The Ghost Line Read online

  Michel grunted and she realized he’d been holding his breath too. He gestured to Wei. “The Queen is yours.”

  Saga thought she saw an eagerness flash across Wei’s face.

  “Ship,” Wei said. “Open the navigation controls.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The ship’s voice was gender-neutral, shading toward female. The navigation interface blossomed within the holographic display in the middle of the room.

  “Lock access to me.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Wei turned to Saga and Michel. “Good work.” She paused. “We’ll be going in twenty hours, so make sure you clean up your stuff. We don’t want to leave any sign we were here.”

  “What?” Saga stood up, shocked. “You’re joking. We spent two months getting here.”

  “It’s not that big a ship,” Wei said. “How long could it possibly take to do your interactive?”

  “I’m not going to rush my recording,” Saga said. “You owe us this, Wei.”

  “I owe you money. And you’ll get it. But we don’t have time to loiter. Once the Queen’s course changes, someone’s going to notice.”

  While Michel and Wei discussed the navigation interface, Saga brought up her mail queue. A batch had come in while they were busy hacking and she’d ignored it at the time. A red exclamation point flashed in her lenses. Her aunt’s name.

  She opened the urgent message and felt a drop in her guts, the sensation that gravity had vanished without warning and she was falling and she was going to fall forever.

  She must have made a noise, though she had no conscious awareness of it. Both Michel and Wei were looking at her. “What is it?” Michel said.

  Saga opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She stared at them dumbly. Finally she forced the words past her lips: “My mother died.”

  “Oh,” Michel said. “Oh, Saga.”

  He came closer and put his hand on her arm. She shrugged it away, trying to concentrate on the words, reading them again as if somehow they would change. They would admit the message was a mistake. They’d tell her someone else’s mother had died.

  A cytokine cascade, her aunt wrote. That’s what the doctors told us. Her body rejected the therapy and her immune system went haywire. They tried to save her, but it all happened so quickly . . .

  Michel touched her arm again. “It was my fault,” she said. Her throat was tight. The world contracted around her. She clutched at her husband to keep herself upright.

  “No,” Michel said. He held on to her tightly. “You know that’s not true.”

  “I kept pushing,” she said. “I could have left her alone. She was happy enough as she was, but I thought that if we tried the new treatment, something better . . .”

  “You wanted your mother back,” he said. “That’s all. There wasn’t anything wrong with that.”

  “It was for me, it wasn’t for her. I was being selfish.”

  “Shh,” Michel said. He stroked her hair. “It’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t going to be okay. Saga let go of Michel. “I’m going back to the Sigurd. I need to call my aunt.”

  “Ah,” Wei said. “About that . . .”

  Michel turned and stared at Wei. “You’re not serious. You’re still quarantining us?”

  Wei didn’t reply.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Michel left Saga and wheeled on Wei. He pushed her backward, his face red. “Let my wife back in the ship, now!”

  “No,” Wei said.

  Michel grabbed her upper arms and she reached out and gripped his arms in turn. Frozen, Saga watched the two of them grapple. Michel’s eyes widened as Wei forced his arms back, her suit’s power assistance giving her the advantage.

  “Enough!” Saga yelled, a burning anger in the pit of her stomach. “My mother’s dead and you’re acting like children.”

  Wei let go and Michel rubbed his arms, glaring at her furiously. “You can’t do this,” he said.

  “Stop it,” Saga snapped. “Both of you.” She turned to Wei, who regarded her warily. “I need to talk to my aunt.”

  “You don’t have to be on the Sigurd,” Wei said. “I can patch the call through your suit. With the relays it’ll take thirty minutes or more to get your message to her.”

  “Not good enough,” Michel said.

  “It’s going to have to be.”

  Saga suddenly felt tired. “Just connect me, Wei. I need to talk to my aunt more than I need to fight about this.”

  * * *

  Saga sent her message from the presidential suite, barely keeping her composure as she addressed the camera in her suit’s helmet.

  “I want to be there,” she told her aunt. “I want to touch her before she’s gone.” Her family were still traditional; there would be a home farewell, with friends and family gathering before they took the white casket to church for the funeral. “But I can’t.”

  They were almost at the Queen’s maximum distance from Earth. She’d done the math. Even if she stole the Sigurd—the wild thought had occurred to her as she walked back to the suite—it still would take more than forty days to get back home.

  Her mother would have been six weeks dead by then. The casket long since buried. Saga’s absence from the group of mourners, from her family, like the gap of a missing tooth.

  She lay on the bed until the reply finally came. The funeral plans were already in motion. Her aunt included a list of the relatives who would be coming from various parts of Iceland and the rest of the world. A cousin was even descending from Luna, at some expense. And Saga’s father, Ólafur. He would be there too.

  She felt a hot spark of anger at the thought of him being there while she was stuck on this ship, cut off from almost everyone she loved.

  She got up from the bed. She needed to move.

  * * *

  When Saga reached the main entrance hall it seemed smaller and less impressive than the first time she’d been there. The ship was fully awake now; the lights brightened as she moved through the corridors. Doors opened and closed for her. But it felt soulless. Empty.

