The Martian Viking

by Tim Sullivan

  "It'll only be a few weeks before they let you socialize with the rest of us."

  Johnsmith wondered why she was talking to him, since nobody besides Angel Torquemada and Sergeant Daiv had shown any interest in him or his companions in the forty-eight hours since they touched down at Elysium. Only Captain Hi and his taciturn crewmate had spoken to them at all; and Co-pilot Prudy, just barely.

  "I was on my way to my locker to get something," the woman said, almost as if she was apologizing for stopping to talk to him. Perhaps she had mistaken his reticence for unfriendliness.

  "Oh, don't go so soon," Johnsmith said, feeling a little embarrassed at the speed with which this gentle admonition popped out of him. "I mean, it's really very nice of you to stop and talk."

  She grinned, which made her plain face sunny and attractive, seeming to take some of the chill out of the Martian air. "My name's Frankie," she said, extending her right hand. "Frankie Lee Wisbar."

  "I'm Johnsmith Biberkopf."

  Her handshake was firm, matching her straightforward manner. "Every few months a new batch of draftees arrives," she said, almost apologetically. "After a while, you hardly even notice anymore."

  "I guess you wouldn't," Johnsmith said. "What I've been wondering, though, is . . ." He hesitated, seeing someone entering the barracks.

  It was Felicia, followed by the doleful Alderdice. Could that have been a look of jealousy on her thin face? Or was it merely surprise, that one of the old timers would deign to talk to the lowly Johnsmith?

  A third person entered the barracks, through the entrance on the far end, where Captain Hi and Prudy lounged about. It was Angel Torquemada. He walked straight through. As he approached them, Frankie walked off without a word.

  "Tomorrow morning," Torquemada said, stopping for a moment, "you three cut your first training period off after a half hour and come to the briefing room. I've got a few things to tell you. Any questions?"

  There was an awkward moment, and then Felicia said: "Yeah, where is the briefing room?"

  "Sergeant Daiv will take you there at the appointed time. That'll be all for now. Get a good night's rest." Torquemada continued on his way through the barracks, toward the recreation area.

  "What do you suppose that was all about?" Alderdice said, pulling a pair of paper pajamas over his enormous buttocks.

  "I don't know." But Johnsmith had his suspicions.

  They took light exercise in the morning, as they had been instructed, and then Sergeant Daiv led them through a passageway that curved deep underground. They were soon moving through a honeycomb of rooms cut into the solid rock. Air had been pumped in, and it was all heated more or less comfortably.

  Sergeant Daiv stopped in front of a doorway and gestured for them to enter. As soon as they were seated in the meeting room, he left them. Inside were folding chairs, a podium, and a recent model projectogram. There was nobody waiting for them.

  Johnsmith took a seat, grateful to be relaxing instead of running endless laps in the training cavern. He could almost have fallen asleep, had he not been wary of Angel Torquemada's imminent arrival. Felicia sat glumly to one side of him, and the heavily perspiring Alderdice sat on the other.

  "I don't like this," Alderdice said. "I was just getting used to the daily routine, and now this."

  Nothing more was said until Angel Torquemada stepped briskly into the room. "Good morning," he said, taking his place at the podium. "I hope you slept well, because today is when your mission on Mars really begins."

  Their mission on Mars? What was he talking about?

  "You may have wondered from time to time why you were sent to Mars."

  "I thought we were going to help build the new sections of the compound," Alderdice said.

  "That order has been rescinded. The message came from Earth only a few hours ago. Let me explain what your purpose here is, from now on."

  "Don't bother," Felicia said sharply.

  "Ms. Burst," Torquemada said, staring her down with his unblinking brown eyes, "you were sent to Elysium because of your family's immense influence. They were not quite able to get you off the hook, and so you're stuck here under my tutelage. You're one of the few at this outpost who may someday go free. Your fellow prisoners must envy you for that, but they will not envy you if you get on my wrong side while you are here. Do we understand each other?"

