Derelict E-Book

Jack Campbell

• Herausgeber: Zombies Need Brains, LLC
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 504

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A ship lost with all hands on icy Titan. A dying woman's soul linked with the fate of an interstellar vessel. A wrecked ferry possessed by the ruin-demon who grounded her. A haunted space cruiser of legend again terrorizing those who travel among the stars. A pirate-ravaged frigate concealing magical secrets that can doom the wicked, or redeem the worthy. An inexplicably empty cruiser arriving at a space station amid the panic of a system-wide pandemic. There is an allure to the ghost ship, the once-proud voyaging craft now abandoned to the void of space or the depths of the sea. In Derelict, speculative fiction authors Kristine Smith, D.B. Jackson, Griffin Ayaz Tyree, Andrija Popovic, Sharon Lee & Steve Miller, Gerald Brandt, Kit Harding, Gini Koch, Jacey Bedford, Mark D. Jacobsen, Jana Paniccia, Alex Bledsoe, Chaz Brenchley, R.Z. Held, Jack Campbell, and Julie E. Czerneda offer their tales of the lost vessel. So climb aboard if you dare, and prepare for a reading adventure that will unnerve and inspire and transport you beyond distant horizons.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Other Anthologies Edited by:

DERELICT

Symbiote

The Wreck of the Sarah Mohr

The Tempest in Space

Playing Possum

Standing Orders

Time, Yet

Flight Plans Through the Dust of Dreams

Saving Sallie Ruth

Methuselah

Celestial Object 143205

Mercy for the Lost

When the Star Fell and the Levee Broke

Derelict of Duty

Two Ruins Make a Beginning

Orpheus

Decay in Five Stages

About the Authors

About the Editors

Acknowledgments

DERELICT

Other Anthologies Edited by:

Patricia Bray & Joshua Palmatier

After Hours: Tales from the Ur-bar

The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity

Temporally Out of Order

Alien Artifacts

Were-

All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!

Second Round: A Return to the Ur-bar

The Modern Deity’s Guide to Surviving Humanity

S.C. Butler & Joshua Palmatier

Submerged

Guilds & Glaives

Apocalyptic

When Worlds Collide

Laura Anne Gilman & Kat Richardson

The Death of All Things

Troy Carrol Bucher & Joshua Palmatier

The Razor’s Edge

Patricia Bray & S.C. Butler

Portals

David B. Coe & Joshua Palmatier

Temporally Deactivated

Galactic Stew

Derelict

Steven H Silver & Joshua Palmatier

Alternate Peace

Crystal Sarakas & Joshua Palmatier

My Battery Is Low and It Is Getting Dark

DERELICT

Edited by

David B. Coe

&

Joshua Palmatier

Zombies Need Brains LLC

www.zombiesneedbrains.com

Copyright © 2021 David B. Coe, Joshua Palmatier, and

Zombies Need Brains LLC

All Rights Reserved

Interior Design (ebook): ZNB Design

Interior Design (print): ZNB Design

Cover Design by ZNB Design

Cover Art “Derelict”

by Justin Adams of Varia Studios

ZNB Book Collectors #21

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

Kickstarter Edition Printing, June 2021

First Printing, July 2021

Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709406

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709413

Printed in the U.S.A.

COPYRIGHTS

“Symbiote” copyright © 2021 by Kristine Smith

“The Wreck of the Sarah Mohr” copyright © 2021 by D.B. Jackson

“The Tempest in Space” copyright © 2021 by Griffin Ayaz Tyree

“Playing Possum” copyright © 2021 by Andrija Popovic

“Standing Orders” copyright © 2021 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

“Time, Yet” copyright © 2021 by Gerald Brandt

“Flight Plans Through the Dust of Dreams” copyright © 2021 by Kit Harding

“Saving Sallie Ruth” copyright © 2021 by Jeanne Cook

“Methuselah” copyright © 2021 by Jacey Bedford

“Celestial Object 143205” copyright © 2021 by Mark D. Jacobsen

“Mercy for the Lost” copyright © 2021 by Jana Paniccia

“When the Star Fell and the Levee Broke” copyright © 2021 by Alex Bledsoe

“Derelict of Duty” copyright © 2021 by Chaz Brenchley

“Two Ruins Make a Beginning” copyright © 2021 by Rhiannon Held

“Orpheus” copyright © 2021 by John G. Hemry

“Decay in Five Stages” copyright © 2021 by Julie E. Czerneda

Symbiote

Kristine Smith

“I’m not even sure this is worth opening the hatch for.” Shelly Conn checked fasteners on her spacesuit and pulled on her gloves. “The Morecombe was reported missing twelve years ago. It’s probably been stripped of everything that’s worth a damn.”

“Hull could be worth something.” Danny Raice, her second, adjusted fittings and checked the gauges of his own suit, which squeaked in polymer complaint as he worked.

“We’d have to tow it. Towing can get complicated.” Shelly lowered her voice. “Last pilot we had took out part of a dock the last time we tried it, remember? Which is why our insurance premium blew up, which is why we don’t have insurance anymore.” Also why they couldn’t risk another tow job, even though they had a new pilot for this trip. The Stabler, their poor old tub, had been put on probation at every station in the quadrant. The damage deposit alone would take every spare credit they had.

Danny nodded. “So we need a score.”

“We need an easy score. In and out. Simple stuff. Cargo. Instrumentation.”

“Could be a lot of instruments. Analyzers. This was a lab ship, according to the official report.”

“Which was filed when the ship first went missing, twelve years ago.” Shelly slumped against the curved wall of the passageway. “We’ll look around. Anything looks good, we’ll grab it. But we’re not towing.” She checked the prelims on Danny’s suit, then forced herself to stand still while he did the same for her. Dockings always made her nervous. Linking up. Opening hatches. Those first steps into who the hell knew what. She hoped the Morecombe was still tight, that the air circulation and filtration still worked, even though she knew it was asking a lot after over a decade without maintenance.

She worked her shoulders as an unreachable spot smack in the middle of her lower back started to itch like crazy. Why does this always happen? She felt five years old again, needing to go to the bathroom as soon as her mom buttoned up her snowsuit. Please let that wreck have breathable air. Then maybe she could take the damned suit off.

