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.

Allies

by Fred Warren - 

The corridors reeked of smoke and pesticide as they neared the marketplace. Smith and Kate paused to soak kerchiefs at a water tap and wrapped them around their faces to block the noxious vapor.

They found Charlie’s undelivered parcel—and the horrors writhing feebly within it.

Kate wiped her fingers convulsively on her skirts. “Augh. Fertilized spider eggs, much too close to hatching. What manner of fools has Beadle taken up with?”

Smith crushed the parcel under his boot heel. It made a sickening wet crunch. “Fools or lunatics. Maybe the Peacekeepers are trying out a new weapon they couldn’t test openly.”

“You think they’d turn these things against the very people they’re sworn to protect?”

“I don’t know anything anymore, Kate. The world’s turned upside-down and sideways. Nothing’s impossible.”

They entered the marketplace and found it empty of customers, merchants, and wares. Most of the stalls were overturned and broken. Spiders skittered here and there, and Smith dispatched the few that seemed aggressive. What the pesticide hadn’t killed, it pacified.

Their search revealed nothing. No children hidden beneath the wreckage, no trail, no evidence they’d ever been there. Smith slumped against a wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, head bowed on his knees. It was as if someone had drained all the air from his body.

Kate knelt down and stroked his cheek. “Don’t give up hope. Moving a dozen orphans is no easy feat, whether or not they’re cooperating.”

“Or dead.”

Her gentle caress flashed into a stinging slap. “If that word passes your lips again, it’ll be you in need of a proper burial. Think, man. Which route out of here would Beadle and his henchmen take?”

Smith scowled and rubbed his jaw. “It’s pointless.”

“Humor me.”

He stood up and scanned the market bay, pausing a moment to consider each exit. “The service corridor,” he said at last. “Over there. Nobody but suppliers uses it…and us, now and again.”

“Sounds like a good place to begin. Lead on.”

They’d only walked a few dozen paces before they found a skid loaded with motionless children, and two burly men in Enforcer uniforms sprawled on the floor nearby.

Kate sprinted to the skid and began pressing on necks and wrists for warmth and pulse, bending down in search of a soft whisper of air against her cheek. She smiled and waved at Smith. “They’re all here! All breathing, all safe! Let’s get them back to the nest.”

He just stood there, staring at her, eyes blank.

She trotted back to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him. “Aren’t you happy? It’s a miracle they weren’t lost to us forever!”

He pushed her away—gently, but firmly. “I’m angry, Kate. Angry at myself for thinking I could trust Beadle. Angry for letting the sight of a Peacekeeper uniform terrify me into witlessness.”

“You meant well. Don’t torture yourself. God’s mercy provides for those whose hearts are true. They’re safe. Be content with that.”

“God’s mercy indeed, despite thinking myself too clever by half. Things have to change. It’s not enough anymore to keep to ourselves, pretending that no one will notice, or that we’ll be able to dodge anybody who does. We can’t defend ourselves. We need help. We need allies.”

She wasn’t in a mood to argue. “First, we need to get these wee ones onto their feet and back home. Pull them out of this meat wagon, and I’ll find some water to help rouse them.”

Smith nodded and began hoisting the children from the skid and propping them against the wall of the corridor. A few were already beginning to stir and moan.

Kate knelt down to examine one of the prone Enforcers. It was odd…there wasn’t a mark on him. No bloodstains, no sign of a scuffle.

Then she saw it, and she checked the other corpse to be sure. A single, perfectly round hole was drilled into each forehead, about the diameter of a piece of stout packaging cord, the flesh at its edge neatly cauterized.

A soft whirring sound came from above.

Kate froze. Moving only her eyes, she surveyed the corridor’s ceiling as gooseflesh prickled along her forearms. Nothing was there.

So, it’s allies he wants? Seems he has one already.

And there were some allies it might be better to do without.

An Unexpected Gift

by Grace Bridges -

Ave rested against the wall with the little ones piled on and around her. Their slumbering breaths formed a restful haze in the dimly-lit service corridor.

A vibration in the floor brought Ave to full wakefulness. She tensed, and the children around her shifted in their sleep. They knew the drill.

