Children of the Giants - II

In an isolated monastery on a forgotten planet, a visitor arrives to offer a chance at redemption.

The following is the continuation of a full-length novel. The first entry is linked here. It is not necessarily my intention to share the entire work on Substack, as my primary goal with this publication is to continue with the nonfiction writing project I started in December 2024—namely, the interviews with my father and our explorations of the intersections between science fiction and Christian theology.

However, I have met so many lovely fiction writers on this platform thus far, and their work and effort is nothing if not inspiring. Mindful that many of my subscribers are fiction writers themselves, I wish to peel back the veil ever-so-slightly and reveal a glimpse of my true face: an aspiring science fiction writer, just the same as them!

I hope that you enjoy this story. Please comment and let me know if you’re interested in reading more.

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The shuttle rattled violently as it pierced the atmosphere. Bishop Julien Renard clutched the string of beads tighter as the pilot brought the craft around in a tight swoop. He was grateful for the partition between the passenger’s cabin and the cockpit. The preterhuman on the other side hadn’t said much to him prior to their descent from orbit. They were curious, no doubt—curious as to what a collarman with spaceflight sickness was doing aboard a charter craft, trekking deep into the galactic hinterland. The Holywell wasn’t a place they or any other preterhuman would have visited before. It was a great ball of dust and ash, flung out so far from the nearest civilized world that it took four tunnel-jumps and over a month of subspace travel to reach. Its seclusion was precisely what made it appealing to the monks who had settled here, of course; one would be hard-pressed to find a more remote world. This also made it the perfect prison.

“I don’t see any landing pad,” came the pilot’s voice over the intercom. Feminine, Renard thought, though one could never be sure.

“There isn’t one,” he replied. He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the ground rush past. Damn the person who’d designed this shuttle with viewport windows—as if it were possible to enjoy hurtling through the air so fast that the ground below appeared like a smeared, brownish blur. He much preferred the quantum tunnels, where the uniformity of subspace concealed one’s motion. “You’ll need to find your own. And not too close to the monastery—a kilometer or more. I don’t mind walking.”

“In the middle of a dust storm? You don’t have a rebreather, do you?”

“There’s no need. I’ll be quite all right, I assure you.”

Renard felt a sudden dip, his stomach floating weightlessly for a moment before plunging into his bowels. There was a mechanical clanking, a crunch, and then the descent came to a sudden stop. A jumble of electronic whistles sounded, then the passenger door slid open.

“Never been out to one of these enclaves of yours before,” the pilot said. “Mind if I tag along to look around the place? I’d love to take a few holos to show my mates up in orbit.”

Renard bristled. Before he could object, there came a laugh.

“Relax, collarman. Only joking. You could drown me in holy water and it still wouldn’t be enough to get me through those doors, am I right?”

A mumbled ‘thank you’ was all Renard could manage. What he was thankful for, he wasn’t entirely sure, apart from the opportunity to get away from the shuttle. He picked up his mitre from the seat beside him, set it on his head, and stepped out from the cabin.

Powerful gusts of wind buffeted him. The mitre would have been torn clean off his head had he not been bracing it there. He trudged forward, sand stinging his cheeks. He shielded his eyes and gazed up at the stone-carved towers of Saint Trewin’s Monastery. Despite the storm, he felt certain peace settle over him. The monks had built these walls hundreds of years ago as a sanctuary, not only from the harsh sun and winds, but from the world—and worlds—beyond their walls. Renard longed for that cloistered safety after so much time spent among the preterhumans. To them, he was a foreigner; but here, even though the Ozrician Brotherhood was at best an estranged affiliate of the Neocatholic hegemony, he could feel as if he were at home amidst kin.

Two brothers were at the gates to receive him, hunched over and half-blinded from the whipping sand. They motioned him through the great stone doors with reticent eyes. The bells continued to chime even as he entered the grand hall. It was only after he made the Sign of the Cross to his two hosts and they returned the gesture that the tolling stopped. He raised his head again, wiping grit from his eyes, and saw that the hall was nearly empty—only the two men here in front of him and a third by the stairs. At least the monks had welcomed him with a show of light, if not their presence; the hall was aflame with candles adorning every surface, affording the monastery’s bare stone interior an uncanny splendour.

