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A Word for Heathens1

Peter Watts



I am the hand of God.
His Spirit fills me even in this desecrated place. It saturates my
very bones, it imbues my sword-arm with the strength of ten. The
cleansing flame pours from my fingertips and scours the backs of
the fleeing infidels. They boil from their hole like grubs exposed
by the dislodging of a rotten log. They writhe through the light,
seeking only darkness. As if there could be any darkness in the
sight of God—did they actually think He would be blind to the
despoiling of a place of worship, did they think He would not
notice this wretched burrow dug out beneath His very altar?
Now their blood erupts steaming from the blackened crusts of
their own flesh. The sweet stink of burning meat wafts faintly
through my filter. Skin peels away like bits of blackened
parchment, swirling in the updrafts. One of the heathens lurches
over the lip of the hole and collapses at my feet. Look past the
faces, they told us on the training fields, but today that advice
means nothing; this abomination has no face, just a steaming clot
of seared meat puckered by a bubbling fissure near one end. The
fissure splits, revealing absurdly white teeth behind. Something
between a whine and a scream, barely audible over the roar of the
flames: Please, maybe. Or mommy.
I swing my truncheon in a glorious backhand. Teeth scatter
across the room like tiny dice. Other bodies crawl about the floor
of the chapel, leaving charred bloody streaks on the floor like the
slime trails of giant slugs. I don't think I've ever been so
overpowered by God's presence in my life. I am Saul, massacring
the people of Amolek. I am Joshua butchering the Amorites. I am
1
Originally published in ReVisions (2004, J. Czerneda & I. Szpindel, Eds.)
pp162-181. Daw Books, NY.
Peter Watts 2 A Word for Heathens

Asa exterminating the Ethiopians. I hold down the stud and sweep
the room with great gouts of fire. I am so filled with divine love I
feel ready to burst into flame myself.
"Praetor!"
Isaiah claps my shoulder from behind. His wide eyes stare back
at me, distorted by the curve of his faceplate. "Sir, they're dead!
We need to put out the fire!"
For the first time in what seems like ages I notice the rest of my
guard. The prefects stand around the corners of the room as I
arranged them, covering the exits, the silver foil of their uniforms
writhing with fragments of reflected flame. They grip not
flamethrowers, but dousers. Part of me wonders how they could