In Custody

by Edward M. Erdelac

Considine sat wedged on the damp bench, head bowed beneath the leaky bulkhead of the sub-ferry between Jelly and Haj, their body armor jabbing his sore joints and leg painfully.

“You look like you’ve been shook in a box of nails, Inspector,” Jelly observed.

“I don’t feel much better than that, Jelly.”

“Don’t talk to the prisoner, Jelly,” Haj said.

“Come on, Haj,” Jelly whined. “A couple days ago we were working for him. The Inspector’s no crook.”

“What exactly did they tell you, Haj?”

“You killed a guy up on Avenir. Some guy at Morgenstar Munitions. Fed him to an autochef, then stole a company fighter and crashed it out in the desert.”

“That guy fell in the autochef himself, the clumsy sod,” said Considine. “And he killed Brendermeyer.”

Haj and Jelly both looked at him at that.

“Brendermeyer’s dead?” Haj repeated.

“Blown up, with the same Morgenstar Munitions detonite we confiscated from Croix. Croix got it from Orin Bantry, the fellow who got turned into meat paste. He was supposed to blow up the angels.”

“Blow up the angels?” Jelly perked up.

“The ones on the edge of the Boatic Trench. They’re keeping something at bay. Something big and mean down there. This creature, it thinks the world is going to end, or at least it’s telling people it is, mentally or somesuch. It wants to get on the Avenir and high tail it.”

“Go on,” said Haj shaking his head. “So this Bantry fella was what? Mind controlled?”

“No, he was a fanatic. Like his boss. Morgenstar.”

“Aloysius Morgenstar?” Haj said, and now he laughed. “That’s a big one, Inspector.”

“Morgenstar serves Rahab?” Jelly ventured.

Considine looked sharply at Jelly and narrowed his eyes. He nodded once.

Jelly drew his pneumatic pistol and pointed it at Haj.

“What’re you on, Galveston?” Haj exclaimed, flinching back. “Put that thing away!”

“Take yours out and give it to the Inspector,” Jelly ordered.

“You scrambled?” Haj chuckled nervously.

“I mean it, Haj. Two fingers.”

Haj grimaced and pinched the end of his pistol, slid it from its holster and dangled it before Considine, who took it and primed it.

“Thanks, Haj.”

“Don’t mention it,” Haj murmured.

“When we dock, you stay on board, ride the ferry back,” Jelly told Haj, reaching forward and plucking his communicator off his vest.

“Your stupid beliefs are gonna get you thrown in the brig with him, Jelly,” Haj warned.

“Better company than you at least,” Considine quipped. “Jelly, what do you know about this Rahab thing?”

“The angels tell us it’s evil, and it trades powerful visions for a man’s life force. They’ve watched over it for a long time. It takes all of them to keep it down there. And it’s not alone. There are others like it. Demons.”

“This is such detritus,” Haj whispered.

“Then don’t listen!” Considine snapped. “But shut up.”

“So yeah,” Jelly said, “the angels guard Rahab and the demons.”

“What about the cataclysm? Is it real?”

“The priests tell us nothing lasts forever, but that if it does come, Rahab has to be at the center of it, or his evil will spread to other worlds, and follow mankind wherever he goes.”

“They were going to make me do it,” Considine said. “They use these organisms, implant them in your bodies, they did it to Croix. They’ve got another sub, all wired to blow and waiting in Zirconia. I’ve seen it,” he said, tapping his own temple and recalling the image the pilot organism had placed in his mind. “I remember…it’s in the southwest dock. A one man affair. Blue, with a red stripe. The number….the number AA-32. Call ahead and have it impounded.”

Jelly nodded and flipped open his communicator.

“You’re as crazy as Croix was,” said Haj, shaking his head. “What the hell happened to you up there, Inspector?”

“I guess I was illuminated, Haj.”

Jelly had been talking the whole time. Now he closed his channel and looked over at Considine.

“I called the southwest dock controller. He said that sub left Zirconia ten minutes ago.”

“Damn it! Did he get a look at the pilot?”

“He said it was Aloysius Morgenstar.”

Parting

by Edward M. Erdelac -

Considine’s fear that the downing of the fighter would bring the rest of Morgenstar’s air force, while not unfounded, proved inconsequential.

Yulaura took full advantage of the gritty, cluttered skies, driving the rover down through low canyons and grumbling along beneath rocky overhangs, rendering them nearly invisible from the air.

They did see a pair of fighters circle like carrion flyers far overhead, but the downing of their comrade had perhaps made the others wary about flying too low.

It was a circuitous route, but in two hours time the rover came to a stop at the edge of the ocean, where the old sub-ferry station waited, along with a single Morgenstar fighter, sitting on the shore.

“Looks like they wised up,” said Yulaura. “Or one of ‘em did. What now?”

“They haven’t seen this rover,” said Dressler. “As far as they know, we’re just a bunch of grit-breathers looking for passage to Zirconia. Give him a spare suit and a mask and let’s park this thing. We’ll wait till the sub-ferry docks and then go.”

Considine donned a too-tight exposure suit and desert robes and a mask as Yulaura pulled the rover into the holding lot.

They waited a half an hour before the tower of the sub-ferry broke the surface of the water and pulled into the dock.

“You sure he’s worth all this trouble?” she asked Dressler.

“Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t, but there’s still the compensation to be had. And that’s worth the time, yes, unless you wanna live in the rover from now on.”

Yulaura sighed as Lyn pulled on her facemask again.

“Well I don’t wanna live in this thing,” said the girl.

They stepped out into the whipping, volcanic winds, and walked to the shelter of the station.

They were the only waiting passenger except for the Morgenstar pilot lounging on a bench in his flightsuit. He was a clean-cut, angular fellow, not one of these bruiser security officers, but he had a stingshot pistol strapped to his thigh, and when they came in out of the wind, he stood up.

The ferry-attendant, a bored looking old woman, announced the arrival of the ferry through her squelchy public address, and stood up tiredly to take their money.

The pilot walked towards them, his hand on his pistol.

