The God Mars Book Five: Onryo by Michael Rizzo

were people here decades
before they answered Colonel Ram’s call,” the Ghaddar condemns. She
was close to the Colonel during the time before and after he
contacted Earth, and saw how they treated him. And the rest of us.
Whatever good intentions they profess are not to be believed.
    “It looks like no one’s been in or out of here in a
long time,” Murphy refocuses on what’s before us.
    “There’s something on the surface…” I point to the
hatch. Straker brushes away the dust and caked-on dirt. There are
more Kanji on the door: two large characters that look like they
were painted in a hurry. The red paint is faded and chipped, but
Negev seems to be able to make sense of it. Still, he doesn’t
translate for a moment.
    “Ohn-Ryoh,” he finally says, quietly, like he doesn’t
want to disturb something.
    “It means ‘vengeful spirit,” the Ghaddar explains,
like she both does and doesn’t believe. I remember hearing that her
mother’s side was from Shinkyo. “Most spirits— Yurei —haunt
those that wronged them, and can be appeased when justice is
served. Onryō haunt a place. They seek vengeance
indiscriminately. And they’re much harder to appease or
exorcize.”
    “Is it supposed to be a warning?” Murphy wonders,
trying to sound like it’s funny.
    “Not a very good one if you have to be able to read
Kanji to understand it,” the Ghaddar criticizes.
    “Same paint as on the gravestone?” I ask, hoping for
some clue to this mystery.
    “No,” the Ghaddar decides. “And the script is in a
different hand. Someone else marked the hatch.”
    “I don’t hear anything from inside,” Straker focuses.
“Just the faded beacon.” She steps back away from the hatch, takes
a breath. “The ship at Tyr used a beacon to lure its test
subjects.”
    Apparently deciding to proceed anyway, she draws her
Blade and concentrates.
    Nothing happens.
    “The lock is pretty effectively encrypted,” she
complains, but keeps trying.
    Having another dream-memory moment, I step up to the
hatch. I’m thinking that there should be some kind of concealed
panel, a hatch control. I put my hand on the hull to the right of
the hatchway, feel around.
    I get a blast of pressure in my face, just for a few
seconds, spitting dust and grit at me. Everybody but Straker steps
back, almost stumbling over each other in the small passage.
    “You did it,” Murphy praises Straker. She looks
unsettled.
    “I’m not sure I did anything.” Then she asks
me: “Did you ?”
    I shake my head, unsure. I feel around on the hull,
still can’t find any kind of mechanism, anything I may have
triggered. But the hatch is unsealed. Straker grabs hold of an edge
and pulls it open, revealing an airlock. Dusty. And there are smoke
stains, as if there was a fire. They flow from inside.
    “I’m going in first,” Straker insists.
    “Good plan,” Murphy agrees, hand on the butt of his
revolver.
    I notice our Katar “escorts” have moved back. They
actually look more nervous than they did around the
Harvester-infected.
    Straker steps into the lock, her sword leading.
Nothing happens. She reaches out with her free hand, tries the
inner hatch controls. They don’t respond. After several seconds of
nothing happening Murphy steps in behind her. Then, impulsively, so
do I, realizing as I do that if this is a trap, we’ve just
given it three of our number.
    As if confirming it, there’s a flicker of lights. And
another blast of pressure, longer and stronger this time. Now it’s
our turn to almost fall over each other as we back away. I’m hit
with a stale smell, dusty, but also like old smoke, and something
else.
    “And you didn’t do that either?” Murphy nervously
asks Straker.
    “I have no idea,” she admits, now sounding shaken.
Then she looks back at me, her brow furrowing.
    “I didn’t touch anything ,” I defend. But the
timing is definitely suspicious: I step in, and the lights power up
and the inner hatch blows.
    Like she’s