Cary Seto gave Shelly the stink-eye when she and Danny reentered the navigation hub, which meant she had overheard the comments about the dock incident and decided to take umbrage at the criticism of a fellow pilot. “Link-up in one minute.” She kept her gaze fixed on the display, her brow knit as though another of her headaches had come to call.

So bloody annoying. Shelly had decided from the moment they left the dock that this first mission with Seto would be the last. The woman had been a rush hire and those never turned out well, did they? Crab-ass. Her link-up comment was the most words she had strung together since their breakaway two weeks before.

Danny glanced at Shelly and rolled his eyes. He always had the knack for reading her thoughts. “She did tip you off to this wreck.”

Shelly covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her voice. “It better be the haul of a lifetime is all I can say.”

“Well, maybe you should change your mind about—”

“No towing.” Shelly lowered her hand and looked around the hub. “Where the hell is Marta?”

“Here the hell is Marta.” Marta Sarkesian, the engineer, emerged through the floor hatch. “I was reading the reports.”

“What reports?”

Marta huffed, then pointed toward the Morecombe, the edge of which had just become visible through the viewport. “The reports on the ship we’re boarding in a few minutes.” She passed through the hub to the passageway and equipment lockers. “It was a research lab.”

“Like I said.” Danny pointed at Shelly and nodded. “Instruments.”

Shelly shook her head. “Which are no doubt long gone.”

“I doubt that. No sightings reported since it vanished twelve years ago.” Marta reappeared in the entry. She had already dragged on her suit and now struggled with her gloves. “We might get lucky.”

Shelly glanced at Cary, who kept her eyes fixed on her displays, then followed Marta out to the passageway. “Nobody reports sightings. Tappers pull the info, track you down. Next thing you know, you’re spaced and some pirate takes off with your ship and your salvage.” She helped the other woman with gloves, fittings, and safety check. “Nobody reports sightings. You find a derelict, you grab what you can and run like hell.” Danny joined them and together they donned their helmets, maneuvered toward the junction airlock, and activated their communications.

“Testing, testing. Raice to bridge.” Danny tapped his helmet earpiece. “Cary? Cary?”

A few moments passed, then the tight voice came through. “Message received. Channel is open.” Another beat, then the ship shuddered like a wheeled vehicle on a bumpy road.

“Sorry.” Cary’s voice carried no hint of apology. “Came in a little hard there.”

“You think?” Shelly hoped she muttered softly enough to evade the hypersensitive audio. “No towing no way,” she mouthed at Danny, who nodded his agreement.

They stood by the junction and waited as their ship sensors analyzed the interior of the Morecombe for the more obvious dangers. Poisonous air. No air at all. Booby traps set by a salvage crew intending to return at a later date.

Shelly relaxed, a little, as one by one, the indicators blinked green. She had been in the salvage business too long to hope or wish—you waited for the facts, looked at what you had in front of you, and worked with it. But Marta’s research had revived what she thought of as her hunter bug. The thrill of discovery. The dream of the big score.

Sounds from her suit disrupted her thoughts. The door to the airlock had opened and she and the others had stepped inside. As soon as the door closed behind them, her suit’s air filter whined, red overload indicators streaming across the inside of the helmet visor. Then, just as quickly, the sound ramped down. Then came silence.

“Something leaked.” Danny stood still as data traced an alphanumeric stream across the inside of his visor. “Low levels of particulate.”

“Dust.” Marta made entries into the data recorder on her wrist. “Bound to be some after all this time. Filter deterioration.”

“Are you sure?” Shelly crowded in behind her. “All the filters on the Stabler are rated for one hundred years minimum.”

Marta snorted. “Everything deteriorates, no matter what the salesbot says.” She tapped her com link. “All good here, Cary. Open ’er up.”

The pilot said nothing. Only the faint clicks and rasps of door mechanisms arguing with one another indicated that she had initiated the search for the code sequence that would open the Morecombe’s entry hatch.

“Depending on what kinds of stuff they have on board, the locks could be pretty complex. We could be here a while.” Marta had barely finished speaking when green indicators lit up the derelict ship’s door panel. “Damn. That didn’t take long.”

“Last wreck we boarded took six hours to crack.” Danny hoisted a bag containing generic repair kits and other equipment. “Not complaining.”

The Morecombe’s hatch slid aside and Shelly edged up next to her engineer. The opening was wide enough for the two women to stand shoulder to shoulder and survey the interior of the main deck, which included the nav hub, banks of monitors—

—and plants. Rows of raised beds, filled with all sorts of plants, filled half the deck. Some bore flowers, others berries or other types of fruit. Behind them were bushes, small trees, vines tumbling over trellises. The entire space was brightly lit, bathed by overhead lamps as well as light from a nearby sun, which filled one of the semicircle of viewports at the far end of the deck.

“Wow.” Marta stepped inside. “This place looks—”

“—new.” Shelly ran a gloved hand over the wall, which was clean and bright as if newly installed.

“It’s air in here. It’s filtered.” Danny studied the readouts on his sleeve display. “Not sure what the hiccup was.”

“Temperature?” Marta asked.

“Twenty-two and steady.”

“So it’s warmish and we can breathe?” Shelly twitched her shoulders as the itch on her back moved upward. “We can take these damned helmets off?”

“Unless you’re worried about something falling on your head.” Danny cracked his helmet seals and slipped it off, then scrubbed a hand through his mess of black hair. “I think we’re good.”

“Great.” Shelly cracked the seals of her helmet and eased off the bloody thing. Sniffed. The air smelled like…air. A little stale. A little damp, like bathroom air after a hot shower. But sweet. Like flowers.

“Feel that sun.” Marta slipped off a glove and held out her hand until it was bathed in light. “Just warm enough.”

“Ship’s bigger than I thought it would be.” Danny stepped out to the middle of the deck and did a slow turn. “Really nice.”

Marta being Marta, she whipped out her recorder and headed for the instrument panels. “If these innards are in good repair, we may have something here.” She sat at one of the stations and activated the recorder. After a few moments, she shook the device, then turned it over and popped off its access panel.

