I.

Albert Cole was aware of his body only through a haze of pain. As his liver failed, toxins in his blood addled the brain and fluid filled his body cavities. There was one relief now for his weary soul, and that was sleep. He had spent much of the last few weeks doing just that.

The fog cleared long enough that he recognized his sixteen-year-old son, Matthew, by his bedside. A book was in his hands, but that was nothing new. He had always taken after his mother, thank God in heaven for that. Albert recognized the book. It was the one he had bought from an antique book dealer for Matthew only a few months ago in Flagstaff. If he had known it would be his last trip, he would have bought a dozen. The boy deserved it after the hell that he had put him through.

But that was in the past.

The priest had told him that there was such a thing as mercy. Albert knew that, with the kind of man he had been, it was on that alone that he rested. He knew that he could never make it up to Matthew or Elizabeth.

Albert tried to remember the title of the book his son was reading. He couldn’t recall the name. Just days ago, Matthew had read aloud a passage to him. It was above his head, but he remembered it had been about the God that had given him new purpose these last couple years. It brought him comfort.

Matthew saw his gaze and set the book aside. He took Albert’s hand and squeezed it. The feel of it was cold and distant, more like a memory of touch than the real thing. A time of silence passed between them, and Albert felt tears on his cheeks. He tried to bring his arm to his face to wipe them away, but the effort was too much. Never mind. There was nothing left to hide. Matthew came to his aid and brushed them away.

Albert settled back into the bed, content and happy in the forgiveness of his son. He closed his eyes and drifted into dreams, dreams where he was healthy and tending the fields again. The cool of the Martian air told of the advancing months, that the growing season was almost over. Even fields on Mars must rest after the harvest.

When the dream ended, the miasma of coming death receded from his mind further than they had in days. He opened his eyes to see his dear Elizabeth beside him. She held his hand, like Matthew had, only now he could feel it. It was soft and real.

He traced the shape of Elizabeth’s face with his eyes, the sharply pointed nose and chin. How many years ago had they met? He had sought help from the agricultural department of the small college in Flagstaff and wandered into the wrong building where Elizabeth taught literature. How he had talked her into a date was something he never understood and knew better than to question.

She had endured the long years of his alcoholism. Of being a failed husband and father.

If only the last two years could have made things right. She’d always been the one to give in their marriage. Even now, she took care of him and the farm as well. A year ago she had retired from the college when he could no longer manage it on his own.

His kind and beautiful Elizabeth.

Their eyes locked together, and Albert felt that he should say something but knew that it had all been said before. Everything except goodbye.

“I love you,” he whispered, fearing that the tears would come again. They did, but they belonged to Elizabeth rather than himself.

She looked away. “Is it really true? Do we really have immortal souls? Are we more than dust?”

She always had a harder time with his new found faith than Matthew did. She had forgiven him when she’d seen that he had truly changed, but her acceptance of how was yet to come.

“It’s the one thing I know,” he said.

“Then I will do my best.”

There was much to say here, but Albert had neither the strength nor the time. Elizabeth would have to wrestle with her creator herself. He could not fight that battle for her.

The fog began to roll in at the edges of his consciousness, and he knew that it came to stay this time. He fought to keep his attention on his wife. “Matthew told me that he wanted to be a priest,” he said.

Elizabeth stiffened at this. “I know. And it’s hard for a mother to bear. It means that he will leave me.”

“He won’t abandon you as I have,” he said, smiling weakly. “As far as he travels, he’ll always come home when you need him.”

Her tears flowed freely. He longed to stop them, but that would be Matthew’s job now. He closed his eyes.

“I love you, Albert,” Elizabeth whispered.

He smiled. There was nothing else to say, nor could he if there was. He settled in to rest and soon he dreamed for the last time, of a blue sky like Mars had never seen and a far green country.

II.

Matthew reached into his bag and pulled out his small tablet display, thumbing through its bookmarks until he found the book he was looking for. The midterm exam for Freshman Colonial History was less than two days away.

Which, honestly, seemed impossible.

He’d already been at Saint Bartholomew’s Seminary at Vatican City for a month and a half. Latin courses were in full swing, as well as introductory theology classes. He’d taught himself most of these subjects in the last few years, so he was well ahead for the next three semesters.

Still, overconfidence was a danger. Losing marks because he’d forgotten some obscure part of the history of the Iapetus wasn’t something he was particularly keen on.

One more skim through the final three chapters would be enough. He settled onto the cold stone bench for the long haul. It never helped to study somewhere comfortable where his mind would relax. But he did prefer quiet. During the second week of class, he had discovered the garden behind the Chapel of St. Thomas Aquinas. Irises, purple and white grew alongside herbs in ordered beds beside quiet pathways. It was nestled against the city’s outer wall and a long walk from the seminary. Students rarely came this far.

Midway through the first chapter, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. An older man, probably in his sixties, was pulling weeds from one of the overgrown flower beds. Matthew watched him with interest. He wasn’t dressed like the usual gardeners that tended the grounds. He wore a clerical collar. Matthew wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a priest on his knees working the earth.

The man eventually realized he was being watched. He stood, stretched his back, and walked over to Matthew. “You’d have thought that we would have left the weeds behind on Earth. Alas, the very soil we carried with us was laced with the seeds of our enemies. There is no escape from the curse.”

Matthew nodded. “My family has a farm outside of Flagstaff so I can sympathize. I don’t believe we’ve met, Father. Matthew Cole. Freshman at St. Bartholomew’s.”

The man laughed heartily. “I know quite well who you are, Matthew. It’s my business to know all the students, after all.”

Matthew cocked his head slightly, a creeping suspicion that he should know just who he was talking to.

The priest sat beside him. “Bishop Elias, in case you’re hunting for a name.”

He did his best not to leap to his feet. Bishop Elias was chancellor of the seminary and had been offworld since the term started, otherwise, Matthew would have surely recognized him.

“Fear not. Here in my garden, we may set decorum aside. Elsewhere the expectations of others rule.”

Matthew glanced at the bishop’s mud-stained pants. “This is your garden?

“Well, I suppose it isn’t mine officially, but after many years, I have convinced the gardeners that I do not need their help in maintaining it. Alas, I may have put the fear of God in them, as they let it run amok while I was away.”

Curiosity got the better of him. Besides, Bishop Elias had given him permission to drop the formalities. “How long have you been away?”

“Three months. Nearly. There has been a long-standing disagreement between the Muslim and Christian populations in my home colony of Zerai Deres, on Callisto. I was asked to arbitrate between the groups in hopes of a peaceful resolution.”

“I wasn’t aware there were many Catholics in the Ethiopian colony.”

“There aren’t,” he said. “But God has seen fit to give me a very great influence, and if I may use it for the good of our non-Catholic brothers and sisters or even for unbelievers, I will. I may yet have to take more trips home, but for now the situation has been diffused.” He looked down at Matthew’s tablet. “To speak of matters closer at hand, how goes the first term?”

