Tangled Intersections

Eva Lefoy

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 Eva Lefoy

Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entire coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Blurb

Copyright

Author Bio and Links

One Last Thing

Dedication:

This story written on the occasion of the 65th birthday of Greg Van Stralen, who, in his life-long quest for a good horror story, threw down the gauntlet to a few of us writers. The rules were simple: create a horror story in the same vein as The Haunting of Hill House (1959), by Shirley Jackson. When he pointed at this particular author, he said, “You can set yours in space.”

Being that this writer’s brain thrives on irreverence, it’s no surprise the first thing that popped to mind was Marvin the Martian. Whether or not Greg can forgive me remains to be seen…

After watching the movie and reading Jackson’s book – never having read it in school, strangely – the story left a vague, confused impression. Who was who and what was really going on? Was there truly an antagonist or was there only imagined evil? Worse, yet, did the home’s malevolence come from the characters themselves? The work came off as almost purely psychological / emotional drama, which of course lends itself well to the claustrophobia of a space station….

A former Los Angeles native, Greg is known for his habanero hot sauce and gun addictions, and his abiding knowledge of biology. The author wishes him many more birthdays and shooting trips to come!

Blurb:

In deep space, there’s always some terrifyingly easy way to die…..

For Nidi Station residents, sighting a certain alien cartoon creature indicates their approaching demise. But is the little green man a true harbinger of death or is he simply an ale-inspired hallucination? For new resident Dr. Maynard Grison, who’s suffering from a severe identity complex, one more push is all that’s needed to send him over the edge. The question is, which stimulus will set him off, the wastewater re-cyc green ale, being shadowed by Marvin the Martian, or the talking floorboards? Find out in this psychological space drama inspired by The Haunting of Hill House.

Tangled Intersections

Arrival

Nidi Station

Docking Bay

The clang of the docking clamps rang in Dr. Grison’s ears sounding a hell of a lot like freedom. Palms sweaty with anticipation, he kept them firmly wrapped around the shuttle seat armrest and resisted the urge to look behind him and grin at the Vanaslovi guards’ captive. How he must hate being in captivity. But the truth was he’d grown sloppy. They’d found him passed out right above the recently deceased body wearing the victim’s blood on his hands. As the prisoner’s psychiatric doctor, Grison was charged to see to his treatment. Right now though, what he wanted more than anything was out of the stupid shuttle. He grit his teeth and forced himself to hold still a little longer.

Air hissed as the craft’s door opened, allowing them into the small, pressurized primary bay. Barely bigger than a storage closet, it allowed Nidi Station guards to scan them for weapons and medical before authorizing admittance to the main shuttle area. Their unit would be auto-parked by robot attendants, filed according to size and anticipated need for accessibility. Dr. Grison hoped they locked it away in the bowels of the station and lost it. He didn’t ever want to see it again.

Once the scan completed, the auto-messenger welcomed them in several languages at once: Universal, Parsi Tongue and Earth Standard. He half-listened, smiling at appropriate times into the one-way monitor, and nodding. Yes, yes, he would be sure to pay attention to the red and blue traffic lines in the major pedestrian hallways. Yes, he would recognize and obey the floating security bots. No, he would not seek access to restricted areas. He’d follow abort-ship protocols to the letter.

The guards behind him must have nodded their assents as well, for the double doors suddenly whooshed open. Dr. Grison stepped onto the main deck and took his first lungful of musty station air with gratitude. Being locked on that shuttle with those two goons and their maniacal captive Rister had almost killed him. Almost, but not quite. He had far too much to live for.

“Welcome to Nidi Station,” two hoverbots droned. “Coordinates?”

“Security,” one of the guards droned.

“Lodging,” he said into the forest green refractive eye panel of the closest bot.

“Extended stay?” it warbled. The brightness of its visual matrix dimmed amidst a whir of activity coming from its central processor. Apparently, searching openings took up a lot of its battery power.

“Yes, I think so.” Rubbing his hands together, he at last glanced at Rister. His last contact with the man before they would drag him away out of his sight, hopefully forever.

Digging his feet into the station’s no-slip matted surface, Rister sprang up repeatedly like a jack in the box while the guards attempted to hold him in place. The crazed look in his tearing eyes worried him, but it was the ongoing scream echoing from under the face mask that made his skin shiver. Thank stars the mask made verbal communication impossible. He recoiled from the man, determined to get as far away from the psycho bastard as he could manage in the last few minutes he’d ever spend in his presence.

At last the whirring stopped and the unit dinged. “Payment method?”

He flipped his attention away from Rister and held out the gold platinum card with Dr. Maynard Grison holo-graphed across the front.

A stubby mechanoid arm snatched it and slid it into a tiny slot on the front of the unit’s casing where it disappeared from view. “Thank you. Processing.” Another ding, and his card ejected, airborne, flying toward him. He managed to snatch it before it took off a slice of his nose. “Payment allocation verified. We are happy to welcome you to Nidi Station, Dr. Grison. Please follow me to your new luxury accommodations. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Inside the mask, Rister’s shrill throaty screech threw spittle out the front. It landed on the slip-free matting at Dr. Grison’s feet. Two seconds later, a cleaning bot scooped it up. Erasing all traces that Rister had been there. Grison hoped, prayed that sooner rather than later, all traces Rister had ever existed would be erased entirely.

Taking his leave at last, he smiled at the captive man and then nodded to the guards. Nothing left to say, but thank you for not letting that lunatic kill me, he turned his attention back to the hoverbot.

It shot off down the hallway at a good clip, not looking back to see if he followed.

Sighing, he hurried down the passageway dodging pedestrians, all the while following the blinking blue lines, and stopping at the solid red ones to look both ways. Always a good citizen, he tipped the bot when they arrived at his rooms, and got its reference number: C35374. The exchange was as good as a handshake, best one could hope for with a mechanoid anyway. C35374 informed him his personal items would be delivered to his room upon arrival of the mail cruiser.

All he had to do now was settle in and wait.

Nidi Station

Habitation Zone E5

Grison awoke to the intercom blaring right above his head.

Attention all Nidi Station habitants. There has been a transporter accident at Corridor C Section 511, Intersection 12.

A video opened, showing the grisly scene. It was quite clear what had happened, and Grison shuddered despite his heart rate hovering near overload.

This area is closed until further notice. You will be notified when access is restored. As a reminder, please obey the station’s safety protocols. Watch for and avoid flashing red lines on the pedestrian walkways. Failure to do may result in personal injury, or even death.

The closing slogan for the station’s newscast sounded, then the whole thing repeated in language choice two. Grison reached up, clicked off the monitor, and flopped back on the bed. Sweat dotted his brow and pooled under his clothes. Enough adrenaline pounded through his veins he felt like he’d just been for a three hour jog. The image of the man partially beamed into the surrounding architecture with just his feet and shins sticking out stayed with him like a bad smell, reminding him of the dangers inherent in such an old model station. It wasn’t yet his normal rise time, but, too jittery to sit still, he got out of bed and strode to the mirror.

In the reflection, his eyes were wild, his hair mussed and his clothes rumpled. He looked like a crazy person. “I need to calm down, that’s all.” He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The hum of the station’s power cells and the environmental system sounded rhythmic and even. Craaawk. Vroooom. Craaawk. Vroooom. Almost like a man’s voice. If he listened hard enough, he might be able to hear what it was saying. See if it was talking to him.

Startled by the thought, he opened his eyes and jerked, letting out a small fearful wail. Immediately he scowled, disgusted by his antics. “Get a hold of yourself Grison. Remember, you’re not the crazy one!”

Walking calmly away from the mirror, he studied his quarters. Apparently on Nidi Station, luxury accommodations meant your own miniscule bathroom, a tiny kitchen unit with an in-wall fusion cooker and a port window. All done up in a tedious light gray, the rooms hardly screamed fashionable, but they’d do for his needs. He wasn’t expecting company. Still, a change of clothes would be nice. Stopping by the console, he sent a message to C35374. Then, he got in the shower.

Emerging half-damp, he was surprised to see a parcel sitting where one hadn’t been before. A long, brownish colored duffle, it sat lumpily on the coffee table. He studied it suspiciously, not entirely convinced it was his and unsure how to approach it if it wasn’t. Looking around, he searched the area for any sign of an intruder and then, slowly let his guard down. He approached the bag and read the name tag. Dr. Maynard Grison.

So it was his after all. At least it claimed to be. “How silly of me.” His fingers trembled ever so slightly as they unzipped the top. But of course one never knew what they’d find inside such a contraption after it had been out of one’s own hands for any length of time. “Wild dogs,” he muttered. “Man-eating Prana Snakes.” When the bag was fully open, its contents exposed and bleeding like an open cadaver, he felt both relieved and disappointed at the sight. He gingerly reached in and picked up one of the items using only the tips of his fingers, drawing it out for inspection. A white, safari-style hat.

Frowning, he tossed it aside. What good is such a hat here?

