by Kage Baker
“They’re gone now,” Mary informed her.
“Can’t come out,” the Heretic replied hoarsely.
“You don’t want to go back to Luna with them?”
The Heretic didn’t answer.
“You’d get lots of nice drugs,” Mary pointed out. The Heretic shifted, but was still mute.
“Look, they’re not going to hurt you. This is modern times, see? They even hinted your excommunication might be revoked. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“No,” said the Heretic. “They think He’ll talk for them. But He won’t.”
“Who won’t talk for them?” Mary asked, settling back on her heels. “Your, er, sort of god thing?”
“Yes.”
“What is he, actually?”
The Heretic’s voice sounded rusty. “He came to me on Luna. When the meteor strike happened.”
“Meteor strike, yes.” Mary cast her mind back a decade or so, remembering the news accounts of the disaster. Not really a very big meteor, would only have been a hole in someone’s roof and a joke on Earth, but a calved rain of iron knives on Luna had sliced into an Ephesian convent and let its air out, and killed a few women in grotesque ways . . . “That was where your eye got to, then.”
“I was dying and He came to me. Speaking from the bits of iron still in my head. I will keep you alive, He said. I took your eye but I will give you sight beyond human knowledge. I will love you and care for you and you will be mine. And you will serve Me.”
Mary shuddered. “So . . . you’re worshipping a bit of meteor stuck in your skull.”
“No. That’s only His mark on me. He’s greater than that.”
“Very likely.” Mary shook her head. “Well, why would the Church want him to talk to them? They mustn’t even believe in him.”
There was a silence, filled gradually with the sound of the cupboard rattling and the whirring noise of the Heretic’s eye. Finally she controlled her trembling and gasped: “Because of what He said when I was in the House of Gentle Persuasion. He told them—something was going to happen. And it happened just like He said.”
“You mean, like a prophecy?”
“Prophecies predictions can’t let this get out! Bad press Goddess knows false field day for the unbelievers paternalist voodoo conspiracies wait! We can use her!” The Heretic’s voice rose in a metallic-sounding shriek. “Stop that now or you’ll put your other eye out! But He was there. Held down His hand from the red planet and said, Come to Me! Showed me the open window and I left. Showed me a cargo freighter and I signed on. And I am here with Him and I will never go back now.”
Mary stared into the shadows, just able to make out one sunken red-rimmed eye in a pale face.
“So you were babbling craziness, and they . . . interrogated you.” Mary tried to get her mind around just what the House of Gentle Persuasion might be. Surely the Church hadn’t developed its own inquisition? That sort of thing belonged to the dead past, to the days when the Christians ran the show . . . didn’t it?
Mary had observed human nature too closely for too long to be able to lie to herself, however. Suppressing a grimace, she cleared her throat and said: “And now they think you can do predictions, is that it?”
There was silence again.
“And that’s why the Church wants you back,” said Mary grimly.
The blur in the darkness might have nodded.
“What am I to do, eh? I’ve already given offense to those two old cows, so I don’t stand to lose much else by sheltering a heretic. Will your god-sort-of-thing look after us, if the Church decides to excommunicate me too?”
The voice that spoke out of the darkness was serene and dreamy. “This is His place. He will look after His own.”
CHAPTER 22
Strange Bedfellows
“Who’s waiting to see me?” Mr. Rotherhithe stopped short in the act of tying his ceremonial tie. “You didn’t just say they were Ephesians, did you?”
“That is what I just said, sir, yes, sir.” Mr. Nennius examined his fingernails.
“Well, of all the— They can’t be serious! After what happened on Luna? How can they possibly imagine we’d welcome them here?” Mr. Rotherhithe yanked his tie off. “I never heard of such cheek in all my life! I suppose one of their prophetesses has had a vision that another miraculous image of the Goddess is buried under our prime real estate? Perhaps the bits with diamonds?”
“Not that I had heard, sir,” said Mr. Nennius. “Their communication indicated that they were more interested in opening an Ephesian mission.”