Renard coughed as he wiped sand from his garments. The Holywell’s atmospheric quality was poor on account of the budget-grade terraforming. While the monks were adapted to life here, both physically and spiritually, he found it difficult to take more than shallow breaths. He was grateful that words would not be necessary. The Brotherhood’s renouncement of speech made communication a challenge, but he’d had plenty of time to brush up on his signage while aboard the charter. He made the customary greetings of goodwill and blessing to his hosts, then asked where the man was being kept.

The monks exchanged glances and asked him why the hurry, would he not be partaking in noontime mass and a meal, as they’d expected?

Renard replied that he wished not to be rude, but timing was of the essence. He was beholden to both the preterhumans as his means of transport and the Archbishop, on whose orders he had made the journey.

The monks made signs between themselves that Renard could not readily understand, so quick were their movements, but then they addressed him clearly: follow us.

He was led deeper into the monastery, down a series of twisting narrow corridors and steps, all carved from stone. It occurred to him that much of the interior structure had been shaped from the bedrock itself, likely as protection from the desert winds. Some corridors appeared more like tunnels burrowed into the earth. The walls were almost entirely bare, save for candles and the occasional carved statue—a Virgin Mother here, a crucifixion there. The craftsmanship was nothing like what adorned the halls of the Archbishop’s commune, or the Basilica-at-Meridian. These were crude, even ugly. But they were also honest. This one here—a rendering of Christ’s ascension, though it could have been mistaken for a lumpy bovine being abducted by an invisible spacecraft—a simple monk had carved this, his sole aim to elevate his soul closer to heaven. No lucrative papal commissions had muddied his intentions. The Ozricians had to be respected for their spiritual candor, if not their verbal.

The two brothers brought him into a subterranean chamber reminiscent of a dungeon. It was long and narrow, and its sides were inlaid with small doors, behind each of which he assumed were little hovels carved out of the stone. Living quarters, he judged. Not unlike his own at the commune, albeit much humbler and a good deal danker. He was brought before one such door and ordered to wait. One brother rapped a knuckle on the surface. Renard spied a little slot on the door that slid open, but it was too dark to see what lay behind. The brother made a series of signs that Renard only half-understood—something about absolutions for missing mass, the necessity of observing cleanliness rites. Then he and his partner turned and walked back the way they’d come.

Renard signed to them as they passed: could a more private meeting place not be arranged? He motioned around the open floor in a manner he thought was self-explanatory.

The hosts’ only reply was to sign ‘enter’, and they departed.

Renard looked back at the door and realized that it was ajar. Summoning his courage, he stepped through.

It was empty. He scanned the room—it had a low, arched ceiling, a cot was fitted to the side, and opposite to it a series of small chests. A stack of several books sat on the floor by the bed. Renard moved over to them and studied the cover of the topmost one. It was a Bible, a contemporary Vulgate IV with little annotation markers stuck between the pages. His skin bristled at the sight. Under a strange compulsion, he opened the book and scanned for any aberrant inclusions. The Watkins Epistles were not present, nor was there any mention of the Third Testament. An ordinary Septuagint after all. He stooped to examine the other books—all various Biblical renditions and apocrypha, each different from the last. Some were pre-Quietus versions. Renard looked further afield and noticed a tiny desk squashed in behind the chests. He approached and scowled at the dusty papers strewn about its surface. The text on them was scrawled by hand, seemingly with ink and quill. The characters he had never seen before—a code of some kind.

“What in the blazes…” he muttered, forgetting the ban on speech. He cast a glance over his shoulder in case some brothers were outside. There were none.

Doing so caused him to notice yet another hidden feature of the room. Little grooves, rather like hand and footholds, had been carved into the rock at the room’s far end. He followed them upwards and saw a narrow gap in the ceiling, hidden before now because of the dim light. The grooves ascended into the shaft.