The doors to the ferry opened, and Considine was delighted to see two familiar faces step off, along with a crowd of people bound for elsewhere.

Considine stepped to the two uniformed Enforcers and pulled off his facemask.

“Haj! Jelly!” he exclaimed.

It was Jelly Galveston and Haj, two of his own team. They looked startled to see him and stared bemused at his clothes.

Considine glanced back at the Morgenstar pilot and saw him hesitate, then move his hand away from his pistol and trot back outside, heading for his fighter and communications line no doubt.

“Inspector?” Jelly said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Haj drew his pneumatic sidearm and covered Considine.

“You’re under arrest, Considine.”

Considine raised his hands slowly, and looked over at Dressler, Lyn, and Yulaura with what he hoped was an apologetic expression.

“I’ll sort this out, I promise.”

Dressler and Lyn started forward, but Yulaura grabbed them both by the elbows.

“Sure,” she said. “Be sure and contact us when you do.”

She pulled them back, turned them around, and walked back outside.

Bird Hunting

by Edward M. Erdelac -

The bed had been overturned and blown against the opposite wall, and Considine had to worm his way out from under the debris.

He heard Dressler in the next room shouting for his daughter, and heard her anxious reply.

Considine pushed himself to his feet, rubble sliding off his shoulders, as Dressler appeared in the doorway again with a long rifle.

“You alright?” he demanded more than asked.

“Fine!” Considine managed.

Dressler nodded and leapt through the hole in his home, into the whirling ash and cinder blowing outside.

The girl scampered out behind him, a breathing mask on her face and another dangling from her fist. Considine limped along after.

Dressler rushed straight for a stand of rocks a few yards from the smoking house, and dove down behind as the Morgenstar fighter roared and banked overhead, coming around for a second pass.

They must have tracked him to the house somehow.

Considine could barely see or breathe. He clenched his eyes against the horrendous air and breathed into the crook of his elbow, but his eyes streamed tears.

When he joined them behind the rocks, Dressler already had the spare mask on and was priming the powerful-looking rifle.

The girl looked at him and grabbed his elbow, pulling him close to shout in his ear over the wind.

“Pull your shirt over your head!” she shrieked through her breathing mask.

He did so. The relief wasn’t total, but it wasn’t negligible either.

He heard the whining engine of the fighter droning closer. If the pilot could see them through the clouds of ash, he would vaporize their position with an eruption of his cannons.

Considine pulled the shirt down and scanned the area for another place to flee, but they were in the middle of nowhere.

Dressler was climbing on top of the rocks.

“What’re you doing?” Considine yelled. “Get down!”

Dressler ignored him and put the rifle to his cheek, aiming it at the sky expectantly.

Considine saw the fighter then, coming in low, flying through the ash like a great winged hunting beast.

Dressler saw it too, and fired.

The rifle bucked against his shoulder and the end of the barrel flamed, spitting out a heavy shot with a loud crack.

The fighter passed just over their heads with a roar.

Considine saw the wings waggle, and suddenly the nose dipped sharply and the bird went down, ploughing earth with its face, flipping radically end over end, and coming to an explosive rest directly in the center of Dressler’s house, which blew apart, sending chunks of permiform in all directions.

Dressler lowered the rifle.

Lyn, her blonde curls whipping around behind her facemask, stood up and slapped her father’s leg with the back of her hand.

“You should’ve let it pass!” she scolded.

“Nice shot, Dress!” came a new voice, a woman’s, but muffled by a face mask. “But bad timing!”

A decidedly female form, masked and robed, stood nearby, a long hunting rifle cradled in her arms.

Parked a few yards behind her was a bulky six-wheeled rover.

“Yulaura! The girl squealed, and rushed over, pointing angrily back at Dressler, who was coming down off the rock somewhat less heroically than when he’d ascended it. “Didja see what Dad did?”

“It was a great shot,” Considine offered, as Dressler inspected the inferno where his house had once been.

“Nothing in there that can’t be replaced,” Dressler muttered. “But who the hell was that?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with. I can’t ask you to take me to Zirconia now that I know they’re after me. Just lend me a breathing mask and…”

“The hell with that,” Dressler said. “Yulaura, fire up the rover and let’s get going! How do you expect me to collect compensation for all this if you’re dead, Inspector?”

The Bug Hunters

By Edward M. Erdelac  

Considine opened one eye.

The other was swollen shut, but he could see dim artificial light through the slit of his puckered flesh, so he knew at least the eye was still there.

He saw the source of the light, a buzzing lumidome set into a permiform ceiling. There was a constant rattling and sifting of blowing gravel and a howling wind outside, so he knew he was still on Eclectia.

He tried to sit up but could do no more than touch his chin to his chest before he was overcome by muscle pain. He hurt all over. He tried wiggling his toes and fingers though, and was relieved to find everything in working order.

There was a slight figure seated just behind his feet, which were hidden beneath a coarse blanket.

It was a girl with dirty blonde hair and striking blue eyes. She was young, but swaddled in dirty robes and an exposure suit, with a cracked bandolier over one skinny shoulder. She had a long pike across her knees, the sort he’d seen the bug hunters carry.

“Daad!” the girl called over her shoulder. “He’s awake!”

A curtain was swept aside and a tall, rough faced man entered, a metal plate of steaming food in one ash-blackened hand.

“Just in time for breakfast, mister….?”

He let the question hang and raised his eyebrows.

“Considine. Inspector Scanlon Considine.”

“Dressler,” the man said, and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “My daughter, Lyn. Why don’t you go fix yourself a plate, honey?”

Lyn rose from the stool and handed the pike to her father, who took it, along with her seat.

He laid the plate of food on Considine’s legs, and Considine’s belly growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

“Go on, have at it,” Dressler said.

Considine sucked in his breath, coughed the hard air, and groaned with the effort of sitting up.

“Sorry,” Dressler said, pushing the plate closer. “Didn’t think you were that banged up. Hardly a mark on you, except for that eye. You got lucky. My partner and I saw you crash. You’re not much of a pilot, are you?”