Matthew looked down at the book he’d been reading. The truth was it was going well, but there was no way he was going to say that to the bishop over the seminary. “Hmm...” he said carefully, stalling for time. “Could be worse. I certainly need to study for midterms.”

Bishop Elias turned to him, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve seen your marks and read the papers you’ve written. We both know that you are underselling your own accomplishments. But I’ll give you credit for attempting humility.”

Matthew scratched the back of his head. “That doesn’t mean I don’t need to study more.”

“I would never suggest anything to the contrary. I will, however, still ask your assistance in weeding my garden, else I shall never catch up. Given your background, I suspect you are precisely the young man I need to get back on top of things around here. The work of a priest is not purely academic. People are messy, and if you’re not willing to get your hands dirty in good clean earth, well, you shall have a tough time dealing with the priesthood.”

He walked back to the bed he had been working and stooped to his knees to continue.

Matthew stared at him, dumbfounded for a minute before jumping up to join him. They labored in silence together for nearly an hour, but it was good work, and Matthew felt better for it. He thought about what the bishop had said, about people being messy. And while he knew better than most how true that was, he was pretty sure it had been a ploy to enlist his help.

They parted ways, but not before the Bishop made Matthew promise that he would come to his aid if he ever fell so far behind in his gardening again. As it turned out, this was a far more common occurrence than Matthew had bargained on.

III.

Bishop Elias looked over the forms one last time, ensuring he had everything he needed. Everything was in order. The bigger question was whether or not this was a wise course of action. He breathed a quick prayer, despite the fact that it was the hundredth such petition he had raised to God on the matter.

There was a gentle knock on the door of his office, and he spun his chair to face it.

“You wanted to see me, your eminence?” Matthew asked.

Elias waved off the honorific. Titles were meaningless vanities.

“Only proper,” the second-year seminary student explained.

He took a pen from his desk and clicked it idly. “If only students were more worried about why we do proper things, rather than just making sure they know what things are proper.”

One corner of Matthew’s mouth raised in a grin. “Paul wrote to Timothy that he shouldn’t speak harshly to older men, and to respect them as if they were their father.”

There was his usual wit on display. “I should be offended that you just called out my advancing age, but I’m going to choose to be glad at the speed in which you can recall scripture.” He set the pen down. “Now as to why I called you here. Tell me. What do you know of the Europan Catholic Church?”

Matthew frowned at the abrupt change of subject. “The majority of the moon’s population is Catholic, being descended from Central and South American colonists. I suppose that percentage is dropping with how many slaves the cartels are bringing in from other parts of the solar system.”

“Indeed. A great portion of our flock lives daily in chains. And yet,” he said, regarding Matthew carefully, “they are still our flock. We are in constant negotiations with the cartels to keep priests in service to the slaves. It is a dangerous thing to serve God on Europa, and brave men and women are murdered each and every year in their service to the people of Europa.”

Matthew shifted in his seat. Good. Let him feel discomfort at the hard truths.

Elias continued. “And then there are places where the cartels do not yet have power, though that time may come soon. Villa Maria is one such place. It is a small town, Argentinian originally, and there is but a single church and priest. Father Molina is a Godly man, but he is old and cannot serve his people well anymore. He has petitioned us to send a second priest to aid him in his ministry.”

He picked up the pen and began to idly click it again before he realized what he was doing and set it back down. “There are none of course. There haven’t been enough priests or seminary trained laymen for many decades.”

Matthew’s eyes had narrowed. Perhaps his suspicions were aroused. There weren’t many places that the conversation could go from here. May as well not keep him waiting. “It has been suggested that we send a seminary student to aid Father Molina in his ministry. Naturally, this student would continue their studies remotely, returning a few times a term as needed. Further, they would take holy orders and be ordained to the diaconate.”

“But I’m only a second year student.”

“I know it’s irregular, but you would be of little service to Father Molina without them.”

“Why me?”

It was a simple question. If only answers were so simple.

“Because,” he said, “your academic prowess is such that I have nothing to worry about on that front. I have strong suspicions that your Latin is better than mine. There’s more than that, though. You’re of tougher fiber than most of our students. Perhaps it was your upbringing on a Martian farm. Or perhaps…”

“It’s going to be dangerous there, isn’t it?”

“It might be,” Elias admitted. “Nowhere on Europa is safe, but when the cartels come to Villa Maria… Well, I would have my student safely back on Ganymede before that happens.”

“Do I have a choice?” Matthew asked.

“Of course. You may continue your studies here at St Bartholomew's as if I had never put the question before you.”

But Elias knew what the answer would be. That was why he had hesitated to even offer the position to Matthew. The young man had a moral compass such that when offered a good that he could do, he would not fail to do the deed. Elias had as good as condemned him to the position beneath Father Molina.

“How long do I have to think about it?” Matthew asked. His voice had that quiet, strained quality he often had when he was deep in thought.

“Take a week. You have a Church History lecture that will be starting soon. We will talk later. Pray about it. Read through these forms for the details.”

Matthew left, and Elias was left alone with his thoughts and a fair share of guilt. For all his prayer, he still had doubts whether this was the will of God or his own flawed reasoning. He could rescind the offer. Perhaps that would be best.

And yet he knew that he would never do that.

He was about to send one of his best students to the Slaver’s Moon.

“God forgive me,” he mumbled.

IV.

Matthew’s first impression of Villa Maria was that it was quaint, maybe even charming. Jupiter hung overhead, casting a cheery light over the town. At just under a thousand people, it was one of the smaller colonies on Europa. Its buildings were painted in bright colors, even if the paint was beginning to crack, and the surrounding countryside of farmland was green with fresh crops.

As he walked through the town, he heard a smattered mixing of Spanish and English. To his amusement, he found he could follow the Spanish moderately well from his Latin training, though he couldn’t make any sense of the tenses or conjugation. He shifted his pack containing all his worldly possessions to the other shoulder and pressed on through the rowdy market. The church was supposed to be around here somewhere.

The crowds died away as he left behind the market street and entered the city square. Massive oak trees that had to be at least a century old filled the small park area in between the mission-style church and city hall. Several children ran through the trees, playing tag and laughing. One fell to the ground, skinning her knee, and Matthew stooped and offered her a hand.

Her eyes went wide and she scooted away from him, shouting something in Spanish that his Latin failed to cover. The kids scattered in every direction, disappearing from the park.

That wasn’t quite what he was expecting.

“Your hat isn’t the right kind,” an elderly voice said behind him.

He turned to see an old man in a priest’s cassock standing on the steps of the church.

“The curve. No good citizen of Villa Maria wears a cowboy hat like that,” Father Molina continued. “Only out-of-towners, and there is always the chance that an out-of-towner is a slaver. Here we must teach our children to fear those that they don’t know. It is shameful.”

Matthew reached up and snatched the hat off and took a good long look at it. “I had no idea.”

