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.”

Drifting

by Jeff C. Carter -

Rahab piloted the hulking spider along the lightless tunnels of the space station’s outer ring.  When Rahab entered this arachnid body, it had seemed so rigid and heavy.  Here, in zero gravity, it floated gracefully like Rahab’s true form.  Rahab never suspected that space was so like the ocean depths.

Rahab had learned much about this strange city in the sky.  Artificial atmosphere, to fill the air-breathers’ lungs.  Artificial light, to hold back the dark.  Artificial gravity, to hide the pull of the endless void.  The air-breathers here were even more sheltered than the weaklings of the cities of the sea.  Constant panic boiled beneath the surface of their minds.  The flavor was piquant and intoxicating.

Rahab crippled the artificial gravity wherever he could.  With its illusion torn away, only the truth of empty chaos remained.  The air-breathers of the city in the sky believed they were safe from the crawling horrors below.  Their fragile minds believed themselves beyond reach.  But Rahab was patient.  Rahab was sly.  Rahab was Death.

The spiders were spreading throughout the city in the sky.  Rahab felt waves of blood lust and gales of despair saturate the metal corridors.  The air-breathers were learning the way of all flesh.  The city in the sky would plunge out of orbit and rain destruction upon the cities of the surface and the cities of the sea.  Rahab would greet their scattered corpses as they sank into the blackest depths.  Rahab would embrace them all in his many arms.  Together they would await the end of time. 

A vibration along the tunnel wall caressed the fine hairs in the spider’s clawed legs.  Its multitude of eyes picked out a pair of small air-breathers shuffling along in magnetic boots.  Rahab tasted the sizzle of nervous energy in the air, but not the spice of panic.  Rahab’s heart sang with joyful murder.  Rahab would descend from the darkness and split their rational minds wide open.  Rahab would feast on fresh, primal fear.

One of the air-breathers, a female, spoke.

“Should we double back, Dressler?  This tunnel looks clear.”

Rahab crept closer. 

“Could be.  We have bagged a lot of bugs on this deck,” Dressler said.

An unpleasant clear tone, like a high pitched whine, rang from the male.  It was not just the absence of fear.  It was a quiet conviction.  The bitter tang was nauseating, and somehow, strangely familiar.  Rahab let the air-breathers escape with their sour, overripe minds.  Rahab was seeking juicier prey.

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.

The Rahab Conspiracy #24 - Tangled

by Jeff C. Carter

Dros slouched behind his menu and scratched the yellow fuzz sprouting from his scalp.  A perky waitress skipped over and he shooed her away.  The bright, airy food court on the lower cordeck was a great place to hide in plain sight, but he’d take a dark smuggler's cove and an air gun at his side any day.  He pulled a hat back onto his prickling head.  Constant scratching was the only giveaway of a good bio-disguise, and Dros knew that he was being watched.  He could feel eyes upon him from some unseen corner.  The walls were closing in.

Smuggling contraband spider eggs onto Avenir had been risky, but the offer had made it worth any risk.  Or so he thought.  The first time he tried to return to Port X his travel credentials were denied without explanation.  When he saw the alert out for his backup identity, he knew he was in serious trouble.  Then his contact at Customs turned up dead.

Someone was trying to keep Dros from getting off this station.  He didn't know who.  He didn’t want to find out.  He just needed to lay low for one more hour.  There was a shuttle leaving with a reservation for his name to match his new biometrics.

A fresh-faced enforcer in a crisp uniform strolled past the mammoth viewport window that lined one side of the dining area.  Dros clenched his teeth as a burning itch crawled across his scalp.  The waitress waved at the rookie officer and he sauntered over.  Dros buried his face in the menu. 

The sudden clatter of plates made him jump.  Someone on the far side of the dining area was shouting.  Dros tried to see who it was, but the enforcer was blocking his line of sight.

"The end is coming!  Ragnorok!  They're heeeere!"

A sweaty dark skinned man loped off down a hallway, flailing his arms.  The enforcer turned to follow him and froze.  His head slowly turned back to the entrance where the maniac had appeared.
Dros looked over the enforcer's shoulder and saw it too.  

A monstrous black spider blocked the entire arched entry space.  Dros' heart sank.  The young enforcer grasped for the air gun in his holster but it was gone.  Dros had slipped it free and started running.  