Shelly drew close. “What’s wrong?”

Marta flinched in surprise, then shook her head. “Something must be wrong with my kit—these readings are weird.”

“Define ‘weird.’”

“Most of these arrays are bio-based. The memory boards, the processors, all contain cellular materials.”

Shelly braced for a Marta Lecture. “I know that.”

“They’re decent at self-repair and can self-maintain for a time. They run diagnostics regularly, debug themselves, adapt to issues they can’t repair until people like me have time to fix them.”

Shelly took a deep breath and nodded. “But?”

“But.” Marta slumped back in the seat. “They still require regular maintenance. Extensive regular maintenance. This ship’s been abandoned for twelve years. Systems should’ve slipped into standby after six months. Honestly? It should be a mess of decayed boards by now—it should stink in here. The air should be a misty haze of yuck. Overwhelmed filters. Stuttering readouts. Nothing dangerous, just blech.” She snapped the recorder access panel back into place, then rebooted the device. “These systems aren’t designed to maintain themselves for this long and they appear to be in perfect shape.”

“Who owned the Morecombe?” Danny had wandered over to the planters and bent to sniff a bright yellow flower. “A uni or a fancy research outfit could afford the best.”

“Even the best can’t last more than a year, eighteen months at most.” Marta exhaled with a huff. “It just can’t.”

“So somebody’s on board?” Shelly felt a twist in the pit of her stomach. She activated her ship link. “Cary?”

“Yup?”

“How many bodies do the scans show?”

A heavy sigh. The sound of tapping, a few beeps. “Three.”

“Somebody’s been here before us, then.” Marta sat up straighter and looked around the deck.

“So they made some repairs. They did us a favor, yeah?” Danny stood, hands on hips. “I should go get a dolly so we can clear this place out.”

“Clear what out?” Shelly gestured vaguely. “I don’t see anything moveable. We’d have to disassemble the panels and that would take too much time.” She gave Marta’s arm a light punch. “I thought you said this was a lab ship.”

“Lab doesn’t always mean instruments.” Marta continued to study her recorder. “Botany’s a science, too, you know.”

Shelly sighed as her good mood took a hit that left a dent. “Can’t sell plants.”

“Maybe there’s some rare ones.” Danny headed to another planter. “Collectors pay good money for rare.”

“Well…” Shelly started to follow him, then stopped. “Maybe it’s the plants keeping the ship clean. Aren’t you always supposed to keep some in your flat to purify the air?”

“They produce some oxygen. They provide food. They can’t maintain a ship.”

“Maybe this is all just top of the line. Tech that most of us can’t afford.”

Marta shot to her feet, eyes wide, cheeks flaring red. “I would know about it. Knowing about things like that is my job.”

Shelly backed away. “I’m sorry.”

Marta’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah. I am, too.” She pressed a hand to her forehead and stared down at her recorder. “I just don’t…understand.” She sat back down and continued scanning.

Shelly joined Danny and together they executed a quick search of the crew quarters. They found nothing that struck Shelly as unusual—some clothing, a scatter of dishes on the galley table— but Danny examined each item as though it held secrets that would explain what happened all those years ago.

“When I was little, maybe eight, nine, my brother and I explored a vacant house a few doors down from ours. It had been empty for a long time. Years. I used to hear my folks talk about it. Something to do with a will.” His eyes shone with young boy memories. “The things we found. The power grid had malfunctioned months before and when we looked in the refrigerator—” His eyes widened and he held his nose, mimed gagging.

Shelly opened a cupboard, examined one of the cartons of freeze-dried meals, then tossed it back on the shelf. “Judging from the dates on this stuff, no one’s been here for ages.” She took Danny by the elbow and steered him back to the main deck, where they found Marta in the middle of the floor, undoing the fasteners of an access hatch.

“Engine room. Utilities. I want to see what’s going on.” The engineer swore under her breath as one of the fittings jammed, then whacked it with her all-in-one tool. The metal clatter rang through the air.

Shelly watched a faint scatter of dust settle on her sleeve and looked overhead to see where it could have come from. Trick of the light. Marta’s increasing agitation was getting under her skin. “What did you pull from the log?”

“I tried to access it. It’s been wiped.”

“You can’t wipe a ship’s log.”

Marta stared at the hatch for a time, then slowly raised her head. “By all means, give it a shot.” She pointed to the nearest bank of panels with the all-in-one, then resumed wrestling with fittings.

Shit. Shelly knelt beside her. “I meant, you’re not supposed to be able to wipe a log. How could someone do that?”

“That’s what I want to find out.” Marta sat back on her heels. “Something is wrong.” She looked around, shook her head. “This ship is spotless. It looks like it just left refurb.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the Stabler. “What did she tell you about it?”

“She can hear you.”

“I don’t care. What did she tell you?”

“That scavengers ignore it because it’s small. It looks old.”

“And you believe that?”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions.” Marta held a finger to her lips, then dug into her tool bag, removed a sidearm, and slipped it into a holster on her tool belt. She dug out her handheld, scrawled a note across the surface, and showed it to Shelly.

Escape pod still attached. What happened to the crew?

“Okay.” Shelly’s own sidearm nestled in her belt holster, though the thought of firing weapons in such close quarters gave her the shakes. “Be careful.”

“Always.” Marta wrestled open the floor hatch and vanished down the hole.

Shelly turned back to the plants, dreams of a big score faded to nothing.

“Huh.” Danny bent over a bunch of cup-like flowers, white with green and red veining. “Pitcher plants.” He pointed to another plant, this one shorter and spindlier. “Venus fly-trap.” Another boyish grin. “Carnivorous.”

Shelly kept her distance. “What—are they going to eat us?”

“Not if there’s sufficient nitrogen and phosphorus in the growth medium.” Danny checked a nearby readout and frowned. “Levels look a little low.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“My older brother kept a few in his room. He liked feeding them flies.” Danny held up his hands and twiddled his fingers. “Bzzzz…bzzzzz.”

“He sounds like a great guy.”

