by Kage Baker
“Whatever you like,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, lining up another shot. The name Ben-Gen tugged at his memory; he frowned. “Aren’t those the fellows who failed to deliver on something?”
“They are, sir. I’m giving them another chance.”
“Well, tell them we want results in a timely fashion, this time,” said Mr. Rotherhithe sternly, punching in another stroke. “We can’t put up with half-hearted service.”
“May I quote you, sir?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, waving his hand in a vague fashion, as his eyes followed the bouncing ball.
CHAPTER 21
Ministry
“How’s the clan’s lawsuit going?” asked the Brick, nursing his beer.
“Still grinding through the courts, I’m afraid,” Mary replied. “Got a countersuit going for harassment for the debt they don’t owe, and would have put one in on wrongful death for Perrik, only our Eliphal pointed out there wasn’t any habeas corpus or whatever it’s called. But it’s shameful! I can’t think why the BAC’s doing this, unless it’s that Mr. Nennius stirring things up.”
“Too many freaks up here for the British Arean Company to cope with, if you ask me,” said the Brick with a grin. “They want to clean house and make this place more like Earth, now that people are getting interested in colonizing again. Noticed those three shuttles that came in all together, the other day?”
“I did,” said Mary, looking over his head to count the house. Three booths occupied, and only two seats at the bar; not good, for a Friday night. “Supply ships, I guessed.” But the Brick shook his head.
“No; they were bringing personnel. Some new bunch who’ll be farming the land, farther down the hill. Go out and look, tomorrow morning; you can just see the new frames going up for a shitload of a lot of vizio. There’s people camped out in the lobby of the BAC administration headquarters, while the contract laborers build shelters for them. That’s where all your customers are, sweetheart: working double shifts.”
“Really?” Mary took up a rag and began to polish the bar again. “That’ll mean they’ll be in here on spending sprees, then. And more colonists, how nice! Just in time for our Ottorino’s grand shop opening. I foresee busy times ahead. Perhaps I ought to order another brew tank shipped up from Earth, eh?”
“It’s possible,” said the Brick. “You’ll need one, if you don’t get run off the planet. The BAC wants the clan gone; you want to watch they don’t go after you, too.”
“True enough,” said Mary thoughtfully. “How’s your job security, then, under the new regime?”
The Brick grinned. “They can round up all the other loonies and ship ’em home, but they’ll still need Ice Haulers, right? And we’ve got the Bipolar Boys and Girls Union. They mess with us, we’ll drive a dozen six-ton tankers through Settlement Dome and Mars ’em.”
Marsing was a local custom. It resembled mooning, but was uglier.
“I’m sure they won’t dare mess with you, Mr. Brick,” said Mary.
“Hey, let ’em,” said the Brick, waving a massive hand. “I like a good fight.”
“And that’s just the sort of devil-may-care attitude that gave me an epiphany the other day,” said Mr. Crosley, turning around at the table where he and Eddie the Yeti were enjoying an early supper of Proteus Marinara Marineris. The Brick eyed him and snorted. “No, seriously. Mother Griffith, may I trouble you to pour my good friend Mr. Brick another beer, at my expense? And may I have a moment of your time, Mr. Brick?”
The Brick took his beer, sat down at their table. “So what’s this about, then, mate?” he said.
“Why, just this, sir. Since taking on Mr. Peebles as my protégé, I have enjoyed many illuminating conversations with him about life on the great red planet. I have learned a great deal. Haven’t I, Eddie?”
Eddie, busily shoveling down red slurpy tomato sauce with nodules of Proteus in it, nodded. He was a good deal cleaner than when the Brick had seen him last, and wore an expensive new psuit.
“This bloke treating you all right, Eddie, is he?” the Brick inquired quietly. Eddie looked up from his food and smiled wide.
“Yeh. We’re partners!”
“Tell me, Mr. Brick, is Eddie correct when he informs me that there are other unfortunate Haulers among your number, similarly in need, after unforeseen catastrophes, of the common necessities of life?”
