Steph Bennion - Paw-Prints of the Gods

“These Dhusarians,” said Quirinus. “What did their ship look like?”

“Some sort of personnel carrier,” Fornax told him. “A black flying wing.”

“Pretty much like that one,” said Philyra. Still at the window, she pointed towards an arrow-shaped blob high above the distant horizon. “Do you think they’re coming back?”

“What!” exclaimed Quirinus. “Where?”

He followed her outstretched finger, stared at the rapidly-approaching spacecraft and saw straight away he had very little time to investigate the vehicle outside. A few steps later he was back at the door to the hangar.

“I’m going to check that transport before they land,” he told Philyra and Fornax. “Go and wake the others. They’re in the cabin in the dome, near the bar.”

“Bar?” Fornax gave a wry smile. “Now you’re talking.”

Quirinus hurried to the hangar, recovered his helmet and in no time at all was through the airlock and stepping forward into the pink Falsafah dawn. The wheel ruts left by their night-time visitor followed the curve of the dome, away from the runway. Moving quickly, he skirted the growing pool of water at the base of the wind-pump tower and headed to the front of the stationary vehicle, his eyes peeled for any signs of movement on the other side of the windscreen. Seeing nothing, he circled the transport until he reached the airlock hatch at the rear and cautiously climbed the steps to the hatch.

The door control yielded no response, confirming his suspicion that the vehicle was empty and powered down. More surprising was the heavy lock and chain on the mechanical override lever, for it was against emergency safety protocols to prevent outside access to an airlock. As he glanced back towards the dome, wondering if he had time to collect cutting gear from the Platypus , he saw an angular black blur shoot down the runway and knew his chance had gone. Quirinus gave a deep sigh, waited for resultant mist upon his visor to clear and trod despondently back to the hangar.

By the time he reached the transit lounge, the newly-arrived spacecraft had pulled to a halt next to the Platypus , well away from the dome. Zotz, a bleary-eyed Momus and Ravana’s cat had joined Fornax and Philyra at the window. As they watched, the rear bulkhead between the flying-wing’s engines folded down to become a cargo ramp, at which point a spacesuit-clad figure emerged from a hatch at the front of the ship and walked to the rear.

Momus glanced at Quirinus. “Been for a walk? You choose your moments.”

Quirinus opened his mouth to chastise him for missing last night’s visit to the depot, then decided to leave that particular pleasure until later. Outside, the spacecraft disgorged a flat-bed trailer from its cargo hold, upon which was lashed some sort of bulky industrial machinery mounted upon caterpillar tracks. Once the trailer was a safe distance from the ship, the spacesuit-wearing supervisor walked away around the side of the dome.

“Is it the same ship?” asked Quirinus, placing his helmet upon a chair.

“The Atterberg Epiphany ,” Fornax confirmed. “What are they doing?”

“That’s a road-laying machine,” said Zotz, pointing to the object on the trailer. “They had one at Newbrum spaceport to do runway repairs.”

Quirinus grinned. “I heard someone once tried to use it to lay a friend’s patio.”

“Frigging useless heap,” muttered Momus. “Took me a year to pay for the damage.”

“Aha!” said Fornax and smiled. “You’re that Momus.”

For a while the scene on the runway remained unchanged. Philyra extracted Ravana’s cat from the innards of the molecularisor and took the opportunity to see what the latter could produce by way of breakfast. Fornax refused the offer of a pseudo-bacon sandwich with a muttered remark about a cookery show. Zotz offered one to Ravana’s cat, which responded with a hiss before leaping off the window sill and through the open door to the hangar.

Quirinus was the first to spot the mysterious transport trundling across the dome’s forecourt towards the runway. As it neared the Atterberg Epiphany , the vehicle executed a sharp turn and reversed smartly up the ramp into the ship’s cargo bay. After a few minutes, the transport emerged once more, this time heading straight for the dome.

“Dropping off passengers?” suggested Zotz, his mouth full of sandwich.

“Or coming to collect those left behind,” mused Quirinus, with a glance towards Fornax and Philyra. “A truckload of angry Dhusarians. What joy.”

“Shouldn’t we hide?” Philyra said nervously.

“They know we’re here,” Momus pointed out, sounding weary. “There’s a crappy purple and white tin can parked outside that couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else.”

“Do you want to float home?” asked Quirinus, annoyed.

A loud thud suddenly echoed from the hangar, followed by the rattle of a compressor as the airlock pressurised. Quirinus put a finger to his lips and crept towards the open door, then glanced back to see everyone else cowering at the far end of the lounge. With a frown, he decided in favour of caution and pulled the door across so it was almost closed.

There was a second clunk. He peered through the gap and saw the inner airlock door slide open to reveal the rear end of the transport. He expected it to reverse onwards into the chamber, but instead the vehicle’s hatch opened and a stout figure, wearing a grey habit and headscarf, backed through the opening and down the steps. By the time the passenger stepped clear, the hatch had sealed and the hangar airlock door was sliding shut once more. Quirinus caught a glimpse of Ravana’s cat scooting through into the closing airlock and groaned.

“What’s happening?” hissed Fornax.

“They’ve dropped one person off, but it looks like the transport is leaving again,” Quirinus whispered. The figure in the hangar had yet to turn around. He quietly closed the door and tapped a command into the control panel on the wall.

“You’ve locked the door,” observed Momus. “Who’s out there?”

“Some woman,” Quirinus replied. “I couldn’t see her face. She looks like a nun.”

“A Dhusarian nun?” remarked Fornax. “There’s a novelty.”

“This is from the fake Sister Gabriel,” scoffed Philyra.

The transport was back on the runway. Quirinus returned to the window and watched the vehicle reverse to the parked machinery and hitch itself to the trailer. With the cargo in tow, the transport pulled away from the runway, around the side of the dome and out of sight. The Atterberg Epiphany stood silent on the deserted airstrip.

“Where are they frigging going with all that?” asked Momus.

“Where do you think?” retorted Fornax. “The excavation, of course.”

Zotz noticed the empty window sill. “What happened to Ravana’s cat?”

Quirinus frowned and wondered if he could justify sending Momus out to chase an errant electric cat. A thump of footsteps from the hangar reminded him they had a visitor. Moving cautiously, he stepped to the doorway, released the lock and opened the door.

He stared in dismay at the portly middle-aged Indian woman standing beyond.

“You!” he exclaimed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

It took a great deal of effort to unclench the fist he had subconsciously formed. The woman gave a sly smile and lifted her hands to show him a wriggling live rat. Her grip tightened, then with a twist and crack of bones the creature struggled no more.

“Quirinus O’Brien,” she said gaily. “After all these years!”

“Mallika Jizo,” he growled, eyeing her coldly. “What an unexpected displeasure.”