The next object was a tan-colored shirt with a collar. Then a pair of black trousers in a silky space-age material. Next were various pens and styluses and four pairs of sunglasses. “Hmpf.” Those were flung aside, one after another, with no concern for where they landed. This stuff isn’t useful to me. I don’t need any of this.

He tore through the rest of the bag furiously, ending with shaking it upside down so that it spilled its remaining contents at his feet. Thump, went a watch, calendar and shaving kit. He glared at them angrily. “For hell’s sake! Isn’t there anything worthwhile in here?”

But every item he’d inspected either didn’t matter to him or hadn’t registered as belonging to him. They should have felt like his, but they didn’t. The imposter bag was full of foreign objects that sat on the floor defying him, taunting him with their uselessness. Beside himself, he punched the button on the comm. panel and re-dialed C35374.

“Where are my things?” he screeched. “These aren’t my things!” Shaking, he sat on the couch and put his head in his hands. More sweat poured off him, and he’d just had a shower. His stomach churned with the sensation he was small, like a speck in space. Alone. Adrift. Vulnerable. He hated that feeling more than anything. Made him feel sick, like he hadn’t eaten in days.

A soft ping sounded above him. The intercom again.

“Dr. Grison. Incoming call. Source, Nidi Station Security, block 5.”

He lifted his head and raised his eyebrows. Here? For me? They had Rister in custody, so they certainly had no reason to contact him. What more could they possibly want? “Uh, hello?” When there was no response and the unit pinged again, he tersely barked, “Answer!”

The call came through.

“Dr. Grison, this is first medical psychiatric nurse Ballantine. Can you make time to stop by security in about an hour Earth measurement? We’d like to get your recommendation on Rister.”

“Regarding what?”

“His treatment plan.”

He sat up straight, back muscles tense as stone. Treatment plan? Nobody had ever said anything about a treatment plan. In the best case scenario, the on Grison had pinned all his hopes on, Rister was to be executed. His lips fumbled over words before he managed to spit out, “I-of course-I’ll…. Be there.”

“Perfect, doctor. See you then. Ballantine out.”

One soft tone ended the call. The line dead, the room was awash once more in silence. Grison stood and stoically picked a few items off the floor. A tan shirt two sizes too big. A pair of plain brown slacks that only came to his ankles. Biting his lips, he headed into the small bedroom and dressed. When he was done he looked at his reflection in the mirror and frowned. This won’t do. This just won’t do.

Four floors and two hallways later, he arrived at the security deck. The station, one of the originals built during the enthusiastically and often fatally naive initial we’ll-all-live-in-space-harmoniously phase of humanity, harbored, by today’s standards, serious operational flaws. Environmentals weren’t shielded, nor far enough away from the power core to satisfy modern safety regulations. There was a total lack of system redundancy as well. Back-up generators were tethered to the outer ring as an afterthought, exposed and vulnerable to any kind of attack. And, security was situated far too close to weapons storage for most people’s tastes. An escaped prisoner could literally walk across the hall, breach access to the storage locker, and go on a shooting rampage within two point five Earth minute’s time. Grison’s stomach was still queasy, and he steadfastly turned his back on the weapons area as he waited for entry.

The door slid open and he sighed in relief. Before him was a desk and, in a semi-circle, a series of holding cells. All were empty, except for one. Rister, devoid of his restraints, stood from the bed and walked casually to the security screen. For a second, Grison thought he’d walk right through it. Anxiety tightened his gut again, working its way up his throat. By the time Ballantine turned around from her station, he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Hello, doctor.”

He glanced nervously from Rister to Ballantine, his throat still thick with shock. “I, uh…” He cleared it and straightened his spine in an effort to appear at ease.

Ballantine stood, stuck out her hand, and he shook it. She then grabbed her data board and proceeded to the cage. “He’s a lively one, Rister. Been up all night. Talkative, too. He’s been chattering on like a Callus Six monkey.”

Grison’s nerves pitched. At that same exact moment, Rister snagged his gaze, looking him right in the eyes. His look was part defiance, part… He swallowed convulsively. “Uh, miss…” he’d already forgotten her name and her back was to him, so no chance of reading her name tag, but that wasn’t the pertinent issue. “Why is … his mouth guard off?”

She tossed her head, smiling over her right shoulder. “We don’t keep them gagged here, doctor. As you know, that would be considered uncivilized treatment for all but the most violent offenders.”

“But he’s … he’s a killer. A cold blooded killer.”

“Well he’s no trouble to us now, is he? Security has him well in hand. Not to worry. But if you wish, there are panic suits available in the lockers over there. If it would make you feel better, put one on. I’ll wait until you’re ready to get started.”

From inside his cell, Rister shot daggers from his beady eyes but he said nothing. He was studying him, waiting for Grison to make a wrong move.

The look unsettled him further, made him want to jump into the cage and rip his heart out with his hands. But instead he had to stand there like an idiot, wearing the wrong clothes, keeping the peace. The effort of being civil left his palms sweaty and his mouth dry. “No. That’s fine. I… I’m fine.”

“Great. Then, let’s review his file.” She swept a hand in front of her and a screen appeared, listing out Rister’s most recent eval. “Your own diagnosis of the patient is paranoid schizophrenic, with psychotic episodes.”

He snorted, amused at the dry clinical terminology that made Rister’s behavior sound perfectly plausible or that he was just a little quirky. Oh, it doesn’t even come close. Rister wasn’t just another patient. He was the devil himself.

Rister’s eyes shown darkly, full of malice and Grison took a step back, retreating from the palpable blows landing on his body.

“Is that correct, doctor?” Ballantine inquired.

Beads of sweat dampened Grison’s forehead, but still he nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s my diagnosis.”

She studied the notes again, digging a little deeper into the file. “He also suffers from dissociative episodes, in which he assumes the identity of another, usually his intended victim.”

Victim. The word hung in the air around them and refused to leave. How he hated the term’s simplicity. Again, such a cozy little affectation of speech that revealed nothing of the extensive damage Rister’s victims usually faced.

Ballantine frowned when she read the next chapter. “It says here Mr. Rister prefers to use knives on his victims. His murder rate exceeds ten for sure, but we know there could be more.” She spun around abruptly, catching Grison by surprise. “How many more do you think, doctor?”

“Yes, how many do you suppose?” At this, the first utterance from Rister since they’d been in his presence, Grison nearly jumped out of his skin. The sneering tone of the question didn’t seem to bother Ballantine, who still stared at him expectantly, her face upturned. But Grison heard and felt the challenge like a punch in the jaw.

“Um, we, uh… twenty or so, I think.”

Rister raised an eyebrow. Another direct challenge. The danger he presented to them, even while caged, grew second by second. Grison could sense it reaching out from Rister’s gaze, seeping through the security wall and grabbing for his neck. Ballantine, however, seemed wholly unaware of the danger.

“Twenty?” Her eyes widened and she flashed a devilish grin. “Well, he’s been a busy boy then, hasn’t he?” She turned around once more and studied Rister’s file. “I suppose Fremerling Intergalactic is on it? Working the case, I mean.”

“Yes, but… don’t assume…”

“So while they confirm his crimes, we need to decide on a course of action for his treatment. What do you suggest, doctor?”

Kill him. Kill him! The words screamed through his brain, driven down a one-way road on a thick air current of fear. Blind, terrorizing fear. And every second he fought the urge to say them, Rister stared him down, watching his struggle with something bordering more on obsession than interest. The bastard. He needed to make a stand and show him who was boss. “Lobotomy,” he blurted out.

Rister didn’t even flinch.

Ballantine swiveled her pretty little head his way. “Doctor? Are you certain?” She checked her data pad. “According to the Freeborn Interstellar diagnostic manual for the human species, medication is usually the first resort. Then, neurosurgery. Only if that doesn’t work is permanent brain structural reorganization suggested. Except in rare cases.”

Oh, he’s a rare case all right. “Miss Ballantine, I…” His voice trailed off as he found himself ensnared by Rister’s studiously mocking gaze.

“Go ahead,” Rister murmured. “Tell her. You know what the guidelines say.” He raised a brow. “Don’t you, doctor?”

“Of course I do! I helped write them, after all.” He pried his focus away from the criminal and back to the nurse. “It’s just that, in this case, I don’t see where medication will be effective. I believe we’ve tried several…”

“Let me check the notes, doctor.” Her fingers swept over the ghostly electronic images of the file so fast he couldn’t follow. “Um, yes. Right here. A list of the medications and the dates. Perfect.” She nodded and scribbled something on her pad.

He narrowly avoided sending a triumphant smirk to Rister. “I believe you’ll find they tried neurosurgery, too.”

“But it didn’t work, did it?” Rister hissed his icy accusation through a menacing frown.

Grison crossed his arms and tried to warm his suddenly chilled frame with his hands. “No. It most certainly did not.”

“Then I’m afraid that only death will do. Isn’t that right, doctor? Death is after all, the best solution to every problem.”

He stumbled back a step, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. No amount of warmth could belay the sub-zero tremor running down him from head to toe.

“Death always puts things in the proper perspective, does it not?” Rister’s eyes shone goadingly.

