Ghost Planet (6 page)

Before I’d even thought about what I was doing, I moved to sit down in the chair he’d vacated. He bent and reached for the flat-reader without a glance my direction.

I grabbed the other end. “I have something to say to you, Murphy.”

He gave the flat-reader a tug and I lost my grip.

I watched him walk over to the sofa and settle back to work, my burst of determination waning. Suddenly I felt tired. Was inertia setting in already? I had a feeling that if I didn’t want to end up like the others, it was going to require a constant, conscious effort.

I rose from the table and joined Murphy. His body stiffened as I sat down next to him, but he didn’t get up.

I picked up a pillow, hugging it to my chest while I worked through what I wanted to say to him. The pillow had the smell of new dye, and something else—a clean, lightly spicy smell reminiscent of its owner, or at least of his grooming products. My gaze settled on a neat stack of antique books on the coffee table—
Phineas Finn, Paingod, Solaris,
and even a favorite of mine,
Watership Down
.

Quit stalling
.

Clearing my throat quietly, I began. “Murphy, I’m not interested in making your life difficult. What happened to me is not your fault, and I know that you’re doing what you feel you have to do. However … I think you’re aware I could make your life
very
difficult, at least for a while.”

Angling toward him, I continued, “I have a proposal for you. You believe that eventually I’m going to fade into the woodwork. Your protocol has been effective, so most likely you’re right. But in the meantime, I’ll agree to keep quiet and stay out of your way, while your guest is here and in general, if you’ll let me use your flat-reader.”

I stared hard at his profile, pretty sure he could hear my heart pounding—pretty sure they could hear it in the next apartment.

“I won’t speak to you again. I won’t try to force interaction. I won’t damage any more of your things. I just want to do some research.”

Murphy’s expression was unreadable, but his fingers hung frozen in the air above the graphical keypad at the bottom of the flat-reader.

After what felt like an hour, he rose and placed the flat-reader on the coffee table. He crossed to the bathroom, and a moment later I heard the shower running. Hard to be sure whether we’d come to an understanding or he’d simply fled, but I wasn’t about to ignore the opportunity.

Pulling the flat-reader onto my lap, I sank back against the couch and began the same course of research I’d intended to pursue for my doctoral thesis.

Symbiosis
. The collaborative existence of two separate organisms. Symbiotic relationships could benefit both organisms, benefit one without affecting the other, or benefit one while harming the other. Ardagh 1 seemed a clear case of the latter. The ghosts required a bond with the colonists—a bond that appeared to include physical proximity as well as interpersonal exchange. But the colonists suffered psychologically from the presence of the ghosts. All evidence up till now suggested either ghost or colonist could thrive, but not both.

As I probed deeper into symbiosis, the term
symbiogenesis
began popping up—the merging of two separate organisms to form a new organism. I considered the possibility that ghosts were meant to merge with or even be absorbed by their hosts. Setting aside my own aversion to this idea, it would also mean any kind of reconciliation or peaceful coexistence with the colonists was unlikely.

Additional research on symbiogenesis turned up a twentieth-century biologist who had championed the now widely accepted idea that this merging of organisms had been a driving force behind evolution. That it had in fact enabled giant leaps in the development of many species.

The discovery of a connection between symbiogenesis and accelerated development—another component of the mystery of Ardagh 1—made me feel slightly ill.

But it was too early to fix on any one idea or explanation. I dumped my research into a file and moved on to the next item on my list—Gaia theory. I was about to try logging on to the Worldwide Academic Library (more affectionately referred to as “the WAC”) when Murphy exited the bathroom, dressed and clean-shaven, with damp hair. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back out wearing a dark pea coat that suited him so well I found myself staring.

I watched as he walked to the kitchen and spent a couple minutes tidying up—rinsing the teapot, loading his breakfast dishes, and starting the dishwasher. I wondered why he was bothering with all this when he was obviously dressed and ready to go out. Suddenly it occurred to me that if he was going out,
I
was going out.

