The Martian Viking (11 page)

Smitty didn't care much for it, either. Nevertheless, he and his Mom were on their way to the Video Church. He was probably in for a really boring time tonight, and he was willing to bet that the batteries would be forgotten, too.

The flyby gained speed, chugging as if it would give up the ghost, and then suddenly lifted above the street.

"Ryan's got to get those coils checked," Ronindella said. All she needed was to come down hood first in the middle of a busy intersection, or pile into a bridge abutment. Well, at least Ryan
had
a flyby. Johnsmith had never been able to afford one, even though he had made as much as Ryan until he got fired. She chided herself for marrying such an impractical man. Well, she'd been young then, and had no idea of what it took to bring up a child. She'd be damned if she was going to live like a pauper for the rest of her life, though.

The Video Church, a handsome Neo-Drive-In structure with crimson and turquoise neon trim, towered over Skid Row. As they approached, Ronindella banked. Smitty was pressed against the padded door on the passenger's side for a moment, and then the car hovered while Ronindella looked for a parking space.

Since there was no major service going on at the moment—and perhaps because it was dinner time—there were a few parking spaces available. The only way to get in was through the roof entrance. After all, the Video Church of God had no use for adherents who couldn't afford flybys.

Ronindella brought Ryan's flyby down with a nasty bounce. As he always did at such moments, Smitty understood why he had to wear a seat belt, especially when his Mom was driving. Ryan drove a lot better, but Smitty was glad he wasn't with them this evening. It was bad enough to have to come to church tonight without having that asshole along, too. Things could have been a lot worse.

Ronindella cut the engine and lifted the door on her side. Climbing out, she said, "Come on, Smitty."

Smitty pretended to have trouble undoing his seat belt, hoping something would happen at the last minute, so that he wouldn't have to go to church tonight.

But nothing happened; nothing at all. His Mom came around to the passenger side, opened the door, and flipped open the catch to his seat belt. So much for stalling around. He was going to church whether he liked it or not.

"Come on, young man," Ronindella said. "We haven't got all night, you know."

She yanked him out of the car and pulled him to the elevator. Smitty didn't exactly resist, but he didn't exactly cooperate, either. He just made the walk last a little longer, as if by accident. Smitty dared to hope that Ryan's license plate would be rejected by the scan, and that the elevator door would not open as a result; that had happened once before. Ronindella's victory was inevitable, however. Soon they were riding down into the brightly lit depths of the Video Church, and there was nothing for Smitty to do but go along with it.

Smitty could hear the congregation shouting even before the elevator door opened: "Praise God!" "Hallelujah!" "Jesus loves you!" and so on.

They stepped out into a projectogram studio, a gigantic, floodlit room filled with the faithful, who swayed en masse to a white gospel rhythm backing a strutting preacher.

"God knows who is doing His sacred work," the Reverend bellowed, spittle spraying in all directions from his immaculately white teeth, "and God knows who is shirking.

"Those who believe—who really believe—do the work to which the God-blessed Conglomerated United Nations of Earth government has so selflessly assigned them all.
Every
man, woman, and child on this planet works, as the Good Lord intended . . .or they take their damned souls and get off this beautiful planet."

"Hallelujah!" the faithful shrieked.

Ronindella could hardly believe her luck; they had walked into a full-employment sermon. For the first time in months, she started to think that things might be starting to go her way. Maybe God
was
on her side, even if Johnsmith Biberkopf was not.

Smitty watched the show, feeling uncomfortably warm under the intense lighting necessary for projectogram holography. The Video Church was broadcast twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, on every continent. It was even seen on the moon and the orbital colonies. Smitty had heard his Mom say this a thousand times to his Dad and later, to Ryan Effner. He dared to hope that it never got to Mars, so his Dad wouldn't have to watch it ever again.

"And there are those who neglect their duty to the Lord," the preacher hollered, "just as there are those who neglect their duty to their world."

The congregation groaned in disapproval of the behavior of these nameless ne'er-do-wells. Ronindella joined in, waiting for her chance.

