“It belonged to a man called Fenris,” Bellona said slowly. “I think he once worked for Taranis. His book came to me after he died.” She decided not to mention that she had more or less stolen the book from amongst Fenris’ abandoned possessions.
“Priest Taranis!” Selene declared proudly. “Did you know him?”
Bellona shook her head. “He was...”
“An inspiration to us all!” Selene declared. Her completion of the unfinished sentence was nothing like what Bellona intended to say. “The father of Dhusarism! He who led us from the shadows so that we may bask beneath the wisdom of the stars!”
“Some people blame Taranis for the civil war on Yuanshi,” Bellona said cautiously. Much of what she knew of the priest was from what she had heard both on and off the stage at the peace conference on Daode. “The Que Qiao governor called us a dangerous cult.”
“Here on Ascension, many in the corporation support our work,” Selene reassured her. “I heard you are friends with Ravana O’Brien, Zotz Wak and the others who were there when Taranis and his disciples were committed to the void. Is this true?”
Bellona frowned. Selene seemed to know a lot more about what happened than she did. At the time, despite the kidnapping scandal being big news, the footnote regarding their ill-fated encounter with Taranis on the Dandridge Cole had generated barely a flicker of interest. The local Dhusarian Church would have seen things differently, of course.
“I do know Ravana and Zotz,” she hesitantly replied. “They both played in the band at the peace conference last year. Ravana is here studying engineering and Zotz is in my class. Nearly everyone from the hollow moon lives in Newbrum now.”
Selene nodded thoughtfully and settled back into her seat. For a while no one spoke, then the girl leaned forward once more and gave Bellona a friendly smile.
“Ravana took something that did not belong to her,” she said. “Priest Taranis was the keeper of the book containing the first sacred texts. Ravana stole it from him and spirited it away for reasons we cannot imagine. We believe she brought it with her to Newbrum. We would like you to find out where it is; and if possible, get it back.”
“The Isa-Sastra?” Awestruck, Bellona recalled seeing Ravana with a large book at the end of their adventures, but its significance had been lost to her at the time. “The original?”
“As given to the prophet Betty Hill more than three hundred years ago.”
“Ravana is on Falsafah,” Bellona said, her voice trembling. “Zotz may know where it is. He’s gone back to the hollow moon to see his father. Shall I contact him?”
“Neither can be trusted. You need to be discrete with your enquiries.”
“You want me to spy on them?” asked Bellona, somewhat shocked.
“We just want you to play detective for a while,” Selene reassured her. “You’re only looking for a book. How hard can that be?”
Bellona looked doubtful. “I’ll try my best,” she said uncertainly. “My brother might know something. He and Zotz are friends.”
“Trust no one! These are difficult times for the Dhusarian Church.”
“They are?”
“Yet those who serve well will be rewarded,” Selene said. She picked up the plate of chocolate biscuits and offered them to Bellona. “Would you like another before you go?”
* * *
Ostara paused outside the Setco store, entranced by the wonderful smell of freshly-baked bread wafting from within. Her kitchen cupboards were bare and the lack of her morning toast and cup of tea had left her grouchy, but upon seeing the queue winding its way through the shop and out of the door she decided to leave her grocery shopping until later. A shop assistant was busy updating the product availability display in the window and Ostara sighed when she saw chocolate was once again ‘out of stock’.
She was conscious that she had yet to make a start on her investigation into the local Dhusarian Church, even more so that she had no other job offers as a distraction. Teiresias had sent her the cancelled BBC report as promised, but now she was in the embarrassing situation of not being able to afford a cheap holovid unit on which to view it. She had tried to watch it on her wristpad but the tiny screen made her eyes hurt. Hence she was now making her way to Endymion’s place of work at the spaceport, in the hope he could somehow magic up a solution in the same way he had managed to procure a desk, chair, filing cabinet and a rather nice bookcase for her Sherlock Holmes collection.
