Steph Bennion - Paw-Prints of the Gods

“This place is a tip,” remarked Fornax. “Look at this stuff! What use is it to anyone?”

“We use what we can get,” Philyra said indignantly. “Most of us can’t afford to import fancy new things from Earth or wherever. We don’t have the big robot factories that make all the nice stuff you’re obviously so used to.”

“But look at it! Voice-activated sofas are so twenty-second century.”

Philyra looked at her in scorn. Fornax smiled, glanced towards the door at the back of the shop, then walked to the counter and began to examine the odd bits of rock displayed on a tray. The electric parrot shuffled along its perch and fixed her with a beady-eyed stare.

“Hey, mister parrot,” greeted Fornax. She plucked a lump of rock from the tray and examined it closely in an attempt to avoid the bird’s piercing gaze. “Are these fossils?”

The parrot cocked its head to one side and gave a metallic squawk.

“For sale!” it declared. “One credit!”

Philyra came to join Fornax and picked up another piece of rock. The dark-coloured sample contained an unmistakeable yet unidentifiable fragment of some long-dead creature. Fossils were rarely found on Ascension, but that was largely because geologists generally thought there were far more interesting planets to explore. Fornax knew little of the bleak landscape outside the dome but there was something about the colouring of these particular rocks that to her suggested they had come from a lot further afield.

“I’m guessing these aren’t local,” she remarked. “Where were they dug up?”

“Imported especially for you from Tau Ceti,” the parrot declared. “Genuine alien artefacts! Bones of the mysterious greys. One credit!”

“One credit for an authentic alien fossil?” Fornax frowned, disappointed that these particular alien artefacts were not what she expected. Now she thought about it, she was not sure what she had hoped to find.

“How much for a pencil?” asked Philyra. She had quickly become bored with looking at lumps of rock and had found a pot of archaic writing implements on a nearby desk.

“One credit!”

Fornax held up a fossil. “Are these from Falsafah?”

“One credit for a pencil?” Philyra laughed. “I could buy a laser stylus for that.”

“Alien artefact, one credit!” the parrot confirmed. “Pencil, one credit!”

“So a lump of rock, painstakingly identified and carefully extracted as an important extra-terrestrial relic,” said Fornax, “no doubt by a skilled archaeologist working under very trying conditions, then flown fifteen light years across the galaxy to this very shop, is deemed comparable in value to a wooden writing stick?”

The parrot paused, as if to consider the logic of her question. “One credit!”

“They must be really good pencils,” muttered Philyra.

“Is the owner of the shop here?” asked Fornax, impatiently.

The parrot did not reply. Fornax became aware of a sudden silence beyond the door to whatever lay at the rear of the emporium and began to suspect it was no coincidence they had found no one here. The reporter was a stranger in town, which would immediately ring alarm bells for anyone who thought nothing of sabotaging security cameras. She realised then that her direct approach had been wrong.

With a sigh, she glanced down at the display of fossils, looking for inspiration. It was then she saw that the tray was actually the lid of a storage box, of a similar size and shape to the smaller shipping containers used for interplanetary cargo. After glancing at both doors to make sure they were not about to be disturbed, she lifted the tray and peered beneath to see if there were any markings on what would be the top of the box lid, taking care not to spill its contents. Fornax smiled and lowered the tray back onto the counter.

“We should go,” she declared. “There’s nothing to see here.”

“Genuine alien artefacts!” the parrot protested. “One credit!”

“No thanks,” said Fornax. “These are not the finds I am looking for.”

Philyra looked puzzled by the odd tone to her voice. Fornax gave a cryptic smile, turned from the counter and walked briskly to the door. The reporter could almost hear the sigh of relief from whoever it was hiding in the room beyond.

“What now?” asked Philyra, as they stepped back out onto the street.

“The spaceport,” declared Fornax. “We have a ship to find.”

Bellona sat quietly in Circle Park, resting upon the soft grass with her back against the trunk of an anaemic conifer, her slate on her lap. As expected, Endymion had added untold layers of encryption to his personal network account and she was unable to confirm her assertion that he had a secret copy of Taranis’ Isa-Sastra , but figured Nyx could use his influence as a police officer to locate it easily enough. She had sent a message to Selene with her news, who had replied to say she would meet Bellona at the park.

Selene’s earlier hint about a possible reward had encouraged Bellona to think about studying the Isa-Sastra properly, in case the inner circle decided to throw a few questions her way to test her faith. In Bellona’s hand was the old grey book, Fenris’ copy of the Dhusarian texts, while on the slate screen before her now was the same book as given to her when she joined the Newbrum church. Except it was not the same.

Fenris had underlined many sections in his paper copy of the book. As she flicked through the densely-printed pages, Bellona was startled to find marked in this way a passage regarding Maharaja Ravana of Yuanshi, the reborn demon king of Lanka. Intrigued, she read with fascination the prophecy of a warrior boy king, destined to unite the people of Lanka and Ayodhya under one rule and free the moon of Yuanshi from its oppressors. She found it hard to reconcile this tale with the Ravana she knew, the shy Indian girl with the scarred face, who had sided with Raja Surya at the peace conference. Yet what disturbed her more was that the story was missing from the Isa-Sastra given to her by the Newbrum church. It did not seem right to Bellona that holy texts could be edited in this way, for part of her felt that no one had a right to tell her how to shape her own beliefs.

Bellona read the passage again, this time looking for clues that it was indeed about the Ravana she knew, but found nothing other than that her Isa-Sastra namesake shared the same birthplace of Lanka. She dimly recalled talk of a prophecy after Ravana and the others returned from their confrontation with Taranis on the Dandridge Cole , but she had been busy nursing the wounded Quirinus and had not paid much attention. Bellona thought it odd that anyone still believed in such things as prophecies, yet could see why Ravana O’Brien may have been intrigued enough to relieve Taranis of the original texts.

A shadow fell across her slate and she looked up to see that Selene had arrived, dressed as always in her customary black. Bellona was surprised to see Nyx coming up behind, wearing his police uniform and looking irritable and weary, though it was hard to be sure as his eyes were masked by his visor. Selene seemed a little annoyed by Nyx’s presence but nonetheless greeted Bellona with a pleasant smile.

“Hello Bellona,” she said. “You have some news for me?”

“Will this take long?” snapped Nyx, frowning. “I’ve just got back from mopping up the mess at Thunor and I need to get some sleep before tonight’s service. We must also attend to the funeral arrangements for our departed Dhusarian Brother.”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” hissed Selene. “I can handle this!”

Nyx removed his visor, gave her a scathing look and impolitely pushed her aside.