Ghost station, p.1
Ghost Station, page 1
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For Allison Klemstein, Nathan Klemstein, Grace Barnes, Josh Barnes, and Benjamin Oldenburg. It is a joy to be a part of your lives. I am so proud of you!
Love,
Aunt Stacey
P.S. Some of you will have to wait to read this until you’re older. A lot older. Also, when you do, please don’t wake your parents up if you have nightmares. It makes Christmas super awkward.
1
Nova Cold Sleep Solutions–Personnel Division
New Chicago
Earth, 2199
The protesters outside are getting louder. Their chants are still faint, but somehow clearer than before. Or maybe that’s just Ophelia’s guilty conscience.
Their favorite seems to be “Montrose blows!” which does offer a certain pithiness, especially with the rhyming element. But there are plenty shouting “Fuck the Brays!” A perennial classic, though not usually directed at her personally.
But she certainly deserves it this time.
Ophelia flinches.
“Hold still, please,” the young tech says politely. He readjusts his gloved hold on her wrist and then slides the needle into the still healing port on the back of her hand.
“Sorry.” She tries to smile at him, pulling the crisp edges of the disposable gown tighter against herself with her free hand. She’s naked beneath the gown on the mobile exam bed, and the cold air blowing down on her exposed neck is about to set her teeth chattering.
It’s fine, though. She’s about to be much, much colder.
“All right,” the tech says a moment later, releasing her hand and peeling off his gloves with a snap. “Let’s give that a few minutes to kick in. I’ll be right back.”
The digital name badge on his lab coat flashes “RAYON. CALL ME RAY!” with a smiley face. But Ray doesn’t meet her gaze as he pushes back on his rolling stool and then stands to exit the tiny prep room.
Shame floods through her, and she squeezes her eyes shut with a selfish prayer.
Please, please let this work. I need this to work.
In the silence of the prep room, broken only by those chants and the clatter of metal wheels somewhere down the hall, her QuickQ interface gives a friendly bloop sound.
Relieved at the prospect of a distraction, possibly in the form of her younger sister calling, Ophelia opens her eyes.
But it’s her uncle’s face that appears on the blue-framed interface in her right eye, as if summoned by the scent of her desperation.
Fuck. Ophelia’s heart sinks. Good old Uncle Dar, coming in for the kill.
Her privacy settings allow her to see Darwin but not the reverse, a small blessing. His artfully silver-streaked hair rises above his preternaturally smooth forehead in a perfect peak. He is the image of the dashing, handsome CEO of a wealthy, multigenerational company, one who lands his air-veh to play an “impromptu” game of pickup with a group of Miami refugees from the encampment in Grant Park.
Until he opens his mouth.
“I know you can hear me, you little bitch,” he says through his affable smile. “I’ve tried to be reasonable.”
No, he tried to pull strings with her employer, which, surprisingly, hadn’t worked. Probably only because her family’s company and her employer are fierce competitors with a lot of hard feelings, not inclined to grant each other favors. Blackmail, espionage, rumors about hard-core kink preferences among senior executives. And that was just what she knew about.
“You need to think about the family for once. Come home to Connecticut and stay quiet. Let everything die down again. That Carruthers woman is digging again, and you’re only making it worse.” Darwin makes a scoffing noise. “What kind of a name is Jazcinda anyway?”
The name of a very respected journo-streamer, as it happens. Her channel tends toward the tabloid, but her own reports are solid. Very respectable. If you aren’t worried about her turning your entire existence upside down and inside out.
The sensor monitoring Ophelia’s heart rate gives a distressed bleat.
Darwin sucks air through his teeth, shaking his head in a tight jerk. “I knew you were trouble the first time I heard about you. We should have just left you there.”
“Is everything all right, Dr. Bray?” Ray appears at the door again, glancing at her and then at the vitals monitor on the wall doubtfully. He is so young, maybe only a half a dozen years older than her seventeen-year-old sister. His hair does that swoop thing across his forehead that requires altering how the hair grows—no one’s hair comes out naturally at a sharp right angle.
She gives him a smile full of reassurance that she does not feel. “Of course.”
“Fucking pick up, Ophelia!” Darwin bellows in her ear, through her implant. “You’re making things worse, drawing more attention we don’t need.”
Her pulse throbs in her neck, her hands tremble at her sides. But it’s a vestigial fear, left over from childhood. That’s all. She has vivid memories of Uncle Darwin leaning down to shout at her for some offense—real or imagined. She can still feel the warm spray of his saliva against her cheek, mixed with the bitter scent of his latest greens supplement.
But that was a long time ago. She’s an adult and well outside of his reach now. Even with private security at his disposal, Darwin wouldn’t send them here to get her. He’s not that desperate. Or stupid. She’s fairly sure.
Still, better to move this along.
“Is something wrong?” she asks Ray.