Ballantine, who up until now had been studying her screen, snapped her head up. “What? Death? Nobody said anything about termination.” She furiously stroked her pad, whizzing through rules and regulations.

“But it’s the final course of treatment for your most stubborn patients, isn’t it?” Rister goaded from behind the security force field.

Ballantine spun around to face him. “Doctor, I don’t think the FIDM specifies… Doctor—Doctor, are you all right?”

Head reeling, he backed out of the room, slipped through the sliding doors and out into the hallway. Still shaking, unable to talk, he lurched away with his feet dragging under him. He had to get out of there. Get away from Rister and his menacing glare. Every bone in his body told him Rister wanted to kill him. That was so wrong. Wrong! He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be allowed to change the rules. Not this far into the game. “I won’t stand for it,” Grison muttered. “I won’t let him do it. He can’t get to me that way.”

He’d traveled the length of two hallways before his breathing slowed. Wheezing, he leaned on the wall for support and prayed the shivers would cease. He needed to be able to think clearly, dispassionately about Rister’s demise. No matter what the insane man threw at him. He’d let Rister get to him today and he shouldn’t have. “Got to remain strong.”

Sucking in musty recycled air, he made for the travelift. As he neared the intersection, the red lights in the floor plating flashed. Loudspeakers blared an announcement in three languages simultaneously.

“Warning. Transport in progress. Warning. Stay clear of marked path. Failure to do so can result in injury or death.”

He stopped in time, gaze glued to the transport lane. As he watched, the shields formed along the narrow pathway. Then, seconds later, a whooshing sounded as a blur passed by.

He stepped forward automatically, not wishing to be delayed any longer and stopped short as another whoosh, and another blur, followed by third whizzed by him. Then a fourth and one more. By his count, five bodies had passed in front of his eyes, all blown to bits, to be reassembled in close to their original form in some unknown destination. The sheer poetry of it struck him. Each person, reduced to their elemental particles, traveling near the speed of light. How did they feel when scattered apart? Did each little cell feel its own demise or even more alive now that it had been freed from its restrictive form? He wondered and stood there blinking for several seconds after the red light had changed back to blue and the crowd around him had started moving. As the unit shut down and went through it cooling process, he found the sound soothing, mesmerizing. Almost like a song – a lullaby - made up of whispered screams.

The soft cooing noise tamped down his nerves, allowed him to think clearly once more. Taking a deep breath, relieved of his earlier emotional turmoil, he walked casually back to his luxury accommodations, humming softly to himself the unfamiliar tune. When he arrived at his quarters, he found a note recorded from C35374, stating the only other belongings from the shuttle had been delivered for his inspection. He walked inside, saw the blue duffle bag resting on the coffee table and circled it cautiously, deciding in the end it was better left alone.

He simply couldn’t afford another shock that day.

It would have to wait until tomorrow.

Nidi Station

Habitation Zone E5

After rummaging around in the pile of clothes heaped on the floor he managed to change into something that fit marginally better, then headed to the main observation deck. Here the restaurants, merchants and professional offices were gathered in a central place. A mish-mash of cultures, vendors and scents, heavily mixed with stale air and boredom. Perhaps it was a feature of all stations that boredom eventually set in for its long-term inhabitants. For Grison, ennui was exactly what he desired.

Entering the bar, he parked himself on a stool and ordered an ale. He wasn’t sure what to expect but it sure as hell wasn’t the tumbler of frothing fluorescent green liquid the bartender plopped down by his left elbow. His stomach lurched as he eyed it, reticent to give up even one credit for such a foul looking concoction. But a quick examination of the bar’s occupants showed them chugging it down heartily, and none of them had fallen over. Yet.

With a sigh he picked up the glass and sniffed. It smelled like a combination of Earth grass and overcooked ham. He swore his brain contracted on impact, scuttling toward the back of his skull to cower. But he dutifully took a sip – a small one – and swallowed. When severe convulsions did not immediately commence, he licked his lips and tasted it again. On the second try, the flavor changed to minty-sweet, a bit strong for his taste and it certainly wouldn’t pass for ale in most parts of the galaxy but here, on this half derelict outpost it seemed to fit right in. Sucking in a deep breath, he slapped his credits on the table. The bartender eyed him cautiously as if checking to see if he’d change his mind. When Grison did not, he picked up the card and ran it through the processor.

“Open an account?” the server asked in Universal.

“Sure. Might as well.” He lifted his glass in salute, brought it to his lips and drank some more. With every swig it went down cooler, easier, slipping down his throat like candy. Within minutes he ordered another. Why not? I don’t have anywhere else to be.

Not interested in socializing, he took round number two and wandered through the bar alone, stopping to gaze out the portals. Nidi Station, with all its old-fashioned technology, was one of the first to reside next to a remnant. Grison had watched the informational video on the white dwarf, Mira Tri Lucius, before leaving but it didn’t quite do the former five solar mass star justice. At only a fraction of its former luminosity, it still kicked out plenty of residual light and enough heat to keep the thermal exchangers busy. Grison stared at it, fascinated by the infinitesimally slow death taking place before him. What would it be like to take six billion years to die?

A loud laugh shook him from his daydream. Two Umganian station mechanics were holding a loud pissing contest to his left. Frowning into his sudsy beer, he grit his teeth and waited for them to shut their traps.

“I saw it. With my own eyes.”

“You weren’t even on C that morning, you scandakerous dog. Even if you were, your eyes were still green from the night before.” The larger Umganian raised his ale pointedly.

“But I saw him. I did.” The smaller one leaned closer. “He is small, about a metric high,” he held his hands out, one above the other, separated by an Earth foot or so. “His skin as green as this ale.”

The other drained his ale, slammed the empty glass on the table and scoffed. “Nah. You dinna see him then. He’s not green. He’s black.”

“He’s green!”

“His clothes are green.”

“No, they’re red.”

Grison scrubbed his face, wishing like hell they’d burst a blood vessel. But as the bartender brought them both refills, he doubted that would happen soon.

“And, he was on the other side of the conduit, standing right behind the force field when those people came tumbling through.”

He made a derisive sound and motioned with a big meaty hand, pointing toward the plate metal grating. “Standing, eh? How’d you see him, if he’s only so high?”

“He was floating. Yeah, that’s how it was.” The smaller of the two nodded, affirming his explanation. “Then, after the accident, after that guy just walked into the transport line, he was gone. Poof.” He made a fist and then exploded his fingers outward. “Vanished.”

The other man shook his head. His voice was gruff, laced with liquor. “Ale dreams, that’s all.”

“Tell that to the guy sticking halfway out the wall.”

A trickle of interest skittered down Grison’s vertebrae. He turned and addressed the Umganians. “You’re talking about the man who died in the transporter?”

“Yeah.” The larger one took another pull and then put down his beer. “What’s it to you? Did you know the guy?”

With both of them looking at him, his throat constricted, making it difficult to get words out. “No, I, uh…was just curious.”

“Well, it’s nothing you ever want to see,” the smaller one said. “Ending up with the top half of your body buried in the station looks quite painful.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” the other one argued. “You’d be dead instantly.”

Grison shuddered. “No way to bring you back, then? Can’t they just … re-transport you again?”

The bigger one rocked when he snorted. “Hell no. In this old station? By the time they sent you through the coils again, you’d be nothing but Bay-Jiy burger when you came out the other end.”

The smaller one laughed, sloshing his beer on the table. “So true. God, that’s funny.”

“Then why the hell do people use it?”

That got him a shrug. “Folks miss their flights, or just want to jump start to the nearest ship to the station.” He blinked. “We don’t always get light speed vessels here. Sometimes people are stuck a while.”

“They start to go a little crazy.” The smaller one nodded. He drained his glass and held it out for another.

“And then they start seeing things.” The larger Umganian’s voice had lowered several octaves and the darkeners in the room created shadows on his cheeks and jowl, carving a menacing luminous visage. As if he was going to tell the dirtiest, most evil secret the universe ever knew.

Despite the quiver of fear carving a path down his spine, Grison leaned closer.

“Yeah. Like that one guy did.” His buddy said.

“You said you saw it. Are you changing your mind now?”

“No. I only meant that the guy in the wall had seen ‘em.”

Grison frowned, his eyebrows lowered in consternation. If these two performed their mechanic duties as well as they conversed, it was no damn wonder the station had so many accidents. “Seen who?”

There was a moment of silence in which neither Umganian said a word. In fact, the entire room seemed to have gone silent. The hairs on Grison’s neck stood up and his forehead broke out a sweat. He glanced toward the exit, his urge to run intensifying with each passing second.

Finally, the smaller one leaned closer to the middle of the table and murmured, “Marvin the Martian.”

Grison’s head snapped back and his jaw dropped. “Marvin the Martian? Come on. That’s – that’s a cartoon. An old Earth cartoon. It’s not even real.”

“It is here.” The larger one’s bulk swelled in direct proportion to his chilling tone. He too, drained his glass and set it back on the table. Fingering the cup, he raised his eyes to Grison. “In fact here, it’s an omen.”

The other nodded.