“There is no harm done,” he said with a smile. “Come! Come inside. We have much to talk about, son. And much work to do. These hands are old, and I cannot maintain the church grounds so well as I once could.”

Father Molina showed Matthew around the small church. It had begun to fall into disrepair from both its own age and Father Molina’s. Matthew hadn’t imagined that he was taking on the job of a handyman when he’d signed up for this. Still, he could see the relief in Father Molina’s eyes as they discussed how a draft in the priory could be dealt with. A chance to serve was a chance to serve.

He set aside his bag and worked late into the evening of his first day on Europa.

V.

Matthew replaced his hat at the first opportunity with an Argentinian Campero bought in the market. The brim was flatter than he was used to, but it was comfortable enough and well made. He spent so much time over the first two months trying to catch up on maintenance around the church and priory that he barely spent any time in Villa Maria, and only knew the most faithful of church-goers.

One evening as he worked adjusting the hinges of a creaking door, Father Molina gently stood him to his feet. “That is enough for now. Come. Let us take our meal in the town.”

It was night in Villa Maria and not just because the sun was down. Unfortunately, Europa’s rotational period was impossible to sync with the circadian cycles of men, so the colonists simply used a twenty-four hour clock. Most working days were either fully light or fully dark. Occasionally you had a little bit of both. Yellow street lamps burned and the gas giant hung illuminated in the sky, giving a warm festive feel to the bright colors in the town. Somewhere music played, its indistinct tones echoing in the distance.

They walked to a restaurant-bar combination, the only one in town. It was a low building with a hand-painted sign that read Carlos’ Cantina. They took a seat on the outside patio. Father Molina was immediately the center of attention, since he had been the town’s sole priest for several generations, and it was hard to get a bite in without a parishioner stopping by to chat.

Matthew found himself admiring the old man. He’d clearly had a good work here in Villa Maria for him to be so well regarded. To have built a lifetime in a single place shepherding its people was a daunting prospect. It occurred to him that that was exactly what he had signed up for when he decided to become a priest.

After dinner, Father Molina excused himself. “I’m not any younger than I was this morning. But stay, enjoy the evening.”

Matthew obeyed, though he found it awkward. His command of Spanish was fleeting at best, and the customers didn’t see much need in talking to the seminary student anyway. He was about to leave when a gruff looking man in his thirties sat down across from him.

“Priest abandoned you, huh?”

Matthew put on a polite smile he didn’t feel. “Seems that way. Matthew Cole.”

“I know who you are. Everyone knows that the Padre got himself a seminary student.” The man stuck his hand out to Matthew. “Carlos Garcia. This is my watering hole you’ve parked yourself in.”

“The asado was perfect.”

“Of course it was. The recipe has been passed down through my wife’s family for generations, unchanged since Argentina. A few times a year, we even use real meat.” He laughed, then stopped abruptly and looked closely at Matthew. “Friend, you’re a little crazy coming to Villa Maria.”

“I’m yet to see anything too dangerous.”

“You’re new. Give it time. And get yourself a gun. That way, when some cartel thug corners you in a back alley you have a chance at making it out.”

Matthew crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “I’m not sure Father Molina would approve.”

“Then he’s forgotten the word of God where it says to rescue the weak and needy.”

“Psalms.”

“How would I know?” Carlos shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. “There’s a reason that this town hasn’t been taken by the slavers when so many others have.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes. “It’s because a few of us have kept watch. We’ve chased off the slavers. Killed them when we’ve needed to. We’ve kept our children safe.”

Matthew sat quietly, feeling a creeping dread work its way into his mind. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here after all. He shook that thought. There was a need here, a need he could fulfill. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Either you understand what’s at stake, or you end up dead.”

“Father Molina…”

“The Padre is only alive because we protect him.”

“I see,” Matthew said. He wasn’t sure that he did, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.

Carlos sighed. “Do you even know how to shoot a gun?”

He hesitated. He’d fired a rifle a few times back on the farm, but only for sport.

“I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to take you to the range. We don’t need dead weight. If you’re going to live in Villa Maria, you need to be willing to protect it.”

Matthew met his eye. “Alright.”

What had he just agreed to?

VI.

Josué Molina sat in the small tended yard between the priory and the church. The small spot of green had been as close to an office as he had had for many long decades. For forty-five years he had prepared the homilies of the masses he had given from this very bench, his ancient paper bible on his lap. It had belonged to his father and still bore the notes that filled the margins, written in a spidery hand.

Some of them were written most of a century ago. Before Europa became the Slaver’s Moon.

He gently closed the cracked leather cover of the bible and, setting it aside, took up his tablet. The ultimatum from Hueso Rojo, the cartel on this part of Europa, still burned on the screen.

Villa Maria was in territory they considered their own, and its fertile farmlands were underproducing. Hueso Rojo was coming one way or another. It was merely a matter of how much blood would be shed.

It was a devil’s deal. That so many gave up their freedom so that all could have food.

The threats had been veiled for many years. Now they were personal and transparent. If Father Molina could not get the men of the town to stand down and turn over their weapons, they would kill him in revenge.

Trade his people for his life.

A group of young teenagers ran through the yard, taking a shortcut across town. One of them skidded to a halt when he saw Father Molina.

“Sorry, Padre! We didn’t mean to bother you. We were just…”

Father Molina smiled and patted the bench beside him. “There is no harm, Enrique. And in fact, I was in need of company right now. Perhaps God sent you for that very purpose.”

Enrique looked longingly after his friends, and Father Molina almost relented and let him go. Before he could, the teen sat beside him, his leg bouncing restlessly. “What do you need, Padre?”

Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t really sure what he needed. After a moment, he said, “I have a decision to make, Enrique, and it is a very difficult one, though I suppose it is no choice at all.”

“What kind of decision?” the boy asked.

Father Molina smiled. Most of the adults in Villa Maria wouldn’t have dared ask that question. So few ever asked after the well-being of their priest. It was a hard job being a shepherd. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh.” Enrique was either confused or disappointed. Probably both.

He decided he should at least turn this towards a spiritual lesson for the boy’s own sake. “And yet I know quite well how I shall decide it. Do you know how that is?” He gave Enrique a count of ten before continuing. “I shall look to the perfect model of man, to Christ our Lord, and follow in his steps.”

My blood will not be worth so much as his. But I will give it for the sake of my people nonetheless.

“Enrique, can you do something for me?”

The teen looked much happier at this. He wasn’t enjoying the private sermon.

“Go and find Señor Cole. He is most likely studying in the church. Send him to me, please.”

“Yes, Padre.” Enrique leaped to his feet, free at last, and disappeared from the yard.

Father Molina tapped a short response to Hueso Rojo and sent it. He had cast his die and would soon meet his maker. Having done so was the release of a burden. Like other men, he knew not the day he would die, but unlike them, he had now an inkling of the season.