“No,” Considine grinned, “I suppose I’m not. How long have I been out?”

“Only few hours. You say you’re an Inspector. Where at? Avenir?” he glanced up at the ceiling.

Considine picked up the plate of brownish looking food and dug in with the fork, chewing ravenously before he could answer around the mouthful.

“Zirconia. As a matter of fact, I have to get back there as soon as possible.”

“I can take you to the sub-ferry. We’re only a few hours in from the shore by rover. Just waiting for my partner to come in so we can leave.”

“You’re a hunter?”

“Yep. That’s fresh bomber-egg you’re eating. Cut from the sac just this morning.”

“Thanks for taking me in. I’ll see my office reimburses you for fuel and time,” Considine said, though he thought, if they don’t arrest me when we get there.

Dressler waved him off, then perked up.

“Sounds like Yulaura’s back.” He stood up. “Sure you don’t wanna rest up some?” He stopped then, and cocked his head.

“What is it?” Considine asked, scarfing down the last of the bomber-eggs.

He heard a new sound weaving through the constant blowing grit rattling against the domicile. A whirring, the sound of engines, but too smooth and refined for a land rover.

Then the wall of the room blew apart in a burst of fire and permiform.

Rejection

By Edward M. Erdelac - 

The boom of the fighter bursting into the atmosphere at an inexpert entry trajectory jarred Considine out of ecstatic fanaticism and back into harrowing reality.

The wind roared and buffeted the craft, and directly in front of him, quivering on the shell of his helmet, the pilot organism writhed, having been dislodged by the violent fall into the stratosphere.

Now the black ash and flame winds of Eclectia rocked the ship, already a kind of apocalypse of its own.

He saw the thing up close, the thing that had been in his mind, or rather its slimy antenna. It had a star-shaped pink head and a gummy, counter-rotating maw. Its spotty, slithering body glistened with slime and sloshing seawater.

With a roar of effort, Considine drew back his head and flung himself forward, smashing the faceplate of his helmet on the instrument panel and sending the hissing monstrosity flopping down into his lap along with the gush of seawater.

He gave up trying to fight the rocking controls and gripped the pilot organism in both gloved hands, squeezing it as it thrashed and curled about his wrists, throttling it and driving in his fingers until they burst through, and a thick, yellowish ichor bubbled over his thumbs.

He ripped the tubing from his chest pump and felt beside his seat for the ejection lever.

With a wrench he blew open the fighter canopy, feeling the hot, ashy wind of Eclectia scorch his face and eyes, choking his lungs. It stank of sulfur and burning.

Then there was a second explosion and he was jettisoned from the hopelessly spiraling fighter. He tumbled end over end through the black and red sky until the chair jets began to fire, dropping him toward the planet in a sporadic rocking motion, violent enough to make his bile rise.

He remembered to open his hand and let the dead eel thing fall away, but he was unconscious by the time the chair fuel, not quite designed to bring a pilot to safety all the way from the upper atmosphere, ran dry, and he crashed heavily to the ground.

The Apocalypse of Rahab

By Edward M. Erdelac - 

Behind Considine’s eyes, reality exploded in cataclysmic flame.

The bugs dropped burning from the fire-filled skies into the boiling ocean. Beneath the churning, bubbling waves, superheated Zirconia glowed red as the people inside were seared to death.

The charred mountains broke apart and fell into the sky. The rim of Eclectia burned.

He saw this not with his own eyes, but with the eyes of Aloysius Morgenstar.

He had been standing blissfully unaware of impending cosmic doom, quite drunk and wondering how much of a ruckus one of the female staff would make if he cornered her in the watercloset only seconds before God contacted him.

He had taken his personal omniyacht The Traveler from the Avenir to the scenic edge of the Boatic Trench below the Eclectian ocean as part of a publicity stunt to wrangle in more financial backers for his R&D department, treating them to a luxury cruise replete with expensive cuisine, impeccable liqueurs, and beautiful consorts, and culminating with a live demonstration of new high pressure space suits designed for the miners of Sheba.

But as he had stood among the other aristocrats before the panoramic viewport and watched the choreographed antics of the suited personnel out in the water, God had revealed Himself, and shown him the face of Eclectia.

A cosmic event would crack the planet asunder, just as long ago a similar fate had befallen Sheba. God did not tell him the cause of the cataclysm to come, but in the fiery visions he saw the Whale and the Twin collide and all the world broken to asteroids.

There was but one escape.

The Avenir.

But God had enemies, the jelly creatures some men called angels. They were servants of the great entropy to come, and had driven God below, down into the murky depths of the Boatic Trench to there trap Him until the cataclysm they helped to bring about, came and consumed them all.

Aloysius Morgenstar had never been much of a believer in deities or in revelation, but the vision had been so vivid and real he had lost his composure and screamed aloud when it had passed.

He had retired to his cabin, his assistants making excuses for him as was their job, trying to keep his investors from losing confidence. He had fought sleep for fear the nightmarish notions of madness would return when he closed his eyes.

Instead, God reinforced the urgency of the revelation and proved beyond any doubt the veracity of Morgenstar’s experience.

Two men from the dive team came to him.

One had been physically and psychically taken over by an emissary of the God. He spoke with God’s voice, and called himself Rahab, though his personnel files had called him Jovis Purl. In a month, Purl was dead. But Rahab showed them more visions, and how to gather more followers. The eel creatures could be made to extend the influence of God up even to the Avenir, and through these pilot organisms, He could bring others to the cause, spread the worship of God. First He enticed them with sensual delights, mental experiences beyond any physical or emotional gratification any human had experienced.

Then, Rahab showed them the inner truth of the apocalypse, and the need to free Him from the so-called angels, and escape on the Avenir.

Members of Rahab’s cult enacted His will in various ways, in every strata of society. Wizards and historians even now worked in secret to restore the Avenir to life, so the faithful could escape the apocalypse.

To Morgenstar and to the second man, Orin Bantry, had fallen the task of destroying the agents of the apocalypse.

