Cheers to the Host

Cheers to the Host

by Laura Campbell

Over eighty-five of Laura Campbell’s short stories have appeared in Chilling Crime Stories, Road Kill: Texas Horror by Texas Writers Vol. 6, Reader Beware: A Fear Street Appreciation Anthology, and other publications. Most of Laura’s recent works are available on Amazon. Laura’s short stories “From the Garden” and “416175” can be heard on Spotify’s ‘Scare You to Sleep’ podcast. When she is not writing, Laura can be found running alongside Houston’s bayous or attending live music performances. She is encouraged in her writing by her children, Alexander and Samantha.

Tucker Lamar looked the ship over one last time, finalizing his decision to buy it.
The ship’s owner, eager to sell this surplus vessel, pointed to a variety of stickers secured to the small space-faring ship’s hull. “The Cheers to the Host is up to code,” he said. “She’s ready to get back on the Earth-Mars route. It’s a good commercial run.”
“Mars has a robust economy,” Tucker agreed, making small talk as he looked over space-readiness certifications. “Lots of thriving cities, populated by people with disposable incomes. Schools, businesses, houses of worship, and bars. All looking for Earth swag. I do have one question though – can I change the name of the ship? It’s a weird name for a commercial ship. It sounds more like a party craft.”
“The Cheers was named to reflect the entertainment and party supplies she usually carries,” the owner replied. “She’s Martian registered. Once you get to Mars, you can file a change of name.”
“Will that cost me any money?” Tucker asked.
“Everything costs money,” the owner answered. “Welcome to entrepreneurship.”
“In that case, the name may grow on me,” Tucker suggested.
“The Cheers has been vacuum checked, rivet checked, and seam checked,” the man assured Tucker. “Everything has been checked. All her paperwork is in order. She’s space ready. How did she fly on the test orbit?”
“She handled low orbit perfectly, and all her readouts look sound,” Tucker remarked. “Why are you selling her so cheap? Is it the rumor she’s haunted?”
“Since you ask, I have to tell: Every crew that goes out on her says she’s haunted.”
“As in a ghost? On a interplanetary spacecraft.”
“I’ll throw in the specter for no extra,” the man smiled.
Tucker’s expression conveyed incredulity.
The man pointed to a small patch of recent paint on the ship. “Someone wrote a ‘g’ in front of the word ‘host,’” he said, anxiety lacing his tone. “Cheers to the Ghost. Thanks to her reputation, I couldn’t get a crew for her anymore. I retrofitted her for one-person crew operation, thinking I might make the runs myself. But I’m retired from space runs. You seem ready.”
“I have a business plan,” Tucker affirmed. “But costs are an issue. I can handle the up-front inventory, insurance, and operation costs, but every ship I’ve looked at – before this one – has been out of my budget. How is she supposedly haunted?”
“Mysterious noises and a spectral figure. Energy being drained faster than normal.”
“How much energy?” Tucker asked. “Fuel costs are a consideration.”
“Just carry an extra Mercury-Cell,” the man advised. “You know, energy drains are often associated with hauntings. Lights flickering, batteries running low, or dropping temperatures.”
“Do you think the ship is haunted?”
“No,” the man responded quickly. “The story I believe is that people find out running space trade routes isn’t for them, and they need an excuse to get out of the business. Not that I blame them. Picking up party hats, spending two months in space, dropping off said party hats, and coming home with a cargo-hold full of Martian knick-knacks for the Mars-curious; it’s boring.”
“Well, the electrical checked out. The ship’s systems passed all their inspections.” Tucker noted.
“I couldn’t sell a defective ship,” the man reminded Tucker. “Any calamity in space resulting from undisclosed or undetected ship flaw would cost me everything I have, and then some. I don’t intend to go to jail or hand over all my wealth to your heirs. You going to buy her?”
“Yes.”
“Well, your credit checked out,” the man said. “I’ll be happy to have her off my inventory.”
