the technicians who worked for Bootstrap here at the old Soviet-era launch station. Baikonur -- once called Leninsk, at the heart of Kazakhstan -- was a place of burned-out offices and abandoned, windowless apartments, of roads and roofs coated with strata of gritty brown powder, blown from the pesticide-laden salt flats of the long-dead Aral Sea a few hundred kilometers away. Baikonur was a relic of Soviet dreams, plagued by crime and ill health. Not a good place to stay.
So Xenia wasn't sure what to expect by the time the bus drew up to the security gate, and she went out to greet her holy guest.
The priest must have been sixty, small, compact: fit looking, though she showed some stiffness climbing down from the bus. Camera drones, glittering toys the size of beetles, whirred out in a cloud around her head.
Her, yes: of course it would be a female, one of the Vatican's first cadre of women priests, that would be assigned to this most PR-friendly of operations.
And no black cassock. The priest, dressed in loose, comfortable-looking therm-aware shirt and slacks, could have held any one of a number of white-collar professions: an accountant, maybe, or a space scientist of the kind Frank Paulis had recruited in droves, or even a lawyer like Xenia herself. It was only the dog collar, a thin band of white at the throat, that marked out a different vocation.
From the shadows of her broad, sensible Sun hat the priest smiled out at Xenia. "You must be Ms. Makarova."
"Call me Xenia. And you?"
"Dorothy Chaum." The smile grew a little weary. "I'm neither Mother, nor Father, thankfully. You must call me Dorothy."
"It's a pleasure to have you here, Ms. -- Dorothy."
Dorothy flapped at the drones buzzing around her head like flies. "You're a good liar. I'll try to trouble you as little as I can." And she looked beyond Xenia, into the rocket compound, with questing, curious eyes.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all, Xenia thought.
Xenia, in fact, had been against the visit on principle, and she had told her boss so. "For God's sake, Frank. This is a space launcher development site. It's a place for hard hats, not haloes."
Frank Paulis -- forty-five years old, squat, brisk, bustling, sleek with sweat even in his air-conditioned offices -- had just tapped his softscreen. "Just like it says in the mail here. This character is here on behalf of the Pope, to gather information on the mission--"
"And bless it. Frank, the Bruno is a mission to the asteroids. We're going out to find ETs, for God's sake. To have some quack waving incense and throwing holy water over our ship is... ridiculous. Medieval."
Frank had gotten a look in his eyes she'd come to recognize. You have to be realistic, Xenia. Live in the real world. "The Vatican is one of our principal sponsors. They've a right to access."
"The Church is using us as part of its repositioning," she'd protested sourly. It was true; the Church had spent much of the new millennium rebuilding, after the multiple crises that had assailed it after the turn of the century: sexual scandals, financial irregularities, a renewed awareness of the horrors of Christian history -- the Crusades and the Inquisition chief amongst them. "We mustn't forget," Xenia said sourly, "the Church's refusal to acknowledge female reproductive rights and to address the issue of population growth, a position not abandoned until 2013, a historic wrong which must be on a par with--"
"Nobody's arguing," Frank said gently. "But who are you suggesting is cynical? Us or them? Look, I don't care about the Church. All I care about is its money, and there's still a hell of a lot of that. And, just like any other corporate sponsor, the Church is entitled to its slice of the PR pie."
"Sometimes I think you'd take money from the Devil himself if it got your Big Dumb Booster a little closer to the launch pad."
"Since we have a bunch of those apocalyptic cultists here -- the ones who think the Gaijin are demons sent to
So Xenia wasn't sure what to expect by the time the bus drew up to the security gate, and she went out to greet her holy guest.
The priest must have been sixty, small, compact: fit looking, though she showed some stiffness climbing down from the bus. Camera drones, glittering toys the size of beetles, whirred out in a cloud around her head.
Her, yes: of course it would be a female, one of the Vatican's first cadre of women priests, that would be assigned to this most PR-friendly of operations.
And no black cassock. The priest, dressed in loose, comfortable-looking therm-aware shirt and slacks, could have held any one of a number of white-collar professions: an accountant, maybe, or a space scientist of the kind Frank Paulis had recruited in droves, or even a lawyer like Xenia herself. It was only the dog collar, a thin band of white at the throat, that marked out a different vocation.
From the shadows of her broad, sensible Sun hat the priest smiled out at Xenia. "You must be Ms. Makarova."
"Call me Xenia. And you?"
"Dorothy Chaum." The smile grew a little weary. "I'm neither Mother, nor Father, thankfully. You must call me Dorothy."
"It's a pleasure to have you here, Ms. -- Dorothy."
Dorothy flapped at the drones buzzing around her head like flies. "You're a good liar. I'll try to trouble you as little as I can." And she looked beyond Xenia, into the rocket compound, with questing, curious eyes.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all, Xenia thought.
Xenia, in fact, had been against the visit on principle, and she had told her boss so. "For God's sake, Frank. This is a space launcher development site. It's a place for hard hats, not haloes."
Frank Paulis -- forty-five years old, squat, brisk, bustling, sleek with sweat even in his air-conditioned offices -- had just tapped his softscreen. "Just like it says in the mail here. This character is here on behalf of the Pope, to gather information on the mission--"
"And bless it. Frank, the Bruno is a mission to the asteroids. We're going out to find ETs, for God's sake. To have some quack waving incense and throwing holy water over our ship is... ridiculous. Medieval."
Frank had gotten a look in his eyes she'd come to recognize. You have to be realistic, Xenia. Live in the real world. "The Vatican is one of our principal sponsors. They've a right to access."
"The Church is using us as part of its repositioning," she'd protested sourly. It was true; the Church had spent much of the new millennium rebuilding, after the multiple crises that had assailed it after the turn of the century: sexual scandals, financial irregularities, a renewed awareness of the horrors of Christian history -- the Crusades and the Inquisition chief amongst them. "We mustn't forget," Xenia said sourly, "the Church's refusal to acknowledge female reproductive rights and to address the issue of population growth, a position not abandoned until 2013, a historic wrong which must be on a par with--"
"Nobody's arguing," Frank said gently. "But who are you suggesting is cynical? Us or them? Look, I don't care about the Church. All I care about is its money, and there's still a hell of a lot of that. And, just like any other corporate sponsor, the Church is entitled to its slice of the PR pie."
"Sometimes I think you'd take money from the Devil himself if it got your Big Dumb Booster a little closer to the launch pad."
"Since we have a bunch of those apocalyptic cultists here -- the ones who think the Gaijin are demons sent to
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