Chapter 3: [Art] Recon prep...

[Art]

2 Corinthians 13:5

“Examine yourselves as to whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves. Do you not know yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you? — unless indeed you are disqualified.”

The cargo bay of the CS01 hums softly, alive with the low rhythm of power cycling through its bones.  The air smells faintly of ozone and paper — new bindings, fresh ink.  Pallets of Bibles are stacked to the ceiling, bound in plastic, each marked for mission.  Different translations.  Different callings.  Study editions.  Pocket-sized versions.  Every one of them a weapon in the crew’s quiet Work.

Some of the pallets are already torn open.  Books missing.  The Word distributed.  Purpose fulfilled.  Moose steps into the bay.  He carries his own sword — a smaller travel Bible, a New King James Version.  Compact, black leather-bound, a single black ribbon marking his last campaign.  He flips it in one hand and catches it again, the movement casual, familiar — muscle memory of faith.  The gold-leafed pages flash as he turns it.

He opens it and rests it atop a pallet stamped with a red unicorn.  The metal grating under his boots vibrates faintly with the hum of the ship. Moose begins to read, his voice soft but resolute, a prayer meant for the steel walls and the space beyond.

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.”

He adjusts his belt — the familiar creak of leather breaking the silence — and turns another page, his thumb tracing the gilt edges.

Proverbs 1:7

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

The words echo softly through the bay, swallowed up by the ship’s machinery.

Isaiah 26:3

“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace who keeps his mind stayed on Thee for he trusteth in Thee.”

He licks his fingers and turns another page, the paper whispering like wind through grass.  Then he sets the Bible down and kneels by his backpack — the standard recon pack, scuffed but solid. Inside are snacks, ration bars, bottled water, a few spare tracts, and small bags of trail mix for anyone who needs a hand.  Marxist zombies usually don’t, but the homeless are always with us. Y ou never know who’s going to be hungry.

Moose scans the pallets, eyes narrowing.  He finds what he’s looking for: a hard-covered red Bible, the title stamped in gold, shining like a ruby in the dim cargo bay light.  He slides it carefully into his pack, between the food and a folded note marked Field Journal #7.

“Matthew 28,” he mutters, “the last three verses.”

He flips through the book, fingers steady, lips already forming the words.

Matthew 28:18–20

“And Jesus came and spoke to them saying, ‘All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. G o therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.’  Amen.”

Moose repeats the lines quietly.  He bends, tying his shoes — new black Pumas with a clean white stripe.  Fresh from the last recon mission.  The laces tighten with a soft snap.

Hebrews 13:2

“Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels.”

He pulls his red driver’s cap on, pulls it low, buttons his trench coat, and slides the backpack onto his shoulders.  He takes one last look at the stacked pallets of Bibles, the mission waiting in every unopened box.

“Count it all joy, my brethren…” he murmurs, and with a final nod, Moose steps through the cargo bay doors into the light of the First Last Stop.