The University of Mars

CHAPTER ONE

The Confessions of St. Carnation

Monday, July 20, 2065

A FUZZY BABY RHINOCEROS curled up in tall yellow grass by a pond at dawn. Zeke adjusted the poster as Earl lurched in from the back room. Get those damn DreamPosters unloaded yet, mate?

Zeke swiveled on his stool and pointed to the array of baby animals dreaming about the GodFlower. Sure, man. The displays are all set up and the rolled ones are right there.

Earl snorted through a stack of checks; Zeke recoiled from the rancid beer breath. Piss on it, Earl muttered. Where’s that freakin’ St. Sebastian check? Damn thing was due three damn days ago.

I just got a call from ’em an hour ago. Said it was in the mail.

"Aw, crap on it, Zeke. You know they’re a bunch of goddamn liars. They think private schools are immune somehow. Damn ’em to hell! Earl stomped back to the storeroom, calling over his shoulder: Ring those mothers back up and tell ’em we need the five percent late fee or we’ll cut their goddamn balls off!"

Uh, hey, there, said a skinny young man with placid blue eyes and a wispy mustache, setting thirty books on the counter.

Hey. Zeke set a bookmark in The Confessions of St. Carnation and got up from his stool. This was the same guy who’d tried to convert him last week. Where had he said he was from? Plasma Divinity?

Zeke scanned the books. At least this stupid register had a scanner. The Holy Craps allowed that much, at least. He broke from Plasma Divinity’s searching eyes. This jerk had badgered him for half an hour last week. Thank God there was a line behind him now.

That’ll be $569.94, Zeke said. The divinity student wrote out a check. A paper check. Zeke still couldn’t believe that. The tech rules here were insane compared to Chicago, and that was saying a lot.

Thanks, man. He punched it up on the register and added the slip to his pile for tomorrow’s deposit.

Uh, listen, the student said, holding up a glossy paperback, "I think you’d really like The Devils Crawling Inside. It’s a great introduction to everything wrong with our souls."

Uh, right, right, I’ll put it on my list. Zeke slid the books into an OverLord One bag and caught the eye of the girl next in line.

"No, really, remember what we were talking about last week? I was so disturbed to hear about the state of your soul, sir."

No, really, there’s no trouble, everything’s fine. Uh, next?

Yes, just this, said the girl behind the student, laying down a rolled rhinoceros poster.

Cute. Definitely. These Aussie accents were so cool.

Well, that’s good to hear, the student said, elbowing past the girl for his books. We’ll talk more next time. I’d be interested in the American point of view, especially after all that mess in Texas. We’re so lucky to have the UWC, we really are. He disappeared into the mall.

Zeke rang up the rhinoceros. A woman bought several UnitedWisdom greeting cards and the ever-popular The Carnationist Cosmology. A guy with a lopsided face and wild long hair set several books on the counter: The Benevolence of the Carnationist Police State, Techno-Disaster and Carnationism, The Taoist Uprising in China and What We Did About It, Reaming the Texans, 2057-2059, and Now That We Have World Government.

"Hey, I was just looking at The Taoist Uprising the other day, Zeke said. I’m surprised it got published. It’s much more favorable to the Chinese than you’d think."

Uh, maybe. I mean, no, uh, not really, the guy said, looking over his shoulder and shoving several Australian twenties across the counter. Hell, no, I mean, look, I’ve got this Chinese history class, and that’s all, really, please. No offense, really. Look, I’m in a hurry. He grabbed his change and rushed out.

Wow, man, Zeke said, then turned to the six-foot-three Earl struggling up with six boxes of books. Say, need some—

Earl let the boxes slam to the floor. One slid sideways and sent the UnitedWisdom rack screeching across the red tile. Everyone in the store looked up. "Damn, damn, damn. Clean this goddamn crap up, will you mate?"

Was Earl already drunk? It was only 3:30. Zeke came over to set the rack upright and knelt to gather dozens of cards and envelopes.

Zeke, Earl said from the counter. When you’re through with that crap I’d like to see you for a sec.

Zeke jammed the last bent cards into their slats. "Man ..."

These checks. You’ve got to enter the voucher number on each one to jibe with the ticket.

What numbers? What ticket?

"Good God, you mean to stand there and tell me you haven’t been writing out the tickets?"

What tickets?

"The tickets! The damn tickets, Zeke!"

I’m not sure what you’re talking about.

Oh, that’s obvious! You say you’re a college student, huh? You think you know more than me about running this goddamn shop, huh?

What’re you talking about, man?

"Man, man, now he calls me man. Look, man, for one thing, you’re supposed to write up every single goddamn purchase that comes through this goddamn register on the goddamn ticket pad here. Earl flung open a drawer and pulled out a mealy carbon ticket pad. And you write the entire goddamn thing down and you stamp it with a number. Where the hell’s that numbering machine? Whatcha do with it?"