***
“Okay,” Spaceport Master Grenady Tompkins told Tucker, “You’re loaded up. You have three waste-diamond cells to power on board electronics. Those are fresh out-of-the-box and should last you about ten years. They’re made from nuclear waste, so have licensed personnel change them out when the time comes. Unless you want to become your own nightlight.”
The Spaceport Master was making sure the Host was launch ready and inspecting ship and cargo before departure from Earth.
“I noticed you had two extra Mercury Cells,” she noted. “Why is that?” She wanted to make sure he didn’t have any unauthorized travel planned. Newbie commercial captains were easy targets for unscrupulous people offering lucrative, and illegal, side-gigs.
“I want to make sure I have more than enough to get me to Mars and back. There were reports of the ship sometimes using more energy than expected. I want to make sure I have the gear-ratio covered, and then some.”
“Back in the day the gear-ratio of a trip to Mars logged in at 226:1,” Grenady said. “It took 225 pounds of fuel to take one pound of anything from Earth to Mars. Thanks to modern energy technology, the gear-ratio is down to 21:1. And with only you, and not a crew complement of three aboard, that’s a few hundred less pounds to launch. You ever been to Mars?”
“This is my first solo trip to Mars,” Tucker replied. “But I served as First Mate on previous Martian missions.”
“Commercial First Mate to Captain Entrepreneur,” Grenady noted. “Congratulations of your promotion.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You have a full cargo hold,” Grenady assessed. “Fully insured, and half-paid for up front. Your export paperwork is in order. Customs cleared you. My pre-flight check is complete; you’re cleared for launch. Are you sure you don’t want to leave one of those extra Merc Cells here?”
“Like I said, they say the ship sometimes has an unexplained energy draw,” Tucker replied. “I’m a little nervous about that. No one wants to get stranded between Earth and Mars.”
“Earth Guard could rescue you,” she reminded him.
“Yeah,” he replied. “And they’d bill my dumb ass for getting stranded and needing rescue. I can’t afford any unexpected expenses.”
“Fair enough,” she acquiesced She looked at the ship. “Cheers to the Ghost. I can hardly believe that someone finally bought this haunted relic.”
“This ship is not haunted,” Tucker objected.” It’s the twenty-second century, for goodness’ sake. I’m flying a cargo ship to Mars. We’re technologically beyond ghosts, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t aware that ghosts had a technological tolerance level,” Grenady observed.
“I just want to get into space, so I can start earning money,” Tucker exclaimed. He was anxious to get underway, to be on time with his deliveries. He didn’t want to get a reputation for being late on his very first run.
“Well, I suppose there are Martians anxious to get their celebration supplies. They have a superstition that stuff from Earth brings good luck.”
“There are five weddings, three baptisms, two bar mitzvahs, one bat mitzvah, a quinceañera, fifteen birthday parties, nine work related celebrations, and a New Orleans Jazz-style funeral relying on me,” Tucker told her.
“A funeral,” Grenady chuckled. “They bury in crypts on Mars, right?”
“They do. It’s a bit of a tourist attraction. The funerary sculptures are like museum pieces.”
“Must be nice. I certainly can’t afford anything beyond a cremation.”
“Not much land left on Earth for fancy graves,” Tucker observed. “Burial is for the rich, not working stiffs like you and me.”
“You could always haunt your own ship, once your mortal coil has unwound,” Grenady noted.
“For the last time: there is no ghost on board my ship.”
***
The excitement of launch behind him, the monotony of the two-month journey to Mars set in. Mars had been terraformed generations ago; now with a pleasant atmosphere, ample water, and plenty of available land, Mars had become the nice neighborhood in the solar system.
But it would be a monotonous journey forward, moving constantly towards the Red Planet. Tucker had flown the Earth/Mars route several times. But he had always been part of a small crew. That added camaraderie to the journey. It also helped share the responsibilities. Being a one-man crew, Tucker bore all responsibilities, all the time.