And now the sacred duty would settle at last on Considine’s shoulders. He would pilot a new submersible packed with detonite to the edge of the Boatic Trench and carry out the holy mission he had spoiled before. It was already docked and loaded in Zirconia.

This would be his penance and his salvation.

Flight

By Edward M. Erdelac - 

Considine stepped out of the lift, amazed he had gotten so far as Morgenstar’s personal hangar.

This was no freighter dock cluttered with utilitarian equipment and personnel in greasy coveralls.

It was much smaller than the main Avenir hangar, and contained only five craft, four sleek metallic blue one-man security fighters bearing the MM corporate logo, and a high end luxury omniyacht with a zero gravity viewing deck made from actual wood and gilded with brass rails. He had hear much about that omniyacht. It could travel in space, atmosphere, even below the ocean.

He opted for one of the fighters, though he knew the damn thing would be too fast and responsive for him to pilot safely.

He found all but one of the fighters locked, the last apparently left unsecured by a crewman who had also left his toolbox on the gantry.

As he slipped into the flight suit, Considine hoped the careless technician hadn’t left anything else undone.

He crammed himself into the pilot’s chair and lowered the canopy, buckled on the artificial air pump harness and firing up the engines just as the lift door opened and a squad of Morgenstar security spilled out.

He pulled on the exposure helmet, smelled the sour artificial air as the unit on the chest of the suit began to pump, and grabbed hold of the thrumming controls as the ship shook and lifted off the deck.

He watched the security men tumble back into the lift as the hangar door blossomed open, and with a jolt that sent the back of his head smacking against the seat, the fighter leapt out into space.

He fought the controls to turn the thing into a wide bank and angle it for the planet. Why did the damn thing have to be so fast?

He slowed his descent and fiddled with the navigational board, trying to find Zirconia, when suddenly he felt and heard a gush of liquid in his helmet.

His suit was filling with seawater.

In a panic, he felt the hose on the pump harness and realized it was leading under the pilot’s chair. He had no room to look under, but the sea water was rapidly rising to his chin in the helmet.

Of course everything had been too easy. The entire escape – the nurse laying the inoculater on the table for him to grab, the guards separating for his benefit, the unchallenged escape to the hangar, and of course the conveniently unlocked fighter craft, replete with a sabotaged air unit.

He gasped as the salty water reached his lower lip, and spat, instantly regretting it as the faceplate of his helmet spotted, making it almost impossible to see.

Warning klaxons whose purpose he couldn’t get began to flash and sound in the cockpit.

Then something slimy and tubular brushed past his ear.

Good God! Morgenstar had put one of those things under the seat and he had pumped it right into his own suit!

He felt it slithering about his throat and clenched his teeth against the maddening shriek building up in his beating chest.

Then there was a flash of light in his mind.

The thing had made contact.

A Change Of Mind

By Edward M. Erdelac - 

Considine said nothing as the guards led him from the gyrolift to Morgenstar’s clinic, but inwardly, he cursed Kes and himself for putting all his trust in the man.

The clinic was as impressive as the rest of Morgenstar. This was no dispensary with a bored nurse standing by with bottles of aspirin and medical tape. It was a full service facility, and he felt the pit of his stomach shudder at the sight of the cold metal examination table.

“I’ve got to take a leak,” one of the faceless guards announced to the other suddenly.

“What? Now?” exclaimed the other.

“Got to. I’ve been holding it since we nabbed this one. Stay here and wait for the nurse.”

“Hurry up.”

The first guard left, but Considine’s thoughts of overpowering the other man vanished when the guard put himself in the corner and angled his three barreled hyperuzi so it would deliver a cone of fire that would redecorate the entire room. This was no moonlighting Enforcer working toward PC pension. Morgenstar could afford to hire professionals.

Considine glanced around, trying to think of some way out, when the door hissed open and a nebbish looking bald man all in white entered.

“How come there’s only one of you?” the nurse asked warily, stopping in the middle of the room.

“My partner’s taking a leak. Wanna wait for him?”

“I don’t have time for this,” the nurse snapped, annoyed. “I’m supposed to be on deck one-eighty-three in twenty minutes for a bounceball date.”

He crossed the room and went to one of the metal cabinets, sliding his hand across the identification padlock and swinging it open.

“You’re gonna have to hold him,” the nurse said over his shoulder, snapping on a pair of tight gloves.

“Just scramble his brain,” the guard grumbled, “and get it over with.”

“I’ve got to sedate him first,” the nurse said, turning around with a gun-like inoculator and screwing in a small bottle of clear fluid.

The guard sighed behind Considine, and he heard the clatter of his hyperuzi being slung over his shoulder by the strap.

The nurse stepped forward with the inoculator, and the guard’s boots squeaked on the floor.

“Damn it,” hissed the nurse. “Just a minute.”

He set the inoculator on the table and turned back to the cabinet.

Considine snatched it up and spun as the guard’s fingers brushed his elbows. He jammed the inoculator under the man’s unprotected chin and squeezed.

There was a metallic punching sound and the guard stumbled back, gurgling.

Considine reached out and caught the hyperuzi as it slipped off the man’s shoulder.

He trained it on the guard, but the man just crumpled in the corner.

He turned to the nurse, who was standing with his back to the cabinet now, hands up, fingers splayed, eyes wide.

He tossed the inoculator to him. The man fumbled, barely catching it.

“Ready another dose of the same, if you please. Quickly.”

The nurse rummaged in the cabinet. Several bottles tumbled from the shelf and tinkled across the floor.

Considine stood sideways, ready to pepper the doorway should the second guard appear, or fire on the nurse should he try something stupid.

The nurse held the loaded inoculator.

“Butt first,” said Considine, holding out his hand. He heard boots squeaking in the hall.

The nurse handed him the inoculator and backed away.

Considine made a shushing gesture and put his back to the wall beside the doorway.

It hissed open a moment later and the second guard stepped inside.

Considine pressed the barrel of the inoculator to the side of his neck and soon he was face first on the floor.

“Now,” said Considine to the nurse. “Which way to the corporate hangar?”

“Three floors up,” stammered the nurse. “But you can’t get to it. The lift won’t work for you without an executive or pilot ID.”

