Chapter 10: The Snail and the Rabbit...

Proverbs 13: 3

“He who guards his mouth preserves his life, but he who opens wide his lips shall have destruction.”

Just down the street from the weathered meeting house, on the opposite side of the road, Moose and Cbot come upon the sheriff’s office. It sits a little apart from the rest of the block, deliberate and set back like a scarecrow watching the town without being watched in return. Surrounding it hums a ring of artificial space generators—strange alien machines half-buried in the red dirt, their casings etched with faint, glowing runes that shimmer like quartz. They do not bend time, only space, carving out hidden pockets where evidence, weapons, or dangerous criminals can be tucked away beyond ordinary reach. A low, steady thrum rises from them, vibrating up through the soles of Moose’s sneakers and into his chest.

The front of the building wears a digital sign that simply reads “Sheriff” in bold, unwavering letters. It burns bright enough to slice through the hot morning sun of Sixshot, casting a sterile blue-white glow across the packed dirt. A single reinforced door leads inside. No windows. No invitation. Just that blank, silent face staring back at the street. In front of the door stands a weathered hitching post, and tied to it is a robot horse, its matte-black frame dusted with the same red powder that coats everything in this town. The steed’s synthetic tail swishes back and forth in slow, patient arcs, joints whispering faintly with each pass. Its head hangs low, amber optics dim but alert.

Moose slows to a stop a respectful distance away, wrinkles his nose, and pulls his hat brim low. The rising heat presses against his skin, pulling a faint sheen of sweat from under the brim of his hat. Cbot remains at his shoulder, cloak draped close against the warming air. Her optics sweep the perimeter once, then again, green glow steady and thoughtful. The faint mechanical rhythm of her internal systems blends with the generators’ deeper pulse, creating a quiet harmony of flesh, faith, and machine.

Moose pulls his Bible out, the black leather of the small book worn and scuffed. He flips the Book open, turns a page, turns a few pages more, and wrinkles his nose. “Cbot, what is the Proverb that talks about not rushing?” His eyes search the pages carefully as he waits for Cbot’s reply, the morning light catching the faint creases in the paper.

Cbot tilts her hooded head slightly, the green of her optics softening as she accesses her internal archives. A gentle processing chime hums from her vocal unit, almost like a quiet breath. “Proverbs 19:2, Captain,” she answers, warm and precise. “‘Also it is not good for a soul to be without knowledge, and he who hastens with his feet sins.’”

She pauses, optics flicking briefly toward the humming generators and the closed sheriff’s door before returning to him. “Rushing ahead without wisdom… it leads to missteps. The tongue, the feet, the heart—none of them should run faster than understanding.” A faint swirl of dust catches at the hem of her cloak as another breeze passes. “Are you sensing something here that requires that kind of patience before we step closer?”

Moose stands there in the growing heat, Bible still open in his hands. The robot horse gives another slow swish of its tail, as if keeping time with their quiet deliberation. “When was the last time you tried to get someone out of inter-dimensional lock up?”

Cbot’s optics flicker with a brief cascade of data, the green deepening for a moment as she pulls the memory from her archives. The cloak shifts around her frame with the subtle movement, fabric brushing softly against the warming air. She stands a little straighter, processors humming low beneath the surface.

“Three cycles ago, Captain,” she replies quietly. “A small smuggling outpost on the edge of the Drift. The detainee was a mechanic accused of tampering with a colony’s life-support array. They had him folded into a pocket dimension no larger than a standard cargo crate. Tight. Disorienting.”

She tilts her head, the faint whir of servos barely audible over the generators’ thrum. “I negotiated his release. Not with force—though the old subroutines wanted that path—but with evidence. Reconstructed logs. Testimonies pulled from fragmented security feeds. It took seventeen hours of careful dialogue before the local magistrate unsealed the pocket.”

Moose feels the weight of the small Bible in his hands, the worn leather warm from his touch. The morning sun beats down, relentless, while the generators keep their patient, otherworldly song. The robot horse stands motionless now, tail still, as if listening alongside them.

“Negotiated. So you didn’t find a way in or out?” Moose murmurs and wrinkles his nose again. He closes the Bible slowly, fingers tracing the scuffed cover. The dust swirls lazily between them, carrying the faint scent of hot metal and dry earth.

Cbot’s optics hold steady on him, a soft emerald pulse flickering across her faceplate. “No breach, Captain. Not that day.” Her voice carries a quiet gravity, warm yet edged. “The pocket had no physical entrance once sealed. Only the magistrate’s key.”

She shifts her weight, the cloak settling around her with a faint rustle. The generators’ thrum seems to deepen in the pause, vibrating through the ground a quiet tremor. Her hooded head tilts slightly toward the sheriff’s blank door.

“This place feels similar. Sealed tight. What we say inside may matter more than how we enter.” A small, hopeful chime hums from her vocal unit. “Shall we knock, then? Or do you want to turn another page first?”

Proverbs 19: 1-3

“Better is the poor who walks in his integrity than one who is perverse in his lips, and is a fool. Also it is not good for a soul to be without knowledge, and he sins who hastens with his feet. The foolishness of a man twists his way, and his heart frets against the LORD.”