A Bishop for Mars
by J. C. Miller
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Pete snuck a look at his hand terminal during Mass to see how many people were watching the live stream of the Mass. Pete was shocked, staring at his device long enough that he later worried he’d been seen peeking during the service. While Catholics were but a small minority on Mars, more than 3 million people were streaming the service. Pete was impressed.
The bishop’s sermon was good, but it ran long. Pete liked how it started by linking the Bible version about strangers in a strange land to their own obvious situation on Mars. But his mind started to wander. Pete thought he’d be a good priest; he had studied well. He had a passion for the sacraments, notwithstanding the fact that he wasn’t paying attention to Mass today. The guilt jolted him back to attention.
“The problem is easy to see and hard to solve,” the bishop was saying. “And it’s not limited to Earth. Selfishness. We Martians are focused on improving ourselves. It’s what drove us to settle here, but we cannot forget our fellow man.”
Pete began thinking about this. Perhaps that was it: he was hesitant to accept the priesthood because he was still thinking about himself. His future. What he would do; what he wanted to do. It took a war to make him see it. To be a priest, he had to think of God’s will, not his own.
The bishop was going on. “We must all do better. We may incline towards the darkness. Some of us run towards it; others of us slouch towards it. But all of us can overcome it. That’s the grace that...” As the talk turned back to war and peace, Pete continued to think about grace and overcoming selfishness. He wanted to serve, and he wanted the people of Mars to have another priest.
The bishop finished. Pete hadn’t caught the last bits, but the crowd was giving a standing ovation. As the bishop silenced the crowd and called them to prayer, Pete knew that he was ready to become a priest.
* * *
As Pete was being ordained two weeks later, he noticed more and more people looking at their hand terminals. Pete knew there must be something big about Earth in the newsfeed. By the end of the service, nobody seemed to be paying attention to him.
As they processed out of the church after Mass, Pete looked into the pews to see the hand terminals. The Martian CEO was giving an address. Pete could only catch a few words scrolling on the screens as he walked distractedly to the back of the Cathedral, but it was clear Earth was now in a nuclear war.
As soon as they were at the back, Pete reached for his own terminal. The livestream of the church was down to zero, even though the final song was still playing. He switched over to the CEO, who was droning on about how Mars would survive even if Earth chose suicide, the lines she’d been repeating for weeks.
Pete glanced over at Deacon Al and the bishop, guilty that he was looking at his hand terminal at a time like this. To his relief, Deacon Al was on his device. The bishop, though, was not. He was staggering towards the back wall. Pete sprung forward and grabbed the bishop’s upper arm, taking on his weight and guiding him to a bench as the bishop’s legs seemed to give out.
“Are you okay?” Pete asked. The bishop nodded, but his lack of a verbal response and labored breathing told Pete that wasn’t correct. He turned and looked out the porthole at the red, lifeless valley outside the Church.
Deacon Al came quickly, pausing to look over the bishop before showing his device to them. “I scrolled back in the feed, take a look.” Pete squinted into the device as Deacon Al dragged the feed across a few different points. “Europe is gone; looking at the size of that flash. There’s no feed left coming from Earth. Nothing. No communication. The whole planet might be dead or dying—”
“You can’t kill a whole planet,” Pete interrupted without thinking. “People have got to be alive in bunkers or far-flung islands.”
“For now, maybe.” Deacon Al slid the feed to a graphic showing the latest analysis of Earth’s condition. “But the algorithms say the planet itself is shot. Nuclear winter and all that. It will take thousands of years to recover, and nobody has sufficient supplies for that. Anybody that’s alive now won’t be for long.”
The bishop struggled to sit up more firmly and confidently on the bench before he responded. “We need to consecrate Pete as a bishop. Pete, when Pope Benedict XVII sent me here, he gave me authority to consecrate bishops without consulting the Holy Father.”
While the bishop was explaining the situation, Deacon Al had pulled up another image of Europe and was pinching in to try and zoom in on Rome. The conversation stopped as they all considered that the Pope must already be dead, and all the cardinals and bishops might be too. Even if someone were left, there was no way to be in contact ever again. “I can consecrate you, but we need to do it now.”
Pete looked on with confusion. Deacon Al shot to attention, now ignoring his hand terminal. “Now? Shouldn’t we wait, at least until—”
“Now.” The bishop’s voice was quiet but firm.
“On it,” Deacon Al replied, immediately darting back into the Church.
“Father Peter, we should talk...”
* * *
Deacon Al hurriedly made arrangements for the Consecration Mass. The audience hadn’t left after the first Mass. They had been either kneeling and praying for the souls of the dead and dying on Earth or sitting and doom-scrolling the news on their hand terminals when Deacon Al made the announcement.
The whole proceeding went by in a flash. Pete assumed bishops-to-be did a lot to prepare for consecration, and he knew he didn’t have time. He focused on praying and readying himself for the awesome responsibility as the Mass progressed. The bishop was clearly rushing things as much as he could. He trembled more, struggled to breathe, and talked ever more quietly even as he raced through the words. As the bishop concluded the Mass, his hand slipped off Pete and he collapsed to the sanctuary floor.
Pete stood there in shock, unable to move or even process what to do. Deacon Al darted around rapidly, going off to the side of the sanctuary and racing back. He spoke to Pete, who didn’t comprehend it at first. “Give him last rites!” Deacon Al repeated, thrusting an open book into Pete’s hand and a small bottle of oil.
Pete loved the feeling of the little book in his hand. So rarely had he held an actual book. Deacon Al pointed to the opening words of the prayers. Pete began praying and knelt alongside the dying bishop, dutifully following the written instructions but barely comprehending their significance. The old man’s labored breathing faded. Pete felt him squeeze his hand — Pete hadn’t even realized they were holding hands — as he breathed his last. Deacon Al closed the bishop’s eyes and then stood up. Pete stood up too. He looked around, seeing the congregation on their knees praying without prompting. But they were looking at him.
Pete turned to Deacon Al, who had also been staring at Pete. “What do we do now?”
“Well,” Deacon Al replied, “you’re going to have to say a funeral Mass at some point. And you’re going to need to address the world. But first I’m going to have to figure out a way to send up white smoke into the sky. And you probably should come up with a new name.”
“Why?” Pete asked, his face moving from the blank stare he’d worn since the late bishop collapsed to one of more vibrant confusion.
Deacon Al’s serious face turned to warmth as he explained, “Well, I think you might be the Pope now, or at least the Martian equivalent.”
Copyright © 2022 by J. C. Miller
