“Abigail.”
The girl was soft-focused, barely 19, dewey and fresh, a new blossom just open. Black velvet was upon her skin, and also she saw the flash of the crucifix, and white teeth.
Abigal awoke then, as she always did, placid, eyes opening slowly to the daylight suffusing through the room. The tearing and the flood of pain hung in the back of her mind like the tangy smoke of a candle just snuffed. It dissipated as quickly.
She yawned and stretched and rose, and performed her ablutions in the blush of simulated morning. An angelic choir, reverberant in the distance, amid piped-in birdsong and the sighing of the wind in the grass.
But the air did not stir, there was no fresh breeze or flaring nostrils, and in the months since they had embarked the irony had graduated from savory to bittersweet to utterly mundane.
And that was the point, after all, she thought. The Arkship’s expansive VR interiors — majestic landscapes and molten ocean sunsets — served both to reinforce the Judiciary’s theocratic kitsch, and to give the colonists a sense of security, of normalcy, however contrived, in the cold depths of space.
Two steps to the kitchenette, for a bowl of ‘Nana-Nutz with soymilk and a steaming mug of Brisk Sippin’ Genuine Coffee-Flavor Breakfast Beverage.
She placed her meal on the table and faced the viewingwall.
“Morning news, please.”
The heavenly choir and the simulated grassy-green meadows blinked out, replaced by a large, floating broadsheet. Her customized news feeds assembled and displayed themselves, shameless and state-sponsored.
“Ease into it, old girl,” she muttered.
Then loudly, to the waiting air: “Just cycle through the visuals for now, please.”
The viewingwall blinked again, swift and compliant.
Calm blue letters floated up to the surface of the screen, a backdrop of stars billowing out behind them:
EARTH VIEW -- REALTIME -- REALSPACE
TRANSIT TIME: 145 DAYS, 7 HOURS, 33 MINUTES, 18 SECONDS.
There, in the upper left hand corner, the Mother Planet diminishing slowly, surely, at this point barely more than a point of light.
Abigail pondered the zoom and time-lapse options, then clucked disapprovingly at herself. No time for sentiment. New worlds await.
“Next,” she said, settling back. She raised the mug to her lips; the false coffee slipped across her tongue, warm, rich, leaving behind a vague chemical sheen of flavor.
CONVOY VIEW: ADVANCE CAMERA, BROAD PAN SUNWARDS
… the screen read, as the viewingwall flashed again, as the camera swung back dizzying through spumes of propellent, past forests of antennae, along great hemispheres and planes and gaping cargo bay doors, rushing ahead of the fleet to a forward viewing position (so the display assured her) of a bit more than 25 kiloms.
The chain of six Arkships — skyscrapers uprooted, knocked on their sides and sent aloft — was suspended in the vast darkness, surrounded by traffic and commerce. About 4,000 passengers and crew per vessel, attended by a swarm of factory, medical, agricultural, penitentiary and constabulary ships.
As always, dull brown ferryboats shuttled produce and cloned meat from the huge ag canisters.
As always, bright yellow school transports drifted lazily between the Arkships and the admiral’s mighty flag, tours daily at 9:00 a.m., 12:30 p.m. and 3:35 p.m.
As always, personal yachts and cruisers followed vaulting arcs between, joyriding, day-tripping, and, no doubt, Abigail was certain of it, smuggling, hustling, dealmaking, stuffed to the gills with bribes and trick floorboards, glutted with broad grins and sweaty palms.
And at last the news itself. Abigail, eyes still bleary, stretched luxurious like a cat, and opted for an audiocast.
“The Transplanetary Capital Report brings you the latest news, views, market assessments and trading prospects for today’s far-traveling business class. I’m Camron Abiline reporting from the floor of the Temporary Transit Stock Exchange, where Martian industrial futures are enjoying a record sixth week of unprecedented growth–”
Enough, enough. Abigail wondered again why she bothered to keep the business feed in her personal queue, pondered axing it — a word was all it would take — and moved on.
Sports she could skip, the Fleet and Earth reports she’d browse later. Next, the Religion & Family Channel. Best to log at least a few hours, just to keep up appearances.
