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.

Word Carrier 10: Havoc

by Heidi Kortman -

  

Bede turned his spoon over in the bowl of lukewarm chowder. Father Oaku wolfed down the curried seraph nymphs with no apparent inclination to share.  At least the huge tureen supplying this end of the refectory table obscured most of Bede’s view of Bishop Guash’s table manners.

Across the table, his mother crumbled slices of wolner-grain bread into a pile on her plate. He couldn’t go to her, now that he was under Oaku’s authority. Bede stifled a sigh.

Toward the bishop’s end of the long refectory table, one of the Manuscripts shrieked, but not louder than the bishop’s bellow, or the crash of an over-turning bench. All the way down the table, people craned their necks, then scrambled away.

Bede leaned back on the bench, to see past Father Oaku’s hunched shoulders. A glistening spider dangled on its line of silk above the bishop’s dinner plate.

“Douay Bede, where is that creature?” Bishop Guash cowered against the back of his chair. The spider climbed a foot higher, then dropped again. “Answer me!”

“Pangur Ban,” Bede whispered, and the quarr shifted— “there is a spider, the biggest I’ve seen, and you must hunt after all.” Douay Bede stood. “The quarr is here, Your Grace,” he said, pitching his voice above the commotion.  He snapped his fingers, and Pangur Ban leaped from the floor to the table top.

The quarr drew back his lips and thrummed a short, discordant sound. His tail twitched as he stepped over place settings and around serving bowls. Scales rose and flattened rhythmically along his spine. Down, down the table; nearer, nearer to the still-suspended spider.

Bede held his breath. Did the quarr have enough skill to take prey this large? The bishop’s face was pumice gray, and sweat-wet. He clutched the arms of his cathedra chair. The dinner guests Pangur Ban passed were goggle-eyed.

The spider stretched its forelegs, and dropped lower. Its other legs spraddled as it came to rest astride the bowl of striped korath pears. Its abdomen was half-again as long as the chowder tureen. The spider’s rear legs, long as Bede’s arms, stroked back along its spinnerets. Filaments of greenish silk appeared.

Bede stepped over the bench, and followed Pangur Ban down the table. The quarr’s progress was hindered by a tureen of chowder. Bede shifted it aside, and the quarr slipped through.

Belly scales almost brushing the table top, ears laced back, Pangur Ban advanced.

The spider continued to gather silk. Its rear legs spread, stretching out the webbing. Would it throw the silk over the bishop, or worse, over Pangur Ban?  Bede hesitated.

Clang! One swipe of the quarr’s left paw knocked the fruit bowl from under the spider. Soft pears bounced, bruised, and splattered their too sweet juice over the width of the table.

Bede gagged. Under Pangur Ban’s other paw was the spider’s abdomen, spraying ichor that hissed as the drops pitted the table where they landed. The rest of the spider had leaped forward, trailing more ichor, which mixed with the curry sauce on the bishop’s plate. The arachnid spun in a final threat dance, palps down and fangs extended. The quarr reached out its right paw, and flipped the bishop’s plate. It stepped onto the stoneware, then scratched a discarded napkin over the mess.

“He’s not… going… to eat it?” The bishop’s voice shook as he left his seat.

“Apparently not, Your Grace.” 

Pangur Ban flicked his right forepaw,  and the scales on his flank quivered. Bede snapped his fingers. The quarr jumped from the table, but refused to put weight on the forepaw.

“He needs tending, Your Grace.” Bede crouched. “No claws with me, Pangur Ban,” he said as he examined the quarr’s pads. Usually gray and smooth, they were blistered, and mustard gold. The quarr flinched back. “The spider’s ichor has scalded him.”

“Do it quickly, then meet me in the Gallery.” The bishop turned aside, but drew up short, as Brother Reita, in hazard gear, accosted him.

“Were you spattered, Your Grace? The ichor is caustic.” The assistant infirmarian reached out.

Guash slapped his hand aside. “No. Leave me alone.”

Bede took a deep breath. “Brother Reita, could I have some irqaq sap? Pangur Ban has been scalded.”

Brother Reita nodded. “Tell the dispensarian I said you could have his entire supply. We have other medicines humans tolerate better than that.”

“Thank you, Brother.” Bede scooped up the quarr, draping the creature over his shoulders. “Your Grace, I’ll return soon.”

