The Martian General's Daughter

by Theodore Judson

  I have learned during the years of our marriage that Jon's religion is far more benign than I had once believed it to be. Given the new cults that had arisen in the last decades of the Pan-Polarian Empire and the general state of disbelief that preceded the Empire's decline, I am astonished it and the other old religions have not only survived but in fact thrive in the new world we are slowly building in Amsterdam and the other places like it. That it could go on when everything else that was our civilization has gone to dust is itself worthy of respect, though I admit I am not as firm a believer as my husband and our children are. I tell myself this religion is the gentler notions of philosophy, such as Mathias the Glistening preached, combined with everlasting hope, and still I have seen so much evil in this world that I sometimes doubt the efficacy of the works of either God or man. I sometimes continue to wonder if good shall really triumph over evil when the dust at last settles, for evil seems to me to be every bit as strong as the good, or at least it was in the Empire our ancestors built. I confess it is the subversive nature of the religion I find most appealing, and that is the thing that keeps me within the fold. I love going to church with my family and knowing we are raising them to offend the immoral order that ruled the Empire and its emperors, albeit that is not a very Christian sentiment for me to have.

  In their later years, Helen and Medus also became Christers, in addition to everything else they already were. Helen remained a follower of Sophia, Anubis, Minit, and of some mystery cults that would never have had her as a member. The exclusive nature of her new faith was lost upon her. No matter how many times the priests explained she must give up her magic charms and secret herbs, she clung to them until her moment of death. With their pagan symbols hidden beneath their clothes, she and Medus were buried beside the church and were left facing Jerusalem in expectation of Christ's return. What God will make of my old maid, I cannot tell, but if He has a sense of humor I suspect He will take a liking to her in spite of everything else she was.

  Father remained loyal to Sophia until his death. The old warrior became less active as the years passed, and most days he sat in the backyard garden, lying blissfully in his lawn chair. He told us his stories again, and told them yet some more to his grandchildren when they arrived. On some days when he was feeling odd, he would call out to Harriman to bring up the light infantry, and then would look about sheepishly when he realized where he was. He practiced his calligraphy, as he told me he had wished he had done when he was younger; over a two-year period he copied out all of a large-print version of David Copperfield and was quite proud of his work. When Jon was not home, I would get out the odd costumes and paraphernalia that Sophia of the Flowers demands of her followers, and Father and I would act out the silly but heartfelt rituals of his faith. During Father's last year, Jon and I got him a small dog to keep him company in the garden, and the old man would hold the animal on his lap and tell it of the crocodile and of a crazed emperor who once ruled half the world. Father was holding the little dog the morning he went to sleep forever and drifted off to meet Sophia in paradise.

  I named my son Peter after him. When the boy became older, I told him his namesake was a brave and honorable man, an anomaly in his time. I made my son swear while he held his mother's hand that, unlike his grandfather, he would never have anything to do with the military or politics. When our boy reached the age of sixteen, Jon purchased Peter an apprenticeship in a carpenter's shop. There our son learned the honest trade he practices today. We saw our children married to other families within our community, and I feel an un-Christian pride each time I see our lovely grandchildren and I know a part of Father lives on while the seed of Luke Anthony and that of Abdul Selin have been extinguished forever.

  A merchant from Spain came by our shop yesterday and paid for his mocha with an old Pan-Polarian coin stamped with Luke Anthony's assumed name "the Expected One." On one side of the coin was the profile of the last of the Anthonys dressed in his silly Hercules getup. On the reverse was the image of the plow he had intended to push around Garden City. I had to laugh when I saw the pathetic moment preserved for the ages in metal.

  "What is funny, madam?" the trader asked.

  "Nothing, sir," I said. "Just that I knew him once. That is, my father did. Actually, I saw him many times; only once at close range."

  "They say the Concerned One was a great leader," said the Spaniard. "The last one the Empire ever had."

  "Who says that?" I asked.

  "The people," he said. "They say the Concerned One gave the people in Garden City whatever they wanted."

  "That is what a great leader does?" I asked. "He gives the people what they want?"

  The Spaniard protested he was a simple merchant and did not wish to become involved in a philosophical debate.

  "I was only repeating what others say, madam," he said. "That's everything I know: they say he was great."

  "What do they say of his successor and of the ones who tried to come after him, sir?"

  "Oh, I have heard plenty about Abdul Selin!" said the man. (He contorted his face at the mention of the name.) "He was a bad one, wasn't he? The people he had left under him had naught but higher taxes and war after he took the Concerned One's place. Now, I saw that character myself, madam. It was when I was bringing a shipment of wool into Garden City. He was fixing to march off to conquer somebody somewhere in the north at the head of his army. Looked as mean as a sick dog, he did. Good riddance when he took his last bow."

  "What do you remember of the Concerned One's generals, sir?" I asked.

  "Generals?" he said. "There were so many. I can't say any one of them comes to mind...."

  "What of General Peter Justice Black?" I asked. "He was a general under the Concerned One, under Mathias the Glistening, too. Under Pius Anthony he was a sergeant in the infantry."

  "That's ancient history," said the Spaniard. "Black ... Black ..." He thought aloud over his coffee cup. "Yes, there was a saying about him: `The African one is bad; the white one is worse; but the best is Black.'

  "Or something like that. That was about him, wasn't it?" said the stranger.

  "Yes, sir," I said, "they said that of him."

  "Did you ever see that one, madam?" asked the Spaniard.

  "I knew him well."

  "Really? What sort of man was he?" he asked.

  "General Black was a mixture of good and bad, as all men are," I said, and poured the Spaniard a free cup of mocha. "In him the good far outweighed the bad. He also was the last of his kind."

  HEODORE JUDSON is the author of Fitzpatrick's War, described by Publishers Weekly in a starred review as "a spectacular first foray into speculative fiction," and was selected as one of the seven best debuts of 2004. He lives in Fremont County, Wyoming.