Paolo Marcillon
slowed the marsbug to a crawl. The sun was rising and he had to glance at the
control panel’s chronometer to discover that five days had passed since fleeing
Robinson.
Wan Martian
sunlight dribbled across the desiccated dunes. For a moment, he felt that he
somehow stood – in this case sat...a snort escaped him. He shook his head. He
felt that the weight of the world rested on his shoulders – in the form of an
inverted pyramid. Had the apostle Paul ever felt this way? He sighed then threw
the ‘bug into gear, rolling forward. Flicking on the comm system, he listened
to chatter as he drove parallel to the more heavily used routes. While he was
kept to minor or abandoned trails, he didn’t dare go wandering. While Humans
had been on Mars for nearly half a century, it could hardly be called ‘tamed’.
There were plenty of places people could get themselves killed.
Plenty of
places for splinter groups to hide themselves as well – like the Cydonian Fellowship of Free Martians and the Martian
Christian Underground, though the Underground lived and worked in the Domes,
Stations and Outposts. Who else was out there? Old Communists? A Hidden
Catholic Church?
He sighed. Too much, too fast. The
Five Councils had their own agenda as well that included the elimination of
opposition. He also figured that the agendas included the elimination of four
other Councils as well. “Earth all over again,” he muttered. “Even so, Lord, marana tha.”
He’d gone another ten klicks when
the comm bleated, “Paolo Marcillon. Paolo Marcillon.”
Scowling, he let the ‘bug roll to a
stop. “If you think I’ll be responding to this, you’re dumber than I...”
“Do not respond. Repeat, do not
respond.”
His eyebrows went up and he leaned
back. “Paolo Marcillon.” There was a long pause, then the voice continued, “A
living hand has moved against the bony fin. A living hand has moved against the
bony fin.” He leaned forward, pulse racing. Someone must have discovered the
Free Martian redoubt. He glanced at the odometer. He’d put nearly a hundred
klicks between them and himself. He waited. Would it be enough? The voice
picked up, “The hand was cut off, but the fin waves goodbye as it moves to the
deeps.” Paolo made a face. Cryptic enough, he figured the Free Martians were
headed for Valles Marineris, though if he
could figure it out, he was under no delusions that the Martian Authority – a sort
of InterPol of Mars – couldn’t figure it out as well. So, there was a good
chance they had another redoubt somewhere along the line between the Grand
Island Dust Sink and
the Valley. Why did they...“Your kind are in grave danger as the hand removed
spoke before it was finished.” Paolo leaned forward. “Move slowly. Carry a
bigger stick. The Councils seek you.”
The carrier wave
hissed for a moment before regular chatter resumed. Paolo leaned back. What did
the Free Martians mean when they told him to ‘carry a bigger stick’? He’d never
gone armed before. He’d been pretty clear about that. Though he couldn’t say
that he was untrained. His parents had made sure he knew how to tell one end
from the other of at least ten weapons. Two of them were martial arts – ones he’d
kept well honed.
Was there a
deeper message?
A quote from
Paul’s letter to the Hebrews leaped to mind, “...the
word of God is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword,
and piercing as far as the division of soul and spirit, of both joints and
marrow, and able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart.”
Was that their message? While it
hadn’t been Svetlana Izmaylova speaking, he had no doubt that the message was
from her. What would someone like her want him to carry the Gospel? Was she
angling for him to get captured first; to take the pressure off the Free
Martians?
He took his lower lip between thumb
and forefinger and rolled it thoughtfully. Svetlana and her people were up to something and she meant to involve
him, and maybe by involving him deflecting the interest of the Martian Councils
from her revolutionaries to the Christians and other faith groups.
He stared at the forward viewscreen
for some time, thinking sometimes, praying at others. When he sat up, he said, “All
right. Let’s play it your way. God moves in ways that we can’t comprehend.
Maybe he’s using the Free Martians to move me.”
It didn’t take long to program an
intercept course from where he was to the main highway between the Sink and
Burroughs to Bradbury. God had called him to do something.
Maybe this was such a time; maybe
the United Faith In Humanity and the Church were about to collide.
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