Danny shrugged. “He is a bit of a sadist.” He stopped, then brushed a hand over one of the panels. “Thought I saw—” He shook his head. “—dark stuff.” He looked up at the ceiling lights. “Shadows.”

“Shadows. It’s bright enough in here to induce a migraine.” Shelly left the plant area and wandered to a nearby status board. “What do you think happened to the crew?”

Danny bent to sniff another flower. “They left by other means.”

“Define ‘other means.’”

“Another ship.”

“But why leave this one—there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Pod’s worth something, at least.”

“Yeah.” Shelly yawned. Not sleeping well lately. Insurance worries. Business worries. She ran a hand over her face, then looked down to find it wet. Sweating. Damned suit. Except she didn’t feel warm.

“Hey, guys.” Marta’s voice rang from the floor below with that slightly higher pitch that always meant an expensive repair. “Go to one of the instrument boards and pop an access panel.”

Danny looked up from his inspection of one of the plants. “Why?”

“Just. Do. It.” Marta exhaled shakily. “Please?”

“Marta just said ‘Please.’” Shelly headed for the nearest array. “Shit. Did you find a booby trap?”

“Just pop the lid and tell me what you see.”

“Marta, you know how I hate it when you prolong the mystery.” Shelly walked along the banks of flashing lights until she came to a panel. “Danny? Tools.” She held out her hand, heart pounding as her second scrabbled through his bag, then handed her an all-in-one. Her hands shook as she popped the fasteners. “Please don’t let this blow up in my face.”

“It won’t.”

“Says you.”

Danny took hold of one edge of the panel and helped her work it loose. Together, they bent close to the opening. “Wow.”

“Oh my God.” All Shelly’s remaining thoughts of salvage vaporized. “Marta? There are roots all over the boards.”

“Yeah.” Marta’s voice sounded subdued, a little hoarse. “Now tell me if the root tips are on top of them or growing through them.”

Shelly shone a flashlight on one of the boards and watched as the roots rippled, contracted.

“Well, look at that.” Danny’s voice emerged hushed, raspy. “They don’t like the light.”

“Well, I have to see what’s going on, okay with you?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He held up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry.” Shelly took a deep breath. “Nerves.”

Danny nodded, eventually. “You okay?”

“No.” Shelly snapped off the light. “Marta?” She waited. “Marta?”

“Hey.” Marta’s voice came soft. “They react to light, don’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been, I don’t know, playing with them.” The engineer’s voice held a smile. “They’re living off the boards, I think. Their growth medium must be depleted, so they found a way into the systems to get what they need.”

“Marta, are you feeling okay?” Shelly heard the main hatch sweep open and turned to find Cary Seto standing in the opening. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The pilot just smiled, then breathed in deeply. “Isn’t is beautiful?” Another inhalation, then she backed into the airlock. The hatch closed.

Moments later, Shelly felt the craft shudder, heard the clicks and hums as the docking mechanisms retracted and the Stabler broke away.

“What in hell is she doing?” Danny sprinted to the door. “What in hell is she doing?”

“Cary?” Shelly tapped her com link so hard it squealed. “Cary? This isn’t funny. If you have a problem with me, let’s settle it later, okay? Just bring my ship back and we’ll go from there. I promise I won’t report you.” She joined Danny at the hatch window and watched her ship get smaller and smaller. “Pilot’s guild will yank your rating, you know that, right? You’ll be scuppered. No one will ever hire you again.”

Danny coughed. “Time to see if the pod is operational?”

“We’re too far away from the nearest port. Let’s see if we can get this ship going first.” Shelly walked to the open floor hatch and squinted into the dark. “Marta? Marta? Our pilot just took off. I need you up here now. We need to get this hulk fired up.” She waited. “Marta?” A beat longer. “Marta.”

“I don’t think she’s all right.” Danny massaged his forehead. “I’m not feeling so great, either.”

“I need you to get secondary systems up and running.” Shelly turned to find her second sweeping his hands back and forth across the instrument panels. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I need to clean it off.”

“Clean off what?”

“Can’t you see it?”

“What?”

“I keep seeing—” He waved a hand above one of the panels. “—green. Everything’s covered with green.” He gestured toward the walls, the floor and ceiling. “It’s all green and drippy and there’s rain falling from the ceiling.” He raised his hands above his head. “Gentle. Rain.” His voice sounded hoarse, thick, as though he suffered a cold. “’Member that house I told you about? The coolest thing we found, in the back of one of the closets. A terrarium.” He made vague movements with his hands, indicating size. “Just a gallon glass jug. Years old. Covered with dust. But inside? Life. Leafy plants and moss. Some kind of teeny insect burrowing through the dirt—you could see the tunnels. Moisture running down the sides like rain.” He coughed, doubled over and gagged, then sank to his knees.

Shelly left him and inserted herself into the small nav hub. She ran her hands over the activation pads, but the indicators remained dark. “It’s not responding.” She slumped back in the seat and scanned the displays until she spotted another access panel. She pried it open. More roots, growing through and around the boards like ivy on a brick building. “Marta?” She coughed, swallowed hard. Whatever filled her mouth felt…thick. “Marta?” She waited, but heard nothing. “Danny?” She pulled in air heavy with damp and scents as sweet as honey. Her eyelids felt heavy.

“Symbiosis.”

“Danny?” Shelly struggled to focus. Her second sat huddled on the floor, his hair matted, his face and suit streaked with what looked like mud.

“They’re all working together. I think they had us before we even walked inside. Spores in the air, maybe. Something in the flower scents. Some kind of drug.” Danny smiled. “My brother taught me things when he wasn’t killing flies. Different organisms interacting to mutual advantage. That’s what symbiosis is. They’re all working together to help the carnivorous plants. They lure the food and they get to share. Plants are smart, you know. They communicate. They’ve had years to figure it out and they figured it out.”

Shelly looked down at her hands, already wrapped in tendrils that stretched out from the control panel. She flinched as the tips pushed through her skin, as the roots threaded up her arms, but it was just reflex, the sight of them burrowing. Pain. She felt none. Sensation only, pressure as the roots worked through muscle, snaked around bone. She struggled to speak. Her face felt warm, tingly.

