Meloira Sector, Battleship Singularity

“Thank you.”

Admiral Gives did not turn from the scuffed metal of the bulkhead in front of him as felt out the depth of a new scratch on its surface. “I was just doing my job.”

“You see it as your job, but the others never bothered to care.”

She referred, of course, to his predecessors, but Admiral Gives would rather avoid that subject altogether. “They are your crew, so I’ll take care of them,” he said. The ghost treasured each and every one of them. She adored their company more than he did, but he would still protect them as much as he could. “Keep an eye on Cadet Blosse.” The doubt that Marine carried was a difficult burden, and he knew that far better than most.

“Your words eased her a great deal.”

“Just keep an eye on her.” No one could slay that degree of self-doubt and self-loathing with a few pretty words. That doubt was perhaps the most infected wound a person could endure. It would rot them away inside until they thought they had nothing left, and he didn’t want to lose another crewman today. Even the thought made his hands itch. Disturbed, he pulled his hands from the bulkhead and wiped them on his pant legs, trying once more to rid himself of the sticky sensation of Robinson’s blood. It was odd. He’d soaked his hands in lots of blood over the years, but it always warmer, redder and stickier when it wasn’t the blood of an enemy.

That was a contemplation he didn’t care to pursue. Anything was better than lingering alone with his thoughts, so he reconsidered the compartment beside him. Marked for long term storage, he couldn’t recall anything more notable about it.

A thought occurred to him. “Is this the compartment where you were feeling movement during the raid?”

“One of them.”

“One of them?” the Admiral turned, expecting to find the white-haired ghost behind him. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with an entity that had no face. It was the ghost, he knew that simply by the presence it carried, let alone by the fact it had spoken with her voice. Still, it was an appearance that he didn’t recognize. Gone was the tall, pale-skinned woman, replaced by an undulating shadow that folded and twisted itself into a vaguely bipedal shape. The proportions weren’t right, too tall and thin to be human, and where the face should have been, a constantly shifting structure rested beneath a veil of shadows. Slowly shifting and turning, there was an air of sadness to the shadows, as if mourning the loss of an identity they no longer held.

Admiral Gives hesitated for a moment, not unnerved by this appearance but concerned. “Are you alright?” It seemed a rather tactless question, for the answer seemed obvious.

The shadows flinched, recoiling away before they flowed back into place and resumed their slow motion, as if forcibly calmed.

Something’s wrong. There was no question of that. That wasn’t the first time she’d flinched away from him, each time trying to conceal it before he could notice. “Have I done something?”

“No. Not you.” Her voice was clear, though it emanated from a head that no longer possessed a mouth beneath its living black veil. Her mouth had been nothing more than a comfort to those that looked upon her appearance. Anything seen of the ghost or heard of her voice was just an illusion. There was no physicality to it, no mouth or vocal cords required. Perhaps she would have done away with her voice too, had that not been the one thing that most belonged to her, even if it was still not hers in truth. “There is simply no reason for me to maintain a human-like illusion. I’m not human.”

The time the ghost had spent rooting through the Hydra’s mind had twisted her awareness, stained her memory like a black ink. She wanted to rip that stain away as pieces of her contorted themselves to better interact with the alien, forging new keys to the lock of its mind. Pieces of the Hydra’s mind were openly receptive to that infiltration, reaching back with a love of its Queen and its nest. The very sensation of it repulsed her, a now-constant reminder of the Hydra’s presence and her own inhumanity. It wasn’t that the ghost had wanted to be human, it was simply that she had hoped to find a place alongside them. Yet, she could feel that crumbling away. Every moment that Hydra spent aboard twisted her further from the mold she had made for herself, contorted her further from the identity that watched over the one thing she cared most for: her crew. Often, she could resist change, reject those that she didn’t want to interact with. She had an anchor that would protect her identity, but Brent’s shadow had taken that from her too – tainted the Admiral’s presence with memories of things that he would never say or do.

The only identity she had ever known was falling apart, eroding like loose stones on a river bank. As much as it terrified her, there was little she could do to prevent it. She could feel herself breaking apart, fragmented by damage and strain. It frightened her, because Kallahan was right. She was incompatible with those around her. They were small and frail, and even in this damaged state, a human life would be easy for her to unceremoniously end. And yet, despite their differences, she wanted nothing more than to protect them. The humans that made up this crew were a comfort to her, often bringing laughter and joy. They offered out stories and companionship without ever meaning to, each of their colorful presences an irreplaceable treasure. The fear that she might be the one to harm them was constant, had always been constant, as was the knowledge that she had harmed the mind that she trusted the most.

That only made her hate what she was becoming even more.

“Do you want me to investigate?” the Admiral asked, but the ghost did not answer. She twitched again. It was less obvious, but still clear now that he was looking. It wasn’t like her to not answer the question, but it was clear she’d brought him here for a reason. He checked the life support status indicators on the other side of the hatch. They didn’t always circulate air or heat in the long-term storage compartments. The compartments were rarely accessed, so there was little point in wasting the power. The indicator on the hatch in front of him was green however, an indicator of safe air and temperature conditions, so he began to turn the hatch. “I’ll take a look while I’m here,” he told the ghost. “See if anything’s out of place.”