It came about forty minutes later. Smitty was barely awake by this time, in spite of the constant chorus of screams that accompanied every phrase the preacher uttered. But he heard the preacher ask, "Who will bear witness?"

"I will bear witness!" Ronindella shrieked almost before the words were out of the preacher's mouth.

Some other people said they would bear witness, too. Ronindella had to wait her turn, but after five of six other people got to go up on the stage, the preacher called on her, and she practically leaped out of her seat. Smitty could hardly believe what he was seeing. His Mom had told him that she'd been a witness before he was born, but it was something he never thought he'd actually
see
. There she was, though, standing right up there on the stage, all lit up with slanting rays of blinding white light as the preacher said, "And what is your name, sister?"

"Ronindella," she said, the sound system picking up her voice and amplifying it without distortion. "Ronindella Biberkopf."

"And tell us Ms. Biberkopf," the preacher said, "tell the Good Lord, the faithful gathered here this evening at the Video Church of God, and tell me, your loving Brother Bobby, what you will bear witness to tonight."

"Well, Brother Bobby, I have seen up close the sins of a shirker."

The audience cooed in sympathy.

"Tell it, sister," Brother Bobby cajoled.

"My husband Johnsmith lost his job and left me and my nine-year-old son without a husband and father."

"Lord help you," Brother Bobby prayed.

"And now we have no visible means of support," Ronindella lied.

Smitty couldn't believe his ears. He scrunched way down in the pew, so ashamed that he felt as though his face were burning up. How could she say that? They were getting most of his Dad's pay all the way from Mars, and they were getting help from Ryan Effner, too!

"Is your little boy here this evening?" Brother Bobby asked.

"Yes, he's sitting out there in the audience," she replied.

The preacher's grin was dazzling, showing practically every one of his gleaming white teeth. "Then why don't we bring him up here?"

Ronindella smiled back prettily. "He's very young."

"You're never too young to bear witness for the Lord," the preacher said.

"Hallelujah!" the audience roared.

"What is your boy's name?"

"Smitty II."

"Little brother, Smitty II," Brother Bobby said in a cloying tone, "come on down."

If Smitty could have crawled under the pew, he would have. All eyes were on him, as the preacher importuned him to join them on the stage. Smitty didn't move. He felt as if he were going to burst.

"Come on
down!
"

What could he do? He couldn't just sit there, but he couldn't get up on that stage, either; it was just too phony. What would his Dad do if he had been here?

Smitty knew that his Dad would have done what his Mom wanted him to do, though. That was the trouble. Dad had always done what she wanted, and look what he'd gotten for his trouble. Smitty knew he'd do what his Dad would have done. If his Dad, a grown man, couldn't fight back, how could he? He sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

Slowly, he got up and marched toward the stage. Ethereal lights played around him as he made his way through the clapping, cheering crowd. Smitty hated them, he hated the preacher, and most of all at that moment, he hated his mother.

He mounted the steps and took his place next to his Mom. The crowd was feverish with excitement now, almost like a pack of wild animals. The preacher tried to speak, but the screaming drowned out even his game-show-host voice, amplified though it might have been.

At last the din died down, and Brother Bobby asked: "Are you willing to bear witness in the name of the Lord, my son?"

"I guess so," Smitty said cautiously. He didn't really understand what bearing witness was all about, but now that he was up here, he clearly had to do something. If they wanted him to bear witness, then he would bear witness. Anything, as long as he could get out of here.

"Did your father sin?" Brother Bobby asked in a kindly way. "Did you see him shirk his duty?"

"I don't know." Smitty felt as if the preacher was trying to trick him.

"Well, son, you must realize that your father lost his job. Am I right when I say that?"

Smitty nodded grudgingly. He couldn't argue with that, but he had never believed that his Dad meant to hurt him. After all, his Dad could have been sent to Luna as easily as Mars, and even Mars wasn't so great, from what Smitty had heard. What was Brother Bobby trying to prove?

"And because he lost his job, he left you and your mother without any visible means of support, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't say so at all," Smitty responded angrily.