“We’ve been terrarified. Terrariumed.” Danny’s voice thickened with each word. A laugh like a gurgle. “We’re the flies.”

Shelly tried one last time to form words with her mouth, but finally gave up, and sank into her chair. Things looked different now, as the roots seeped throughout her body. The floor, walls, seats, control panels, had all darkened, their edges softened, rounded. Not mud. Moss. Every surface was covered with it. A thin, soft coating, like peach fuzz or velvet. She tried to move her fingers through it, managed a few bare twitches. Thoughts of escape, the urge to struggle, leached away as the haze settled.

“Life. Always finds a way. Shel.” Danny didn’t look like Danny anymore. He was a mass of dark now, eyes like black marbles and a hole for a mouth. Near him, and all around the deck, much smaller mounds, no more than small bumps on the floor.

So many. So many. Shelly could just sense them through the soft green, what remained of them. Not alive, no, but not dead. Not really.

She felt the soft patter of rain on her face, could just make out rivulets streaking the walls. Then she felt the vibration as the ship finally came alive, rotating slowly until the sun filled her viewport. At first, she closed her eyes to the light. But then she felt the warmth on her, through her, and opened her eyes so the others could see it, too.

* * *

The woman sat at a table in the bar’s darkened recesses and let herself relax for the first time in days. She had destroyed Cary Seto’s forged ID and pilot’s license. More importantly, she had sold the ship to a chop shop. Within hours, the Stabler would be cleaned, renamed, reregistered, sold. Any official investigation into its disappearance would hit a dead end.

And the stories will start. No one would search. Space was too big—ships disappeared all the time. People would claim to have seen it at every out of way dock in the system, to have talked to the crew. Conn. Raice. Sarkesian—

She stopped. Closed her eyes. Erased the names from her mind, and so let them join the others in what she thought of as her dead file. The number of entries had grown over the last few years and, oddly enough, that helped her forget. So many names.

She thought back to when it all began, but as usual, the scene in her mind’s eye faded, her thoughts drifting. A boarding—she recalled that much. A sweet, damp scent, like flowers after rain. Then came the urge to move, to leave. It wasn’t until she docked that she realized she had left her crewmates behind. In a panic, she dumped the ship, sold it for peanuts, changed her name, and tried to remember what had happened even as she tried to forget what she had done.

Then, a few months later, came the urge to inhale that scent again. To feel that damp air brush over her face. To return. And so she joined another crew, that time as an engineer. Told them about a salvage opportunity, a laboratory ship. Another blur followed. All she recalled was the scent. The air. The arrival at a dock. She took greater care when it came to the disposal of the ship and made a lot more money, enough to live on until she felt the compulsion again, like an itch that could only be scratched in one particular way.

Voices streamed through her brain—she shouldn’t have listened in, but she couldn’t help herself. She loved hearing the arguments as they tried to figure out what happened to that first crew, the fear as they realized what was happening to them. The engineer’s questions. The second’s knowledge about plants. The lead’s pleading calls that no one answered.

She sipped her drink, swallowed hard, coughed as something lodged in her throat. She grabbed a napkin and pressed it to her lips as the hacking continued, until she felt the obstruction move into her mouth, the pressure ease. She spit, then glanced at the blood-streaked wad of worm-like strings before balling up the napkin and shoving it in her pocket. She'd swallowed the same spores as had the others. Not enough to induce the hallucinations, but, she suspected, enough to bind her to the Morecombe. Enough to instill the need to return, the desire to…to serve.

She remembered the word the second had used. Symbiosis. She took out her handheld, pronounced it three different ways before the device finally located the definition that made sense. A mutually beneficial relationship. Yes, that would describe it perfectly. She smiled, even as certain thoughts intruded, as they always did. That the Morecombe had been derelict for almost a decade before her first visit. That the plants had been healthy even then. That she hadn’t been the first…helper.

That someday, she would board the Morecombe and never leave.

As always, she pushed the thoughts away. She lay back her head, breathed deep, let the memory of the sweet scent fill her. Felt the rustle of credit chits in her pocket, plenty of money to live on. Until the next time.

The Wreck of the Sarah Mohr

D.B. Jackson

Boston, Province of Massachusetts Bay, 11 May 1767

Ethan Kaille limped northward on Treamount Street, newly earned coin jangling in his pocket, his mood far brighter than that of the grim men and women he passed on the damp, slush-covered lane. His jaw ached from a blow he’d taken from Nigel Billings, a blond-haired behemoth in the employ of Sephira Pryce, Boston’s most infamous thieftaker. He didn’t care. Nor did he mind the chill wind whipping across the city, or the low, dark clouds scudding overhead.

He had bested Sephira, collected his coin, and succeeded in delivering a punch or two to Nigel before putting the man to sleep with a conjuring. Now he was headed to the Dowsing Rod, the tavern owned and operated by his love, Kannice Lester, so that he might spend a bit of his hard-earned money on the finest chowder and Kent ale the city had to offer. All in all, a fine day.

Upon entering the tavern, he was greeted by the warmth of a grand fire in the great room hearth and the aromas of bay and warm cream, roasted fish and baked bread. A few patrons stood at the bar drinking flips and ales, and others sat at tables near the fire, but the Dowser wouldn’t be full for another few hours.

Kelf Fingarin, Kannice’s hulking barman, spotted Ethan as he walked in and had already filled a tankard for him when he reached the bar.

“Chowder, too, Ethan?”

“Aye, thanks. I’ll be at my usual table in the back.”

“Right. Kannice’ll be out shortly. She’ll want to see you.”

Ethan frowned. “That sounds ominous.”

“You had a visitor earlier. She can tell you more.”

More mysterious by the moment. Ethan set a shilling on the bar and carried his ale to the back. He hadn’t been seated long when Kannice emerged from the kitchen, accompanied by Kelf, a tureen of chowder held between them. She wore a deep blue gown, which brought out the pale azure of her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her auburn hair tied back, though as always a few strands flew free and fell over her brow.

Kelf said something to her and she glanced Ethan’s way, a smile on her lips. Matters couldn’t be all that dire.

