“There’s no going back to the Dandridge Cole for a while,” she said. “You saw what the Platypus did to the sun. Even if it can be fixed, it will take a lot of work to bring the farms back to life and get the hollow moon self-sufficient again.”
They had both been aboard the freighter when it crashed into the tiny artificial sun, which fortunately had been suffering a power loss at the time. Her mention of the hollow moon’s farms made Endymion smile. She thought of the animals the refugees brought with them, many of which now terrorised squirrels and small children in Circle Park.
“There was a ship in from Yuanshi just last week,” Endymion told her, inadvertently revealing he too was thinking of their past adventures. “We don’t often receive flights from Epsilon Eridani and this one was odder than most. It was met by people from Bellona’s church, though the passengers kept themselves hidden the whole time. Verdandi was furious that we let them into the city without ever seeing who was aboard.”
“They’re a weird lot at that church,” Ostara remarked. “No offence to your sister.”
“None taken. It stuck in my mind because of Ravana being away doing her archaeology. I took a peek at the ship’s flight log and saw it had been to Falsafah a few weeks before,” explained Endymion, then sighed. “It’s been an odd week at the spaceport. The police were around earlier, asking space-traffic controllers about any unusual activity around Thunor. They think something has happened to the workers on Sky Cleaver and are sending a ship to investigate.”
“Unusual activity?” Ostara asked, mildly intrigued. The CSS Sky Cleaver was the deep-space equivalent of an oil rig, placed in a low orbit around Thunor to extract hydrogen and helium-three from the gas giant’s atmosphere.
“There’s been no word from the crew for ages,” Endymion told her. “The police say it was probably an accident. You know, someone forgot to close an airlock, or rats got aboard and chewed through life support systems, or they all got food poisoning or something.”
“That’s horrible!”
“It’s a dangerous job,” mused Endymion, thoughtfully sipping his tea.
Ostara frowned. Endymion was usually more than ready to go into graphic detail as to what unpleasant and gory fate awaited the unwary in space, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Ostara decided she was not much of an investigator if she did not ask.
“Something on your mind?”
Endymion paused and gave his cheek an absent-minded scratch. “The Dhusarian Church in Newbrum is really getting big,” he said slowly. “I thought it was just another fad, a harmless crack-pot religion and with Taranis gone it would fade away. But this alien god thing is becoming a cult and drawing all sorts of people in.”
“Like your sister?”
“Mum and dad are worried about what she’s getting into,” he said. “So am I.”
“Is it worth investigating? I happen to know a detective who’s looking for work.”
Endymion laughed. Ostara’s face fell, reflecting that Verdandi herself had hinted there was no demand for a detective agency in Newbrum. Endymion’s casual remark about Taranis also unsettled her, for she effectively had been an accomplice to the priest’s murder, though it now crossed her mind that they had never made sure of Taranis’ fate after blasting him and his creations into space. She felt Endymion’s eyes upon her as she glumly contemplated the contents of her mug and wondered what he was thinking.
“Maybe that church does need looking into,” Endymion said. “I’d do a bit of snooping myself but Bellona would only accuse me of being sneaky.”
“You want me to spy on her instead?”
“Maybe. I can’t afford to pay you,” he said hurriedly. “I could pick up some bits of furniture for your office, if that helps.”
“I’ve got nothing else doing,” Ostara admitted. “Perhaps it is best that I practice my detecting before I start charging for my services.”
“Then you’ll make a few enquiries?”
Ostara smiled. “Let’s see what the Dhusarians are up to, shall we?”
* * *
Zotz gazed out the window at the slowly-rotating wheel that was CSS Stellarbridge, the two-hundred-metres-wide orbital station that served as a passenger terminal and trading post for ships unable or unwilling to drop through Ascension’s atmosphere. He sat strapped into the navigator’s seat on the flight deck of the Indra, watching as Momus slowly backed the huge tanker away from the static docking pontoon that emerged axle-like from the centre of the wheel. Quirinus was in the co-pilot’s seat, holding Ravana’s electric pet to his lap and clearly uncomfortable at not being at the helm. The Indra was far bigger than anything Momus had piloted before and in the wrong hands could easily knock Stellarbridge out of orbit. It was only when the end of the pontoon finally slipped past and began to recede into the distance that Quirinus visibly relaxed.