He glanced around himself once more. The stone halls were silent. He sighed, rolled up the sleeves of his loose priestly robe as high as they would go, then clutched the nearest hold and began the awkward climb up into the shaft.

It was much taller than he’d expected. The dim light of the single candle in the chamber below afforded little visibility. The grooves were not spaced evenly, and he nearly lost his grip once or twice. Yet there was a light above him. Smirking to himself, he thought it evoked what a righteous soul might experience as it ascended to heaven.

When he reached the final handhold and pulled himself over the edge, panting from the strain, he found himself looking out across a wild, undulating sea of sand. He had emerged from the underground into a kind of viewing tower, not terribly high above the ground, but enough to inflict a sudden onset of nausea. A prayer tower, Renard realized. He’d seen a few dotting the landscape around the monastery as he’d approached in the shuttle, but had failed to identify them before now.

The window ahead of him was wide. Sand and grit flew past at blistering speed. There was a man seated on a little stool before it, staring out at the dunes, sheltered from the blasting wind. He made no sign that he was aware of Renard’s intrusion into his private sanctuary.

Renard straightened, unfurling his sleeves and mustering his resolve. There was no visible trace of the man he’d once known sitting there. He was just as broad, it was true, and perhaps a good deal more muscular—no doubt thanks to the climbing regimen he endured for daily prayer. His umber skin may have been shaded a few tones darker than Renard remembered. But his head was shaved, and his clothes were sackcloth. The corner of a long and ill-kempt beard poked out from his visage. More than that, Renard noted how he hunkered there on the stool like a hunchback, withered and defeated.

Renard quelled the trepidation floundering in his gut. This man posed no threat to someone such as him. All the authority of the Archbishop he carried, and with that the Pontiff’s, and with that God’s.

“Gordon,” Renard said. He coughed—a bit of sand must have gotten into his throat— then spoke louder. “Gordon Knox. Here you are. I trust the brothers told you I was coming?”

The man shifted. Renard thought he might be turning around, but instead he merely reached for a small cup of water on the floor beside the stool and raised it to his lips. It would not be so easy.

“It’s been some time since we last saw each other,” Renard went on, hazarding a few steps forward. “Nearly ten years, I think. Do you recognize my voice? It’s me, Julien Renard. Bishop Julien Renard now, in fact.”

The man stirred again.

“Not that I’m expecting you to call me by my title. No, that’s not what I— I mean, I wasn’t trying to draw attention to—”

Renard cut himself off. Was he sweating? He was doing a terrible job of it so far, stammering like an old fool. He chiseled a frown into his brow as he resumed.

“I’ve thought of a thousand different ways to explain my being here, but I suppose it’s best to simply come out with it. I’ve been given the authority to issue you a pardon and invite you back into the priesthood.” He eyed the man at the window, watching for his reaction. Damn him for keeping his face hidden. “That would of course mean that you would be a Reverend once again. You would be fully reinstated, and—”

Another bout of coughing seized him. He covered his mouth and turned aside, feeling his cheeks redden with irritation and embarrassment. The man by the window reached out his hand, extending the water cup. He accepted the gesture and—all while diverting his eyes—drank a few desperate gulps, then offered the cup back. The man had already turned around again and did not receive it.

“Will you look at me, damn it?”

Gordon Knox did so. With slow, deliberate movements, the muscular man began to sign.

It’s forbidden to curse in the monastery.

“Enough of this ‘vow of silence’ nonsense. Neither of us are Ozrician brothers—let’s speak normally.”

I am. Or, at least, you made me.

“No, you’re not. And I won’t tolerate being blamed for your position. You chose to walk this road,” Renard said, his ire rising with each motion of Knox’s hands.

You walked it with me. But it’s only me sitting here, in this hole.

“A hole? I imagine you don’t refer to it as such in the company of your brothers. Or your abbot.”

The abbot’s a ponce.