Test of Manhood

by Kaye Jeffreys - 

Enue climbed the sharp rock slope, careful to mimic the motion of the wind so the spider would not sense him coming. He clutched his spear in his hand, careful to keep it from clanking against the rock and alerting the spider to his presence.

The spear was a prize, a gift from his father for this trial. Scavanged from a ruin, it was heavy, made of metal and sharpened to a razor point.

Enue hesitated at the edge. Even over the sound of the wind, the spider scratched and bellowed. This was not the lethal silence of the hunter they had prepared him for. He peered over the edge down into a cave. His stomach depressed with disappointment. The spider wasn't very big, only about the size of Enue himself.

The spider hobbled and swayed, scraping its head and back against jagged rock. It stopped only to bellow or screech, shaking its head and rubbing it against its leg. It must be wounded or ill. Why else would it rock and turn itself in such a strange dance?

There was an egg sac webbed to the wall that would be a prize back home among his people. But he must deal with the spider first.

Enue waited for the beast to turn its back to him while it ground its head into the floor of the cave.

Enue leapt down into the lair upon a boulder. He plunged his spear into the back of the spider, wedging it between two plates. It took all his strength to pin the beast to the floor.

The spider spun around the spear, blindly grasping all around, but it could not reach Enue. The beast slowed until finally it collapsed into a heap ending its dance with death in defeat.

Enue waited. When the death stench burned his nose, he withdrew his spear and dropped to the floor of the cave. The spider's pinchers were no longer than his middle finger, acceptable but not exceptional. Enue sawed them off with his knife and put them into his pouch. He turned to the egg sac on the wall, cut it free, and slipped it into his pouch with the pinchers.

He climbed out of the cave to escape the foul odor and descended the slope to stand amidst gurgling geysers that warmed him and steamed his nostrils clean of the smell. Pulling the pinchers again from his pouch, he examined them with a clearer head away from the stink of the cave. The pinchers looked even smaller out in the open than what they did in the cave. He shook his head and put them back in the pouch. He'd hold onto them in case he did not cross the path of another spider, then at least he wouldn't go back empty handed. But this little spider was too easy, and diseased, not a true test.

Enue pulled out the egg sac. It would not keep until he could get back. It neared the time of expulsion when hundreds of little spiders would stream out. Enue held the sac over a bubbling geyser and dropped it.

Then he turned his face toward the deep wilderness, away from home and safety. He had to find a bigger spider, a true test. Then it would be proven that he was a man.

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.

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.

Quo Vadis

By Jeff C. Carter

Kwame wandered aimlessly through the tangled corridors of Avenir, lost in his thoughts.  He hadn’t eaten in days.  He hadn’t slept in weeks.  He haunted the endless hallways, always moving, trying to find his way back to where it all began and figure out where it had all gone wrong.

He remembered his grandfather’s stories from the faiths and traditions that had melted together during the long voyage across the stars.  Stories of wanderers.  Epic journeys, exiles, quests and redemption.  Kwame had foolishly believed himself beyond those tired and inbred superstitions.  He was a scientist and a pioneer.  Eclectia was a new world, free from the chains of the past.  He was going to discover mankind’s new beliefs and witness firsthand the evolution of the spirit.

He had glimpsed it on the borders, in the eyes of people who lived on the sea of lava or chased meteors tumbling through empty space.  He observed the children of the undersea cities who pressed their faces to the portholes, desperate to connect with the shimmering phantoms of the deep.  None of it had been enough. 

Others were charting the same developments and spinning their own theologies.  Kwame wanted his name alone studied and remembered.  He had to get there first.  He had to go deeper than anyone else dared.

Finally, in the depths of the ocean, it found him.  The monster outside his ship had touched his mind.  He had experienced raw revelation.  It hadn’t been easy.  The visions of catastrophic chaos had deeply disturbed him.  He tried to parse them, or place them in the context of an alien culture and history he couldn’t fathom.  When the visions finally overwhelmed him, he broke down and confided in his peers.  The more he shared them the better he felt until he came to believe that it was his purpose.  He had been chosen to deliver the alien’s dire message of imminent disaster.

Most of his peers turned him away and shunned him, but Dr. Lev had embraced him.  He encouraged Kwame to speak to the poor lost souls at his clinic.  They eagerly drank in his words and took them deeply to heart.  Kwame had felt fulfilled.

The next day he saw the news reports of the riot.  The inmates had put his warnings of chaos entropy and doom into practice or made them reality in a bloodthirsty nihilistic rampage.  Kwame felt the stain of all that blood on his hands and the ashes on his tongue. 

