Chapter 2: The Airlock...

Moose makes his way to the airlock, boots ringing hollow on the metal grating.  The hum of the ship follows him—a heartbeat in steel.  He tugs the suit from its rack, shoulders rolling as he works it on, the fabric whispering against itself.  Every buckle, every clasp, every hiss of the seals feels like ritual.  The helmet comes last.  He lowers it over his red driver’s cap, the glass catching the blue glow of the airlock lights.  The sound of the seal closing is soft, final—like the click of a psalm closing in a well-worn Bible.

“CS01,” Moose says, voice low but steady, tapping the side of his visor.  “You with me?”

The reply comes sharp and immediate—no static, no hesitation.

“Locked and loaded, Moose.  Right beside you in the shadows.  Your call.”

He smiles beneath the visor.  “Then let’s begin where we start.”

He reaches for the control panel, thumb hovering over the manual override.  “Proverbs one, verse seven.”

Proverbs 1:7

“The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction.”

A hum builds in the walls as the verse echoes through the comms, the scripture crawling into the circuitry, lighting up the monitors like constellations.  CS01’s voice follows, softer now—reverent, mechanical, alive.

“Foundation set, Moose.  Shadows holding.  What’s our vector?”

Moose chuckles, air fogging the inside of his visor.  “Forward,” he says. “Always forward.  With Jesus.”

The airlock opens with a low groan, and Moose drifts out into the black.  The cold hits first—not through the suit, but in the silence.  The hull stretches beneath him like a wounded thing, its scars glinting in the starlight.

CS01 is a mess.  Again.  A fire smolders near the aft line, and a panel near the comm array hangs half-open, wires stripped bare and drifting like seaweed in a slow current.  The last splice he made is shredded—sliced and reconnected in combinations he can’t explain.  It doesn’t matter.  The shadows cling close tonight, folding around the ship like a cloak.  They’re safe.  For now.

If there’s an alien onboard, the crew will find out soon enough.  Moose keeps his mouth shut, breath steady, every motion measured.  Fatigue drags at him, but he doesn’t break rhythm.  The whole crew is working through James 1 this week, and he’s not about to slack off.  Faith without work is dead, and there’s always work.

The question is where to start.  The foundations are set, the corner stone still waiting in the future.  Maybe biblical inerrancy is the right place to begin this time—a ship can’t hold truth if her code keeps drifting.  He snorts quietly at the thought, wrinkling his nose as he floats above the hull.  His tether snaps taut, tools floating at his side like old friends waiting their turn.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice small against the stars. “Let’s get back to the Word.”

2 Timothy 3: 16-17

“All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, thoroughly equipped for every good work.”