Ave listened a moment more, then burst into action with a shake that roused all the babes. Within seconds they sat upright, watching her for instructions.

“E-38. Go!” The tousled heads hustled away towards the prearranged meeting spot. Ave made sure they were all out of sight before she tucked herself into the tiny niche behind a support pylon.

The footsteps grew louder. She still had to concentrate extra hard to make them out; the visitor intended stealth. Ave’s heart hammered. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. Then, like the turn of a page in an old book, peace washed over her with the silent song of a whale from the red planet far below.

She drew herself up to full height, breathed slow and deep, and opened her eyes just in time to spot a smallish shadow pass her hiding place. An orphan from one of the gangs? She was bigger. She could take him.

Ave darted out and grabbed the impostor from behind. Pinned at both elbows, he squealed and struggled. She dragged him back to the nearest light source, a small panel of blinking diodes. “What are you doing here?”

As she roughly turned him to face her, she realised he was hugging a bulging sack. Her eyes found his face. “Gavin!”

He relaxed in her grip. “Ave. Don’t hurt me. I brought food.”

“For us?” Ave boggled at the sack.

“I know you need it. The whales told me. I can get it.”

Ave gulped. “You’re not stealing from the wizard, are you?”

“No, silly. Spiner knows.” He laughed, then peered up and down the empty hall. “So where are your kids? Isn’t this your night zone?”

Ave looked away. “Not any more.”

Intersection

by Fred Warren - 

Avenir Station, Paradise Virtuality, Communications Nexus

Anya Sherikov and Vicky Remsen sat back-to-back at glowing consoles that floated within a mosaic sphere of rectangular windows--each one displaying a tiny fragment of the mayhem that was spinning through the Avenir space station.

Vicky paused to rub her eyes. “How do you work like this? Another ten minutes, and I swear I’m going to hurl. By the way, I’ll make sure you experience that with me in all its multicolored glory.”

Anya’s eyes darted among the scenes of carnage. “You’re a doctor. Prescribe yourself an anti-nausea drug.”

“Oh, you are so funny.”

“The good news is that we’ve done as much as we can, for now. The colonists will have to take it from here. I only hope our assistance was enough to keep them from being completely overrun. Before you log out, double-check the lower levels…make sure the pest control agent is working. You may need to dispense another blast if spiders are still moving about.”

“Way ahead of you. Checking the last couple of ring segments now.” Vicky’s fingers paused on her console and she leaned forward to squint at one of the windows, tilting her head to bring it into alignment. “Whoa. That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“Enforcers who aren’t running away. They’re at a corridor intersection, having an argument with some raggedy bum, and there’s a skid next to them with bodies piled on it.”

“Those are probably unfortunates caught in the first swarm.”

“I’m zooming in on it. Monitor A-34. The Enforcers sure look angry. I wonder if...ohmigod.”

“Now what?”

“Miss Sherikov…the bodies…they’re children.”

“Children? Let me see that. Perhaps the shabby fellow is their guardian, and he’s angry with the Enforcers for failing to protect them. Ah, there’s an audio tap nearby. Maybe that will shed some light on what’s happening.”

The Enforcer who seemed to be in charge stood scowling at the ragged man, arms crossed over his chest. Anya and Vicky could hear his gravelly voice now: “I told you, no payment until the end user certifies the goods. Doll-quality is worth four times whatever we have to dump into the labs. We’re not paying top credits for substandard material.”

Anya’s eyes narrowed, and she whispered a curse in Russian.

“That wasn’t the deal.”  The bum jabbed a finger at the Enforcer’s face. “I’m not waiting for some pasty-faced accountant to cull this lot to fit his budget.”

One of the other Enforcers was moving the bodies around on the skid, lifting up arms and legs. “Hey! This one’s got a club foot, Harry!”

“Do tell. I doubt it’s the only one. Forget it, Beadle. You’ll wait ’til the quality check’s complete.”

Vicky turned her seat around and leaned against Anya, arms gently encircling her shoulders. “Doll-quality? Labs? Material? What are they talking about?”

Anya pushed her away. “I need you to go check on John. Make sure he’s integrating properly. I’ll finish up here.”

“He’s fine. Father Sukahara sent me a progress report a few minutes ago. I figure they’re on their third pot of tea by now, which means Milton’s getting the nightingale story in all its painful detail.”

