Limbo System

by Rick Cook

  There had been no honor guard waiting for him at the lock. No greeting committee at all. Probably just as well, Jenkins thought. Considering what happened the last time we met Colonists face to face.

  He passed through the rotating joint and into the station proper. The first faint stirrings of weight tugged him gently toward the floor. Only one corridor was lit. The rest were completely dark without even emergency lights. There was no hint of motion, no sound, no stirring anywhere. Except for the gentle motion of circulating air, the station could be dead and deserted.

  On the Maxwell the watchers followed his progress in silence.

  “Evaluation?” DeRosa asked over the screen.

  “Hard to say,” Sharon answered. “I think the lack of activity is supposed to be non-threatening.” She looked expectantly at Father Simon.

  “At the very least, it isn’t a bad sign,” the priest said.

  Jenkins forged ahead down the lighted corridor, trying not to bounce in the one third gravity of the station. Ahead of him a door swung silently open and he caught the hint of motion in the light beyond.

  The door was enormous, perhaps three times Jenkins’ height. The room beyond it was scaled to match.

  “I don’t remember anything like that,” Carlotti whispered. “They must have rebuilt the entire inside of the station.” Sharon motioned him to silence.

  The captain came through the door and there, ranked around the walls, were the Colonists.

  There were perhaps two hundred of them in that enormous room. They were dressed in elaborate robes of a sort Jenkins had never seen before. The robes were stiff with embroidery and fringed and slashed in fantastic patterns. To the aliens’ eyes they were probably gorgeously colored, but to the humans they appeared as drab, oddly contrasting browns, greens and grays with an occasional splash of lemon yellow.

  No heads turned when Jenkins entered the room. No one moved, no one made a sound. It was as if he were alone in a gallery of statues. The captain paid them no heed and strode on. His footsteps echoed oddly off the gleaming brown floor.

  At the center of the room within a black circle inlaid in the floor stood a single alien.

  “I think that’s the Council President,” Carlotti said in an undervoice.

  “It is,” Billy Toyoda confirmed.

  Jenkins advanced to the edge of the black circle and stopped. Still none of the Colonists moved or said anything. Jenkins waited. The Colonists waited. Finally Jenkins took a step forward and crossed the circle boundary. All around the room the aliens seemed to relax imperceptibly.

  “What the hell is going on?” Carlotti demanded in a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Sharon whispered back. “Now be quiet.”

  Another alien moved away from the wall and advanced toward the pair in the circle. In his hands he held a box perhaps fifty centimeters on a side.

  “Who is it?” Toyoda whispered.

  “It’s an official of some sort, I think from 264.” Carlotti frowned. “I can’t be sure though. Their colors are all muddy to us.”

  Toyoda punched a couple of buttons. “Those are 264 colors,” he confirmed, glancing at the screen inset. “He’s a very high-ranking official.’

  “Who?” Carlotti hissed back.

  Billy shrugged. “No information. We’ve never dealt with him before.”

  The box was gilded and elaborately carved, they saw now. It was borne carefully by the Colonist in 264 colors.

  Impassively, the Council President waited. There was still no movement from him.

  Slowly the Colonist advanced to the Council President, always keeping both feet on the floor and moving with a slow gliding step that must be murderously difficult in the low gravity. He made an elaborate gesture of respect and withdrew behind the line inlaid on the floor.

  This must be ancient, Jenkins thought. A ritual that goes back to their planetbound days, perhaps.

  Without any intervention, the sides of the box teetered, quivered and then fell away on the floor.

  “Jaysus,” breathed Sharon. Father Simon crossed himself. Jenkins simply gaped.

  There on the floor of the council chamber lay a severed Colonist head. The feathers showed not a spot of blood and the great yellow eyes stared fixedly ahead. Not even the humans needed to be told whose head it was.

  “The order of Heaven has been restored,” intoned the emissary from 264. “The balance is preserved.”

  “The balance is preserved,” agreed the Council President.

  There was a long frozen pause. Finally Jenkins realized what was expected of him.

  “The balance has been preserved,” he repeated.

  “In the end game, first, always look around the board to see what the most valuable remaining plays are,” Dr. Sukihara Takiuji admonished Father Simon. The Japanese swept his hand over the board covered with lines and black and white stones. “This is very important. But always try to keep sente. Sometimes you should sacrifice a profitable play for sente.”

  Father Simon nodded, trying hard to keep his mind on what Suki was saying. The onlookers gathered around the table in the Pine Lounge also nodded as Suki pointed out the places where an order of moves had made a difference in the outcome. It was more interesting than most of what was going on aboard ship as the Maxwell made ready to go home.

  There were still a few preparations to be made. The mad dash to Hasta had overloaded some of the ship’s equipment and Kirchoff and Clancy were trying to get them repaired. There were some other things to do as well.

  This time, the Maxwell would use its fusion torch to climb out of the system’s gravity well before using its drive. It was slower, but much safer than the kind of manic jumps the ship had been making since it entered the Limbo System.