‘Ponce’ wasn’t quite the right word for Knox’s motion—he’d communicated something cruder, which Renard was reluctant to decrypt.

“I saw some of your books down below,” Renard said, changing tack. “It seems you’re taking great care to conceal your notes. What are you studying these days?”

Bombmaking.

“Oh, is that so?” He strode up to one of the walls and made a show of examining the stonemason’s work. “And this bombmaking knowledge—you’ve been able to glean this from unsanctioned Biblical translations, have you?”

What can I say? It’s explosive stuff.

“Enough games. A decade gone, and you act as if this is all a joke? Haven’t you understood what I said? I’m here to grant you amnesty. I have a shuttle waiting outside. It’s meant to bring you with me, off this world, out of exile. If things are so hellish here then that’s exactly what you should want, correct?”

To be offered amnesty by a traitor—that doesn’t seem ‘correct’ to you, does it?

Renard curled his fists curled and glared at the other man. He wasn’t going to be pushed around like some spineless cretin, God help him. The two of them had been equals, once, when they’d met in seminary. Knox may have been the maverick, the visionary, but Renard had always been at his side; his instrument of access into the halls of institutional power.

“I’m no traitor, Gordon. I’m the last friend you have. Do you realize what I went through to get you accepted by the Brotherhood? Half the tribunal wanted you excommunicated. Where would you be then? A much worse place than this, I can tell you that.”

Knox sipped at the cup, impassive. Renard resisted the urge to strike it out of his hand.

“Which one of us is still carrying the torch? Answer me that. Who’s making more of a difference: me, sitting on the Synod, holding audiences with the Archbishop, working to bring hearts and minds together each and every day, or you, squatting here in this hole of yours, silent and alone?”

I didn’t mean you. I meant those you serve. This is no friendly visit. You’re here on their behalf—the Sectorial Diocese, The Archbishop. You couldn’t have come all the way out here on your own authority.

“You’re right, I haven’t. Once again I’m risking my reputation for your sake, Gordon, and not out of some misbegotten loyalty to the man you once were. I used up every last ounce of my clout to convince the Archbishop to reinstate you because I genuinely believe you’re the person we need.” Renard slipped a hand into the sleeve of his robe and fished for something hidden in a pocket there. The Ozricians would not care to learn that he’d desecrated their holy sanctum with smuggled contraband. “Also, I think that you owe it to us.”

Am I not already serving out my time?

“Right now, you’d serve us better with a collar around your neck,” he said, still fumbling with the pocket. “Look, I didn’t come here to justify myself or the Church to you. You did what you thought was right, no doubt, and so did I. There’s much I regret about how it all unraveled. But we needn’t dig all that up now. I came because of this.”

Renard pulled a stack of printed photographs from their hiding place and tossed them on the floor at Knox’s feet. The muscular man looked down but did not touch them.

“Several weeks ago, a clerk in the central Diocesan office received a gammacom transmission from a terraformer’s outpost on one of our Protectorate worlds. Nazur Alma—the parentcorp with official ownership—calls it Walden-5. You would know it better as Kelford’s Blessing.”

Knox stiffened, but he made no signs, so Renard pressed on.

“The colony hasn’t fared well since the—well, the ‘incident’, let’s call it. It remains one of the smallest and poorest in the Sectorial Diocese. Only one major settlement with a few satellites. Agrarian societies, mostly, with some cattle ranching. None of them terribly productive.”

Are you blaming me for your economic troubles?

“Not those of the planet itself. The terraformers loan it out to us because it’s technically a failed venture—an E-Grade, if you knew such things even existed. Unfit for commercial use. Apparently the local GAIAS’ equipment malfunction is bad enough to warrant maintaining a constant presence on the surface, just to keep the whole system from catastrophic collapse. It’s been an uneasy thing for the locals, as I understand it, having their kind so close by. But it’s also the reason we caught wind of what was going on as early as we did. Someone warned them, and they in turn warned us.”

Knox picked up the nearest photo to his foot. You brought coloured photographs with you?