“Check him anyhow.”

“No. I want to know what those Enforcers are up to. The whole situation is sketchy, and you’re avoiding my questions.”

Anya spun around, nose-to-nose with Vicky. “If you don’t leave this instant, Victoria, I will isolate you from the network.”

Vicky backed away, eyes wide. “All right, all right. I’ll go. No need to get violent.”

“I’ll explain everything later. Out!”

Vicky’s avatar vanished, her voice trailing behind. “Just don’t expect me to stop asking.”

Anya returned her attention to the argument on screen. Flesh traffickers. Preying on children. They were usually more discreet. It was the first time she’d caught them in the act—and they’d chosen a singularly poor location for their little spat.

I’m sorry, dear one, but I can’t let you see what happens next.

Anya’s fingers flew across her console. The sphere of monitors was replaced by a single red-tinted display, front and center. With a grim smile, she aligned its flashing reticle on the nearest man.

Conscience

by Fred Warren - 

“There is a thriving black market in illegal cyborgs, and the government ignores it.”

“There are illegal markets for any product.”

“Product? We’re talking about people, John.”

Darkness had fallen outside Jiro Sukahara’s little house, and stars twinkled like tiny gems in the sky. Crickets and frogs joined the chorus of cicadas droning in the trees, and Jiro’s nightingale was trilling merrily from a perch somewhere atop the roof.

John Milton didn’t like the turn this conversation had taken. Why is Jiro so upset about the colony using cyborgs? It’s like complaining that we eat beetle steaks. He sipped his tea, a little too quickly, scorching his tongue and spilling a few droplets onto the table. “Cyborgs are more machine than anything. They’re the property of their owners. Hundreds are bought and sold legally every day.”

“This particular market preys on the destitute of the lower levels. They’re taken and modified against their will.” He sighed. “Even little children. You’ve perhaps heard of ‘Frankie dolls?’”

John groaned. He would choose the most awkward example. “Yes, but…those are therapy devices for sterile couples. They’re only harvested from among the brain-dead…hopeless cases that would be euthanized anyhow….there’s a strict quota, and it takes a murderously expensive permit to get one. Nobody would…”

“Nobody? You’re a trader. You understand the laws of supply and demand better than I do. What would you say if I told you twenty-five new cyborgs of that variety have been added to the Avenir network in the past Founding alone?”

“Impossible. The permits…”

“Forged, along with their network credentials, not that anyone in authority is paying much attention.  You’re defending this phenomenon rather vigorously. Is it because you owned a cyborg yourself?”

John could feel his face beginning to flush. “That has nothing to do with it. I bought him legally. He was a violent criminal scheduled for execution. He chose cyborging instead.”

“He? Do you use personal pronouns for all the machines you own?”

“This was different. We spent a lot of time together. He was my valet. Best I ever had, human or otherwise. I never abused him.”

“Did you think of him as human?”

“Cyborg brainware is very sophisticated. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

Jiro rocked back on his heels. “And that is my point. A surgically-modified person is still a person, no matter how extensive the modification. Inside each cyborg, buried more deeply in some than in others, is a human soul that demands the same reverence and dignity you and I expect. This colony has fallen into a grave injustice, and to my own shame, I’ve watched it happen and taken no action to stop it.”

The chaplain wasn’t angry…he was distraught. Agonized. He’s not trying to box me into a rhetorical corner, he’s baring his soul.

John was silent for a few moments, then he reached across the table and lifted the teapot to refill Jiro’s cup. “Even if you’re right about all this, you can’t blame yourself for what we chose to do.”

“My hands aren’t any cleaner. The Dreamers employ cyborgs to maintain our life support pods and their connections to the station. Including mine.”

“I don’t see much hope of changing things from here, barring the sort of dramatic intervention you’ve said is taboo.”

“A large ship may be turned by a tiny rudder.” Jiro leaned forward. “I have a plan to singe Avenir’s collective conscience…but I’ll need your help.”

Perspective

by Fred Warren - 

“Mmm.” The tea was hot and astringent, with a pleasant flowery note. The illusory beverage had more character than most Adagio wines. It was enough to make a man forgo alcohol altogether.

