Richard Russo

by Ship of Fools

  Where was Pär? I hadn’t seen him all day; I had been overseeing the loading with Sari Mandapat and Arturo Morales while Pär was off with Alice Springs, helping people prepare. I had recently seen Alice—she told me everyone was ready to go—but no sign of Pär. Could he have backed out, afraid it wouldn’t work?

  “Lost your courage?” said a voice behind me. I turned to see the dwarf grinning at me from the shadows.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then it’s time. A new life, and a new world.”

  Yes, it was time. I nodded, then signaled across the transport hold to Sari Mandapat waiting in the holding area.

  New lights bathed the hold, reflecting off metal surfaces, illuminating the shuttles, and the stillness was gone. Six groups of people emerged from the darkness and hurried across the metal deck. Scraping sounds, echoes of hundreds of footfalls. Like herds of cattle moving to new feeding grounds; or packs of lemmings rushing to their own destruction.

  People were overloaded, which was not surprising, and they dropped things. Someone stopped to retrieve a lost item, and everything jammed up around him. Leave it! I wanted to yell at the man. But he wouldn’t. He scrambled around on hands and knees, tripping someone, reaching for his dropped bag. Finally he recovered it and struggled to his feet, then was swept along toward a shuttle.

  The people in front were now flooding through the open shuttle doors, and I watched the pushing and shoving on the boarding ramps, the growing tension and fear. Hissed curses broke out. Near the entrance to Shuttle Three a scuffle erupted, and two bundles went flying; one of them burst open when it hit the ground, scattering the contents.

  A man in the middle of the crowd tripped and fell, several others fell over him and each other. Panic and chaos erupted. People started running, grabbing and pulling at each other. The shoving worsened; more people stumbled and fell, dropping packets and bundles that slid across the floor. My stomach tightened as all of our plans threatened to fall apart. There was nothing I could do except watch, and hope.

  Toward the back, anxiously working his way forward, was Maximilian, the chief steward who served drinks at all of the Executive Council meetings. He carried a large pack strapped across his shoulders and gripped a pair of well-wrapped bundles in each hand. I caught his attention, and we stared at each other; I imagined I could see resentment and distrust in Maximilian’s gaze, a resentment that had built up during all those years of servitude. I’m helping you now, I wanted him to understand, but I knew that it was hopeless. There are things not easily remedied or forgotten, and this was one of them. He turned and joined the throng pushing toward the shuttles.

  Then I saw Catherine, Francis’s sister, in the group loading onto Shuttle Two. I looked all around her, then through the other groups, but saw no sign of Francis anywhere. I wanted to run to her, ask her about him, but I could not leave my station. Too much depended on me, and I couldn’t risk getting trampled in all the confusion. Maybe Francis was already aboard one of the shuttles. I hoped so.

  Pär began pacing in small tight circuits beside me. “It will be a miracle if we pull this off,” he said, shaking his head, wiping sweat from his face. He coughed out a nervous laugh.

  The noise gradually diminished, and the tension seemed to abate. The six groups had become a single disorganized mob massed up against the shuttle boarding ramps, but the worst of the scuffling had ceased. The majority of people were inside the shuttles now; fueling could finally begin.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  I started forward, Pär at my side. I began with Shuttle One, Pär with Shuttle Six. We each keyed in the fueling codes for rapid emergency fueling, set to stop at one-third full—enough to get them down, with a bit to spare. Then we moved to Two and Five, keyed the codes, and finished up with Three and Four.

  “Fifteen minutes, right?” Pär said.

  “Twenty at most.”

  We looked at the crowds pushing into the shuttles, now fewer than forty or fifty people left at each. The timing was right. Get the rest aboard, belongings stowed, everyone secured for flight. . . .

  “We’re going to make it,” Pär said.

  I nodded. Yes, we were. I moved quickly to the control panels, and punched in another series of codes. I turned and watched the huge, massive transport-hold doors slowly slide apart, gradually revealing the star-filled night sky.

  Energy fields maintained the atmospheric integrity of the transport hold—no air was lost, no pressure. That side of the ship faced away from Antioch, and Pär and I saw dozens, then hundreds, and finally thousands of bright stars as the doors continued to open, revealing the cold vastness of space.

  “It’s beautiful,” Pär said.

  “Yes.”

  A deep, heavy clang sounded as the doors locked into place, fully open now. The night sky waited out there for us, and another world waited for us below. My heart was beating hard and fast; I only now noticed it. I could hardly believe we were about to do this. This was not mutiny, I said to myself. This was escape.