The Cheers to the Host boasted a bridge, four staterooms, a small galley, a small wardroom, and a head, equipped with a functional showering unit. The living and working quarters were adapted with rudimentary artificial gravity, a recent development involving a “mass imposter” embedded in the designated floor of the vessel.
Behind double airlocks, the cargo was secured into a space tight container. The container did not have artificial gravity; it did not need it for its customary cargo.
Tucker was familiar with routine maintenance for the ship. He knew how to fix the head and mend the galley equipment. He knew to monitor the energy levels and keep an eye on his course. He could maintain the atmospheric system and the water handlers. The mass imposter was beyond his technological knowledge.
That was okay. He could survive without artificial gravity; but potable water and breathable atmosphere were necessary when it came to life in a spaceship.
Tucker had bought nine video games, three dozen electronic books, fifty hours of music from various genres, and two-hundred-and-forty-six hours of video entertainment. The galley was stocked with eight boxes of India Pale Ale, twelve bottles of Earth wine (which could serve as gifts for customers on Mars), a good supply of snacks, and a barrel of candy bars. There was also manufactured meat and an assortment of vegetables, cheese, and fruit, but Tucker knew the snacks would be depleted long before the veggies. A treadmill sat in the wardroom, equipped with projectors that could play videos of mountain trails and beach side pathways.
Tucker tried the treadmill the first day in space but found himself homesick for terra firm when looking at the video. He didn’t want to use the equipment again.
Fifty-nine more days in space were going to be boring with a capital ‘B.’
***
The evening of day three, Tucker heard the night chime. Good sleep hygiene mattered a lot in space. The mind needed rest, even in inter-planetary space. An autopilot navigated the craft when he slept. But Tucker was on duty all the time, surrounded by endless night.
In his slumber, Tucker felt a chill, as he began to dream. The ship was designed to stay at a steady 75°F. There should be no chills, he thought. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick; he didn’t want to be alone in space and ill. He promised himself that he would drink more water and eat better for the duration of the trip. He might even try the treadmill again.
Then his half-sleeping mind heard it: a clanking noise, coming from inside the ship.
He woke up very quickly.
The odd sound lingered for a moment in his dream-memory.
He looked around. Everything appeared ordinary. The ship’s read-outs all read normal. He convinced himself the sound had been an auditory hallucination.
***
Night four on board the Cheers to the Host, Tucker again woke to the unidentifiable sound. He took a moment to analyze the sound, confirming that it was not the sound of a structural issue within the ship.
He dissected the transient noise: it had sounded like glass falling gently on metal, then coming to a restful stop.
Plop, roll. Silence.
He checked the ship’s readings. Everything was in order.
Eventually he fell back asleep, but it wasn’t a deep sleep. Part of his brain was still listening for the sound to repeat.
***
Tucker spent day five checking the galley. Maybe something was loose, allowing a piece of glassware to move around. Everything seemed secure.
“It’s just a noise,” he told himself. The operational diagnostics demonstrated no deviations, except for a slight, unexpected fuel expenditure.
He frowned. Just as he had been forewarned, the energy use was off. The drain didn’t represent a life-threatening amount, but in space anything odd needed to be evaluated. He checked the systems: nothing was demanding more energy than it needed.
He did a check on the visuals of the cargo container, noting that everything appeared normal.
The day shift ended.
As he settled in for sleep, Tucker considered that if he could pinpoint the time of the disturbance, he could determine the origin of the audible discrepancy.
Plop, roll. Silence.
The sound of glass dropping against metal woke him up at 3:31 a.m., ship’s time.
Tucker concentrated on the sounds of the ship.
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw it.
A shadow moved in the hallway linking his stateroom to the bridge.
He got up, grabbing a bat he kept by his bed.
A rat? He thought. That could account for the sound. And the ship had been sitting for a long time unused. A rat could have gotten on board. It would also be very worrying – a rat in the ship’s wall could gnaw at vital conduits.
He stepped out into the hallway, observing the shadow with both confusion and concern.
The shadow was not a rat; the shadow formed a human shape.