“We’ve got about twenty minutes before we break orbit,” he said, squinting at the console before him. The Indra was designed for pilot-less operation, but the flight deck had basic controls and life support so maintenance crews could fly the ship manually if needed. “Once the main engine has fired it’ll take about seven hours to reach the Dandridge Cole.”
“Aye aye, captain,” said Momus. “Or in your case, is that just one aye?”
“Very funny,” muttered Quirinus. He self-consciously touched his eye patch.
The ship began a lateral rotation and the brown planet below filled the view as they turned away from the space station. The Indra was shaped like a squashed airship, right down to the fabric skin that cocooned the spherical holding tanks clustered either side of the ship’s cylindrical spine. The control cabin was at the front of the spacecraft, with a cramped engine room that served the single plasma drive unit at the rear. The hollow central spine was currently stripped of its inflatable gas tanks, a hurried modification made before the tanker gallantly carried the people of the hollow moon to safety. This narrow corridor, three metres in diameter and a hundred and fifty metres long, had seen four hundred people and their valuables, noisy air-processing units, temporary toilets and assorted livestock all jostling for space. It had been a trip few could forget, despite all attempts to try.
Momus leaned back in his seat and idly flicked a switch on the console. The flight computer responded with a sarcastic beep and then a click as automatic systems moved the switch back to its original position. Quirinus gave the pilot a scornful look.
“Crappy autopilots,” muttered Momus. “It’s frigging boring flying one of these heaps. What happened to proper ships that relied on real people to fly them?”
“They all fell apart due to lack of maintenance,” Quirinus retorted.
“What about the shuttle?” asked Zotz. “Is that a proper spaceship?”
“Just going up into frigging orbit and back down again? Give me a break.”
“Momus used to fly shuttles,” Quirinus told Zotz. “Then one day he thought it would be clever to attempt a docking with Stellarbridge without using the automatic pilot. He was showing off to some girlfriend riding in the cabin with him. You can still see the dents today.”
“Momus dented the space station?” exclaimed Zotz, his eyes wide.
“I was talking about the dents in his head. His girlfriend was a kick-boxer.”
“Crappy shuttles,” muttered Momus. “It’s no life for an adventurer. I should be out there in the black; finding new stars, new systems, new worlds! Not plodding towards a bloody asteroid in a frigging gas bag like this.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” mused Quirinus. Zotz caught his wink and reflected it was this philosophy that had saddled them with Momus in the first place. “The Indra is all we’ve got until the Platypus or your own ship is fixed.”
Momus snorted in derision, then froze as he caught Quirinus’ stern glare.
“Remind me,” Quirinus murmured coolly. “Who’s paying you to be here?”
“You are,” Momus replied meekly. “Though I’ve yet to see any a
ctual credits.”
“I miss my Platypus.” Quirinus sighed. “I wonder how Wak is getting on?”
“Shall I give dad a call?” asked Zotz. He reached for the bag wedged beneath his seat and pulled out his touch-screen slate, causing some of his spare underwear to float free in the process. “We’re close enough to the servermoon for a holovid link.”
Quirinus shrugged assent. Ascension’s servermoon, a kilometre-wide satellite relay crammed with data banks and an extra-dimensional transmitter, was one of many that enabled near-instantaneous communication across the five systems. Interstellar spacecraft could use their ED drives to send packets of data to the nearest servermoon. The Indra had only a standard transceiver, but Zotz quickly confirmed they were close enough to the Ascension relay to avoid irritating signal delays. The Dandridge Cole had its own ED transmitter.
“Just calling him now,” Zotz remarked. He clipped the slate into a slot on the console.
He stared startled as the screen lit up in a flurry of movement. Grunts of exasperation wafted from the slate’s speaker, then came a glimpse of panic-stricken ashen features beneath an unruly mop of ginger hair. Green tendrils swept across the screen, writhing angrily against the arm attached to the transmitting wristpad. As the watchers on the Indra stared in disbelief, the owner of the arm wrestled free from his attacker and staggered back to safety. The face of Professor Wak, the Canadian chief engineer aboard the Dandridge Cole, appeared before his wristpad lens. He gave a weary wave with his other hand.