Matthew Cole entered the small yard. A young man of twenty-one finishing his third year of studies, he was tall and strong. No doubt if he were not destined for the priesthood, one of the young women of Villa Maria would have found favor in his sight. The town did love him though, of that there was little question. He had made himself an indispensable part of its people and culture. If someone needed help on a farm, Matthew was there. If a shed needed raising or demolishing, he was present. His conscience was that of a servant, and if ever his fellow man was in need, Matthew would answer that call.

“You wanted to see me, Padre?”

“I wanted to ask you about that gun, you’ve been carrying around for nigh a year. The one you conceal beneath your poncho.”

Matthew looked away as if ashamed. “I didn’t want to worry you and… Well, I thought you’d be displeased.”

“It depends, I suppose,” Father Molina said with a chuckle. “I might be, or I might not. Why do you carry a gun, I wonder? Is not a Christian supposed to turn the other cheek? Is that not what Christ taught?”

“It is.”

“Then are you afraid for your own life?”

Matthew was silent. Finally, he set his jaw. “The precedent of self-defense is found both in scripture and in natural law. Christ speaks of insult rather than violence. Is it not of God to defend the innocent and those that cannot defend themselves?”

Father Molina extended his wrinkled palms towards Matthew. “These hands are old. Forty-five years of God’s ministry have worn upon them, and they are not as strong as they used to be. Were I a young man, perhaps I too would wrestle with the same question.” He folded his hands in his lap. “These are dark times and not all riddles have easy answers.”

“I should have told you,” Matthew said.

“Maybe, but that is of no consequence. Come. Sit beside me. Tell me where your studies have led you.”

Matthew sat on the bench. He began to talk about the History of Philosophy class and the inevitable mountain of reading that had led to. Father Molina heard scarcely a word. On his tablet, was the flashing light of a message. He knew what it meant. Who it was from. Perhaps this young man with a gun, or one of the other countless armed men in town, would be able to protect him. He doubted it. He breathed a quick prayer for his town and especially Matthew. Perhaps Father Molina’s replacement would send the seminary student home so that he would escape the grisly fate that awaited Villa Maria.

He hoped so.

VII.

Matthew found Father Molina dead one morning in the church. Neighbors reported hearing a muffled gunshot in the area, and Matthew had hurried home from his visit with one of the town’s elderly couples. He found the Padre kneeling in front of the altar, a single gunshot wound in the back of his head. Perhaps he had been praying.

Maybe he thought Matthew had returned early and did not rise at the sound of footsteps. Or maybe he knew what was coming. For many months he had been speaking with finality about the end of his ministry.

Matthew wept alone in the quiet church for the loss of his friend and mentor. By the time he notified the town officials of the murder, Hueso Rojo had already sent a taunting message.

“We can strike even in the heart of your town. We will continue to shed blood until your men lay down arms. Villa Maria will not stand in the way of progress.”

He sent a message to the Vatican, seeking instruction. That evening, he held a prayer vigil in the church. Nearly every soul in Villa Maria made an appearance over the course of the evening, even those who weren’t believers. Father Molina was loved, or at least respected, by all.

The next day, Matthew led funeral mass. As only a deacon of the church, he had doubts about the strict propriety of the act, but there was no other to perform the service. Villa Maria buried its beloved Padre beneath a grove of trees between two farms on a gentle rise.

That evening, Matthew received a message from Bishop Elias.

“You must forgive me for the delay. I had hoped to have more details sorted out before responding. My heart is grieved over the terrible news you have given. Father Molina served faithfully for many years and is even now in the courts of our Lord. It may be difficult to find a replacement. There are not enough priests anymore, and few would be willing to take a parish on Europa. If you give me but a few weeks, a candidate will be found. At that time, you will come home to Ganymede. I will not have one of my students killed before he takes the Rite of Ordination. Until the replacement is sent, dispensation has been given to you to conduct the matters of the Villa Maria parish to the utmost of your ability. I will lift you up to our Father in heaven, that he will grant you wisdom and most of all safety.”

From that day, Matthew took up the role of Priest of Villa Maria in everything but official title. Unlike the previous Padre, his revolver was never far, even when he slept. And he did that only a little and lightly, for he imagined the cartel would not long leave the quiet town to its own ends.

VIII.

Bishop Elias breathed a sigh of relief when Matthew walked into his office. It had been nearly two months since Father Molina’s murder and not a day went by that he didn’t fear for Matthew’s safety. The man in front of him had changed too. Though he had often been back on Ganymede for a weekend trip to the library or for end of term exams, something was different this time. Most obviously, he wore a poncho and an Argentinian campero that he politely took off on entering the room.

Rather than a student whose greatest care was the next exam or paper due, here was a man who had cared for a flock. A thousand souls had depended on Matthew for spiritual guidance, and the weight was written on his visage.

Elias went at once to him and embraced him. “I am glad you are safely home.”

“I don’t intend to stay long, and I avoided the trip for as long as I could.”

“On the contrary. You are here to stay.”

Matthew cocked his head. “You found a replacement for Father Molina?”

Elias waved him off. “We will soon. Villa Maria is too dangerous for a student.”

He saw the sudden change in Matthew’s posture. Perhaps he should have anticipated this, but too late had he seen the danger.

“There aren’t even any prospects, are there? The church can’t just abandon the people of Villa Maria. Not with what they are going through.”

“I won’t allow you to throw away your life before it has begun.”

“I have no intention of losing it,” Matthew said. “I’ve been coordinating with the men of the town to shore up their defenses in case Hueso Rojo attacks. They need help. Practical and spiritual.”

Elias paced the office, his robes swishing as he turned. “You’re young, Matthew, even if you’ll be a fourth year soon. And further you’re still a student and not yet a priest.”

“There’s no one better to minister to the town. I know the language. I know the name of every man, woman, and child, and I’ve lived with them for two years. If the Church doesn't send a replacement, then I’ll go back with or without blessing.”

Elias stopped and turned to face the young man. “That’s damnable foolishness, Matthew. It’s only a matter of time before the cartels kill you too.”

Then Matthew’s defiance broke, and he looked at his feet. Perhaps he was ashamed he had spoken so to his superior and friend. Finally, he spoke in a low voice.

“Maybe it is foolishness. But if so it’s the foolishness of God.”

Elias took in a long deep breath and let it hiss slowly through his teeth. “And such is greater than the wisdom of men.” He regarded the young man before him. Yes, he had changed. He was a man that had made his decision. Who was Elias to second guess it?

“I don’t have the authority to give you permission. It may take a few days to obtain it. Can you linger that long?”

Matthew nodded once. “I have other business with the seminary. I still intend to complete my studies.”

That was it then. The decision was made in three days’ time, with a twist that even surprised Elias. It was deemed irregular for a deacon to preside over a parish. Three days after Matthew Cole arrived at the Vatican, the Rites of Ordination were performed, and he was made a full priest. This in itself was extraordinary as he had not yet finished his education, but the times they lived in were deemed equally extraordinary.