It moved silently, hovering above the ship’s floor plates. Then it disappeared into a wall.
Tucker shook himself, not trusting his own senses.
“I need to stop playing video games so late into the night,” he told himself. “I’m messing with my own head.”
***
Night six, Tucker could not fall asleep. He debated taking a sedative – he had brought a few on board just in case he experienced a case of space insomnia. Not having sunrises and sunsets could play havoc on the regularity of sleep.
He decided not to take any medication. He wanted to be alert. He set his alarm for three o’clock in the morning.
The alarm buzzed. Tucker woke up and waited.
At 3:31 a.m., the sound began. Right on cue.
Plop. Roll. Silence.
Tucker got up, bat in hand, and went into the hallway.
He saw the shadow emanate from the ship’s wall.
Upon closer observation, the shadow was a mist-like creature, russet brown, and human in shape. It floated by Tucker, oblivious to his presence, turning around in the galley. Then it methodically floated back, again passing Tucker without any acknowledgment.
It disappeared into the wall again.
Tucker checked the ship systems: there were no aberrant readings.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Tucker told unidentified presence, “This is some trick of lighting and a loose pipe. Launch sometimes moves things around a little. That’s all you are.”
Tucker put down his bat and inspected the lights in the hallway, trying to determine if any variation in their illumination could cause the visage.
“There has to be a logical explanation,” he reassured himself. “A scheduled system operation manifesting as something that looks odd. I will figure it out.”
***
Tucker looked over the log sheets for all the systems, as the ship hummed happily along its route.
The electrical readout demonstrated no issues. The water system was stable. The atmospheric handlers were operating without a glitch. And no routine event occurred at 3:31 a.m.
Tucker checked the energy usage log. The Cheers to the Host continued to demonstrate almost imperceptible, but continuous, unexpected fuel consumption. The perpetual and unexplained drain troubled him.
He had confirmed another phenomenon related to the event: the temperature dropped when the apparition appeared.
The Cheers to the Host carried liquid oxygen and liquid nitrogen in pressurized tanks; a pressurization system combined the gases into a breathable mixture at normal atmospheric pressure. Fans circulated the mixture, not only delivering breathable air, but also collecting waste heat, carbon dioxide, moisture, dust, and volatile chemical vapors.
Tucker was concerned that the temperature drop could somehow be the result of a glitch in the atmospheric system. That was of great concern – despite great advances in spaceship design, the energy systems on board common small commercial vessels still created more heat than needed to warm the ship to habitable temperatures. The heat was sent to where it was needed, to prevent vital systems from freezing in the cold of space, while ridding inhabited areas of the ship of excess heat.
An unexplained temperature fluctuation demanded investigation.
Tucker placed a transmitting thermometer on the floor next to the location where the anomaly manifested.
Then he sat at the edge of his bunk, with the bat by his side, and a monitor for the thermometer in his left hand.
Plop, roll. Silence.
At 3:31 a.m., the temperature at the base of the wall dropped. It recorded 60°F, fourteen degrees lower than the ambient air around it. The temperature remained depressed, while the shadow made its rounds back and forth in the hallway. When the spectral figure disappeared back into the wall, the temperature went back up to normal.
Tucker pulled up the schematic of the ship.
“Let’s track you, thing that’s not a ghost,” he said.
The ship’s walls were metal sheets held in channels over wiring and pipes. Upon evaluating the schematics, Tucker realized that the hallway outside his stateroom bore the distinction of being the least important part of the ship, mechanically speaking. There was just unoccupied space behind the panel from which the apparition manifested. There were no pipes or wires to account for the sound or the mysterious visage.
Tucker was running out of rational explanations for the phenomenon.
“Maybe the ship is haunted,” he shrugged “Weird temperature drops, unexplained energy drains. Odd noises. Spectral figures. But hardly the worse possibility. Better a ghost on board than a structural or mechanical failure that could turn me into a ghost.”
***
Two weeks away from Mars, the timekeeping program on board the Cheers to the Host automatically changed ship time, so Tucker would be acclimatized to Martian time when he landed. What had been 3:31 a.m. became 4:31 p.m.