“Hi folks, Pastor Bob Dawkins here.”
“And I’m Dr. Robert Cartwright.”
“And you’re listening to Talking Virtue, broadcast live from the Midway-Mars Convoy. Now Rob, I want to open today’s program with a little statistic that I think you’ll find heartening.”
“I’m all ears, Bob.”
“Well, I’m pleased to say that of any Jurist enclave, the Community in Christ here on the convoy has once again set a record for the rate of weekday and Saturday church service attendance.”
“Praise the Lord! Now why do you think that is?”
“Well Rob, the way I see it — ”
“Enough!” Abigail cried.
The screen went blank; silence open around her like a flower.
“Do you carry anything other than propaganda?” she said to the wall, boldly, a flush of heat in her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, could you rephrase the question,” the wall responded, blank and flat.
The nun swore, then, in her mind, but to the kilometers of circuits entombed in the wall she said: “Just a broadsheet, then. Text magnified to 125 percent.”
Again: A blinking, flickering moment, and the tawdry, low-budget mass of rumor, gossip and police reports unfolded before her. Adjusting her glasses, Abigail commenced to browse the blurbs and summaries, the breathless headlines battling for attention:
Helping Hand for Homo Priest?
BY MARTIN BANDY, DEEP SPACE DAILY STAFF WRITERIN A SURPRISE development, Father Michael Mannington, the convicted homosexual cleric facing chemical castration at midnight Friday, may have another chance at redemption thanks to an eleventh-hour intervention by Fleet Admiral George Leary. “Love the sinner, hate the sin,” the Admiral is reported to have said in a personal message to the Master of Adjudication yesterday afternoon. His call for compassion follows the dismissal of charges against three clergy accused of immodest or lewd acts in the company of women and girls following the convoy’s departure from Gideon on … [MORE]
— + — Dad’s Suicide Shocker Ups Trip Tally
BY CANDY TAMMENER, DEEP SPACE DAILY FAMILY & HEALTH WRITERTHOMPSON MCCREADY SEEMED to be a happy man. With a loving wife, four children, 13 years of Church-blessed marriage and a high-paying job waiting for him on Mars as an a-grav technician at the Negev III groundbreaking, McCready was in fact the envy of his peers. That makes his death last Sunday by hanging — the sixth act of suicide fleetwide since departure four months ago — all the more baffling. “The worst part is knowing that he’s in Hell now for all eternity,” said his bereaved … [MORE]
— + — Constable Declares ‘War’ on Graffiti Vandals
BY ISAAC ARAMANTH, DEEP SPACE DAILY STAFF WRITERA PERSISTENT RASH OF vandalism and graffiti involving at least a half-dozen youth gangs across three Arkships is spreading, prompting calls by Fleet Constable David Wannamaeker for harsh punitive measures. Speaking at a Grand Promenade press reception on Monday, Wannamaeker said vapor-painting by organized groups of young people is no longer an innocent “fad,” but now threatens both fleetwide stability, and the immortal souls of those behind the acts. “I understand the youthful need to rebel,” Wannamaeker said, “but the misuse of God-given talent can be a quick road to …”
[MORE]
[Abigail, browsing 3V stills of the graffiti, leans forward and strokes her chin: Quite sophisticated stuff, actually. Whoever they are, these kids have an eye for color and composition. Not very subtle, but what do you expect. Youth. And boys at that. Most likely. No wonder the Constable's got his undies in a bunch. He'll pull out all the stops to save those tender souls. She crosses her fingers and invokes a particular Muse on their behalf.]