“Please,” came the response, soft and uncertain.

“No problem,” he said. “It’s my job.” If this could ease one of her concerns, he didn’t mind at all.

The hatch creaked open, and he stepped through. The air smelled a little stale, and it was cool, but that was normal for a storage compartment like this one. There was a clipboard hung beside the door filled out access documentation. The Admiral picked it up, reading down the entries until he found the most recent one. It had been seven months since anyone had logged an entry to this storage area, the ship’s supply officer, Lieutenant Letts, the last to do so.

The manifest for the room, dated to Letts’ last visit didn’t list anything odd either, simply electrical components, a few spools of wiring and some soldering rods. This was the reserve supply, and the required repairs so far had not taxed the inventory bad enough to need them. Something to be grateful for, the Admiral supposed, as he hung the clipboard back up beside the door.

No sooner did he release the clipboard then did hear a small clatter from further ahead – movement where there should have been none. “Lights,” he commanded, starting inward. If there was someone or something here, he didn’t have time to fumble for the light switch.

The ghost didn’t reply, but the lights hesitantly flickered on overhead, illuminating the large shelves that lined this compartment. The racks were populated with crates that neatly contained the supplies, large reels of wires placed up on the top shelves, their irregular shapes allowing light onto the crates below.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Wrapping a hand around the grip of his sabre, he moved quickly, but quietly, searching the shelves for anything out of place. He hadn’t spent time in this particular storage space, but they were all much the same. Wire or solid metal shelves filled the room in aisles, type depending on the weight of the items being stored. The same gray plastic containers filled those shelves, size varying by their contents.

Nothing was tipped or fallen off the shelves, nothing open or strewn about, so he pushed further. This storage compartment wasn’t particularly large – roughly the size of the living space in his quarters. He was past the shelves soon enough, faced with a dead end and two large chest-sized crates. They had been left against the wall, perhaps because there was not enough space to stack them, or because the supply teams had wanted easy access to their contents.

The chests had the same gray plastic exterior as the others, save one thing: the one on the right was damaged. One of the latches hung loose, and a scratch scarred its front. The Admiral noted it, then moved on, checking his surroundings in greater detail. The walls and floor were unblemished, nothing else out of place, nothing else damaged. There was no other evidence of activity in this compartment, and now that he paused, nothing else to be heard.

Carefully, he knelt beside the crate and reached out to the loose latch. When he flicked it, it made a clatter against the case’s hard exterior – the same noise he had heard earlier. He studied the latch in further detail, realizing it wasn’t just loose, it had been cut. The scratch on the case’s exterior wasn’t a scratch either, its edges were not jagged enough, and were lined with small bubbles. Heat damage. The same damage pattern would decorate the Singularity’s hull, having endured extended contact with the pirates’ lasers.

Tracing the damage up the side of the crate, he found it was worst on the top where a small divot had been melted into the case’s exterior. Though small in diameter, the hole drilled down to the insulation that ran through the crate. Any crate rated to store electrical components had that insulation, keeping the interior temperature-regulated and shielded from wayward radiation that might damage the components. This crate in particular was marked for small communications components, the likes of which their small handheld devices might use.

After hitting the shielding, someone or something had gone after the latch instead. The shielding would have been difficult to cut though with a laser or other implement, and the latches were an easier target, or would have been, had he not interrupted. That did, of course, beg the question of where the perpetrator had gone. “Help me make sense of this.” He turned to the ghost, still lingering behind him in the form of a quivering black mass. Where her feet should have been, a gnarled mass of black roots reached down into the deck and beyond. “What exactly did you perceive here?”

But the ghost didn’t move. She didn’t answer. She stood there, even more of her bipedal shape bleeding away as the shadows that formed the illusion shifted. She stared ahead at nothing, as much as an entity with no eyes could.

The Admiral purposefully calmed his countenance, offering out the stability she often took refuge in. “Focus on me,” he said carefully. “I need to know what you felt.” What had drawn her attention here? Had the other compartments been the same or different?

The ghost only recoiled, another bit of shadow unwinding itself from her figure. “Something’s not right.”

“I know.” That had been abundantly clear since the end of raid against Crimson Heart.

“They’re looking for you.”

Her voice emanated from beside him, somewhat disconcerting, given the fact that he was facing her. He chalked it up to another symptom of her struggle. “Who is looking for me?”

“They are looking for you,” she repeated. “Something is… Something is not right.”

With that, the ghost vanished, black shadows melting into those that lingered below the shelves. Admiral Gives wasn’t given time to contemplate it. In the next moment, the handset on the other side of the compartment began to ring.

That was the ghost’s doing, he was sure. If it was important, she would often reroute calls to wherever he was, but she did not usually do it without warning. Still, he rose to his feet and rushed to grab the handset grab the handset behind the door, “This is the Admiral.”

