James Gardner - Space Inc (collection)

“Um, but you’ve already blown it,” Russell said. “You’ve told us, and your friend earlier today.”

Ray’s shoulders drooped. “You’re right,” he said. He buried his face in his hands. “You’re right.”

“Not to mention station security is probably looking for you,” Lereesa said. “If you attempt to make a call to Earth, they’d probably block it and find you in seconds.”

Ray lowered his hands, there were actual tears in his eyes. “For all I know, it was a scam anyway,” he said, his voice choked.

“That’s right,” Gina said, patting his shoulder consolingly. “Lloyd Witham is a pornographer, after all.”

“Wait a minute,” Greg said. “There’s no reason he has to know that we’ve been told. I mean, I won’t tell anybody; what about you guys?”

They looked at one another. “Sure,” Russell said, “I don’t mind. Ray did some major work on this. He deserves to get some of the credit. Not to mention the ten million. Hey, man, what you going to spend it on?”

“A Foundation,” Ray said. “We need an independent agency to communicate with—”

“There’s still the problem of getting a message past station security,” Lereesa pointed out, shifting slightly in her seat, visibly uncomfortable at the rising enthusiasm.

“And we still don’t know if this guy would pony up once you do show him proof,” Christine said. “I mean, Gina’s right. He is a sleazebag.”

Ms. Tosca cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, “in my opinion, Lloyd is a stand-up guy.”

They all looked at her.

“I used to go with him in high school. Until my parents found out about these soft porn movies he was putting on the internet.” She bit her lip. “Lloyd said he understood. My father was a minister, after all. But I always felt like a coward.”

Lereesa put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“Cool,” said Gina brightly. “Then you can call Witham for Ray and say he didn’t think he’d be able to get through on his own.” She looked around at their solemn faces. “What?”

“Just that the lies are getting pretty thick on the ground here,” Lereesa said. Was it just this morning she was so bored?

“But this is our chance to do something important—”

“I… I…” Lereesa stammered.

“Hey, you’re qualified,” Ray pointed out.

The hushed tinkle of cutlery came from other parts of the restaurant. It was one the guide had never been able to afford; some of the paneling was actual wood , shipped all the way up the gravity well from Earth. The ambience was lost on her right now, and even the savory smells of a meal worth every exorbitant penny.

“I’m a tour guide!” she blurted.

“The Outsider Foundation’s going to need PR work,” Ray said. “The Lost Gods of the Galaxy know I’m not fit to do it. I mean, imagine me dealing with the media, VIPs who want tours—”

Lereesa blanched slightly. “Okay,” she said. “I do have a degree in Communications.”

“And you earned it,” Ray said earnestly. “If you hadn’t helped convince Ms. Tosca, there wouldn’t be an Outsider Foundation to handle establishing communications with the Outsiders. It’d all be official—and me and my friends would be reading about it on the newswebs.” He paused and smiled brightly. “And pretty soon, you’ll be working with some other old friends!”

“Oh?” Lereesa said cautiously.

“Yeah! Gina, Christine, Greg, and Russell are taking the prelim courses. They’re all bright as tacks—they want to work for the Outsider Foundation. I mean, so do all the other bright kids in the Solar System now, but we owe—”

The thought of working with those four made Lereesa hesitate, but not for long. Her thumb came down on the signature patch with an audible thump. Boredom in space wasn’t going to be her problem much longer.

Terror, embarrassment, sheer funk, yes , she thought happily. Boredom, no.

Stephen Michael Stirling has been writing science fiction and fantasy for more than fifteen years, producing such excellent novels as Marching Through Georgia, Snow-brother, Against the Tide of Years, and most recently The Peshawar Lancers. He has also collaborated with many of the best authors in the business, including Judith Tarr, David Drake, and Harry Turtledove. He was born in Metz , Alsace, France, and educated at the Carleton University in Canada. He lives with his wife Janet in New Mexico.

Born Janet Moore in Milford, Massachusetts, Janet Stirling has been a science fiction buff since her teens. She sold her first story to Chicks in Chainmail, an anthology of amazonian fantasy edited by Esther Friesner. She married S. M. Stirling in 1988, after a courtship conducted largely at World Fantasy conventions, and now lives with him and their two cats in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

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.”