Paw-Prints Of The Gods by Steph Bennion

with
camouflage-patterned flight suit, slicked-back dark hair and oily
moustache, quite fancied himself the revolutionary. Govannon had
been looking forward to a relaxing few hours at the depot’s
makeshift bar, catching up with the latest news from the ship’s
crew, but with Dagan around he knew that was unlikely to
happen.
    “Look out,” he
muttered. “There’s a Dhusarian about.”
    “What does he want?”
Urania said irritably.
    “To praise the greys,”
Xuthus intoned solemnly. “And bring our deliverance!”
    Govannon brought the
vehicle to a halt. Urania, Xuthus and Hestia were already out of
their seats, eagerly making their way to the transport’s airlock.
Arallu Depot was no bigger than the domes at the excavation but it
was the only change of scenery they had to look forward to until
they returned to Ascension.
    “Hey!” called
Govannon. “Can someone give me a hand with the poop-mobile?”
    “Hestia will do it!”
called Urania, who was already at the hatch.
    The transit lounge of
Arallu Depot was little more than a metal-walled shed, furnished
with a scattering of plastic chairs and a battered food
molecularisor that no longer served tea. By the time Govannon and
Hestia entered, having spent several smelly minutes manoeuvring the
toilet trailer across the hangar to the cesspool valve, Dagan was
nowhere in sight. Nor were Urania and Xuthus, though Urania’s loud
cackle could be heard wafting down the walkway tunnel from the
docked spaceplane. Govannon knew there would be a queue to use the
ship’s ED transmitter and decided to head for the peaceful
sanctuary he liked to call his own. Leaving Hestia to join her
fellow students, he made his way to the far side of the lounge and
down the short tunnel leading into the main dome.
    The towering walls of
shipping crates and discarded machinery that filled the windowless
dome looked the same as ever. Near the entrance to the lounge, one
empty and particularly large crate had been turned on its side and
furnished with a metal counter, a row of stools and one second-hand
robotic bar steward serving the best micro-brewed draft lager this
side of Tau Ceti, topped by a sign that read: MORRIGAN’S BAR.
Govannon had no idea who Morrigan was but admired his or her
foresight in establishing such an oasis out here at Arallu. Apart
from a tiny habitation module nearby, the bar was the only
concession to home comforts to be found within the warehouse-like
environs of the dome.
    The depot was
unmanned, though visiting maintenance crews and the local Que Qiao
security team made sure its life-support and other systems were
kept in order. Govannon stopped short upon seeing a figure slouched
upon his favourite stool at the end of the bar, then cursed when he
realised it was none other than Dagan. The activist had previously
admitted he had been recruited by the Dhusarian Church on Aram,
with the aim of reminding the archaeologists at every opportunity
of the Church’s consternation over the exploitation of ancient
alien remains. Govannon was convinced Dagan had taken his task a
step further and embarked upon a campaign of sabotage to drive the
archaeologists away.
    “Dagan,” growled
Govannon. “What are you doing here?”
    The man turned and
greeted the archaeologist with a sly smile. Behind him, the robot
bartender trundled to the bar in anticipation, its head swaying
disturbingly as its wheels stuttered upon the uneven floor.
    “Doctor Jones,”
acknowledged Dagan. “Don’t tell me you’ve abandoned your hard work
out in the desert? Holy sites don’t desecrate themselves, you
know.”
    “That’s a little
hypocritical coming from Falsafah’s one-man terrorist cell.”
    “Terrorist?” exclaimed
Dagan. “How dare you! I fight for what’s right.”
    “Any attack on a tea
vending machine is terrorism to me, see!”
    “Tea is a symbol of
urban decadence. It cannot fulfil your spiritual needs,” Dagan said
solemnly. “Don’t get too comfortable. This bar