Steph Bennion - Paw-Prints of the Gods

“Well?” he asked, staring at Bellona. “Did you get the book from the Indian girl?”

“My brother said it’s been confiscated by Administrator Verdandi,” Bellona said, stammering slightly. She did not like the way he towered over her and climbed to her feet. Her answer had not pleased the police officer one bit. “But Ravana made a copy at school,” she added quickly. “It should be on the network somewhere.”

“A copy?” Nyx growled. “The sly little bitch!”

“Nyx!” exclaimed Selene, clearly shocked by his reaction.

“The thieving cow! How dare she mistreat the sacred texts!”

“You forget you are talking about one of Bellona’s friends,” murmured Selene warily. “Besides, this is good news. If we can’t get the original texts from Verdandi, the copy may be sufficient for what the brothers need on Falsafah.”

“What that dreadful girl and her friends did was unforgivable!” Nyx retorted. “They committed Taranis and the twelve to a lingering death. What happened on Sky Cleaver was a direct consequence of their meddling!”

Bellona watched as Selene shot him a warning look. The grisly rumours regarding the fate of the cloud-mining crew were the talk of Newbrum, but Bellona could not imagine how that was linked to what had happened on the Dandridge Cole all those months before. It was the way Nyx spoke of Ravana that troubled her most.

“Ravana is named in the Isa-Sastra ,” Bellona said cautiously, wondering how much Nyx knew. “How can you say such horrible things like that?”

Selene looked surprised. “Is she?”

“Take no notice,” Nyx said. “The Church of Ascension does not recognise the Book of New Prophecies. You should not waste your time studying discredited texts.”

“There’s other texts? Since when?” asked Selene. Bellona caught her glance, which suggested that like her, Selene too was disturbed by the thought that the Isa-Sastra was not the immutable theological rock they assumed the church had been built upon. “Are there any more prophecies we should know about?”

Nyx glared at her. “Right now, Falsafah is the only one that matters.”

Endymion went back to work after accompanying Ostara and her new holovid unit to her Sherlock Street office. She quickly became engrossed in the unedited BBC report and was still sat in front of the screen when he returned at the end of his shift some hours later. She had been busy in his absence and one entire wall of her office was now covered in sticky-taped scraps of paper, upon which she had scribbled various words and phrases. There were more scrawled notes on her desk and the floor.

“The BBC had a really neat screen that filled a whole wall,” Ostara explained, seeing Endymion’s bemused expression. “This is the penniless detective’s version.”

Endymion read a few of the notes and smiled. “Anything useful in that report?”

Ostara shrugged. “The Dhusarian Church of Ascension is quite tame compared to that of Yuanshi,” she said. “In Lanka, it was very much part of the rebellion against Que Qiao. The report says its swirly star symbol is banned on Yuanshi, which explains why I don’t remember seeing it. Here in Newbrum, the Church is seen as just another bizarre yet harmless cult. They even have Que Qiao employees in the congregation.”

Endymion’s eyes narrowed. “I thought the corporation was against membership.”

“That might have changed,” said Ostara. “One of the Dhusarians interviewed for the report was a police officer called Captain Nyx. He’s the arrogant swine who gave me such a hard time at my interview. The law enforcement contract in the Barnard’s Star system is held by IATL, which was taken over by the Que Qiao Corporation three years ago.”

“How do you know all that?”

“The public network portal for Newbrum police makes no secret of it. What scares me is Nyx has political ambitions; there’s a rumour he’s to run for the new Administrator post at Lan-Tlanto at the next elections,” she said, referring to the independent spaceport on the far side of Ascension. “The authorities want to bring a bit of law and order to the place.”

She idly shuffled the pieces of paper on her desk, awaiting Endymion’s response. Her eyes remained upon him as he moved to stare out of the window.

“What’s your next move, detective?” he asked eventually.

“I know you’re worried about Bellona,” she said. “To be honest, the church looks pretty harmless to me. I’d really like to see one of their services, but if Nyx or your sister catches sight of me they’re bound to get suspicious. Do you know that building at all?” she asked, after some hesitation. “I was wondering if there was a way I could sneak in.”

Endymion turned back and went to shake his head, then paused. His gaze had fallen upon her framed Private Investigator Licence hanging on the wall.

“There is a way,” he said and smiled. “With overalls, hard hats and a tent.”

Fornax strode across the hangar towards the berthed spacecraft and tried her best to look confident. Her luggage, trundling patiently in her wake, carried a few changes of clothes and the last of her Pinot Noir. Hidden in a secret compartment was her prized cambot, a rotor-driven miniature flying camera.

After their initial reconnaissance she had sent Philyra home, for what she was about to attempt was foolish in the extreme. Nevertheless, Fornax missed her company, for the young girl had local knowledge of which automatic doors were faulty, which escalators did not work and which of the annoying advertising holograms were the most persistent. Fornax was all too aware that her clumsy progress around the spaceport dome had been noticed.

The spacecraft before her was the Atterberg Epiphany , the name of which she had seen printed upon the box lid that served as a sample tray at the Outer Limits Emporium. The ship was a Taotie-class angular flying-wing, with a large rear-loading cargo bay designed to hold a six-wheeled ground transport. Fornax recognised the type of spacecraft as that used by Que Qiao as a multi-purpose personnel carrier on airless worlds, but the markings upon this particular ship’s dull black fuselage identified it as a privately-owned vessel.

Compared to somewhere like Los Angeles Galactic, security at Newbrum spaceport was laughable. Fornax used her charms upon an unsuspecting male spaceport worker, who revealed the Atterberg Epiphany was a recent acquisition of the Dhusarian Church of Yuanshi. Her enquiries also brought the intriguing news that the ship, having flown in from Lanka on Yuanshi, was due to depart for Falsafah within the next few hours.

The mysterious hooded figures who flew in on the ship had unnerved a great many people at the spaceport, though no one could satisfactorily explain why. The young Indian woman guarding the spacecraft’s open hatch was no more welcoming. She wore a black flight suit, a pair of mirror sunglasses and a scowl that deepened as Fornax approached.

“Can I help you?” she snapped.

“I do hope so,” Fornax said gaily. “The church asked me to accompany you so that I can join our comrades on Falsafah. We have important work to do, kid.”

“Comrades?”

“Brothers,” Fornax hastily corrected. “Sisters?” she suggested, seeing the woman’s suspicious stare. Her bluff was not going well.

“Sorry I’m late!” came a voice from behind.

Fornax turned and to her dismay saw Philyra trotting across the hangar, though for a moment struggled to recognise her, for the girl’s dark locks were now dyed a vivid purple. A bag hung from the shoulder of her tightly-belted flight suit. Philyra had gone overboard on make-up in an attempt to look older than fifteen, albeit with limited success.