by Mike Resnick
in your ... ah ... last hours.”
“I'm good for three or four more days yet, priest,” said Rodat. “Don't go rushing me off before I'm good and ready to go.”
“That's quite all right,” said Mihal, seating himself on the floor beside the old man. “I'll stay right here with you to the end.”
“Going to give me a real good send-off, eh?” “View it as helping you prepare to be taken to the bosom of your Maker,” said Mihal. “Let Him wait until I'm good and ready,” said Rodat. “I'm in no hurry.” “I don't mean to be presumptuous,” said Mihal, “but I can't help thinking your attitude is all wrong. This is God you're talking about, not some landlord to be put off with a sneer. This is the Creator of all things, who is preparing to take you into His kingdom.” The old man stared at him for moment, then turned and spat on the rotting floor. “Priest,” he said at last, “you've got a lot to learn. I believe in the same God you do, and I believe in Him more devoutly than you do.”
“Then ask his forgiveness, and surely it will be given,” said Mihal, wondering what kind of madman he was ministering to.
“Ask His forgiveness?” said Rodat. “For what?” “For Man's transgressions against God's law,” said Mihal. “Do you believe all that, or are you just spewing it out by rote?” asked the old man. “I beg your pardon!” said Mihal.
“Don't,” said Rodat. “If I can get along without begging God's pardon, you certainly don't have to apologize to me. Maybe you ought to just leave me and peddle your religion elsewhere.” “I'm not in the peddling business,” said Mihal hotly. “Whether or not you believe in the religion has absolutely no bearing on the truth of it. If all the Men who ever lived did not believe in God, would that make His existence any less real?”
“Don't confuse God with religion, priest,” said the old man. “God has always been around. It's religion that comes and goes with the seasons.”
Mihal leaned over and wiped some sweat from the old man's brow. “You're burning up with fever,” he said, “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” “Shutting your mouth would be a pretty good start,” said Rodat. “What have you got against me?” asked Mihal. “All I want to do is help you.” “You can help me by leaving me alone. I'll give you plenty of warning so you can be in for the kill.”
The old man closed his eyes and lay motionless for a number of minutes, and Mihal opened one of his
books and began reading aloud. It was a prayer of penitence. “I hope you're doing that for your own benefit,” said Rodat, reopening his eyes. “I don't mind being kept awake, but I'll be damned if I'll let you beg God to pardon me.” “You may be damned if I don't,” said Mihal. “Please allow me to aid you in the only way I know. Your soul may not matter to you, but it's vitally important to me.” “Why?” rasped the old man. “Yours couldn't matter less to me.” “Because I entered the priesthood to serve people,” said Mihal. “That is my only goal in life, and my greatest pleasure.” “Then I feel even sorrier for you than you do for me.” He closed his eyes again, and soon his breathing, although weak, became regular.
Per Mihal sighed. It seemed so futile, sitting here with a man who wanted nothing that he had to offer, and yet that made the offering no less important. He wondered, as he sat and stared at the dying man, why religion was having such difficulty in reestablishing itself after a six-millennium hiatus. Originally it had died off because it tended to pile dogma atop dogma, pyramiding them up to the sky. Then, as Man learned to live in the air and beneath the sea, as he controlled first his environment and then his destiny, more and more of the dogmas fell by the wayside. The basic laws of religion began eroding, and when Man finally reached the stars and performed acts that religion had reserved only for God, it spelled the temporary end of religion. But religion was more than just a series of dogmas and rituals; it was a means to comfort the oppressed with the promise of a day of judgment when all wrongs would be righted and all losers made over into winners. Man didn't need that comfort when he ruled the galaxy, but now he was a loser once again.
But this time, reflected Mihal, Man didn't grab for the bait as readily. He was willing to worship God, but on his own terms, not God's. Mihal had seen many things in his brief life: poverty, lust, greed, pride, fury, resignation, nobility. The one thing he hadn't seen, outside the cloistered walls where he took his training, was a single Man who felt any need or desire to ask God to forgive the race for what it had done. Love, devotion, and worship were all parts of Man's spiritual makeup; apology, it seemed, was not. And yet, did that make him any the less worthy of salvation? After all, Man was what he was, an animal that would always remain true to his nature. And since God had provided him with that nature, surely there must be a purpose to it. And what God created and gave purpose to, God must love. Mihal disdained ivory towers, but he was an idealist nonetheless, and his job was to bring comfort to God's downtrodden children. If they didn't particularly want that comfort, that just made his job all the more challenging.
He became aware of a sound behind him, and turned to see a girl of sixteen or seventeen standing in the doorway, a woven basket in her hands.
“Is he dead yet?” she asked.
“My God, what a callous question!” said Mihal.
“A practical one. I've brought food for him. There's no sense leaving it here if he's dead. There's barely
enough to go around as is.”
“I see,” said Mihal, wondering whether an apology was called for and deciding against it. “He's just sleeping.”
