To All Creation (Part 2 of 3)
Part Two of a short sci-fi serial
This is Part Two of a three-part limited serial set in the world of the FSS. Long-time readers may be familiar with the broad setting from stories such the The Labyrinth, Destination Europa and The Artworks, but this story takes us outside the borders of the FSS to explore some interplanetary politics — and some hermeneutical questions.
Look out for Part 3 in your inbox next week!
In Part 1, Reformation Ordinariate diplomat Martin Crichton embarked on a voyage to Ceres, in hopes of negotiating with the breakaway colony of New Geneva over their flooding of the hydrogen frequency radio band with a strange message; an act which threatens wider repercussions among the great powers on Earth and Mars…
“Try this, Mr Crichton. Our coffee trees started coming to maturation just last year. We don’t have huge crops yet, but I think you’ll find the flavour quite acceptable.”
“Thank you, Mr Semper. But please call me Martin.” Martin took a sip from the tiny cup the other man handed him, and sighed in appreciation. The Fuxing-9 had carried only chicory powder. “It’s good. Really good.”
“I’ll call you Martin if you call me Knox. We’re a long way from bureaucracy out here. Deal?”
“Fine,” said Martin. He eyed Knox Semper curiously. The leader of the True Reformation Pioneers was both more personable and more urbane than he had expected. He had the height and feline litheness of someone born to low gravity, with a cheerful poise that spoke not only of power but of respect. Martin could see that he was both likeable and well-liked.
“Let me show you around,” said Semper. “It’s not quite as sophisticated as the original Geneva, but we have a good bunch of people. I hope — I think you will — find your time here helpful.”
Martin was impressed, as Knox Semper walked him through the tunnels of New Geneva. While there was still something of a frontier-town make-do-and-mend feel, everything looked neat and tightly organised and the Pioneers they passed in the hallways greeted them cheerfully. The settlement was almost entirely underground, but well-lit with Earth-spectrum lighting, and with every available space filled with plants. There was a school and a clinic and a general store. There was a small library and, to Martin’s surprise, a café-bar that served tea and coffee and locally brewed beer and soju.
“Come come, we’re not Baptists,” said Semper in mock offence when Martin asked him about the bar. “Everything in moderation. People need a third space, you know. Anyway, it’s expensive enough that no-one can afford to get drunk.”
In the centre of the settlement, at the intersection of the two long tunnels which comprised New Geneva’s main thoroughfares, was a broad domed atrium that at its upper level pierced the surface of Ceres, with heavy radiation-proofed windows allowing a view of the pock-marked surface. Around the sides of the atrium, flanked by greenery and brightly lit, were busts of John Calvin, William Farel, Théodore de Bèze and John Knox.
“Like the old Geneva,” said Martin, when Semper pointed them out.
“Carved from the rock itself,” said Knox Semper with a touch of pride.
“You have a sculptor with you?” Again, Martin was surprised and impressed. He had assumed the statues were machine-printed, and felt a twinge of guilt at his own prejudice.
“Come and see the church,” said Semper. “The heart of our community.”
Martin had been eyeing the church building since entering the atrium. It was impossible to miss: it sat square in the centre of the atrium, with a third-wave Gothic spire stabbing up towards the dome. It had been carved like the churches of Lalibela direct from the salty crust of Ceres, and polished so it sparkled in the simulated sunlight.
“It’s stunning,” said Martin, honestly.
Inside, the building was stark white, with no decoration or colour other than the burning bush emblem embroidered in green and orange on a purple pulpit fall. Other than the grey rows of pews — enough for the three hundred Pioneers several times over, noted Martin — the only furniture was the pulpit, a half-octagon raised halfway-up one of the walls.
“I can’t imagine the effort that’s gone into this,” said Martin, and while that was true, he felt cold, and the muscles in his neck and jaw had tensed. The narrow windows were curtained in off-white drapes that Martin knew would help with the acoustics, but that made him feel as if he were in a funeral home.
“This was a priority, after the life support systems and the horticulture,” replied Semper. He led Martin back out into the atrium. “There are short services every day, morning and evening, though of course not everyone is able to come every day. And of course the full Lord’s Day worship on the Sabbath. I hope you’ll join us?”
“Certainly,” said Martin. He breathed out, making an effort to relax his jaw. It had been over twenty years since he’d left the Confessioners, but the décor was giving him flashbacks. Still, he could manage. Two weeks on Ceres and the Fuxing-9 would depart on the return voyage to Mars and the ship back to Earth. Martin found himself picturing the chalky layer-cake bluff of the Salève against the crisp Geneva sky, and the swollen paint-bucket green of the Rhône, and then the longing for home was a cliff down which he was flailing in free-fall. He shook his head, dismissing the picture. Mawkishness wasn’t going to help with his mission.