Considine stooped and plucked an ID card off the fallen guard’s belt, frowning at it.

“What about security?”

“They can go anywhere,” the nurse admitted.

Considine nodded and tossed the inoculator to the nurse again.

“One more dose,” he commanded. “’Fraid you’re going to miss your bounceball date.”

The nurse sighed heavily and went into the cabinet again.

Morgenstar

by Edward M. Erdelac - 

Considine had to smile when he thought about how impressive Gorsh’s office had seemed to him only this morning.

It was a bug hunter’s bait shop compared to Aloysius Morgenstar’s plush, cathedral-like office, which was dominated by a smooth-lined desk in front of a dazzling viewport that looked down on Eclectia below.

He sat in a comfortable chair with two security officers standing over him for a half hour before a side door hissed open and Morgenstar himself entered in no great hurry.

He was younger and fitter looking than Considine had expected. His hair was the color of sandstone, not a strand out of place, and his sea-blue suit fit him better than Considine’s skin fit his skeleton. He was refined and assured in the extreme, but there was a hint of something in his eyes that was familiar, that twinge of madness Considine would know anywhere.

“Inspector Considine,” said Morgenstar, unbuttoning his jacket and easing into his chair. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long. I had an important meeting concerning what to do with you.”

“A meeting with Gorsh and the Peacekeepers’ Council?”

“Oh no no no,” Morgenstar chuckled. “I wouldn’t trust such an important decision to them. They were supposed to chaperone you and look how that turned out. No, it’s been decided that you’ll suffer a mental breakdown – shock, from having witnessed the death of one of your enforcers. You were apprehended by my staff after having wandered into a cafeteria and attacked and murdered one of my employees. You’ll be remanded to the care of the staff at St. Christina’s Clinic for the Neuro-Atypical. Not a top of the line facility, but the PKC insurance won’t cover anything better I’m afraid.”

Considine smiled.

“What’s so amusing?”

“I was wondering if any of your employees will be able to get the taste of Orin Bantry out of their lunches. You can scour that autochef with a fleet of de-con bots for a year and they’ll still probably never eat there again. Office gossip travels so fast. They’ll be saying Bantry’s nose turned up in a bowl of soup a week after the kitchens reopen.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re able to amuse yourself. You’ll have a very long time to do so,” Morgenstar said.

“You won’t be able to keep me there, Morgenstar. You must know that.”

“I know you’re resourceful, yes. I’ve read up on your career. That’s why I’d like to make you another offer.”

“Money?”

“No, you’ve lived so long without it you’re accustomed,” said Morgenstar. “I was thinking more along the lines of salvation.”

“Here it comes at last,” said Considine.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think you know, Inspector? To amuse me.”

“I know you allowed Orin Bantry to provide Almer Croix with a substantial amount of detonite from your company’s stores, and that he intended to use it to destroy the angel colony on the lip of the Boatic Trench. I know there’s something down there. Something even the jelly rollers don’t know about. Something that wants out. It’s an organism, kept in check by the angels. Probably their opposite number. It got to Croix via some sort of parasite, and convinced him it was god.”

He leaned forward in his chair, studying Morgenstar.

“What I couldn’t figure out was what your angle is. But now that I’ve seen you, I think I know.”

“What do you know?”

“You’re not infected by one of these parasites. These pilot organisms, they extend the psychic influence of whatever’s in the trench, influence human minds, but they’re detrimental to the physiology of the host. And you don’t look sick, so you must be insane.”

Morgenstar stiffened, but quickly regained his look of arrogant indulgence.

“How did they convince you to help them, Morgenstar?” Considine asked.

“Let me tell you what you don’t know, Inspector,” said Morgenstar. “You believe you have evidence of the existence of an unknown submarinal species held under a false quarantine in the ZMB facility planetside. Perhaps it was your intent to deliver it to the council once you had amassed more evidence of a conspiracy.”

Considine’s face fell and his eyes narrowed.

“Your Dr. Kes has relinquished your evidence in exchange for more gainful employment.”

“With you?” Considine sighed.

“Now, a similar choice lies before you.”

“Is salvation more gainful employment?”

“Oh yes, much more. God has need of a vehicle, to complete the work you and your enforcers interfered with.”

He raised his hand, and the side door opened once more.

A woman in a sharp suit emerged, bearing an opaque, water-filled container, in which an eel-like shape, about the size of a kitten, undulated.

Considine started to rise from his chair and the guards shoved him back down.

“But you must accept the will of God yourself,” Morgenstar frowned. “Resistance can damage the pilot organism and the host both. Irrevocably.”

“What’s the alternative to salvation?” Considine hissed, gripping the arms of the chair.

“Lobotomy,” Morgenstar smiled. “St. Catherine’s may not be the most reputable institution, but they still have their admission standards. It wouldn’t be right to commit a mentally healthy man.”

“Maybe you should get a room, Morgenstar. You’re the one praying to a tapeworm.”

“This is not God, but a servant of God. A finger….”

“I’ve a finger for you,” Considine quipped.

Morgenstar waved the woman with the jar off. She backed out of the room, the door hissing shut behind her.

“I can see you’ve made your choice, Inspector. You disappoint me.” He rose from his chair and buttoned his jacket, shaking his head as though he truly were saddened. “Inspector Considine isn’t feeling well, gentlemen,” he said to his security guards. “Take him to see a doctor.”

The security guards hoisted him to his feet.

“Gorsh will be looking for me.”

“No, he won’t,” said Morgenstar over his shoulder, as he went to the side door.

They dragged him from the office. 

In The Mix

by Edward M. Erdelac - 

The cafeteria was tastefully decorated with shifting holographic motivational images, the contoured chairs and tables kept clean by a floating automaid which rested in the corner and whirred gently over whenever an employee rose and exited, dispensing with trays and disposable dishes, storing discarded food and drink to be reprocessed later.

A shining service machine dispensed the daily meal from behind a semicircular counter which displayed images of the various dishes. It took orders and then turned and retrieved them almost instantly from a space in the wall behind which the massive unseen autochef dwelled, whipping up meals at speed.