“Well, they can just get their fat bottoms on their interplanetary broomsticks and fly straight back to Luna,” said Mr. Rotherhithe.
“We might invite them to do so, sir, but may I make a suggestion first?” said Mr. Nennius, retrieving the general director’s tie from the back of the lavatory, where it had been hurled in secular righteous indignation.
“Oh, what?”
“History shows that missionaries can greatly assist in the civilizing process, when a colony is wild and uncouth,” said Mr. Nennius. “Consider, for a moment, the history of the Spanish in the Americas, or the other Europeans in the Pacific region. Not to mention the old Roman plan of securing outposts! A military base balanced by a township balanced by a temple complex. It spread the Pax Romana across the known world.”
“Who cares about the ancient past?” said Mr. Rotherhithe.
“You might find a bit of historical knowledge useful, sir, with respect.” Mr. Nennius pursed his lips. “One can learn a lot from studying the strategies of successful empire builders.”
“Yes, yes, The Art of War and all that culture stuff we were supposed to study in Business Administration. But this is Mars, Nennius.”
“Humor me, sir.” Mr. Nennius handed him back his tie.
“Dear Director General,” said Mother Glenda, inclining graciously. “How pleased we are to be received at last.”
“Sisters,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, with a stiff quarter-bow.
“We’d like to speak with you about the possibility of leasing utilities for our mission. I trust we can all work together for the greater good of the colony,” said Mother Willow.
“Your mission. Yes. My assistant informs me the Tri-Worlds Bureau has granted you a claim adjacent to the port facility,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, wondering what had happened to Mr. Nennius’s customary flow of eloquence.
“That is true. And I do hope we will become good friends,” said Mother Glenda. “We do realize you can’t have formed a particularly favorable impression of our faith, if your only example has been that dreadful woman who serves alcohol.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mary Griffith,” explained Mother Willow. “So disappointing! We thought we’d pay a call on a co-religionist, you know. Imagine our distress on discovering a cesspit of vice, up there! Frankly, we were astonished. We wonder you haven’t done something about the alcohol sales, at least.”
Mr. Rotherhithe gaped at them. Like most educated persons of his generation, he had been raised an atheist and had an impression of religion in general and Neopaganism in particular as something dark and Dionysian, insane excess coupled with ignorance and superstition opiating the masses.
“You—you don’t approve of Mary Griffith?”
“Oh, Goddess, no,” said Mother Willow, with a little laugh. “If she were a true Daughter of the Goddess, as she purports to be, she’d never be running such a place.”
“No true Daughter of Holy Mother Church is disobedient to Her will,” said Mother Glenda, with a flash of fire in her eye. Mr. Rotherhithe heard the subliminal crack of a whip. He shivered in delicious recognition, and wondered whether Mother Glenda might have worked in the bondage and S and M holodrama trade, when she had been a younger and slenderer woman.
“Why—well—I must say, ladies, this is a surprise,” he said giddily. “And yes, frankly, that woman has been the most awful thorn in my side. You’ve really no idea. She�
�s in cahoots with those bloody Celts, for one thing—she encourages the Haulers, and they’re a constant problem—and then I’m quite sure gambling goes on up there, not to mention prostitution—”
The two women made horrified noises, and Mother Willow made the Sign of the Hooded Three. “Goddess defend us!”
“Absolutely inexcusable!”
“Oh, General Director, we had no idea she was that wicked!”
“And she’s profane—and rude—and there was some sort of humbuggery about that so-called diamond, and—”
“Enough.” Mother Glenda held up her hand. Mr. Rotherhithe fell silent at once.
“General Director, we would apologize on behalf of our faith, but for the fact that this creature isn’t even remotely a true Ephesian,” said Mother Willow.
“And yet our hearts melt with compassion when we think of what you must have had to endure in dealing with her, all this time,” said Mother Glenda in steely tones. “General Director, let us make an overture of reconciliation between the British Arean Company and Holy Mother Church. We promise you, we will do all in our power to see that that sink of immorality up the mountain is shut down.”
