Fortunately for Mallory’s spiritual well-being, Staff Sergeant Fitzpatrick, like 80 percent of the Occisis military, was Roman Catholic. So it didn’t threaten his cover to spend his early morning hours attending the Church of St. Thomas More, the only traditional Catholic Church in Proudhon.
Mallory had discovered that, despite Bakunin’s origin in a strain of socialist anarchism that viewed organized religion with the same zealous hatred as they did the State, the planet’s current incarnation was much more tolerant of the former than the latter. In fact, just searching a directory for a house of worship he had found nearly a hundred “Catholic” churches. Almost all of which represented some splinter faith or apostate creed, ranging from Vodoun variants to a conservative sect that held to Latin service, mortification of the flesh, and the denial of nonhumans into the Kingdom of God.
But the Church of St. Thomas More recognized the same pope Mallory did, and fortunately the recognition was mutual.
The church itself was a windowless ferrocrete-and-steel structure that looked as if it started life as some sort of maintenance structure, perhaps a power substation. The building made up for the lack of architectural detail by being wrapped in a massive mural showing the Stations of the Cross in sequence around the walls of the building. The artist had used some sort of active paint, so each scene looped through a simple animation; in one scene Jesus repeatedly falls under the weight of the cross; in another, a Roman soldier pounds a nail into Jesus’ hand over and over; in another, His body is taken down, repeatedly, never reaching the ground.
Above the entrance, He is placed in his tomb. As Mallory entered, the picture showed Jesus rising and taking a step toward the sealed doorway. Unlike Mallory, the painted Christ never reaches the entrance.
Inside, the layout was more utilitarian; no giant distracting murals, just a large crucifix on the wall above the altar bearing an elongated and strangely antiseptic Christ carved in unpainted black hardwood. Mass had yet to start, and people were still finding their seats on the long pews. Mallory stopped by the basin and crossed himself before finding an unobtrusive seat in the back.
He couldn’t help thinking how appalled this diocese’s namesake would be at the very nature of Bakunin. Mallory suspected that, despite the protests of Bakunin’s socialist founders, Thomas More, the man who wrote
When the priest came to officiate, Mallory did his best to abandon his worldly thoughts. He didn’t know what was ahead of him, but he had an uneasy feeling that this could be the last chance he would have to receive communion in the Church.
The unease redoubled when he walked back down the aisle after receiving the Eucharist. Sitting next to the aisle, alone on a pew, was Jusuf Wahid. Mallory wanted to ignore the man. He didn’t like the feeling of his spiritual life mixing with the fictitious Fitzpatrick’s.
Wahid gave him no choice.
Mallory walked past Wahid’s pew without acknowledging the man’s presence. However, as soon as he walked by, Wahid stood and slipped into the returning line behind Mallory. “Keep going toward the door,” he whispered, breath hot and sour against the side of his neck.
Mallory tried to gauge Wahid’s intent, but he couldn’t get a feel from his whisper. It could have been a threat, a request, or a plea.
Mallory kept walking past all the pews and went outside ahead of Wahid. As soon as they got outside, Mallory turned around to face him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Saving our asses, Fitz.” He pushed Mallory’s shoulder, turning him toward an aircar that was parked crooked on the pedestrian walkway in front of the church.
“What are you talking about?”
“Apparently, our boss has a good reason for hiring us.” He ran over to the aircar, pushed back the canopy, and jumped in. “Come on,” Wahid hooked a thumb at the rear seat.
Mallory climbed in and found himself next to a duffel bag. The top was partly unzipped, and inside he could see the barrel of some sort of plasma weapon.
The aircar lifted off before the canopy had closed completely. Looking over the seat in front, Mallory could see a similar duffel bag resting on the seat next to Wahid.
“What’s going on?” Mallory asked.
“Someone has taken objection to Mr. Mosasa’s little field trip. The lady and the tiger were ambushed last night.”
“What? Kugara and Rajasthan? Are they all right?”
Wahid slid the aircar into the frenetic mess that passed for air traffic in Proudhon. The dashboard began a plaintive beeping as proximity alarms began calling for attention that never came. “They’re fine,” he said as he pulled the aircar up in a climb to pass above a slow-moving taxi. “I think the frank bitch might have cut herself.
