The Healer

  In Sheep’s Clothing

  Book 1: The Healer

  Kevin C Hensley

  Part of the Nexus Nebula Saga

  Copyright © 2018 by Kevin C Hensley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at:

  in.sheeps.clothing.official@gmail.com

  First Edition

  Cover by Mariah Sinclair of TheCoverVault.com

  Look at illustrations and get news about upcoming books on Twitter at @TheChuggReport or on Instagram at @k.c.hensley.nns.

  For Fred

  Acknowledgments

  A sincere “thank you” to everyone along the way who inspired events and characters just by being themselves: Ben, Laura, Kurt, Fred, Ruth, Betty, Edward, Mark, Patrick, Brad, Devon, and Ricky.

  A special thanks to Kali, for putting up with my staying up all night to write and edit and then napping while there were diapers to be changed.

  Another special thanks to KC, who pulled a cohesive story out of an absolute mess of a first draft.

  Most of all, I want to thank Kyle. Without you, I couldn't write from the perspective of a father.

  In Sheep’s Clothing

  Book 1: The Healer

  Chapter 1

  “Letter for you, Professor Caper.”

  With some effort, the horned owl turned his attention from his writing and watched the mail carrier flutter across the cramped office. The blue jay carried a thick, ornate envelope in his talons. In a practiced motion, he flew over the professor’s desk, dropping the envelope in the wooden inbox before curving around to head for the door.

  “Who from?” the owl called.

  The blue jay hovered in the doorway. “I picked it up in the oak forest. Looks nice. Someone went to a lot of trouble. It’s not often a dog makes up such a presentation for one not of their own kind. Must be important.”

  “Indeed, that’s a rare thing,” Caper smirked. “Thank you, Wender.”

  “Anytime, Professor.” The jay vanished.

  The white quill pen in Caper’s talon scuffed quickly across the rough paper as he recorded his thoughts for his next public speech. His great tawny wings were folded tightly against his sides, almost hugging himself, as he tended to do when trying to concentrate.

  His eyes drifted to his inbox and the finely sealed envelope lying on top of the stack of papers. After a moment, he shook his head and set the temptation aside. He needed to finish this speech.

  A minute later, he caught himself looking at the letter again.

  “It’s hopeless,” he said to his empty office. He set the pen down and rubbed his tired amber eyes with that foot. Deciding he could do with giving his brain a rest, he switched feet and reached for the envelope in his inbox.

  The envelope was marked with painstaking calligraphy: “Professor Caper, Cordially Invited.” He gripped it with his toes and neatly tore across the top with the tip of his curved, grey beak. He shook the stiff letter out onto his desk and picked it up.

  It is my honor and privilege to invite you to spectate at the 242nd Annual HoundBlood Tournament. Enclosed please find your V.I.P. pass for a private viewing box. I look forward to seeing you there, my friend. Regards, Boxer.

  Caper smiled, peeling off the V.I.P. ticket taped to the back of the card. He was always invited to the fighting games held yearly by the dogs, but a private box was a new perk. Boxer must have really wanted to ensure his attendance this year. Well, he did not plan to disappoint. Placing the card in a drawer, Caper switched feet again and reached across the desk to make a note in his calendar for the following day.

  All Day: HB Tournam—

  “PROFESSOR CAPER!”

  The high-pitched shriek from directly behind the great owl startled him into splattering a line of ink across the entire month. The curved crests on his head arched high as he spun around in a flash of anger.

  The breathless canary frantically beating her wings to hover in his chamber did not wait for any response from him. “Professor Caper!” she shouted again. “Come quickly! Something is happening in the shrine!” Her black eyes could barely focus on him; she was truly upset.

  Seeing this, Caper’s irritation faded. “Ma’am, please try to calm down,” he said evenly. “What’s the trouble?”

  His voice seemed to lessen her panic somewhat, but her breathing and speech were short and rapid. “I was in the shrine. I was praying. Something appeared, in the spring. Right in the water. It looks like a bird, but… not real. I can’t describe it to you, Professor. Please come and see.” Finally, the wide, pleading eyes focused on him.

  Caper sighed. “Alright, let’s go have a look.”

  The canary turned in midair and flew through the doorway, past Caper’s privacy curtain and out of sight. The horned owl followed, walking through the curtain.

  Caper’s office was one of a series of recesses dug into a wall of rock inside the hollowed-out pinnacle of Ptera Peak. A massive waterfall plunged past Caper and into a cavernous lake below. The canary flew straight up to the very top of this huge stone chamber. Craning his neck, Caper watched her disappear into the opening from which the waterfall spewed. Unfolding his sand-colored, black-spotted wings to their full, regal span, he ascended and followed her into the shrine.

  The far wall was dominated by a massive bust of the birds’ goddess, depicted as a woman’s head and shoulders with wings fanned out to either side. From beneath the amethyst eyes of the statue, twin torrents of water gushed forth into a round stone basin, as if the statue were crying uncontrollably. The water ran along a channel in the floor and out into the main chamber to supply the waterfall below. Beneath the wings of the bust, the sculptor had carved the words: “OPTERA: GIVER OF WATER, GIVER OF AIR.”