There was a microbus service along Corporation Street to the spaceport, but even if she had money for the fare Ostara preferred to walk. Upon crossing Paradise Circus, she spied Endymion’s sister Bellona scurrying a short distance ahead, who had just emerged from the Queensway section of Hockley Market on the left. Without thinking, Ostara quickened her pace and waved her empty shopping bag at the girl’s back.
“Bellona!” she called. “Wait for me!”
The girl turned, saw Ostara and promptly ran away towards the tunnel leading to the spaceport. Ostara muttered a curse and slowed to a more reasonable gait. Bellona was not usually prone to running from her like that. By the time Ostara reached the entrance of the short tunnel, the girl had reached the far side and disappeared from sight.
“Strange girl,” muttered Ostara.
She continued through the tunnel and into the crescent-shaped entrance hall of the spaceport dome. In front of the elevator doors on her left, at the foot of the stairs that curved to the main concourse above, an enterprising merchant had set up a fast-food stand wreathed in wonderful odours. To her right, on the other side of the road, was the spiral staircase that led down to Aston Pier. The road itself continued through another tunnel that ran beneath the skybus terminal and into the shuttle hangar on the far side of the dome.
The smell of fried food wafting from the stall made Ostara more hungry than ever. The elderly Asian man selling food smiled at her approach, but kept a wary eye on his surroundings and she wondered if he had set up his stand without permission. Right on cue, a security officer appeared on the concourse above, who upon seeing the stallholder gave a shout and hurried down the stairs.
The man’s smile faltered. With an apologetic grin, he ran his fingers across a switch panel on the side of the stand and promptly dashed away through the tunnel back into Newbrum. Startled, Ostara watched as the abandoned stall gave a series of clunks and folded in upon itself until it was no bigger than a large suitcase, before trundling off on tiny wheels to find a hiding place of its own. By the time the officer reached the bottom of the stairs, both the man and his stall of fried snacks had gone.
Ostara was in no mood to be interrogated by the local police. Crossing the road, she quickly descended the spiral stairs to Aston Pier before the officer decided that questioning her was a better prospect than trying to catch an errant fast-food stand. The smell of fried take-away food clung to her clothes and as her stomach began to rumble she caught another delicate whiff of cooking. This time it came from the bottom of the stairwell and she remembered that Aston Pier had a cafeteria for spaceport workers and flight crews. If Endymion was around, she hoped he was ready to buy her breakfast.
The short staircase led to a dimly-lit concrete tunnel that ran east below the spaceport dome towards the Tatrill Sea shoreline. Further along was the first of two dozen circular doors, each leading to a subterranean dwelling reserved for spaceport workers, pilots and crew. The tunnel ran for some distance, far beyond the dome and runway above, to eventually break through the cliffs and onto stout pylons above the choppy waters of Salford Bay. This last stretch of Aston Pier was a bright, airy space with walls of steel and glass that served as a passenger lounge for the flying boat service. Ostara thought it was a shame that spaceport workers were not allowed to enter the lounge when off duty, for the panorama of rocky coastline and crashing waves was not far short of spectacular. Nevertheless, the staff café at the end of the lodgings was close enough to the windows to get a reasonable view, albeit one constrained by the escalators
leading to the passenger entrance above.
A few off-duty pilots sat at the tables outside the cafeteria. Ostara had no idea which of the circular doors concealed Endymion’s own room and did not feel brave enough to ask, so instead took a seat and contemplated the scene. The flying-boat lounge was on the other side of a floor-to-ceiling partition of one-way mirrors, a relic of when the café had been a security office and New Birmingham still harboured ambitions to be the bustling gateway to a brave new world. Today the lounge contained a mere handful of passengers, their complaints regarding broken-down escalators murmuring through the glass.