John shuddered at the thought. Not quite yet.

Jiro watched him with amused interest across the low wooden table where they knelt on red silk cushions. “Feeling more comfortable?”

“Yes. The vertigo’s faded. It’s nice to be drinking this tea rather than wearing it.”

“The virtual-reality system learns along with you. New tasks become less awkward with each repetition. Every action you take smoothes and refines your interface.”

Outside Jiro’s house, the sun was setting, its last light splashed across the fading blue sky in pastel streaks of orange and pink. John felt a pleasant urge to stretch and yawn, which he indulged, an even more enjoyable sensation. “I guess I should begin work on my own personal space now. I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough.”

“Think nothing of it. You’ve been pleasant company, not at all the spoiled socialite I expected. Forgive me. I should know better than to judge people from my own prejudices…especially someone who’s managed to catch Anya’s eye.”

“I…expect she’ll find me less impressive as time goes by. I’m no altruist, Father Sukahara. I’ve spent my whole life looking for an edge, manipulating situations to my advantage, chasing power and influence. Even my decision to come here was selfish.”

“I prefer to believe you will find it most profitable to seize this opportunity to start afresh. Become the person you’ve always wanted to be, John Milton. You’ve stepped onto a blank canvas. Anything is possible.”

“I’m not sure I know where to begin.”

“Do what I did. Build yourself a place where you feel completely at ease, where you can ponder the course of your life without distraction. Then, listen.”

“Listen to what? God?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m a chaplain. What sort of advice did you expect? Try it. You may be surprised.”

“If I’m surprised, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” John drained his cup. “So…how exactly do I get out of here and into my own space?”

“Wait a moment. Before you go, there’s a particular matter that’s weighed heavily on me for a long while, and I’d like a fresh perspective.”  Jiro’s eyes locked with John’s. “Tell me…what do you think about the cyborgs?”

It was an odd question. John rarely gave them any thought at all. If this was a test, the textbook answer was safest: “They perform essential functions too dangerous or degrading for human beings. Cyborging is an efficient way to salvage incorrigible criminals and the hopelessly impaired so they can make a productive contribution to the colony.”

Jiro refilled John’s cup from a matching black porcelain teapot. “The technology was originally developed as a lifesaving measure of last resort for the terminally ill, but it’s traced a degenerating ethical spiral since then. It was applied to individuals with profound mental defects, then it was offered as an alternative to capital punishment, and from there, words like ‘incorrigible’ and ‘impaired’ and ‘hopeless’ were introduced and their definition expanded to encompass almost anything the civil authorities desired.”

“Those same authorities instituted a multi-level review process to prevent abuse.”

“Yes. I also find it interesting that no petitions for cyborg modification have been denied in the last ten Foundings.”

“That doesn’t mean they were unjustified.”

“There is a thriving black market in illegal cyborgs, and the government ignores it.”

“There are illegal markets for any product.”

“Product? We’re talking about people, John.”

Nightingale

by Fred Warren - 

John Milton’s sandals crunched on fine gravel as he walked with Jiro Sukahara along the meandering path through the chaplain’s expansive private garden. His balance was improving with each step, enough to let him savor the subtle splendor of the flowers and greenery. Feathery blossoms from a giant cherry tree at the garden’s heart filled the air and tumbled across the footpath.

In one corner, a sandy basin was dotted with angular stones arranged in a pattern that, to John, seemed orderly and random at the same time, and the white sand was raked into curving grooves that flowed into a complex spiral. A tiny brook roughly bisected the garden, its murmur punctuated by the slow metronome of a shishi-odoshi, a pivoting bamboo tube that filled and emptied itself at the base of a trickling fountain, making a pleasant wooden thunk with each cycle. Jiro explained the device’s original purpose was to startle wandering deer and discourage them from munching on the foliage.

“But mostly, I enjoy the sound it makes.”

A little bird with dull brown feathers clung to the topmost branch of the cherry tree, warbling and trilling a cascade of brilliant, liquid melody. John thought back to the riotous colors of the birds he’d seen on the tropical island where he’d met the Dreamers for the first time. “Such a beautiful song…I’d never have suspected it from such a plain bird.”