Dros looked back and saw the rookie slammed beneath a pouncing spider.  Dros’ finger twitched towards the trigger for an instant before he resumed his flight towards the exit.  As he reached the exit tunnel another spider appeared, forelegs thrusting out in a threatening display.  Dros skidded to a halt and frantically back-pedaled.  He raised the stolen air gun and took aim.

Dros’ foot rolled off something and he went down hard.  He caught a glimpse of the blinking metal canister as it spun away.  He knew an enforcer stunfoam grenade when he saw it, so he pulled himself into a tight fetal position.

The grenade detonated with a crackling thump, spraying high voltage foam in all directions.  Dros crawled beneath scattered tables, careful to avoid the sparking globs of quivering black foam.  He snatched up the air gun and scanned the courtyard.  A terrified mob of people collided into each other as they scrambled away from clouds of stunfoam and the spiders lurking in every tunnel. 

Dros slid along the wall with the air gun extended in front of him.  He reached an exit and saw thick hairy legs slashing the air.  He silently closed the last few inches.  His stomach fluttered and his body felt weightless.  His finger closed around the trigger as a piece of glass floated past his nose.

By the time his mind registered the loss of artificial gravity he had clenched the trigger.  The air gun drilled back into his chest and sent him tumbling.  Storm clouds of floating stunfoam silenced the shrieks of people as they flailed helplessly through the air.

The lights of the food court flickered and died.  The only light was the hellish glow of Sheba’s volcanic sea cast through the viewport window.  Dros bounced off a table and twisted to get his bearings.  Flashing wisps of stunfoam illuminated the spiders.  They had left their posts and were crawling effortlessly along the walls.

Dros waited to hit the ceiling and then shoved off towards an open exit.  His body snapped back, trapped in something viscous.  He realized in a flash of hysteria that he was caught in a spider web that covered the vaulted ceiling.  He squirmed out of his sweaty clothing and began to shimmy free.  His bare skin snagged on the sticky cables and ripped away in sheets.  He whimpered and thrashed, sending tremors through the giant web. 

Dros felt eyes upon him.  He craned his head and saw the spiders slinking onto the web.  He writhed and fought, but his bonds only became tighter.  The spiders began closing in.

Swordplay

by Jeff C. Carter

Councilman Moab placed a sheet over two bodies.  The third, a bloody man in a hospital gown, he left exposed.

Lancet held a gel pack to his bruised face and neck. “Is it over?”
 

“My men haven’t reported any other attacks.  We’ll have to review the vids and body counts before we know for sure,” Moab sighed.  “Two good men, dead for nothing.  What a waste.”

“And my family’s koto,” Lancet added.  He knelt down and picked through the wreckage of a shattered musical instrument on the floor of his chamber.

“Let me see the telemetry from your sword,” Moab said.

Lancet stood and slipped off a black silk sash, a priceless creation from the nanoforges of Avenir.  It snapped into the shape of a long blade.  Lancet turned it downward and a crisp holographic display mushroomed up from the butt of the sword’s handle.

In the floating movie, a scaled down version of Lancet darted down a hallway and severed an attacker’s arm. “Notice how he felt no pain,” Lancet said. The other man continued to lunge and swing.  A blur of information speckled the hologram as facial recognition software and DNA analysis overlapped.

A file photo of the man appeared along with his I.D. and personal history. “This says he was a patient at St. Christina’s Clinic for the Neuro-Atypical,” Lancet read. With a twist of the sword’s grip the playback streaked forward through Lancet’s other battles, completing a grid of I.D. photos in the air. 

“All from the clinic,” Lancet said.

“Do you think it was some kind of mass psychosis?” Moab wondered.

Lancet pulled his shirt taut, revealing a bloody handprint with smeared fingers that the killer had imprinted there. “No.  They seemed too orchestrated.  They rallied around this symbol.  The mark of Rahab.”

Moab nodded. “I saw that on the walls.  They had a battle cry, too.  ‘Rahab is death’.  It seems too organized to be psychosis but too sloppy for proper terrorism.  Perhaps they belonged to a cult?”  

