The Sun of 193

Inquisitor Gunk gazed out the oval windows of the shaky passenger shuttle as it seared down into the atmosphere above Vorghis 193. As it sank beneath the clouds, tiny bright lights of civilization began to punctuate the vast darkness of the planet below, starting from small towns clinging to the edge of the continent, and growing into glowing swathes as the ship careened toward the busy spaceport of Tiragun.

Gunk imagined great golden cobwebs stretching across the surface of the planet, or clusters of neurons sparking on a map of a colossal brain. Maybe planets were brains, and each life upon it a brain cell? Perhaps all of us were part of a greater whole?

He turned to his fellow inquisitor, a tall, weaselly looking man who was lounging on the seats across from him with one leg crossed over the other.

“It’s like one of them brain maps,” Gunk muttered.

Blimpis lowered his newspaper and scowled at Gunk. “You what?” he snapped.

“Oh. Nothing.” he answered dully.

“You’re ruddy well right it’s nothing!” Blimpis retorted, opening up the papers again. “How many times do I have to tell you to shut your mouth while I’m reading? Important business, this is. There could be a lead in these very pages.”

Gunk nodded and sat in silence, listening to the noises of the old ship preparing to land.

The interior walls were barely more than sheet metal, and they creaked constantly over the low rumbling of the engine. A passenger a few seats down was singing to themselves in a deep drone. It was strangely animalistic, like a chorus of exotic creatures. Gunk turned around in his seat and saw that the singer was a single enormous orange Bongabule; her flesh protrusions were slick with mucus and throbbing to her tune. Ah, he thought. That explains it.

Gunk plopped himself down next to Blimpis on the seats opposite to see what he was reading. A video of a handsome young cyborg was playing on the double page spread, winking devilishly and flexing his cybernetic biceps in a five second cycle. 

“I was just about to turn the page!” Blimpis blustered, turning scarlet.

A robotic voice over the intercom cut in.

“Valued customers, we are now arriving on… bzzz… Vorghis 193. Thank you for flying with... bzzz… Space-Airplane-Rocket-Airlines.”

“That’s a bit of a silly name,” Blimpis grumbled under his breath, “Not much imagination went into that.”

Gunk nodded again.

The craft lurched to an abrupt halt as it landed in the docking bay, the suddenness causing Blimpis’ newspaper to tear in his hands. He sighed and carefully placed the remains into a pocket inside his trenchcoat.

The two men made their way down the length of the space-airplane-rocket, all of their tools inside a heavy leather briefcase which Gunk held in one hand (Blimpis didn’t believe in physical labour). They stopped to wait for the Bongabule woman to retract her egg sac, and she gurgled to them gratefully before heaving herself towards the exit on heavy flippers. 

There weren’t many other passengers; these days most people preferred to use translocators. The ministry, of course, wouldn’t allow their inquisitors to teleport, calling it heresy. Gunk figured they just didn’t have the funds; not much call for rockets or witch-hunters these days.

***

Blimpis’ newspaper had not, in fact, provided any leads, and once they’d left the spaceport the pair found themselves sitting in the back of a driverless taxi headed to the Tiragun marketplace. It was as good a place as any to begin the hunt; witches often settled in crowded places, where a few missing beggars wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention for long.

Gunk eagerly flicked through a guidebook he’d picked up at the space-port. Apparently Vorghis 193 was the only discovered planet with no sun, and the indigenous population had somehow managed to evolve in deep underground colonies, huddled for geothermal warmth away from the unforgiving tundra of the surface. It was only once the terraformers came that they were able to see the sky for the first time.

These days the sprawling markets of the spaceport city bustled with activity whether it was day or night; on a sunless planet there wasn’t much of a difference between the two. As he watched the cityscape roll by, Gunk contemplated whether the natives even had even possessed the concept of “days” before the traders came. How had this strange world affected their perception of time?

“It’s proper dark,” he grunted finally.

“What are you on about now?” Blimpis anxiously rapped his toes against the back of the passenger seat. Automated vehicles always made him nervous.

He breathed in deeply. “Alright. Here. Let’s get out here.”

The car came to a stop on the curb of a thoroughfare lined with stalls and tents. Gunk held open the door for his partner, who stuffed a few coins into a slot before stepping onto the sidewalk. He didn't bother with a tip. “I don’t care how good the AI is, next time we find one with a driver,” he moaned.

The taxi revved angrily, “Those asshole are stealing our jobs, you damn cheapskate,” it complained before screeching away in a cloud of exhaust.

The inquisitors went their separate ways and began perusing the marketplace. The taller man had instructed that they were to look for any “funny business”, but Gunk didn’t think that was particularly helpful in a place like Tiragun.

He walked past too-tall women with huge eyes and no noses, hawking long translucent scarves. He saw reptilian blacksmiths working their forges with no tools or protective equipment except for their scales and claws.