“Quirinus! Zotz!” he called, sounding as tired as he looked. “Good to see you!”
“What the hell is happening there?” exclaimed Quirinus. On the screen behind Wak, something long and green hung from the ceiling in great loops like a basking snake, visibly twitching. “It looked like you were being attacked!”
“I was!” Wak retorted irritably. “By your damn ship! These weird growths are all over the blasted place, lashing out every time I try to remove them!”
“Weird growths?” asked Momus, perturbed.
“Woomerberg Syndrome,” Quirinus told him, not bothering to explain.
“Wow,” murmured Zotz. Taranis’ secret experiments released growth hormones into the hollow moon’s life-support systems, causing strange tendrils to erupt from the Platypus’ organic AI unit. Judging by the image on the screen, they had grown considerably since he last saw Quirinus’ ship. “That’s amazing!”
“I told you not to touch them,” Quirinus told Wak. “Ravana was convinced they saved the ship. It was Fenris’ bomb that caused the crash, not those things.”
“I don’t like them,” Wak said sulkily, scratching his head in exasperation. “It’s not natural, having stuff growing through the ship like that. Especially when hell-bent on strangling me every time I reach for the wire cutters. Even touching them with my false hand is enough to set them off.”
“It’s only the AI,” Quirinus pointed out. Wak still lacked a proper replacement for his damaged artificial left hand and the temporary repairs did look a little scary. “How would you react if someone tried to cut bits off you? Talk to it. Reason with it!”
“Reason with a machine?” scoffed Wak.
“Isn’t your repair crew all robots anyway?”
“And mostly unreasonable. Are you on your way?”
“We’ve just left Stellarbridge,” Zotz told him. “Captain Momus has broken his spaceship so we’re coming in the Indra.”
Wak smiled. “I hope you’ve been behaving yourself with Quirinus!”
“As good as gold,” Quirinus told him. A pair of pants floated past his face and he frowned. Zotz blushed and quickly snatched his underwear away. “How’s my ship?”
“It needs a lot more work but the hull repairs are complete,” Wak told him. “I know you’ve come to lend a hand, but as you have the Indra I need you to go to Thunor. We leaked a lot of fuel when we lost Reactor A and the main tanks are running low.”
“The Indra doesn’t need a pilot for that,” Quirinus protested.
“I contacted Sky Cleaver a while back and they insisted on a personal visit,” replied Wak, sounding apologetic. “I’ve tried to find out why but there’s been no reply.”
“Newbrum Police have sent a ship to investigate,” said Quirinus. They had all heard the spaceport rumours. “They think there’s been trouble out there.”
“They were very annoyed at having their planet-leave allowance reduced, I know that much,” Wak told them. “Have you heard from Ravana?”
“She’s due to call tomorrow. The dig is in the middle of nowhere so she only gets the chance when the University’s ship visits to deliver supplies.”
“It doesn’t seem right, everyone scattered across the five systems like this,” Wak said sadly. He brushed away the tendril slowly descending to his shoulder. “The hollow moon is such a cold, dark place at the moment. I wonder if it will ever be the same again.”
“Ostara says hello, if it counts. And you’ll soon have me and Zotz for company.”
“And me,” added Momus, sounding indignant at being left out.
“Oh yes,” Wak muttered. “And Captain Momus. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
* * *
Bellona crept nervously into the darkened hall and found a seat near the back. The Dhusarian Church of Ascension met in the basement of a residential block near the western edge of Newbrum’s dome, in a hall that once hosted bingo and karaoke nights. Even now the remains of faded posters advertising talent competitions and super prize days could be seen, peeking from beneath the brightly-coloured banners that church members had strung across the walls in an attempt to make the hall their own. The latter left a reader in no doubt it was a place of worship, declaring such things as: ‘IN THE BLACK SEEK ONLY THE GREY’, ‘TRUE WISDOM SHINES FROM ABOVE’ and the more confusing, ‘ALL THAT IS PART DOES BELONG’. The low stage was backed by a large black curtain, upon which was a silver six-pointed star with a swirl at the centre, the symbol of the Dhusarian Church.