  Her mother’s room in the care facility would be empty now too. Sterilized. As if nobody had slept in her bed, brushed her hair in front of the mirror, asked after her absent daughter.

  Saga came to the carved doors where she’d found the twig and leaf. She ordered the ship to keep them closed and searched for the twig. Frowned. Searched again. Ran her fingers over the wood, feeling for any strange bumps. But there was nothing.

  It was this exact spot: the cannons firing, the cloud of smoke rising from the side of the battleship. She had a moment of doubt. Was her memory faulty?

  Saga dug in her pocket for the leaf but could find only fragments. She sighed and walked through the doors. Signs pointed the way to the ship’s spa, the exercise room. She wandered aimlessly, taking turns at random.

  After several minutes she passed through another pair of carved doors and entered the casino. Antique gaming machines flickered to life, vying for her attention. Gilt-framed mirrors caught her reflection. To the left of the room, there was a gleaming wood-and-metal bar with racks of empty shelving. Along the back stretched a stage with a purple velvet curtain. There was a round table and two chairs positioned in front. Sitting at one, an empty bottle in front of him, was Gregor. He sat so still she hadn’t noticed him at first.

  As she approached, he looked up at her. His eyes were tired, dark circles beneath them. “The lovely Saga,” he grumbled. “I am in trouble?”

  “I don’t care what you do on your off time.” She took the seat opposite. His pungent sweat had a sour alcoholic note. She nodded at the bottle. “You have any more of that?”

  Gregor raised an eyebrow. “You did not drink on trip here.”

  “Things have happened.”

  He frowned at her. “Things have not happened.” He motioned to the stage. “I sit, I wait. Nobody sings to Gregor.”

  Saga followed his glance. What was the show on th
e brochure? Dancing girls? It seemed hard to imagine. She looked back at him. “I have no more drink here,” he said. “Back in my room there are bottles. Very fine plum brandy . . .”

  Saga shook her head. Getting drunk with Gregor suddenly seemed like a bad idea.

  “Ship,” she called out. “Can you get me a glass of water?”

  The ship responded immediately: “Certainly.” There was a whirring noise from the bar as a drink dispenser came to life.

  Gregor glanced at the bar. “Ship is awake.”

  “We have full access now. Wei wants to leave tomorrow.”

  “She tells me go, I go.” He stood up, touching the edge of the table to balance himself. He didn’t seem as drunk as the empty bottle suggested. “Very well. Since you do not wish plum brandy, I have things to do.”

  He walked toward the casino’s exit, then stopped. Saga watched as he picked up her glass of water from the bar and brought it back to her. He sat down at the table again. “I see it now. Something is wrong.”

  Saga closed her eyes. “My mother died.” It was strange to say the words. They didn’t feel true.

  “Ah.” A silent pause. “It is not such an easy thing, is it? My father passed when I was working in the belt. I could not return for two years. Even if there is . . . complicated relationship, the death of a parent is still important. It has weight.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “Then that is even greater burden to carry.”

  She could feel the weight of that burden. It was a dark, smothering thing. Then Gregor’s rough hand on hers. She opened her eyes and jerked her hand back.

  “I mean nothing like that,” Gregor said. He stood up again. “Come. Please. I have something I would like to show you.”

  * * *

  They walked in silence. Saga soon realized he was taking her to the recreation ring. It was a part of the ship she hadn’t bothered to visit, but she remembered it from their research. A cylindrical room that spanned the entire circumference of the spin section. One of those novelties of habitat and ship design that let you walk in a complete circle, held to the floor by spin, the heads of other people visible above you. Alarming and exotic the first time you did it, a forgettable cliché the tenth time.

  “I’ve been on rings before, you know,” Saga said as they came to the entrance.

  Gregor smiled. “Humor me.”

  They entered a dim vestibule. There was a second set of doors ahead, and Gregor motioned to her to continue. She walked out into winter. He joined her as she gaped at the scene. They could almost have been outside on Earth. Snowflakes drifted down from a pale sky above. She could make out the shapes of white hills and trees in the distance. Before them, a glassy surface.

  “Here.” Gregor handed her a jacket and motioned to a bench by the side of the doors. Several pairs of skates lay there, unlaced.

  Saga’s breath plumed like smoke.

  She turned to Gregor. “How?”

  “It is normally pool with small beach.” Gregor zipped his own jacket and sat down on the bench. “You could swim laps of ship, see water above, make faces.” He pulled an exaggerated expression of surprise and wonder, pointing upward. “Look, it doesn’t fall on us!”

  Saga glanced at the skates. “You froze the pool.”

  Gregor smiled. “There is winter setting. You and Michel are not only ones who can make hacks. You and I, we are northern people, no? This is a little like home.”

  She put on the jacket, slid out of the slippers she’d been wearing, and pulled on the skates. She waited a moment as they adjusted to her feet, then she laced them, the frigid air beginning to numb her fingertips. In a jacket pocket she found a pair of knit gloves and pulled them on. In the other pocket there was a knit cap.