He shakes his head, stepping inside. “It’s just I’m going to need to ask you to deactivate all communication implants,” he continues, closing the door after himself. “It’s to prevent the possibility of interference. You won’t be able to use them out there anyway. Your messages and contacts will all transfer to the wrist-comm that has been assigned to you.”
Ophelia straightens up quickly. “No problem.” She concentrates on the six-digit code to deactivate her implant, while Darwin continues yelling in the background. She only left her QuickQ active in the hope that Dulcie—her younger sister, half sister, technically—would reach out. Ophelia is going to miss her eighteenth birthday next month. Wherein they were supposed to “ditch these mad dabbers and party like you’re actually still young.” But it seems Dulcie is still mad or, more likely, the family has gotten to her. The family gets to everyone.
The deactivation code numbers appear in her QuickQ interface right across Darwin’s mouth, first hazy and then growing sharper. She double-blinks deliberately to confirm, and he vanishes. If only it were that easy in real life. Of course, he probably—definitely—thinks the same thing about her.
“Right, so you should start feeling some drowsiness,” Ray says. “And then—”
Footsteps rush toward them behind the closed door, growing louder in their hurry. Ophelia grips the edges of the exam bed, fingers digging into the padding.
The steps stop outside the door, and Ophelia’s breath catches in her throat as the door to the prep room swings open. But it’s not the riot-masked, Pinnacle-branded mercenaries that she’s half expecting.
Instead, it’s another white-coated technician, accompanying a familiar figure, one with broad shoulders like an old-timey football player and a smooth, brown shaved head.
“Julius!” Ophelia sags in relief, grinning at him with a mix of bewilderment and delight. “What are you doing here? I told you last night I’d be fine.”
“Like I was going to believe any of that nonsense.” Julius waves his hand dismissively. But he looks rushed and ruffled, his vintage tie loose at the neck, and one crisp edge of his collar pointing upward above his bright yellow vest.
They’d said their good-byes at his apartment last night at her three-person—four, if you counted Marlix, Julius and Jonathan’s daughter, sleeping upstairs—going-away party, less than six hours ago. It ended only after a little too much synthetic tequila (Julius and Jonathan) and far too much of the nasty grape-flavored prep drink (Ophelia).
She and Julius both came up through Montrose’s Employee Psychological and Behavior Evaluation training program, several years apart. But they’d been friends as well as colleagues since the day she moved into the dingy office next to his.
As a bonus, he never once asked her about her family or even hinted that he knew who they were, though of course he did. Everyone did.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is a private facility and—” Ray begins.
“First, it’s ‘Doctor,’” Julius says.
Ophelia works to not roll her eyes. He does like to trot that title out, usually when he’s looking to impress. Or get away with something he shouldn’t.
“Second, I’m her emergency contact and designated support person.” He points at Ophelia. “I’m here to support.”
Ophelia raises her eyebrows. That is … a shift from last night. Warmth like a tiny glowing spark flares in her chest. Even though he disagrees with her decision, Julius is here. That is the mark of a true friendship and—
Julius tightens his tie and smooths his collar and vest. “Can we have a moment, please?” he asks, in his this-is-not-a-real-question voice. “Alone.”
The techs look at each other uncertainly.
The spark goes out, replaced by a coiling dread, like a length of chain piling up link by heavy link.
What’s wrong? The words leap to her lips, but she clamps down to keep them in. Old habit. Never talk in front of strangers. “It’s all right,” Ophelia says to Ray.
Ray looks back and forth between them. “Just a minute,” he warns. “It’s not a good idea to interrupt the preparation sequence.”
Ray and the other technician, the one who brought Julius, leave the room, and Ray closes the door. But not all the way. It’s sort of sweet, whether Ray is worried about her or the process he’s responsible for. Working at a cold sleep facility, Ray has probably seen some shit.
“What is going on?” Ophelia asks Julius. “Is everything okay? Did Marlix—”
“I couldn’t sleep last night after you left,” Julius says, pacing back and forth in the tiny space, rubbing a hand over his smooth scalp.
“Synthetic tequila will do that,” she says.
“No.” He pauses long enough to hold her gaze fiercely, before resuming his movement. “You need to listen to me. I didn’t want to say anything. Jonathan said to let it go because it’s your choice. But I have to make sure you know.” He blows out an exhausted breath, smelling faintly of fresh toothpaste and old alcohol.
She stares at him, unnerved. Julius is not the type to be easily rattled.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says in a rapid burst. Then he takes a breath, calming himself. “This … situation, it’s going to blow over. The ethics committee cleared you. No one blames you.”
Not true. She blames herself. She should have seen it coming. Every night, she plays the events over and over in her head. In retrospect, all the signs were there.
“The family’s wrongful death lawsuit says differently,” she reminds him, her voice more curt with the lump in her throat.
“That’s bullshit and only because of who you are,” he says.
