Ghost Story (The Dresden Files 13)

they were literally piling up with bodies, slowing the progress of the enemy—but not stopping it.

Dammit, I felt helpless. Just standing next to the kid wasn’t going to do her any good, but I was holding on to the world by a thread. I just didn’t have the ability to make things happen, either here or in the real world. All I could do was . . .

. . . was use my freaking brain. Duh.

“Wait,” I said. “Molly, I’ve got an idea.”

All the Mollys turned to look at me.

I turned to Captain Molly. “Slow her down,” I said. “You’ve got to slow the Corpsetaker down. Whatever you have to do, you need to buy some time. Go!”

Captain Molly blinked at me. Then she turned and started snapping orders. The bridge Mollys started twisting dials and punching keys.

I turned to Communications Molly. “Hey, you do communications, right?”

She looked baffled. “Right.”

“We need to communicate,” I said. “You need to make a long-distance call.”

“Now?” Communications Molly said, her eyes widening.

“Right the hell now,” I corrected her. I leaned down and explained what I needed in terse tones.

“That’s going to be tricky,” she said. “We’re already at one hundred percent on the reactor.”

I put on my best Sean Connery voice. “Then go to a hundred and ten pershent.”

Science Molly arched an eyebrow at me and punched a button. “Engineering, Bridge.”

“Aye!” screamed a furious Scottish-accented Molly. “What do ye want now?”

“More power, Engineer.”

The answer was a furious rush of pure profanity—but the deep engine-hum in the background around us went upward a bit, and the floor started to vibrate.

Science Molly pointed at Communications Molly and said, “Go.”

“Mayday,” Communications Molly said into her console. “This is a mayday. Emergency transmission. We urgently require assistance. . . .”

Suddenly everything lurched to one side and we all staggered.

“Oh, I don’t believe this crap,” I muttered.

“She’s found us, Captain,” said Science Molly. “Shields at seventy percent.”

“Hit her with everything!” Captain Molly snapped.

“Finally,” growled Tactical Molly, who sat next to Ensign Molly, wearing a gold uniform almost identical to Captain Molly’s. She’d been sitting there doing absolutely nothing and looking bored the entire time I’d been there. Now she turned and started jabbing buttons, and cheesy sound effects filled the bridge.

“Minimal damage,” reported Science Molly.

The bridge rocked again and we staggered. One of the panels exploded in a shower of sparks. Some Molly in a red uniform who hadn’t spoken crashed limply to the deck.

“Not real,” Ensign Molly said. “Sorry; my bad. Some things you just can’t get rid of.”

Damage alarms started wailing. They sounded like a badly distorted version of a young woman screaming.

“Shields have failed, Captain!” Science Molly reported.

And she reached for the Omega Bomb.

“No!” I snapped. “Stop her!”

Captain Molly took one look at me and then leapt at Science Molly. She seized the Omega Bomb. “Stop!” she ordered.

“There is no room for emotion here,” snapped Science Molly. “It’s over. This is all you can do to protect them.”

“I gave you an order!” snapped Captain Molly.

“You’re letting your fear control you,” replied Science Molly coldly. “This is the only logical way.”

Captain Molly screamed in incoherent rage and slugged Science Molly in the face.

Science Molly screamed back, and swung a fist into Captain Molly’s stomach.

Music started playing. Loud. High-pitched. Strident. Most would recognize it.

“Sorry!” Ensign Molly called, cringing.

I hurried forward to grab at the struggling Mollys—and my hands went right through them. Right. I was an observer here. Welcome, sure, but if I wanted to control what was going on, I had to do it the hard way, like Corpsetaker was doing.

I turned to Ensign Molly and said, “Dammit, do something!”

“There’s nothing I can do,” she said, her eyes uncertain and full of sadness. “They’ve been like that ever since they killed you.”

I stared at Molly and felt my mouth fall open.

Time stopped.

The door. The old wooden door.

The cabinet where Molly had kept her suicide device.

I turned toward them.

My godmother’s voice echoed in my head.

You are currently freed of the shackles of mortality. Your limited brain no longer impedes access to that record. The only blocks to your memory are those you allow to be.

I remembered the door. The cabinet.

I remembered the past.

Sanya had insisted that they keep me on the backboard when they carried me into St. Mary of the Angels, after my apartment burned down. The dark-skinned Knight of the Cross carried me from his minivan and into the church alone, toting the board and my couple of hundred pounds and change on one shoulder, as