  The crew was busy, as usual. But the scientists and technicians had little to occupy their time, and time and tension weighed heavily on them.

  Father Simon and Sukihara Takiuji had resumed their marathon go games in the Pine Lounge. As usual Suki was conducting post mortems on the sessions.

  “Hey Father, the bridge wants you on the phone,” one of the other lounge habitues called from the far side of the room.

  Father Simon excused himself and made his way to the phone. As soon as he sat down. Captain Jenkins himself appeared on the screen.

  “We have a message from the Colonists,” the captain told him, with an odd expression on his face.

  Father Simon’s stomach contracted. “I’ll give any advice I can.”

  Jenkins shook his head. “No Father, they want to talk to you.”

  The face on the screen was strange. Or maybe only slightly familiar. The priest still had trouble telling aliens apart unless he knew them well. He realized his hands were shaking and his breathing was ragged. This was the first time since the rescue he had talked to an Owlie face to face.

  “I am the Master of Bounds for the President of the Council,” the other said as soon as he moved in front of the camera. “You are Father Simon?”

  The priest nodded and glanced to the side. The captain and Pete Carlotti were standing off in the dim red light of the bridge to answer questions or give guidance if needed.

  “I am commanded by the President of the Council to say this. There are those among us who wish to know more of the matters you began to teach on Hasta. For that reason, the Council has given its permission that you may stay to show more of these things to those who desire to be initiated in this wisdom.”

  Father Simon’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “I’m sorry, but that’s, well, it’s impossible.”

  “The President of the Council commands me to ask this of you most urgently.”

  “I cannot.”

  The alien paused and his face contorted in a way the priest had never seen any Colonist’s face work before. Then he made the sign of the cross on his breast. “Father Simon, come back. We need you.”

  Once more, Sharon Dolan hung in zero-gravity to sing to the stars.


  Only this time she couldn’t decide on a song. She felt like singing and she wanted the release that putting her feelings into song gave her.

  But what do I feel? she wondered. Relief, of course, and sadness for the ones who had died. But beyond that there was a sense of loss in the leaving. She hated this place for all the suffering she had endured here, hated it as she had never hated anything in her life. And yet she knew that the bloody sun outside that bubble and a tiny frigid world that circled it were more deeply a part of her than her beloved Ireland ever was.

  As she tried to frame her thoughts into song, she realized she wasn’t the only one in the bubble.

  “Father Simon. I didn’t see you there.”

  “I’m sorry,” the priest said apologetically. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that I came here to be alone. And pray.”

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Oh no, please. I’m glad you’re here.”

  The priest moved into the light and Sharon saw he was still haggard and worn. It was as if he were still living his ordeal, even here on the human ship.

  “I was trying to sort out the way I feel about Limbo,” Sharon told him. “It’s odd how a place you detest can become so much a part of you.”

  “Forsan ed haec olim meminisse juvabit,” the priest said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Roughly, ‘Mayhap even the memory of these things will cause men to rejoice in times to come.’ Vigil.”

  “I see,” Sharon said slowly. “Yes.”

  Once more they hung in silence, watching the stars.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Father Simon said at last. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you anyway, Miss Dolan. I have a problem and I’d like your advice.” He stopped and gathered himself.

  “The Colonists sent a message to me, you know.”

  “I had heard.”

  “They want me to stay and teach them about Christianity.”

  “What? You mean that the other prisoners still want to learn Christianity?”

  The priest grimaced. “It’s worse than that. You know that nearly everything we said on Hasta was recorded by the translating machines? Well, after the rescue and the fall of Derfuhrer, those records seem to have been spread all through the Colonies.” He stopped and shook his head. “Apparently, my message is as effective recorded as it was in person.”

  Sharon’s jaw dropped. “You mean watching those tapes converted the Colonists?”

  “I think conversion is much too strong a term,” Father Simon said. “Say rather that a number of the Colonists were very interested in what they heard and want to learn more. Some of them are even trying to practice Catholicism based on what they saw there. Besides, of course, some of the other prisoners have been returned to their home colonies.”

  “Jaysus,” Sharon said at last. “I mean, I’m sorry Father, but, well . . . Jaysus.”

  “I explained that I was completely unqualified,” the priest said miserably. “That I don’t have a missionary license and that I’m not the person to teach them what they want to know. But that doesn’t matter. I’m here and they want to learn.”

  “Couldn’t the Church send regular missionaries?”

  Father Simon sighed. “It will take us almost a year to get home, it would take at least a year to get another expedition organized and then another two years or so to return. That’s at least five years. At best.” He bit his lip. “But if Captain Jenkins’ plan is accepted, it will be a century or more before we make full contact with this system again. After what happened to us, no one is likely to risk a starship near the Colonists, especially not to bring in missionaries.”

  He looked out at the stars and fidgeted. “I’ve got to decide soon. We’ll be leaving in a few days.”

  “Even if you wanted to, do you think the captain would let you stay?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he would be very happy about it. He might well forbid it.” Father Simon fell silent, staring out into the depths of space. “So Miss Dolan,” he said at last. “What do you think I should do?”