He canted closer to Grison and hissed, “He’s the last thing you see before you die.” He shouted the last word in full gravelly tone.

Grison jumped at the sound and both Umganians burst into uproarious laughter. Around him, the rest of the bar had joined in and the sound rang off the room’s metallic rafters. It startled him so badly that bile sloshed in his stomach and the hand holding the remainder of his second ale trembled. About half the green liquid spilled onto the floor and he stared at it, horrified. Green ale. Little green men. Omens of death. He snapped his head up and looked at the two smart asses in front him, seething, afraid, confused.

Behind them in the light of the slow-dying star an image floated by. A small, hazy object about a metric foot tall. It moved quickly, and vanished before Grison could turn his head and follow it. But the vision had hit a nerve and left it raw. The glass slipped from his hand and crashed to the floor, the sound lost in the din of the bar patron’s chatter. His stomach heaved, wanting to empty, the threat of the action sending sweat pouring profusely down his cheek. He stumbled to the restroom with his eyes half-closed, swallowing down disgust and vomit. When he reached the toilet, he let loose.

The green ale had formed some kind of sticky gel. It coated his hands and his throat, slamming it shut so he could hardly breathe. Desperate to get air, he rose, clutching his guts and hustled to the main hallway. His vision blurry, he could make out few details with any accuracy. He swore a Parnatheon Flesh Eater passed by him, followed by two pair of Mourning Doves. To his right the letters on the hallway signs seemed twisted. The ones on the left he couldn’t even see. Swallowing down more green bile, he made his way to the one bearing the medic sign in the Universal language. At least he hoped that’s what it was, because if he traveled any further, he might collapse and die.

“Help me,” he garbled out. The goo had gathered in his airway, too much sludge to dislodge, making his speech a scratchy mess.

The B’tok O’hr physician that appeared didn’t seem fazed by his appearance at all. “Ah. What is it today? Ingested a bit too much of the green ale?”

Just the mention of it stoked his ire. “What the hell is that stuff?”

“Leftover chemical burn-off from the wastewater system, I’ve heard.”

What remained in his stomach flew up his windpipe, followed shortly by the contents of his upper intestines. The wrenching contractions ripped through his guts like tiny machetes, leaving only pain and emptiness in their wake.

“Now, tell me your name, sir. I’ll just look you up in our system and get your details.”

He eyed the doctor sitting patiently behind his desk, sending him an angry stare. Didn’t the man see he was dying? “Grison. Maynard.” His stomach flexed once more, and black spots danced in front of his vision. At this rate the damn stuff would poison him before the jerk off of a doctor left his seat.

After some light tapping on the keypad, the B’tok O’hr smiled. “Mr. Grison. Very good. I believe I have everything I need here to help you out. Now, if you’ll just affix your thumb print here…”

Grison lurched toward it, miscalculated, and landed flat on his face. He didn’t possess the strength to rise.

Unperturbed, the doctor grabbed his goo-drenched hand, extended his right thumb and pressed it to the interface. “Perfect. Now that the payment is arranged, let’s get started on that stomach pump.”

The blackness closed around him and he did not argue. He went proudly into the night, diffusing his last rays of energy and then going limp.

Against his cheek the floor boards said, Cah cahh nuh. Cah cahh nuh, and the faraway lights twinkled oh so bright.

Grison woke with a massive headache and four tubes sticking out from his body. One in his nose, one in his left arm, one connected to his stomach area and one… He shrieked, throwing back the covers and immediately yanked on the tube protruding from his cock. Delicate tissues tore as he pulled, bringing tears to both eyes and a whimper to his lips. God damn them. How dare they treat him this way?

“Now just a minute, Mr. Grison. I’m afraid you’re not allowed do that.”

With a sharp cry he at last dislodged the offending bit of plastic and tossed it across the room. “The hell I’m not. Why did you stick that in me anyway?” His attention turned to the other tubes, and he pulled the one out of his nostril.

“It’s the usual recourse when a patient is unconscious and in a drunken condition.” The B’tok O’hr doctor held his hand out, and a virtual data pad appeared. “In short, you were unable to care for yourself.” He scribbled something in the notes with his stylus and tapped the screen.

Suddenly fatigued, he flopped down onto the bed. “Is all the green ale gone?” His stomach twisted and pinched at the mere mention of the concoction and he half curled onto his side. He was sure it was deadly, lethal at even a very small dose. How the hell did they get away with serving it?

“Yes. Well, most of it. The rest will work itself out of your bowels over the next day or so.” At Grison’s pained expression, he offered, “I’d be happy to prescribe a cleanser for that…”

“No thanks. Just get me out of here.”

“Of course. Now, there is just one little item I wanted to go over with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Your medical records seem to contain some inaccuracies. For example, they indicate you’re a blood type O-O Negative, but the blood in your system is Y-Y-A. Further, there are some discrepancies regarding age, height and weight. In short, you present an exceedingly different picture than your file history.”

He sucked in a breath and tensed, too frightened to move. First school records and now medical files. Why won’t they quit scrutinizing me? I just want to be left alone. Putting on a brave face, he snapped a retort. “I don’t see how that’s any trouble. Obviously there’s just been a mistake in the file.”

The doctor rocked back on his heels and put on a smug doctor expression. “Doctor Grison, as I’m sure you’re aware, even a small error can result in a life-threatening situation. I must insist you review the data at your earliest convenience. I’d hate for a mistake to happen to you and cause you great harm.”

The man’s pomposity did much to relieve his rising anxiety. “The only thing causing me harm right now this this stupid thing.” Grison rolled his eyes and pulled furtively at the tube in his stomach, but stopped when the physician approached.

“Let me get that, it’s a bit tricky.” He positioned his fingers just so and held the tube with his other hand. “You’ll feel a slight pinch.”

Grison ground his teeth. Why do people always say that? Do they think it’s funny?

“One. Two. Three.” He tugged and the end came loose.

To Grison, it felt not unlike a large worm exiting his stomach. He involuntarily retched at the idea, and a small bit of bile worked its way up his throat. Oh hell.

The doctor seemed unbothered by Grison’s discomfort. He grabbed a wound sealer and quickly patched the small incision area with new quick-grow skin cells. “There now. All better.”

“Gaaw.” He gurgled sickly and collapsed in defeat. Somehow this green liquid still had the ability to end his life. He just knew it. “Look, doctor, why do they sell this stuff?”

His nimble fingers went to work on the arm tube and he had the whole thing removed before Grison could even mount a protest. After his success, he gave a triumphant wink and smiled. “Oh don’t worry. It’s only this rough the first time. Eventually, the body gets used to it. Accepts it, even.”

Gah! “That’s horrible!”

“Well, sometimes there’s a lag between our regular alcohol deliveries, and they use the ale to fill the gap.” He patted Grison’s shin. “Just think of it as low-grade whiskey.”

Rolling his eyes, he sat up and tossed back the sheet. “Where are my clothes?”

The doctor shook his head. “You don’t want them. Once they’re covered in…”

“All right. Never mind. I got it.” He pulled the sheet around him and tentatively set his toes on the floor. At least the room wasn’t spinning anymore.

“But on the bright side, the sheet comes free with the office visit.” He grinned about as wide as a B’tok O’hr could. Apparently, Grison didn’t look appreciative enough at the joke, because a few seconds later the doctor put on his stern face again. “I’ll ring you in the morning to go over those medical records. I won’t rest until they’re corrected.” Spinning on his heels, the doc took off without so much as a goodbye.

Grison scowled after him already hating the man. He would refuse the call, that’s all. Wait him out. Besides, it wouldn’t be much longer before Rister was dead. Then, his life would be problem-free.

When he managed his way to the corridor, all was silent. He opened his mouth and turned, intent on asking the doctor how long he’d been out, but the man had already turned off his lights and closed up shop. Blinking, Grison stared into the dim, empty hallway. Eerily quiet, every shadow seemed ripe to harbor unseen evil. His toes tensed and he gripped the sheet tighter. But what good was a scrap of fabric going to do him? It barely covered his ass.

His breathing small and shallow, he timidly stepped into the black. After one step it wasn’t so bad. He took another. Then another.

Instead of the clink, clink, clink, boots made against the metal grating, the pads of his feet made no noise at all. All around him, the station hummed quietly. The droning sound, usually masked by foot traffic and the bustle of ships coming and going, seemed oddly out of place. Yet, it lay under everything, all the time. Only now had it taken center stage, like a ghost come fully present.

He might as well have been one, too.

Logic placed the time at the wee hours of the morning, long before civilians arose. “Only criminals are awake at this hour,” Grison muttered. “The sane are still sleeping.”

The fact he himself was not only awake but also walking niggled at him. Gloomily, he wondered whether Rister slept or if his tortured mind spun most nights until dawn. The label, “insane” boasted a lot of different connotations. Rister was merely one of them. But he was Grison’s own personal subtext. The one man on the station he wanted most to see dead.

The thought stopped him in his tracks. The hard metal grating pressed into the soft pads of his feet as he stood there, warring with his inner demons. Of which he possessed many. Kill him. Kill him and be done with it. Order his death and the blood doesn’t even touch your hands.