Maybe, maybe not. Either way, the results are the same. A shiny wooden coffin at the front of St. Patrick’s.
“It doesn’t matter. You heard Paulsen,” she says. Julius was in her office when Montrose’s CEO himself, Richter Paulsen, projected in for a virtual meeting, all somber tones and barely disguised irritation. Ophelia suspected that if she were anybody else, he would have fired her on the spot, ethics committee be damned. And Paulsen still likely would, just later, when fewer people were watching. It was hard to blame him. No one likes picket lines and protests, media drones and bright-eyed, shiny-haired streamers, in front of their place of business. Of course, if she were anybody else, the public wouldn’t have cared and the situation would be, sadly, a nonstory. Just another suicide from Eckhart-Reiser syndrome.
“They want headlines. Good ones. My name is going to get them, either way, so might as well be the right way.” The world is starting to feel soft around the edges, her head swirling, thanks to whatever Ray gave her. But she’s still very clear on one thing: she needs this job. Needs to help people, to make a difference. It’s who she is. More than her last name, more than her DNA.
It’s the only way she can—sometimes—sleep at night, without the guilt devouring her whole.
The relentless drive to do better, be better, remain above objection is exhausting at times. But the alternative is unthinkable. It was hard enough to get companies to take her seriously as a mental health professional eight years ago when Montrose hired her—likely more as a middle finger to her family’s company than anything else. If Montrose fires her, it’ll be next to impossible to find another opportunity. In the meantime, ERS is raging. She can’t just let that happen. No, she needs to do whatever is necessary to keep that from happening.
Even if that means taking on a slightly out-of-scope assignment. Eighteen months with an R&E team on location. Ophelia and her colleagues in Montrose’s Psychological and Behavioral Evaluation unit have been pushing for earlier intervention for several years. Waiting until teams come back to Earth to treat them makes it so much harder to reverse the decline. We wouldn’t wait to set and heal a broken arm; why do we treat a broken brain differently?
Ophelia had been especially proud of that line in their joint proposal—her contribution. Apparently this situation fell under the “be careful what you wish for” category. Or maybe the one about pride and a fall.
With her job on the line and an on-location psych resource being her recommendation—sort of—how could she say no?
Julius makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “They’re using you.”
The temper she works to keep in check surfaces briefly. “You’ve said all of this, or some version of it, before,” she points out. “Why are you here? Because frankly, I don’t feel very supported by my ‘support person’ right now.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then he moves to sit next to her on the exam bed, his gaze flicking to the door as if confirming it is still mostly closed. “Just … has it occurred to you that Montrose might be setting you up?” He can’t quite look at her, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.
She frowns at him. “What are you talking about?”
He leans closer, his voice an urgent whisper. “I mean, they blame the PBE unit for everything. Skyrocketing patient demand, lackluster results, insufficient treatment—”
“Not a staff meeting, Julius,” Ophelia says. She’s starting to feel a little dizzy.
He ignores her, continuing, “And now after … what happened, they’re offering you this ‘opportunity’? An opportunity that comes with no support structure, just you. An R&E team who, grieving or not, is going to resent the hell out of you for coming onto their turf. It’s impossible to help people who don’t want to be—”
“I haven’t even met them—” she begins.
“You’re one of the smartest people I know, Phe. Think about it.” He takes her hand in his. She can almost feel it, through the curious numbness spreading through her body. “Montrose doesn’t want the media heat for you, especially since you’ve been cleared. But if they send you away, they look cooperative and forward-thinking, and if you can’t do it, the story won’t be that they fired Ophelia Bray without cause. It’ll be that Ophelia Bray failed.”
His words, even as a hypothetical headline, land like an unexpected punch. Is he right? The concept sounds conspiratorial and overly complicated, but that doesn’t mean he’s got it wrong. In fact, it reads very much like a page out of Montrose’s executive-level playbook. Nothing is ever their fault.
The gut-level uncertainty she’s been feeling from the moment she signed on for this mission flares up again, acid burning through her stomach.
But … it doesn’t matter. She has to do something to make up for her mistake, to save her career, and this is the best—the only—option on offer.
Ophelia draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, imagining her doubts dissolving into a white mist—like warm breath in cold air—then nothing at all. The pain in her stomach subsides slightly.
“I appreciate it, Julius.” The words come out thick, slurred. “You looking out for me. But I’m going to be fine.”
He squeezes her hand. “I’m just worried about you. Worried for you.” He pauses, lowering his voice further. “We could just get out of here. Grab Jonathan and Marlix, take a vacation for a couple weeks, what do you say?”
Ophelia laughs. “With all of our free time? Right.” She shakes her head. “You sound like my family,” she says, teasing.
It’s a small thing, a tiny twitch of tension, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly. She probably wouldn’t even have noticed, if his hand hadn’t been wrapped around hers.
