“Both,” she said, nodding. “If your parents could raise someone to do what you did, I’m sure they’re great people.”
I laughed as she said that. “They are,” I said. “They really are.”
“Then let’s go see them first,” she said.
I smiled. “Yeah. I’ve got a lot to tell them.” With that said, we stepped back out into the dazzling sunlight, and headed towards home.
Kailash
by Michelle Herndon
Smoky dragon’s breath curled around the pillars of the Temple’s inner sanctum where Kestrel knelt.
Eyes firmly on the floor, he could just see the curve of a black talon along the edge of his vision, twice as big as he was. It tapped three times against the tiles, and a thoughtful hum reverberated through the room. The rumble reached all the way through Kestrel’s bones and into his chest, thrumming his heart.
“Thank you for seeing me, my lord Raphael,” said Kestrel, bowing his head.
“Speak,” said the dragon.
“My lord. For the past five months we’ve been receiving reports from Kailash concerning brutal murders that have taken place there. The killings are ritualistic in fashion. I believe a local cult is to blame.”
“And you wish to investigate?”
“Yes, my lord. With your permission.”
“This cult.” The dragon shifted its forelegs, crossing one over the other. A ripple of metallic gold scales shone in the glowlight. “What do we know about it?”
“Very little, my lord. They keep themselves isolated, save for a small settlement of followers they’ve managed to cull. We do know they’re Godless heathens who don’t follow our ways. They’ve refused all offers to join the Empire.”
“Interesting,” the dragon purred.
“We’ve sent our scouts and ambassadors, but the information they’ve sent back is bleak. Our last representative has turned up among the murder victims.”
“That’s why you bring this up now.”
Kestrel risked a glance up, just in time to see a wide curl of teeth revealed in the dragon’s smile.
He lowered his head again.
“Yes, my lord. I believe the situation will grow increasingly hostile if it’s not dealt with.”
“Very well.”
A brush of wings whispered against the tiles. The dragon rose, turned, and snaked its way through the pillars out of the chamber. A thin ribbon of tail coiled in its wake.
“You may go,” it said, voice carrying to the high ceiling. “Investigate these heathens and see if they’re responsible for these deaths. I trust you will handle your findings accordingly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Kestrel remained bowed until after the dragon had gone. He didn’t rise until the click of talons on the floor faded into the distance.
“Thank you.”
***
Kestrel breathed easier once he was outside. The Temple of Raphael was the grandest sight in the city to behold. There was no doubt about that. Gleaming white and gold towers spired into a perpetually dark sky, luminous in the glow they offered. It was a feeling of warm light that faintly transcended the physical.
Still, it was overwhelming to be in the Seraph’s presence, no matter what form he chose to take.
Kestrel turned the collar of his coat up against the rain and started down the front steps. He kept his eyes focused ahead, offering no attention to the beggars and cripples who lined the entry way.
Most of them had come for healing. Even if they hadn’t proved worthy of receiving it, they lingered, showing off their wounds and deformities and crying out their grief in hopes of being tossed a few credits from the passing Temple visitors.
Even more of them stayed long after they had been healed, deciding that begging was more tolerable than working for a living.
Kestrel sneered his disdain, and kept walking.
He stopped at the plaza at the bottom of the Temple steps. A six-sided area, each portion sat decorated and dedicated to the symbols and personas of the Seraphs. Kestrel turned to the altar of Raphael and knelt. He touched a hand to his lips, then over his heart, then to the golden dragon carved onto its visage.
A six-sided plaza, each side with an erected altar.
Except one.
Nothing decorated the sixth side.
Kestrel rose and continued on to the ship yards. He needed to find a pilot.
***
Lightning struck across the clouds, its fingers scratching their dark underbellies in an attempt to unleash even more rain on the water-slogged planet.
Storms were frequent here. The rain was near constant.
Kestrel barely paid it any attention anymore.
Even when a particularly impressive blast of thunder vibrated the foundation of the ship, his entire reaction consisted wholly of moving his most recent smoke up to his mouth for another breath. That was all.
Maybe he would glance out at the cityscape to see if any buildings had been hit.
The storms had become such a constant in Kestrel’s life, he found it hard to sleep without that faint, ever-present rumble on the edge of his consciousness.
Space was too big. Too empty.
Something had to be there to fill it up, or the vacuum would swallow him whole.
Kestrel leaned against the side of the ship and watched the city grow small beneath them through a viewport. As they broke through the planet’s atmosphere, the cold from outside seeped in through the metal lining and into his coat. Even insulated passenger ships couldn’t keep that out entirely.
Kestrel couldn’t sleep when he traveled. It was too quiet.
He looked down when something brushed against his leg.
A ship’s cat, fur glowing bright green in the dim light. It looked up as it left a trail of bioluminescent fibers along the hem of his pants.
Gold eyes grinned.
Kestrel scowled and kicked it away.
He hated cats.
***
The Ophan piloting the ship glanced back over two of its six articulated shoulders as Kestrel came onto the cockpit.