Murphy headed for the door, and I scrambled into my shoes and sweater and ran to catch up with him on the stairs.

It was easy enough to see why Aunt Maeve had been skin and bones, forced to keep up with Murphy’s long strides and brisk pace while subsisting on her stash of unappetizing, manufactured food. After a few minutes of hurrying along behind him with no idea where we were going, resentment began to simmer. Murphy hadn’t chosen to be saddled with me, but I hadn’t chosen it either. How could a man with his background—a man who had been gracious and considerate from our first meeting—how could he comfortably withhold compassion from a fellow being who’d been through what I had?

I picked up my pace, determined at least to walk
beside
him. But as soon as I caught up he veered into a grocery store. Outside the shop a group of people had gathered around a couple of long tables. They were pawing through what looked like piles of clothing. At one end of the table rested a big bin filled with brown-paper packets.

I looked closer at the people—hollow-eyed, shabbily dressed, underfed. This was some sort of ghost supply depot. There were second-hand clothes, emergency rations, and mysterious white boxes. I peered into one that someone had opened and saw toothbrush, toothpaste, antiseptic, and bandages. The man holding it jerked away and I stepped back, startled. He eyed me suspiciously.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t going to take it. Do you mind if I ask—?”

But he was already moving away. There was a desperate quality, a
hungriness
, to the way these people moved. They reminded me of street people on Earth.

I stood puzzling over the ironic display of charity. Who was helping ghosts, and how were they getting away with it? Murphy had taken no notice of the blatant protocol violation.

Maybe it wasn’t charity at all.

Cold and hungry ghosts might force interaction. Or they might die. I knew from my training that ghost deaths were avoided. Planet security had tried killing ghosts in the early days—only to discover they came back. And they came back fresh—ignorant of their status as aliens—so their hosts had to begin the process of subduing them all over again.

I scanned the crowd for someone who might be more receptive to talking with me. But it struck me that unless I wanted to eat ghost biscuits for the next week, I couldn’t afford to miss this shopping trip.

The grocery store was pretty much like any neighborhood market back on Earth. I remembered what Murphy had said about self-sufficiency, and wondered how much of what I was seeing had been produced on Ardagh 1. The residents of New Seattle did not appear to want for much—there was a good selection of cheese, fresh bread, produce, and even wine and beer.

I found Murphy ordering mussels from the seafood counter. Glancing down in his basket, I saw pasta, cheese, wine, and a bag of greens. He was set for his dinner date, but I had no idea what I was going to eat for the next week.

He started for the checkout line and I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t buy food. I could probably pass for human, but I had no money. An account had been set up for me here, but I needed an ID card to access it. No one was going to issue me one of those now. I might be able to steal food, but I wouldn’t be able to carry much. No wonder Aunt Maeve had resorted to the brown packets.

There were several people in line ahead of Murphy, so I made a quick pass through the store, picking up milk, eggs, and cereal. I deposited these in the cart without looking at him, then scanned a nearby stand of nonperishable food. Jerky, dried fruit, nuts—items that would be easy to grab when I had to dash out the door like today.

As I picked up a bag of trail mix, someone said, “Miss?”

I froze, afraid I was about to be challenged. A young clerk, fair-haired and friendly looking, held out a package of cheese. “I think you dropped this.”

I smiled and reached for the package, but Murphy intercepted it and dropped it into the basket. The employee gave him a puzzled look, and then flushed crimson.

“That’s a shame,” muttered the clerk, turning to go.

Neatly managed by Murphy, I thought. If he’d given the cheese back to the clerk, I might have made a scene. Yet he’d still managed to put me in my place.

We made it through the checkout stand without incident. I tried to pick up one of the bags of groceries, but Murphy grabbed it and placed it in the cart, which he pushed outside onto the street. As we passed the tables of supplies, I reached for one of the white boxes. I’d forgotten to look for a toothbrush in the shop. I could deal with using a ghost toothbrush as long as I didn’t have to eat ghost
food
.