As if insulted, the tiny musician ended its concert with a sharp flourish, then vanished into the tree’s pastel depths.

“It’s called a nightingale.” Jiro sighed. “There’s an old story about a powerful emperor who befriended a nightingale he found in his garden. She perched on his windowsill and lulled him to sleep each night. All was well until the ruler of a neighboring land sent the emperor a mechanical songbird with gilded feathers and jeweled eyes as a birthday present. The emperor was so taken with the beauty of the mechanical bird that he drove the homely nightingale from his garden, only to discover the robot’s song possessed none of the nightingale’s magical charm. He never enjoyed another peaceful night’s sleep, and though he sent messengers to the nightingale with gifts and apologies, she refused to return, and their friendship was forever broken.”

“What a sad story.”

“I keep a nightingale in my garden to remind me that love is fragile, and illusion is no substitute for reality.”

“A strange sentiment from someone who lives in a virtual paradise.”

“I am a man of many contradictions.”

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. 

Anjelika's Heritage: Bad Intentions

by Caitlyn Konze

Mia Meerstein rested her head against the patch-worn seat and sighed. Anjelika could not relax as easily. She had just cashed out her credit stick and bartered passage on the first shuttle off Avenir, paying no attention to its destination or condition. Her knuckles were an angry red from constant rubbing, and she kept glancing at the hatch as if Enforcers waited on the other side. A ridiculous fear since they had left Avenir’s docks twenty minutes ago.

The vibration of the shuttle grew violent for two seconds then faded back to a steady hum. Anjelika glanced down. Her hands gripped her arm rests so tight her irritated knuckles looked pale. She forced her her fingers open. Five crescents on each arm marked where her nails had dug into the seat.

With eyes closed, Mia spoke. “Relax, honey. You did better than I expected from a pampered heiress.”

The way Mia said her last two words made Anjelika’s mind race with uncertainty. Had she mentioned her social status, or was it just that obvious? Anjelika shook the worry from her head, reminding herself why she was here.  “Tell me what happened to your husband.”

Mia sat up and addressed the pilot though her eyes were on Anjelika. “Privacy please.”

A small slit lining the doorway to the cockpit grew white, blinked a few times, then buzzed as a the space blacked out. Anjelika opened her mouth, but Mia held up her index finger. The widow unbuttoned a pouch on her belt and pulled out a flat, diamond-shaped piece of metal twice the size of a thumbnail. She slid the only switch on it. A high-pitched tone screamed in Anjelika’s ears, then diminished.

Mia jerked her head toward the cockpit. “Privacy screens are light-proof and sound-proof, but there’s still the com system.”

Anjelika nodded. Once again, Mia slumped in her chair. She folded her hands over her stomach before she began.

“Almost nine Foundings ago, an investigation was ordered about a dock breach. Darl had the bad habit of being perfectly honest all the time. His report concluded the hull had to have been weakened intentionally.”

Anjelika realized her jaw was wide open. She shut it. “But that would mean. . .”

Mia nodded. “It means the explosion that almost killed your mother was no accident. Darl knew, and that’s why my husband’s dead.”

Chaplain

by Fred Warren

The claustrophobia was gone. Anya and Vicky had been guiding John through the restoration of his senses for what felt like several hours, and he could talk back to them now. He was still surrounded by thick darkness, but he could feel tactile feedback from his skin as he lay prone on some smooth, warm surface that conformed to his body’s contours, and when his nose itched, he could move his arm, hand, and fingers to scratch it. The air moving through his nostrils and into his lungs was cold and left a faint metallic tang at the back of his throat.

He knew all these sensations were part of an unimaginably complex computer simulation, but it felt so real. His consciousness was slipping into the Dreamers’ virtual world. It was frightening—and exhilarating.

He heard a series of high-pitched chimes, then Vicky and Anya began chattering excitedly to one another.

“Stage Three alert? You have got to be kidding me.”

“How could they have been overwhelmed so quickly? It must be a mistake.”

“No mistake. Look at the external feeds, Miss Sherikov—here, here, and…wow. There.”

“This is awful.”

“Cromwell doesn’t give a rip about the colonists. I want to see him explain this to Captain Aziz.”

“Hush. We told him we’d help if things got out of hand.”