Elias was given the honor of being the Bishop to offer the consecratory prayer. There was little joy in the moment for Elias, and his hands shook as he laid them on the young man.

IX.

Jorgelina Romero pushed aside the curtains with a careful hand so as not to show movement on the street. It was still quiet out there. And dark.

But that was part of the plan.

She was both proud and terrified that she’d been pulled into it. She’d long known there was a conspiracy among the men of Villa Maria, that a select group of them kept watch over the town, chasing off cartel informants and generally giving them the runaround. She hadn’t expected the young priest to be one of the chief conspirators.

Padre Cole had approached her quietly a few days ago, while her teenage son Enrique had been out.

“We’ve tried to keep things peaceful,” he said, “But there’s going to be violence soon. I can’t stop it. But we’re going to try to keep our people from getting hurt.”

What kind of priest was this? At mass, he was thoughtful and intelligent, possibly more than Padre Molina had been, but here he was plotting to help kill men.

“What do you need me for?”

“You’re a nurse. Closest we have to a doctor. Some folks might need your help after the dust settles. We’ll send word.” He tipped his campero and left her alone.

The memory of it was still strange to her, and yet there the priest was on the dark street, standing in a halo of light under the only lit street lamp. From her vantage point, his back was to her, and he stared down the main road leading out of town.

The rumble of a distant vehicle caught her attention. It was one of those strange tracked vehicles that rumbled across the salt wastes here on Europa. A crawler, they called it. Some trick kept the low gravity from causing it problems where there weren’t grav plates. It rolled through the center of town and stopped a hundred paces from the priest. He could have stood no more still if he had been carved from salt. A dozen armed men exited the vehicle, which meant more were inside.

Cartel men. Here in Villa Maria.

Padre Cole had said there were no more peaceful options. If things got nasty, surely he would be the first gunned down.

“Mom, what are you doing up here?” Enrique stood at the door, and light flooded into the room.

“Shut it, quick! Before they see the light!”

He obeyed. “What are you talking about?”

“Quiet! They’re here!”

He must have understood who she meant because he crept to her side to peek out the window. “Oh Dios, what’s the padre doing out there.”

Jorgelina thought about ordering him from the third story loft, but that would mean opening the door again. One way or another, he didn’t need to see this. “Get away from the window.”

“Then why are you there? Who’s looking out for you?”

It was the kind of thoughtful behavior she was proud of, but right now, she chose to ignore him. One of the cartel men had closed to only a few paces from the padre. If only she could hear what they were saying she might be able to figure out what was…

A fireball lit the night sky, blowing out windows all down the street. The crawler was a smoking crater, the remnants of its chassis twisted beyond recognition. Gunfire broke out from nearby buildings, flashes of light and death in the darkness. Through a stroke of luck, her own window had held, else she would certainly have been injured.

The padre!

She spotted him hunkered down in a vee-shaped concrete barricade that had seemingly risen out of the ground to protect him. A revolver was in his hand, and it thundered as he fired it down the street. It was a strange and surreal sight, so different from the young man she thought she knew.

It was a good plan though, to lure them into so effective an ambush. In only a few short minutes it was over, and the only sound was the roar of the fire.

“Where did Padre Cole learn to shoot like that?” Enrique asked. He’d snuck back to the window when she wasn’t paying attention.

“Stay inside tonight,” she ordered and hurried toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To try and save the lives of the men that the padre tried to end.” There was more condemnation in her voice than she intended, but the facts were strange and she hadn’t yet processed what she had seen. She grabbed her medical bag in time to meet Padre Cole at the door.

“Hurry. There are wounded that can still be saved.”

It was a long night, and in the end, Jorgelina was only a nurse, not a surgeon. The town lost two men. Their lives were traded for fourteen members of Hueso Rojo that had been lured into the ambush. Three survivors were taken captive. As dawn came, she heard Padre Cole speaking with Carlos Garcia.

“I’ll wait another hour and then message Hueso Rojo, asking them why their envoy didn’t come. We hit fast. I doubt they were able to get a message out.

“They’ll be suspicious, but it may give us some time,” Carlos said. “But this is a game that cannot be won in the end.”

“What choice do we have? If we do nothing, we condemn every man, woman, and child in this town to slavery.”

It was a grim choice indeed. One that might even drive a priest to kill.

X.

Matthew’s graduation from seminary came and went with a whimper. He declined the invitation to the ceremony itself. His life’s work had already begun. Ceremonies were mere formalities.

Hueso Rojo was not pleased with their failed incursion into Villa Maria. Late one night, they sent raiders creeping through the fields. By the time the watch saw them, they were at the edge of town. In the ensuing battle, nearly forty people were killed between both sides.

After the failed raid, both parties changed their tactics. Patrols and cameras were mounted at the edge of the colony’s environmental shield past the fields, to prevent another stealth incursion. Through less than legal channels, Carlos was able to procure a thumper that they set up on the roof of city hall. It nearly broke the town’s bank, but now the skies above were safe from invasion. An automated broadcast warned all incoming vessels that unscheduled ships would be shot down. They only had to fire it once, leaving one cartel ship a smoking crater outside the shields. After that, Villa Maria’s airspace was respected as off limits.

Hueso Rojo began sending lone assassins and gunmen into town during broad daylight in an attempt to kill Matthew. For some of them, their final moments were filled with shock and surprise at the efficiency with which the priest dispatched them. The town had been cautious of outsiders in the past. To Matthew’s shame, they were now treated with open hostility.

Matthew feared it would only be a matter of time before his vigilance slipped. Either he would be killed or taken, and the town would fall to depraved men. Carlos was right. Some games can’t be won. The people of the town sensed the same. Little by little, families that could afford to, picked up and moved off of Europa entirely. Matthew wished them well and prayed they would find a safer home than the Slaver’s Moon.

A month after his twenty-fourth birthday, Matthew was interrupted from his preparations for Sunday’s mass, by gunfire. His revolver was in his hand in an instant, and he ran to the window. Carlos had two men engaged in a battle, his shotgun reverberating through the town. The men, taking cover behind the trees in front of the church, returned fire with pistols.

Matthew walked from the church and dispatched them both with precision.

Carlos wiped sweat from his forehead and leaned against one of the oaks. “What took you so long? Patrols saw these two slip into town ten minutes ago and lost them. I guessed where they were heading and cut them off. Glad I was here to provide a distraction.” He nodded at Matthew’s revolver. “Who taught you to shoot that thing?”

“You did,” Matthew said, stooping to check the pulses of the gunmen. Dead.

“Not like that I didn’t.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“I can tell. Let me help with the bodies this time, Padre.”

Matthew shook his head. “My bullets. My responsibility.”

Carlos didn’t look like he was satisfied with that answer, but Matthew knew he wasn’t going to question him further on the topic. Retrieving a cart and shovel from behind the church, they loaded the bodies into it and then Carlos parted ways with a simple farewell.