Orin Bantry had just left the line and sat down with a plate of Eclectian bug fry when Considine stepped in.

Bantry was wearing the same clothes he’d worn earlier in the day. The same damned company cap.

Considine stepped aside to let a pretty woman in a stylish suit leave, then set himself squarely in the doorway, took the stingshot pistol from beneath his coat, and announced in a loud voice that caused every diner to look over;

“Inspector Considine, Zirconian Peacekeeper. Orin Bantry. A word.”

Bantry swallowed a mouthful of bug fry and dabbed at his rusty beard with a napkin before rising slowly to his feet.

He pushed the chair back, and then bolted for the line.

Where the hell did he think he was going?

But then Considine saw.

Bantry shoved aside his coworkers, hopped over the counter past the droning server, and dove head first for the square leading to the kitchen.

Considine collided with the confounded automaid, recovered, and reached the counter just as Bantry’s shoes disappeared through the hole in the wall.

He took aim with his stingshot, eliciting screams and calls for security from the ducking cafeteria patrons, but had no shot.

He limped around the counter, stared dubiously at the hole and cursing, thrust his weapon through first, and wedged his head and shoulder after. He didn’t want Bantry waiting on the other side to crown him with a pan or something.

But Bantry was leaping over the whirring limbs of the massive autochef, a gleaming, towering apparatus that filled the cavernous room, catering to six floors’ worth of cafeterias and eateries at the peak of the lunch hour. Part convection oven, part immense freezer, it was an autonomous food factory, programmed to prepare and deliver foodstuffs at a dizzying rate via an incomprehensible array of specialized appendages, each capped with beaters, pans, blenders, rolling pins, and flashing cutlery. The faroff animal squeal meant that somewhere within the thing an automated slaughterhouse was also in full swing, disassembling livestock into fresh meat, likely for the executives on the top levels. A great pool of sizzling grease popped and spattered him as six hands plunged baskets of some unidentifiable food into its depths.

His hand seared, he ducked away.

Considine aimed his stingshot across the blur of busy machinery and yelled for Bantry to stop, but he could scarcely be heard above the din.

He saw no cut off switch, but spied a service ladder leading up to a safe catwalk and quickly scaled it.

Bantry lost time trying to pace his run through massive prep area, ducking under a huge, buzzing eggbeater that suddenly emerged from a cloud of flour, and Considine managed to get ahead of him, running overhead.

He reached the far end of the chamber and slid down the ladder, cutting off Bantry’s escape route, but nearly crashed to the floor on his wounded leg. He suddenly wished he’d taken all the suppressants he had been prescribed.

“That’s far enough, Bantry!”

Bantry hesitated, then raised his hands slowly. He had a desperate look though, dilated irises, sweaty sheen. It all made Considine wary.

“Recognize me?” Considine said. “You tried to blow me up this morning and failed. But you did manage to kill one of my enforcers. A good man. You’re going to pay for it, Bantry. But first things first.  I want to know about the explosives you stole for Almer Croix. What were they for?”

“To free them.”

“Free who?”

“The prisoners. The prisoners in the darkness.”

Croix had said something about being imprisoned in the darkness, in his delirium. Something else. Something about wardens.

“You wanted to kill the wardens?”

Bantry’s eyes widened.

“Yes! Then you know. God can’t be free until the angels are dead.”

“The angels. The angels are the wardens?”

Bantry’s expression fell.

“You don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t know at all!”

He spun on his heel and ran straight at the autochef.

“Bantry!” Considine yelled, lunging for him.

He came away with the man’s hat in his fist.

And Bantry was gone. Plucked suddenly from the prep area floor, the man was passed swiftly from arm to arm and deposited at last in some glowing compartment in one of the upper segments.

Considine heard the buzz of automatic chainsaws and a brief shriek.

Then there was a bleating klaxon, and the room lighting turned scarlet. The colossal culinary automaton slowed and stopped.

The exit door behind him opened, and two heavily armored men with MorgenStar Security emblazoned on their breastplates leveled expensive looking hyperuzis at him.

He raised the hand with the pitiful stingshot over his head and flipped open his ID badge with the other.

“We know who you are, Inspector Considine,” said one of the security men. “Mr. Morgenstar would like a word with you before we remand you to the custody of the Peace Council.”

The Direct Route

Six Fathoms Down, Part 14, by Edward M. Erdelac - 

It seemed to take forever for Gorsh to finish laying out his plans for Considine’s investigation.

It took only a few moments to give the two Avenir Enforcers he was assigned as assistance the slip.

He left them scratching their heads and peering up and down a crowded passageway while he slipped into a gyrovater and instructed it to take him straightaway to Morgenstar Munitions.

“Access to Morgenstar Munitions is granted by appointment only,” the cultured voice of the gyrovater informed him gravely.

He did not slip his ID badge into the access port. Instead he used the one he’d taken off one of Gorsh’s Enforcers.

“Investigative priority,” he told the computer.

“Complying,” the computer responded as the gyrovater thrummed to life beneath his feet and began to whisk him through the various levels of Avenir.

No need for him to leave a digital trail or announce his intentions. Besides, there was probably a lock on his own credentials.

It was only a matter of time before the Avenir Enforcer’s loss of badge would be detected. He left it sitting in the slot, knowing he probably couldn’t use it on the way back anyway.

He exited the gyrovater when the doors spiraled open and found himself in a high-ceilinged, pristine white lobby with smooth silver lines and a plush blue carpet.

He approached the multi-armed service machine at the front desk.

Before the robot had done more than glance up, he had pulled his Enforcer-issue handheld directional EMP flasher. It was intended for deactivating runaway vehicles or circumventing pesky electronic locks, but it knocked out the bot’s central processor with a flick.

“No thanks, I’ll help myself,” he muttered, sliding around the console past the inert robot and calling up the company directory.

Orin Bantry’s name was listed, and if he was wearing his ID badge, he was currently in the southwest cafeteria. A swift glance at the schematics and he had the route memorized.