“This is way beyond out of hand.”

“What’s the matter?” John called out. “What’s happening?”

Anya’s voice swirled around him. “Victoria and I must attend to a minor emergency that will require our full attention. Continue to lie quietly in place and limit your movements. Father Sukahara will monitor the remainder of your integration into the network and begin your orientation.”

“But I still can’t see anything!”

“Oh, quit bellyaching.” The disdain in Vicky’s voice was palpable. “Vision is the most complicated piece of the interface, so it takes the longest.  If we energize the connections any faster, it’ll fry that lump of oatmeal you’re using for brains.”

“Sukahara’s the chaplain, right? Wouldn’t it be better to have somebody with a technical background at the controls?”

“Well, if we get a power surge, you’ll need someone to administer Last Rites, and…”

Anya cut in. “Stop it, Victoria. John, Father Sukahara has sufficient medical training to keep you stable in the event of a mishap until we can return.”

“That’s comforting.”

“The process is almost finished. Relax. You’re in good hands.”

A rush of cool air flowed across his body, and a tapestry of sound unfurled within the void. Leaves rustling. Birds chirping. A high pitched buzzing that waxed and waned in the background. The whisper and chuckle of water. The smell of flowers, intense and sweet. A strange, hollow knock that repeated at a long interval.

Then, a new voice—a soft tenor. “Hello, Mr. Milton. I’m Jiro Sukahara. We met at the welcome banquet a few days ago, though I’m sorry we weren’t able to exchange more than pleasantries.”

“I remember. I was surprised to find a chaplain there. Why are you part of all this?”

“It was a nod to tradition on the part of the original crew. Some of them were devoutly religious. All of them recognized a need for someone with whom they could discuss delicate matters in complete privacy, outside the military command structure, without fear of disclosure.”

“Wouldn’t a psychologist have served the same purpose?”

“The crew wanted something more than expertise in treating mental or emotional distress. They knew they’d have to make difficult decisions…life and death choices on behalf of the people under their care. Their technical skills weren’t sufficient. They needed a moral and spiritual compass.”

“And now? Do they still feel that need?”

“Hmm. Not as often as I’d like.  Anya and Victoria consult with me the most.”

“I’m having trouble imagining Vicky seeking advice from a priest.”

“Beneath her bravado is an anxious little girl who misses her father terribly. She’s been forced to grow up much too fast, and her responsibilities weigh heavily upon her.”

“She hides it well enough.”

“I wish she wouldn’t. It would help her to be more open to others about what she’s feeling.”

John decided not to argue that point. “I hear a knocking sound. What is it?”

“It’s a shishi odoshi, a traditional garden decoration from the land of my ancestors on Earth. You’ll understand better once you’re able to see. I’ve arranged to bring you into my personal space…my virtual residence, you might say. I thought it might ease your orientation.”

“I think my vision’s coming back now. Is this some sort of test pattern? I’m seeing orange fish and white birds with long legs on a blue background.”

Jiro chuckled. “No, that’s not part of the process. Look closer.”

It took a few moments for John to realize he was staring up at a delicate watercolor painting of birds and fish cavorting in a broad blue lake. It formed what seemed to be the ceiling of a room, though the proportions were odd. The place was warm and sunlit, filled with the flowery aroma he’d noticed earlier, plus a pleasant, spicy odor he couldn’t identify. Turning his head to one side, which caused a brief moment of mild vertigo, he could see the light filtered through the pink-blossomed branches of a huge tree visible beyond the threshold of a wide opening. It made the space feel more like a porch than a living room.

There were no furnishings aside from the cushion that supported his body and a low table at the center bearing a stack of thin books on one side. Several large sheets of paper and a collection of writing instruments—brushes?—lay in a loose pile on the opposite end of the table. Jiro knelt behind it, and he was as John remembered him—a small, solidly-built man with close-cropped black hair and facial features similar to the Asian genetic subgroup on Avenir. He wore a dark blue robe decorated in the same pattern as the ceiling.

“Ah, it seems the integration is complete. Welcome to my home.” Jiro smiled, his face as warm and comforting as the room, and every lingering suspicion that all this was an illusion vanished from John Milton’s mind.