After that day’s evening service, Knox Semper invited Martin and Captain Lin to join him for a half-litre of ale at the Wittenberg Café. Engineer Sun was aboard the Fuxing-9 for the first three-day shift, and Deckhand Lin had excused himself and gone to the library. Martin was exhausted, but felt it polite to accept and, as Semper had said nothing yet about a schedule for negotiations, to try and ascertain his host’s plan for their discussions and perhaps even draw him out a little on the purpose of their Trumpeter satellite.
The rich amber ale was strong and oddly reminiscent of pineapple. Martin sipped it cautiously, unsure how his body would react after almost a year without alcohol. He noticed that Captain Lin stuck to tea. Semper took a long draught and wiped the foam from his moustache. There was a tiredness about his eyes. It occurred to Martin that the man must carry a great deal of pressure on his shoulders and might appreciate the chance to talk with outsiders.
“A lot of responsibility, leading something like this,” he began, hesitantly.
“They’re a good bunch,” said Semper reflexively. “Excellent people, all of them. I hope you’ll get to know some of them in the next two weeks.”
“I look forward to it. But—”
“Today’s Thirdday,” Semper went on. “That is, Tuesday, as you call it. We have a Council meeting on Sixthday afternoon. We’ll be discussing the Trumpeter question then.”
“But that’s—”
“Late, and you don’t have much time?” Semper took another draught and grinned at Martin. “Don’t worry. You and I will talk things over before that.” He nodded meaningfully, and Martin nodded back. It sounded as if that would be the real discussion.
Knox Semper drained his tankard and got up. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Enjoy your drinks, have another if you’d like, on the house. I have to get home to my wife, haven’t seen her all day.”
“Of course,” murmured Captain Lin.
“Of course,” echoed Martin. “But, uh—”
“Martin, would it suit you to join me in my office tomorrow morning? Say 09:00?”
“Certainly.”
Semper nodded to them both, carried his tankard back to the bar and exchanged a few words with the woman behind the counter, and left. Martin sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Captain Lin added a little more hot water to his tea.
“Don’t worry. You might have more than two weeks,” said Captain Lin a few minutes later.
Martin jerked upright. “What?”
“Don’t worry! It’s fine!”
“What’s fine?”
“The ship. Engineer Sun found a small problem in the air conditioning. May need a few more days, fabricate a new valve.”
“Oh.” Martin took another sip of his ale and looked at the captain. Captain Lin looked back, apparently completely unflustered. “I guess this kind of thing happens from time to time?”
“Often,” agreed Captain Lin. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Might turn out to be a good thing in the end,” said Martin, and yawned. “Goodness, this stuff is knocking me out.” He finished his ale. “I’d better get to bed. Goodnight, Captain.”
“Respectfully, Mr Semper—” Martin straightened in his chair and considered how he could phrase things without offending the Pioneer leader. They had been circling the core question of the Trumpeter for almost an hour. He wiped his salt-slick hands on the sides of his trousers.
“Just say what you’re going to say, Mr Crichton.” Knox Semper templed his fingers together and eyed Martin across the table.
“Fine,” snapped Martin, going against all he knew from diplomacy training. “Knox, this is insane. You can’t seriously be interpreting Scripture like that?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Semper. He flashed a smile at Martin. “Go on.”
Martin sighed. He liked the man. He’d found his sermon the previous evening thoughtful and measured. But today, he could tell Semper wasn’t going to budge on hermeneutics.
“You can’t seriously mean that when Jesus said proclaim the gospel to the whole creation, he actually meant the entire galaxy?” Martin waved his hand at the ceiling.
“No,” said Semper seriously. “The whole creation is bigger than just our galaxy.”
“Let me get this straight.” Martin scratched his beard. “You’re broadcasting a, a depiction of the gospel on the hydrogen band, in case there are aliens and they manage to decipher it and understand what it means?”
“Their understanding it is not our job. Our job is to proclaim.”
“But surely you don’t think the Lord actually meant outer space? I mean, from the context, from all the other gospels, surely it’s plain that he meant, well, the human world?”
Knox Semper shrugged. “But that’s not what he said. He did say, ‘blessed are those who hear my words and obey them.’”
Martin took a sip of water. He needed a different tack. “Knox, even if there are sentient aliens — I mean, do you believe there are?”
“I think the probability is fairly low,” admitted Semper. “But that’s not the point. The point is that we’re obedient to the Lord’s command.”
“Even if they’re out there, is it really worth the expense, when there are so many on Earth who don’t have a clue?”
“The Trumpeter wasn’t that expensive in the grand scheme of things. And even if nothing out there hears it, it might make some of the secularists and pagans take notice. They are taking notice, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, but blocking their research isn’t exactly a brilliant witness!” Martin clutched his glass and bounced a little in his seat. “What about love your neighbour?”