“Ladies—Mothers—that’s so very awfully good of you,” cried Mr. Rotherhithe. “Though I should point out that it’s easier said than done. Heaven knows I’ve tried—”
“And in return,” said Mother Glenda, “you will lease us the utilities for our mission, and perhaps loan us some of your work force?”
“And grant us a permit for a little modest ecumenical work,” added Mother Willow.
“Well, I . . . I suppose there’d be no harm in that,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, wondering what ecumenical meant exactly. “We can certainly grant that much, can’t we, Mr. Nennius?”
“Of course we can, sir,” said Mr. Nennius. He whipped out Mr. Rotherhithe’s buke and punched up a document. Mr. Rotherhithe opened his mouth in surprise, for he was fairly certain he had left his buke in his wardrobe; but there, Mr. Nennius was beaming and presenting him with a lease agreement already made up.
“A standard form. Just apply your thumb there, sir. Good. Ladies? Just here, if you don’t mind. Good. And here. And here we are . . .” Mr. Nennius tapped in a code and a sheet of veltex spewed from the buke’s printer slot. He tore it off and presented it to Mother Glenda with a bow.
“You will be blessed, young man,” said Mother Willow, tears of happiness in her eyes.
“And now, General Director, it is our turn,” said Mother Glenda. With an arch smile, she drew out her own buke and called up a document. She turned it so that Mr. Rotherhithe could see the screen. “Do you know what that is, General Director?”
“Er . . . no,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, peering at the pixelated calligraphy.
“That is a formal request for excommunication proceedings to be initiated. Let’s see if Ms. Griffith can retain her standing in the Neopagan community now,” said Mother Glenda, and transmitted her request to Luna.
CHAPTER 23
Commerce
“Another Martian milestone!” Chiring announced, for the benefit of the Kathmandu Post. “Capitalism comes to the Red Planet, in the form of the first big-chain retailer of consumer goods! High-ticket luxuries, or essential supplies for the Martian colonists, and the first sign that the Martian economy is finally about to come to life?”
He backed away to better frame the image on his handcam: a gleaming new Tube extension, vizio clear as untroubled spring water, and at the end the new lock above which shone the brightly lit sign: EMPORIUM DI VESPUCCI. He moved closer again, the better to pick out faces in the crowd of people standing patiently at the lock.
“Let’s hear from some prospective shoppers!” Chiring switched from Nepali to PanCelt. “Good morning, sir! Would you care to give your name for the viewers Down Home?”
“Malcolm MacBean of Clan Morrigan,” said he, a little disgruntled at having a camera shoved in his face.
“And what are you hoping to find at Emporium di Vespucci?”
“Cheaper air filters than you can buy at the BAC PX.”
“So you see this as a definite challenge to the British Arean Company?”
“I don’t know. Piss off or I’ll break that thing.”
“Well, what about you, madam?” Chiring swerved his camera into the face of a lady who, being English, held up her hands in a gesture of incomprehension. He repeated his question in English for her.
“Oh. Er. I heard they were going to have an omniband station for downloading holoes,” she said. “And I just, you know, well, it’s something new up here, isn’t it?”
“So you’re here for the novelty! And would you care to give us your name?”
“Not really,” she said apologetically. “I work at . . .” She jerked her head in the general direction of Settlement Base. “You know.”
“Thank you,” said Chiring, tactfully stepping away. Next in line were Mr. Crosley and Eddie the Yeti. Eddie beamed into the camera lens.
“Stanford’s going to buy me some sweeties!”
“Is that right?” Chiring trained the camera on Mr. Crosley.
“That is correct. Furthermore, Mr. Peebles and I are looking to expand our business ventures, and we’re investigating the logistics of purchasing supplies.”
“We’re going to be dentists,” Eddie informed the world.
“How useful! Good luck, gentlemen.” Chiring spotted Alf the Hauler and trained the camera on him. “Mr. Chipping! Always a pleasure. What brings you to Emporium di Vespucci?”
“Want to see if dey got peaches in syrup,” said Alf. “I been dreaming about peaches in syrup for ten years.”