He had been a vainglorious fool, blindly furthering his own reputation.  He hadn’t cared what people believed as long as he got the credit for its discovery.  He had failed to proceed with caution and objectivity, to put the mental impressions from the aliens in the context of their own history or culture.  He had been so impressed with himself that he had convinced himself that he was some chosen messenger. 

He had wandered from his path a long time ago and there was only one way to arrive at a little redemption.  He had to repudiate the warnings he had preached so mindlessly and take the blame for the misguided souls who had acted without hope.  He turned down a dark intersection of tunnels and tried to get his bearings. 

The shadows shifted, swelling and reaching out to towards him.  Kwame stared in shock as the lengths of shadow bent at strange angles and pulled eight gleaming eyes out of the darkness.  Kwame’s mind desperately refused to accept the giant black spider stalking towards him.  Mandibles locked down onto his shoulders and an indescribable stench filled his senses.  He looked up into the malevolent eyes pressing down on him and felt an overwhelming sense of familiar horror.

He thought of the monstrous alien squid that had appeared outside his ship beneath the ocean.  He felt that same smoldering heat of its awful intelligence inside his head.   The lightning flashes of promised agony and destruction flickered once more before his eyes.  A sinister voice dripped like acid across his brain.

Where are you going?

And then Kwame knew that it was all real.  The ruination of flesh.  The annihilation of worlds.  Death incarnate.  Chaos surging on rivers of blood.

The spider dropped Kwame and he hit the ground running.  He screamed as he ran, hysterical warnings of doom.

Doll

by Fred Warren

“There’s another one!”

“I’ve got her, Cecile. You take the old gent with the suspenders.”

Charlie threaded his way through the crowded market, his eyes fixed on the spider brooch that identified his next mark, a tall woman in a green dress and broad-brimmed hat. Her white-bleached hair cascaded across her shoulders in a network of complicated braids threaded with colorful beads.

Two more packages to go. His worry over the parcels he’d squashed in the corridor was a faint memory now. This was so easy it was almost fun. No fear of getting caught stealing when he was giving items to the marks, no need to continually check the exits, and no nagging from Smith afterwards about his technique.

He felt more grown-up without Smith and Kate watching him like a pair of sentry beetles. They still treated him like a baby, and he was one of the oldest. It wasn’t fair. Maybe I’ll get a little more respect now, he thought, as he drew up behind the woman and slipped the chilly package into her shopping bag with a grin. By the time she noticed the extra weight, he’d be off to the next mark.

As he turned to dart away, something tugged at the corner of his vision, and he paused for an instant to look. The woman in the hat wasn’t alone. Her other hand was clasped by a girl about Charlie’s age, dressed in a frilly green frock that matched the woman’s in miniature. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite…

The memory came into focus. “Sophie? Sophie Wander?”  She was from one of the other orphan gangs, and they’d bumped shoulders more than once in the marketplace. Charlie’s excitement overcame his caution. “I can’t believe it…you’re an Oliver!” Smith was always talking about the lucky few that caught the fancy of a rich family and got themselves adopted, like in the story, but to actually meet one, and somebody he knew—it was like a window into heaven.

The girl stared back at him without a glimmer of recognition, or emotion.

“Sophie? It’s me, Charlie Lone! We were nicking pretties together in this very spot not long ago, remember?”

No twitch of a smile, no widening of her eyes. It was as if she was looking right through him. Then, he noticed the faint line of stitch-scarring at her hairline, and the barely-perceptible spiderweb of slender wires beneath the skin of her neck and on the backs of her arms and hands. He was suddenly cold all over.

She’s a Frankie doll.

Another story come to life. The orphans told this one to each other in whispers as they shivered beneath their shredded blankets at night. This is what happens if you’re not careful, if you don’t follow the rules, if you’re bad. This is what they’ll make you.

The tall woman noticed him now, and her mouth twisted in disgust. “You’ve run your errand, little guttersnipe. Get out of my sight.” She tugged on Sophie’s arm. “Charlotte, dear, come along. Pay him no mind.”

“Yes, mummy.” Her voice was as lifeless as her eyes.

He stumbled away in the opposite direction, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. He delivered his final package in a daze, not even trying to make the delivery smooth and silent. The mark shoved him away with a curse, and Charlie staggered toward the nearest exit, pushing back against an overwhelming urge to run, run, run to someplace dark and silent and safe where he could hide.