  Johnsmith tried not to look at Felicia, but he couldn't help himself. She was red-faced, astonished. Nobody had ever spoken to her like that before; he was certain of that much. Johnsmith felt a certain perverse satisfaction at seeing her so discomfited.

  "I asked you if we understand each other?" Torquemada demanded. His face was completely expressionless.

  Felicia did not submit to his will, however. She sat staring down at the stone floor, her jaw set, in silence.

  Torquemada did not press the issue. Johnsmith, whose heart beat faster as a result of the exchange he had just witnessed, was sure that it was not over yet, however.

  "These two gentlemen," Torquemada said, still looking at Felicia, "do not have your connections. They will remain here for the rest of their lives. But the three of you will assist the Conglom for the time being, by participating in a controlled experiment."

  Johnsmith was beginning to regret that they had been sent to the briefing room. Why couldn't some of the old timers have been called in here instead of him and his two friends?

  "Don't be alarmed," Torquemada said, as if he had read Johnsmith's mind. "You won't be harmed in any way. You might even enjoy yourselves."

  Somehow, Johnsmith was not reassured by their supervisor's blandishments. They had not been sent to Mars for a picnic, after all. He felt ashamed for even thinking that Felicia's presence might spare them the worst. He wished that she would not continue to antagonize Angel Torquemada, who was clearly not a man to be trifled with.

  "So what do you want us to do?" Felicia said, lifting her head and glaring at Torquemada.

  Their master smiled for the first time in Johnsmith's memory. "I simply want you to use onees."

  EIGHT

  "MY LIFE SEEMS kind of empty," Ryan Effner confided to Madame Psychosis as he knelt in his pew. "I don't know what to do with myself. And Ronindella isn't very happy, either."

  "Have you thought about bringing her in to see me?" Madame Psychosis said, without a trace of sarcasm. She always sounded so caring that Ryan felt as though he were floating in a warm bath of love while he consulted her. Therapy was something everyone should have, he decided, especially Ronindella. After all, how could she truly understand him if she didn't see Madame Psychosis? The trouble was, Ronnie was being very stubborn about not seeing his cybershrink.

  "She says it's against her religion," Ryan said. "That's her latest excuse for not wanting therapy."

  "What religion does she belong to?" Madame Psychosis asked.

  "V.C.O.G."

  There was a slight pause as Madame Psychosis tapped into her memory droplets for information about the Video Church.

  "There is a fairly reliable method of weaning people away from the Video Church of God," Madame Psychosis said after a few seconds.

  "Oh? What's that?"

  "Ronindella's religion teaches that therapy is incompatible with the church's tenets, but not that it is strictly forbidden. If she is threatened with an alternative that is forbidden, then she might consent to therapy."

  "I don't understand."

  "The alternative must be the No-God Sect."

  "Huh? That's no alternative. Ronindella would never hang out with that No-God bunch."

  "Perhaps not," Madame Psychosis said in a motherly tone, "but wouldn't you?"

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you."

  "Join the No-God Sect . . .? I don't know, Madame."

  "If you want her to seek therapy, this is a tried and true method."

  "But it seems so . . ." He almost said "sneaky," but at the last instant amended it to: " . . .risky."

  "We must deal with
risk, just as we must deal with our feelings," Madame Psychosis said in portentous tones. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

  Ryan felt sticky with perspiration, though the room was quite comfortable. He had to do what she suggested, obviously. Madame Psychosis would persist until he carried this thing out. Since he was paying for these sessions, he might as well agree to do it sooner, rather than later.

  "All right," he said, his voice squeaking a little in submission. "How do I convert?"

  "The No-God Sect requires no conversion as such. An acceptance of the central tenet is all that's necessary."

  "And what is the central tenet?"

  "That there is not, never has been, never will be, and can never be a supreme being."

  Ryan mulled that over for a few seconds. "How do they know?"

  "That's irrelevant," Madame Psychosis said. "Besides, discussion of such matters will give you something to do at the Sect meetings. Something that is not sybaritic, that is."