“That’d be right,” said the Brick. “We can pass the hat for ’em amongst ourselves, but the BAC doesn’t give a shite.”
“Oh, how sad. How dreadfully sad. Well, Mr. Brick, it has occurred to me that what the Haulers are in dire need of is some sort of carefully administered fund which would provide for those unfortunates. A fund, begun with a donation of capital from some affluent individual, which would then be augmented by nominal monthly contributions from all brother Haulers.”
“You’re talking about setting up an insurance company?” The Brick drank half his beer, belched, and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand.
“Good heavens, no! Not one of those dreadful rackets with shareholders and bureaucrats and stony-hearted claims adjusters,” cried Mr. Crosley. “No indeed. Something a great deal more spontaneous, warm-souled, and informal. I rather had in mind calling it the Greater Tharsis Benevolent Fund.”
“Do tell.”
“Oh, yes. An initial donation of, say, a thousand pounds sterling on my part, and a monthly premium of, say, two pounds per capita from each Hauler subscribing? Would you say that was fair? I would administer the fund, of course.”
“You would, huh?” The Brick scratched his beard, holding Mr. Crosley in his red gaze. “You must be on the level. I reckon nobody’d be enough of an idiot to try and cheat the Haulers when he can’t leave the planet.”
“Positively the last thing on my mind,” Mr. Crosley assured him. “I’m a man of business, Mr. Brick. Have a look at my calculations, and see for yourself.” He passed the Brick a plaquette. The Brick took it and peered at it. “Projected costs, claims outlay and—of course—modest profits for Eddie and me. It would work.”
“It would, on paper,” said the Brick. “So to speak. So what do you want from me?”
“Why, Mr. Brick, you’re a well known and respected member of the community,” said Mr. Crosley, smooth as silk. “Your voice added to mine would be extremely helpful in getting the benevolent fund up and flying.”
“No doubt it would.” The Brick brought his stare up to focus on Mr. Crosley once more. “You know what interests me, Crosley? How long you’ll last. Evolution plays hardball, up here. There are a lot of frozen guys lying out there on the mountain. The people who’ve survived have been the ones who were able to make friends and join families. The Haulers. The clan. Mother’s people here at the Empress. Social connections, you know what I mean? The lone wolves shrivel up and die.
“You’re something of an experiment. I wonder if you’ll be able to put down enough roots so the wind doesn’t blow you to frozen Hell? Gentlemen in your line of work don’t generally put down roots. What is it you want here, mate? It had better be good for Mars. You tell old Uncle Brick, and mind you tell the truth.”
The Brick’s voice had dropped to a soft growl, like distant thunder, and his eyes glowed like coals. Mr. Crosley might have gone a little pale, but his smile never faltered.
“Of course I want what’s best for Mars, Mr. Brick. It has everything a man of my abilities requires: limitless possibilities and all the opportunities a nascent society provides. You seem like an educated man; you know as well as I do that in frontier places like this, a life of successful crime can be the most direct route to respectability. I aim to become a respectable member of this community, I assure you. And what better way to secure my position than to win myself allies among the Haulers?”
“What better way indeed?” said the Brick. “And you want my endorsement, huh?”
“I do, sir.”
“Well then, mate, tell you what. You make me treasurer of
this benevolent fund and I’m in. I’ll collect the premiums and do the accounting. You and Eddie earn your modest profits by investing the money. We got a developing economy up here. Should be a lot to invest in, eh?”
“Any number of growing businesses,” said Mr. Crosley breathlessly. “I can think of several I’d like to start myself.”
“I thought you might. Sounds like a plan, then,” said the Brick, downing the last of his beer. “Yeah, I think you can stay. You through eating, Eddie? That’s a good boy. Why don’t you both take a walk with me, over to the Ice Depot? Talk to some of the Haulers.”
Wreathed in an air of pleasant anticipation and carbon dioxide, the Brick rose and shepherded them out. They headed off, only pausing by the airlock to mask up. As they exited, two other people came in from the Tube.