A pair of rough hands seized his shoulders and flung him into the iron grasp of a burly man wearing an Enforcer’s uniform. A damp cloth muffled his screams and metal buttons pressed painfully into Charlie’s face as he struggled in vain to free himself. The pungent, syrupy odor of whatever was soaking the cloth drained his strength, and his legs sagged beneath him. His ears began to buzz, but he could still hear voices, harsh and gravelly, from far, far away.

“This is the last one?”

“Yessir. Delivery of all packages, plus ten expendables for the lab or dollworks, as appropriate. I’ll take my payment now, if you please.”

“You’ll be paid once delivery is confirmed by the clients and the expendables are re-purposed. Not before.”

“That wasn’t the deal I made with…”

“Shut up! Don’t speak his name here. It’s the deal you’re getting. Be grateful you have your freedom. He doesn’t like loose ends.”

“If I’m not paid, boyo, he’ll have a lot more than loose ends to worry about.”

There was more, but the buzzing was so loud now, Charlie couldn’t make out the words.

Sorry, Smith.

Wasn’t careful.

Rules.

Too late.

Bad.

Doll.

Problems

by Fred Warren -

Anya Sherikov's virtual office was a tidy environment with a wide desk, high-backed leather chair, walls lined with video monitors, and a collection of fragrant flowers in terracotta pots at the corners. A little ceramic dog with a bobbing head adorned the desk, and she gave it a nudge out of habit before unlocking the door to grant entrance to whoever was leaning on the visitor’s chime.

Security Officer Nigel Cromwell came bustling in, followed by Victoria Remsen, who was looking uncharacteristically professional in a white lab coat. Vicky slammed her hands onto the desk and leaned forward until she was nearly nose-to-nose with Anya. “Miss Sherikov, we’ve got a big problem! Somebody broke quarantine, and there are spiders running loose on the station!”

Anya gently pushed her back a few inches. “The pest-control systems will deal with them. This happens occasionally. Some gourmand lets his delicacies incubate a day or so too long, and…”

Cromwell waved her off. “No, Anya. This is a large-scale infestation. Some stupid gaggle of meat-bag revolutionaries have brought up fertilized eggs from Eclectia in quantity, and not just the small species. The hatchlings are moving through the ductwork and in the gaps between decks. Lasers and microbots are getting some of them, but not enough. I can keep our habitat safe, but the colonists are in for a fight like none they’ve seen since the original Founding. They’ve brought Hell onto Avenir. Again.”

Vicky nodded. “I’ve been reading up on what history we have about the first time this happened. It isn’t pretty. They grew fast, and some of these things were huge. The spiders’ venom caused hallucinations and psychosis before it killed. Most of the casualties were from poisoned colonists attacking each other.”

“Any help we provide must appear to spring from a routine order issued by the Avenir leadership,” Anya replied as she did her own historical search. “What do you think, Victoria? Is there anything we can do that won’t stir much attention?”

“I can direct a nanofactory to accelerate production of the standard antivenins we manufacture for Eclectia, so there’ll be more on hand once they figure out what’s going on. Until then, I can cycle pesticide into the ventilation system, but it won’t work on all the bugs, and it could make a lot of people sick on the lower levels where there’s no filtration.”

“Better than them dying, I suppose. Have you informed Captain Aziz?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t seem very worried. He said something about ‘acceptable losses’ and ‘facilitating the Plan.’ He smiled a lot.”

Anya sighed. “When is he not smiling? I’ll monitor the situation and try to identify the conspirators. Victoria, dispense the pesticide, but begin with small doses, so we can gauge its effects.”

“I’m not stupid. You think I’d just dump it all in at once?”

“Yes. Despite your many wonderful qualities, dorogoya, you have an affinity for mayhem.”

Vicky’s self-righteous ire dissolved into a sullen pout. “Okay, I would have, but now I won’t. You’re no fun at all.”

“Off with you, then. Nigel, let me know if there’s anything you need in support of our habitat defense.”

“Hmph. I can’t imagine needing your help, but thanks for the offer.” Cromwell scanned the displays covering the walls of Anya’s communications nexus, and jabbed a finger at one of them. “What were you doing when we came in? Who’s that girl?”

Anya didn’t look up. She began typing commands on the keypad set into her desk. “She’s one of the Gamers I’m watching until you finish repairs on the network firewall. She seems to be oblivious to our presence, so all’s well.”