His rasping breaths reverberated off the dense walls. That crappy green drink had scalded his throat, probably leaving scar tissue. Acid boiled in his stomach, threatening to send him to his knees. But as there was no waste receptacle available for his use, he needed to get back to his luxury accommodations before collapsing. If he could only make his feet move. His fingers however, tingled and twitched eagerly. The visage of Rister’s death looming large in his imagination.

Could he do it? Could he convince them to terminate Rister for his own good? Taking care of the matter himself would be… messy. It would call attention. Point the finger of the law the wrong way. He needed it to point to Rister alone. You’ll fry for your crimes, you dirty bastard. I’ll make sure of it, he told Rister’s glowering face. You can’t wrangle your way out of this now.

As he stood there fantasizing, the cool breeze of the station’s air scrubbers coming on blew the edges of the sheet. The fluttering against his shins not unlike the feel of butterfly wings. Just before he started moving again, a hand clamped onto his left shoulder.

Grison screamed.

The high-pitched shriek traveled a long ways, returning to his ears with the force of a slap in the face. Shaking, he turned his head and swallowed hard. To his left stood a very tall, very slim figure dressed in a bleak grey cloak that covered him head to toe, and shadowed his face. When his eyesight focused, he caught a glimpse of a ragged scar from the man’s right temple to his chin. The hand molded to his shoulder had certainly been burned at one time, but by who or what, he couldn’t say.

“Excuse me, station occupant. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The eyes of the guard, when fully turned upon Grison, glowed grayish silver.

Air hissed through his lips and as he curled slightly into himself, he noticed his cock had shriveled. Worse, he felt it leak most likely green liquid onto the dark grey deck. He shuddered, repulsed by himself rendered weak as a frightened girl under the man’s tight clasp.

The security attendant blithely continued as though his appearance was not strange at all. “But it’s nearly four in the morning Earth time, and you’re standing in the middle of the observation deck naked, save for a sheet. Do you require some sort of assistance?”

After the assistance he’d suffered already that night, what little strength he’d had left fled his bones. “E-E five.” How he hated the unsteady quiver in his voice.

“What suite?”

He got a better hold of himself this time and raised his head. “Fifteen twenty eight.”

“You’re nearly there.” The attendant guided him forward and together they walked to the intersection. They paused, checking the lights. They were blue. Corridor clear.

But as they passed through the transporter lane, the hairs on the back of Grison’s neck stood. A searing sensation cramped his gut so bad he nearly doubled over. He knew in his very soul they were being watched. There was someone or something behind them and whatever watched them also waited, patiently, for them to make a mistake. No. For him to make one. Shivering, he wrenched his shoulder from the guard’s grasp and stumbled over his feet, breaking into awkward a dead run. His legs, pumping as fast as they could work, were nonetheless unable to match the speed of his pounding heart. The screaming panic in his head refused to stop. No. No! Don’t let it get me. Don’t let it get me.

Panting, he shot through the sliding door and collapsed on the floor on the other side. Every breath constricted in his chest, pushed out with a wheeze. Near sobbing, he shut his eyes and hugged his legs close. He’d escaped death this time, but barely.

Chanting, “I won, I won, I won,” he whispered himself to sleep.

Nidi Station

Habitation Zone E5, Suite 1528

Morning

Grison woke on the floor cocooned in fabric. His head banged and beat like a thrumming drum. From the intercom above him came an announcement:

Attention all Nidi Station habitants. Incoming supply ships are scheduled to arrive today at eleven thirty. Please queue early and have your credits ready if you intend to purchase directly from the docking bay. Otherwise, all station stores will be resupplied with perishable goods in floor-section order. Unloading will commence once direct exchanges have completed. Please do not interrupt the flow of traffic in the main corridors and obey all safety regulations.

The message repeated, this time in Universal and Parsi as well as the clipped, broken tones of this sector’s merchant’s tongue. When the intrusion ended, Grison ceased rubbing his sore head and laid his cheek to the cheap carpet over the metal deck grating. Again, it said, Cah cahh nuh. Cah cahh nuh. Mixed with the system environmentals’ Craaawk. Vroooom. Craaawk. Vroooom, the veritable symphony of noise relaxed his strained nerves. He yawned and sat up, surveying the room. The bag containing ill-fitting clothes still lay on the floor. The blue duffle remained on the coffee table, untouched. He didn’t feel the urge to open it right that second. The right moment would come soon enough.

Stubbornly, he forced his tired limbs to rise. In the shower, he did the best he could to erase all traces of green from his body. When he got out, the air whooshing around his nakedness caused him to tremble. Again, he hated his own weakness. Without strength a man was nothing. I must be strong. He lifted his chin, looking in the mirror, and let the towel fall. Enough cowering. I’ve been cowering too much.

He told himself it was merely the sudden change in environment that had him so rattled, so not himself. Pull your act together. Stop acting like a fool.

In a way, the terrible green liquid had done him a favor. It had burned away the outer shell, separated the wheat from the chaff. I will no longer be that trembling man in the sheet. His eyes burned insistently in the reflection. I will conquer this.

From his left, he heard the station’s air coolers making the sound, har-rooom ka-tem, har-room ka-tem, and Grison’s mind made out a voice above the repetitive tone. It said, trouble ahead, trouble ahead. Gritting his teeth, he squared his shoulders and gave himself one last bolstering look in the mirror before heading out to get dressed.

Clothes were still strewn on the floor where he’d left them, carnage from the previous day’s rage. He studied them with a jaundiced gaze before plucking only the two pieces he’d chosen, avoiding touching all the rest. As for socks and underwear, he didn’t bother. Perhaps he’d order some from the commissary and have them delivered to his suite. Thinking of deliveries, he ordered a simple meal from the replicator in his room and sat, prepared to eat it. However, once in his chair he found the food on the plate had turned green.

Sloshing his coffee as he rose, he backed away from the nastiness. As he stood there swallowing back down what little his stomach possessed, the soft tone of the intercom dinged.

Doctor Grison, you have a message from first medical officer Ballantine.

His eyes rolled as he muttered, “Play.”

Doctor Grison, hi, it’s nurse Ballantine here. I need to speak with you in order to finalize the treatment plan for patient Cornekus Rister. Could you please come by security this morning? Thank you, Ballatine out.

“Hmpf.” Grison had no intentions of seeing Rister again in the flesh, but as his stomach couldn’t handle breakfast, he might as well wander that way. Besides, he possessed no clear plans for the day. Perhaps if he got Ballantine out of the way, he would have a chance to see the ships dock and unload. Presumably bearing drinkable beer… “Now that, I’d like to see.”

In a better mood already, he left his quarters and traveled the four floors and two hallways to security. Again, no one manned the desk, and he’d seen no precautions taken as he entered the area. The weapons locker sat right in front of him. True, it required a key code or a pass to access the goods, but how hard would that be to come by? Those two rowdies in the bar most probably had access. He could only imagine how easy it would be to gain their entry codes once they were sufficiently inebriated. Given their Neanderthal-like state, the duo would doubtless to continue to drink the green ale even when proper alcoholic beverages became available. The thought made Grison shudder.

Staring at the weapons lockers, he was startled when the door burst open and Ballantine entered the hallway.

She pulled up short, right before smacking into him. “Oh! Doctor Grison. There you are.”

“Yes. Everything all right?”

Ballantine bit her lip. “Well, Rister’s been demanding we look at his school records.”

His eyebrows rose. “School records?”

She nodded. “Yes, especially his later academic stuff. He demands we scrutinize the files and take another look at the data – specifically his yearbook pictures.”

A heavy sensation settled into Grison’s stomach. “Why?”

“Because the photos don’t match.” Ballantine shook her head. “The photos on file for Maynard Grison don’t look anything like they should.”

Cold and numbness iced down his veins, turning his thinking sluggish. When the fear hit his nervous center, his brain kicked into gear. “They’ve been tampered with, then?”

“Most likely. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”

“Rister has done it. I can assure you he has.”

“He seems adamant the files are as they should be.”

He stood straighter and brushed her aside. “Let me talk with him. I’ll get this straightened out.”

“But doctor,” she huffed, trotting after him through the door, “he’s in a very combative mood today.”

Grison snorted. “Of course he is.” He traipsed right up to the security screen and stared down at Rister. “I heard you’re causing trouble.”

The edge of Rister’s mouth lifted. “No trouble at all. Just trying to set the facts aright.”

“They’re fine the way they are.” He hadn’t meant to bellow, but sure enough his voice rang off the walls. Beside him, Ballantine jumped.

Rister came as close to the edge of the cage as he could without being shocked. His demeanor menaced even through the safety measure. “Oh no, they’re not, and I’m going to get out of here and prove it to the security committee, to the station authorizes, to the whole universe!”

Too far. Rister has finally gone too far. I’m done with him. Grison was done with fear and trepidation in dealing with Rister. Instead, he put on his most serious physician attitude. More than anything, he wanted this ongoing madness with Rister to end. He wanted him dead. “Oh no you won’t.” He too, leaned as close to the security grid as safety allowed. “You’ll never get out of that cell alive.”