The newcomers removed their masks and stared around at the Empress. Their gazes dwelt with approval a moment on the votive shrine to the Mother, in its alcove; traveled on and grew somewhat cold looking on the great brew tanks that loomed at the back of Mary’s domain. They were both pear-shaped women, one elderly and one youngish, and Mary wondered what the hell they were doing on Mars.
“Are you perhaps lost, ladies?” she inquired in English.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the elder of the two. She advanced on the bar, closely followed by her associate. Somewhere in the gloom behind Mary, there was a gasp and the clang of a dropped skillet.
“You must be Mary Griffith,” said the elder. “I am Mother Glenda and this is Mother Willow. We’re with the Ephesian Mission.”
“Indeed? How nice,” said Mary. “Visiting from Luna, then?”
“Oh, no,” said Mother Glenda. “We’ve come to stay. Blessed be.”
“Blessed be,” Mary echoed, feeling slightly uneasy as she looked into Mother Glenda’s face, which was pink-cheeked and jolly-smiling, though there was a certain hard glint in her eyes.
“The Church felt it was time to bring the Goddess to this desolate place,” said Mother Willow, who had a high breathless voice. “Especially with all these desperate people seeking their fortunes here. They’ll need spiritual comfort when the vain quest for worldly riches fails them, won’t they? And besides, it’s Mars.”
“Mythologically the planet of war and masculine brutality,” explained Mother Glenda.
“Ah,” said Mary.
“And the Martian Agricultural Collective are all atheists, you see, so it’s an even greater challenge,” said Mother Willow earnestly. “You can imagine how pleased we were to learn that there was already a Daughter resident up here. And how outraged we were to hear that you have been the victim of paternalist oppression!”
“I wouldn’t say I’ve been a victim,” Mary replied. “Martian Agricultural Collective, you say? New settlers, are they?”
“Why, we thought you knew,” said Mother Glenda. “We came up on the same shuttle with them. They’re coming in to replace the Clan Morrigan.”
“They think so, do they?” Mary grinned. “They’re being a bit premature. The clan hasn’t any plans to go just yet. The BAC may think it can pitch us all off, the lying doublecrossing bastards, but I at least am staying put on Mars.”
“Good answer,” said Mother Glenda. “Holy Mother Church has followed your struggle with some interest, Daughter.”
“Really,” said Mary, not much liking the sound of that.
“And, of course, one of the first things we want to do is offer our support,” Mother Willow assured her. “Holy Mother Church will help you. Our legal and financial resources are practically unlimited, you know, and we have publicists who would love to tell your story. The Goddess cares for Her own, but most especially for those who have suffered persecution in Her name!”
Mary caught her breath. She thought of the Diana of Luna affair, which had cost the British Lunar Company millions of pounds and kilometers of real estate. And now the Church must be looking to duplicate that success here . . .
“Oh, my, what a lovely thought,” she said dreamily. “This might be ever so much fun. Please, allow me to offer you a nice mug of—er—tea.”
Everyone in three worlds knew the story: how, in the early days of Luna’s settlement, a devout Ephesian named Lavender Dragonsbane had found a solid silver statue of the Goddess buried on the moon. The British Lunar Company claimed that what she had found was, in fact, a vaguely woman-shaped lump of nickel ore. It was given to archaeologists to study, and then other parties (including MI5) had stepped in to demand a look at it, and somehow it had mysteriously vanished in transit from one set of experts to another.
The Ephesian Church had sued the British Lunar Company, and the British Lunar Company had sued back. Lavender Dragonsbane had a vision wherein the Goddess told her to build a shrine on the spot where she had found the statue. The British Lunar Company claimed that the statue had been deliberately planted by the Ephesians on that spot because it happened to be valuable real estate they wanted.
However, in calling what had been found a statue, the British Lunar Company had contradicted their earlier statement that it had been nothing but a curiously shaped bit of rock. The Tri-Worlds Council for Integrity found for the Ephesian Church on points. Now the Church owned half the Moon.
“. . . and you could be our next Lavender Dragonsbane, Daughter,” said Mother Willow, setting aside her tea.