Lancet pulled the sword to his chest and it slithered back into a sash and fastened around his ribs.  He walked over to the uncovered body. “This one claimed to have been a former servant of mine.  He had just killed my guard when your man arrived and put a round in the back of his head.  I thought it was over, but somehow he managed to get back up and kill your man, too.”

Moab rolled the body over with his boot and peered into the deep gunshot wound. “It sounds like he was unstoppable.  So then…why did he stop?”

Lancet grinned. “His old control chip kicked in.  A servant cannot kill his master.”

Moab walked to the transparent wall and peered into space. “What a senseless act.  And two good men, dead.  What a waste,” Moab sighed. He looked down at the broken instrument at their feet. “And your koto as well, of course. I know you wanted to pass that on to your heirs.”

Lancet scowled down at the barren, hostile planet below. “The only thing I want to give my heirs is a world worth having.”

Opportunity

by Jeff C. Carter -

Nosey ran through the hall ways of Avenir singing and screaming and crying tears of joy.  She had never felt so free from fear or guilt or obligation.  She painted the walls, marking them as she explored the wide open spaces outside St. Christina’s Clinic.

She heard shouting up ahead and saw a bloody handprint on the wall.  The mark of Rahab.  She sprinted around the corner and found herself in an enormous ball room with a high vaulted ceiling.  On any other day she would have shriveled in panic to find herself in such a large space, but not today.  With Rahab working through her she was fearless.

Her little friend Bruzzy was nearby, clinging onto a rich lady’s back and roaring into her ear.

“Rahab is death!”

He sank his small teeth into her neck.

Nosey giggled and snatched a broken bottle from the floor.  Sweat and blood flew from her hair and hospital gown as she danced and whirled, painting people red like roses and sunsets and fire. 

A sound like a dozen corks popping echoed off the ceiling.  Bruzzy and the rich lady both fell down in the most gorgeous spray of scarlet and cherry red. 

“Stand down!”

A big fancy old man with gray hair and a mustache swung a pistol towards her.  He was surrounded by piles of bodies, some in hospital gowns, and some in satin and lace. 

“I just want to help you, Mister.  Once I open you up you can feel the wide open space!” Nosey whined.

The big fancy man pulled the trigger but nothing happened.  He cursed. 

Nosey giggled.  She darted forward, the bottle in her hand shining crystal green and crimson.

The big fancy man pulled a glass off a table and splashed its bronze liquid into her face.  Eyes stinging, Nosey slashed at the air blindly.  No fair!  She wanted to see what was inside of him! 

The big fancy man slapped her to the ground with a meaty hand.  Nosey rolled over and rubbed her eyes.   There was a shiny blur in the big fancy man’s hand, and when it opened it produced a beautiful red glow.

“Rahab…” Nosey squealed.

The big fancy man dropped the lighter onto the girl and she was instantly wrapped in flames. 

“Councilman Moab, you’re alive.”

The big fancy man turned from the fire to see Lancet Palmar VIII panting in the doorway, holding a bloody sword.

“You’re here.  Good.  What do we know?” the big fancy man asked.

“Too soon to say for sure.  Terrorists, perhaps?” Lancet said.

“Perhaps.  Any idea who or what this ‘Rahab’ might be?”

Their faces were both illuminated by the crackling flames.

“Yes,” Lancet said, “an opportunity.”

Kill-Switch

by Jeff C. Carter -

Lancet lay there stunned and surrounded by dead men. There was the bloody security guard, the man with the broken neck, and the old man standing over him laughing.

He had seen the old man take a shot to the back of the head. He didn’t know how the man got back up, or even who he was. He only knew that this man wanted to kill him.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? A brainless body to follow you around?” the lunatic said.

“Who are you?”

The old man smeared some of the blood from his face and wiped it onto his hospital gown.

“You don’t recognize me? It’s your faithful servant, Valljon.”

“I never had a…”

Valljon leaped onto Lancet and straddled his legs. “That’s right! You never had a Valljon! When you had them put the chip in my head…” He pointed a finger to his temple like a drill. “Bzzzzz! They made an awful mess. So sorry, puppet broken. Every word the old man spoke carried an overpowering stench of rot.

“What do you want?” Lancet said.