The barman brought Ethan his chowder, while Kannice retreated to the kitchen again. She soon returned bearing rounds of bread, one of which she brought to his table. Placing it before him, she stooped and kissed him, her hair smelling faintly of lavender, a hint of whiskey on her breath.

She sat in the chair adjacent to his. “I didn’t expect to see you here so early.”

“I had a good day.”

Her eyes fell to his jaw, which, no doubt, had already begun to darken. Ethan meant to heal himself before entering the tavern.

“Why do all your good days consist of beatings at the hands of Sephira Pryce’s ruffians?”

He grinned, winced. The skin around the bruise felt tight and tender. “In fairness, not all of them do. You and I have passed some very pleasant days without laying eyes on Sephira or her toughs. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

A reluctant smile crept over her features. “You found the gems you were seeking.”

“Aye, and was paid handsomely for their return.”

“And now you have a bit of coin to spend on me?”

“On you, on my rent, on the excellent chowders served here at the Dowsing Rod.”

“Well, I’d like a bit more spent on me.” She pulled from her bodice a folded scrap of paper and held it out for him. When he reached for it, she pulled it back beyond reach. “Promise me.”

His smile returned. “I promise that all the coin—” He frowned. “—or at least most of the coin I make as a result of whatever you’ve scrawled on that parchment you’re holding, will be spent on you.”

Eyes narrowed, she handed him the paper. He unfolded it and read what was written in her neat, slanted hand.

James Hambly. Shipwreck. The Sarah Mohr. 7 tonight.

“Was it Mister Hambly himself who came?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice flattening. “Do you know him?”

“Not even by reputation. And the Sarah Mohr…”

“A ship, carrying goods in which he has a stake. He wouldn’t say more than that.” Her voice remained emotionless.

“You didn’t like him.”

She stared at her hands. “I barely spoke to him.”

“Kannice.”

“No, I didn’t like him.” She met his gaze. “He struck me as the sort of merchant who would have defied the non-importation agreements and who cares only about the weight of his own purse. He said not a word about the ship’s crew. Only her cargo.”

“He came to a thieftaker. It’s my job to recover items, not sailors. And lest you forget, if I were a merchant, I might defy the agreements, too. It’s what Tories do.” He softened this last with a smile.

“Well, you’re not a merchant and, if I have anything to say about it, you won’t be a Tory for much longer.” She stood, then bent to kiss him again. “He’ll be back here at seven. If I’d known you were coming in so early, I’d have told him to arrive sooner.”

“No matter. Thank you.”

He ate his chowder and sipped his ale, trying to recall all that he had heard of James Hambly, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. The man lived in Newport or Providence—Ethan couldn’t remember which—and he had made a name for himself selling quality goods. He catered to the sort of clientele Sephira Pryce would have claimed as her own in her competition with Ethan: the prosperous and renowned. Likely, the goods lost with his ship would fetch a fair price and that meant Ethan could demand a substantial fee for their recovery.

Why, though, would Hambly need him? Given the resources at his disposal, couldn’t he salvage the vessel and its contents on his own? And wasn’t this just the sort of job Sephira insisted should belong to her? Ethan’s jaw ached at the thought.

He finished his meal and, with hours left before the appointed time, left the Dowser for Boston’s waterfront. He hadn’t been at sea for many years, since his return from the prison plantation on Barbados where he served time for mutiny and lost part of his left foot to gangrene. Still, he knew a few men who worked the wharves, and had long been friendly with an old sea captain, Gavin Black, who, like Ethan, was a conjurer.

He learned little from the wharfmen with whom he spoke. They knew no more about Hambly than he did. His conversation with Gavin, however, proved more fruitful, though not particularly illuminating.

“Yeah, I know Hambly,” Gavin said, as he and Ethan strolled along Fish Street near Burrel’s Wharf. From his tone, Ethan gathered that he was no more fond of the merchant than Kannice had been. “I even transported cargo for him for a time. It’s been a few years now.”

“Is there a reason you stopped?”

Gavin glanced his way, his expression guarded. “I didn’t like what he had me carrying. I won’t say more than that.”

“Fair enough. Do you know anything about the Sarah Mohr?”

Surprise widened his eyes. “The Sarah Mohr is Lewis Gaine’s ship. Why, what’s happened to her?”

“Apparently she was wrecked. I don’t know where yet. When I learn more, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Ethan. I’m grateful.” He hesitated. “As for the cargo I handled for Hambly—it was…” He shook his head. “I never should have agreed to it. It wasn’t illegal, but I’m ashamed nevertheless. I’m sorry for speaking to you the way I did.”

“You owe me no apologies.” Ethan halted and proffered a hand, which Gavin gripped. “Thank you for your time, Gavin. I’ll be in touch when I can.”

Ethan left him by the wharves and headed back to the Dowsing Rod. The last of the recent storm had moved through and the sun hung low in the west, golden rays streaming through layers of thick, gray cloud. A stiff wind still blew and the air had turned cold—winter’s last gasp.

The Dowsing Rod was far more crowded when Ethan returned. Still, Kannice spotted him as he entered and cast a glance toward a lone man seated at a table near the hearth. Hambly, Ethan assumed.

As he approached the table, the man glanced up, then stood. He was about Ethan’s height, with dark eyes in a square, handsome face. Flecks of silver salted a head of dark curls. He wore a dark blue suit. A tricorn hat, in far better condition than Ethan’s, rested on the table beside a cup of Madeira.

“Mister Kaille?”

“Yes, sir. Mister Hambly, I assume.”

“That’s right.”

They shook hands and at a gesture from the merchant Ethan lowered himself into the opposite chair.

“I won’t waste your time,” Hambly said. “I have it on authority that you’re good at your work, you’re honest, and you’re discreet. That last is most important to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also understand…” He faltered, looked around to see that no one was listening, and leaned in. “…that you are a man of diverse talents, if you catch my meaning.”

Indeed, Ethan did. Hambly needed help with something magickal and someone had told him Ethan was a conjurer. No wonder he had chosen Ethan over Sephira. Ethan didn’t like the idea of strangers discussing his conjuring abilities. Spellers were still hanged as witches in the Province of Massachusetts Bay and Ethan had no desire to wind up with a noose around his neck.