The preacher's grin faded for a fraction of a second. Smitty caught a glimpse of the real Brother Bobby, a wrinkled, ugly face stretched over a misshapen skull—or so it seemed for an instant. The placid smile was replaced so quickly that Smitty had to wonder if he had seen anything at all.

"Are you casting doubt on your mother's word?" Brother Bobby said.

"I didn't say that."

"Well, you certainly didn't agree with her version of events, did you?"

Smitty said nothing. He was not about to let Brother Bobby trap him into saying something he didn't really mean. He glanced at his Mom, who stared back at him with anger.

"Did your father leave you and your mother to fend for yourselves?" the preacher demanded.

"We're still getting money from Dad," Smitty said.

"But is that
his
doing?" Brother Bobby began to circle around Smitty, like a beast of prey closing in for the kill. Smitty turned, not letting him out of sight for an instant.

"The government of these United Nations under God sees to it that a percentage of his pay is sent through the Selective Space Service, sent to his needy family back here on Earth. Am I not correct when I say this?"

Smitty remained silent. His Dad was not some common criminal, and he would not allow this asshole to make him out that way. "I don't care if it's correct or not!" Smitty cried. "My Dad didn't mean for us to be poor!"

"Ah, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions," Brother Bobby said loftily. "Johnsmith Biberkopf has left you and your mother impoverished, has he not?"

"I don't know." Smitty was so upset and confused that he was on the verge of bursting into tears. Somehow he held back, though. He would not give Brother Bobby the satisfaction.

"You don't know?" The preacher sounded skeptical. "Are you trying to deceive a servant of the Lord?"

"No . . .I . . ."

"You
do
know, then?"

"No . . .I don't . . ."

"You
know
that your father, Johnsmith Biberkopf, is a sinner, do you not?"

Smitty wanted to scream at him, tell him that he was a liar, jump up and smash his face in. But there was something about the way Brother Bobby kept at him that made him afraid to be defiant.

"You
know
it, don't you, Smitty? You
know
it!"

And almost as if they were spoken by somebody else, the words emerged through Smitty's tears: "Yes, I know it."

JOHNSMITH DIDN'T KNOW why, but he was thinking of Felicia a lot these days, which was what he was doing now, as he lay in his bunk. Maybe it was because of the sheer boredom of living on Mars. Occasionally, he could marvel at the alien landscape outside, but most of the time it was just work; though the low gravity and atmospheric pressure made it easy to bounce back after a grueling day of crawling through red dust while a high energy particle beam fired just over the top of his head. At other times, he worked with a wieldo crew, putting up new buildings outside. He liked martial arts training better, because it was more like a sport, even though Sergeant Daiv could be pretty nasty when he punched you and tossed you around like a sack of potatoes.

They had never really been told the truth about why they were being trained for combat. Who were they expected to fight on Mars? There was nothing living on the planet, so far as Johnsmith knew, besides human beings and a bit of lichen in the polar region. They obviously weren't going to fight lichen with automatic weapons and lasers.

Well, at least they had the onees. But there were drawbacks even with the psychedelic ball bearings. For one thing, he didn't like to make his daily reports on what his onee experience were like. Filing a report never took very long, but it seemed so personal that he didn't care to have Angel Torquemada looking at it.

The lights were out, but there was some faint illumination coming from the far end of the barracks. The soft light made Felicia look very sweet and youthful. In fact, she wasn't very old, Johnsmith realized. It was just that she talked so tough that made her seem that way.

Johnsmith rolled on his side and looked down at the far end of the barracks to see what was going on. Captain Hi and Co-pilot Prudy were packing their gear. It looked as if they might be leaving Mars this morning.

Johnsmith wanted to say goodbye to Hi, who had really been very nice to him on the flight. Hi had been civil here on Mars, too, even though he had nothing to gain from it. After all, Johnsmith was just another prisoner at Elysium. He was nobody special. Maybe Hi was nice to everybody.

Since he couldn't sleep, maybe he should get up and say a few words of farewell. He might never see the pilot again; certainly not for several years, at the very least.