Curfew Limits Drunken Brawls And Fisticuffs
DEEP SPACE DAILY STAFF REPORT
MELEES AND INCIDENTS OF hooliganism are on the decline fleetwide following the uniform rollback of Friday & Weekend Promenade hours to 10 p.m., Admiral Leary’s office reported today. The rollback, first proposed by the Pan-Christian Council on Morals & Ethics, was voluntarily imposed by each individual Arkship, and was criticized by Women’s Temperance Union president Mother Janis-Marilyn Kurkowski as a “half measure” that ignores greater incidences of alcohol-fueled violence in the home … [MORE]
[Abigail, wondering, leans forward and stokes her chin: Fisticuffs? Who was the wag that slipped that one in? One of ours, it must have been. "Staff report." Could be anyone. It wouldn't surprise me if the Daily harbors a few sympathizers, being a newspaper and all, not exactly the kind of place where the truly unlettered would get very far. Perhaps they're passing secret messages. "Fisticuffs." A fine word for spies and cells and covert missions.]
Drug-Doll Daughter to Elysian Trauma Unit
BY CANDY TAMMENER, DEEP SPACE DAILY FAMILY HEALTH WRITER
THE LONG ORDEAL of little Jessica Brandywine, daughter of convicted drug smugglers John Charles and Judith Merril Brandywine, may finally be drawing to a close. After her father’s public hanging for concealing a stash of coca and poppy seeds in the abdomen of his daughter’s Raggedy Mandy doll, little Jessica’s mother, too, was found guilty of aiding and abetting the crime. Declared unfit for parenting, she begins a 15-year Cure and Reprimand with the Order of the Holy Sisters on Tuesday, leaving her daughter in the care of the Bethlehem’s Treasure School of Liberation. Although hundreds of petitions for adoption have been received, Commander Bertrand-Marie Marchand, longtime overseer of the school’s famed Liberation Battalion, announced the child’s transfer to the state-of the-art … [MORE]
“End program,” she said; the virtual broadsheet folded in upon itself, dwindled, vanished. The article had been illustrated with a 3V still, naturally.
The same one she’d seen for weeks, with every update on the dreary, dreadful story. A little rotating image of the doll, sad-eyed with a lopsided stitched mouth, its pathetic visage hovering next to the latest, typically disheartening headline.
The poor child, Abigail thought, pursing her lips. God willing, she’ll never set foot in the place. God willing, this will all be done with before long.
Barely a week remained before the convoy was scheduled to dock at Midway Station, where, after the Jubilee, the colonists would embark on the final leg of their journey to Mars, and the little prison vessels would alight on their own damnable vector to Elysia.
But perhaps a different choice would await them, as well.
Doubt plagued her. She worried her nails and licked her lips. Were the agents in place? Had the circuits been rigged? What about the gear? The medics? The crowd control? And the sisters — had they done their parts? Planted their little seeds of disruption and deception?
“Nothing to do about it now, old girl,” she said to herself, struggling to find a smile within her beating heart. “It will come to pass, or not.”
But silently she prayed, desperately clutching at the solace of her petition.
On this day, this day of all days, please Lord. Let the just prevail.
A wave of sorrow swept over her, she was shocked at its force and drew a ragged breath, and another, slower.
A warm blue-green calm suffused inside her, and she saw in it the placid smile and the eyes, bottomless, of her patron, her Mary, Mother of all.
Tremors rippled through her, the briefest moment of terror and gratitude at the glimpse of Creation she was given: curling roots and a fringe of new leaves and buds, the sky a boundless pasture for clouds, and she was far below in the sightless, frigid depths of Ocean, and skimming its lush abundant shore … the night and its stars, themselves aswarm with hurtling, fecund globes.
It was the most potent vision she’d had in years, the same force of revelation that gave her, when she was just a child, the words that made her hateful to the Church and its masters:
O Mother of us all, whom we call Mary
To Thee i pray and thank
For the bounty of this World
For all its blessings
And to Thee i beg forgiveness, for the
Sins of my people, as of mine own self
Show me how to love and teach
O Mother
Show me the patience of Your
Ages passed and yet to come
For as all things must pass
So shall our sorrows
But never Your love
Each verse was a ripple expanding into perfect silence. She breathed through each in turn.
In the hall she passed clusters of pilgrims and colonists, and Guards of the Jury in pairs or alone, leaning against walls and doorjambs, berets at rakish angles, rifles slung low at the hip.
She kept her mind clear and passed them all, inclining her head graciously. She arrived at Vespers 15 minutes late — unusual for such a creature of routine.
