Baker, Kage - Noble Mold

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Noble Mold

by Kage Baker

======================

First published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, March 1997

Fictionwise Contemporary

Science Fiction

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For a while I lived in this little town by the sea. Boy, it was a soft job. Santa Barbara had become

civilized by then: no more Indian rebellions, no more pirates storming up the beach, nearly all the

grizzly bears gone. Once in a while some bureaucrat from Mexico City would raise hell with us, but by

and large the days of the old Missions were declining into forlorn shades, waiting for the Yankees to

come.

The Company was operating a Receiving-Storage-and-Shipping terminal out of what looked like an

oaken chest in my cell. I had a mortal identity as an alert little padre with an administrative career ahead

of him, so the Church kept me pretty busy pushing a quill. My Company duties, though, were minor: I

logged in consignments from agents in the field and forwarded communiques.

It was sort of a forty year vacation. There were fiestas and fandangos down in the pueblo. There

were horse races along the shore of the lagoon. My social standing with the De La Guerra family was

high, so I got invited out to supper a lot. And at night, when the Bishop had gone to bed and our few

pathetic Indians were tucked up for the night, it was relaxing to sneak a little glass of Communion wine

out on the front steps of the church. There I'd sit, listening to the night sounds, looking down the long

slope to the night sea. Sometimes I'd sit there until the sky pinked up in the east and the bells rang for

matins. We Old Ones don't need much sleep.

One August night I was sitting like that, watching the moon drop down toward the Pacific, when I

picked up another immortal somewhere out there in the night. It was following the shoreline, coming

around the point at Goleta; got up on the Camino Real and followed it along, until it turned inland and

came straight up the hill in my direction. Company business. I sighed and broadcast, _Quo Vadis?_

_Hola, _came the reply. I scanned, but I knew who it was anyway. _Hi, Mendoza,_ I signaled back,

and leaned up on my elbows to await her arrival. Pretty soon I picked her up on visual, too, climbing up

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out of the mists that flowed along the little stream; first the wide-brimmed hat, then the shoulders bent

forward under the weight of the pack, the long walking skirt, the determined lope of the field operative

without transportation.

Mendoza is a botanist, and has been out in the field too long. At this point she'd been tramping

around Alta California for the better part of twelve decades. God only knew what the Company had

found for her to do out in the back of beyond; I'd have known, if I'd been nosy enough to read the

Company directives I relayed to her from time to time. I wasn't her case officer any more, though, so I

didn't.

She raised burning eyes to me and my heart sank. She was on a Mission, and not the kind I was

lounging on the front steps of. I smiled cheerily. "How's it going, kid?" I greeted her in a loud whisper

when she was close enough.

"Okay." She slung down her pack on the step beside me, picked up my wine and drank it, handed

me back the empty glass and sat down.

"I thought you were back up in Monterey these days," I ventured.

"No. The Ventana," she replied. There was a silence while the sky got a little brighter. Far off, a

rooster started to crow and then thought better of it.

"Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure, et cetera?" I prompted. She gave me a sharp look.

"Company Directive 080444-C," she said, as though it were really obvious.

I'd developed this terrible habit of storing incoming Green Directives in my tertiary consciousness

without scanning them first. The soft life, I guess. I accessed hastily. "They're sending you after grapes?"

I cried a second later.

"Not just grapes." She leaned forward and stared into my eyes. "_Mission_ grapes. All the cultivars

around here that will be replaced by the varieties the Yankees introduce. I'm to collect genetic material

from every remaining vine within a twenty-five mile radius of this building." She looked around

disdainfully. "Not that I expect to find all that many. This place is a wreck. The Church has really let its

agricultural program go to hell, hasn't it?"

"Hard to get slave labor nowadays." I shrugged. "Can't keep 'em down on the farm without leg

irons. We get a little help from the ones who really bought into the religion, but that's about it."

"And the Holy Office can't touch them." Mendoza shook her head. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"Hey, things change." I stretched out and crossed my sandaled feet one over the other. "Anyway.

The Mexicans hate my poor little Bishop and are doing their level best to drive him crazy. In all the

confusion with the Missions being closed down, a lot of stuff has been looted. Plants get dug up and

moved to people's gardens in the dark of night. There are still a few Indian families back in some of the

canyons, too, and a lot of them have tiny little farms. Probably a lot of specimens out there, but you'll

really have to hunt around for them."

She nodded, all brisk. "I'll need a processing credenza. Bed and board, too, and a cover identity.

That's your job. Can you arrange them by Oh-Six-Hundred Hours?"

"Gosh, this is just like old times," I said without enthusiasm. She gave me that look again.

"I have work to do," she explained with exaggerated patience. "It is very important work. I'm a good

little machine and I love my work. Nothing is more important than My Work. You taught me that,

remember?"

Which I had, so I just smiled my most sincere smile as I clapped her on the shoulder. "And a

damned good machine you are, too. I know you'll do a great job, Mendoza. And I feel that your

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