  The cold air prickled her cheeks and numbed the tip of her nose. Iceland was warmer than it used to be, but it still kept the traditions of winter, and sometimes there were cold snaps. Saga had skated on school trips and with friends when she was older. After a few wobbling moments on the ice it all came back to her. The push and glide, the way she could move forward with a shifting of her weight. She’d never skated on a curved surface before, or under low gravity: this was new and took some adjusting to. Gregor had obviously had some practice—he sped ahead, crossing his feet over each other like a hockey player accelerating after a puck. In a moment he was gone, hidden by the curl of ice and the false sky.

  As she moved through the artificial winter, something softened inside her. Something she hadn’t known was so hard and painful until it began, just a little, to melt.

  Then Gregor sped past with a whoop, tagging her shoulder. She grinned at his retreating form and dug in. The ice crunched under her blades. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to move quickly.

  Even in low gravity, she felt her thighs burn as she chased him. It took three laps, but finally she was close enough to tag him in return. She slapped his arm as she raced past, then looked back to see him bent over, face red. She stopped and skated back to him. “A moment . . . ,” he huffed. Then he was down on one knee.

  She reached to take his arm.

  He tried to wave her away. “I am not . . .” Huff. “I am not old man.” Huff. “I do not need . . .” Then he gave in and let her help him up. He leaned heavily against her as they skated to their exit, then hobbled over to the bench.

  She went to take off his skates.

  “Just one moment,” he said, but it took a good five minutes before his breathing returned to normal and the flush had subsided.

  Saga watched the snowflakes swirl down, the slight shimmer of the projected landscape on the wall across from them. She knew if she was too sympathetic he would stiffen up, defensive, so she took off her own skates and sat quietly with him. It was an old, familiar feeling.

  “Back home,” Gregor said, “there would be cart with chestnuts and meat pies. Hot wine to warm our insides.”

  “I’m warm enough.” Saga turned to face him on the bench. “Why alcohol?”

  Gregor frowned. “Hot wine is good.”

  “Not that. I mean, why do you drink? Aren’t there more subtle ways to dull your senses? Safer ones? It just seems so old-fashioned. So . . . crude.”

  Gregor was quiet for a moment. “What does it matter to you?”

  “In Iceland we can choose which parent we take our surname from. I’m Saga Hannesdóttir now, after my mother, but I was born Saga Ólafsdóttir.”

  “Ah,” Gregor said. “So your father disappointed you.”

  She nodded slowly. “Ólafur drank. He probably still drinks. I don’t know; I haven’t seen him for a decade.”

  “And you meet me, and I drink, so you think, ‘Ah, sad Russian man will provide insight into my bad father.’ Is that right?”

  “Forget it,” Saga said. She stood up. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  Gregor found her hand. “Wait,” he said. “Sit. Please.”

  She sat, grudgingly.

  “I cannot tell you about your father. I know nothing of him. Only this I can say: Alcohol is old club with which to beat oneself. It has long tradition of self-destruction. A man who chooses to drink is romantic.” He held up his hand at her puzzled expression. “Not in love way. Romantic in old way. He thinks he is noble and doomed.”

  “And you?” Saga said on impulse. “Are you noble and doomed?”

  Gregor’s expression was clouded, unreadable. “Some mistakes we make can be forgiven. Some cannot.” He took off his skates and put on his shoes. Then he stood and shuffled toward the exit. Saga followed, quiet. Halfway there he turned and looked into her eyes, a sadness in his own. “For your father, I think perhaps is your job to decide if his mistakes can be forgiven.”

  * * *

  The next morning Saga received a message from her aunt. A video of her and Saga’s uncle, her nieces, all sending their condolences. She felt a warmth, watching the familiar faces. It finally coaxed out the tears she hadn’t cried the day before and she let them come.
/>   Saga was working on her mother’s obituary, Michel beside her, when they were interrupted by an alert that chimed from the ceiling of the room. Then the ship’s voice: “The captain has asked all senior crew to report to the bridge for an emergency meeting.”

  When they got to the bridge, Wei had the ship’s mind display open. “You need to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  Saga looked at the images. “I don’t see—,” she started. But Michel was already frowning. He sat at a console and started typing.

  “Odd,” he said.

  “Goddamn right it’s odd,” Wei said. “What are you pulling?”

  Michel looked up at her, confused. “We’re not pulling anything. I don’t have a clue what happened.”

  The display looked as it always had to Saga, but then this part had long been Michel’s specialty. “What?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re all gone,” Wei said. “And nobody but the two of you had access. Goddamn Gregor wouldn’t be capable, I can tell you that.”

  “The navigation corrections,” Michel said. “Wei thinks we changed them back. But we didn’t. Wei, you’re the only one who’s had access since we hacked the system. Look—I’ll show you the logs.”

  “You think I trust a hacker’s logs?”

  Saga sat at the console beside Michel and scrolled through the system status screens. “You tried to input navigation changes?”

  Wei looked at her, at Michel. Her anger lost some of its edge. “I had it all in there, ready to go. All we needed was for the reactor to come fully online. I set it up last night, but this morning the reactor was idling and the navigation instructions were gone. Like I’d never done a thing.”

  Michel typed furiously. He glanced back at Wei. “You did save everything after you input the commands, right?”