The Spider in the Hairdo: Opening Scene
by
Michael A. Burstein

Copyright © 1997 by Michael A. Burstein. All rights reserved.

Note to readers: As a service, I offer here the opening scene to this story. If you would like to read the whole story, you can find it in the anthology Urban Nightmares, published by Baen Books in November 1997.

The metal shell, small enough to fit in a human's hand, landed gently upon the pavement. After a long minute, during which the occupant's sleeping consciousness established that its hundred-light-year journey was at an end, the shell cracked open. The two halves of the shell, built to withstand the cold, hard vacuum of empty space, fell apart perfectly and rattled against the ground. They wobbled for a few seconds, then were still.

The spider emerged from the shell and felt the air around it, warm and humid. It stretched its eight long legs and let its black body fur stand up on edge, probing the sunlight shining above. Briefly, it extended its needle-shaped proboscis from the mouth in its underbelly, stopping it before it hit the ground. Its body felt fully functional.

Immediately, images flooded the spider's mind, images meant to be triggered as soon as the spider was free of its shell. The spider shuddered at images of a home planet, far away, threatened with destruction. It paused at images of its own race threatened with extinction. Finally, it contemplated the images of a last ditch effort to save its own kind, and to spread its people among the stars.

The spider now remembered why it had been sent out as one of millions, so long ago. The stimulus that had triggered the opening of its shell on this particular planet was electromagnetic radiation, a definite sign of intelligence of some sort, intelligence that could be bent to the spider's will.