Richard Russo

by Ship of Fools

  “We need to bury them,” Father Veronica said. Even her voice was unsure, lost.

  “Impossible,” Nikos replied. “The numbers . . . the terrain there . . . it’s a logistical nightmare, and it would take you days, if not weeks. No, it’s impossible. Continue on to the next site tomorrow.”

  “But the babies,” she said, imploring. “At least let us bury the babies . . . they . . . their faces . . . Please. Let us bury the babies.”

  There was another long wait, several almost unbearable minutes during which we all sat in silence, none of us looking at any of the others. When our wait finally ended, it was the bishop’s voice we heard.

  “Yes, Father Veronica. Although the captain is reluctant, I have insisted. You may bury the babies.”

  “Thank you, Eminence.”

  There were a few more exchanges, formalities, and then we disconnected the linkup. We were so very much alone, the four of us in the flyer surrounded by jungle and darkness and death.

  THE next day we buried the babies’ skeletons, a gruesome task. I see no reason to recount it in detail. While clearing an area for the grave, Trude went a little insane. She widened the beam of her stone burner and notched it up to full power, then burned and burned her way through the vegetation all around the area, far more than necessary, sending up clouds of choking black smoke that did not dissipate for hours. No one tried to stop her, no one tried to calm her.

  That night I sat with Father Veronica outside the flyer, in front of a contained fire she had started with one of the stone burners. Neither of us spoke. The light from the fire did not penetrate very far into either the jungle or the night, and despite the crackling orange flames, I felt that both were closing in on us, and that there was no escape.

  WE left at dawn for the next site. I was glad to be leaving all of that behind us, but now I was afraid of what else we would find.

  We flew far to the north of the continent, leaving the steaming jungles behind. Near a high mountain lake we found a single dwelling surrounded by a circular, water-filled ditch. The rotting remains of a crude boat were scattered between the dwelling and the lakeshore.

  The air was cold and smelled painfully clean. With fallen logs from the nearby woods, we laid a bridge across the ditch. The dwelling was a single room, with handmade wooden furniture, shelves with plates and cups and utensils, cooking equipment, and an unusual apparatus that we surmised was a stove. On the bed, beneath the tattered remnants of a blanket, was the skeleton of a man who, I would like to think, died quietly in his sleep.

  Everything was quiet, peaceful, no signs of violence, no signs of madness. There was a palpable sense of relief, although no one expressed it aloud. We buried his remains beside the dwelling, and returned to the flyer.

  AFTER the sun went down and we’d eaten, we got the linkup with the Executive Council. They had finally made their decision.

  “Something undeniably strange has happened here,” Nikos said, speaking over the linkup as if he were making a speech. “But it is far in the past. In the end, it has no relevance to us or our mission. There is nothing for us here, so it is time that we leave.” A politician’s speech, with little more substantive content than the transmission that had brought us here.

  We were ordered to cancel our trip to the final site and start back for the shuttle at first light the next day; then we would take off the day after that to rejoin the Argonos. The ship would remain in orbit for several more days to allow the harvesters to maximize our stores, and then we would set course for some other godforsaken star, some other godforsaken world.

  Father Veronica started to protest, but the bishop immediately cut her off, stating that this was the Church’s considered position as well, and that there would be no further discussion. I could see she was angry, but she said no more.

  When the conversation ended and the linkup was shut down, Father Veronica and I took a walk along the lake. The evening air was cold, and I could smell moisture slowly rising from the black, still water. There was no moon, but the stars provided plenty of light.

  Father Veronica gazed out ahead of us, but I had the feeling she wasn’t really looking at anything. I remained silent, waiting for her.

  We had been walking for ten or fifteen minutes when she stopped, turned to me, and angrily said, “I can’t believe we are being ordered back to the Argonos. We owe these people more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We should stay and make a real effort to learn what happened to them. Something terrible occurred here. There are more dead on this planet, in places we haven’t seen yet—I am almost certain of that. To just leave it all behind, as if these people never existed . . . we owe them more than that. We owe them more than just a partial burial.”

  “It will never happen,” I said. “You heard them tonight, the way they said it. They don’t want to stay any longer than they have to.”

  “Why? Are we in a hurry to get somewhere? There’s nothing out there that can’t wait a few weeks, or even months. We’ve been wandering aimlessly for all these years . . . here we have encountered something real. We should be staying, not leaving.”

  “Probably all this scares them. It scares me. They don’t want to know what happened. And with no one left alive here, they’ll resist any arguments, any protests.”

  She sighed heavily. “Oh, I know that,” she said. “But what about those people on the ship who would want to stay here? Those who would like to make their own settlements, start new lives, perhaps be willing to make the time and effort to give the dead the respect they deserve and try to learn what happened.”

  “Maybe everyone would be too frightened. Maybe no one would want to stay.”

  “Don’t be disingenuous, Bartolomeo. We both know there are many people on the Argonos who would give anything to be able to do just that.”

  I wondered again what she was telling me. Was she saying she knew about the insurrection? I couldn’t tell.

  “They can make that request to the Executive Council or Planning Committee if they really want to,” I said. “Anyone can.”

