Robert Sawyer: Come All Ye Faithful

NEW YORK DIOCESE, INTERNAL MEMO

… yes, Bishop, I was frankly surprised by the number of applicants. Such interest bodes well for our newest parish. I do believe we have selected the best candidate under the circumstances. After all, his qualifications combine several key elements. Still, his will be a lonely job…

“Damned social engineers,” said Boothby, a frown distorting his freckled face. He looked at me, as if expecting an objection to the profanity, and seemed disappointed that I didn’t rise to the bait.

“As you said earlier,” I replied calmly, “it doesn’t make any practical difference.”

He tried to get me again: “Damn straight. Whether Jody and I just live together or are legally married shouldn’t matter one whit to anyone but us.”

I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of telling him it mattered to God; I just let him go on. “Anyway,” he said, spreading hands that were also freckled, “since we have to be married before the Company will give us a license to have a baby, Jody’s decided she wants the whole shebang: the cake, the fancy reception, the big service.”

I nodded. “And that’s where I come in.”

“That’s right, Padre.” It seemed to tickle him to call me that. “Only you and Judge Hiromi can perform ceremonies here, and, well…”

“Her honor’s office doesn’t have room for a real ceremony, with a lot of attendees,” I offered.

“That’s it!” crowed Boothby, as if I’d put my finger on a heinous conspiracy. “That’s exactly it. So, you see my predicament, Padre.”

I nodded. “You’re an atheist. You don’t hold with any religious mumbo jumbo. But, to please your bride-to-be, you’re willing to have the ceremony here at Saint Teresa’s.”

“Right. But don’t get the wrong idea about Jody. She’s not…”

He trailed off. Anywhere else on Mars, declaring someone wasn’t religious, wasn’t a practicing Christian or Muslim or Jew, would be perfectly acceptable—indeed, would be the expected thing. Scientists, after all, looked askance at anyone who professed religion; it was as socially unacceptable as farting in an air lock.

But now Boothby was unsure about giving voice to what in all other circumstances would have been an easy disclaimer. He’d stopped in here at Saint Teresa’s over his lunch hour to see if I would perform the service, but was afraid now that I’d turn him down if he revealed that I was being asked to unite two nonbelievers in the most holy of institutions.

He didn’t understand why I was here—why the Archdiocese of New York had put up the money to bring a priest to Mars. The Roman Catholic Church would always rather see two people married by clergy than living in sin—and so, since touching down at Utopia Planitia, I’d united putative Protestants, secular Jews, and more. And I’d gladly marry Boothby and his fiancée. “Not to worry,” I said. “I’d be honored if you had your ceremony here.”

Boothby looked relieved. “Thank you,” he replied. “Just, you know, not too many prayers.”

I forced a smile. “Only the bare minimum.”

Boothby wasn’t alone. Almost everyone here thought having me on Mars was a waste of oxygen. But the New York Diocese was rich, and they knew that if the church didn’t have a presence early on in Bradbury Colony, room would never be made for it.

There had been several priests who had wanted this job, many with much better theological credentials than I had. But two things were in my favor. First, I had low food requirements, doing fine on just 1200 calories a day. And second, I have a PhD in astronomy, and had spent four years with the Vatican observatory.

The stars had been my first love; it was only later that I’d wondered who put them there. Ironically, taking the priest job here on Mars had meant giving up my celestial research, although being an astronomer meant that I could double for one of the “more important” colonists, if he or she happened to get sick. That fact appeased some of those who had tried to prevent my traveling here.

It had been a no-brainer for me: studying space from the ground, or actually going into space. Still, it seemed as though I was the only person on all of Mars who was really happy that I was here.

Hatch ’em, match ’em, and dispatch ’em—that was the usual lot for clergy. Well, we hadn’t had any births yet, although we would soon. And no one had died since I’d arrived. That left marriages.

Of course, I did perform Mass every Sunday, and people did come out. But it wasn’t like a Mass on Earth. Oh, we had a choir—but the people who had joined it all made a point of letting each other know that they weren’t religious; they simply liked to sing. And, yes, there were some bodies warming the pews, but they seemed just to be looking for something to do; leisure-time activities were mighty scarce on Mars.

Perhaps that’s why there were so few troubled consciences: there was nothing to get into mischief with. Certainly, no one had yet come for confession. And when we had communion, people always took the wine—of which there wasn’t much available elsewhere—but I usually had a bunch of wafers left at the end.

Ah, well. I would do a bang-up job for Boothby and Jody on the wedding—so good that maybe they’d let me perform a baptism later.

“Father Bailey?” said a voice.

I turned around. Someone else needing me for Something, and on a Thursday? Well, well, well…

“Yes?” I said, looking at the young woman.

“I’m Loni Sinclair,” she said. “From the Communications Center.”

“What can I do for you, my child?”

“Nothing,” she said. “But a message came in from Earth for you—scrambled.” She held out her hand, proffering a thin white wafer. I took it, thanked her, and waited for her to depart. Then I slipped it into my computer, typed my access code, and watched in astonishment as the message played.

“Greetings, Father Bailey,” said the voice that had identified itself as Cardinal Pirandello of the Vatican’s Congregation for the Causes of Saints. “I hope all is well with you. The Holy Father sends his special apostolic blessing.” Pirandello paused, as if perhaps reluctant to go on, then: “I know that Earth news gets little play at Bradbury Colony, so perhaps you haven’t seen the reports of the supposed miracle at Cydonia.”

My heart jumped. Pirandello was right about us mostly ignoring the mother planet: it was supposed to make living permanently on another world easier. But Cydonia—why, that was here, on Mars…

The cardinal went on: “A televangelist based in New Zealand has claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary while viewing Cydonia through a telescope. These new ground-based scopes with their adaptive optics have astonishing resolving power, I’m told—but I guess I don’t have to tell you that, after all your time at Castel Gandolfo. Anyway, ordinarily, of course, we’d give no credence to such a claim—putative miracles have a way of working themselves out, after all. But the televangelist in question is Jurgen Emat, who was at seminary fifty years ago with the Holy Father, and is watched by hundreds of millions of Roman Catholics. Emat claims that his vision has relevance to the Third Secret of Fatima. As you know, Fatima is much on the Holy Father’s mind these days, since he intends to canonize Lucia dos Santos next month. Both the postulator and the advocates diaboli feel this needs to be clarified before Leo XIV visits Portugal for this ceremony.”

I shifted in my chair, trying to absorb it all.

“It would, of course,” continued the recorded voice, “take a minimum of two years for a properly trained cardinal to travel from the Vatican to Mars. We know you have no special expertise in the area of miracles, but, as the highest-ranking Catholic official on Mars, His Holiness requests that you visit Cydonia, and prepare a report. Full details of the putative miracle follow…”