On the other hand, his talents appeared to have earned him this job, whatever it might entail, so he couldn’t complain too much.

“How can I be of service, sir?”

This was all the confirmation Ethan intended to offer and Hambly seemed to take it as such.

“I hired a ship to bring some goods up to Newport. Valuable goods.”

“The Sarah Mohr.”

“Just so. Unfortunately, the storm that battered the region over the past few days blew her off course and, rather than making port, she ran aground between Newport and here, on the shoal near Point Alderton.”

“South of Hull.”

“That’s right.”

“And where was she coming from?”

“She had followed the coastline north.”

This wasn’t exactly what Ethan had asked.

Seeing his frown, Hambly hurried on. “Where she was coming from doesn’t matter. What’s important is that she beached. Several of her crew were injured. Some were killed.”

“And Captain Gaine?”

The merchant considered Ethan anew. “You’ve done your research. I suppose I should be impressed.” He straightened. “Gaine suffered a broken leg and was borne to safety by the fittest among his crew. He should be fine. The ship itself is my primary concern.”

“She remains on the shoal?”

“For now. I fear a strong tide could pull her back out to sea, crewless and at the mercy of the surf. The night after tomorrow, the moon will be full. A spring tide could cost me dearly.”

“I believe I understand. But I’m curious as to why the uninjured crew can’t go back to salvage your cargo.”

“Forgive me, Mister Kaille, but you understand nothing.”

Ethan bristled. “Then, by all means, enlighten me.”

The merchant lifted a hand. “I phrased that poorly. But you see, I don’t need you to salvage the ship. As you say, Captain Gaine’s crew will see to that. Right now, though, they are being prevented from doing so.”

“Prevented? By what?”

He leaned in again. “Ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” Ethan repeated, unable to mask his skepticism.

“I would have expected you to be a believer, being a witch and all.”

“I’m not a witch.”

Hambly’s brow furrowed. “Moments ago, you seemed to confirm—”

“People like me call what we do conjuring and refer to ourselves as conjurers or spellers. And I assure you, there is a great distance between my abilities and superstition about ghosts.”

Ethan spoke the words forcefully enough, but even as he did he thought of Uncle Reg, the magickal spirit who appeared whenever he cast a spell. If those without magick could see Reg, wouldn’t they consider him a ghost? Hadn’t he himself thought of the spirit as such? Perhaps the distance was not so great after all.

“Now it’s my turn to beg forgiveness,” he said, easing his tone. “Tell me about these ghosts. What did the men see?”

“Phantasms! Wraiths! Specters! They saw ghosts! I don’t know how else to describe them.”

“These beings were insubstantial?”

“I assume so,” Hambly said, sounding less sure of himself.

“And did they have color or were they merely pale, like starlight?”

“I don’t know that, either, and I can’t really see why it would matter. These…creatures are keeping men in my employ from recovering valuables that belong to me. Their appearance is of no concern.”

“You came to me for my expertise in these matters, sir. And I believe these details do matter.”

Hambly’s mien soured.

“Did the spirits say anything? Did they make threats?”

“Yes! That the crew mentioned. The ghosts promised to kill any who came near the ship. They said that they were the spirits of sailors lost on that shoal in the past and all ships that ran aground there belonged to them.”

Ethan nodded at this. He assumed these were conjured illusions. Someone with power had located the ship and sought to claim its cargo.

“Very well, Mister Hambly, what exactly would you like me to do?”

“I want you to rid the ship of these wraiths so that I can retrieve what is mine. For that simple service, I am prepared to pay you a sum of ten pounds. Three now and the balance when I am satisfied that the creatures have been dealt with.”

“Can you provide me with transportation to the shoal?”

Hambly frowned. “I suppose. Approaching by carriage will take much of the day.”

“I’d prefer to sail. If you might find a skiff I can use for the day, that would be ideal.”

“I believe I can arrange that, yes, though it could take some time. Were we in Newport, or even Providence, it would be no trouble at all. Here, though… I’ll send word to you once I have a boat secured. Will you need someone to sail it for you?”

“No, sir. I can handle her myself.”

“Very well.” The merchant paused. “I want to impress upon you, Mister Kaille, that your efforts in this matter should not require you to board or search the Sarah Mohr.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I see no need for you to board the ship. Your task is to drive off the specters and, since they materialized well before those men reached the vessel, I don’t believe you will need to board her.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

Hambly shifted in his chair.

“What is it you don’t want me to see?”

“It’s not that. There’s nothing… There are valuables on the vessel and I prefer that as few people as possible know the details of my affairs.”

Ethan watched him, saying nothing.

“I have competitors, Mister Kaille. Rivals who seek every advantage. Surely you understand that.”

“I’ve already promised my discretion, sir.”

“Yes, of course you have,” Hambly said, his voice dropping. “Please forget what I said. My words were ill-advised. Naturally, you should do whatever is necessary to rid the ship of these creatures. The rest is…” He shook his head. “That’s all that matters.”

The man’s change in tone only served to redouble Ethan’s doubts about this job. At this point, he wasn’t certain he wanted any part of it. Ten pounds be damned.

Perhaps sensing his growing reluctance, Hambly produced a small leather purse that rang with coins when he set it on the table. He opened it, pulled out three pounds, and held them out for Ethan to take. When Ethan faltered, he gave his hand a small shake, making the coins jangle.

Against his better judgement, Ethan took the money.

“Very good,” Hambly said, smiling, pushing back from the table, and climbing to his feet. “I’ll send a missive in the morning. I assume I should have it delivered here?”

“Yes, sir.” Ethan closed his fist around the coins, still torn between pocketing them and handing them back.

“Excellent. I can be reached at the Brazen Head. I’ll await word of your success.”

With that he strode to the door, clearly eager to be away before Ethan could change his mind. Ethan watched him go, and was still clutching the coins when Kannice came to his table.

“You don’t look happy,” she said, standing over him. “Did that go poorly?”

He shrugged, opened his hand to reveal the money.