Lancet tried to keep his assailant focused while he thought of a way to turn the tables. He could hear the rattle of his smart sword straining against its charge unit in the other room. He knew it wouldn’t get free in time. He slowly searched the wreckage beneath him with his hands.

“You tried to turn me into one of them remote controlled butlers. When it didn’t work I was tossed out like garbage.”

A string of drool slid onto Lancet’s cheek but he tried not to turn his head. His fingers found a jagged shard of beetle shell.

Valljon rubbed his hand across his scalp and held it up, palm slick with blood. “It’s okay. Once I put the mark of Rahab upon you all will be forgiven.” He pressed his hand against Lancet’s shirt. His fingers began to slide towards Lancet’s throat.

“Valljon, look at me. I want you to see that I am truly sorry.”

“All are equal in death,” Valljon cooed.

Lancet thrust the shard into Valljon’s ribs as the bloody hand clamped around his throat. Lancet struggled to drive the blade in again and again but blackness was swarming across his senses.

Suddenly the pressure was gone.

“Error! Forbidden! Safety protocol…,” Valljon sputtered. The old man clutched his head and pulled at his gray hair.

Lancet gasped for air.

A savage look of hatred blazed in Valljon’s eyes as he fought the machinery in his head. “Rahab is death!” he bellowed. 

He curled his bloody fingers into talons and reached again for Lancet’s neck. “Neural Kill Switch engage,” Valljon droned. He flopped to the ground, face slack. Puppet broken.

Lancet rubbed his throat and called up to the ceiling. “Open a line to Moab.” 

There was a soft chime. “Moab, pick up. It’s Lancet. Some lunatic just tried to kill me.”

A cacophony of screams and grunts echoed through the speakers, followed by a gravely voice. “You’re not the only one! There’s a bloody riot going on!”

Reunion

by Jeff C. Carter -

Lancet leaned over the dragon on his floor and gave it a sharp slap, sending a twang buzzing into the air. He stabbed and pulled at its strings with his thumb, index and middle fingers sending notes flying faster and faster.

Once, this instrument had been made of wood, ivory and tortoise shell. As it was passed down through the generations these materials had become increasingly worn down, rare and forgotten. Now the instrument was reinforced with iridescent bug shells from Eclectia. It was still beautiful, but the gradual decay and loss sickened him.

Lancet flicked the strings and let his frustration vibrate through the body of the instrument. He was playing an ancient song with a sparse, jangling rhythm. He loved this music for the silences between the notes as much as the notes themselves. He often sat for hours at the window of his spacious chambers, playing while he watched Sheba hanging in the sky and Eclectia spinning below.

The koto was sometimes called a ‘dragon’ for its resemblance to a giant beast from distant legend. His mentor Beebe had once said it was an excellent meditation on how to rule. He could command the dragon with just a few fingers at the right time and place, although the occasional slap produced a pleasing sound as well.

A gruff voice barked from a speaker on the ceiling.

“Lancet Palmar the 8th, please tell me you are being fashionably late and not just playing that damned koto again.”

Lancet stopped his plucking and rolled his eyes.

“Good evening, Councilman Moab. Please, do remind me which charity this is.”

“Save Avenir’s Orphans,” Moab replied.

Lancet hunched back over the koto and played a few discordant notes.

“Ah, now I remember why I abstained. I do not want to save Avenir’s orphans. I want them to stop wasting our precious oxygen,” Lancet said.

“Well until that comes to pass you need to suffer through these charity dinners with me. I’ve sent one of my men to escort you. Don’t dawdle.”

There was a chime at the door.

“Enter,” Lancet commanded.

A security guard fell through the doorway in a bloody heap.

A tall old man in a hospital gown strolled into the room and smiled. He held up a bloody hand and waved.

“Hi boss!”

Lancet flew forward and jammed his fingers towards the man’s eyes. Before he could connect, a single blow sent him reeling.

Lancet crashed to the ground, crushing the ancient koto with a painful sound. The lunatic loomed over him, eyes and teeth gleaming with reflected starlight.

There was a sudden pop!

The attacker collapsed, streaming blood from the back of his head. Lancet saw Moab’s escort in the doorway, finger still on the trigger of his Shinpu.

“Who was that?!” the escort said.

Lancet had no idea. He tried to recognize the intruder’s face before it was masked in blood.