  She shook her head at me. “Everyone knows how that vote would go. The downsiders get no vote themselves. The Argonos is run by an oligarchy, and the request would be denied. You know that, Bartolomeo. It is an unjust system, and you know that, too.” Her voice grew sad. “Anyone who wants to stay here should be allowed to do so. If God can grant human beings free will, the ability and the freedom and responsibility to make their own decisions with their lives, the least that those in authority on this ship can do is grant the same thing for their fellow humans.”

  I had my own skeptic’s thoughts about God and free will, but that was a discussion for another time. The idea of human beings in power acting out of anything except self-interest, however, was absurd to me. “Are you being naive?” I asked her.

  “No, Bartolomeo. I know what the reality is. I am only expressing my belief in what should be, my belief in what is right. I know the difference, and it saddens me.”

  With that, she resumed walking again, and I continued with her. We did not talk, but my thoughts were running madly, and I realized I had begun to rethink my feelings about the mutiny. Father Veronica’s words resonated with me, and I couldn’t shake the growing feeling that she was right. Not for the first time, I thought to myself that in so many ways she was remarkable.

  WHEN we arrived at our original landing site the next day, I stepped out of the flyer, looking for Sari Mandapat. She was standing no more than twenty meters away, staring at me. It was only at that moment that I realized my decision had finally, firmly, been made. I nodded at her, twice to make sure she understood. She did, for she nodded sharply at me in return, and walked back to the shuttle.

  Tomorrow, I thought to myself, tomorrow it begins.

  14

  BACK on board the Argonos, there was a strained atmosphere, unresolved conflicts that had only festered during the landfall. The captain seemed to be avoiding me, but
I had no objections to that; it made it easier for me to help with the mutiny.

  We had so little time to prepare. The harvesters would continue processing for three more days, then the ship would break orbit and leave. Fortunately, Pär and his colleagues had been working nonstop while Sari Mandapat and I were down on Antioch, planning the coordination of more than a thousand people, making lists and schedules and calculations. They had done everything that could be done without me.

  My own role was to provide access codes and passwords, to open doors and holds and chambers, to activate the machinery and equipment we would need, to deactivate the alarms. They had planned incredibly well, far more thoroughly and creatively than I would ever have imagined.

  I began to believe it might actually work.

  BY the second day back I was exhausted, but none of us had much time for sleep. Minor missteps and problems arose with alarming regularity, but Pär and Alice Springs and Arturo Morales were unconcerned each time; they had planned for them, and expected them, and their calm helped to ease my own anxieties.

  I suggested revealing our plans to Father Veronica, trying to convince them that not only would she be sympathetic to our cause, she might want to join us. I was emphatically voted down. For them, the Church was part of the upper levels, and that meant Father Veronica as well. I pointed out that I, too, was from the upper levels, but to no avail; I realized for the first time that, with the exception of Pär, they, too, despised me, and had only included me because they had no other choice. I considered withdrawing, even betraying them. Instead, I continued working.

  I tried to find Francis. I wanted him to come with us to Antioch, have a chance to start a new life; it would be better, I thought, than what he had on the ship.

  I started in the chamber of abandoned machines. It was empty and quiet, and as I walked through the room, playing the light of my hand torch across the metal all around me, I called out his name, over and over. There was no response; there were no sounds at all except the now familiar ticking noise coming from somewhere in the distance.

  When I reached the hollowed-out bay, everything was silent and deserted. The bishop’s machine was dark and lifeless. Although I was still curious about the bishop’s intentions, I had in some important way lost interest. Two more days, and I would be gone from the ship, and would never see the bishop or his machine again.

  AFTER searching the chamber, I roamed through several of the lower levels, asking people I met if they knew Francis, or knew of him. I wandered through a smoking club, nearly overwhelmed by the harsh reek of tobacco and star-leaf smoke, and asked about the boy at each table I passed. I got shaken heads, a few muttered negative words, but just as often I received silent, hostile glares.

  In a barter shop I was given shrugs and several offers for my exoskeleton, but no one admitted to knowing Francis.

  On another level I inadvertently interrupted a group of flesh gamblers, close to twenty men and women rolling twelve-sided illuminated dice into shadowed maze boxes. As the scarred and tattooed gamblers looked up at me, scowling, I quickly backed out of the darkened room without a word.

  On the same level, I walked into a small chapel, where a Shinto priest was quietly speaking with a dozen men and women. There were a number of smaller chapels like this scattered throughout the ship, mostly on the lower levels, with several unofficial and unsanctioned sects and alternative religious groups holding their services in defiance of the Church. The bishop was always trying to suppress them, but he received no support or cooperation from the captain or the Executive Council, so his efforts were ineffective. I don’t think he understood that he was better off that way. I mumbled my apologies to the priest and withdrew.

  I recognized a few of the people I saw, but most I had never seen before, something which no longer surprised me. Just as the bishop claimed that the ship had always existed, I sometimes imagined that it folded and twisted in on itself so that there were an infinite number of cabins and levels, and an infinite number of people. It made me feel lost and overwhelmed, and I wanted nothing more than to launch myself from the ship, escape its gravity, and drift out into the silent calm dark of space.

