Since the motion passed with only a few fatalities it was a decided success.  Pastor Paul P. Providence thought back over the strange course of events that had brought them all to this unusual accord and had finally elected him as leader of the one true Christian region.  But first he had to get some peace.

"Shut that Satanic music off!" Pastor Providence yelled through the open window at the youth mowing the lawn.  How many times did he have to warn him about the dangers of rock-and-roll?

The chigging and whooshing sounds of the water sprinklers soon kicked on and calmed his nerves.  They defied the incipient drought of a summer anxious to arrive far too early.  And everyone knew that summers around here could be brutal.  Fatal even.  The parched front lawn of the First Interplanetary Baptist Church demanded a substantial strain on the fragile water supply to remain green.  But Pastor Providence knew that no one around here would believe in the One True Faith if the lawn was brown.  And converting others was all that really mattered.  That's why the rifle racks were affixed to the back of each pew, right next to the Holy Bible and the hymnal.  Praise the Lord and pass the communion.

Conversion efforts-strictly illegal-on the part of the Interstellar Muslim Mosque had been stepped up and the development of more persuasive preaching enhancements had been necessary.  The protection and defense of borders, after all, was a biblical mandate.  No place here for soft, liberal Bible interpretation.

Pastor Providence sometimes reflected how similar Land of Nod was to Earth.  A more similar sister planet couldn't have been found, with a few notable exceptions, of course.   Land of Nod was lightyears from Earth and its land-mass was a pangeac continent unsullied by that godless theory of plate tectonics.  All the geologic features of Earth could be found here-mountains, deserts, forests, plains, as sculpted by God.  A major distinction, however, was that Land of Nod revolved the opposite direction from Earth.  The older colonists had been severely disoriented at first.  One elder who'd never recovered from Pluto's loss of planetary status simply said his prayers and died.  At first there seemed something diabolical about the sun rising in the west-so many religions oriented themselves to the east.  Even the word "orient" meant eastward (where the Bible insisted lay the Land of Nod), toward sunrise, always congruent on Earth.  Many who could not adjust to such a basic shift of reality had been institutionalized at the non-sectarian general mental ward.  This low-budget facility had been constructed in the free zone beyond the detritus of the great luxury star cruisers that had transported them here.  The mentally sound quickly settled into tribal zones comprising the major religions.

Christendom, large and industrial, had settled in the resource-rich, mountainous north.  Pastor Providence would have preferred, however, the Lord's sunnier climes.  "The Jains, Taoists, Confucians, Sikhs, Bahais, and Buddhists," he instructed his baptismal initiates, "occupy the fertile farming lands and quickly mastered the process of food production.  Islamalland, the third major tribe, chose the central, arid plains stretching up through the desert regions in the rain shadows of the northern mountains.  Naturally, they were the first to strike oil.  Hindoostan claimed the great southern river valley of the Neoganges.  The Jewish region of Zion is centrally located, with some small portion of mountains, plains and desert." 

Some days Pastor Providence would ride out in his standard auto to the Free Zone where the great titanic frameworks of their former spacecraft homes stood like immense rusty dinosaur skeletons high above the intentional wreckage of their superstructures.  The engineers had designed them to self-destruct-the motherboards and circuitry fused into great green, hard plastic lumps that even a sledgehammer couldn't break apart.  They had no computers here.  A lukewarm effort had been made to extend electricity to each congregation in Christendom; some groups were running low on batteries for their synthesizers and overhead projectors.  The primitivists claimed such things wicked. 

As the pastor stood in his immaculate suit, tie flapping in the dry wind like the Holy Spirit clinging to his throat, a scrabbling, rattling sound began to emerge from the great corroded heap of space junk that had formerly been his sanctuary in the void.  It reminded him of Ezekiel's Valley of Dry Bones.  He flipped his M-16 semi-automatic down to its offensive position, just in case.  Probably it was just a scavenger from some tribe picking at the metallic bones, seeking usable equipment.  Although he knew, absolutely knew, that the Lord favored his own clan above all others, he stepped behind a rocky outcrop to remain out of sight until he knew for sure who else was here.  Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God, he reminded himself.

Eventually his eyes focused on a black-garbed figure emerging from the wreckage with a passable flight chair that still retained its padding.  Since many tribes preferred wearing black, he couldn't confirm identity until the fellow colonist drew closer.  It was Father Kennedy.  Instinctively hating Catholics was second nature to the pastor, but tribe-wide truces had been drafted and negotiated in transit and had been honored since that time.  Catholics were very distant cousins in the Christian tribe-he was honor-bound not to unload into him.

Struggling up the ridge with the chair, Father Kennedy stopped to wipe his perspiring face on a black sleeve, clearing his eyes.  A large man with a full head of hair-wasted, Pastor Providence ironically noted with maybe just a twist of jealousy, on such a man who'd never marry-the priest recognized his tribal mate and called out in a hearty voice, "Well, Pastor Paul!  Have you grown any Jesuses yet?"