Ballantine gasped between two ruby red lips. “Doctor?”

Grison snapped his attention to the silly girl. “Have you put in my request for Rister’s termination?”

“Well, no, I-I…” She blinked rapidly.

He held out his hand. “Give me your data pad.”

She frowned cutely, her eyebrows knit in confusion. “But doctor, we talked about that. Protocols—”

“Won’t help us here. The file notes, if you please, nurse.” He held her gaze, beat her down until she broke. He quickly took over the pad and inserted his instructions. Death for Rister. Death and destruction. Nothing less would do.

When he finished, he hit send, and handed the gadget back to Ballantine. “There. I’ve taken care of it. I’ve taken care of you, Rister,” he snarled at the cage.

A resounding hiss issued from the inmate’s lips and echoed off the walls. “You sure about that?”

“Absolutely.” He glared at his nemesis, silently counting the days until Rister was gone from his life forever and silently willing them to be blissfully short. “We’re done here.”

His work complete, he ignored Ballantine’s surprised look and strode out the door. He felt the first real sense of peace since that long, terrible trip from the backwater colony. Being confined with Rister all that time had stretched his patience and control too thin. But now, things were back on track. The way they should be. Humming, he strode through the corridor, matching his tune to the sounds of the station. Vrooom. Vrooom. A-vrooom.

Forty five ships. That’s how many it took to fully restock the station. Grison stared at the armada, jaw dropped in amazement. How many different items did those ships need to carry to keep the old relic from falling apart? Or were they merely stocked with foodstuffs, wine and cheap girls? The idea of an illicit tryst, combined with Rister’s imminent death, thrilled him. He pressed his nose to the complexi-grade shield and exhaled, fogging the area around his nostrils for a few seconds. So far he hadn’t seen any women exit the ships, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

Human women.

Alien women.

Any kind of women would do. Offer up a little excitement. If he wasn’t going to spend his time on the station drinking fine wine, as least he could get laid. Maybe even two women at a time. Rubbing his hands together, he hurried to the loading docks hoping to catch a glimpse of scantily-clad sex traders. But the long lines of customers buying direct and the already large crowd of hangers-on made it impossible for him to get very close. Huffing, he turned his attention instead to the wall. There, the display listed the names, captains and anticipated cargo of all the day’s arrivals. Scrunching up his lips, he scanned the list for anything exciting. Stellar Harmoni, foodstuffs, clothing and hardware. Andromeda Calypso, medical supplies. Fortunate Brother, generator repair parts. Savvi Turdori, environmental scrubbers. The list went on and on. Grison yawned and stopped reading. Surely there was something good to be had, but it would obviously require more energy than he possessed to find it. He hadn’t gotten much sleep after all. His stomach growled reminding him he hadn’t eaten breakfast either, but now, with Rister taken care of, his appetite had returned in force.

Still yawning, he slipped down the hall toward the restaurants. One of the little coffee shops was open, and the bright astro-glow sign blinked on and off steadily, displaying pre-programmed messages. One of them said, Biscuits & hot drink - 2 creds. Deciding that would make a fine simple meal, he walked up to the counter and ordered. He’d just finished his doughy protein-enriched meal when his personal message comm. link beeped. He glanced down at the caller ID. Ballantine. “Oh hell. What does she want?”

Ignoring her, he slumped into his chair and dragged the recycled mug to his lips. He took a drink and swallowed. The damn thing beeped again, not giving him a minute’s peace. Grison rubbed his face. What did she want? There couldn’t possibly have been an answer to his request yet. Most boards didn’t move that quickly toward a decision and a medical one? Ha. Forget it. She’s just calling to yammer at me, give her squashy little feelings some air time. Well, I’m not going to listen to her wring her hand over what I’ve done and she’s not going to talk me out of it. She’s going to have find a way to live with it on her own.

Grison finished his coffee and dumped the cup in the re-cyc bin. Then, he wandered back toward the crowd, again straining to see any unusual females, clothed, or even better, unclothed as some cultures preferred. As he rose on his tip-toes to see over an annoyingly tall Criniri, a shrill ship-wide alarm rang. The screen illuminating the ship roster blinked out, and was replaced by a live station announcement.

Attention Nidi Station visitors and residents. A security lockdown is in effect until further notice. A prisoner has escaped from Psych Ward Five. Repeat, a prisoner has escaped. Consider him dangerous and do not approach.

The screen flashed a photo of the inmate and Grison’s breakfast surged up his throat. Rister.

He backed away from the screen his fingers automatically silencing yet another urgent call on his comm. link, which must have been Ballantine warning him of his predicament. There was no doubt in his mind he’d be Rister’s first target. “He’s going to kill me,” he muttered. “That’s what he wants.”

His hands shook. He knew without a doubt there was only one thing he could do to put an end to this madness. Get rid of Rister himself. And god, how glorious doing so would be. A part of him realized he’d been waiting for, and hoping for this moment all along. Yes, oh yes.

Breathing hard, he turned and sprinted back to the habitation deck. Inside his quarters, he searched frantically for a weapon. But he didn’t have a registered gun because he wasn’t security. There were no club-like objects in the room either, unless one counted the chair legs, so he had to keep looking. In desperation, he grabbed the zipper on the long bag resting on the coffee table and slowly began to pull. Once it was open, he gently parted the two halves like labia and reached inside.

A long box took up the entire space. He slid it out and hesitantly traced the picture on the carton. The four-foot single piece Hemeri Steel knives were famously beautiful, precisely balanced and bone-cutting deadly. All seven of them. These were the knives Rister had used to murder his victims. To slice and slice and cut them to little pieces. Rister, the murderer. Who even now had Grison in his sights.

He held his breath as he lifted the lid, fearing the first cold touch. As it opened, his eyes widened and his heart stopped. A sharp inhale stung his lungs. The box lay empty. The deadly knives were gone. Frustrated, he roared at the ceiling and dented the box with his fists. Again, his comm. link buzzed. Growling, he snatched it off his hip and scowled the message.

Rister has escaped. Heading your way. Seek cover. Ballantine.

He thumbed the replay off and snarled one of his own into the worthless gadget. “C35374, where are the damn knives you little bastard? Where are they? I want them now!”

But even as he ended the call, he realized what the mechanoid’s answer would be. No weapons allowed on station. Chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, he let out a pained whine. How could he have been so foolish? “Now I have no way to kill Rister.”

Unless he wanted to strangle the man with his bare hands, he’d have to come up with some clever way to get him to die. Unless…

Foggy images from his ale induced haze flitted through his mind. The Nidi techs hadn’t seemed all that bright. Who was to say the security guards were any wiser? With the controls so lax he might very well find a way to break into the weapons stash and then go in his merry way to hunt Rister. Even though that meant he’d have to visit the area Rister had just abandoned, taking a chance he wouldn’t return. Of course, sitting here in his quarters didn’t qualify as any better an idea. Rister would eventually come. And when he arrived, Grison wanted to be ready.

Underneath his feet, the floorboards said, “Kill Rister. Kill Rister.”

Taking the direction to heart, Grison scrambled up and headed out the door.

Security was flooded with idiots. They jostled Grison as they raced through the hall, never bothering to say “excuse me.” In fact they nary even gave him a look, if they noticed him at all. Grison simply wandered into the security area like he belonged. But before he reached the weapons locker, he was jerked through an open doorway. Recognizing the holding cell area, he tensed, preparing to fight.

Ballantine spun him around. “There you are, doctor. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Didn’t you get my calls?”

He shrugged, hiding the fact his heart rate had gone light speed. “I was busy.”

She shook her head. “You’re too late. Rister’s escaped and he’s coming after you, said he’s going to make you pay.” Her hand latched onto his arm and held fast. “You need to get off the station immediately.”

Grison’s eyebrows rose. He’d seen the vids, hadn’t she heard the alarm? How foolish she must be. “But I can’t get off the station. Nidi’s on lockdown. No ships going in or out.”

“You can use the transporter. Victim safety protocols allow for an emergency beam-out.”

“And where would I go?”

“Anywhere, doctor, that’s far from Rister.”

Ah, she wanted him to run. But to turn tail and escape, just when he’d been prepared and even quite eager to fight, seemed the wrong choice. Desire to kill Rister pounded in his temples. “I simply cannot do that.”

Ballantine guided him toward the doorway, a pacifying smile gracing her lips. “I know a lot of people are afraid of the transporter, but believe me, doctor, it’s your only choice. I’ve already loaded your bio-scan into the array. The machine will recognize your imprint and immediately load the program. All you have to do is step into it, and you’ll be transmitted to a safe place instantly.”

He squared his shoulders. “I’m not in danger here, Ballantine. I’m perfectly safe.” He watched her mouth form a little “O.” Not wanting to listen to anymore of her nattering, he released himself from her grip and passed through the door. Outside, the hall had fallen silent.