The grey domed top of the moored craft was visible through the far windows, bobbing upon the waters of the bay. Newbrum’s flying boats were rigid, delta-shaped airships some two hundred metres long that used hydrogen rather than helium for lift; hydrogen was already produced in vast quantities at Newbrum for spacecraft fuel and there was little danger of embarrassing explosions on a world with little oxygen in the air. The service connected the smaller settlements and research stations dotted around the Tatrill Sea coast. Ostara recalled the first time she had seen an airship glide gracefully home and how it left her with an urge to one day take a trip herself. It seemed such a quaint yet luxurious way to travel.
Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the café proprietor. He was a rotund middle-aged man with pasty skin, greasy black hair and an apron to match, who having served his patrons on the neighbouring table now approached with a menu in his hand. She recognised him as a fellow refugee from the Dandridge Cole but could not recall his name, so was a little embarrassed when he greeted her like an old friend.
“Ostara Lee!” he cried, speaking with a pronounced Italian lilt. “The great detective from our dear hollow moon! What would be your pleasure on this fine summer morning?”
“Is it summer?” she asked. “Or even morning? It’s hard to tell on this planet.”
“It is both in Naples,” he reassured her. “And that is where my heart will always be.”
He waited while Ostara cautiously perused the offered menu. The only thing she recognised were spanner crabs, primitive sea creatures native to the Tatrill that looked like rat-sized centipedes with claws at either end, albeit swathed in batter and pierced with a wooden skewer. She had never tasted one herself but had it on good authority that the lobster-like smell of a cooked specimen was sadly deceptive.
“The sign says ‘Fresh Fish Sold Here’,” she said, pointing to the wavering hologram outside the squat cabin. “That’s a silly thing to say.”
The man looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, I assume you’re not dealing in mouldy food,” she pointed out. “So it must be fresh. And it wouldn’t be much of a business if you gave it away, so it must be sold.”
“You want me to change it to ‘Fish Here’?” the man suggested.
Ostara shrugged. “Why say it is here? Where else would it be?”
“And I suppose it’s obvious that I am selling fish,” the man said cautiously. “Many a person has told me you can smell it from the other side of the dome.”
“That’s the most deceiving part of your sign,” she teased, adopting a mock scolding tone. “I’ve seen what swims in the Tatrill Sea and it’s nothing like any fish I remember from Earth. Is it all sea food? Inside the batter, I mean. I’m vegetarian.”
“I heartily recommend the aubergine cannelloni,” he said, with the air of someone relieved to be back on firmer ground. “Freshly made by my dear wife. My cousin works in the greenhouses,” he added slyly, as if to hint that the ingredients had bypassed the usual routes of commerce and surreptitiously arrived faster and fresher to his wife’s kitchen.
“That does sound nice,” she admitted. “Only I haven’t any credit. Is that a problem?”
The man’s face fell. Ostara’s hopeful expression followed suit, then became a cringe as her stomach rumbled again. Whatever was cooking in the cafeteria kitchen smelt delicious.
“My treat!” came a sudden voice from behind her.
Ostara twisted in her seat and smiled as a loose-limbed Endymion sauntered over to her table and dropped into a vacant seat. She was vaguely mystified by how he could look so fresh at this time in the morning, but he often did weird shifts at the spaceport and for all she knew this could be his lunch break.
“Endymion!” she greeted. “I was hoping to run into you.”
“So what will it be, my friends?” asked the man.
“Two veggie breakfasts,” declared Endymion. “Give us the works. I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby camel. Coffee for me, a pot of tea for Ostara. Is that okay?”
His last question was directed at Ostara, who nodded hungrily. The man gave a bow, relieved her of the menu and retreated to the café. Ostara grinned.
“How did you know I’d be here?” asked Endymion.
“Oh, I followed my nose,” she said airily. “You’re becoming a very confident young man, Endymion. Getting a place of your own has obviously done you a world of good. But there was no need to buy me breakfast, you know.”
“Yes there was. You have no food at your office,” he pointed out. “I noticed the empty cupboards when I tripped over the mattress in the kitchenette. Are you living there?”
“I have nowhere else to sleep,” she said defensively. “And it’s one way of getting to work on time. Thanks for bringing the furniture earlier, by the way. It is much appreciated.”