He sat on the edge of the bed in his stateroom, looking at the open doorway, curious if the apparition followed its own internal clock (and would therefore appear at 4:31 p.m.) or was as much a slave to the clock as the living (and would continue to appear at 3:31 a.m.).
At 4:31 p.m., the temperature next to the wall dropped. But it dropped more than usual, falling to 54°F. Tucker watched carefully.
Plop. Roll. Silence.
The apparition manifested. Tucker noted it looked different.
The specter now looked lighter in color, amber with a blue tinge. It moved up the hallway, circled around the galley, and began to move back.
But then it did something it had never done before: it paused in the doorway. It turned and looked at Tucker.
Tucker felt a chill run up his arms.
Then the specter resumed its walk, disappearing again into the wall.
Tucker ran a query on the ship’s previous crews and passengers. He wanted to know what had become of them.
According to current information, all were alive and well, working on other ships or practicing new occupations. None of them were dead.
“No return visitors, then,” Tucker thought aloud. “So much for that theory.”
***
Nine days out from Mars, Tucker was sitting at his desk in his room, filling out pre-landing forms on the ship’s computer. The room suddenly felt very cold. Tucker’s eyes fell across the clock: 4:31 p.m.
The chill filled the room, lingering close to him. He felt as if a slab of ice had set itself behind him.
He turned around.
The thing stood right behind him.
Tucker moved back, as much as he could, away from the specter.
The thing stayed steady. Its form now had enhanced definition. It looked like a man, five-foot-ten-inches tall, with an emaciated build, a death pale face, and slicked dark hair.
A voice crackled over his computer, flittering above static and distortion: “Do not let them burn me. Do not leave me in foreign soil.”
Tucker’s attention did not deviate from the apparition. This time, it did not move away from him. It simply vaporized where it stood.
***
A week out from Mars, Tucker spent his day filling out customs information and purchase orders for return-trip fuel and supplies. He needed to get his information to Mars before he landed, so things would be in order upon his arrival.
The persistent extra energy drain concerned him; he had found no explanation for the extra fuel expenditure, and he wanted to make sure he replaced all the fuel he had used getting to Mars. He calculated that the inexplicable fuel burn rate reflected an extra thirty-six pounds of cargo.
He needed to account for that weight; it was important to know exactly how much weight the ship comprised, to ensure adequate fuel.
As he concentrated on his tasks, his chair swiveled around. Not by his actions, but by something moving it.
“What the?” he exclaimed. It wasn’t 4:31 p.m.!
Yet now, the specter lingered right before his face. Tucker could feel its ice-cold breath against his cheeks, smell acrid dust accompanying the wretched incarnation. The temperature seemed to drop into the 30’s.
“Do not let them burn me. Do not leave me in foreign soil,” it commanded.
The apparition floated away, re-entering its familiar place in the wall.
“Enough of this skit,” Tucker said. He had a spaceship to land, and no latitude to entertain mechanical aberrations or demonic deviations.
Tucker went to the wall where the apparition focused and knocked on the metal panel. The space behind it sounded hollow, as expected. He was not about to start taking his ship apart while still in space, but he needed an explanation.
Tucker carefully considered the apparition. It had a distinct smell now, like old whiskey and fetid mucus. The phantom odor lingered in his nostrils.
“Maybe the waste handlers have a glitch,” he said.
As unpleasant as their task was, the waste handlers managed his bodily waste and waste products from the ship’s operations. The waste handlers were vital to staffed space flight, as toxic air was not an option when surrounded by space. They were also expensive to replace.
“If this is a problem with the waste handlers, I can’t afford that logical explanation,” he muttered, as he performed the diagnostic.
He checked the system out. Everything was operating at optimal specifications.
Tucker sighed. “Okay,” he nodded to himself. “At least ghosts are less expensive than a new waste handling system.”