Matthew pushed the cart out of town along a worn dirt path between two fields. Eventually, he reached an old gnarled ash tree. Twenty-seven graves lay spread beneath its wide canopy. Two more would join them.

It was silent work.

Penance. Recognition of what he had done.

And yet today it wasn’t a solitary vigil. He leaned against the shovel. “Are you going to say anything or just stand there?”

Enrique Romero crept out from behind the ash tree, a guilty look on his face. “I saw you with the cart…” he trailed off.

Matthew went back to work. This was going to take long enough without distractions.

A few minutes later, the teen spoke up again. “Are these all the cartel men the town’s killed over the past few years?”

“All the ones I’ve killed,” Matthew said quietly. “The rest are elsewhere.”

That took a while for him to chew on because the next statement was slow in coming. “I thought priests were supposed to help people get to Heaven, not send them to Hell.”

Matthew rounded on him, bristling at the accusation. “And God also demands that those in power defend the poor and weak. It’s either this or slavery.”

Enrique looked out over the graves. “Better than being dead,” He turned and walked back down the path to town, leaving Matthew to shoulder his guilt alone.

XI.

For several months, there was a quiet peace in Villa Maria. Carlos could hardly believe it. Each nightly patrol that came back safely, each quiet day in which a gun was not fired was a small miracle. He knew better than to hope anything had changed. But he would take a season of rest without complaint. Each day that he could open the cantina with his wife and send his children to school was a good one.

There was only one death in that period, the colony technician, a middle-aged man named Fernando, was found dead in his home. Ultimately it was ruled that he died of natural causes, but this still gave no small amount of consternation. Colony technicians were in charge of maintaining the grav plates, environmental shields, water systems, and atmosphere scrubbers that made life throughout the solar system possible. A colony the size of Villa Maria meant they only had one tech, and they had to scramble to replace him.

Carlos, being on the town council, ultimately ended up being in charge of the task. The company that made the equipment offered up a candidate as soon as they were contacted. Carlos studied the man’s resume. He was Arizona born, which was a major plus as far as Carlos was concerned. Meant he had no connection to the cartels or anything else on this moon.

The interview process was lengthy. The time delay between Mars and Europa meant the back and forth took nearly a week before Carlos was satisfied that the candidate was appropriate. A vote from the council made it official. Villa Maria had a new technician.

A week later, a shuttle deposited the man on the flats just outside of town. The thumper followed the ship as long as it remained in line of sight, and twenty armed men stood by as the newcomer disembarked.

Carlos stood by Matthew as the lone man walked toward them. He paid lip service to his friend’s title in public, but in private he dropped the Padre nonsense. He’d always be the scrappy young seminary student to Carlos.

The tech tipped his black cowboy hat to them. “That’s quite a welcome party behind you.”

“On the Slaver’s Moon, you can’t be too careful,” Matthew said, offering his hand. Matthew Cole.

“Eustace Whitaker,” he said with a curl of the lip. “I usually just go by Whitaker for obvious reasons. Mr. Garcia, I appreciate the hire.”

Carlos shook his head. “You might not in a couple months. I’m just glad you were willing to come here. I was a little afraid it would take us months before we found a qualified candidate.” He watched the shuttle depart. “You’ll have to forgive the guns. They’re a way of life here. You might also want to ditch that hat. The Padre can tell you all about that later.” He gestured back toward the town. “Let’s go. I’m sure the equipment needs some love and care. None of us know what to do with it.”

They started the trek back towards town, their escort falling behind them. Whitaker glanced back at them with a sly smile then turned to Matthew. He touched his collar. “I have to admit I’m a little surprised that the town priest showed up the second I stepped foot into town.”

“This town is my flock,” Matthew said. “For now you’re a stranger, but I hope you’ll soon be part of it.”

“I’ll live here, but don’t expect to see me on Sunday,” Whitaker said.

“Oh?”

“Grew up Presbyterian. Walked away from all that years ago, though, if you take my meaning.”

“This place may put the fear of God in you,” Carlos muttered.

“If you ask me, it’s this sort of place that drove it from me.” They’d reached the main road into Villa Maria. Curious residents that heard the ship peeked out from windows and around corners. Whitaker was going to have a hard time finding acceptance here. Matthew was the last outsider that had found any footing in Villa Maria.

“That’s a funny way of looking at things,” Matthew said. “Where evil is real, virtue becomes more apparent. But you’re not the first to walk away from faith in the face of evil. Answering that question has been the chief job of philosophers and theologians for the last several thousand years. We’re still working on it, but we have a few ideas. I’ll give you my take if you’re ever feeling open-minded.”

Whitaker laughed, and for a moment, Carlos thought it was in mockery. Then he saw the warm smile. “I enjoy a good debate as much as the next. You’ve got a deal, preacher.”

That was a surprisingly peaceful end to an awkward conversation. Leave it to a priest to try and convert the atheist the second he walked into town. Carlos cleared his throat. “Now that you two are done sorting out the mysteries of the universe let me show you the grav plate hub.”

XII.

The most enjoyable part of Whitaker’s new life in Villa Maria was the time spent with the priest. Unlike some of the people of faith he’d sparred with over the years, this one was well read. He’d quote Aquinas, Spinoza, Locke, or Diderot just as soon as look at you. And he meant it too.

Matthew Cole was one of those rare people that believed exactly what they said they did. Atheist, Christan, Buddhist, Muslim, or whatever other meta-narrative you subscribed to, most didn’t actually buy into things as deeply as they claimed. If there was one thing humans were good at, it was being a hypocrite.

They spent many an evening on the patio at Carlos’ Cantina talking long into the night, or at least until Matthew had to leave for a patrol or to prepare for some church function.

“You don’t think that Christianity’s been a source of chaos through the centuries?”

“On the contrary,” Matthew said, taking a sip of the cherry soda he always ordered. “The Judeo-Christian worldview brought order to the world. Before that, all men were polytheists. You could never know what was right. Please one god, and you might anger the next. The God of the Old Testament brought a set of standards and said there were none beside him. Objectivity, which is antithetical to chaos, became a part of the human experience for the first time in history.”

“I think that objectivity can be easier explained as the nature of reality itself. The universe works in certain ways, and it was only a matter of time before we observed that.”

Matthew shook his head. “That’s not order. We traded gods for a single God. You’ve pushed him aside and turned each atom into its own god. You’ve traded order for the chaos of the random whims of uncounted trillions of particles. That you happen to be a collection of atoms that can call itself Whitaker is the most absurd accident in the history of the universe.”

Whitaker threw his arms wide and smiled. “And yet here I am. Sometimes accidents can be happy and randomness can produce order as well as chaos.”

He liked their time together so much that he almost regretted that he’d agreed to deliver the town to Hueso Rojo.