  "Yeah, I suppose so." Ryan added resigned, "How long is this going to take?"

  "The sooner you convince Ronindella that her reluctance to seek therapy is the cause of your involvement with the No-God Sect, the sooner she is likely to relent."

  There was one thing that bothered Ryan, something that Madame Psychosis hadn't really touched on. "What if it doesn't work?" he said. "What if she just gets another guy?"

  "Come now, Ryan," Madame said. "Haven't we learned to be more self-assured than that?" She smiled beatifically at him, and he knew that her strength would see him through the coming struggle.

  Ronindella's credit swelled, the figures changing on the 'gram even as she watched. It was the result of the infusion from Johnsmith's government pay. But the figures didn't run up for long, she was disappointed to see. In the final analysis, it wasn't nearly as much as she had hoped for. It looked as if she would be stuck with Ryan, at least until something better came along. He was already getting on her nerves, she thought, as she lit a cigarette.

  "Smitty," she called out, "what are you doing?" This question was almost ritualistic, as was Smitty's reply.

  "Nothing." Smitty emerged from the bedroom with his dinosaur in hand. "This doesn't work anymore, Mom."

  "We'll get some batteries for it later, honey." She patted his dark hair. "Which is about the only thing we can afford at the moment."

  Smitty didn't know what she was talking about. He had only started playing with the dinosaur again a few days ago. Every time he'd started to take it out of its box, he'd thought of his Dad, that last time they saw each other on the phone. But then his Mom had received this letter saying that Dad's pay was coming, and it almost seemed as if Smitty had heard from him personally. After that, he'd wanted to play with the dinosaur again, but the batteries had soon worn out. Well, maybe his Mom would remember to get him some new ones the next time she went out.

  "Get your jacket on," she said after a few seconds.

  "Huh?" This was unexpected. They were going out already. But somehow Smitty didn't think they would be shopping for batteries. "Where are we going, Mom?"

  "To church."

  "Church?"

  "You heard me. Now go put on your jacket."

  Smitty did as he was told, and in a moment was struggling to find the armholes in his yellow, plastic jacket. His Mom was pulling him out the door before he had it completely on. By this time he was sure that batteries were not the object of their quest. At least, he'd never noticed that they sold them in church before, but he wasn't absolutely sure. They did have a lot of concession stands at the Video Church.

  They rushed down to the basement, where Ryan's flyby was parked. Ryan had started taking the bus a lot, because Ronindella had told him she needed it during the day. But Ryan kept staying out later and later every evening. As they zoomed up the ramp and out of the parking lot, the sun was setting. The city's towers were almost in silhouette, and the pastel sky behind them ranged from azure to damask.

  Smitty had never been to church so late in the day. In fact, his Mom usually just watched the services on the projectogram. It was just like being there, she always said, except that Smitty could never help but notice how the people on the fringes of the congregation were sort of unfocused and distorted. But the ones in the middle looked pretty natural. And they were the ones who seemed to be sitting right next to you, of course. If you didn't pay close attention or think about it too much, it was okay. That was what Mom did; she just sat there with her eyes half-closed and rocked rhythmically while the preacher stalked back and forth, screaming about God and Hell and all the rest of that stuff that Dad had never cared much for.

  Smitty didn't care much for it, either. Nevertheless, he and his Mom were on their way to the Video Church. He was probably in for a really boring time tonight, and he was willing to bet that the batteries would be forgotten, too.

  The flyby gained speed, chugging as if it would give up the ghost, and then suddenly lifted above the street.

  "Ryan's got to get those coils checked," Ronindella said. All she needed was to come down hood first in the middle of a busy intersection, or pile into a bridge abutment. Well, at least Ryan had a flyby. Johnsmith had never been able to afford one, even though he had made as much as Ryan until he got fired. She chided herself for marrying such an impractical man. Well, she'd been young then, and had no idea of what it took to bring up a child. She'd be damned if she was going to live like a pauper for the rest of her life, though.