He’d always been good with maps.

Runaround

By Edward M. Erdelac

Considine stared at himself in the mirror. Puffy, sutured flesh peered out from beneath the stark bandage over his left eye, where a shard of Brendermeyer’s femur had torn a gash. His blue eyes looked sunken in their bruised sockets, and the second degree burns on his neck and chin were an angry red.

Not as angry as he felt, though. In this case, what was inside him was much worse than how he looked.

He was on a hefty dose of pain suppressants, but not so heavy as the clinicians had prescribed. He needed a clear head.

He had nearly shared Brendermeyer’s unfortunate end. Luckily Jelly hadn’t skimped on the cabin safety measures when he’d last refit the craft.

“You alright in there, Stanlon?”

Gorsh. To have to deal with him now. He gritted his teeth. Gorsh would expect questions, and he had them, but he was loathe to waste time listening to Gorsh’s non-answers.

But he had to keep up appearances.

He opened the door to Gorsh’s private restroom and stepped out into his posh office, with its Peace Council sigil on the wall and its massive viewport gazing out at the planet below.

Plush rug, chrome desk, tasteful art. Yes, Gorsh, you’ve done well for yourself.

“Have a seat,” Gorsh said, motioning to a comfortable chair in front of his desk.  “I’ll get you a drink.”

“Not with the pain suppressants, no thanks,” Considine said, limping over to the chair and easing slowly and agonizingly down into it. The fabric was like a scouring pad on his tender leg, even through his trousers.

“You sure you’re alright?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Gorsh.”

“Don’t be stupid. You nearly checked out. We were partners once. I’m concerned.”

He poured himself a drink of greenish fluid and downed it in a gulp.

Considine leered.

“What’s so funny?” said Gorsh.

“You. Still at the libations after all these years. Yet you’ve got a seat on the Council, and my sobriety, where did that get me?”

Gorsh smiled slightly.

“Never too late to start thinking about your career,” he said, offering the bottle once more.

“I’d rather smoke,” he said, pulling his singed pack of kelpweed cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Oh God, don’t tell me you’ve taken up smoking that seaweed garbage.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Considine admitted, knocking one loose and pushing it into his lips. “Light?”

“I don’t want my office smelling like a fish market,” Gorsh said, settling in his chair.

“All heart, like always,” Considine said, replacing the cigarette and sighing.

“You’ll want to know, we have a lead on the bomber,” Gorsh said.

“I don’t want to hear about your leads. I want to know why he isn’t in custody, when he did the deed in front of you and two of your crack full-time Enforcers.”

“The bay was on fire, Stanlon,” Gorsh said, opening his hands. “My first concern was to get you clear of the wreckage.”

“Convenient,” Considine muttered. “Alright, what’s your lead?”

“We had an incident that caused some anti-Enforcer backlash a little while ago. There’s a sort of fringe dissident group operating on Avenir now. The Pigkillers….”

Considine’s mind wandered. Pigkillers. Terrorists. Just as he’d suspected, Gorsh’s lead was a damned smokescreen. He already knew the identity of the bomber, just as Considine did.

It was Orin Bantry, Morgenstar Munition’s star employee and Aloysius Morgenstar’s personal go to it guy by way of detonite.  Considine had smelled the stuff when they’d confiscated it from Croix in Zirconia, and he’d smelled it again when it blew Brendermeyer to pieces.

Somebody should have told Orin to stop wearing that stupid company cap.

Stiff Welcome

By Edward M. Erdelac

Considine eased the Zirconian shuttle through the magnetic field and cut the engines, automatically kicking in the stabilizers, which allowed the small ship to float easily in and down to the deck.

It was one of only three shuttles the Zirconian branch of the Peacekeepers employed. There was hardly any call for interplanetary transfers beyond shipping the occasional convict to Sheba. Most prisoners were put to work in Zirconia, so even that was a dubious requirement. They’d once had four, but the fourth had developed some kind of debilitating mechanical failure and had been cannibalized by its three comrades.

This particular shuttle handled sluggishly, and had a faulty rear left stabilization emitter, which caused it to dip in that quarter at random intervals, making the drink containers in the cabin mostly useless.

Considine spied a pair of suited Enforcers in their pristine tactical combat armor flanking a third man in a tailormade long coat, whose balding pate he recognized as belonging to his old partner Gorsh.

As he settled the ship down and unbuckled his safety belts, Brendermeyer was already heading for the hatch.

“Avenir here I come,” he grinned. “Big time.”

“You’re not going to find a warm welcome, I’m afraid.” Considine said. “Remember, they’re expecting Croix. You’re going to be something of a disappointment, I’m afraid.”

“I’m a comedian, Inspector,” Brendermeyer said, winking back at him as the hatch shot open. “I’m used to disappointing people.”

Considine had never yet caught Brendermeyer’s act. He couldn’t say he even remembered the moonlighting Enforcer ever telling a joke. At least, not one that he had remembered as funny.

It turned out, he never would.

Brendermeyer barely waited for the gangway to descend before he swung down onto the deck.

He was still taking in his brand new surroundings, so he didn’t notice the gaunt man in the red jumpsuit and pulled down cap pushing the air-dolly with the mag-clamps for the shuttle struts. Why should he? It was standard procedure to secure the ship to the deck for safety.

Except that the worker was vaguely familiar. Considine’s homunculus began to kick his teeth like mad.

Brendermeyer didn’t see the worker break into a run, shoving the air-dolly straight at the shuttle. Briefly out of control and speeding from the momentum, the floating cart whizzed towards Brendermeyer.

Considine shouted a warning, and the funnyman Enforcer did manage to side step the runaway air-dolly. It struck the gangway and promptly detonated, as no air-dolly bearing mere mag-clamps should have.

The force of the explosion ripped Brendermeyer to pieces and flung fire and metal and blazing bone up into the shuttle.

Considine was thrown against the canopy and slammed back down onto the console. He heard the emergency klaxons sound and the hissing of the flame retarders. At least they worked. He experienced the shocking sensation of being bathed for a brief moment in intense heat and then he was doused with a mound of cool but foul smelling chemical foam.

