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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