They’d been frustrated by the priest and his town so many times that they were reluctant to fully commit to invading Villa Maria. The cartel had the resources, it was just a matter of what it would cost them. Matthew Cole had proven time and again that he would make them pay dearly for the town of Villa Maria and its valuable farmland.

Hueso Rojo had turned to a specialist. Someone that could make things happen. No more cartel deaths. That had been the agreement.

It was an interesting challenge. Arranging the tech’s death, forging credentials, and gaining the recommendation for the job had been a trivial exercise. Gaining the trust of the suspicious town folk would be harder.

That’s why he befriended the priest. If he trusted him, the rest would follow. The fact that he actually liked Matthew made this much easier. He would lie less and tell a lot more truths.

The next step would be to find accomplices. Young men, of course, those easily swayed by a clever argument when they were most impressionable. Given the sad state Villa Maria was in, this would be an easy sell. As the population dwindled, the local economy suffered. Jobs outside the fields were practically nonexistent, and talks of a future where Villa Maria ran like clockwork and the fields produced abundantly from imported labor would turn ears.

Whitaker just needed one thing to turn the youth toward him.

He needed to demonstrate that perhaps the priest’s war against the cartel wasn’t such a good thing. Show that he didn’t have their best interest in mind and he would have easy recruits. This would involve lying, something he hated to do when the truth was always more interesting.

Still, he liked Matthew enough that he almost regretted the whole thing.

Almost.

XIII.

Matthew felt only numb shock at Carlos’ announcement.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Carlos rubbed at an eye. “It’s gonna be a big change for us. Jacquie’s taking it pretty hard. And well… There’s no way she can get treatment in Villa Maria.”

“I guess there’s not much Jorgelina can do for breast cancer,” Matthew said quietly. “Where will you go?”

“She’s got an aunt on Titan that’s offering us a place to live until, well, I’ll have to find a new way to pay the bills. Maybe if Jacquie makes it through, we can open another restaurant someday, but until then…”

“I know you couldn’t cook to save your life.”

Carlos laughed as he wiped away a tear that fell down his cheek. “It was always a joke that we named the restaurant after me instead of her. I just ran the place.”

There was a moment’s silence between the two friends. Matthew tried to find words but found them suffocated by the heartbreak. Carlos was his oldest friend on Europa and his closest ally. He’d find a way to continue, but right now he couldn’t imagine what that would look like without him.

Carlos must have been thinking the same thing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that… I know it’s going to be hard and… Look. A day may come that you have to give up the fight. No one will blame you. I know that Bishop friend of yours has been begging you for years to head back to Ganymede.”

It was a tempting thought. And utterly impossible.

Matthew shook his head. “We know how this works.”

“Then it means we know how it ends.”

“Maybe,” Matthew said.

A week later, Carlos and his family were gone. Matthew sat on the patio of the now deserted cantina watching as the ship bearing them away made for orbit, a bright point of light against the night sky. It eventually disappeared beneath the horizon, bound for safer harbors.

“You gonna make it, preacher?”

Matthew looked over his shoulder. Whitaker leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for much debate tonight.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Nonetheless, I thought you might need some company,” He picked up a bag at his feet and pulled out a pair of bottles. Matthew didn’t even have to look at them to know what they were. Whitaker pulled out the chair to his right and sat down, sliding a bottle to him.

Matthew caught it and stared at it. “You know, for being a godless heathen, you’re not always so bad.”

Whitaker chuckled and opened the bottles. “I’m surprised a man of the cloth bothers to give me the time of day.”

“We’re all on the same ship at this point,” Matthew said. “Every man, woman, and child.”

The light of the distant shuttle passed beneath the horizon.

“You know,” Whitaker said. “I’m starting to think I’m not getting paid enough for this job.”

“You and me both.”

XIV.

Matthew shifted from his position in the brush cover. The faint shimmer of the environmental shield flickered in front of him, and, beyond, the white wastes of salt and ice continued as far as the eye could see. The landscape was broken by a tall outcrop of ice, not a hundred feet from the shield. He lifted a pair of thermal goggles to his eyes. Still nothing.

Two hours ago he had received word from one of his informants to the north in Nuevo Lima that a single grav bike had left the Hueso Rojo stronghold and was headed their way. Matthew passed the word on to the town watch and Villa Maria went on full alert. Then he went to the perimeter himself, setting up at the most likely approach. The outcropping of ice. It would at least partially block visibility from the town and leave a good place to hide the bike.

Making it the perfect trap.

A flicker of movement in the half-light of Jupiter caught his eye, and he checked the thermals. Incoming bike, moving toward the ice cover. He lifted his comm. “Got contact moving towards marker twenty-three.”

“Copy that. You called it right again, Padre. What’s the plan?”

“Close in, but stay out of sight. Let’s not give away our position.”

And no need for anyone else to get involved and get blood on their hands. He could handle this himself.

He’d lost sight of the bike behind the outcropping. It wouldn’t be long. There. A lone figure in a pressure suit working across the low gravity. He approached the shield and tentatively put a hand to it. Then he lifted a device. The shield grew nearly translucent around the device, and the stranger was able to easily walk through the shield. Definitely from the cartel. Matthew had grown used to seeing the things on the bodies of the Hueso Rojo assassins. In the low gravity, it was impossible for a human to exert enough force to push through a colony shield without assistance. Whatever those trinkets were, they weakened the field locally so they could step right through.

He was less than twenty feet from Matthew, gun drawn and face hidden behind his helmet. He scanned the foliage in front of him, and Matthew didn’t dare to breathe. It would be easy to gun the man down, here and now, but he preferred to let him show his intentions first.

The man slinked toward a row of trees that would give him cover to approach town. As soon as his back was turned to Matthew, he stood from his place in the brush and leveled his gun at the intruder’s back.

“I think you might be lost, friend.”

The man spun wildly, trying to bring his gun onto Matthew.

That was all he needed.

Matthew pulled the trigger three times. The man’s suit hissed loudly as the lead punctured it and he collapsed to the ground.

“Target down.”

“On our way,” came the reply as he stepped up to the stranger.

The man struggled with his helmet. Matthew kicked his gun aside and sat by him. “Be at peace. Let me help you.” He reached down and unclasped the helmet. The man’s shaking hands fell away. “If you’ve any faith in God, I suggest you get right with him now. I’m a priest, so if you need anyone to pray with…”

The helmet fell away, revealing a face that was barely a man.

A face that he knew.

“Enrique? Dios ten piedad! No, no, no, no…” His voice trembled violently at the realization as he stumbled back. Why? Why God was it Enrique? Why was he here of all places? He’d only turned eighteen a couple months ago.

Enrique coughed, choking on his blood and struggled to draw breath. Mortal terror shone from his eyes. Matthew could hardly bear to meet them. He scrambled back to the young man’s side and lifted his head, hoping he would be able to draw breath.

It wasn’t working, and Matthew could feel black panic seeping its way through his brain. Maybe it was madness. He was going mad. God in heaven, how had he made this mistake? He had just slaughtered an innocent…

Enrique wheezed and then opened his mouth. The words were raspy, barely a whisper.