Not a soul lined the corridor, the hustle and bustle of a few minutes before had ended and given way to nothingness. Grison stood silently for a moment, looking both ways almost convinced this was a hallucination. But nobody came. Relieved, he crept toward the weapons locker, hand outstretched. Upon opening, he discovered it too, was empty. Snarling, he slammed the door shut. Metal on metal clanged, the bang echoing through the hallway. He was surprised the little nurse didn’t come running. When she didn’t he gathered his thoughts. Plan, I need a new plan.

So far, all his efforts had garnered him zero weapons. Plus, no personal ones were allowed on the station. But what about the vessels docked at the loading bays? Surely they carried arms. Liking this new idea, he started down the hall.

He hadn’t moved five feet when the station lurched. Normally, Nidi turned at a measured rate. Always cooling and always heating, it spared itself extra work by using a simple engineering feat. Spinning. Keeping mobile didn’t allow the heat to excel in any one area, and allowed the coolers a little less hardship. If need be, the station could turn on the stellar drive and move farther away, which is what they’d had to do annually, as Mira Tri Lucius grew warmer. But he hadn’t received any notice a ship move was imminent. Worse, it felt as though it had stopped moving entirely. A bad feeling sank low in his gut. A blink later, the lights went out.

Emergency generators roared to life, shaking the walls. Along the floors, banks of tiny green lights flickered on. They cast enough glow to guide his way, but the ale-green hue knotted his stomach. Grison couldn’t help but find it a bad omen. No, not this again.

From behind him came a call, soft and sing-song. “Oh, Rister. Risterrrr.”

He spun around in time to catch a flash of metal glinting off a very long blade. With a whoosh the vision vanished, sliding behind the corner out of sight. His heart skidded to a halt. When it pumped again, it hurried through the motion and beat in double time. Grison knew what he had seen even if it were impossible. Swallowing his trepidation, he backed the way he’d come one shaky step at a time. Only when he reached the intersection did he allow himself to turn around and scurry forward. He still had two more floors to go to reach the docking bay. Walking them backwards wouldn’t get him there any faster.

Running full-tilt, he passed no one. Met no one in the deck-to-deck lift. Saw no one when he stepped off of it and onto the docking bay floor. Even the wall screens were off, though some flickered in apparent protest of their non-use. As far as Grison could see, the bay doors stood open, and nobody was home.

His fingers itched for a knife. Any knife as long as it was sharp. He needed something to carry, to make him feel safe. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he walked hesitantly past the first bay and peeked inside. If there was a ship docked, it too, was playing dead. A dark gaping blackness peered back at him and silence. All was silent.

He tried the next one, and the next, traveling ever farther down the dim hall. At every opening he stopped and looked, then kept going. He didn’t have the courage to step into the void. Darkness wasn’t like light. Bright luminosity, it washed you clean but shade, it wrenched the soul from under your skin. Grison shivered, wrapped his arms around himself and paused. I should go back. There isn’t anyone here.

“Oh yes there issssss.”

Grison’s scream caught in his throat, trapping his air, too. With the hairs on his neck and arms standing on end, he turned just his head so he could see, and shuddered.

He’s not green. He’s black.

He’s green!

His clothes are green.

No, they’re red.

The scream worked its way clear and emerged from his lips as a tortured groan for help. But there was no one around to offer him aid. His face flushed and his mouth went dry. Fear rattled his ribcage so badly each breath trembled. He licked his lips, but his voice came out a whisper. “What… are … you—”

“Going somewhere, doctor?” Again, the flash of a long steel blade caught his attention. “I suggest you run.”

He didn’t waste time debating the reality of the command. Grison ran for his life. He kept going until he reached the end of the corridor, then turned right as it was his only option. This led into a dead-end harboring banks of lifts. He pressed the button and stepped into one. The doors slammed shut around the tip of a blade. He’d cut it close. The creature had been almost upon him. One more second and…

Grison sank to the floor whimpering, arms wrapped around himself to stop the wracking tremors. It’s hunting me. It’s trying to kill me. Why? Why? What have I done to deserve this?

The doors slid open and Grison stood. He peered out onto the C deck, blinking rapidly. A few people milled about, and the lights were blazing. C Deck might well have been paradise. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped out. Everyone went about their business. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the station had returned to normal. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his palm.

To his left, the wall screens glowed gaily. They showed the list of the ships in the docking bay, the current station temperature and the day’s video news. Two soft pings announced a new ship wide alert:

Attention Nidi residents. The security lockdown has been cancelled. The escaped prisoner has been recaptured. Repeat, the prisoner has been recaptured. Please go about your normal business.

Grison’s heart surged. They’ve got him. They must, that’s why everything has returned to normal.

On screen, a video displayed Rister’s capture. Four security guards circled him. Two grabbed him by the arms and just as when they’d first arrived, he kicked his legs and twisted, trying to break their hold. But the other two guards moved in, one punching Rister in the side of the head. When he dropped to his knees, the guards holding him relaxed a little, and that was all he needed. Rister sprang up and leapt forward, only to be shot in the head by the fourth guard. Rister’s body fell to the floor with a thump.

Grison turned away from the video, grinning widely, his glee unrestrained. He’d seen enough. All he needed, really, to discover he’d won. The deed was complete. He was Grison and Rister was dead. Finally able to take a deep breath, he straightened his spine and tugged his clothes into place. Perhaps lunch wasn’t a bad idea. Then, afterwards, he’d have a talk with the ship’s captains about a girl…

Striding confidently down the deck, he glanced around at the unfamiliar area. C Deck wasn’t habitational, nor was it mercantile. From the looks of things, it wasn’t engineering either. Offices perhaps, or administration. The people hurrying along beside him seemed purposeful, strident. He watched them and tried to adopt their demeanor. Businesslike. Intelligent. Efficient. He ended up following a group of young people down a corridor where they congregated in a cluster, talking excitedly. Grison stood off to the side, growing hotter and more uncomfortable by the second.

The heat in this section of the ship was astonishing. It would easily have doubled for hell. It was an oppressive, sultry warmth, too, that might have steamed him in his clothes. He couldn’t invent a reason why this would be so. Other parts of Nidi were quite comfortable. Stupefied, he looked over the kid’s heads to read the name plate on the door. “Transporter Engine Room.”

Understanding dawned. The working parts of the transporter beam must require immense amounts of energy. Especially such an early model. Luckily they were near a dwarf star kicking out plenty of gravitational wave. Harnessing it, however, must have required less shielding on this part of station. Grison loosened his collar, wiping the sweat off his neck with his fingers.

If the younger set was bothered by the heat, they did not show it. Instead, the queued up and one by one, were admitted to the chamber. In a few moments, Grison saw the floor panel lights change colors. The one directly to his right went from blinking blue to solid red. Then, a rush of energy beamed past him. One of the youngsters being beamed off station, he supposed. That’s what Ballantine wanted to do to me? Super heat me and send me colliding into space?

Yet as he stood there, he pondered how pretty it was to be collapsed to one’s basic elements and shot through the system at light speed. How deadly too. How perfectly deadly. In the back of his mind, he’d kept the possibility of pushing Rister into a transport beam as an optional murder method. He would have enjoyed witnessing his final expression. The chance to gauge how it felt from Rister’s final seconds. So many things he wanted to know but never would. Not if he melted at any rate.

Thirsty, he headed back toward the lifts and away from C Deck. Back on the observation deck, he found the place lively and all traces of the previous nightmare vanished. Below his feet, the station hummed its normal tune. Cah cahh nuh. Cah cahh nuh.

He returned to the same little café he’d visited earlier, this time drinking down a cold beverage. As he placed his glass in the re-cyc container, he heard his messaging unit buzz. “What now?”

He thumbed it on and Ballantine’s face filled the screen. “Doctor, you’re still here. Why haven’t you left?”

Grison scowled. “Whatever for?”

“Rister, he’s—”

“Dead,” Grison said flatly. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

Ballantine blanched a chalky shade and her pupils dilated. “But, he’s… he’s…” The screen swiveled and bounced, blurring the image. When it came to rest once more, Rister held Ballantine in a headlock, a knife pressed to her throat.

A shiver of excitement electrified him. “No. That can’t be. You’re dead, Rister. Dead.”

He re-arranged his hold as the nurse struggled. Finally he got her well immobilized. “Not yet I’m not. You’re going to have to do better than that to get rid of me.”

The silent chant restarted in his head and his hands began to shake from the veracity of his need. Kill Rister. Kill Rister. Kill Rister.

“Come down here and get me, or Ballantine dies.” The camera clicked off.

Grison lifted his head and looked around. Nobody seemed to be staring at him or to have heard his conversation. Dumbly he stared at the empty screen once more. But how is this possible? I saw him die. I saw it! Have I gone mad?

Not wanting to contemplate the last option, he headed for the lift. Surely someone in security would help him. They had to be there now. All he had to do was notify them. Everything will be fine.

But it wasn’t fine. He was drawn to Rister like a magnet, desperate to end his life. If he could just get rid of Rister, he would be free to live as he chose. Damn him for escaping. None of his other victims head fought back so cleverly. Now it was time for him to die.

