To All Creation (Part 3 of 3)
The third and concluding part of a short sci-fi serial
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 the FSS to explore some interplanetary politics — and some hermeneutical questions.
Previously, diplomat Martin Crichton arrived at the New Geneva colony on Ceres to find that the True Reformation Pioneers are reluctant to compromise over their Trumpeter satellite. Back on Earth, tensions between the FSS and their rivals are rising. Meanwhile, the crew of the Fuxing-9 are dealing with a problem in the ship’s air system.
“Never,” he said. “We shall never, never, never, never, never, never compromise!”
A murmur of agreement scurried through the room. Martin looked around anxiously at the members of the New Geneva Council.
“Come ye out from among them, and be separate!” The speaker, a thickset Earth-born engineer with a mane of white hair, slapped the table in expostulation. “We left Earth and Mars for the freedom to build this city on a hill, this lamp that we shall by no means hide under a bushel! We should not be surprised that the powers of the secular world hate us, despise us and desire nothing more than to snuff out our light! We should not be surprised, brothers and sisters, and we should not be cowed! The Trumpeter must continue. We have a mission, brothers and sisters. We have a command from the Lord. We must continue proclaiming to all creation. We shall not compromise!” He slapped the table again, giving Martin a venomous look.
“Thank you, Ian,” said Knox Semper calmly.
“Honestly, Knox, I’m not even sure why you’ve put this to the Council,” growled Ian. “Surely the answer is obvious.”
“But this could have consequences beyond what we’d envisaged,” said one of the women. “If there’s an existential threat, surely—”
“Did the fear of consequences stop the apostle Paul?” said Ian, thumping the table with a fist this time. “Or Luther? Or Tyndale?”
“Compromise would be a slippery slope,” agreed a younger man.
“Think of what’s at stake,” said another woman, Olga something, one of the engineers. “This is about the future of New Geneva.”
Martin scratched his cheek through his beard and looked glumly from one speaker to another. A thick burp rolled up his oesophagus and he tasted the sweet-and-sour tilapia he’d had for dinner again. It reminded him of something. Something someone had said or done. An idea that nudged at the edge of his consciousness like something seen from the corner of an eye. Around him, several of the Council members were now speaking simultaneously, the volume swelling like gas in a balloon.
Knox Semper got to his feet. “Let’s take a break, brothers and sisters,” he said, his hands held out in a placatory gesture. “Getting angry isn’t going to help anyone. We’ll reconvene in twenty minutes.”
The eight men and four women of the Council shuffled out of the conference room, knotted in twos and threes. Martin let them all leave then followed slowly. If there was disagreement, it might play to his advantage, though he would much rather achieve some kind of consensus. Blessed are the peacemakers, he reminded himself. A little internal indigestion in the tiny colony of New Geneva would be a small price to pay if it avoided armed conflict between the FSS and China and the Martian States.
He headed towards the central atrium, trying to clear his head. Sweet-and-sour tilapia. Something someone had said. And what had that woman Olga said about the stakes? The future of New Geneva? Martin shook his head. She had been responding to the first woman, the one who was worried about the consequences. Was she thinking purely in terms of eternal stakes, or was there a temporal agenda behind the Trumpeter as well as a spiritual one?
The central atrium was busy with Pioneers strolling or jogging along the paths among the greenery around the salt-white church. The lighting had a pinkish evening hue, but the dome above was dark. Martin threaded his way to the stairs up to the gallery that ran round the edge of the dome. He dodged a little girl on a tricycle, with a pang of sorrow that the child would possibly never know what it was to run or pedal or swim in open air beneath a blue sky and yellow sun. But perhaps those born into it wouldn’t feel the claustrophobia he felt in this small world.
At the top, Martin stood looking out at the grey dust and the almost-black sky. Towards the edge of the crater in which New Geneva had been excavated, one of the Fuxing-9’s cargo drones descended towards the settlement’s loading bay, its blinking red and green lights the only colour outside the dome. Martin looked back across the gallery and noticed Captain Lin walking with Engineer Sun, coming in his direction.
The two men were speaking together in Wenzhouhua, but fell silent as Martin approached.
“Captain! Engineer Sun!” Martin greeted them. “All well?”
“Ah,” said Captain Lin. “We’re just on our way back to the ship. The drone. We’ll ride it back.” He thumbed in the direction of the loading bay.
“Both of you?”
“Yes,” said the captain.
Sweet-and-sour tilapia. The queue where he’d been talking with Captain Lin and Deckhand Lin a few days ago. It was Deckhand Lin who had said something. Something about frequencies.
“Is Deckhand Lin coming down, then?” asked Martin hopefully. “I’d like to talk to him.”
The captain shuffled and looked at Engineer Sun before replying. “No. All three of us will be on the ship.”
Martin looked from one man to the other, puzzled.