“He hired me, so not really. But I have my doubts about him. And about whether I should have taken his coin.”

“He seemed respectable enough.”

“Aye, that he did. But something in his manner bothered me. I suspect he’s only as respectable as he needs to be, not a bit more.”

“Well, having doubts about taking his money will make it that much easier for you to spend it all on me.”

He laughed and pocketed the coins. “I’m sure it will.”

* * *

Hambly’s message did not arrive until mid-afternoon the following day. Still, true to his word, the merchant did manage to find a skiff Ethan could use. It awaited him at a narrow strip of beach between the North Battery and Burrough’s Wharf.

As it happened, Hambly’s delay cost Ethan little time. The day had dawned clear and cool, but windless. Not until midday did the air around Boston begin to stir. By the time the message came, enough of a breeze blew to ensure a steady passage to Point Alderton.

Ethan left the Dowsing Rod chewing on a piece of buttered bread and assuring Kannice that he would try to be back in the city before midnight.

The skiff was a simple vessel, but well-tended and certainly sea-worthy. Before long, he had her tacking away from the city wharves. As the sun began its slow descent toward the western horizon, he sailed past the fortifications of Castle William and out into the wider waters of the Harbor. The wind wasn’t strong enough for speed, but it kept him moving, even as he had to steer the vessel past Spectacle, Long, and Lovell’s Islands. He cut southward to pass west of the Brewsters, and as the last light of day gilded the surf and the rocky isles around him, he came within sight of the shoals at Point Alderton.

The Sarah Mohr rested aground, off kilter, the surf lapping at her hull. Ethan saw no other ships, save a schooner passing northward far beyond the outermost islands. He saw no people at all.

He slipped his knife from its sheath and cut his forearm. “Tegimen ex cruore evocatum,” he said. Warding, conjured from blood.

His casting thrummed deep beneath the water’s surface, like a harp string plucked by Poseidon himself, and his spectral spirit, whom he had named after a waspish uncle on his mother’s side, materialized in the boat. Reg was an ancient warrior, clothed in chain mail and a tabard bearing the lions of the Plantagenet kings. He glowed a deep shade of russet.

With his warding in place, Ethan returned the blade to his belt and piloted his small boat to the strand some distance from the wreck. He hopped out into the cold waters and dragged her up onto the shoal where she would be safe from an incoming tide. By now the sun had set, but the western sky burned with shades of pink and orange. The moon hung to the east, the same color as Reg, and nearly full.

Ethan glanced around again before starting toward the beached ship. Walking on dry sand pained his bad leg, so he followed the tideline toward the ship. About halfway there, something cool brushed his cheek, like a dew-covered thread of a spider web.

A detection spell. Magick growled in the sand beneath his feet, the conjuring triggered by his approach. He braced himself, fearing an attack.

Instead, four glowing figures appeared ahead of him and soared in his direction, white as starlight in the gloaming. They wore tatters. Their faces were sunken and discolored with decay. In spots, their skulls showed through darkened, leathery skin.

“Be gone!” one of the forms cried, his voice quavering but deep. “This ship is ours! Leave this place or die!”

The first figure wheeled, like a gull in flight.

“This place belongs to the dead!” the next figure called, his voice higher and thinner. “Depart or become one of us!”

He wheeled away as well, as did the two who followed.

They didn’t go far, and soon they turned again to dive once more toward Ethan. He had to admit that whoever cast the spells had done well. It was an impressive display. He could see how it might terrify someone unaccustomed to magick and unable to sense the spells.

For his part, these conjured illusions served only to pique his curiosity. He started forward again, tracking the flight of the magick ghosts, glancing repeatedly at the beached ship, and expecting at any moment to trip another detection spell or feel the rumble of another casting.

Detection spells were conjurings designed to trigger secondary castings and they required a fair bit of skill. Ethan had never cast one, though he thought he could if he needed to. Whoever had claimed the ship might prove a formidable adversary.

When he was perhaps ten strides from the vessel, he felt another cool brush of magic. One more ghost rose from the ship, this one larger and more gruesome than the others. It bellowed like a creature of nightmare and dove for Ethan, hands clawed into talons, its mouth open to expose sharp, pointed teeth. Ethan lurched away and fell back onto the sand.

“Do you wish to die?” the ghost wailed, looming over him.

He took a breath and forced himself to his feet, his pulse pounding. He felt foolish for having allowed himself to be frightened, even knowing these ghosts were illusions. This newest wraith still hovered above him, less intimidating now. The others had vanished. The sand around the ship was churned. Squatting to take a closer look, Ethan saw that there were footprints around the vessel—impressions of unshod feet—leading down to the tideline and vanishing in that part of the strand that the surf had smoothed. It seemed a good many had survived the wreck.

He straightened again, brushed the sand from his breeches and coat, and drew his blade. After a moment’s hesitation, he cut himself, wishing to be ready for whatever might come.

“Your ghosts didn’t work.” He pitched his voice to carry over the rush and retreat of the harbor surf. “This ship isn’t yours and I can’t allow you to remain with it. Now show yourself.”

Magick growled beneath his feet and a conjuring struck him, driving him onto his heels. Powerful, but not overwhelming.

Ethan answered with a casting of his own, a fist spell. He heard a man grunt within the vessel. Another conjuring hit him, but it was no more powerful than the first.

“You can’t defeat me,” he called. “I’ve no desire to hurt you, but I will if I have to. I’m coming aboard.”

“No!”

A human voice. He sounded young.

Ethan walked to the far side of the ship, searching for a ladder or rope with which he might gain access to the deck. Seeing none, he cast again, an illusion spell of his own, sourced in blood.

He conjured an image of himself, placed it inside the ship, and closed his eyes so that he might see through the conjured form.

“I won’t hurt you,” he made the illusion say. “I’ve been hired to rid this ship of ghosts. The man who employed me doesn’t understand conjuring as you and I do. He doesn’t ever need to know that you were here. I won’t let him punish you. But you have to leave.”

As he spoke, he scanned the hold, looking for the conjurer. At first, he saw no one. But then movement in the deepest shadows caught his eye.