  I had almost given up. Two or three levels lower down, I came across the open doors of an ag room, a high-ceilinged hold of growing fields and a grove of fruit trees. A small herd of pygmy goats grazed at the edge of the field. Seven or eight people were working in a shed with planting boxes and soil and starter plants. I entered and walked toward them.

  “I’m looking for a boy,” I said. “His name is Francis, he’s about thirteen or fourteen years old.” There was no response, although they were all staring at me, not all of them unfriendly. “No father, and his mother’s sick, maybe dying.”

  A young woman who had been kneeling stood up and brushed dirt from her hands. She observed me for some time from where she stood, then said, “I know Francis.” She appeared to be about twenty-five, perhaps a little older, dark hair cut quite short. “Why are you looking for him?”

  I took a few steps closer to the group. “I’m concerned about him. He said he was living on his own, no place to go. I was just hoping to find him, find family or friends who could take him in.”

  “Why do you care?” the woman asked.

  She was gazing intently at me, and I felt compelled to answer her honestly. “Because he reminds me of myself.”

  The young woman broke away from the group and approached me. The others returned to their tasks. She put out her hand, and didn’t flinch when I grasped it with my artificial fingers.

  “My name is Catherine,” she said. “Francis is my brother. Half brother.”

  “My name’s Bartolomeo.”

  She nodded. “I know who you are.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I asked, trying to smile.

  She ignored the question. “I appreciate your concern, Bartolomeo, but Francis will be all right. He always is.”

  “That may be so, but I still want to help him.”

  “He’s a downsider. He doesn’t need your help.” And with that she turned away and rejoined her group.

  I stood there for a minute, not wanting to leave. I felt rejected, which confused me. Catherine didn’t look back, although a couple of the others glanced briefly in my direction as though afraid I was going to stay. I left.

  NIKOS was preoccupied. We spoke rarely, and when we did, neither of us said anything of substance. He did not raise the issue of his plan for dealing with the bishop in their power struggle, and I did not ask him about it, afraid to be drawn into something that would take me away from the work I needed to do with Pär and the others. I even began to wonder if he suspected me of something.

  But if he did suspect, there was nothing that could be done. It was far too late for that now. There was no turning back.

  And yet, at times I wasn’t sure why I was doing this. Why did I want to go back to that world, a world that held the dead, that induced nightmares?

  I was not sleeping much, and what little sleep I did get was disturbed by haunted dreams—visions of the dead, strings of bones making ghastly music as they clacked together in an uneasy breeze, rotting corpses floating through the air with eyes staring, tiny babies drowning in sand.

  I could only hope that eventually the nightmares would end.

  I thought often of Father Veronica. I would miss her.

  15

  THIS was mutiny.

  It was so quiet at first, I could hardly imagine what was about to occur.

  Silence and shadowed darkness filled the vast transport hold. Scattered about the far and upper reaches were dim blue lights that cast little illumination—stationary fireflies, tiny beacons in an endless metal cave. A long, muted hissing sounded from somewhere far off, then slowly faded away. Quiet again.

  Soft floor lights came to life, and the silence was broken as I led a small group of eight across the open space of the hold to the shuttles on the far side—heavier, darker shadows within shadow. Behin
d me, in the darkened holding area, were more than eleven hundred people with all the personal possessions they were allowed; a shifting, anxious mass of humanity, waiting. I did not look back at them.

  Timing would be critical. We had rehearsed these procedures repeatedly—everyone knew where they would go, what they would do. My group approached the first shuttle, then moved along its dark form to the rear. I gestured at Amelia Ritter, who took her station at the fuel intake. Then I hurried with the others to the fueling equipment in the back wall. One step at a time, one step . . .

  I keyed in the access codes, then nodded at two men who pulled the fueling hose structure from the wall, hydraulics whispering in the semidarkness—a metallic, massively tusked and wingless dragon. They guided it to the shuttle and, with the help of Amelia, locked it into place. But fueling was not to begin yet; not until the last minute, timed to finish when everyone and everything was loaded and ready to go. The fueling, even with authorized access codes, would almost certainly alert someone, somewhere, resulting in an investigation. It had to be put off as long as possible.

  Amelia remained at the rear of the shuttle, ready to perform the disconnect, while the rest of us moved on to the next shuttle, where the process was repeated with someone again stationed at the rear. Four more times, step by step, no hesitations, no mistakes, until all six shuttles were hooked up to their fueling structures, waiting. Everyone, everything, waiting.

  All was quiet again except for the hushed, tense hiss of machinery. Coils of evaporation swirled in and out of the dim blue overhead lights. I paused, scanning the hold, mentally reviewing our plans, while everyone continued to wait.

  What had been forgotten, if anything? Minimal food stores, shelters, tools, testing equipment, water and food processors, crates of other, miscellaneous supplies—all had been clandestinely loaded aboard the shuttles earlier in the day. Not enough to long sustain all the people that were going, but there was no choice. There was no room; as it was, people were going to be jammed together like overbreeding laboratory animals. We had one shot at this, one trip down—no preliminary supply drops, no return trips for extra supplies. All or nothing, nothing or all.