Rows of chairs filled the floor. Bellona was surprised to see that nearly every one of the sixty or so seats was taken. The dim orange glow from the telepathy transmitters above the pews did little to dispel the dark, but it was clear that amongst the congregation the old were outnumbered by the young; most of whom, like Bellona, new converts to the faith.
A latecomer took the seat next to her. Selene, the girl at school who had first invited Bellona to the church, looked darkly mysterious with her clingy long black dress, ghostly pale skin and garland of artificial grey flowers adorning her long purple hair. As usual, Bellona felt fat and frumpy in her faded school flight suit, sitting alongside her slim and effortlessly-cool classmate, but the smile she gave Selene was that of a grateful friend.
At the top of the hall, a tall and muscular young man walked onto the stage. An old bingo machine had been draped with yet another banner to become a makeshift lectern. Bellona had yet to be formally introduced to Captain Nyx, who by day was a police officer in Newbrum and the youngest ever assigned his own ship. Nyx habitually wore a long black cape in a style popular amongst Dhusarians, along with neo-Victorian garb inspired by the vampire romances currently enjoying yet another revival on holovid. He had the same pallid complexion as Selene, with slicked jet-black hair and eyes concealed by the dark lenses of the latest enhanced-reality shades. The custom amongst star-faring settlers of naming children after figures from mythology was well-established, yet the rumour was Nyx had made the decision himself to adopt the name of the Greek personification of the night.
The man took hold of the lectern and savoured the hush of anticipation.
“There are no gods but the greys!” he proclaimed, in a voice surprisingly rich for one so young. “Praise be the ancient guardians of the stars! They are the noble teachers who have given us a glimpse of their wisdom through the writings of the Isa-Sastra!”
Bellona leant forward, eager to catch every syllable. In her hand was her own copy of the fabled Book of
the Greys; unlike the holographic versions most had on their slates, hers was an old-fashioned tome of bound paper pages with a worn grey cover. It had belonged to Fenris, a man who once worked for the priest Taranis himself. Bellona had come across the text after Fenris’ death and kept it secret, for somehow it made her feel special, as if the book’s unique providence had the power to elevate her above others.
“The Dhusarian Church is the light in the black!” announced Nyx. “It is written that the greys, the mighty galactic travellers of infinite insight, will one day return to lead the twelve kingdoms of humankind. That time is near!”
“Praise the greys!” cried the congregation, all except Bellona who missed the cue.
“Tonight, we are truly honoured,” Nyx continued. “Our pleas to the Third Temple of Yuanshi have been answered. This is the day the Dhusarian Church of Ascension welcomes our planetary guides, our teachers, our saviours!”
“Praise the greys!”
Bellona gasped as two figures stepped from the shadows and approached the centre of the stage. Both wore long grey cloaks, with hoods that masked their faces. Nyx stood to one side and bowed deferentially. The monks stepped up to the lectern and with hidden stares regarded the eager faces of their congregation.
“The power of the greys!” cried Bellona with the others. “In your head be it!”
The monks lifted their hands in triumphant six-fingered salutes.
“zz-aand-bee-iit-iin-yyoouurs-zz!” they screeched.
* * *
Chapter Three
Tomb of the ancients
[Chapter Two] [Contents] [Chapter Four]
GOVANNON ‘ABERYSTWYTH’ JONES, head of exoarchaeology at Bradbury Heights University, stood and watched as a second laser-mapper drone swooped through the confines of the dome to join the one already hovering over the end of the trench. Deep in thought, his left hand idly flipped his trowel like a one-handed juggler, leaving his right free to idly scratch his stubbly chin and push up the rim of his battered wide-brimmed hat. The heat beneath the low-roofed dome was stifling, he had not taken a shower all week due to water rationing, their last supply trip brought rats to the site and outside there was nothing but desolate desert as far as the eye could see, but none of that mattered. Today was a good day to be an archaeologist.
Paw-Prints Of The Gods Page 6