She placed the basket by the old man's side. “My name is Pilar,” she said. “He's my uncle.” “I'm Per Mihal,” said Mihal, extending his hand. “Oh. The new priest?”
He nodded.
“Have you been here long?”
“I arrived this morning,” he said. “I have spent most of the day wondering how you can put up with these living conditions.”
“Nobody told us we had a choice,” replied Pilar. “As long as Rodat seems to be sleeping comfortably, would you care to go for a brief walk?” asked Mihal. “I haven't seen much of the village.” “All right,” she agreed. “Though there's not much to see.” They stepped outside, and Mihal felt the huge sun beating down on him again. He was amazed by the poverty surrounding him. Even for a ghetto it was bad. He wondered what some alien race, finding traces of Man here in the far future, would make of it. Would there be any sign that this hapless creature had once ruled the galaxy? He doubted it.
“How long will you be with us, Per Mihal?” asked Pilar as they wove their way in and out of the dilapidated buildings.
“Until I'm reassigned,” he said. “Which means anywhere from a week to a lifetime.” “Well, you won't be hurting for business,” she said. “I wish that weren't so.”
“Oh?”
“I suppose priests are like doctors,” he said. “Nothing would make us happier than a lack of patients.” “Not very likely in this day and age. Our empire is gone, our primacy is just a distant memory, we're hunted like animals on some worlds and shoved into ghettos on others. As long as things don't get any better, you can keep your shingle up.”
“We don't feed on misery,” said Mihal gently. “We fight it.” “You'd look pretty silly fighting empty air, wouldn't you?” Pilar laughed. “You'd be like a navy without
an opponent. It's people like us that keep people like you in business.”
“Believe me, Pilar,” he said, “nothing could make me happier than seeing an end to all poverty and misery.”
“And what would you do with all that spare time?” “I would spend all my waking hours praising God for His benevolence,” said Mihal devoutly. “Really? And do you spend all your present waking hours condemning Him for forsaking us?” “Of course not!” said Mihal. “I ask Him to forgive us for the sins we have committed during our long and bloody history, and for which we are now suffering.” “Oh,” said Pilar.
“Do you feel that this is incorrect?”
“I'm
not a priest, and I don't know very much about religion,” said Pilar, “but if it was me, I'd ask Him to keep His hands off and let us climb back to the top of the heap if we can.” “I find it very disquieting to see so many people who possess this sort of attitude,” said Mihal. “After all, if you can acknowledge God's existence, then surely...” “Oh, I believe in God, all right,” said Pilar. “I just believe in Man more.” “Isn't that a little inconsistent?” asked Mihal gently. “Look around you, Per Mihal,” said Pilar, gesturing toward the dust-covered streets and crumbling buildings. “This is God's handiwork. Then look at Deluros, or Caliban, or Earth. Man built them.” “Man built them,” agreed Mihal, “but only by the grace of God. Only God can create a world.” “True,” said Pilar, “but only Man can put it to use. I view it as a kind of partnership. God provides, and we dispose. Only God hasn't been providing very well these days.” “Then we must ask His forgiveness for whatever we've done to offend Him.” “I respect God too much to lie to Him, and I'd be lying if I said I was sorry for anything Man has done. Religion is supposed to be a spiritual crutch, Per Mihal. If it forces us to lie and grovel, it's not acting as a crutch—it's amputating our legs in order to attain God's sympathy. What kind of deity could be fooled like that?”
“Nobody wants you to lie, Pilar,” said Mihal. “What religion tries to do is give you an awareness of your relationship to God. Once you understand that relationship, asking forgiveness won't be a lie.” “Don't you feel a certain measure of pride in what we've done?” asked Pilar. “Man, in his time, has walked on a million alien worlds and bent Nature to his will. He gave shape and scope and meaning to the galaxy. Why should I be ashamed of that?” “Look where it got us,” said Mihal.
“Next time we'll do it better.”
Mihal shrugged. “I think we'd better be getting back. We've been gone almost forty minutes.” They returned to Rodat's side and took turns watching him throughout the remainder of the day. As night fell his breathing became more uneven, and his left arm started twitching spasmodically. Finally he opened his eyes.
“Still here, priest?”
“I'm not about to leave you,” said Mihal solemnly. The old man muttered something unintelligible. Its tone was not complimentary. Suddenly his body stiffened, as if riddled with intense pain. Mihal reached out and held his hand. “Have courage,” he said softly, as Rodat began to relax. “I wish you the same,” said the old man. “And strength.” “Me? Why?”
“Because, priest, you're going to need it.” He sat in silence for a few minutes. Then he started reading from his prayer book again. Rodat told him to keep quiet and stared boldly out at the darkness, eyes unblinking, jaw set, ready to meet his Maker on his own terms.
Mihal closed the book and sighed. He suddenly had a terrible apprehension that he was going to spend the rest of his life being tolerated.
“I think you're right, old man,” he said at last. “Eh?”