“Why?”
Engineer Sun coughed. “There is a slight problem with the air conditioning.”
“I know,” said Martin. “Captain Lin told me. There might be a few days’ delay in leaving?”
“Maybe longer,” said Captain Lin. “The problem is bigger now. We have to strip out the system, clean everything.”
“Why?” asked Martin again. “How much delay?”
“Still six weeks in this launch window,” said Captain Lin. “Don’t worry.”
“Mould in the filters,” said Engineer Sun. “Happens sometimes. Need to fabricate some new filters.”
Martin wrinkled his nose. He hoped he hadn’t breathed too much of it.
“At least it’ll be clean for the journey home,” he said.
“Yes,” said the captain. “Keep a positive spirit, best thing!”
Martin didn’t notice the way Engineer Sun looked at the floor, or the troubled expression that had flickered across his face. Down below, he had spotted Knox Semper coming out of the church, deep in conversation with the man called Ian, and knew it was time to go.
The members of the New Geneva Council seemed to be arguing just as vehemently after the break as they had been before. From the snippets Martin caught, it seemed that those who took a hardline position on the Trumpeter’s mission were deadlocked with those who perhaps had additional aims in view. He hoped that what he was about to suggest could satisfy both camps.
“May I bring another proposal to the table?” he asked, catching Knox Semper’s eye.
Ian started to say something, but Semper silenced him with an outstretched palm. “Let’s hear what our guest has to say.”
“Thank you, Mr Semper,” said Martin. He cleared his throat. He hadn’t had time to work out the details, since remembering Deckhand Lin’s suggestion, but hoped his years at the Vatican Observatory would stand him in good stead.
“We’ve all been thinking about the Trumpeter in binary terms,” he said slowly. “On or off, so to speak. But what if there was a way to keep the Trumpeter broadcasting, in a way that was acceptable both to you and to the FSS and other states who are concerned?”
“We shall never compromise! Not with the pagans, and not with Rome!” roared Ian, glaring at Martin.
“Ian, if we’re going to be recognised as more than extremist isolationists, we need to learn to treat diplomats with proper respect,” said Semper. “Go on, Mr Crichton.”
“There are multiple frequency bands which are relevant for SETI,” said Martin. “And more which are reserved for astronomical research under the Addis Ababa Agreement. I would assume that the Trumpeter is capable of broadcast at more than one wavelength?”
“Yes, but whichever wavelength we choose, they’re not going to be happy,” objected another of the men.
“Hear him out,” said Semper.
“And I would assume that the Trumpeter is at least — that it can be controlled or accessed remotely?”
A couple of people nodded.
“What if we could work out some arrangement whereby you broadcast on one frequency for, say, six months, then switch to another, and so on?”
There was an unexpected silence. Martin looked around the table again. His armpits were damp with sweat.
“Would they really go for that?” asked someone.
“But our longer-term aims are not—” Olga, who had spoken earlier, stopped abruptly at a look from Semper.
“Behind the scenes, the FSS really is looking for a way out,” said Martin. “It’s at least something I could take to them.” He rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers.
“I think we need to discuss this as a Council in private,” said Knox. “Martin, if you’ll excuse us?”
Martin nodded gratefully and got up, hitching his trousers higher as he left the room. For the first time since arriving on Ceres, he felt a glimmer of hope; hope mixed with doubt like iron mixed with clay, for he still did not know what the Pioneers really wanted.
Weak white light tinged William Farel’s nose. Through the atrium dome, the sun itself reminded Martin of the head-torches he’d used hiking in the Jura as a youth, when they were hung upside-down from the roof of the tent in the evenings and cast their thin bright beam on the floor. It was nearly midnight by New Geneva time, and the internal lighting was on night mode, but with Ceres’ nine-hour rotation, external and internal daylight didn’t always line up. They passed Farel’s statue and carried on round the atrium towards Théodore de Bèze.
“Thank you for meeting me so late,” said Knox Semper. He looked tired. “The Council meeting didn’t finish until nearly eleven.”
“Thank you, Knox. I appreciate it.”
“I have, I think, good news for you.”
Martin’s heart leapt. “Yes?”
“The Council have agreed, in principle, that broadcasting the message on a rotation of frequencies is acceptable. In fact, a few people are quite pleased about it — those who give greatest credence to the idea of extraterrestrial intelligence — because they reckon spreading the transmission like that gives more chance of it being picked up.”
“Go on.” He got the sense Semper was holding something back.
“But we would want to broadcast on each frequency for a minimum of six months at a time.”
“Mmm. I can certainly suggest that. I don’t know if the astrophysics guys have constraints in that regard, but I’m sure that’s something that could be worked out.”
“And there is a — a condition.”
“Ah.” Martin’s heart sank again, though he wasn’t surprised. “What is it?”