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.”

Door

by Fred Warren -  

“Let me in!”

“No.”

“I need your help! Open up! Now!”

The narrow corridor that dead-ended at Carson’s room was deserted, a welcome relief after Melanie’s flight through the smoke and chaos of the ring sector beyond, choked with fleeing colonists and swarming spiders. She figured she had only a few minutes, at best, before the spiders decided to investigate this passage. Her palms were already fiery red from banging on the door. Why was he being so stubborn?

Her brother’s voice was maddeningly calm, a bored drone of indifference magnified by the commbox’s tinny vibration. “You know the rules, Sis. That door opens for nothing and no one. If you want to talk, log yourself into the game net or message me.”

There was a rumbling sound in the distance, followed by a long, warbling shriek that climbed slowly in both pitch and volume, then stopped, as if it had been cut off with a knife.

Melanie swallowed hard and fought to keep her voice steady. “Do you have any idea what’s happening out here?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. This is a really inconvenient time to pester me. My guild’s getting ready to run the Fathomless Catacombs in Wizard’s Realm, and I still have to equip.”

“Carson…I…am…in…trouble! The whole station’s gone haywire. Things are exploding, and there are spiders everywhere!”

“How do you expect me to help? Go back to your apartment, or call an Enforcer.”

“The corridors to my apartment are sealed off, and the only Enforcers I’ve seen are running as fast as they can in the opposite direction. These spiders are aggressive…the brown ones are attracted to motion, the gray ones move in packs, and the red ones go straight for the throat. I need a safe place to hide. You’re all I’ve got.”

“Don’t be such a baby. They’re bugs. One-shot kills.”

“This isn’t a game, idiot. I don’t have a gun.”

“Fine. Step on them. Hit ’em with…with a book or something.”

“Aaggh! Would you please link into the public cam server and actually look at what I’m dealing with here?”

“Will it shut you up?”

“No.”

“Oh, all right. Hold your water.”

The corridor was still empty. Melanie stared at the commbox, wishing she could pull words from it by sheer force of will. “Carson? Are you there? Do you see it?”

Silence, then a metallic hiss. “Yeah, yeah, I see it. What a mess. This is the sort of thing that started me gaming in the first place. I still don’t understand how you can bear living outside.”

Something tugged at the edge of her awareness, a faint crackling—or scratching. She checked the corridor again. It was clear, but a whiff of acrid smoke tickled her nostrils. “Understand it later. For now, just open the door and let me in.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I don’t believe this. You’re going to leave me out here to be eaten by…by who-knows-what, while you go scamper through some infantile fairyland with your pathetic friends?”

“Is that what you think of me?” The boredom was gone. Even through the commbox, his voice was soft, almost plaintive.

She stiffened. “No…I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…” The scratching sound was louder now, and her hands pounded a staccato drumbeat on the door. “Carson, this is not the moment for this particular argument! Let me in, and we can spend all the time you want debating the pros and cons of your lifestyle choices!”

“Stay where you are. You’ll be fine. I’ll watch you on the door camera. There’s nothing in this corridor that would interest a spider. Once the Enforcers get a handle on the situation, you can go home.”

The skittering of a million fingernails across aluminum plate preceded a fuzzy river of tiny grey spiders that surged into the corridor and flowed toward Melanie.

She flattened herself against the door’s cold, unyielding metal. “Carson!”

No answer.

Then something gave, and she tumbled backward into darkness. Her right foot barely cleared the threshold as the door cycled shut again, and myriad tiny nails clicked and scraped outside.

It took a few moments to figure out which way was up.  There was light—dim, but sufficient to begin making sense of her surroundings. She groaned and rubbed her shoulder, stifling a yelp as she found herself flanked by two tall, black-clad cyborgs, faces blank, eyes empty. They made no motion to assist her.

Carson’s voice whispered behind her, thin and reedy. “Stay there. Don’t look at me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I visit Hamsa all the time. I know what the nutrient feeds do to you guys. It’s no big deal. I understand.”

Melanie turned, and her brother was there. Her hands flew of their own accord to cover her mouth, to stop the sharp intake of breath and the pungent, antiseptic tang that knifed into her lungs.

Carson.

Oh, Carson.

No.