It frowned, huffing a wheezing breath.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
Kestrel blew a cloud of smoke into its eyes. A defiant look dared the Ophan to try and enforce its own rules.
The Ophan coughed, but didn’t press the matter. It looked back to the starfield.
Kestrel settled into the copilot’s seat.
“How long before we arrive?”
“Not long,” wheezed the Ophan. It manipulated dials and holographic displays on the control panel three at a time while a fourth hand fed itself snacks from an open carton propped on the console. “About seventy-two hours.”
Kestrel rolled his eyes.
“Can’t you do any better?”
The Ophan huffed. Eight gleaming black eyes darted aside to him.
“If you think you can get there faster, get out and fly.”
Kestrel responded by kicking both his boots up onto the console and leaving them there. He leaned back in his seat, arms folded across his chest.
He kept smoking.
The ship’s cat wandered in and jumped up on the control panel. The Ophan reached out to pet it.
“It’s the planet’s windy season,” it said. “Storms will knock a ship right out of the air.”
“Too bad,” mumbled Kestrel.
“What’s so important that you have to go down there?”
“That’s classified.”
The Ophan huffed.
“I’m in the Temple’s employ as much as you.”
“Then when you’re not wired into a ship and can risk your life planetside like real Ishim, you’ll be let in on all the juicy secrets.”
The Ophan shook its head, grumbling as its arms went back to their intricate work.
“Ishim,” it huffed, uncaring that Kestrel heard. “Give them a wing pack and a sword. They think they can do anything.”
Kestrel put his smo
ke out on the console.
“Just get us there, Oph.”
***
Kailash itself was a wasteland. Not fit to nourish a spider.
Dusty flatlands spread out in every direction before turning into snow-brushed mountains. Brown land lay laced through with white patches of ice yet to melt. Wind blew cold and straight. Kestrel had to lift a hand to shield his eyes against the sting once the exit ramp lowered.
“There,” said the Ophan through his earpiece. “How is it?”
Kestrel squinted to see.
“Be glad you can’t leave the ship,” he grumbled.
“We can’t stay long. This sand will clog the engines.”
Kestrel turned up the volume on his earpiece so he could hear the Ophan’s mechanized voice over the sound of sand battering the side of the ship. The scrape and chisel driven by the wind would clear it of paint in no time.
“I need to stay,” he said. “Take the ship back into orbit and wait for me.”
“How will I know?”
“I’ll pray.”
The Ophan muttered something, but Kestrel couldn’t hear it over the wind. He felt more than heard the ship’s engines reverberate to life, and stepped down from the exit ramp as it started to move. The ramp slid back into place along the hull, sealing the ship to make it space worthy again. Dust blew from the exhaust vents as it lifted into the air, turned, and pointed its nose towards the cloudless expanse of sky.
Kestrel squinted to watch it go. The wind made the ship veer hard to one side, enough that he could see the dip of wings as the Ophan fought to keep it counterbalanced on a consistent trajectory.
The way down had felt just as rough.
Once the ship had broken atmosphere, Kestrel put it out of his mind.
He had more important matters now.
The flat landscape offered nothing in the form of shelter. Kestrel made do with a small outcropping of rock slightly larger than he was. Crouching in its shadow, the wind’s slap on his face felt slightly lessened. Enough that he could concentrate.
Kestrel didn’t like to be moving when he prayed. Having one’s vision split between the current surroundings and a graphic cybernetic interface was disorienting enough. Even if he did walk while he was doing it, it was rarely in a straight line.
Oh, there were those Ishim at the Temple who liked to multi-task. They did it all the time, a swagger in their walk as they showed off their superior ability for concentration.
Kestrel laughed at them when they ran into walls. Every time.
Kneeling down in the dust, Kestrel bowed his head and shut his eyes. There sounded at the edge of his senses those small, barely-there whirrs and hums all electronics made when they powered up. Even over the wind, Kestrel could hear that, the way a person could always hear a song in their head no matter how noisy it was around them.
Heard, but not quite.
The Personal Relay/Access sYmbiotic interface came up along the black of his denied vision, and with the speed of mental command, he contacted the Temple.
It never took long for someone to answer.
“This is the Bene Elohim,” said a digitized voice through his thoughts. “Speak your name, Ishim.”
“This is Kestrel of the Holy Temple of Raphael,” he answered. “On behalf of the Infinite Empire. Reporting in.”
“State your location.”
“Kailash.”
“And your need?”
“I’m investigating the recent murders that have been taking place here, on Lord Raphael’s authority. I request a log be kept of all sensory input I receive. I also request a direct connection be established, should I need the energy.”
“Your requests are noted, Ishim,” said the voice. “A feed will be established to record your input. Access has been granted to the Metatron computer.”
“Glory to the Empire.”
“Amen.”
Kestrel cancelled the connection, and remained kneeling a moment longer as he felt circuits and cybernetics link up to the massive web that was Metatron. Even at such a great distance, its power was strong. Once a live feed was in place, everything Kestrel saw and experienced would be recorded back at the Temple should the need arise for further study.