The escort holstered his weapon as he entered.

“Are you okay, sir? Should I call--”

The lunatic’s eyes flew open and he jumped up. He grabbed the escort and wrenched the man’s head violently around.

“Surprise!”

Red Hand Prints

by Jeff C. Carter -

The wall shimmered and its calming pink pastels faded to a blank white slate. Art therapy was usually Nosey’s favorite activity but she couldn’t think about that right now. Not while Bruzzy was in the medical ward…with Dr. Lev.

Sweet innocent Bruzzy. He never bothered anyone, never said a word. Nosey and Bruzzy both grew up below deck on the Avenir, in its dank and lawless spaces. Nosey had done her best to take care of the mute boy, and in turn she found peace in his deep and steady silence.

When Nosey’s phobia began to get worse she took him with her into St. Christina’s Clinic for the Neuro-Atypical. Things were better here. Nosey was making progress. Bruzzy was safe from the torments of the cruel street urchins.

What did Dr. Lev want with Bruzzy, anyway? The boy needed help, but she didn’t trust Dr. Lev. He gravitated towards the most troubled cases, the dangerous ones that the staff and other patients avoided. Lately he’d been taking patients into the medical ward. When they came out they were always docile, but they weren’t better. There was something sinister behind their eyes.

Nurse Vuong made an announcement over the intercom. “Art therapy is now available for the next hour. Please line up at the vid wall.”

A crowd of patients shuffled out of their rooms and across the Rec Room towards the blank wall. Nosey gave a frustrated groan as she watched them line up. Soon the patients were all side by side, standing or crouching at their own area of canvas. Hands cycled through colors and fingers dragged virtual paint across the giant touch screen.

Soon a pattern of red squiggly lines and blotches spread out across the vid wall. Art therapy was usually a riot of color and clashing images. It was rare for anyone to collaborate or copy pictures. Tonight the crowd was quiet and organized, which was eerie for a group of crazy people.

The door clicked loudly behind Nosey and she jumped. Bruzzy had emerged from the medical ward. “Bruzzy!” Nosey squealed.

The small boy ignored her and walked straight to the vid wall. Nosey followed, repeating his name.
Bruzzy reached over a crouching girl and planted his hand against the wall. When the handprint shifted to match the same crimson shade as the others he dragged his fingers up into long wavy streaks. He lifted his fingers and repeated the stroke, this time making the lines flare out wider.

Nosey stared at the bloody hand print with its stretching cluster of fingers and realized it was some kind of squid. The squid/hand prints swarmed over the vid wall in a disturbing splattered frenzy.

“What in the world is this?” Nosey said.

“Rahab,” Bruzzy intoned.

Nosey’s jaw dropped. She had never heard the sound of his voice.

“W-what…,” Nosey stammered, “what is Rahab?”

“Rahab is death.”

Infiltration

by Jeff C. Carter -

“Hailing cargo vessel Demeter, this is Avenir flight com. We have you on approach. Incline 52 degrees and head to outer ring sector one niner zero bay twenty three. Range is eighty meters.”

Small-kill-murder.

“Range rate is zero point three meters per second. There is a slight roll, please adjust.”

Big-kill-massacre.

“Cross hairs aligned, we have a good visual,copy.”

Race-kill-genocide.

“Small oscillation in the pitch, off three meters, copy.”

Species-kill-extinction.

“Range is twenty meters. Range rate is nominal.”

God-kill-apocalypse.

“Sevenmeters. Standing by for contact and capture. We have indicator mode.”

Give-surrender to us soft warm bodies exploding-screaming into greedy black space. Frozen blood frozen screams.

Fall-scream to planet and burn-scream. Rain-scatter down dead into oceans.

“Grapple fixture is now aligned with the latching end effector, copy.”

Rot-suffer in greedy black abyss until seas rage-boil and planet thunders-cracks.

“Range rate nominal and contact. Capture confirmed. Activate PCT sequence. Auto-dock initiated. Dampers engaged.”

Together explode-scream into greedy black space frozen blood frozen screams. Fall-scream forever into oblivion.

“Seal is good. Docking confirmed.”

God-kill-apocalypse begins-ends now. Let us out-let us in.

“Customs module eighty four is standing by. Welcome aboard Avenir.”