The Empress of Mars (25 page)

“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, 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 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.”

“
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?”