Cromwell glared at her. “Just make sure she stays that way. I’ll have no time for anything but spiders for the foreseeable future.”

Anya paused her typing and smiled affably at him. “Of course.”

#

It took a few moments to make the transition back into the valet. Melanie was poking him in the shoulder and squinting into his vacant eyes. “Sir? Mr. Butler? Are you okay?”

Anya shook his head and blinked his eyes. “Ah, I’m sorry. Software update. They happen at the most inconvenient times. However, we must end our conversation, and you must return to your quarters immediately and secure all doors and vents. I’m told there is a security problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“One that will become your problem if you don’t hurry. I enjoyed our chat, and I think I can help you, but we must meet again later.” Anya clamped one of the valet’s arms firmly around Melanie’s shoulders and ushered her outside. “I will make what arrangements I can in the meantime to ensure there are no negative repercussions from your excursion into the private network. Until then, farewell.”

#

Melanie lingered in the corridor a moment, still shivering but elated that she’d accomplished her mission. Carson would stop chasing the Dreamers, and things would return to normal.

Something skittered across the toe of her boot. She looked down to find a small, red-striped spider lifted up onto its hind legs a few meters away, forelegs waving in the air, fanged mouthparts working rapidly and drooling viscous slime. She stared at it in fascination—bugs weren’t supposed to be able to get onto the station, especially not the upper levels. Where did this one come from?

It looked like something out of ArachnoHunters. She hated that game. When one of the spiders caught someone, it wrapped them in silk and then slowly sucked the life out of them. Whatever sadistic method the game employed to simulate internal organs being liquefied gave her diarrhea in real life for two days afterward.

She backed away from the spider, trying to keep her body as still as possible. Without warning, it hurled itself at her, leaping a half-meter into the air and nearly closing the space between them.

Melanie screamed and sprinted down the corridor, not daring to look behind her.

Reward

by Jeff C. Carter

The hulking spiders thrashed against the metallic weave of their containers, biting into the flex-steel links with their cruel curved fangs.  Dr. Lev’s heart beat erratically against his chest, quickening with the anticipation of the pent up chaos soon to be unleashed aboard the Avenir.  He lifted his needle and squinted to see the pale glistening ribbon inside.  The twin parasitic wyrm inside his own body thrummed like a plucked harp chord and the voice of Rahab sang out in his head.

“Unleash-bridge chaos-paradise...”

He could feel Rahab and the other demons in the lightless city of Eclectia’s black ocean depths gathering for the psychic feeding frenzy.  His mind spun with the turbulence of their violent emotions and he clenched his teeth to steady himself.   

The spider before him raised its fangs and stared at him with eight round ruby eyes.  Dr. Lev stared back into the blank insect mind that knew nothing but hunting and hunger, instinct and reaction.  It was such a beautiful monster, yet so incomplete.  It was an empty vessel, incapable of hatred or the joy of bloodlust.  He positioned the needle beneath the spider, aiming for one of the few weak points in its armor hard skin.  He eased the point of the needle inside and the wyrm drained through like quicksilver.

The spider’s thick legs gave way and it crashed to the floor.  It contracted in a violent spasm, a squeal escaping its body like high pressure steam.  Dr. Lev felt the wyrm’s confusion as it groped through the arachnid’s organs, clutching at the unfamiliar nervous system.  As soon as the parasite hooked in an eager demon forced itself through.  Dr. Lev watched the spider’s eyes smolder with hatred like deep sea volcanoes.  The swarming demons of Eclectia writhed in jealousy and fought for the next psychic connection. 

Dr. Lev hurried among the other cages with his needles, connecting the spiders to the yearning minds below.  Once he had injected the last wyrm into the last spider, he let the metallic weave of the cages unspool to the floor.  The demons crawled around the room tentatively, adjusting to the architecture and gravity of their new bodies. 

The largest of the spiders reared up and smashed the ceiling lights with its fore legs.  The others shrank back in the sudden darkness and withdrew behind huddled legs.  Dr. Lev saw his own face now, gaunt and pale, his eyes rimmed with purple bruises and swollen veins.  Rahab was looking down at him through the eyes of the colossal spider.  There was a nauseating strobe of kaleidoscopic vision as Rahab stared through both Dr. Lev and spider.  Rahab withdrew and the psychic feedback ended.  Dr. Lev was now alone.