Endymion shrugged. “The guy who runs the baggage robots has a sideline in imports and exports, if you know what I mean.”
“Black market?”
“Amongst other things. A lot of it is second-hand goods he picks up cheap and stores until he finds a buyer,” he said. “He bought the spaceport’s old runway-laying rig and sold it for ten times the price to some desperate idiot in the Tau Ceti system. Funnily enough, Philyra contacted me earlier, asking about him. Do you remember Philyra?”
“Talks too much and obsessed with Gods of Avalon and other rubbish?” asked Ostara. “Yes, I remember Philyra. I always thought you had a crush on her.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Endymion, feigning surprise.
Ostara’s mind was elsewhere and she did not see him blush. “Can this friend of yours get me a cheap holovid unit?” she asked. Endymion’s indignant expression settled into a puzzled frown. “There’s this BBC report on the Dhusarian Church I’d like to watch.”
“Can’t you use your slate?”
“I don’t have it anymore. If you’re thinking of the one I gained whilst hobnobbing with the rebels on Yuanshi, I gave it to Ravana for her university work.”
Endymion did not reply. Ostara saw he had been distracted and followed his gaze to a distant figure loitering suspiciously outside one of the lodgings. With a curse, he was abruptly on his feet and running towards the now-open door. Ostara caught a glimpse of a familiar face as the figure slipped furtively into the cabin. Leaving her seat, she hurriedly followed.
“Bellona?” she murmured.
By the time Ostara reached the open door, Endymion had cornered his sister and was holding Bellona down by twisting the girl’s arm behind her back, forcing her to sit rigid upon one of the room’s narrow bunks. Bellona refused to meet her brother’s stare and looked sulky yet defiant. The room was barely the size of Ostara’s office, but somehow managed to contain three beds, a tatty wardrobe and a tiny wall-mounted holovid unit. Ostara looked at the jumble of clothes, empty food cartons and other miscellaneous objects scattered across the floor and turned to Endymion in alarm.
“Has this place been burgled?”
“Not yet,” retorted Endymion. “But it was about to be.”
“I haven’t done anything!” cried Bellona.
“It looks like it has been ransacked,” Ostara said, sounding uncertain, then with a start realised the cabin was the one Quirinus shared with Ravana and Zotz. “It just goes to show it was Ravana who kept the place tidy,” she mused. She felt sorry
for any girl who had to share such an incredibly small space with two boys.
“Endymion’s room is worse than this, the messy pig,” Bellona muttered.
“Oh, have you burgled my place as well?”
“No, I haven’t!”
“So what are you doing here?” he asked angrily. When Bellona did not reply, he tightened his grip upon her arm, causing her to wince.
“Endymion!” scolded Ostara. “Let go of your sister! You’re hurting her!”
Endymion mumbled something under his breath and released Bellona’s arm. With a glare, she immediately shuffled away to the end of the bed, keeping her arms firmly crossed. Ostara had never seen the two of them squabble like this before, but remembered all too well how her own elder brothers had bullied her when she was young. Endymion retreated to the doorway, leaned against the open door and gave his sister a questioning glare. Bellona dropped her gaze to the floor and sighed.
“Ravana stole a book,” she said at last. “I was sent to find it and bring it back.”
Ostara’s eyes narrowed. “What book?”
“The one she took from Taranis.” Bellona’s expression suggested she had decided that honesty, if not the best policy, was easier than inventing a convincing lie. “The Isa-Sastra.”
“The Book of the Greys?” Endymion frowned. “Who sent you?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking the questions?” asked Ostara. “I am the detective here.”
Endymion gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Be my guest.”
Ostara looked at Bellona, who tried not to smirk. Ostara’s distracting performance as the Dandridge Cole’s security officer during their last adventure had been somewhat erratic.
“Well?” the woman demanded. “Who sent you? People from your church?”
“A girl named Selene,” Bellona confirmed. “She said I would be rewarded.”
Paw-Prints Of The Gods Page 21