“We want diplomatic recognition for New Geneva.”
They stopped walking. Martin looked Semper in the face, and saw the gravity in the eyes. He felt himself folding down small like a sheet of paper for origami. In the silence, the ventilation system whispered. There were no night breezes, no chitterings of small animals, no rustlings of leaves.
“From who?” he asked. “The FSS will never—”
“Doesn’t have to be the FSS,” Semper replied. “Any of the Martian states would do. But I’m guessing none of them would be willing at this stage.”
“Mmm.”
“Except maybe Xintiandi.” Semper’s eyes bored into Martin. “And some of the neutral Earth states. Switzerland. Iceland. Aotearoa. Patagonia. I don’t know, and at some level it doesn’t matter. But we want recognition — with an official ambassador — from someone.”
Martin looked past Semper at the ghostly profile of John Calvin. His hope was gone. “I’ll have to take that to — well, I’ll take it to my contacts at the FSS and Olympus.”
“And to your superiors, of course,” said Semper with a grin. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Martin.
“Well, Monsignor Nardini is probably going to be in a better position to talk to the other states than you are.”
“That’s true.”
“I hear the Fuxing-9 is slightly delayed. I imagine that’s a good thing, now.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m sure the extra time will be helpful in reaching a satisfactory conclusion,” Semper went on. “But I trust that we’ll get there, and soon enough you’ll be on your way back to the joys — and the pitfalls — of the old Geneva.”
“I hope so,” said Martin. He spoke fervently. Then, despite his sense of being outplayed, he worried lest he might have offended his host. “I mean — I miss home, you know. You’ve worked wonders out here, but for me — it’s just a long way from home.”
“Don’t worry, I get it,” said Knox. He patted Martin on the shoulder. “Well, I’m going to hit the hay. It’s morning in Europe now, by the way.”
“Right,” said Martin. “Thanks.” He waited until Semper was halfway back round the atrium, then walked slowly back to his room. He had to report to Monsignor Nardini.
Martin was awoken from an uneasy sleep by the ping of his monitor. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. The thirty-five-minute round trip time for messages to Earth was long enough to not sit around waiting for replies, but short enough that he couldn’t sleep soundly for fear something important might arrive.
He had left a window open above the small desk in his room, glowing a soft green in the dark.
Martin checked the time: a little after nine in the morning by Ceres time, making it about five in the afternoon in Switzerland. It was some hours since Monsignor Nardini had acknowledged his first message and told him he could pass the proposal on to both Birgitte Bruun and Fabulous Ncube.
There were two messages waiting. The first was from Fabulous Ncube, the Olympus representative, and was much as Martin had expected.
I’m sure you understand that our position is very delicate. The State of Olympus can in no way be seen to acknowledge, aid or abet the True Reformation Pioneers. Too many lives depend on maintaining the balance of peace. However, if a third party were to recognise New Geneva, that would be a different matter. Publicly, Olympus would protest this, but only to the degree necessary to save face.
The second message was from Birgitte Bruun.
For your eyes only, Martin. Thank you. At last, some wiggle room. Officially, the FSS cannot and will not accept any formal recognition of New Geneva, as this would be tantamount to accepting the colonisation of Ceres without due process. However, I can let you know that the frequency-hopping plan is something we can work with and if we can finesse something that’s not quite full diplomatic recognition by a third party, there is hope. Due to the lag time limitations, I propose that I discuss with Nardini directly. Is this acceptable to you?
Martin hastily sent a response in the affirmative before going to wash and find some breakfast.
When Monsignor Nardini’s message came, mid-afternoon, Martin read it with a growing sense of horror. He knew he should feel relief. An end to the crisis was coalescing out of the mists of diplomacy, and although he would have to take Monsignor Nardini’s proposal to the New Geneva Council, he suspected that they would accept it. However much or little of this they had pre-meditated, they had played their cards well. But Martin could feel only the ice of three hundred million kilometres and the ghosts of his youth tightening their fingers on his throat. He read the message again, absorbing the steel-boned instructions adorned in Nardini’s curlicues and flourishes.
My dear brother, you have done very well, very well indeed. I’m not sure we could have hoped for a better outcome. I have just returned from a meeting arranged by Ms Bruun with her colleague Mr Zhemchugov from Oslo. They have agreed in principle to the frequency-switching plan and will not oppose limited recognition of New Geneva by the Holy See, insofar as we place a Liaison Office there and not a full Embassy. I have held only informal discussion with the Vatican, but I believe Cardinal Scott is in agreement. I am traversing the Alps tomorrow, joining our brethren in Rome to discuss the details, but you have my full authority to take the proposal to Semper.