“I was granted an injunction to physically render the gammacom’s data to bring it to you here. I trust you won’t go waving those around in front of your abbot.” Knox picked up another and slid it in front of the first. “We’ve come precariously close to sacrilege. That should be an indication of how grave the matter is.”

The muscular man grimaced, then tossed the photos aside. He leaned back in the stool so that his head touched the stone wall and closed his eyes.

Go on, then.

“It’s the Demakis Cult, Gordon. They’ve returned.”

If the claim surprised Knox, he did not show it.

“You don’t believe me? Then listen. The terraformers’ message included an official statement, with accompanying aerial satellite images, informing us that they were pre-emptively placing one of our colonies under lockdown. It’s the smallest village of the lot, a place called Goodhope. Now it’s cut off entirely from the rest of the population. They didn’t tell us the reason, but they gave enough away to make it obvious. They even said that every collar-wearing man in the surrounding parishes needed to evacuate the planet or invite insurrection.”

Insurrection? If people of Goodhope don’t want to lick your boots, or the Pontiff’s for that matter, then good for them—they shouldn’t have to.

Renard bit his tongue. He was still gauging the other man’s reticence. No, Knox would not accede yet. The task could be likened to digging a man out from quicksand; he needed to guide Knox out of the darkness with gentleness and tact. If too much pressure was applied too hastily, he would lose him to the mire forever.

“You must have misunderstood me. This group threatens—”

No, I haven’t. You brought forbidden technology here; you’re perfectly willing to disregard the centuries-old traditions of one brotherhood as illegitimate, sectarian nonsense. How is this any different? He chuckled and shook his head. Of course, I know it’s different. This time it’s you who’s being defied, not some fringe group of fanatical monks.

“Listen to me, Gordon. I’m talking about an outbreak of violence. Violence against clergymen, and likely more besides. The Cult has changed in the years since you knew them. This time they’re preparing for war, it looks like. Kelford’s Blessing is remote and ill-equipped. If they are as large in number as we think—if they’re armed—they could seize control of the colony within days. There are only five parishes, for heaven’s sake. And what would we be left with then? Ten thousand souls led astray from Holy Grace by a band of crazed heretics? Is the Church just supposed to abandon these people?”

What do the terraformers think about all this?

“God only knows. This blockade of theirs—I doubt it has anything to do with protecting our people. They don’t give a fig what happens to anyone, as long as their machines are left alone.”

If they won’t help, how can I? They have the means for tracing these people, not me. What does the Archbishop expect me to do?

“She expects you,” Renard said, bending down to retrieve one of the photos from the floor, “to atone for your mistakes, and help these iconoclasts to do the same.”

The time for boldness had come. Renard held the photo out for Knox to take. The man opened his eyes, then leaned forward to look closer. Renard watched in satisfaction as the creases in his face hardened and his dark eyes clouded. He rose from the stool, took the photo from Renard and held it above his head to catch more of the light.

“The terraformers have a satellite orbiting the planet, ostensibly to monitor the GAIAS’ progress,” said Renard. “Did you see the black shapes there? Six encampments have cropped up over the past few weeks, encircling the cities. Barracks, armories. Convoys are travelling between them. It’s preparation for conquest.”

Renard studied Knox’s reaction closely, relishing the other man’s discomfiture.

“You’ve been gone for some time now. This is the legacy you’ve left behind.”

I thought that all of Demakis’ followers were exiled.

“They were, those who survived. That doesn’t mean that they disappeared, Knox. You’re still here, aren’t you? We may have believed that the movement died out with— well, with her, but it’s clear now that they simply went underground. They’ve been growing their following in secret all this time. Militarizing themselves.”

Renard’s voice grew cold. The rift that had grown between him and his former friend opened beneath him, and he was reminded of just how far apart they now stood.

“I warned you then, Knox, about what doors you were opening. You didn’t listen to me. You paid the price, and now others are paying it, too.” He stopped to collect the other photos and folded them into a stack in his hands. “If we don’t stop this now, cut it off at its root, it may spread to other worlds.”