  The Video Church, a handsome Neo-Drive-In structure with crimson and turquoise neon trim, towered over Skid Row. As they approached, Ronindella banked. Smitty was pressed against the padded door on the passenger's side for a moment, and then the car hovered while Ronindella looked for a parking space.

  Since there was no major service going on at the moment—and perhaps because it was dinner time—there were a few parking spaces available. The only way to get in was through the roof entrance. After all, the Video Church of God had no use for adherents who couldn't afford flybys.

  Ronindella brought Ryan's flyby down with a nasty bounce. As he always did at such moments, Smitty understood why he had to wear a seat belt, especially when his Mom was driving. Ryan drove a lot better, but Smitty was glad he wasn't with them this evening. It was bad enough to have to come to church tonight without having that asshole along, too. Things could have been a lot worse.

  Ronindella cut the engine and lifted the door on her side. Climbing out, she said, "Come on, Smitty."

  Smitty pretended to have trouble undoing his seat belt, hoping something would happen at the last minute, so that he wouldn't have to go to church tonight.

  But nothing happened; nothing at all. His Mom came around to the passenger side, opened the door, and flipped open the catch to his seat belt. So much for stalling around. He was going to church whether he liked it or not.

  "Come on, young man," Ronindella said. "We haven't got all night, you know."

  She yanked him out of the car and pulled him to the elevator. Smitty didn't exactly resist, but he didn't exactly cooperate, either. He just made the walk last a little longer, as if by accident. Smitty dared to hope that Ryan's license plate would be rejected by the scan, and that the elevator door would not open as a result; that had happened once before. Ronindella's victory was inevitable, however. Soon they were riding down into the brightly lit depths of the Video Church, and there was nothing for Smitty to do but go along with it.

  Smitty could hear the congregation shouting even before the elevator door opened: "Praise God!" "Hallelujah!" "Jesus loves you!" and so on.

  They stepped out into a projectogram studio, a gigantic, floodlit room filled with the faithful, who swayed en masse to a white gospel rhythm backing a strutting preacher.

  "God knows who is doing His sacred work," the Reverend bellowed, spittle spraying in all directions from his immaculately white teeth, "and God knows who is shirking.

  "Those who believe—who really believe—do the work to which the
God-blessed Conglomerated United Nations of Earth government has so selflessly assigned them all. Every man, woman, and child on this planet works, as the Good Lord intended . . .or they take their damned souls and get off this beautiful planet."

  "Hallelujah!" the faithful shrieked.

  Ronindella could hardly believe her luck; they had walked into a full-employment sermon. For the first time in months, she started to think that things might be starting to go her way. Maybe God was on her side, even if Johnsmith Biberkopf was not.

  Smitty watched the show, feeling uncomfortably warm under the intense lighting necessary for projectogram holography. The Video Church was broadcast twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, on every continent. It was even seen on the moon and the orbital colonies. Smitty had heard his Mom say this a thousand times to his Dad and later, to Ryan Effner. He dared to hope that it never got to Mars, so his Dad wouldn't have to watch it ever again.

  "And there are those who neglect their duty to the Lord," the preacher hollered, "just as there are those who neglect their duty to their world."

  The congregation groaned in disapproval of the behavior of these nameless ne'er-do-wells. Ronindella joined in, waiting for her chance.

  It came about forty minutes later. Smitty was barely awake by this time, in spite of the constant chorus of screams that accompanied every phrase the preacher uttered. But he heard the preacher ask, "Who will bear witness?"

  "I will bear witness!" Ronindella shrieked almost before the words were out of the preacher's mouth.

  Some other people said they would bear witness, too. Ronindella had to wait her turn, but after five of six other people got to go up on the stage, the preacher called on her, and she practically leaped out of her seat. Smitty could hardly believe what he was seeing. His Mom had told him that she'd been a witness before he was born, but it was something he never thought he'd actually see. There she was, though, standing right up there on the stage, all lit up with slanting rays of blinding white light as the preacher said, "And what is your name, sister?"