“A nostalgic taste of Old Earth! And now, I think—yes—we’re about to open!” Chiring turned and raised his handcam high to catch Ottorino emerging through the lock, beaming.
“My friends, Emporium di Vespucci is at your service,” he said with a bow. The crowd gawked. He had clearly washed and neatly combed his hair—most colonists had simply gotten into the habit of wearing dreadlocks—had a red silk rosebud clipped to the collar of his psuit, and was altogether the most cosmopolitan and debonair figure any of them had seen in years.
Chiring elbowed his way forward to be part of the first group let in through the lock. The aperture in front hissed open, and they stepped forward as one.
There came a long-drawn-out “Oooooohhh” in unison from the Martians at what they beheld. There, arranged on rows and rows of shelves, were things to buy. Shovels, pickaxes and other tools, new and sharp; not one but three Rovers on a dais, their red paint gleaming under the display lights; boots, in all sizes and no fewer than three colors; thermal underwear and glossy-looking new psuits on racks. Touch-screens glowed from the walls, displaying catalogue merchandise for ordering: dome kits complete with hookups and built-ins, hydroponics gear, tractors and big rigs, more Rovers. Farther in were the racks displaying gustatory delights, Chlorilar pouches of preserved fruits and vegetables, blocks of Proteus, stacked pyramids of pannetoni! Chiring panned slowly across it all, making a mental note to score in some sort of classical fanfare for the audio track.
A second “Oooohh!” followed the first reaction, for by then the crowd had taken their first breath.
“It doesn’t stink in here!” said the Englishwoman tearfully. She tore off her mask and gulped in warm, dry air, faintly perfumed with luxury but no least trace of methane.
“Of course not,” said Rowan, stepping forward. She held out a tray of complimentary sugared almonds, and, clearing her throat, inquired: “Are you being served?”
Alf the Hauler pushed past her, having spotted his heart’s desire. Moaning with happiness, he seized a pouch of peaches in syrup from its rack. He tore it open and lifted it on high, tilting his face back. The golden hemispheres cascaded down slowly, onto Alf’s face, into his mouth and hair and beard, the syrup streaming like the light of a long-ago summer afternoon.
“So it was a success, was it?” said Cochevelou, lifting h
is pint to his lips.
“It was that,” said Mary happily, leaning on the bar. “Sold out most of the foodstuffs. Our Ottorino’s had to place an emergency order Down Home to restock. Ever so many tools sold, too, and air filters by the boxful. Pots of money, they made. Plummy days, Cochevelou!”
“Maybe,” said Cochevelou shortly. “New days, that’s for certain. Seen the new Ephesian temple that’s going up, down by the transport strip?”
“I have,” said Mary. “Been around your place, have they?”
“They were,” said Cochevelou. “Rounding up our ladies and exhorting them and all. Trying to tithe for the new temple. I had to sign over a fair bit of clan’s funds, I can tell you. Grasping old bitches.”
“They didn’t get as far as asking for money with me,” said Mary with a chuckle. “Stalked out of here with their noses in the air. Much I care!”
“Yes, well, you might care,” said Cochevelou. “They didn’t have good words for you, believe me. Telling our girls it was a sin to come up here, and you were a shameless hypocrite and all and next thing to a heretic. And that reminds me! They were asking around about your cook, had anyone seen her and did anyone know where she lives and so forth. Of course our ladies told them all about her. Hard not to know where she is; only one one-eyed person on Mars anyway.”
“No, there’s Squatty Pachacamac, hauls the North Pole route,” said Mary, but distractedly. “Wears an eyepatch. What did they tell about her?”
“Only one-eyed woman with an ocular implant, then. I don’t know what all they said, but likely it was just what everyone knows. Didn’t seem like they were trying to bring her up on charges or anything. And it isn’t as though she’s out there ranting and preaching heresy, is it? So I shouldn’t worry about that. But afterwards some of our ladies were muttering about me coming up here so much.”
“Were they, now?” Mary shrugged. “As though any woman’s going to tell Maurice Cochevelou what to do!”