Angry Ghosts by F. Allen Farnham

making out the letters for the first time. In a rush, his mission returns to him. He remembers where he is and who the others are. Adrenaline mixes with the antifreeze in his bloodstream, propelling him from stupor. The clacking of his teeth subsides as do the violent shivers, being replaced by a sensation of warmth blooming along his spine. The blissful heat is short-lived, however, as millions of chilled nerve endings awaken simultaneously, igniting an inferno beneath his skin.
    He throws his head back, unable to contain a long bellow of agony as pain builds up on searing pain until every neuron in his body is on fire. His muscles clench involuntarily, his eyes squeeze tears through their corners, his brain disbelieves the quantity of pain. Like a slow tide the intensity ebbs, leaving his whole body aching and throbbing.
    Fighting through the haze and disorientation, he forces himself to look at the holowindow in front of him with watered eyes. Feeling more in control, he reaches out to the console and taps some keys, highlighting the distant object on screen. Further magnifying the image, he finds a ship larger than he could ever have imagined. Thompson studies the details of its hull, looking for clues to its origin, guessing if it could be a blueskin vessel or some other species entirely. From his vantage, he can see no external markings, just multitudes of scorches and dents. The ship looks poorly maintained, almost shoddy, and ancient.
    Thompson reaches for the panel again, but his left arm will not move. He casts an annoyed glance at it and discovers it is still covered in a layer of frost. Taking a deep breath, he returns to the console, entering in the commands to pursue the giant vessel with one hand. When he strikes the execute key, the entire cockpit goes black.
    Thompson’s eyes stretch wide in shock, searching the darkness. The silence is complete. He realizes he is holding his breath, and he lets it out, the sound of his elevated heartbeat thumping in his ears. In another moment, a panel of lights switches on, then another, eventually resuming the dim red illumination; and a low hum rises in pitch when the engines finally come online. Thompson’s relief is immediate, but in its wake is a serious concern: with triple redundancy built into every system, there should never have been a power failure.
    “Ar-r-rgo,” he stutters, “have a l-l-look at the power syst-tems, and... Argo?”
    The Brick’s still-frosted body offers no response. Thompson looks over at Maiella, and he finds her encased in frost as well. He blinks hard, not daring to ask what else could go wrong.
    With his one thawed arm, he reaches to the console, calling up schematics and diagnostics of his modified craft; and he is immediately aware of a considerable lag in the computer’s operation. Several seconds pass from when he enters a command to when he sees it enacted on-screen. The system was running fine before the power failure...or was I working just as slowly as I thawed?
    Waving off the irrelevant dilemma, he impatiently waits for the screen to load diagrams of the main power systems on board. Every part of it displays critical failures: primary and auxiliary power, the passive collectors, even the batteries.
    His face curled with confusion, he tries to lift his left arm, already forgetting it is still frozen. A powerful twinge in his shoulder where the thawed and chilled sections meet reminds him. He grips his shoulder protectively and reaches for the console to bring up a diagnostic of the three recliners.
    After many seconds, the three diagrams appear side by side on-screen. Maiella’s and Argo’s diagrams read, WITHIN TOLERANCES, despite the abnormally low levels of power flowing to their recliners. In his own diagram, the recliner indicates a problem in his left arm. He wrinkles his brow at the information and enlarges the image of the main inflow/outflow tubes. At the outflow nozzle on his left wrist, the computer has detected