“It's going to be a long tour of duty.” 25: THE PACIFISTS
(No mention of the Pacifists can be found inOrigin and History of the Sentient Races. ) The huge room was filling up. Here was a Canphorite, tall, slender, dignified; there sat an Emran, muscles bulging, shifting uncomfortably; walking through the doorway were ambassadors from Lodin XI, Castor V, and Procyon III, looking as unalike as any three sentient beings could look. And standing in the midst of the gaudily dressed beings who had come from all points of the galactic compass were two Men.
“Looks like a pretty good turnout,” said Lipas, the smaller of the two. “It's even better than I had hoped for,” said Thome. “We just may come out of this in good shape.”
A Teroni, its face obscured by the chlorine gas inside its helmet, approached them.
“Where is your delegation?” it asked.
“They'll be here, never fear,” said Thome in Galactic-O. “They had better be,” said the Teroni, walking away to where a number of other chlorine-breathers were gathered.
“I wonder whatis keeping them,” said Lipas softly. “We're not going to be able to stall much longer.” “They're only about half an hour late,” said Thome confidently. “And besides, a third of the aliens aren't here yet either.”
“Butthey aren't vital to the meeting,” said Lipas. “Weare.” That was indeed the crux of it. It was Man who was the focal point of the meeting; any other race or even any group of races was merely window dressing. Man had fallen upon hard times in the past century, hard even compared to those that existed at the beginning of the millennium. From four thousand worlds he was now reduced to less than five hundred. His military might, which during the heyday of the Oligarchy and early Monarchy could not even be computed, was now a matter of record: 53,305 battleships, a standing army of less than a billion, and some seventeen billion hand weapons. These were still formidable figures, but precious few of the races assembled in this room had any reason to be envious of them; most possessed far more firepower, and incomparably better communication systems. Man's economy had suffered even more than his military power. Of his 489 worlds, some 368 were in the throes of a severe depression, while most of the others were fighting a losing battle against runaway inflation. The Deluros VI planetoids, with no finances available to maintain them, had finally been cannibalized and sold to alien scientific establishments. On every front, Man's star was fast approaching its nadir. Isolated anti-human pogroms had turned into widescale wars of extermination, economic sanctions had turned into galaxywide boycotts, and treaties were signed and broken by alien races with the regularity that had once characterized the race of Man. Man responded with bluff, guile, and pressure in proportions that he thought would do the most good; but the aliens had possessed a master teacher for millennia, and had learned their lessons well. So Man resorted to force. Half his meager Navy was lost in one brief battle around Praesepe VI. The entire planet of Aristotle was blown up. The worlds of the Spica system were taken, one by one, in less than a week. Torn and reeling, bloody but unbowed, Man fought on. Or rather, most Men did. But there were a few, such as Thome, who could see no sense in absorbing defeat after defeat, humiliation after humiliation. He did not preach surrender, for no Man—including himself—ever surrendered. But he spoke in favor of reaching a political accommodation with the other races of the galaxy, and soon had so many followers that he was encouraged to form a political party. It ran candidates for offices on Sirius V, Delta Scuti II, and Earth ... and lost every election. After an appropriate interval his followers ran again, and lost again.
Determined to prove to Mankind that pacifism was a viable alternative to a bitter series of wars that
could end only in the extermination of the race, he went over the heads of his constituency and approached the aliens directly.
If he could arrange a conference between all the races of the galaxy, Man included, would they be willing to participate?
The aliens were in the driver's seat, and they knew it. Only if certain conditions were met, they answered, would they consent to such a meeting. The conditions?
All delegates would speak with T-packs. Not modified Terran T-packs, but Galactic ones. Thome agreed.
The meeting would be held on Doradus IV, symbolic of the first worldwide population that Man had wiped out through sheer carelessness, rather than malice. Thome agreed.
The delegation of Men must be empowered to speak for the entire race. They'd had enough experience in signing agreements with one representative of the race and then having other Men deny that anyone had spoken for their specific interest groups. Thome agreed.
The race of Man must totally disarm prior to the meeting. Thome explained, time and again, that he did not have the influence or the power to make his race lay down its arms. That, after all, was one of the hoped-for goals of the meeting. However, he would guarantee that no Man attending the conference would bear arms. After considerable procrastination, the aliens agreed. There were, including Man, 13,042 intelligent races in the galaxy. Some of these, such as the insectoids o
f Procyon II, who had no interest in the affairs of other races, or the ichthyoids of Gamma Leporis IV, who bore Man no ill will, were not invited to the conference. But of the 11,039 races invited to send delegations, 9,844 had responded favorably. Even such far-flung and exotic beings as the Vasorites, who spent their entire lives following their small red sun over the horizon on incredibly long, untiring legs, agreed to attend. In fact, Thome had more trouble getting Man to agree to the meeting than any of the aliens. After all, Men were the reason for the meeting. They would be expected to disarm, to make territorial concessions, to pay economic tributes, and they weren't happy about it. Thome kept hitting away at the only alternative—racial death—and at long last the leaders of the loosely-knit Interstellar Union of Man, a conservative government that ruled more by consent than any effective manifestation of real political power, agreed.