  Lying in the stone bowl, pounded by the ceaseless, frothing water that the Optera statue wept, was a bird. It floated face up, tossed by the churning water. The scarlet macaw’s blue-tipped wings and tail draped over the edges of the bowl.

  Caper surged ahead of the canary, not bothering to land. He descended onto the unmoving bird and seized one of its wings in his talons. He beat his wings to pull it onto dry ground—and let out an oof of surprise. For one, the creature was heavy, much more so than any flighted bird should be. Secondly, the wing he held was completely soft and slack, as if it had no bones at all.

  The little canary descended on the macaw’s other side and took hold the same as Caper. She powered her wings to help as much as she could—not much at all—and together the two hauled the limp bird out of the water and laid it on its back on the stone floor.

  Now that the immediate danger had passed, Caper was able to pause and take stock of what he was looking at. The bird’s torso ended abruptly at the waist; there was a tail but no legs. He laid a talon across the neck of the unconscious macaw—and drew his foot back with a start as he realized what he was seeing.

  “My Goddess…” he stammered, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Chapter 2

  The old grey ram lay on his belly on the soft grass of his front yard, his eyes traveling idly across the headline of the newspaper spread out before him. He slowly chewed a mouthful of grass, scanning the headline of the Chugg Report.

  “‘Chugg Corporation formally announces Cybernetics division,’” he read out loud. “Says here, it’s the next big technological leap forward. There are great medical advances in the works. What do you think?”

  No
answer came. The old ram glanced up from his paper to the expanse of green fields in front of him, then behind to the open front door of his home. He realized he was alone.

  He swallowed his bite of grass. “Snapper. We’ve got to get moving.”

  Again, nothing.

  With a groan, the old ram got to his feet. His left hind leg gave a twinge of protest, but he ignored it. He walked up the two steps of the wooden porch and into the sparse, cold house. He crossed the bare concrete floor of the living room and pushed open the door to his son’s bedroom.

  A heavy, olive-green comforter lay draped across the bed, concealing a suspiciously sheep-sized lump.

  “Up for school. Come on.”

  The lump moved. A groggy, muffled voice came through the comforter. “Sure thing, Dad. Just a minute.”

  “Now, Snapper.”

  The old ram gave him two seconds to get going. When he didn’t, the ram took hold of a corner of the blanket in his teeth and pulled. The blanket—and the adolescent boy underneath it—slid to the floor.

  Snapper rolled to his feet, blinking slowly and reaching up with a foreleg to brush a tangle of white wool out of his eyes. “Alright, alright. Sorry.”

  “We’re late. You’re going to have to eat and walk.”

  “Fine.”

  The ram herded his son outside and into the yard, pausing only to close the door behind him and stash his newspaper under the porch steps. The pair crossed their fenced acre and pushed through the swinging wooden gate.

  They stuck to a well-trodden dirt path weaving east through the gently rolling hills. Snapper only wandered off occasionally to pull up bites of grass.

  The old ram stayed in the middle of the path, head high and posture rigid, an old habit from his military days. He kept his eyes moving, examining every bird passing above and every sheep wandering about in the plains. This early, there were not many. No one ever bothered them, but the old man knew better than to get complacent. He had already made that mistake once.

  With his attention focused ahead, it took the ram a minute to notice Snapper was lagging behind.

  “Stay close to me, Son.”

  Reluctantly, the boy quickened his pace to catch up with his father.

  The ram cleared his throat. “Did you hear what I said a little while ago? The Chugg Corporation is rolling out a Cybernetics lab. They’re going to be improving medical research, robotics, and working with Chugg Pharmaceuticals to make new breakthroughs on mental health. The paper said so.”

  Snapper gave no answer except for a sigh.

  “It could really improve a lot of people’s lives,” the old ram ventured after a minute.

  “I don’t care, Dad. They can dress it up as pretty as they like. There’s nothing good about what the pigs are doing.”

  “I’m trying to help you look on the bright side, Son.”

  When Snapper refused to answer again, the old ram gave up and returned his attention to their surroundings. They’d had this discussion too many times already over the years.

  They continued in silence until at last they stood side-by-side before the wrought-iron gates of Fleece City. Before they could pass through and into town, they were interrupted by a low growl.

  Snapper took a step closer to his father as a pair of hulking brown guard dogs moved in on them from either side. The old ram, however, continued ahead undaunted and greeted the guards brightly.

  “Stand still,” one of the ridgeback dogs grunted.

  The old ram turned his head—and the curved points of his intimidating horns—away from the guards, signaling that he was allowing them to approach. They came close and sniffed him, then Snapper.

  “Alright, Old-Timer,” one of the dogs said to the ram, waving his paw over his shoulder. “Go on through.”

  The ram nodded. “Thanks. Have a good day.”

  The two sheep walked between the dogs, through the gate, and into the commercial district of Fleece City. As was his custom, the old ram stopped and took a second to scan his surroundings.