You’re talking about an Inquisition, aren’t you?

“I am. And I want you to lead it.”

Now Knox laughed. The sound was raspy and grating, as if the man’s vocal cords had rusted over after years of neglect.

“There’s nothing humorous about it. You remember what a disaster the last one was.”

And why would expect anything different this time?

“You are more, well, familiar with the Cult. You’ll not repeat Inquisitor Eldin’s mistakes.” Renard lowered his voice, though there was no one to overhear them. “I served on Eldin’s council, Gordon. I witnessed firsthand what Demakis was capable of. Her followers were frenzied—maniacs who followed her to the grave. If you’d seen what—”

I might have if I hadn’t been standing trial, thanks to you.

“Are you purposely trying to frustrate me? No—you’re toying with me, I can see that. I needn’t belabour the point: Demakis’ doctrines have already proven their potency, as well as their longevity. Given time, this Cult could instigate another Schism. That much the Archbishop is dead set against.”

A Schism? You’re sure she isn’t simply courting the Pontiff’s favor before the next Cardinal is appointed? Knox was glowering at him now. And what happens when she does ascend? I imagine you’re ready to take her place. Don’t for a minute pretend this isn’t political, Renard. I know you and your ambitions. They’ve always been the same.

“Our clergy have worked for generations to maintain unity, to make sure that Neochristendom can survive in this world. How dare you insinuate that I’m acting in self-interest? Our only chance is by working together, as a proper Body.”

A moment of silence passed before Knox tossed the photograph to the ground once more, unmitigated disgust on his face.

These people don’t follow me. Anything that had to do with the movement—my movement—Demakis twisted beyond recognition. That’s her legacy you’re seeing in those photos, not mine.

“I didn’t come to accuse you. I came to enlist you. You’re telling me that these people are no acolytes of yours? That your movement and everything it stood for was hijacked by a false prophetess, whom you renounce? Very good, I believe you. Why else would I be here?”

The two men’s eyes locked. This was the moment, Renard realized—time for the final push.

“Contrary to what you might think, Gordon,” he said, “I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t condone this kind of doctrine. I listened to you, all those years ago. You’re a decent man. You might have even been a great one, had things turned out differently. I came here to give you a chance at redemption.” Tentatively, he rested a hand on Knox’s shoulder. “Come out of the shadows. Redefine your legacy.”

Knox stared at him for a long while after he withdrew the hand. Renard could not guess what the other man was thinking; his stern features hid any clue to his true thoughts. It was strategic, Renard knew. Here was a dangerous man with dangerous ideas—he’d learned to keep them concealed, and to judge carefully when to disclose them. Renard had mastered the same technique long ago.

Knox straightened his back. At full height, he was nearly a head taller than Renard.

“I’m not an inquisitor,” he said in a voice as dry and cracked as gravel. “Whatever it is you want from this, find someone else.”

He brushed past Renard and crossed to the tower’s rear. He stood to the side of the entrance shaft and crossed his arms. Renard sighed, but not in despair. This much he’d anticipated. Knox was a stubborn man, and the years in isolation had done nothing to soften him.

Instead of following him to the exit, Renard shuffled through the photos in his hands one more time. He frowned—the one he searched for wasn’t present. He surveyed the room and spied the absentee, trapped under the foot of the stool. It was different from the others; instead of grainy lines and smudges, it featured a young child of about two or three years of age.

“I know it’s difficult for you, dredging up all these memories,” he said as he retrieved it. “I haven’t forgotten how much you cared for Noemi. Even after all that happened, I believe you still do.”

Knox went stiff as an oak.

“You can’t use the past to manipulate me, Julien.”

“I’m not manipulating you. The Lord works in strange ways, Gordon. There’s a reason I’m sending you—why it can only be you.”

Knox glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t want to show you this. Truly. It would have been better if you’d gone on without knowing. But I’m left with no choice. Everyone on that planet is in danger, if not the mortal kind, then the eternal. Everyone including—”

This was the moment. Renard held out the photograph.

“—your daughter.”

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