***
“Do not let them burn me. Do not leave me in foreign soil,” the specter appeared right behind Tucker, the smell of stale liquor and rot swirling around it.
Tucker ignored it. He eventually felt the frigid air leave the room, the shadow drifting down the hallway.
“It would help if I knew who you are,” he called after it.
The thing stopped. And then it turned around.
Tucker paused; he suddenly realized that it may not advisable to incite a disagreement with an other-worldly creature while he was between worlds.
The ghost resumed its course.
Tucker got up and followed as it disappeared into the wall. The cold lingered on the surface of the metal plate.
Tucker went to the bridge, pulling out a small device.
The device in his hand found its usual application examining the contents of cargo boxes, without opening them. Every cargo transport carried one – the device enabled captains to inspect their cargo without breaking the box seals on the goods they ferried. The activity made sure they were not being duped into carrying illegal cargo. Not every spaceport had a scrupulous professional like Grenady Tompkins pre-inspecting cargo prior to it being loaded onto the ship.
It occurred to Tucker that the device might yield insight into his ship’s mystery, even if its application in ghost detection was far removed from its usual applications.
Tucker scanned the wall, starting at the ceiling. The device displayed unoccupied space behind the wall.
Nothing unusual registered on the device, as he examined the wall’s midsection.
He sat on the floor, pulling the device lower, watching the reading.
Then he stopped.
He rescanned, double-checking his interpretation of the image.
“Thirty-five pounds,” Tucker whispered.
At the base of the wall, the device displayed the unmistakable image of a human skeleton. Fragments of cloth were detectable in the scan, suggesting an old work suit. The skeleton held a bottle, resting in its bony hand.
“Thirty-five pounds,” he muttered. “Twenty-five for your bones, and ten for your bottle and suit. Thirty-five pounds of dead man weighing down my ship.”
***
Two days out from Mars, Tucker spoke to the dry bones hidden in his ship. “I don’t know your story,” he started. “I never will. I can only guess that you did not want to have your body burned on Earth or left on a foreign planet. I should give you props for your creative solution.”
He shook his head. “But I am in space, and I can’t second guess every sound and every smell. I can’t second guess my mind. Somehow you lodged yourself in that wall, where we usually never scan. You knew where to go. Getting you out will be a bitch. Certainly, nothing I can afford right now.”
“So,” Tucker continued. “This is the deal. I will cart your bones around, even if they do cost me a little extra fuel, if you move on. No more temperature aberrations, no more weird smells. I expect your response by the time I land on Mars.”
***
The next day, at 4:41 p.m., nothing happened.
***
At 4:41 p.m. on the day of arrival, nothing happened.
Tucker approached Mars, marveling at the planet, as he did every time he landed.
The canyons of Valles Marineris dominated the Tharsis region. But much of the planet had been transformed. Verdant landmasses, sparking blue waters, and the lights from multiple metropolises now dominated the terraformed world.
A light on the helm turned green, indicating clearance to land.
The Martian terrain became more visually defined as Tucker landed. The ship crossed over a cemetery of beautiful, raised crypts sitting in a glorious field of red soil and yellow flowers, before the edge of the spaceport came into sharp view.
Tucker concentrated on navigating his ship into the proper bay.
“Welcome to Mars, Cheers to the Host,” a voice greeted.
“I’m thinking about changing the name of the ship,” Tucker replied. The ship settled into the bay, Tucker powering the vessel down.
“This would be the place to do that,” the voice answered. “You can access the forms from your ship. What will you rename her?”
“I think,” Tucker smiled. “I’ll rename her Cheers to the Ghost.”
“You know that ship’s reputation, don’t you?”
“I’ve lived this ship’s reputation,” Tucker replied.
“So,” the curious control center greeter asked. “Is it true? Is she haunted?”
“No,” Tucker replied. “The only ghost on board this ship is me.”
“Well, I guess it’s cheers to you, then.”
“Cheers to me,” Tucker echoed, looking at the wall panel. Feeling an unanticipated sense of abandonment. “The only ghost on board this ship.”