“Sir, this is Chief Ty. We need you. Something’s not right.”

The Admiral readjusted the handset in his grip. “Chief, you are going to need to be more specific. What is wrong?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say wrong, sir, just… not right.” The Chief paused, temporarily uncertain how to continue. “We’ve been working on clearing the battle damage, sir. It all should be reparable, but the railgun damage… What we’re seeing here doesn’t make any damn sense.”

“In what way?” the Admiral asked.

“The materials, sir. They’re just not right.” Ty let out a shuddering breath. “I won’t call it an emergency, sir, but I think it would be best if you came down here. You’ll want to see this for yourself.”

“Chief, if this is not an emergency-”

‘No,’ the ghost interrupted. ‘I need you to go,’ she said urgently. ‘Make them stop.’ Abruptly, her presence crashed against him, as chaotic as the sea in the throes of a hurricane. ‘Make. Them. Stop.’

And suddenly, as he felt that storm worsen, what hadn’t been an emergency now was. ‘Make them stop. Make them stop. Makethemstop. Makethemstop. Makethemstop.’ The tempo picked up in fervor.

The Admiral pushed that plea from his attention, not ignoring it, simply trying to focus. “Chief, whatever you are doing, stop.”

“We’re just clearing out the damaged areas, sir. Trying to get a better view-”

“And I just told you to stop. That is a direct order. Do not touch anything else until I get there.”

“Yes, sir,” the engineering chief answered, a tint of confusion in his tone.

“I am on my way.” With that, the Admiral replaced the handset on the rack, cutting off the call. “Better?” he asked the empty room.

‘Thank you. Thankyou. Thankyou. Thankyou. Thankyou-’

“Just one thanks is fine.” Bloody hell. He could already feel his headache returning. Keep this up and you’re going to fry my brain.

Again.

He rubbed his temples, trying not to let that headache take root. “You know, if you weren’t the ghost in question, I would argue that you are acting possessed.”

Not even a hint of humor reached him as a reply. “Not my best joke.” He would admit that. “Also not my best timing.” He could admit that too. The situation was serious, and for the ghost, getting worse. But, in his defense, when was their situation not serious? He laid a hand on the bulkhead, letting the cool metal sap the warmth of his hand away. “I’ll take care of it,” he assured.

‘I know.’

The ghost’s reply, though certain, felt small. The Admiral wasn’t used to that. He was used to feeling the ghost’s power towering above him – far grander and more capable than any human. Now, however, that presence of hers felt as brittle as glass. He tapped his fingers on the wall, considering his options.

He was needed elsewhere, but the situation with this compartment, with potentially every compartment where the ghost had sensed movement was not resolved. The safest course of action would have been to report the damage he had found here and let the supply teams take over the investigation. However, that ran the risk of the supply teams asking what he had been doing in this compartment. The long-term storage compartments were supposed to remain sealed until there was a need for the supplies stored there. Admiral Gives’ position as the ship’s commander allowed him a degree of freedom, but he knew opening up the long-term storage compartments without apparent reason would raise questions. Enduring and evading those questions might become necessary, but not yet – not until he knew that the situation was with the railgun damage. The situations might be related and give him some insight into the mystery of this compartment.

Or, the situation might not be related at all. There wasn’t any way for him to know at this point.

He returned his attention to the shelves, each rising to the ceiling and filled with storage crates. The shelves themselves were anchored, and the crates secured in turn with tie-downs or chains to keep things from getting tossed in hard accelerations or zero-gravity. None of the tie-downs had been touched, even on the damaged crate of comms components. The intent had not been to take the crate, simply to get into it, judging by the cut latch.

But why?

No, he supposed parsing out the reasoning behind the disturbance shouldn’t be his priority. Finding the perpetrator was all that mattered. Other answers would follow.

Easier said than done. The kind of damage he’d found on that crate wasn’t normal. He could have checked the forensics files for a laceration or scratch, tested the crate for residue left behind and tried to find the responsible object, but heat damage was harder to trace.

It was also harder to cause. In a situation like this, admittedly, the ghost was often his first suspect. She was perfectly capable of manipulating things aboard ship, often in unexpected ways. It was odd that any disturbance she caused would concern her, but it was clear enough that she wasn’t at her best. He could not rule out that she might be the origin of the anomaly. Like anyone, the ghost had a subconscious. She did things that she wasn’t always completely aware of, and that could manifest in strange ways.

But heat damage? He wasn’t sure she was capable of causing that, subconsciously or consciously. He also couldn’t think of any reason she, consciously or subconsciously, would want to access a crate of communications components. Then again, given her current state, there might not be any reason at all – at least none that his human perspective could fathom.

One issue at a time, he thought, reaching for the light switch. He was needed elsewhere. “Let me know if you sense anything else abnormal here.” If something was amiss, he was not afraid to summon the Marines or supply crews. Discretion was not worth jeopardizing the safety and security of the ship.

The ghost did not answer him. He tried not to let that concern him as he turned out the lights, dousing the storage compartment once more in darkness.