Angry Ghosts by F. Allen Farnham Page B

to see how she is doing. She is lying back, both hands up at the sides of her face, and her goggles pulse intermittently as she tries to reboot.
    “Geek?” Thompson calls.
    She pe rsistently tries over and over, but no matter which method she uses, it brings the same result. Maiella drops her hands to her side, staring at the message repeatedly displayed on the inside of her goggles: neural interface failure .
    “I’m damaged... ” she announces despondently.
    Argo, already more animated, pulls up his console and selects Maiella’s recliner in his holowindow. “Stay hooked in a minute, Maiella, I’m going to check you out.”
    “Two minutes thirty to intercept,” announces Thompson.
    While Maiella lies patiently, Argo sifts through her implanted hardware from his console, zeroing in quickly on the trouble spots. What he finds is that almost all of her contact neurons have receded or atrophied away from their connections. With all of his medical expertise, he is still puzzled.
    “Your synaptic bridges have retreated... You won’t be able to interface any systems at all.”
    Maiella stares straight up, exhaling with exasperation. “Perfect. I was worried this rotation would be easy.”
    Argo looks over Thompson’s physical diagnostic and notices his arm is still a few degrees cooler than the rest of him.
    “How’s your arm, Gun?”
    Thompson swings his arm in a narrow circle at the shoulder. “A little stiff, but I’m fine. Two minutes to intercept. Geek, take over manual piloting.”
    “Sir!” she responds and activates her console.
    Once his two comrades have had their intravenous cocktail of nourishment and stimulants, Thompson shuts down all life support on board. “Switch to rebreathers,” he orders, and they pull their helmet masks down over their faces. With a hiss, they lock tight.
    “Argo, ready the laser drills and grappling limbs.”
    “What about interference generators?” he asks via helmet radio.
    “No. Not enough power.”
    Pushing away his console, Thompson disconnects the multiple inflow/outflow hoses connected to his armor and grabs his rifle from its cradle above. With automated precision, he check s it, loads it, and primes it.
    “Argo, are those systems ready?”
    “Laser drills coming online... capacitors filling... grappling limbs standing by...”
    “Gear up!” Thompson demands.
    Argo quickly clears the tubes from his armor and grabs his heavy weapon from its storage cradle. Thompson reaches over to Maiella and clears her tubes for her as she guides the craft closer to their target. “Sound off equipment check... power armor?”
    “Check.”
    “Check.”
    “Rebreather?”
    “Check.”
    “Check.”
    “Helmet infrared displays?”
    “Check.”
    “Check.”
    “Mission hardware?”
    “Complete,” Argo states.
    “Compromised,” Maiella states.
    “Weapons?”
    “Locked and loaded.”
    “Locked and loaded.”
    Thompson clears his lungs and fills them again. “We have never seen these creatures before, and they have never seen us. We will have the advantages of initiative and surprise, but because we can’t jam their transmissions, we’ll have to move very fast. That means risks. Geek, can you determine where the control center of that ship is located?”
    “I can make a good guess and put us right next to it,” she replies confidently.
    “Good. Brick and I will assist you in locking down the ship computer systems. If we can’t lock them down, we may have to destroy them to keep radio silence.”
    Maiella and Argo nod in understanding, replying in unison, "Aye, sir."
    The three stare into their screens at the behemoth ahead of them, leading into an uneasy stillness.
    "That's the biggest ship I've ever seen," Argo volunteers, and the same thought occurs to all of them at once: there could be thousands aboard a vessel that large.
    “I’m not losing either of you today," Thomspon says abruptly. "Is that clear? ”
    Argo nods. “That was my understanding,