A Scirian man, no larger than a squirrel (and just as furry), tugged on Gunk’s trouser leg, offering him sizzling kebabs of exotic meats and fruits that smelled of rosemary and tobacco. Gunk declined; they were so small he could have used them to pick his teeth. He wondered how the tiny man would have even been able to hold his coins.

Above all the smoke and the din there was music being played, strange melodies twirling over a deep bass, low and loud enough that Gunk could feel it in his stomach. The rhythms were exhilarating and maddening, always one beat ahead of him.

He was having little luck finding clues. For the most part it was too loud for conversation, and the people who did stop to listen either didn’t speak Space-English, or would try to redirect him to their restaurant, or club, or brothel.

One man even laughed when asked if he’d heard any news of a witch. An understandable reaction, Gunk thought. He had worked for two years with Blimpis and he’d yet to actually see a witch in the flesh, though he felt fairly sure that he wasn't just being made the butt of an extremely long and well-funded joke. Almost certain, in fact.

The Ministry of Witch-Finders had been hunting for millenia, but in the 19th century reports of witchcraft trickled away to nothing. The reason (at least, according to his rather expensive Beginners Inquisiting Course, ) was that the witches had simply fled into outer space. Still, the Ministry had become obsolete, until technology finally caught up with magic. He clenched his fists, angry just thinking about it. Damn space witches!

He was snapped out of his thoughts when his partner tapped him on the shoulder, grinning smugly. “I have a lead”.

 ***

The weather, and Blimpis’ expression, soured as they approached the building, just out of the way of the market proper. “This is the place,” he said in disgust. He pointed to a sign above the glass shop front, “Behold, just as my informant described! An inverted crucifix; the mark of the Devil himself!”

 Gunk squinted through the drizzle at the large fluorescent cross, whose thick limbs were each of equal length. It looked to Gunk like a green plus-sign. He didn’t know how his associate was able to tell that it was upside down, but he didn’t dare question him either. 

“Father protect us,” said Blimpis.

“Father protect us” echoed Gunk.

The two witch-hunters stepped cautiously through the automatic doors. The interior of the shop was brightly lit and painted white, and the walls and aisles were stocked with tiny colourful cardboard boxes with prices neatly listed beneath each one. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the shop, much less a witch.

Blimpis approached a display stand that was labelled “Allergies”, then stretched a pair of disposable gloves over his hands to more closely inspect the goods. He turned over one of the boxes in his hands. “Twenty-four-hour hayfever relief…” he read slowly. “Fast acting anti...antihistamine?” He turned to Gunk, his face grim. “I fear this refers to the Antichrist!”

“Can I help you with anything?” came a voice from behind them.

Blimpis squeaked and dropped the box, and Gunk let out a nervous fart.

It was a middle aged human woman, smiling warmly yet professionally. She wore a neat white tunic with smart black trousers and shoes. Her hair was curly and brown and, in spite of the circumstances, Gunk thought she was quite pretty. A lanyard around her neck identified her as Angela Norbury.

“Uh, yes.” Blimpis scratched his temple awkwardly and took off his gloves. “Miss Norbury, I am Inquisitor Theribule Blimpis, and this is my partner Gillfred Gunk.”

Gunk smiled at Angela and gave a little wave, and she responded with a blush, to which Blimpis responded by swatting his partner's arm with an empty glove.

He continued, “We are from the Ministry of Witch-Finders, and we are arresting you on suspicion of witchcraft.”

Angela frowned and folded her arms. “If this is a joke, I really must get back to work…”

Blimpis’ eyes narrowed. “If you are not a witch, how do you explain this operation?” he gestured around the shop.

Angela looked incredulous. “It’s a pharmacy. I sell medicine. I have a license if you'll let me go in the back…”

Blimpis frowned, not understanding her words. “What did you just say? Are you casting some manner of hex upon us, witch?”

Gunk however, had a vague idea of what she was talking about.

In the past, before they’d invented proper science, peoples bodies would sometimes stop working as they should for no reason at all. You could feel right as rain one day, and the next you might have a sore head, a dry throat, or even a soggy nose. The only way to fix it was by eating awful tasting food known as “medicine”, or else you’d have that soggy nose for the rest of your life. Being ill sounded rather pointless and unpleasant to Gunk, but people did all sorts of rubbish in the olden days. Perhaps Vorghis 193 was just behind the times? He would have to consult the guide book…

“No, no, let me just go fetch the license,” the pharmacist said anxiously, looking towards the door. Blimpis wrenched the briefcase from his associate and balanced it awkwardly in one elbow while undoing the clasps. “That will be quite unnecessary,” he said, removing a pair of thick silver handcuffs.

Gunk eyed him suspiciously, unsure that he was making the right call.

Angela slowly backed towards the exit but Blimpis took her arm. “You have such clean hands,” he murmured.

“Th-thank you, I suppose...” she stammered.

Blimpis' face turned dark. “A sure sign of witchcraft!”

He moved to cuff her wrists, but she was able to push him back. His briefcase toppled to the floor, spilling various gadgets and vials and crucifixes down the aisle.