Receive-grasp your fate-reward…

Dr. Lev knelt before his monstrous divinity and trembled. “Rahab, I only want to serve you.  To be with--” his dry voice cracked and he hacked up a bubble of blood.  He swallowed painfully and his lungs shook.  The wyrm within his body had used him up.

Rahab loomed over him and spread its mouth parts wide, encircling his neck with gleaming black fangs the size of sabers. 

You will be in spider as spider is in me.  Together we will become nothing.  All are equal in death.

Dr. Lev focused on his own reflection inside the spider’s dark red eyes and imagined himself in the body of the apex predator.  He imagined himself closer to his god.

As the fangs slashed down with murderous intent, he smiled.

Legs

by Jeff C. Carter

Dr. Loomis winced as the old door grated open.  He held his breath and waited for the lights to activate.  The darkness refused to yield and he exhaled a quiet curse.  He stayed in the dim column of light that spilled from the tunnel outside.

“Welcome, doctor.  We were just about to begin our session without you,” Dr. Thaani Lev’s voice rasped from the corners of the black room.

“Give yourself up, Thaani.  Come quietly or I’ll call the enforcers,” Dr. Loomis commanded.

“So you came alone, then?”

Dr. Loomis took a small step back towards the open doorway. “I suspected your behavior was becoming erratic.  I should have stopped you sooner.  Had I known what you were doing to those poor patients…,” Dr. Loomis’ voice faltered.

“Former patients, doctor.  Cured.  Set free!”

Dr. Lev’s voice exploded into a fit of ragged wet coughs that bounced off the walls, making it impossible for Dr. Loomis to trace.

Dr. Lev regained his breath and continued his taunts. “If you disagree with my methods you had better come in.  I have new friends inside who will be disoriented when they awaken.  Try to make them feel comfortable until they find their…legs,” Dr. Lev chuckled.

Dr. Loomis stepped fully into the room and the door squeaked shut behind him.  His eyes soon began to pick out grey contours from the shadows of the room.  The old storage bay was thick with the hard angles of dusty furniture and the manufactured edges of equipment.  Nestled among them were the glistening curves of countless large orbs. “You don’t have to hurt anyone else.  Release your patients and I’ll take care of them,” Dr. Loomis said.  He moved deeper among the strange mounds looking for Dr. Lev’s captives.

A wet pop echoed in the distance, followed by an unrecognizable yet horrid stench that clawed at Dr. Loomis’ eyes and nose.

“You have my word, doctor.  I will release them all,” Dr. Lev croaked.

A slow tapping hit the floor.  Its tempo quickened into a hissing splash.  As the steady drizzle increased the odor became overwhelming.  Through his watering eyes Dr. Loomis saw that the mysterious globes were deflating. Dr. Loomis shielded his nose and mouth with his sleeve and stumbled towards the door.  It slid open automatically, the light from the tunnel flaring across his blurry vision.  Blocking the exit was something dark skinned and hunch backed, like a man on all fours. It must be Thaani, Dr. Loomis thought, catastrophic schizophrenia. “I’m not going to hurt you, Thaani.  Do you understand?”

The shape in front of him replied with a slow chitter.  It sounded like teeth clicking together. 

Dr. Loomis squinted and rubbed his eyes.  I must be seeing double, Dr. Loomis thought.  It looks like he has eight legs.

A sudden sharp pain stung Dr. Loomis’ neck and he whirled around to find Dr. Lev holding a thin syringe.  His eyes danced with manic glee from their red rimmed lids and sunken purple hollows.

“Relax, Doctor.  It will all be over soon,” Dr. Lev cooed.

Dr. Loomis’ legs turned to rubber and he crumpled to the ground.  He heard a sharp smack of his skull hitting the floor but he felt no pain. Thaani drugged me.  But if Thaani was behind me… who is crouching at the door?

Dr. Lev looked around and gave an asthmatic chuckle before slipping into the shadows.  More of the hunched shapes shambled into the light. 

Eight legs…eight eyes.  Dear God, not up here…not on Avenir!

Dr. Loomis grasped the true nature of the crawling things and tried to shriek in horror.  The growing chorus of clicking mandibles swallowed the thin gurgle from his paralyzed throat.

Delicacy

by Jeff C. Carter

Customs Officer Brantry tapped the switch on the conveyor belt to roll the next package into the screener.  Dros, the grizzled smuggler following the crate, gave him a conspiratorial nod.

“Organic goods.  Soft scan only, please,” Dros said.

Brantry slapped a yellow button on the side of the screener and pinged the crate with a brief burst of radiation.