“Don’t tell my mom.”

He slumped back, still trying vainly to breathe but fading fast as his oxygen-starved body suffocated.

Matthew snapped out of his stupor and grabbed his comm. “Change of plans. Everyone else stays back. Someone get Jorgelina. Bring her here now.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Just get her here,” he snapped.

He looked down at the young man. Enrique’s struggles to breath had stopped, and he had quietly passed from this life to the next. Matthew laid the boy’s head down and stood to his feet. He began to pace but then squatted and vomited as tears burned down his face like molten lead.

What would he tell Jorgelina? That her priest had killed her son? That her son had joined a cartel? His final words were an admission of guilt.

Could he honor Enrique’s dying wish? Put the helmet back on. Tell Jorgelina that the wounded had died before she could arrive. It was true enough.

But then he would never be able to face her again.

Cold despair worked its way into his heart, and Mathew sat by the dead boy and wept.

Sometime later, Jorgelina arrived. Matthew didn’t even look up to greet her. After a few moments, she shrieked and ran to the side of her son. He couldn’t bear to watch and turned away as she sobbed uncontrollably. There was a miserable interlude of excruciating length. Matthew dared not disturb her, not after what he had done. He was left to stew in his sorrow and guilt.

Finally, she walked to Matthew, who stood to face her.

“What happened?” her voice was small and pleading. There was malice in it too, beneath the surface, coiled like a serpent.

When he didn’t answer, she struck him across the face. Again. Three times.

And then her rage was spent, and they stood together staring at the body of the young man. “We’d had some trouble lately,” she said, “but I didn’t… I had no idea…”

Matthew allowed her to help him bury her son, this time in the town’s proper cemetery. Together they dug the hole and lowered the crude casket into the ground. There was no funeral. Only the tearful prayer of a mother and a priest as they begged for God to have mercy on them all.

XV.

Enrique’s death marked the beginning of the end. The poor souls of Villa Maria felt it in their bones. The last few that could leave town did. Barely six hundred of the original thousand remained. Businesses stood quiet, and once happy homes were empty.

A month passed and Advent was upon them, though it was joyless. Christmas Eve came, and Matthew stood before a dwindled congregation at mass. He looked out over the gathered parishioners. Many that had not left town stayed home now.

Their priest had killed one of their own.

He began his homily and read from the book of Luke. But he never finished his sermon.

Whitaker stepped into the back of the church. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. There’s been a change of plans.”

Matthew frowned at his friend. He’d barely seen him in the last month, what was he…

Behind him marched twelve men, automatic weapons drawn and pointed at Matthew. Cartel men. How had they gotten past the patrols?

What had Whitaker done?

The congregation sat like statues. Perhaps they thought this was a fitting end.

“May the peace of Christ be on you all,” Matthew said, the last words he would give as the priest of Villa Maria. He reached beneath his robe and cast aside his revolver. It clattered noisily across the stone floor, and he stepped into the center aisle and walked slowly towards his doom.

The cartel men put cruel binders on his arms and legs and dragged him into the street.

The scene was one of noise and confusion. Men were everywhere, dragging families from their homes to be processed. Women cried. Children screamed. Men who fought back were beaten into submission. There were dozens of Hueso Rojo men, enough to pacify the entire town. A ship landed in the square and more unloaded.

They cast Matthew to the ground and kicked him a few times for good measure.

“Easy, on the priest,” Whitaker said. “He’s beaten.”

A vicious looking man spat on Matthew. “You have no idea how many he’s killed.”

“Thirty-six graves in a private cemetery and one in the town’s. I’ve fulfilled my end of the contract. No more Hueso Rojo deaths. The kid doesn’t count. He hadn’t fully joined yet.”

Matthew tried to get a look at Whitaker. The one who’d betrayed them.

The cartel man kicked Matthew again.

“I said he’s beaten,” Whitaker said. There was ice in his voice now. “The priest goes with me.”

“That was never part of the deal.”

“It is now. I happen to have a certain respect for Mr. Cole. You may say that those graves have earned his death, but I’ve come to think they’ve earned him his life.”

“You don’t make the rules.”

Whitaker chuckled strangely. Matthew’s mind spun from the blows to the head, but the laugh sent a chill down his spine. “Actually I do get to make them,” the tech said, though Matthew suspected that he wasn’t a colony technician at all. “See this detonator? There’s a small nuclear device hidden away in your stronghold in Nuevo Lima. You let me take the priest or the whole ‘no casualty’ thing goes out the window. If you find the bomb before I come to reclaim it, I might even let you keep it.”

The cartel man cursed fluently in several languages. “Have it your way then. You’re probably lying, but this rat isn’t worth the risk.”

Whitaker hoisted Matthew to his feet and pushed him roughly down the road. At the outskirts of town, a shuttle sat with primed engines. They boarded the small jumper, little more than a cockpit and room for ten passengers. Matthew slumped against a wall in the passenger compartment. Whitaker busied himself in the cockpit.

“You know I’m a bit surprised you don’t have more questions. You’re not normally so quiet.”

He didn’t answer. There was nothing to say to a monster like this.

“Fine. I’ll answer the obvious one. Turns out when you kill one of their friends, it’s easy to get the other young men of the town to see things your way. Hueso Rojo’s new recruits only had to cut out the town watch’s comms, misdirect two patrols, and disable the thumper. The rest fell like dominoes.”

The engines of the shuttle roared and Matthew slid off the wall and onto the cold floor.

“Why?”

“See, there’s the inquisitive man I know,” Whitaker said. “Because I was paid to do a job. There are a few other reasons, but it’s complicated, and I don’t think you’ll accept it either way. It was never anything personal. You’re a fascinating man, Cole, and I wasn’t about to let the cartel get their petty revenge on you. You get a second chance at life, and honestly, I’m curious to see what you do with it.”

The door between the cockpit and cabin slid shut, ending the conversation. A little over an hour later, the shuttle landed and the outer door opened. Matthew crawled to the opening. He had never been to Io, but he recognized the closest of Jupiter’s Galilean moons at once. On the horizon, a volcano spewed lava thousands of feet into the sky and ash drifted on the wind.

Whitaker didn’t feel the need to show his face, so Matthew stumbled out onto the surface. The door closed behind him and the shuttle’s engines throttled up as it burned for the sky.

He was alone on the side of a mountain, hands and legs still bound, in one of the least hospitable places in the solar system. The air was breathable if tinged with sulfur, so he was beneath an atmospheric shield. Probably a mining operation nearby. There wasn’t much else on this forsaken moon.

Behind him, there was only darkness. If he thought about Villa Maria and the people there, he would go mad. He stumbled to his feet and set out in search of whatever went for civilization around here.

His first stumbling step buried deep into the ash.

The next was just as hard.

For ten years he kept walking, never looking behind him, never looking back to Villa Maria.