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A Tulip for Lucretius by Ken MacLeod I was deep in a Californian orgy when the summons came, like the voice of conscience. In fact: the voice of Father Declan, and not meant for me. But I had not been idle in the two years of the Malacandra 's passage, nor in the even more dragging months of its inching across the Martian surface like one of the old, brave little rovers. I had the ship's comms thoroughly tapped. 'Somebody rouse that goddamn atheist out of his fleshly lusts.' So by the time Sister Agnes chimed on the partition, my succubi were back in storage and I was sitting, clothed, and in my right mind. 'Oh!' she said, when I let her through the door. 'You're all set.' She looked more disappointed than surprised. 'I...overheard,' I said. 'And there's only one goddamn atheist on this ship. Though I think "fleshly lusts" is not quite le mot juste for what I've been roused from. What do you say?' Agnes blushed prettily and looked away. 'The so-called sins of the flesh are spiritual,' she said, 'as you well know. But this is no time to discuss them. We have a permission to enter.' I let that opening pass and followed her to the bridge. The virtual space had been expanded to allow everyone on board to crowd in: twenty-seven people, of whom three were priests, five were monks, three were nuns, fifteen were laity, and one was |
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