A grainy hologram of large clustered spheres appeared in front of Brantry but he waved it out of existence before anyone else saw.  Live insect eggs were contraband on Avenir, but the aristocracy had an endless appetite for such delicacies.  It took Brantry three approachings of tedious work to earn as much as he did letting a package slip through.  He might not ever be able to afford a high class life aboard the Avenir, but he was determined to retire to Zirconia in style.

“Your shipment has been sterilized and entered into the quarantine queue.  We’ll notify you when it’s ready,” Brantry said, loud enough for anyone who might be listening.

He flipped up the lid of the crate to lay the falsified quarantine seal upon the cargo.  The light struck the aerogel packing around the insect eggs and a disturbing shadow caught his eye.  These weren’t typical Honey Beetle eggs.  They were larger, with too many legs radiating from their dim silhouettes. 

Brantry slammed down the lid of the crate and hissed at the smuggler. “Are you insane?  I can’t let this through!”

Dros glared at the customs officer but dared not call attention to himself.

Brantry punched the red button to initiate deep sterilization.  The machine did not respond.

A low voice from behind Brantry sent a chill racing up his back. “Is there a problem, officer?”

Brantry turned to see a well dressed man standing in the restricted area of customs.  This was undoubtedly the aristocrat seeking the egg sacs. “I’m sorry.  There has been a mistake -- these are… spiders,” Brantry whispered.

There was no hint of surprise in the aristocrat’s expression, and now Brantry recognized his face.  Lancet Palmar VIII, scion of the Palmar dynasty.  Was this the latest status symbol, consuming the rarest, most dangerous and most expensive eggs?

“My fee has tripled,” Brantry said, a small tremor in his voice.

The aristocrat casually nodded and walked away. 

Brantry let the conveyor belt whisk the crate through customs.  He licked his lips, wondering how sweet the spider eggs must taste.

The Spider in the Chaparral

by Kaye Jeffreys -

Traces of web hung from a branch of one of the trees. Reece stopped his one-rider at a safe distance and searched the small island of grey-green trees in the sea of yellow-grey grasses. Rose won't be happy that a spider has moved into one of her nature projects. He'd come back later with others from the mining camp to flush it out. No one takes on a spider alone.

A cry drifted on the wind from the other side of the chaparral.

Reece unholstered his rifle and made a wide circle around the growth of trees searching it and the rippling grass. There was movement in the shadows of the low hanging branches. Spindly legs of a large spider pulled a rope of a web into the chaparral.

Thirty feet away someone fought, unseen, except for the violent shaking of grass around her.

Weren't lassoing spiders extinct? Yet one methodically hauled in its prey from the cover of the trees.

Reece climbed off his one-rider, counting on the hope that the spider could only lasso one prey at a time. He propped his rifle against his vehicle and located the scythegun under the seat. He pulled it out and fumbled at the switches. He fought to hold the cumbersome thing steady in his trembling fingers.

Slow down and do this right. He forced a steady aim.

The spider hesitated, recalculating.

Reece fired. The scythegun cracked.

A shriek ripped the air.

Then all noise and movement in the chaparral stopped except for the leaves manipulated by the wind.

Reece aimed again at the motionless spider, and waited. He listened with ears deafened by the gun's crack and spider's shriek. The wind shifted and increased though it sounded muffled in comparison to the pounding of his heart.

#

Collapsed in the beaten down grasses, the nomad didn't stir except for her exhausted breathing.

Reece took a step back and searched the horizon for other nomads. There were none. Very strange. He had to decide if he should help her and break one of their laws or walk away and avoid trouble. So far he knew that you don't touch them, you don't talk to them, and you aren't ever supposed to look at their females. He searched the horizon again expecting to see riders pour over the hills any second. Only wind disturbed the grass.

The webbing wrapped around the girl's ankle had rubbed it raw and bleeding. He could not walk away when a Higher Law compelled him to help.

Never looking directly at her, Reece used an old rag to protect his hand as he grasped the sticky web. He sawed through it with his knife a full two feet away from her foot. Then he stepped back.

She crawled then rose to her feet and limped away through the waves of grasses. Picking up speed to a shakey run, she disappeared over a hill never looking back.

"You're welcome." Wind whipped his words away to parts unknown.

What did he expect? A handshake, a thank you, eye contact?

Reece climbed onto his one-rider and started it up. He had to tell the others that lassoing spiders were not as extinct as they thought.