Angry Ghosts by F. Allen Farnham Page A

a blockage, stopping the flow of antifreeze.
    Thompson looks from the screen down to the corresponding outflow tube. With his right hand, he reaches over to it and twists it off easily. Like the computer diagnosed, nothing flows out. He looks back to the console, tapping some keys, increasing the flow pressure. Immediately, a cloudy, gelatinous clog is booted out, and clear fluid seeps across his frosted armor. He replaces the outflow tube and watches the frost on his arm sublimate. In a minute, his arm is loose; and he lifts it from the cradle, flexing it gingerly. First comes the warmth, then the fiery burning, and then it moves normally.
    With the use of both hands, he types much faster, poring over diagnostics of his companions’ sleep recliners. His breakfast seeps in through the many connected tubes and hoses in his armor, feeding him nutrients and the neurochemical equivalent of a hyper-caffeinated espresso. His foggy mind clears, permitting him better thought, and he digs through the craft’s systems attempting to troubleshoot the power problem. Try as he might, however, he finds no answer. The passive collectors are supplying only a trickle of power, the main energy source is not functioning, and the batteries are nearly drained.
    Thompson glances at the distant ship he is pursuing and pressure builds. I can’t cut the engines. If we lose this target, another may never present itself. I can’t cut life support. To do so would doom my team to the death of an improper thaw...
    In a snap decision, he starts flipping off circuit breakers: navigation, communication, interference generation and countermeasures, grappling arms, computer-assisted maneuvering—every system not immediately tied in to pushing the ship toward their quarry or unfreezing his crew. The lighted panels in the cabin go dark as each system is switched off, and the remaining lights glow brighter. With the reduced draw of the additional systems, the power bars for Argo’s and Maiella’s recliners climb out of red to amber.
    “Initiate awakening, recliner 1 and recliner 3,” he commands in a steady voice, and the whirring of pumping fluids resounds in the quiet cabin.
    L ines of frost retreat from their faces, tracing down over their torsos, then out to their extremities. Monitoring the process closely, he watches the power draw; and just when it looks as if it is going to bottom out, he diverts power from his own recliner to see the process through.
    Maiella sputters and coughs violently with harsh neural stimulation, then gasps with breath. Thompson anticipates her disorientation.
    “You are aboard a virus ship on a collection rotation. I am Gun Thompson.”
    Maiella peels herself up from her recliner. Her back arches, arms back, and her mouth falls open in a silent scream, too painful to vocalize.
    On the opposite side, Argo lifts his thick head and stiffly cranes it around, trying to cope with the unfamiliar surroundings. Then, he grips the rails beside him, shaking with the intensity of his burning nerves. He tucks his chin into his chest, tears streaming from his tightly shut eyes, a fierce growl his only utterance.
    Thompson busies himself with the ship ahead, monitoring his craft’s engines, and making minor course corrections manually. Beside him, Argo sits up in his recliner, holding his head in his hands. He heaves several times and coughs again then settles. He squints at Thompson, seeking answers.
    “Wha-huppond?” he slurs.
    “Power loss,” Thompson replies. “I’ve diverted power from other systems to revive and sustain us.”
    “Kun-tact?” he asks, shivering.
    “Affirmative,” answers Thompson, “contact dead ahead, unidentified vessel, 1,200 meters long, 600 meter beam.”
    Argo blinks sluggishly. “Big-un.”
    Thompson nods in agreement. “ Lie back, Brick. Let the metabolic support bring you up to speed.” The huge man leans back into his recliner sleepily.
    Not hearing anything from Maiella, Thompson looks over