Steph Bennion - Paw-Prints of the Gods

A pale, ginger-haired youth in a scruffy flight suit bustled from the Academy, jerking to a halt halfway through the door when his bag became entangled around a broken handrail. After freeing himself, the boy leapt down the steps two at a time before dropping to sit upon the wall outside the main entrance. Upon seeing Quirinus emerge from the park, he leapt up again and waved. A plump dark-skinned girl, wearing the same pale blue flight suit that passed for school uniform, emerged from the Academy behind him and ran down the steps, brandishing what looked like a piece of paper in her hand.

“Zotz!” she called. “You forgot to take a leaflet!”

The boy turned and took the offered handout, whereupon the girl disappeared back inside before he had a chance to say anything. Quirinus crossed the street to join him, gave the boy a friendly pat on the back and together they walked on along Circle Park Road.

“Hi, Zotz,” said Quirinus. “Good day at school?”

“Rubbish,” Zotz replied. “Did you get your licence back?”

Quirinus shook his head. “The Administrator said she doesn’t like one-eyed pilots.”

“I think the eye patch is cool,” Zotz told him. “It makes you look like a pirate. Is there such thing as space pirates?”

“There’s nothing worth stealing around here. Was that Bellona?” asked Quirinus. Bellona, along with her brother Endymion and friend Philyra, had played a part in the series of events that led them to Epsilon Eridani some months before.

“She and Philyra are at my school,” said Zotz. He glanced at the thin printed sheet the girl had given him. “Bellona’s been acting very strange. Her mum and dad argue a lot and she’s started going to church by herself. Look at this!”

Zotz passed the leaflet to Quirinus. It was an advertisement for a church group aimed at young adults, with an imprinted holovid showing scenes of happy people doing all sorts of wonderful charitable activities on a world that bore no resemblance to the bleak environs of Ascension. Quirinus and Zotz had seen at first hand what Dhusarian Church terrorists did on Yuanshi and the look they gave one another as they examined the leaflet perfectly encapsulated their contempt for the twee images. In the top left corner was a six-pointed star with a centre swirl, which reminded Quirinus of the insignia once used by the Maharaja on Yuanshi. The headline read: ‘DHUSARIAN CHURCH OF ASCENSION – JOIN WITH US TODAY AND PRAY THE GREY WAY!’

“That’s scary,” Quirinus said at last, handing the leaflet back to Zotz. “I didn’t know there was a Dhusarian Church in Newbrum.”

“It’s been here for years,” Zotz replied. He stuffed the handout into his bag. “They meet in an old bingo hall at the end of Broad Street. Bellona said the Church is becoming really popular on Ascension and they’re looking for somewhere bigger.”

“I’m sure there’s some gas giant we can tip them into, no problem.”

Zotz grinned. Just then, Quirinus’ wristpad beeped, indicating an incoming message. Wristpads were hugely popular in space-faring colonies like Newbrum and much preferred to the hand-held net-access devices ubiquitous back on Earth, which easily got lost on zero-gravity flights. Quirinus had owned this particular wristpad for years, a basic model that lacked the latest touches like a holographic enhanced-reality projector, but which had survived exposure to solar flares, fuel spillages and a fair few crash landings.

“That was Momus,” Quirinus told Zotz, after reading the short message. “He’s waiting for us at the spaceport. Do you need to go back to our cabin? I put everything you wanted into the bag, assuming of course Momus remembered to collect it.”

Zotz grinned. “I think I have everything.”

They reached the point where Circle Park Road joined Corporation Street and paused to let a laden hovertruck wheeze past on its way to the spaceport. On the other side of the road a huge crowd had gathered outside Setco, for rumours that the food store had taken delivery of a shipment of chocolate travelled fast. It was said that whoever worked out how to produce such luxuries on Ascension would probably get elected Governor for life.

Administrator Verdandi regarded Ostara carefully, wondering whether she had heard correctly. The young Chinese woman perched on the edge of the seat opposite seemed earnest enough, but her request was an odd one.

“You want to go into business,” Verdandi said slowly, “as a private detective?”

Ostara nodded. “I’ve already taken a lease on an office in Sherlock Street.”

“How appropriate.”

“That’s what I thought!”

“Newbrum already has a fine police force,” Verdandi pointed out, though ‘fine’ was not necessarily the word she would have chosen in private. “Do you think there is any call for a private investigation service in the city?”

“I wanted to join the police force and become a proper detective,” admitted Ostara. “It is what I was born to do. It’s not my fault I’m too small for the uniform.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“When I suggested setting up my own agency, the police officer who interviewed me said I may need some sort of licence,” Ostara added. Verdandi could imagine the laugh of derision that may have accompanied that particular piece of advice. “So here I am!”

“Yes,” mused Verdandi. “Here you are.”

“I’ve read all sorts of books on detecting.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” said Verdandi, quite bemused by the woman’s obvious enthusiasm. “We’ve never had a private detective in Newbrum before now. At least, not to my knowledge,” she added, deciding it was possible a few may have drifted through on some clandestine business she cared not to think about. “It is difficult for me to grant you a private investigator’s licence when there is no such thing to give.”

“Does that mean I don’t need one?” Ostara asked excitedly.

“That’s not quite what I meant.”

Ostara looked crestfallen. Verdandi frowned, for there was something in the woman’s face that reminded her of when she herself had been a bright young thing, keen to make her mark on a world. With a sigh, she pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk and extracted the first blank licence sheet she came across, then smiled when she saw what it was for. Picking up a stylus, she crossed out one of the lines of text, wrote something else above it and signed it at the bottom.

“Here you are,” Verdandi said, handing it to Ostara. “Your licence.”

Ostara gingerly took the plastic sheet and examined the changes the Administrator had made to the document. The stylus had activated the impregnated ink, making the changes permanent and immune from further tampering.

“This is a sewage system inspection permit,” she mused, looking unconvinced. “Only you’ve crossed that bit out and written ‘Private Investigator Licence’.”

“And signed it,” Verdandi pointed out. “That makes it official. As a detective you are bound to deal with the dregs of society, so I think it is appropriate.”

She had the uncharitable thought that it perfectly encapsulated the ex-residents of the hollow moon, whom Newbrum authorities had regarded for years as no more than a bunch of smugglers, black-market traders and drop-outs. It occurred to Verdandi that having a grateful insider willing to keep an investigative eye upon things could prove useful.

“Gosh,” murmured Ostara, staring at the certificate with shining eyes. Verdandi smiled wryly, picturing it taking pride of place on her office wall. “I don’t know what to say.”

Ostara rose from her seat and shuffled to the door, still transfixed by the document in her hand. The Administrator’s charitable gesture had clearly left a lasting impression.