“The best way of loving them, surely, is to present them with the good news in a way they can’t ignore.”
“But are you not concerned about how your actions are feeding tensions between the FSS and the Martian States and how that could lead to — and I say this with all seriousness and reverence — how it could lead to the good Lord only knows what consequences? Including the extinction of your own settlement here?”
Martin forced himself to breathe. He drank a little more of the brackish water. It tasted better than the water aboard the freighter, at least. He set the glass down in a gesture of resignation.
“Tell me, Knox, if you’re not willing to do anything about it, why were you willing to have someone come all the way out here and talk about it? Tell me, for pity’s sake, why I’m spending literally years of my life on this? Why me, anyway?”
Knox Semper said nothing for a moment, but fixed Martin with his eyes, which looked to Martin to be burning with love and zeal and pity. Martin held his gaze briefly then looked at the shiny wood-effect surface of the table. He felt the failure of his mission settle on him like a shroud.
“I thought having one of you come out here — that you’d understand what we’re doing, even if…”
“Even when we’d gone over to the dark side?” Martin tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“I think the Reformation Ordinariate is deeply misguided. Demonically misguided, even. I think you’ve been deceived. But I still consider you a brother and, I hope now, a friend.”
Martin looked back at Semper. “You’re trying to convert me back to Protestantism?”
“It would be impossible to explain all this to unbelievers, and it would be impossible to do it over interplanetary distances,” said Semper, deflecting Martin’s question. “We are deeply grateful for your willingness to travel here. Seriously.”
The Pioneer leader stood up, stretching his lanky Mars-born body. “Let’s take some time to reflect. I imagine you’ll want to speak to your people. Shall we meet for lunch at, say, 13:00?”
“How is your discussion going?”
Martin sighed and half-raised an eyebrow at Captain Lin’s question, then recomposed his expression. His negotiations with the New Geneva leadership were supposed to be confidential, but he had spent so much time with the crew of the Fuxing-9 that it was hard to hide things from them.
“Never mind,” said Captain Lin, moving forward in the lunch queue. The refectory was busy, and Martin wished he’d arrived five minutes earlier.
“Maybe you can compromise,” said Deckhand Lin, scarcely audible above the hum and clatter of the refectory. “Frequency hopping.”
“What was that, nephew?” Captain Lin gave him a sharp look. “Don’t mumble!”
Deckhand Lin blushed and shook his head. “Nothing, Uncle.”
“No, go on,” said Martin. “What was that about frequency?” He took the bowl of rice with sweet-and-sour tilapia that a server was handing him. “Thank you.”
“I don’t mean like telecoms frequency hopping,” said Deckhand Lin, blushing a shade deeper. “I just mean, they could rotate to other SETI frequencies sometimes. Share with the FSS guys.”
Martin stepped out of the line, holding his tray with the rice-and-fish. He had just caught sight of Knox Semper, waving at him from a corner table.
“I’m afraid I have to leave you, gentlemen,” he said. “Duty calls.”
On our side, my superiors would be glad of some way to compromise without losing face. Haakon and the Cabinet are full of bluster, but Zhemchugov in the Foreign Office has told me they can talk him down if we can get some kind of concession from New Geneva. Some concession, some compromise, anything we can work with.
Martin closed the message from Birgitte Bruun, the FSS Religious Affairs Attaché in the old Geneva. It was the boldest, and most quietly desperate, of all the diplomatic missives she’d sent. He slumped back in his chair. His mouth was dry, and a headache was needling the back of his right eye. The air in his room felt too thick. He longed to open a real window and breathe the cold shining air of the Alps, or the high-pitched green of a pine forest, or even the roasting chestnuts of the Place de la Taconnerie. Compromise. That was the issue. Knox Semper and the rest of the Pioneers were showing themselves kind and generous hosts, but from the day’s conversation with Semper, Martin felt sure that compromise of any sort was anathema to them. All he had achieved so far was a horrified understanding of the Pioneers’ unshakeable hermeneutical approach, and an assurance from Semper that he would meet with the New Geneva Council the day after next.
He re-opened another message, this one from Monsignor Nardini.
It’s not public yet, but we’ve been informed of an incident which took place yesterday in a village near the Manchurian border. The FSS and China are shouting at each other and of course this could drag in Xintiandi and Olympus with it. The Trumpeter thing, though no more than a gnat in the grand scheme of things, is still in King Haakon’s eye and he’s getting more and more riled up, it seems. Time is of the essence. Explore all avenues. Our prayers are with you, brother. May St Gabriel the Archangel and St Thomas More intercede on your behalf.
Click here to read Part 3!
To All Creation (Part 3 of 3)
This is the last instalment in a three-part limited serial set in the world of the FSS. Long-time readers may be familiar with the broad setting from stories such the The Labyrinth, Destination Europa and The Artworks, but this story takes us outside the borders of t…
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