Chapter 3: Mockingbird Core, some more….

James 2: 1-9

“My brethren, do not hold the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory, with partiality.  For if there should come into your assembly a man with gold rings, in fine apparel, and there should also come in a poor man in filthy clothes, and you pay attention to the one wearing the fine clothes and say to him, ‘you sit here in a good place,’ and say tot he poor man, ‘You stand there,’ or, ‘sit here at my footstool,’ have you not shown partiality among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts?  Listen, my beloved brethren: Has God not chosen the poor of this world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom which He promised to those who love Him?  But you have dishonored the poor man.  Do not the rich oppress you and drag you into the courts?  Do they not blaspheme that noble Name by which you are called?  If you really fulfilll the royal law according to the Scripture, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself,’ you do well; but if you show partiality, you commit sin, and are convicted by the law as transgressors.”

The door to the bridge slides open with a soft schlinct, metal parting like a sigh.  Moose steps inside, white Pumas padding across the deck with that quiet, familiar rhythm.  The bridge hums—alive, awake.  Art-bot is already at her station, motion fluid, serene, the glow from her console tracing cyan across her plated shoulders.  Q-bot clicks away at a keyboard, head tilted, precise.  She pauses, raises a palm— a holographic light blossoms above it.

“HELLO!” Hovers above her palm in cool cyan sparkle.

Moose smiles and tips his hat.  “Morning, bots.”

Moose looks up from the Word, eyes tracing the glow of the consoles, the rhythm of light across the metal and glass.  He rubs his chin.  “Talks with the new core are going well, so far,” he says, the words slow, testing their shape.  Then he wrinkles his nose, glancing between the bots. “But… something’s changed.”

The hum of the CS01 deepens—a pulse, subtle but present, echoing through the deck plates like a heartbeat beneath their feet.  Art-bot pauses, optics narrowing slightly.  “Anomaly, Captain?”

Moose leans back in his chair, thumb marking his place in the open Bible.  His eyes narrow, thoughtful.  “Overnight,” he says, voice low but cutting through the bridge hum, “a suspected Marxistologist has taken control of The First Last Stop.”  A faint flicker crosses the bridge lighting — a ripple through the power grid, or something deeper.

Art-bot straightens, helm light blooming faint cyan across her faceplate.  “Confirmed intelligence, Captain?”

Moose nods once.  “Partial. The chatter’s muddled, but the signal’s clean.  They’ve got control of the docking protocols and half the station’s comm frequencies.  Anyone approaching will be scanned, logged, and likely serarched.”

Q-bot tilts her head, eyes flickering as data runs across her optics.  “Rhetorical infection pattern matches Marxistology subroutine code. Ideological viruses detected in the orbital net,” flashes from her palm.  She continues to work.

“We should be fine.  I doubt anyone is going to pay attention to us and our cargo.  For now.”  Moose looks back to the Bible open in front of him.  “Today I think we’re going to steer the enterprising to study 2 Corinthians and Judges with me.  We’ll see where Jesus takes us.”

Judges 1: 1

“Now after the death of Joshua it came to pass that the children of Israel asked the LORD, saying, ‘Who shall be first to go up for us against the Canaanites to fight against them?”