Nothing would be hidden from Raphael’s watchful eye.
The upload and retrieval of information through Metatron wasn’t the only task for which praying was useful. Once connected, Kestrel felt the flow of energy seep into him like a warmth. A faint glow from the inside out. So long as that connection sustained him, he wouldn’t have to waste precious time on things such as food or sleep.
The Metatron network and the number of angels it managed was truly a wonder of creation.
One might say even say it was divine.
Kestrel rose from his knees and brushed sand off his coat. If the Bene Elohim decided to keep watch over his feed as it happened, Kestrel hoped they liked the look of flat, near-featureless cold desert.
There was a lot of it.
***
The village wasn’t really qualified to be such. It was barely a settlement. A few crude shanties held together by rusted metal plating scavenged from outdated ships huddled together in the shelter of a carved ridge, where the wind wasn’t quite so bad. There was no livestock. Only the presence of muddy water containers set out like troughs indicated there was life there at all.
The place looked abandoned.
Kestrel stepped in among the spread of would-be civilization, arranged roughly in a semi-circle, and stopped in what passed as the center to turn his head. Slowly.
He could pick them out of the shadows. Gaunt, sunken eyes peering out between gappy metal planks and under slanted awnings. They stared, unmoving, animalistic in their fearful paralysis.
Like the vermin they are, Kestrel thought.
“Show yourself!” he barked at one of them, making it disappear in a dart of movement.
Kestrel swore under his breath.
He marched to a stack of shabby crates balanced precariously along the side of one of the shanties, somehow remaining upright in the wind.
He reached inside, and grabbed the rag-covered wretch trying so hard to crawl further in for cover. Kestrel dragged the figure out, and lifted it off its feet.
“You,” he snapped. “Who’s in charge here?”
The figure was short and thin, wrapped head to toe in sand-blasted rags so only its eyes were visible. Kestrel tore down the wrap that covered the its face with his free hand. Wide, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks covered in leathery skin turned to him in unhidden fear. It even squeaked as it struggled.
Kestrel gave it a little shake.
“Hey!” he said, louder. Enough to make the wretch cringe.
The figure threw its arms over its head.
“Please!” it finally whimpered. “Don’t hurt me!”
“Answer my question.”
The figure flailed skinny arms, indicating the far edge of the settlement.
“There! There!” it mewled. “Shaman’s hut is there! She said to see you!”
Kestrel narrowed his eyes, following the wretch’s gesture. He didn’t see anything that stood out as a leader’s dwelling. Just more huts.
“Where?” he asked again.
“In the rock!”
“How did she know I was coming?”
“She knew! She ... dreamed ...”
Kestrel let the wretch go, not bothering to look as it scrambled away and into the cloth entrance of one of the shanties.
They didn’t even have real doors to keep the sand out.
Kestrel tugged up the collar of his coat and made for the rock wall of the outlying ridge his guide had indicated.
Now that he knew what to look for, he could see more of them: similarly-clad figures crouching behind crates or scurrying between shanties. They peered out with eyes black with curiosity until he looked their way. Then they ducked out of sight.
Kestrel shook his head.
Pathetic.
The so-called shaman’s home looked only mildly better than the rest. It started with a crude hole cut into the rock face, presumably leading back into a more sheltered area. It was small. The sandstone that made up the foundation looked like it would erode at any moment.
The same type of cloth flap draped over the entrance. Crates were stacked outside. Some rolls of stained and dirty cloth. A broken mirror.
A short, dark woman appeared through the cloth as Kestrel approached.
Her skin was dark, but her eyes were light, hair silver-bleached from the sun.
She was a short, scrawny thing. Not as old as Kestrel expected. She was quite young, in fact, though the harsh environment of the planet had left its wear on her.
All the people here were like that.
She regarded him curtly, with a nod.
“Angel,” she said, once he was close enough to hear.
Kestrel halted his advance. He kept what he felt was a safe distance between them and reached for a smoke. Lighting it was difficult even in the mild wind, but he managed.
He didn’t draw attention to the informal use of his title. It was expected from heathens.
“How do you know who I am?” he said to her across the wind. The way the rock face made the wind bend back on itself whipped his hair in and out of his face.
“We all know about you,” said the woman. “You and your Empire.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.” Kestrel exhaled a breath of smoke. The wind snatched it away immediately. “I don’t see the technology needed in this place to link up with the Metatron. And you aren’t part of the Empire. Who told you I was coming?”
The woman kept her hands folded in front of her. Her posture remained stoic.
“There are paths to knowledge here, angel,” she said. “All around you. You simply don’t see them.”
Kestrel narrowed his eyes, using the excuse of his smoke to buy a moment before he had to answer. She was already irritating.
“Then you know why I’m here.”
“I do.”
“If you have an explanation, now’s the time.”
“It was a monster.”
Kestrel laughed at her. The woman didn’t insist on maintaining her cryptic speech pattern, which was fortunate for her. One more side-stepped reply and Kestrel had already made up his mind to turn and walk away.
The Shining Cities: An Anthology of Pagan Science Fiction Page 10