Empress of Mars

by Kage Baker

  “You can tell your masters they've got a fight on their hands, you whey-faced soy-eating little timeserver!” roared Cochevelou at the solicitor's retreating back. The airlock shut after him and Cochevelou picked up a mug and hurled it at the lock, where it shattered into pink fragments.

  “We'll burn their Settlement Dome over their heads!” he said, stamping like a bull in a stall. “We'll drive our kine through their spotless tunnels, eh, and give ‘em methane up close and personal, won't we just!”

  “We will not,” said Mary. “We'll ruin ‘em with lawsuits, won't we, Mr. De Wit?”

  “I don't think you're going to be able to do either,” said Mr. De Wit, sagging onto a bench. “They've already found new tenants to work the land, you see. The Martian Agricultural Collective will be coming up soon. Very much more the kind of people they would rather see living up here. And the BAC itself is dissolving. The Board of Directors will be running the whole operation from Earth now, under the corporate name ARECO. I told you things would change.”

  “The cowards,” growled Cochevelou. “So they'll evaporate into mist when we swing at them, will they?”

  “Then what's the point of appealing?” Mary asked.

  “It will buy you time,” Mr. De Wit replied, raising his gray exhausted face. Alice brought him a cup of hot tea, setting it before him. She began to massage his bowed shoulders.

  “Of course,” she said quietly, “We could all go home again.”

  “This is my home,” said Mary, bridling.

  “Well, it isn't mine,” said Alice defiantly. “And it isn't Eli's, either. He's only staying up here to help you because he's kind. But we will go back to Earth, Mum, and if you want to see your grandchild, you'll have to go too.”

  “Alice, don't say that to your mother,” said Mr. De Wit, putting his face in his hands.

  Mary looked at her daughter stone-faced.

  “So you're playing that game, are you?’

  “I'm not playing any game! I just—”

  “Go back to Earth, then. Be happy there, if you're capable of being happy. Neither you nor anybody else alive will call my bluff,” said Mary, not loudly but in tones that formed ice around the edges or Mr. De Wit's tea. He groaned.

  “And what'm I to do?” said Cochevelou, looking horrified as the full impact hit him. “Mine will call for a vote. Three votes of no-confidence for a chieftain and there's a new chieftain.”

  “Overwhelm them with persuasion, man,” Mary told him. “Spin them a tale about our glorious new future up the slope in—in—”

  “Mars Two,” said Mr. De Wit, staring into his teacup.

  THREE: THE SHINING CITY ON THE HILL

  Cochevelou survived the vote. That was one good thing. Another was that Celtic Energy Systems got its pumping station built and online. Though the easy-to-follow assembly holo was indeed in five languages, they turned out to be Telugu, Swahili, Pashto, Malayalam and Hakka. Fortunately, most of the orderlies in the Hospital where Mr. Morton had grown up had spoken Swahili, and he had picked up enough to follow assembly directions.

  Of course, the pipes hadn't arrived from Earth yet, so there was no way to send water, heat or steam anywhere; but Mr. Morton had fabricated an elegant little neoGothic structure to house the pumping station, a sort of architectural prototype, as he explained, for the Edgar Allen Poe Memorial Cabaret, and he was already happily designing the Downtown Arts Plaza and Promenade.

  * * * *

  “It's the backlash,” said the Brick gloomily, nursing his beer. “Too many freaks up here for the BAC to cope with, so they'll just scrap the whole Settlement and ship up their own hand-picked squares. Have you seen any of these guys from the Martian Agricultural Collective?”

  “I have not,” 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. “They're not drinkers, seemingly.”

  “They're not drinkers,’ the Brick affirmed. “Their idea of fun is singing anthems to Agrarian Socialism, okay? Bunch of shaven-headed humorless bastards.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mary. “No beer, is it? And are they monkish as well?”

  “No,” said the Brick, shuddering. “They got their own ladies. They shave their heads too. Seriously political.”

  “So they won't be inclined to stop by for a chat,” 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 flatbeds 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.”

  Wreathed in an air of pleasant anticipation and carbon dioxide, he downed the last of his beer and headed out, pausing by the airlock to mask up. As he exited, two other people came in from the Tube.

  They 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 brewtanks 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. Because, there are really hardly any red diamonds up here after all, are there? So they'll need spiritual comfort when the vain quest for worldly riches fails them. 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, grinning. “I'd say I've given as good as I've got, and I'm still here.”

  "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 fight your eviction. 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, that had cost the British Luna 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 love
ly 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 BLC, and the BLC 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 BLC 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 BAC 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. “Or Areco or whatever they're calling themselves now.”

  “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, daughter. 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.

  “They're gone now,” Mary informed her.

  “Can't come out,” the Heretic replied hoarsely.

  “You don't want to go back to Earth 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.”

  “Why would they want him to talk to them?”

  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 shriek like a rusty hinge coming unhinged. "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 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.


  * * * *

  There were rumors.

  Mary heard that Areco had no interest in the terraforming project, that its intention was to strip-mine for red diamonds, which were much more valuable than anyone had thought, and it had signed no real lease with the MAC.

  At the same time, she heard that the red diamond rush had played out completely and that Areco was committed to backing the Martian Agricultural Collective, because terraforming was the only way anyone would ever make money on Mars.

  She heard that General Director Rotherhithe had been called home in disgrace and seemed to be dying of emphysema. He was also rumored to be in perfect health and Areco's principal stockholder, calling the shots from some sinister high desk on Earth.

  She heard that the Church was encountering unheard-of resistance from the MAC. She heard that the Church had signed a mutually profitable agreement with the MAC and that the new mission complex—temple, administrative offices and all—was being built even now on the other side of the settlement.

  And her appeal was certain to be rejected, and her appeal was certain to succeed. Any day now.

  Nothing happened. Life went on.

  Then everything happened at once.

  * * * *

  It was difficult to organize a baby shower on Mars, but Rowan had managed, on the very day before Mr. De Wit and Alice were scheduled to return to Earth.

  Alice's baby had been determined to be a girl, which was fortunate for the purposes of party décor, as most of the household ware was already pink. The Heretic had been coaxed out from under the refrigeration unit long enough to bake a cake, which rose like a pink cloud and stayed that way, thanks to Martian gravity, and while there was nothing but a tin of Golden Syrup to pour over it, the effect was impressive.

  The problem of presents had been overcome as well. Rowan had commandeered Mr. De Wit's buke to catalog-shop, and simply printed out pictures of what she had ordered. The images were blurry, gray, and took most of a day to print out, but once she had them she painted them with red ochre and pink clay.

  “See? Virtual presents,” she said, holding up a depiction of a woolly jumper. “You don't even have to worry about luggage weight on the shuttle. This set's from me. It comes with matching bootees and a cap.”