“Well, that would spoke the BAC’s wheels and no mistake,” said Mary giddily.
“The perennial oppressors,” said Mother Willow, smiling, “brought to their knees by the simple faith of one woman. Blessed be!”
“Blessed be!” Mary echoed, visions of sweet revenge dancing through her head.
“Of course, you understand there will have to be some changes,” said Mother Glenda.
“Yes, of course,” said Mary, and then: “Excuse me?”
Mother Willow coughed delicately. “We have been given to understand that your staff is nearly all male. We can scarcely present you as Her defender on Mars when you perpetuate hiring bias, can we, Daughter? And Holy Mother Church is very concerned at rumors that one of your employees is a . . . Christian.”
“Oh, Manco!” said Mary. “No, you don’t understand. He really worships Her, you see, only it’s just in the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. And everybody knows that’s some kind of Red Indian flower goddess really, and nothing to do with paternalist oppressors or anything like that and after all he’s a, er, Native American, isn’t he? Member of a viciously oppressed ethnic minority? And he’s built Her a big shrine and everything in a sacred grotto hereabouts.”
Mother Willow brightened. “Yes, I see! That makes it an entirely different matter. I expect our publicists could do very well with that.” She pulled out a jotpad and made a few brief notes. “One of Her faithful sons escaping to Mars from the brutal lash of Earth prejudice, yes . . .”
“And as for the rest of ’em being male,” said Mary, “well, I have to take what I can get up here, don’t I? And they’re not bad fellows at all. And anyway, out of the whole settlement, there’s only—” She had been about to say, There’s only the Heretic wanted a job, but caught herself and went on. “—Er, only so many women on Mars, after all.”
“That’s true,” said Mother Willow graciously.
“And we quite understand you have been placed in a position where it was necessary to fight the enemy with his own weapons,” said Mother Glenda. “However, all of that”—and she pointed at the brewtanks—“must stop, immediately.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mary.
“There is to be no more traffic in controlled substances,” said Mother Glenda.
“But it’s only beer!” Mary cried. “And it’s not illegal in the Celtic Federation, anyway, of which I am a citizen, see? So I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Not under the statutes of men,” said Mother Glenda. “But how can you feel you are doing Her will by serving a deadly toxin like alcohol to the impoverished working classes of Mars? No, Daught
er. Holy Mother Church wants to see those tanks dismantled before she grants her aid.”
“But what would I serve my regulars?” Mary demanded.
“Herbal teas and nourishing broths,” suggested Mother Willow. “Healthful drinks.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. Perhaps sensing an explosion imminent, Mother Willow changed the subject and said delicately: “And there is one other matter . . .”
“What’s that?” said Mary stonily.
“There was an unfortunate incident on Luna,” said Mother Willow. “Tragic, really. One of our faithful Daughters was injured in an accident. The poor creature was confused—we’re certain now there was brain damage—but it would appear that, in her dementia, she said certain things that were interpreted in entirely the wrong way. Misunderstandings will happen . . . but Holy Mother Church seeks now to bring her child home.”
“We understand she works for you here,” said Mother Glenda.
“Er,” said Mary. “Well. She has done, but . . . you must know she’s a bit unreliable. I never know when she’ll turn up. I thought she was a heretic, anyway.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” said Mother Glenda quickly. “She ought to be in—that is, on medication for her condition.”
“You mean you want to put her in Hospital,” said Mary.
“Oh, no, no, no!” Mother Willow assured her. “Not one of those dreadful state-run homes at all. The Church has a special place for its afflicted Daughters.”
I’ll just bet you do, Mary thought. She sat mulling over the price tag on her future for a long moment. At last she stood up.
“Ladies, I think you’d best go now.”
When they had left at last, when the flint-edged smiles and veiled threats and sniffs of mutual disapproval had been exchanged, Mary drew a deep breath. “Missionaries,” she muttered. Then she made her way back into the stygian blackness of her kitchen.
She found the Heretic at last, wedged behind the pantry cupboard like a human cockroach, by the sound her ocular implant was making as it telescoped in and out.