Earl tore through the drawers behind the counter, flinging rulers and staplers to the floor, finally ripping the cash drawer out and yanking the numbering machine from the rear tray.

Wow, I never knew what that was for.

"Dammit, Zeke, there’s no way we can keep track of our goddamn crap unless we have a copy of the ticket, with the proper number. Crap the Carnation, how long has this been going on?"

"Well, nobody’s ever told me about the numbers or the tickets."

"You’ve been working here three weeks and every transaction through this register while you’ve been here has been screwed? Look here—see, Sally wrote all her tickets down yesterday. Just like so. Goddammit to hell, Zeke! You mean Irma never told you about the tickets?"

Uh, no ...

"Goddammit! Earl ran his fingers through the ticket book, then through his thinning hair. Sally’s keeping records, so is Susan, but not you or Irma! Dammit, Irma knows better!"

Well, maybe she realizes it’s not necessary.

"Damn you, Zeke, it’s absolutely necessary! Irma’s just a lazy twit, and now she’s taught that to you! Don’t you dare try to tell me what’s necessary or not in my own goddamn shop! We’re ruined!"

Aw, screw this, man.

"What the hell you say to me?"

"I said, screw all this crap. This is a stupid way of doing all this. All these stupid numbers and checks. We had electronic money in Chicago. Nobody had to mess with all these stupid checks and tickets."

"Well, mate, the Holy Craps won’t let us have electronic money here. Our goddamn cash register Era Code is 1996. I don’t give a flip what Chicago’s is. Get me? So we do the best we can! And we keep proper goddamn records or the goddamn business goes goddamn under. Do you understand me?"

Zeke looked out to the echoing shopping mall. He fought the urge to toss a few Carnationist propaganda records through the windows and call it a day. The Craps had wound this damn country back a hundred years. Vinyl record albums. Handwritten checks.

Earl rifled through the register. Well, at least goddamn Irma wrote in the notebook of items sold.

Yeah, I do that part.

Well, maybe it isn’t so bad. Just hafta spend a few damn days comparing our deposit slips with what we sold that day. Hafta look up all the prices over again, though. Zeke, don’t ever forget to use the damn tickets again!

Excuse me, said a girl moving past Zeke to the counter. She held several Sammy Zarathustra and the Shades records and a book, Carnationist Contraception. She was tiny, with long oily light brown hair falling over little breasts which threatened to slide out of her low-cut green dress. She carried a giant purse from which protruded a sketchbook, its pages wrinkled with bright watercolors.

Wow, a sensitive girl artist. She had that aura. Zeke bet she drew flowers in that sketchbook or wrote poems about all the guys she went to bed with. Sensitive artistic poems.

She presented her purchases to Earl, who cocked his head and motioned Zeke over.

You ring this one up, mate, Earl said, pushing the ticket book and the numbering machine at Zeke. Let’s see what you’ve learned today.

Uh, sure, man, Zeke said, then, to the girl: This be all?

Yes, thank you, she said, pulling a floppy checkbook from her purse. Zeke carefully wrote down the names of her purchases on the items record, then on the ticket, and then he stamped her check and the ticket. Her check designated her as Tansley Harrison of 2245 Creamery Lane, wherever that was. Zeke didn’t know Sydney well yet. He probably couldn’t find this shopping center on a map.

Those Sammy Zarathustra records are pretty strange, he ventured. I heard a couple of ’em back in Chicago.

The girl glared as she shoved the records and book into her purse. "Listen, this is real music," she said, hurrying out the door.

Earl leaned against the counter. C’mon, Zeke, don’t alienate the customers. He grinned and dug Zeke’s ribs. Not much meat on that one, mate.

Zeke hid his smile. Uh, right.

She works down on the second level at the candle shop. Her father was Randy Harrison. He owned several shops here until he flew his jet into a mountain a couple years ago. Her mother got most of the money and took it to Europe with her. But Tansley inherited the candle store. Between you and me, she’s a ball of snot. She’s not old enough to manage that shop by herself, but she won’t hire any help. We all know it’ll go under any day now.

Huh. Well, at least she had a nice accent. He checked the hideous clock above the door: 3:50. Two hours and ten minutes to go.

Beyond the glass doors the vast SongMall thundered. Strobe lights arced through blues and purples and reds. Zeke shuddered.

So how’s St. Carnation going? Earl said, pointing to The Confessions. Think you’ll finish it by tomorrow?

CHAPTER TWO

Underneath the Entire City of Sydney

WELL, I’M GETTING THERE, Zeke said, pointing to his six-hundred-page copy on the counter. He could feel Earl sizing up the yellow bookmark a quarter of the way in.

Huh. Report’s due tomorrow, you know.

Yeah. But I’m really warming up on it, and like one big push tonight oughta do it, y’know?