Pastor Providence despised this joke.  When the First Interplanetary Baptist Church was founded, they'd erected three rough-hewn wooden crosses between the gravel road and the church.  Knowing that the Lord really does care for appearances, he kept the grass cut with the precision of a military haircut.  The Lord's good rain wasn't always as plentiful as the thirsty grass preferred, so one of the luxuries the good reverend had installed was the church's lawn sprinkler system.  When the tiny lines of water jetted out in their graceful arcs, like a blessed angel's wing, they fell on the feet of that most sacred symbol on the church's lawn.  Early on Father Kennedy had jested how the Catholics already had a corpus on their crosses, but the Baptists should keep trying-who knows-maybe a Jesus would sprout eventually!

A tense laugh, barely disguised, led to the pastor's own jab.  "I see you found a suitable bishop's throne, Monsignor."

Father Kennedy roared with laughter, great peals echoing across the derelict valley below them. Pastor Providence resented his taking insults with such easy humor. "That's a good one, Pastor!  But no, our Deacon's got some back pain from his desk chair.  He's transitional, you know, and we figured this would be a worthy surprise gift at his priesting this week."  He gestured toward the heavy chair on the ground between them.

Pastor Providence nodded politely, although he really couldn't understand what any of this meant.  "Can I give you a hand with it?" he asked through gritted teeth.  Christians were obligated to help each other out.

"Thanks," returned the larger man, finally catching his breath.  "I left the rover behind that small ridge."  The two clerics hefted the chair between them and half-dragged it over to the priest's standard vehicle.  At least they wouldn't have to wrestle it into some cramped back seat.

Pastor Providence watched Father Kennedy drive back into tribal territory.  Out here in treaty-safeguarded free land, trouble could sneak up on you as quietly as a cat.  And if you weren't prepared, no one had the authority to prosecute another tribe should someone's lifeless corpse be found here.  An accident in the Free Zone was a planetary sanctioned and acknowledged Act of Active Deity(ies).  Even that phrasing rankled him.  Hiking back to his rifle, Pastor Providence thanked the one true deity that the priest was gone.

The tribe had settled on the name "Christendom" after the Predestination Wars.  The name itself had been the flashpoint for internecine violence in the past, but as the uneasy peace had them all huddled together over the smoky graveyard reserved for Christian burial-also still a sore point with some sects-momentary embarrassment temporarily outweighed self-righteousness.  The duly selected leaders and deputies of each representative family had agreed upon the title.  Although universally decreed with stentorian conviction that the religious had more in common than the secular back on Earth, and that they would soon establish a model of tranquility and stunning humanitarianism, shortly after settling this new world they had cracked like a drought-tormented sea-bed into the hundreds of sects of old.  And even some new ones. 

Anxious for fair treatment and suspicious of all others, various religions had banded into tribal groups and established borders.  Christendom, being the most intricately fragmented tribe-as if a delicate eggshell bowl had been dropped and then trampled-organized itself late and consequently received the most rugged and least desirable territory.

Hot and parched, Pastor Providence felt weary by the time he reached the church.  A black standard auto with an ornate golden medallion on the doors informed him that he couldn't rest just yet.  The Arch-Patriarch was here again.  With electricity in short supply, the church had not yet connected its air conditioners.  The Brotherhood of Christian Oilmen hadn't yet resolved how to process what passed for petroleum in the Christian part of this planet.  The composition wasn't an exact match to that of Earth.  It was combustible, however, as many fatalities had adequately demonstrated.  The fuel for standard autos, transported from Earth, was in short supply and one tribe had claimed ownership of the reserves that had accompanied them by intergalactic tanker.  Undoubtedly that was why the Arch-Patriarch was here.  No deals for oil, in any case, would be made with Islamalland.

In his uncomfortably warm office Paul found the obese bishop choked with necklaces of icons of the mother of God and crucifixes equipped with enough crossbars to nail down Shiva.  A brimless, black pillbox hat was perched firmly on his head and long, unwashed hair cascaded out from under it.  The patriarchal beard was sprinkled with venerable white dandruff, or else he'd been at the powdered donuts again.  Even though the office was spacious, the unwashed musk of the leader of the reluctantly united orthodox was almost overpowering.  If Pastor Providence had believed in evolutionary biology he would have called him the alpha male of his clan.

Hearing the door open the massive prelate heaved himself out of his chair, evoking a worrying snap from the hardwood frame.  "Pastor Providence!  Good to see you, son!"  He waddled toward the besuited reverend who struggled not to make a feint to avoid the ecclesiastical kiss of peace.  Pastor Providence detested this slovenly, fat, odiferous man, but they were on the same side of some very important issues.  Very important.

"Your All-Holy Eminence!" he reverend finally gagged out.  "Thank you for coming.  Do you have some news?"

"Good news!  Good news!  The Brotherhood of Christian Miners have located uranium."  The large man nearly choked on the saliva from his watering mouth.

"Praise the Lord!" Pastor Providence shouted, throwing his hands above his balding pate.  "How about Islamalland? Have they found any? Or Hindoostan?"  Nobody worried too much about Nirvana, the collective Far Eastern (but now Western) religions who spent their time farming and meditating.  They should be easy enough to dominate.