  Ahead of them, a sea of white and grey wool announced the morning school rush. Bustling parent sheep hurried their children across the square, traversing the spiderweb layout of sidewalks centered around a bronze fountain statue of Optera kneeling on a giant flower. Here and there among the crowd, the occasional tan or brown sheep could be seen, the mark of one born in the quarry.

  One paved road cut straight across the square, leading from this gate to one on the opposite side, with a fork leading to the residential area at the south end of the city. Along this modest road, a few taxis idled impatiently, trying to weave through the foot traffic to transport the few sheep who could afford not to walk.

  The general flow of sheep was moving toward the commercial district at the north end of the town square. A row of storefronts and businesses faced the street. In the center, Chugg National Bank & Trust towered hundreds of feet above every other building in Fleece City. The bank absolutely dwarfed the town hall right next to it, an architectural choice that Old-Timer was sure was deliberate.

  At the near end of the street stood This Little Piggy Primary School, their destination. This was where the bulk of the foot traffic from the suburbs was headed.

  Satisfied that nothing potentially threatening was going on, Old-Timer turned to his son.

  “Have a good day. I’ll see you after school.”

  Snapper glared. “You mean you’ll see me after my daily ‘all hail the glorious pigs’ indoctrination session.”

  “Not funny, Snapper.” Old-Timer stepped in close so they could speak quietly. “You’re almost done here. Don’t…”

  At the sound of raised voices, both of them turned. An agitated crowd had gathered at the front of the bank, staring through the glass doors and into the lobby.

  With a crash, the doors flew open. A round pink pig, face swollen and covered with blood, tumbled backwards down the front steps of the bank and onto his back on the sidewalk. Someone screamed, and the crowd frantically backpedaled to give the pig a wide berth.

  A big, brawny sheep with flecks of grey in his coat followed the pig down the stairs. His hooves and forehead were streaked with the pig’s blood.

  “That one! He did it!” the pig yelled, pointing up the steps at the advancing attacker. The brutish sheep lowered his head for another charge.

  Alerted by the commotion, the two guard dogs came running. They brushed by Old-Timer on either side, wove through the crowd, and caught the attacking sheep on the stairs before he could hit the pig again.

  In a coordinated move, one of the dogs drove his shoulder into the right side of the sheep’s neck, while the other slammed into the left side of the sheep’s hindquarters. The sheep was spun off his feet and thrown to the ground. The two dogs tore into him, inflicting savage wounds in his sides and back. They took hold of each of his shoulders with their teeth and dragged him back to his feet.

  “How dare you show your face, swine?” the sheep howled. “You pigs took my brother to your Megatropolis years ago! I never saw him again! This is what they do, everyone! These pigs are murdering us! When are you all going to wake up?”

  Old-Timer shook his head and turned away from the altercation. He reached out a hoof to take hold of his son’s shoulder and lead him to school. Snapper wasn’t there. The old man turned back to look for him.

  To his absolute horror, his son was moving toward the scene.

  Old-Timer halted Snapper by taking hold of his tail with the outreached hoof. He yanked his son in close.

  “What are you thinking?” Old-Timer hissed.

  “I can help him,” Snapper said.

  “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “Dad, they’re hurting him.”

  “You putting yourself in the middle of it won’t fix that for long. Come on.”

  When the younger sheep didn’t move, Old-Timer took a firm stance and got ready to shove his son back towards the school.

  “Just what is going on here?” />
  Chapter 3

  The voice, articulate but grating, brought the entire confrontation to a standstill. The dogs, the belligerent sheep, and everyone spectating stopped what they were doing and fell silent.

  Three more pigs had emerged from the town hall next to the bank. The two at either side looked identical, with heavily muscled bodies and bony, pointed faces.

  The one in the middle was even uglier, if possible. Instead of skin, he was covered with badly stitched burlap. His left eye was a button. The right was a glass orb. A red glow from within that eye betrayed the presence of some sort of recording device. The pig stood upright on two legs but was very small—barely taller than Snapper. He planted his stumpy hands on his hips.

  “Durdge,” Snapper whispered.

  “Stay close to me and don’t move,” Old-Timer replied. He tried his best to appear brave for his son, but the shake in his voice gave away his own anxiety.

  The mechanical pig surveyed the scene, flanked by the two warthog bodyguards. He moved his head with an audible whir of robotic joints.

  Rolling over on his stomach, the battered pig scrambled to Durdge’s side. “I was assaulted, sir,” he panted. “That sheep right there. I got a message that someone in the bank lobby needed to speak with management, so I came down. Then, wham! He head-butted me with no warning. Started ranting and raving about his brother.”

  Durdge nodded. He crossed his arms and climbed the first couple of steps in front of the bank to get a closer look at the suspect. “Is this true, sheep? Did you attack Mr. Slog? Don’t bother lying to me. There are eyewitnesses all around you.”

  The bleeding sheep met the robot’s gaze. “It’s true,” he cried. “You pigs took my brother to sacrifice him to your savage god.”

  Snapper took a trembling step. Old-Timer reached up with one foreleg and took an iron grip on his son’s coat. The boy strained but did not make another move.