  I turned away from the stars and stepped out from the wall to check on the boarding. I watched the last passengers go through the shuttle doors. All that remained now was to secure everyone and everything aboard, finish the fueling, and we would leave.

  Then I heard Pär cursing behind me.

  “Shit,” Pär said. “Shit, shit, shit . . .”

  I turned quickly to look at the dwarf. But it wasn’t Pär that I saw.

  Rising into view, hovering outside the open transport-hold doors, gaping maw swirling with nuclear fire, was one of the harvesters. Silent in the vacuum of space, but even more terrible and frightening because of that silence.

  A second harvester came into view and hovered beside the first; then the third appeared, all three lined up across the transport hold, blocking out the stars, interior furnaces glowing and burning, ravenous and waiting to consume us all.

  I stared transfixed at those three luminescent and monstrous beings of metal and fire; I was unable to move, unable even to breathe.

  How could this be? I wondered. Why were they here? They weren’t due back for hours, and they didn’t dock here, they docked in another hold far away on the other side of the ship. Why were they here?

  Then I knew. They were here to stop the mutiny. To prevent the shuttles from leaving. A blockade.

  Security forces emerged from one of the corridors at the far end of the transport hold, shattering my trance.

  “Shit,” Pär said once more; then he disappeared into the shadows.

  I watched as more security forces appeared, flooding in from the other corridors, storming across the transport hold and converging on the shuttles. I hesitated only briefly, seeing all of our plans and hopes shattering, then like Pär I backed further into the shadows, turned, and hurried away.

  16

  WE were discovered, and all was lost.

  I didn’t know what had gone wrong. I didn’t know how the captain, or the Executive Council, or the bishop, or whoever, had learned of our plans, but somehow, someone had.

  Someone betrayed us, that is all I could imagine. They knew in advance. They were prepared for us.

  In all the confusion, I was able to escape without detection: through an emergency exit and a series of service passageways. I never saw Pär, and had no idea where he’d gone. I made my way back to my quarters by a circuitous route, taking several hours to make a journey which normally would be a fifteen-minute walk and one tube ride. I was half surprised there was no one waiting for me when I arrived.

  I didn’t know how much time I had. Did they know of my involvement? Unless they were truly incompetent, they must. Were they coming for me right now, an armed squad marching along the ship’s corridors, preparing to break into my quarters and take me into custody? It seemed ridiculous, but was it really?

  There was a banging at my door. For several long, panicky moments I did think they had come for me. But it was a woman named Liko, a downsider who worked as a mai
d for Michel Tournier. She thought her husband, Osamu, had been arrested, although she couldn’t be sure. No one would tell her a thing, but she couldn’t find him anywhere, and none of their friends had seen him.

  Osamu was going to co-pilot one of the shuttles, but I didn’t know if Liko knew that. I promised her I would find out what I could, and I assured her that if Osamu had been arrested, I would do everything I could to help him.

  Which was probably worse than nothing, though I didn’t tell her that. If the captain and the Executive Council knew about me, then the last thing Osamu needed was my help. She left feeling reassured, but I knew that assurance was misplaced.

  HOURS passed, and not a word, not a sign of security forces. I was afraid to make contact with anyone. I was afraid to leave my quarters. Where would I go? None of this was rational—I knew that, but I felt paralyzed. If they knew about me, they would come.

  THEY came for me, silenced and in silence. The soldiers were masked in metal and glass, eyes hidden by shining silver reflections.

  They overrode the door’s security system and entered the first room; when they saw I was in the second, they advanced masked and silent upon me. They numbered five, which seemed far more than necessary for one man.

  The five soldiers stood before me, and I slowly shook my head. In a strange way, I could not believe what was happening. The lead soldier stepped forward, still silent, and motioned for me to stand. I did, and the soldier grabbed my shoulder, wrenched me around, and pulled my metal and steelglass arms together, then bound my wrists with electronic shackles. This, too, seemed unnecessary. I made no move to resist or struggle—I would go with them willingly, because anything else would be worse than useless; it would be pathetic.

  “What are the charges?” I asked. But there was no answer. “Am I under arrest?” No reply. “I want to speak to Captain Costa.” Still no reply, and by then I knew there wouldn’t be one.

  I sighed in resignation; then as the lead soldier shoved me toward the door, my acceptance gave way to a tightening of my mouth and a tensing of my eyes. I tipped my head back, and as the door opened I called out.

  “Nikos! Nikos, where are you?”