*   *   *

After the grocery trip, I sank back into the sofa with the flat-reader. My login credentials still worked on the WAC, so I downloaded papers on Gaia theory, which had been an area of focus for scientists studying Ardagh 1. Science-based interpretations of Gaia theory asserted that Earth functions as a single living system whose components work together to maintain the conditions necessary for life. In a sense, symbiosis on a planetary scale. It had even been referred to as “symbiosis as seen from space.”

I was interested in the idea that a planet’s different systems might collaborate to achieve a common goal. The Earth-like evolution of Ardagh 1 was such an outlandish coincidence that it was impossible not to speculate whether the planet had some purpose. What was that purpose, and how did the ghosts fit into it?

I tried not to get sidetracked by the slippery question this raised—whether the planet was acting in a conscious way, an idea most scientists would reject outright.

While I continued my research, Murphy tidied the apartment and installed a new display, which a junior staff member had run over from the counseling center. Then Murphy worked too, and we passed the afternoon in respectful (if not companionable) silence until it was time for him to make dinner for his guest.

I anxiously awaited her arrival, not for her own sake, but because this would be my first real opportunity to interact with another of my kind. Remembering the ghosts I’d encountered outside the market, I tried not to have unrealistic hopes.

When the bell sounded at seven, I followed Murphy to the door.

The woman who swept in from the hallway was not what I had expected. She was pretty, certainly, with thick auburn waves and a curvy figure. She just didn’t seem his type to me—though obviously I was the last person qualified to make this assessment. She turned her face up to be kissed as her ghost slipped in behind her.

He was a tall man of medium build, probably in his late thirties. His face was framed by curling red hair and a beard, and he watched me through wary, intelligent eyes.

“So lovely of you to come,” I said to him, hoping to break the ice and lighten the mood. But the poor man looked at me like I had vines sprouting from my ears.

“Sorry, that wasn’t funny.” I held out my hand to him. “I’m Elizabeth.”

“
I’m
sorry,” he replied, taking my hand. “It’s been a long time since anyone spoke to me.”

I nodded—no explanation required.

“I’m Ian.”

“Nice to meet you, Ian. How long have you been—”
Dead? An alien?
“—on Ardagh 1?”

“About two months. I gather you’ve just … arrived.”

I hated euphemisms. Apparently I could no longer make small talk without them.

“Yes. Gorgeous spot for a holiday. Though I think I’m going to speak to management about the staff.”

One corner of Ian’s lips curled up and my heart lifted with it. There was some life left in this one.

Murphy and his guest had moved on to the kitchen, where they spoke in low murmurs. I regretted not being able to listen in, but there would be time for that.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked Ian.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is this a trick question?”

With a low chuckle I headed for the kitchen and nosed out the wineglasses. The bottle sat open on the dining table and I picked it up, hoping I looked more confident than I felt. There was an awkward lull in conversation between Murphy and his date, and I waited for someone to take the bottle from me. When they didn’t, I repaid their restraint by pouring half glasses.

I joined Ian on the sofa. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

He accepted the glass with a look of relief. “Of course, whatever you like.”

Glancing toward the kitchen, I asked, “Who is she?”

Relief sank into resignation, and he gave me a sad smile. “Julia. My wife.”

I bit the inside of my lip, reluctant to press him further. But how many more opportunities like this would I get?

“I’m so sorry. You seem young to be—could I ask how you…?”

“Emphysema.”

The disease killed a lot of people on Earth. An atmospheric cocktail of allergen hypergrowth and plain old dirty air had caused instances of respiratory ailments to skyrocket. Especially in the big cities, where whole hosts of microbial air scrubbers provided little more than a false sense of security. Rhinovirus was part of life—I’d had at least four varieties in the last year.

“And Julia—has she always followed the protocol with you?” I asked him.

“Yes. Well, after the first day.”

“The first day? Why did she change after that?”

“Counseling.” He smirked down at his wineglass. “When she first saw me she threw her arms around me. We picked up right where we left off when I died. Since her first counseling session we’ve been strangers.”