Upon entering the chapel she found all the sisters kneeling, heads bowed, silent, their earliest prayers complete, their fingers now knotted up and twisting in their rosaries, gossiping in rapidfire sign language.
Clever girls, forgotten in their cloisters.
Abigail took her place at the head of the gathering, knelt, and watched the flash and chatter of their anticipation.
–Will it be soon?
–At last!
–Mona had a vision, Mother
–Me too!
–It was Mary …
–The sea, the stars, the Earth
–Tell us, mother!
–Will there be fighting?
–Guns …
–What are our stations?
The last was from Clara. Deep-set eyes, dark locks pulled back, a stray tendril licking at the scar that ran from her left ear and along the underside of her jaw.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Abigail began, and her little band of cultists recited the prayer with her, and she observed them all as the rhythm and throb of the words quieted their desperately beating hearts, and uncoiled the stress gathered in their shoulders.
Her astonishment that the so-called Cult of the Mother should have existed at all had long since been replaced by, not so much pride, as admiration and gratitude.
Her shock at being recognized at all, so many decades past, was only surpassed by her amazement upon seeing her heretical prayer, scrawled in a feverish, trembling fit when she was barely a teen, replicated word for word by girls just like these, in their quick and subtle sign-language dialect.
Abigail hadn’t spoken that verse aloud since her public Reprimand and Chastisement, and her fifteen-year cure in Worcester. And yet here they were.
Somehow, all the girls with scars sooner or later came to Mary, isolated behind convent walls, lured by furtive devotional chips palmed between services and at bedtime.
The prayer concluded. Abigail, a modest handmaiden of the Judiciary and the Holy See, lifted her head, and smiled, and her fingers were knotted in the rosary.
–Madeline was sick again last night, Mother
–He makes me sick
–He’s a beast
–Do you still bleed?
–Yes Mother
–The pills are working. It’s nothing but the will to purge. He may have his way with you, but you are having none of him. Do you see? You must be strong. You must endure. There is an end to it. We need your strength. All of us need it. If we succeed, there will be no blood spilt. We must forgive them all, as Her Son has shown us. We must forgive, and do our good works, and be patient, and endure. We are nearly delivered.
–What are our stations?
–As we discussed. Gather in the back rows. When the time comes, duck your heads and activate your rosaries. Now, your final reports, please. Clara.
–Roger … Captain Plansky … he’s confirmed there will be no real changes to Guard deployment. The only difference is that an additional security force of 350 will work the Jubilee opening ceremonies tonight.
–Monique.
–The flecks are all in place, Mother. On all three of them. Robinson, Barrie and DiNunzio. On their ident chips, I mean. They brag so much. Each one of them has access to virtually every secure network in the convoy. I think the whole system should be seeded by now.
–Very good. Adrienne?
–Davis had me on the floor of the command deck again. Last night. He loves to show off. Bribed the others to give him an hour alone. He always falls asleep, curled up like a baby. I placed a disruptor under the Captain’s chair. Better than we hoped.
Abigail nodded, and gazed at her women, some placid, some blankfaced, some rapturous.
Some, like Clara, and Madeline, and Leah, with their jaws tight and flexing.
There would be no forgiveness. They were beautiful, and young, and none of them wanted to be nuns.
So impoverished were their options, the cloisters once seemed a refuge. But hardly even that. It merely brought them closer to the heart of a church of lust and gluttony and deadpan hypocrisy.
And always the secret but shameless violations, in the quiet moments between sermons.
–There is no future for this church. It is evil and false. Soon we will initiate a new Reformation. Above all, we must see that it is birthed in peace.
Abigail stared at her girls, her daughters, her sisters. Angels and cherubs, defiled and abused.
They were beautiful, and young. They did not want to be nuns.
Her fingers were suddenly thick, fumbling. Oh Mary.
There was a gasping sob, and the new girl, Leah, in a flood of tears, cast aside her rosary and clawed at the folds of her habit:
“I want them to be killed!” she cried. “All of them! I want them dead, Mother! I want them all dead!”
Coming soon: The Separation — Chapter Seven
copyright (c) by Josh Wilson