  Oh Lord, thought Sharon. Me, who was raised a good Protestant and the granddaughter of the Master of an Orange Lodge, counseling a Papist priest! She paused and collected her thoughts.

  “Frankly, I don’t see that you owe them anything,” she said after a moment. “You didn’t ask to be kidnapped and you didn’t deliberately try to convert them. I wouldn’t trust the Owlies for an instant and I think they’d more likely kill you than listen to you. If they want you back, bad luck to them!”

  The priest considered. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” he said at last. “What happened wasn’t my fault. Thank you, Miss Dolan.”

  With that he turned away and swam through the door. That was the only logical answer, Sharon thought, but he didn’t seem at all happy with it. She turned back to the stars and tried to frame a song.

  “Come in.”

  Sukihara Takiuji was kneeling on the mat. His hakima and kimono were brown with contrasting patterns of white. A pot of hot water sat on a hotplate beside him and a tea set sat to the other side. The go board was in front of him, the stones scattered on its surface seemingly at random.

  “I’d like your opinion on something,” Father Simon said.

  The physicist gestured him to sit and the priest sat down cross-legged on the mat. Then Suki poured tea while Father Simon told him the story.

  “. . . And so, Dr. Takiuji, I don’t know what I should do.” He drained the cup of tea the physicist had offered him.

  Suki was quiet for a long time. Father Simon waited expectantly.

  “No,” Suki said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I do not think you need advice,” Suki said. “I think you already know what you will do.”

  “I assure you I do not.”

  “You know,” Suki repeated. He gestured at the board. “Father, how many times have we played?”

  “I don’t know,” Father Simon replied, nonplused. “Hundreds of times, I should imagine.”

  “And how many times did I beat you?”

  The priest smiled slightly, nervously. “Almost every time.”

  Suki grunted and nodded. “In go, you must know your opponent to triumph, maybe better than he knows himself. Father, do you know ‘makuto’?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “It is a Japanese word. Very hard to translate into English. It means ‘sincerity.’ But perhaps more it means ‘steadfastness’ or knowing one’s mind and always acting accordingly. You have great makuto, I think. You will act rightly.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not sure I know how.”

  Suki offered more of the fragrant jasmine tea and the priest declined. Then he poured more into his own cup and regarded Father Simon over the rim.

  “You are,” he paused, considering, “I think the word is ‘stuck’.”

  “I certainly feel trapped.”

  “Excuse me, not that kind of stuck. You are . . .” again the pause while he looked for a word. “Let me give an example. Father Simon, in the sword art you do not cut with the sword alone. Your spirit cuts. You put your whole spirit into each cut. But once you have cut, you do not hold on. Each cut is the best you can possibly make and when it is over, it is done. You go on to the next thing. Your spirit must be free, not sticky. Now, today, your spirit is stuck between. When you let go, free your spirit, you will know.”

  “But do you think I should stay or not?”

  Sukihara Takiuji shrugged. “I did not say I knew. I said you do.”

  Lettuce tonight! Sharon Dolan used the tongs to scoop up the pale green leaves bejeweled with drops of water from washing and piled them on her salad plate. And spinach and fresh tomatoes. She heaped the darker green leaves and the flesh-pink slices of tomato on top.

  “I used to dream about salads,” she said to Father Simon, who was following her through the line. “Then we get back and find the gardens were shut do
wn for so long we can only get them every third day,” she wrinkled her nose. “There’s just no justice!”

  “Quite right,” Father Simon said abstractedly. He had taken nothing but salad, she noticed, and not much of that.

  He looks awful, Sharon thought, like he’s aged twenty years. She noticed his hands were shaking, as if with palsy. She wished there was something she could say or do to comfort him as he had comforted her so many times with the Colonists. But she knew there was nothing she or anyone else could do to help him.

  The planetographer and the priest joined three other ex-captives at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria where the former prisoners had taken to eating together. It wasn’t so much a conscious act of separation, it was just that they felt more comfortable in each other’s company. Sharon noticed that everyone else at the table had taken big helpings of greens too.

  There wasn’t much talk. The five of them just squeezed together elbow to elbow and got down to the business of eating.

  Sharon took three bites of her salad, savoring the crunch and sharpness of the greens contrasted to the juicy acid sweetness of the tomatoes. It was wonderful, but it really did need dressing, she decided.

  “Father, could you pass me the oil and vinegar?”

  Wordlessly, the priest reached to his right and picked up the holder containing the plastic bottles.

  His shaking hand betrayed him. The holder slipped from his grasp and the bottles tumbled out onto the table. The stopper flew off the oil bottle and oil splashed out onto the priest’s right hand.

  Father Simon righted the bottles and picked up a napkin to wipe up the spill. Then he looked down at his oil-splattered hand and his face went white.

  “Please excuse me,” he muttered. Then he threw down the napkin, rose from the table and practically ran from the cafeteria, bouncing uncontrollably under the low gravity.