If, Lord willing, the proposal is accepted, it is likely that responsibility for the New Geneva Liaison Office would be shared between the Reformation Ordinariate and the Foreign Affairs Office. And this is the point at which I call on you, my dear brother, to think on the great sacrifice and suffering of the martyrs who have gone before us and indeed of our Lord himself, for I recognise that what I am going to ask of you will indeed be a sacrifice and perhaps a form of suffering, although it is also a glory and an honour that I would envy if I were a younger man. If I did not have implicit and overflowing trust in you and your gifts and abilities, my dear Martin, I would not dream of putting this upon you, but I fully believe that you are by the Lord’s grace more than capable of the task. There is no-one I would so much desire to take up the mantle of the Holy See’s first Liaison Officer in New Geneva. You can appreciate more than anyone the opportunities this presents, the chance for the True Church to have a foothold in mankind’s furthest outpost, the opportunity for those of inquiring mind among the Pioneers to seek and find a deeper spiritual life in union with us.
Martin, my friend, although I could command you as your superior, I will not do so. I can only appeal like the Apostle appealed to Philemon. I leave the decision between you and our Lord, asking for His wisdom and grace, and for the intercession of St Ignatius.
Martin closed the window. He sat on his bed as heavily as the low gravity of Ceres allowed, and after a while slid to his knees. After what felt like hours, he got up and went to the church at the centre of New Geneva. He sat in a pew near the front, staring at the burning bush on the pulpit fall, and tried to imagine months and years on Ceres. He had no-one waiting for him at home, not really. He had made a vow of obedience. He saw his duty, bright as fire, heavy and cold as a glacier. He felt the flaming love of Christ and Church and the warm glow of fellowship in suffering. He wept. And then he got up to look for Knox Semper.
A young Pioneer couple nodded and smiled at Martin as they passed him on his evening walk around the atrium. He couldn’t remember their names. There had been so many introductions in the week since the Council had agreed to Nardini’s proposal and Semper had announced it at the evening service. Martin still felt stunned, as if everything he saw and heard was trickling to him through a pane of glass.
“Hello, Pastor!”
Martin smiled and nodded politely and had almost walked on when he realised that this time it was not a stranger greeting him, but Captain Lin. He stopped and shook the captain’s hand. He had already informed them that he would not be rejoining the Fuxing-9, but the ship’s crew had not been on the surface for nearly a fortnight.
“Well, Captain, you’ll be getting ready to launch soon?” Martin tried to keep his voice from cracking.
“Ah, Pastor. Maybe not so soon.”
Something in the captain’s voice pulled Martin out of his self-absorption.
“What’s up, Captain? Repairs not going to plan?”
Captain Lin shook his head. Martin saw that the man’s eyes were bleak.
“Big problem, Pastor. Big, big problem.”
“What?”
“Mould in the air conditioner — turned out it was not real mould.”
“What does that mean?”
“No. The radiation shield — kaput. Dead.” The captain made a scattering motion with his hands. “Dead fungus, broken down, filling the air system.”
“The radiation shield died?”
“Died.”
“When — I mean — how long had it been dead? And how did it, well, get out of its own system?”
“Died, maybe a few weeks. But don’t worry, Pastor. Fungus is just one part of the shield. Our dose is still OK.”
“But how—”
“Fuxing-9 is an old ship, Pastor. We do our best, but something always breaks. This time — unlucky. Very unlucky.”
Martin tried to absorb the implications. He could think of a hundred questions to ask about the ship’s systems, but made himself focus on the man in front of him.
“So, you have to wait until the shield regrows?”
Captain Lin shook his head. “Not possible here.”
“You can’t fix it here?”
“No. We’re stuck. Probably the Fuxing-9 is too old now. Probably a write-off. We’ll see what the company says.”
“So you have to wait for them to send another ship?”
Captain Lin nodded. “Four years.”
Martin’s mouth fell open. “Four years?”
“Yeah. Company won’t send another ship until next Hohmann window. Policy.”
Martin saw two tiny tears like seed pearls in the corners of Lin’s eyes. He remembered that the captain had a wife and a school-age daughter on Mars, as well as the adult sons serving elsewhere in the Xintiandi fleet. He put a hand on Captain Lin’s shoulder, and they both looked up at the sky beyond the dome. Somewhere out there, the Trumpeter was broadcasting its proclamation to all creation, now on the hydroxyl band.
“Is Deckhand Lin here?” asked Martin.
“No. Coming down tomorrow.”
“Well, tell him to come and find me. I need to buy him a beer. His idea, you know, that broke the impasse.” Martin looked back up at the sky, trying to hide his own tears, and wondered which direction Earth was.
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, let me know with a like, comment or share!
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Having spent yesterday lunchtime sitting in the sun, on the village green, watching the sparrows flit about, under a blue November sky, I really felt this ending! I was afraid Martin would get stuck... but the crew too?! At least Martin will have some friendly faces around for a while.
Another great story... you really are a master of character and world building!