Grison stepped off the lift and found the security hallway empty once more. The lights were not only on, the place was lit up like a sun. He listened at the door to the cell chamber but heard no movement within. Standing well to one side, he waved his arm in front of it. The doors whished open. After a moment’s hesitation, he walked in to find everything as it should be. Ballantine sat at the desk reading her notes. Rister glared from behind the screen.

“What the…?” Grison stopped, dumbfounded. This wasn’t part of the game. Rister had broken the rules.

Ballantine rose from her chair. “Hello, doctor. Come to visit our patient today?”

Grison backed away slowly, keeping his eyes on Rister the whole time. The doors whished open and he passed through them out into the hall. As he stood there, the lights clicked off. A sick, terrible feeling that he was imagining all this but that there was no escape turned his blood and bones to thick slurry. In one raw second, his life flew before his eyes at zoom speed.

Yes, he wasn’t perfect. Yes, he’d made mistakes. But was that really so bad? Had he really done anything wrong that other people didn’t want him to do as well? Gritting his teeth, he began to breathe though his trembling lips. Kill Rister. Kill Rister.

“Stay focused,” he whispered. “Do what has to be done.”

“Oh yes. What has to be done is final, permanent.”

The nasally, low pitched voice lacerated Grison’s last hold on control. He pivoted, putting his back against the wall and peered into the darkness toward the little devil’s direction. “Please, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Kill Rister?” A floating form emerged from the dim black. It wore a green helmet and skirt and its shirt was red. In its hand it held a four foot single pour sword. It swept a graceful long arc in front of him, the blade tip glowing red hot.

Grison’s knees knocked as his bladder strained, wanting to empty. But he’d not defile himself here, not this way. There was still a chance he’d make it to an honorable death. Mentally he held onto that with a vice grip.

“March,” the being commanded.

Grison stumbled down the hall to the intersection, the sword point hovering by his ear.

“Now, get in the lift.”

He entered, and the being followed. It hovered in the far corner, glaring at him. “Where are you taking me?”

“To kill Rister.”

“But he’s already…” he stopped from saying more and hung his head in confusion. “I saw it,” he mumbled. “I did.”

The little green alien snickered. “Did you now?”

“I did.” He insisted, his voice rising. At that moment the lift opened admitting them to the same hot floor Grison had visited earlier. He found himself in the same spot, near the transporter engine room, and the heat just as unbearable as it had been earlier. He tugged at his shirt, pulling it away from sweaty skin.

“We both know that’s a lie, don’t we?”

“N-no. It’s n-not, he’s dead.” His teeth chattered as he barely got out the words.

“Liar.”

“No!”

“Imposter!”

“No! It’s isn’t so... it ….”

“Pretender!”

Next to him the machine started up. He felt the rumble of the powerful engine under his feet. Again, he thought about the dying star. How long it would take it to lose its light. Only after untold thousands of years would it finally wane. Taking such a long time to die was almost equal to immortality. But for humans, the closest they could come was dying so suddenly, they never became aware of death. A laugh bubbled up inside him and out his lips. What an absurd thought to have with Marvin the Martian pointing a knife at your being.

As the transporter heated, the lights flashed, changing from blinking blue to solid red. First, the blinking blue sped up, then, there was a shrill alert beep before it changed to a solid red. The alert blared over the loudspeakers in multiple languages simultaneously.

“Warning. Transport in progress. Warning. Stay clear of marked path. Failure to do so can result in injury or death.”

The line lay thick at his feet, like a blood stain heading down a floor drain. So deep, so pure. He wished that was what he could do to Rister: turn him into a blood red stain. Hate bubbled up inside him. Hate for Rister. For the man who deserved to die, but so far had escaped his sentence. Clever, so clever that man. Always plotting and planning, always one step ahead of the game.

Whiiiish. One person went through the transporter and it powered down just slightly, in preparation for the next passenger. Grison wondered about their destination. Where were they going in such a hurry? Why didn’t they simply wait for the next ship?

Ah, but part of him understood the impatience. Run, devil, run!

To his left he sensed a movement, but, mesmerized by the elliptical waves of the transporter beam, he didn’t turn his head. He anticipated the small green creature would torture him some more. That was fine. At least that wasn’t a surprise. But then he had to look. Felt compelled to turn and see the person standing there who was shorter than him, stouter than him and definitely as crazy as him.

“Hello, Rister.” The doctor snarled the greeting, his voice so deadly and loud that it made him jump out of his skin.

Looking into those determined brown eyes, his options withered to none. This was the end of the line.

“Isn’t it time you died?” He said it with a grin, an evil one.

Fear shocked him back into his own body. There was no place else to go. No escape. But he had to get away from Grison. Had to. Had to. Run, devil, run!

The engine hummed louder, readying for one more transport.

As the power ratcheted up and the blue line readied to turn to red once more, Rister took a chance that the force field had weakened and stepped into the beam with one last thought.

It won’t hurt for lo—

Doctor Grison woke to the sound of the overhead ceiling comm.

Attention all Nidi Station habitants. There has been a transporter accident at Corridor C Section 511, Intersection 12.

A video opened, showing Rister stepping into the transporter beam nanoseconds before the force shield went up. Rister, being blasted to the only destination he deserved – the hot molten center of Mira Tri Lucius. Grison shuddered at the sight despite his relief that Rister could torment him no more. Above him, the message droned on.

This area is closed until further notice. You will be notified when access is restored. As a reminder, please obey the station’s safety protocols. Watch for and avoid flashing red lines on the pedestrian walkways. Failure to do may result in personal injury, or even death.

The closing slogan for the station’s newscast sounded, then the whole thing repeated in language choice two. Grison reached up, clicked off the monitor, and flopped back on the bed. Sweat dotted his brow and under his clothes. Watching the video had made him sick to his stomach. Made him question the life he was leading. What his work really amounted to. For some reason, going back to his regular job seemed the wrong thing to do. Instead, he ought to stay here, on Nidi, and invent a new life for himself. If Rister can do it, so can I.

Sitting up in bed, he decided that today, he’d go to the bar for a nice cold ale.

One Last Thing

Thank you for reading Tangled Intersections. I’ve written some sci fi romance stories, but this is one of my first science fiction. I hope you enjoyed it. Now you have the opportunity to rate the book and share your thoughts through an automatic feed to your Facebook and Twitter accounts. If you believe your friends would enjoy this book, I’d be honored if you’d post your thoughts.

I’d also be eternally grateful if you posted a review.

All the best,

Eva

Copyright

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

About Bio and Links:

Eva Lefoy met Leonard Nimoy at an early age when he signed her mother’s grocery list in the town’s tiny airport. A life-long love of all things science-fictiony was born.

She also writes erotic romance in many different pairings, but prefers, overall, to spend her days drinking tea, hiking and doing yoga.

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If you enjoyed this sci-fi tale, try out her first work, part of a collection, here:

Tentacles

This short horror anthology packs a big punch. Four short science fiction stories of tentacle monster mayhem and destruction to keep you awake at night wondering if you’ve already been the next victim…

Solar Pioneer – by Eva Lefoy

During the ten-year war, a remote scientific station on the edge of the galaxy has all but been forgotten. Tired of the war, cruiser pilot Coop takes the mission to re-establish contact with the team, but soon has to rescue himself from the clutches of a crazy scientist and a monster capable of keeping alive forever his wildest nightmares. Science Fiction Horror. 6,400 words.

Mr. Sweede – by D.R. Larsson

Through a telescope, some galaxies may not look like much, but the full spectrum of beings still lurk within. Some live, learn and love within it. Some are travelers. Some hunt. But not all hunters look like predators. Some look just like us. Some were our best friends. Mr. Sweede was everyone’s best friend. Or so they thought… Science Fiction. 3,000 words.

Zaural – by Eva Lefoy

Captain Zaural Shuri is sent to respond to an emergency hail on Andvari, a colony of former inmates, after a colonist is killed by the planet’s indigenous species. Once there, she must battle her ex-boyfriend, bizarre creatures, and her own fears to unravel the tangled web of clues before she loses her grip on reality. As if reality was ever what it seemed. Science Fiction with mild adult sexual content. 11,000 words.

The Sacrifice – by Haley Whitehall

One night Aveda, a scullery maid, is dragged out of bed by ruthless pirates and hauled on board their ship. She fears she will be sold into slavery or worse, but their plan is even more sinister. Down below, a monster she never imagined existed awaits the decision that will change her life forever… Science Fiction/Historical. 2,500 words.

Free at all ebook outlets!

Majorly cool review

Mrs. Giggles gave it a score of 82 and said:

For its price and length, Tentacles is worth the money, if you ask me. It gives me what I’m looking for: a good time with a pleasant diversion, so what’s not to like? The authors couldn’t do a better job if they had a bunch of Disney squids happily serenading me with Pete Townshend’s Let My Love Open The Door. Love the tentacles, people, they really aren’t that bad.

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Title Page

Dedication

Blurb

Copyright

Author Bio and Links

One Last Thing