” she replied. “I told you, I know.”

Weaver’s brows drew together, and he stroked his handlebar mustache. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You’re not here to talk about rudders. You’re here to talk about the past.” She leaned toward him and put her hand on his knee. “Rick, you have to let it go.”

He pulled away from her. She never called him by his first name. Hell, he hadn’t even been aware that she knew it.

“I’m here to talk about the prophecy.”

This time, Janga was the one to look skeptical. “I never would have thought a Hell Diver would be a true believer,” she said.

“I need to know where the promised land is, Janga. Are we close? And how are we supposed to know the man who will lead us there?”

She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Rick, you know my visions are limited. I’ve told all I can.”

“You need to try harder,” he said. “I have to find this man.”

She lowered her gaze to the candle and stared into the flame. Voices and coughing outside were the only sounds.

Weaver glanced over his shoulder and pulled the curtain back again to make sure no one was listening. Both kids were peeking through their curtain across the aisle again. The girl smiled, and the boy licked jam off his mouth.

Janga glanced up when Jordan turned back to the table. The gray haze of the cataracts made her eyes look eerie in the flickering light.

“I’m sorry, Commander.” She closed her eyes and crossed her arms. “In my visions, I’ve seen the promised land, but it’s not what you or anyone else would expect. There are fish there. Many fish. Fish of all shapes and sizes.”

“Fish?”

She snapped her eyes open and smiled again. This time, her lips opened to reveal her two remaining teeth.

“Is this place near the ocean?” Weaver asked. “Because we’re pretty damn close to the coast right now.”

“Where?”

“If you’re psychic, you should already know.”

Janga let out a sigh that smelled like rot. Her robes didn’t smell much better, but Weaver didn’t flinch away.

“I’m only a little bit psychic,” she said, a gleam in her rheumy eyes. “Just tell me where we are, Rick.”

“A place called Charleston.” He studied her for a reaction. She looked surprised, a bare flicker of emotion on her wrinkled face. “Does that name mean something to you?”

“Yes, but this is just another distraction from why you’re really here. You said you aren’t here to talk about your past, Commander, but we both know you’re haunted. Until you face your ghosts, you’ll never be able to enter the promised land.”

The earpiece in Weaver’s hand crackled. He put it back in his ear, his mind racing.

“Commander Weaver, report to the bridge immediately,” said the voice over the channel.

“I have to go,” he said to Janga.

The old woman dropped her arms and stood. “There’s something else you should know.”

Weaver hesitated, one hand raised to draw back the curtain.

“In my vision, I saw you with the man who will lead us to the promised land.”

“Land or water?” Weaver said. “Because you mentioned fish. Last I checked, fish don’t walk. Thanks for the chat.”

Going back through the candlelit space, he shook his head. Maybe everyone was right about Janga. Maybe she was crazy after all. Maybe he was, too. Maybe they all were crazy for holding on to hope.

Michael clung to the metal ladder on the vertical face of the stern. Wind lashed and tugged at his suit. Some of the rusted metal rungs were as old as the ship. But of the thousands of items that needed to be checked and replaced every six months during routine maintenance of the Hive , these were often overlooked. With resources stretched thin, who cared about a few metal rungs on the outside of the ship? Nobody—at least, not until lives depended on them.

The rung beneath his left boot creaked as he weighted it. The metal gave slightly, but it held.

The thunder was growing louder, the pauses between booms ever shorter. Each clap vibrated his armor and rattled his nerves.

The storm was getting closer.

Keep moving, Michael.

His stomach sank when he looked down to the next rung. The rudders were about ten steps below, to his left. All three were locked at a forty-five-degree angle, blocking his way into the tunnel—his only way in to reconnect them to the grid.

Another glance showed him the damage that had disabled the rudders. A black streak tattooed the hull. Lightning had ripped right through the ship’s synthetic skin.

A boot hit the rung above his head. Layla was anchored to the ladder, with Magnolia just above her, their suits rippling violently in the wind and rain. Michael secured another carabiner to a steel hanger on the hull and clipped the rope. He pointed down.

“Holy shit!” Magnolia said over the comms. “Looks like the Hive got zapped.”

“I was pointing at the rudders,” Michael said. “We have to find a way around them to get inside.”

“Are you wacked ?” Magnolia yelled.

He looked again at the rudders but didn’t see a better option. If they didn’t do this, the ship would likely go down.

He took a slow breath to dispel the jitters from his voice before he spoke. In the upper corner of his HUD, a clock was counting down. They had twenty minutes to repair the rudders before the storm caught up with them—if they even managed to make it to the access tunnel. And if the increased power to the turbofans didn’t blow the generators first.

This could end badly in a thousand different ways.

He fished another carabiner from the pocket on the outside of his armor. Only two left. Instead of clipping them every fifteen feet, as Ty had suggested, he decided to save the last two for later.

“Follow me,” he said over the radio.

He stepped down another rung and pressed his boot against the slippery surface. The wind and rain rendered him nearly deaf and blind, but he was used to working in hostile conditions.