"The Brotherhood of Christian Espionage reports no findings among the others."  The patrician beard shook when his deep voice issued forth, and tiny flecks of whatever fell out of the matted hair, sparkling like saintly gems when caught on the afternoon sunlight streaming from the eastern window.

"I've been praying for this ever since we were exiled here.  We told those secular fools that sending the religious away was an awful mistake.  Once we can subdue the infidels and heretics, Christendom will focus its energies on engineering craft to get us home.  I want to look down on the ruins of Earth's 'civilization' that may remain and shout, 'We told you so!  See what happens to those who despise the Lord!'  Ah, it will be glorious!  Praise Jesus!"  Could he ever be sure the others hadn't discovered uranium as well?  Preemptive was his middle name.

The older man was nodding in agreement.  "But first," he cautioned, "we need to unite Christendom in a course of action."

"They should see the wisdom in this plan.  Surely they will recall the Islamalland uprising.  The vast damage caused when they surrounded Zion and tried to seize planetary water rights."  The Battle of the Red Sea, as it was known, had contaminated a large portion of the potable water until the next rainy season replenished the aquifers.

The Arch-Patriarch took his leave promising to speak with the Pope and Archbishop of Canterbury (ex officio).  Pastor Providence had the unenviable task of bringing together the Protestant families, an exercise as difficult as hatching a bowling ball.  The Methodists and Presbyterian heads were in his rolodex, and he was sure he'd written the Lutheran contact information down.  But the Disciples of Christ-weren't they all?   United Church of Christ?  Christian Missionary Alliance?  Church of the Nazarene?  Those that especially irked him were the Mormons, Seventh Day Adventists, and Christian Scientists.  They just didn't fit the parameters of true Christianity as he knew it.  They were self-declared members of Christendom, however, so he'd better get to work.

Without aerial confirmation, borders had been based on the original survey maps from the scouting missions prior to the Exile and whatever commonly agreed-upon landmarks could be found.  Tribes claimed areas based on their desirability, but since the planet hadn't been fully explored tribes remained reluctant to separate themselves too far from the others.  In a strange environment there was a comfort in being close to other humans, no matter how heterodox.

The sound of heavy artillery bloomed into a sensory concussion as conspicuous as an Episcopalian at a tent meeting.  Pastor Providence awoke with a jolt that actually stirred Betty Sue, something of which he'd long since ceased to be capable.  The sporadic electricity winked the lights on and off in an irritating way, but as the newly elected leader of the Protestant Clan, as well as a most naturally self-reliant man, he had no one to call.  Telephone service was purely cellular with each tribe having made arrangements with their preferred service providers for an antenna and basic service, for a small fee, before they boarded the star cruisers.  But who is there to call when you're in charge?  Another report boomed, sending a wave of indignation through the Pastor.  Since the Lord was clearly on the side of Christendom he could muster no fear, but he'd long wondered if the other religions were violating planetary protocol.  With their numbers and Christendom's more liberal factions artificially inhibiting procreation, takeover was a constant worry.  The shelling tonight was closer than it had ever been before.

Many late nights Pastor Providence suspected the other tribes had sacrificed food and supply storage space on their transport ships for weaponry.  Sure, personal firearms were to be expected-but artillery?  Some of the smaller factions had been decimated on their way to Land of Nod.  Spectacular games of space-chicken overrode the preventative non-collision software installed by default.  The image of ragged and crumpled star cruisers lifeless and suspended in space with no planet or star to drag them down had been a haunting one.  Bodies eternally dangling between all possible worlds.  Pastor Providence was glad that at least some families of Christendom had the foresight to smuggle their own artillery.

As the remaining ships settled on Land of Nod, no one had noticed the small satellite that had ejected, establishing orbit around the newly colonized planet.

"Man, Jesus would slap the shit out of you!" Father Bindernagle roared at the Christendom council the next day.  Pastor Providence hated these liberal, quasi-Catholic Episcopalians.  They were few in number but disproportionately influential.

"We're not talking about an immediate invasion, Father," the word nearly caught in Pastor Providence's throat.  This whelp was far younger than himself-how could he be a father to him in any sense?  "This is just a preemptive deterrent.  The Orthodox Clan has discovered uranium in the northern mountains."  A sudden hush fell over the clergy council as if the Holy Spirit had been shot in mid-flight.

"Uranium?" Pastor Wellsley, the Methodist representative finally asked.  "That's one of the banned substances!"  Along with various mild narcotics, the secular Earth council had proscribed certain technologies and materials that might have encouraged any homesick colonists to attempt a foolhardy and unwelcome return.  Especially if they might return with nukes.

"They did not supply us with uranium," Arch-Patriarch Istanbulus explained in his deep bass causing all heads to swivel in his direction.  Many members of western Christendom on Earth had had no knowledge that Orthodox Christianity was the second largest demographic in the Christian faith. Observing them in their ecclesiastical finery some Protestants supposed them to be Yazidis or Zoroastrians-some religion from the other end of the alphabet.  "But we have found it.  The unreliability of electricity hampers efforts to construct the necessary processing, but it is only a matter of time."