Look, mate, the Craps don’t like to give extensions. And it better be the full ten pages. You gotta have it tomorrow morning before we open, so I can walk it over to ’em, get it stamped and in the mail.

Yeah, sure, man. Was this guy serious? Did he really care about the regs? Zeke was only reading three pages an hour on that mother. He knew he’d never finish it. Then the paper, on a manual typewriter. What was the Era Code for typewriters in Australia anyway? 1940? Sheesh. Maybe they wouldn’t care if it was rough draft with a lot of typos. Zeke could crib stuff from the intro and spew something out in a couple hours.

Well, it’s good you chose one of Carnation’s shorter books, mate. And look, I know it seems unfair. All Sally and Irma and Susan had to do was type a couple hymns up, but hell, Zeke, you’re my Sacred Clerk and they’re just pre-clerical.

I know that, man, it’s okay, I’ll get the report done.

And especially since you’ve got that year of college from the States. All I can say is, we have to follow the letter here. All I need is for some Crap functionary to decide our case is special and ream me for it.

Zeke shook his head in wonder. This guy ran an official Carnationist business, but he kept calling them Holy Craps? He definitely had balls. Maybe Zeke could use him as a character in a story. Running a Carnationist bookstore with his keg in the back room.

"You don’t know it, Zeke, but the reason I decided to hire you was the way you picked up City of Outrageous Mindblow and turned it round and round and said that was the book you’d write your Sacred Labor Report on. I knew you were the one from that moment. Bet you’re glad I switched you to The Confessions, huh?"

Zeke shuddered at the idea of St. Carnation’s City. It was such a beautiful paperback edition, but well over two thousand pages. What had he been thinking? Thank God for the shorter Confessions.

Well, I’d just got off the ship that morning. I was sorta dazed, I guess.

Earl slapped Zeke hard on the back. You’re my man, mate, you’re my man. Just get the goddamn report done tonight and we’ll feed it to the Craps tomorrow morning and everything’ll be squared away, righto?

Uh ... yeah.

Look, Zeke, suppose you just grab your book and take a break? An official United World Carnationist break, eh, mate? Just sit out on a bench there for an hour if you like, plow through some more of it. Sounds good, huh?

Zeke eyed the chaos outside OverLord One and flinched. Well, if you don’t mind, maybe I could just, like, sit here and read right here. I mean, I can do it between customers and all.

Sure, whatever suits you. I’m sure our customers are impressed with the sight of you reading Carnation. Just make sure to get the sucker done, will ya? He went into the back room and squatted before his keg with a plastic cup.

Couldn’t they slide those damn doors shut? All those screaming kids out there, and the muzak. Zeke couldn’t believe this place. Why had he come to a nightmare underground shopping mall for a job? Because it was the only thing in this country that seemed like home? What fun to work at a religion store until something else opened up, right?

But he hadn’t counted on this place killing off his soul. He was supposed to sit out in that insane mess and read a book? He got lost every time he went out there. He could barely find his way back after lunch.

Earl returned from the back wiping his lips. Anyway, sorry about the report, Zeke. We just have to do what we have to do, that’s all.

Yeah, I guess.

Sure, people don’t like having the GodFlower rammed down their goddamn throats, and that’s the bloody truth. Before the Craps took over, church was like a six-pack for most people. They’d come in my store and get plastered. And that was all right by me. But now people are so full of it they could puke. That’s what your West Texans did. What a bloody mess.

Well, I really don’t remember all that much about that. Zeke was still surprised by the Australian obsession with West Texas. He’d just been just a kid at the time, and in Chicago anyway. Why did people here think every American was a Texas terrorist?

"Just between you and me, Zeke, because I can tell you’re an intelligent guy and know this already, they just think they’ve got the entire planet."

Zeke stared. Earl had never spoken anything this close to treason before. Uh, well ...

"Got the Reaming DoomBastards holding out north of us in Indonesia, they could swoop down any day, Zeke, any day. And those mothers are the real fanatics."

I—I had no idea ...

Damn right, my man, Earl said, thumping his knuckles on the counter. Well, nothing we can do about it, is there? Get that book read and we’ll be in shape, that’s all I can say.

Sure, sure, I’m on it, man, Zeke said. He opened The Confessions and strained to tune out the deafening temper tantrums outside. He was underground. Trapped in this insane shopping center. There wasn’t a single right angle in the entire place, and the levels were always changing, two to three to four. It was enough to drive anyone crazy. All those corridors snaking all over the place. That was how he’d gotten lost at lunch yesterday.

"You right there? Look a little woozy, my man. Carnation putting you to sleep again, eh?"

I—I guess ...

And that dream he had last night ... that the shopping center extended underneath the entire city of Sydney. How did he know that wasn’t really true? He’d never come to the end of it, and for all he knew it might really be one big basement underneath all of Sydney. Corridors and courtyards and staircases and escalators stretched forever. When was the last time he’d even walked on the street? He just took the train to