“You’re completely mad!” Angela cried as she stumbled to the door.

“After her, you fool!” shrieked Blimpis, scrambling to pack up the briefcase. Gunk nodded and bolted into the streets of Tiragun in pursuit.

***

The weather had worsened further while they were in the pharmacy; vision in the markets was poor and the cobblestones threatened to slip from under his feet.

Gunk hurried through the busy street, weaving through the crowd, past tall insectoid merchants selling alien foods, and spice vendors whose wares stung his nose, and as he ran the wind and rain whipped his cheeks. 

He caught a glimpse of Angela ducking into a side road and he picked up the pace, reminding himself to keep breathing as blood pounded in his head. Running was not his strong suit.

When finally he caught up with her, the two of them were panting, hunched over with their hands on their knees. Apparently Miss Norbury wasn’t much of a runner either.

“Please, leave me alone” she sobbed, her back to the poorly lit alley. “You're insane! There's no such thing as witches, I’m just a pharmacist!"

Gunk looked into her teary eyes and he found himself wanting to believe her. What if they really were making a mistake? 

He gritted his teeth. “Do you swear to God?”

“Yes!” she cried, “Yes I swear to God! Please just let me go...”

A hand appeared around the corner of the alley, grabbing the wall for support. Blimpis looked as if he’d run twice the distance of the other two. “Sorceress!” he coughed, “You’re under arrest…”

He let his briefcase clatter to the ground and drew a pistol from his coat.

“I don’t think she’s a witch,” said Gunk, putting himself between her and Blimpis.

“Step away from her Gunk," he wheezed, "Let me do my job. I’m the smart one, just do as I say.”

“She’s not a witch! She swore to God!”

Blimpis' eyes pleaded, “Gillfred I’m begging you, step away from her now, she’s dangerous.”

“You’re wrong!” shouted Gunk.

Blimpis raised his gun.

“I swore…” said Angela with a new slyness in her voice, “to your God.”

Her arm slithered into a tight grip around Gunk’s neck in a flash, and into her other hand fell a dagger that was concealed up her sleeve. Before he knew what was happening, the blade was pressed to Gunk’s jugular.

“Angela?” he quivered.

“Oh, Gunk…” lamented Blimpis.

Angela grinned, and her teeth were sharp and long, and her smile grew so wide and wicked that it nearly cut her face in two. She seemed taller now, as if she’d been stretched. The orange neon lights around them went dim, and a cold gust swept through the alley.

“Your God is not my own, mine is the Prince of the dark,” she spat, “He who spurned the father's lie; He who crawled upon on the earth before the time of man and taught them glorious Sin. He hath drunk deep of mine life’s blood and shared with me His craft that I might spread His fell gospel across the black. "

Her words crackled like lightning and tinged the air with frost.

Gunk’s eyes were wide with horror as the witch towered above him.

Her hair was long and black and it hung about her head as if she were a corpse in a lake. Her white skin cracked like old paint, and whiter still was her dagger which had become a gleaming javelin with its point hovered over Gunk’s heart. 

A blizzard now howled through the alley and Blimpis’ arms were nearly frozen stiff. His pistol was pointed at the witch but he hadn’t the strength to pull the trigger. He shouted something to his partner but it was lost in the gale.

From the witches mouth broke a terrible laugh, long and jagged as a saw, and she raised her arms ready to thrust her spear into Gunk’s chest.

“Lucifer,” she howled, the night filling her eyes as she stared unblinking into the sky, “I beg of you, accept this paltry sacrifice! Know my devotion. Know my love! Know that my service is unendi-”

Suddenly a fleshy red spike burst through Angela’s sternum and then lurched both her and the spear back into the depths of the alleyway, screeching all the way. 

The blizzard fell away at once and the inquisitors could only listen as terrible sounds echoed from the shadows. The witch’s own screams mixed with what sounded like countless animals roaring and screeching and hollering, like a zoo falling into a wood chipper.

Blue blood and innards sprayed all the way past the mouth of the alley and into the street, slopping the inquisitors with a thick coating of foul smelling gore. The cacophony lasted for about a minute, and then it stopped as suddenly as it started.

The inquisitors stood in shock as the Bongabule woman from the space-airplane-rocket scuttled from the gloom on thick, crab-like legs. She bowed her gargantuan head to them as if to say “you’re welcome”. Gunk tried to thank her but all he could manage was a whimper.

The Bongabule stretched a pair of leathery wings and took off into the perpetual night.

Neither man spoke a word, even as the beating of wings gave way to the sound of witch-blood gurgling into the sewers.

Gunk collapsed onto the wet cobblestones, completely drained. He felt like a wringed cloth, only even wetter, and instead of water it was bodily fluids.

Blimpis' wristwatch began beeping insistently. He removed his glasses, which were completely covered in blue gore, and rubbed them on his trousers. His trousers were just as filthy, so it didn’t help much. He put his glasses back on and inspected the dials on the grimy watch face.

“Alright,” he sighed. “Next mission.”