Avenir, he thought for one brief, bitter moment, before he lost consciousness.

Approach

by Edward M. Erdelac

“You sure this is a good idea, Inspector?” Brendermeyer asked for the fourth time.

“The Peace Council is expecting me to arrive with a passenger, Brendermeyer. It’ll look fishy if the compliment scan only shows up one life form,” Considine explained for the fourth time.

The police shuttle rose through the upper atmosphere and shuddered as the fiery sky turned black and starry.

“Never been up to Avenir,” Brendermeyer muttered, his eyes wide and full of stars. “Never even been in space before. Is it true you used to work up there?”

“I did. A while ago.”

“Why the hell would you transfer down to Zirconia?”

“I liked the view better.”

“You can’t see a damn thing down there.”

“Precisely.” Considine said, angling the shuttle for the huge ship. “It’s not all stars up here, Brendermeyer. There’s all that blackness in between.”

“I hear the women are choice, though.”

Considine pursed his lips. Brendermeyer wasn’t listening. There was a hell of a lot of politics on Avenir. A lot of clean fingernails with dirty palms. It had got to him. He had been ordered to overlook one too many shady deals, ordered to let one too many cases cool. Avenir was a stagnant place, with its unchanging air, its never shifting castes.

He much preferred Zirconia. He saw the underwater city as a happy medium between Avenir’s static, festering rot, and the violent upheaval of the surface of Eclectica. He liked the leaky hallways and the shifting light that played on the floors, filtered through fathoms of ocean and the thick viewing ports, chilling the raging red skies far above until they were no more than a placid shimmer. 

He liked the glimpses of sea life in all its forms, from the flitterfish to the ethereal angels themselves, going about their alien, inscrutable business on the edge of the Boatic Trench.

The dark waters. Dark waters. Croix had said he was sinking into the dark waters. Then something about the wardens, rising, and freedom.

He puzzled over this when the panel began to blink and Brandermeyer nudged his arm.

He keyed the receiver.

“Zirconia Peacekeeper Shuttle ZP-40, you are cleared to land in docking bay 882.”

“Understood, control,” Considine answered. “882.”

They’re certainly putting us in the proverbial boondocks. Why hadn’t they been directed to the police bay, or even the Peace Council?

“Keep sharp, Brendermeyer.”

Brendermeyer took his sidearm out from under the passenger’s chair and belted it on.

“You expecting trouble?”

“Just keep sharp.”

Last Words

by Edward M. Erdelac -

Kes ushered Considine into a white room within a white ward, where beneath a white sheet Croix lay, his face a mass of lesions, eyes bloodshot, pale hair now scattered on the pillow.

It had been only nine hours or so since last he’d seen him, but Croix now looked like what he was, a man on the verge of death.

“Great God,” Considine muttered at the sight of him. “What’s happened to him?”

“His condition’s worsening,” Kes said, “at a substantially accelerated rate. It’s as if the parasite’s tripled its normal feeding habits.”

“As if it’s trying to kill him,” Considine said.

“Oh it is,” Croix murmured, his voice shockingly harsh and rasping amid the relative silence of the room, which was broken only by the steady pulsing and chugging of his various life support systems.

Considine went to Croix’s side. Kes hovered near.

“What is it, Croix? Do you know?”

Croix smiled, and that cracked and bleeding smile was terrible to see in that wasted face.

“It’s God,” Croix said. “My own personal God.”

Considine glanced at Kes.

Kes shook his head.

“You’re not going to get anything sane out of him.”

“Faith isn’t sane, Dr. Kes,” Croix said. “I don’t expect you to understand that.”

Considine narrowed his eyes. Croix didn’t appear to be rambling in the throes of fever.

“What do you mean it’s God, Croix?”

“Not God per se. An intermediary, really. Like a saint. A saint bred by God, for communion with this unworthy body. But it brings me close. First, it shuts you out, lets God wear you like a pressure suit. You know nothing of God’s purpose. You only watch yourself, like you’re a character in a story. But then, now….now I begin to see God’s plan.”

“Did God tell you to use the detonite, Croix? What on…?”

“These are incidental questions, Inspector. I am closer to God now then I ever have been. No longer a mere suit, a puppet. I am near to Him. So very near. And you ask God such mundane questions. Really, Inspector. You’re a waste of flesh and lungs.”

“What’s the thing inside of you? Attached to your spine? How did it get there?”

“Incidental, incidental,” Croix yawned. “I’m tired. Very tired. Feel like I’m sinking. Back into the blackness. The darkest waters.” A cloud seemed to fall across his serene though ravaged features, and his eyes popped open, wildly rolling. “No! Not back down there. Not the prison! Hate it! Hate! End is coming! End of all! Must get loose! Must rise! Rise! Kill them! Kill the wardens! Free! Must be free!”

The last he shouted, his gums distended, cracked lips splitting, oozing blood and pus. He went rigid, and then fell back into the pillow, the monitors and scanners flatlining.

“Damn!” Kes said, rushing forward.

Considine turned away and frowned as Kes worked futilely over the corpse for a few moments before throwing up his arms in exasperation.

“He’s dead,” Kes announced.

“Yes,” said Considine. “Dr. Kes, how long can you keep his death a secret?”

Kes stared.

“Come now, doctor. I know it’s in your best interest. You want time to dissect and study the thing inside him. I need that time too. How long?”

“I could possibly get him into a forensic pathology lab, or the morgue, without anyone noticing. If he doesn’t leave the ZMB I could maybe push him around on a gurney-lev for some time. Maybe a day. Two, if I don’t go home.”

“You won’t.”

“What if your interested parties come looking for him?”

“They won’t. Officially, you’re going to release Croix from quarantine into my custody, and I’m going to extradite him to Avenir.”

“Will that work?” Kes asked doubtfully.

“We’ll see. Is my man Enforcer Brendermeyer still here?”

“He’s about to be discharged.”

“Where is he?”

Kes told him the room, and Considine shook his hand and went off down the corridor.