  I was led through the door, flanked by two guards, another in front of me and two more behind. The corridor was empty, but I continued to shout.

  “Nikos! Have the courage to face me if you do this! NIKOS!!”

  17

  THEY could have confined me to my quarters. Recoded the locks, put a guard in the corridor, shut down my computer access, whatever was necessary. Apparently that wasn’t enough.

  I was locked in a cell.

  There was one entire level of cabins specifically designed for disciplinary confinement, located one level beneath the cathedral. I knew from the sounds I heard that a number of nearby cells were also occupied, but I didn’t know by whom, nor did I care.

  My cell was equipped with a bunk, toilet, shower cubicle, sink, and a wall screen with only the most restricted system access, and even that was incoming only. I was given one change of clothing. Meals were brought twice a day, trays of the processed food the downsiders lived on.

  Oddly enough, however, I was reasonably content. Suddenly my life had become calm and quiet, and waiting did not seem so difficult. Although I had no idea what would happen, nor any control over it, I could reflect at my leisure. I felt relaxed and pressure-free.

  I’D been locked up for nearly a week when Father Veronica came to visit me. She was wearing an ordinary black cassock rather than the white I might have expected her to wear for an official visit to a prisoner. I asked her about it.

  “I thought you would prefer a visit from a friend, rather than from a representative of the Church.”

  “You consider yourself my friend?” I asked.

  “Of course. Don’t you consider yourself mine?”

  “Yes.”

  We shared the wall bed, sitting at opposite ends. We were forced to sit somewhat awkwardly in order to face each other.

  “No one’s come to see me,” I told her. “No one has told me whether or not I am officially under arrest, or what the charges are, or how long I am to be here. Nothing.”

  Father Veronica hesitated for a few moments before replying, and her expression was grave. “You are charged with treason, Bartolomeo.”

  Not surprising, but still distressing to hear. This meant they probably knew everything.

  “But you won’t be tried,” she added.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There will be no trials, not for anyone.”

  “No trials?” I felt stupid, as if I wasn’t hearing right.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll be released soon.”

  “No.” Her eyes seemed to go heavy. “No,” she said again.

  I didn’t like what I was hearing, the way she was saying it.

  “What’s going on?” I asked her.

  “The Executive Council is distinguishing between those who followed, and those who led. Those who followed are being released with only minor sanctions.”

  “And those who led?”

  “Charged with treason, but not to be tried. No convictions, no finite sentences. You are being imprisoned ‘at the pleasure of the court.’ That’s the phrase Bishop Soldano used.”

  “Which means?”

  “As long as they wish. Until they decide you have learned whatever lesson it is they wish you to learn. They were not specific.”

  It didn’t matter. They were angry, and they would keep us locked up until that anger was gone. That could be years, or decades, I thought.

  “I was not a leader,” I said.

  Father Veronica gave me a tired smile. “Technically, no. But you were integral to their plans, and you joined the enterprise willingly, without coercion.”

  With your influence, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.

  “What you provided for them,” she went on, “—they couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “They didn’t do it with me,” I reminded her.

  She nodded.

  “Indefinite sentences,” I said. “I could be here for the rest of my life.”

  “I know—it’s incredibly unfair, and unjust. I’ve expressed my concerns to Bishop Soldano, but that was futile. He is as displeased as anyone about what has happened.”

  “Why?”

  She looked around my cell. Wondering, I am sure, if our visit was being recorded in some way. I wanted to tell her that of course it was, but her expression suggested she already knew that. She shrugged, as if to say that it really didn’t matter.

  “I won’t pretend that I am unaware of the political maneuverings of the bishop, and the captain, and others from the sidelines. I know that Bishop Soldano has for a long time wanted someone else as captain. . . .”

  “He wants Bishop Soldano as captain,” I broke in.

  “Perhaps. It hardly matters now. Captain Costa is now the ship’s hero. He learned of a mutiny, and put an end to it with relatively little bloodshed. His position has been greatly strengthened, while conversely the bishop’s has been weakened. More than that, the captain has managed to apportion a certain amount of indirect responsibility for the mutiny to the bishop.”

  The first hint, perhaps, of what the captain had been plotting all that time. “Really? How did he manage that?”

  “Do you remember the sermon Bishop Soldano delivered on Holy Thursday? When he announced our approach to the star system and the transmission we were receiving? I believe you were there.”

  “Yes, I was there. I had difficulty staying awake, as always, but I remember his sermon. Naming of Antioch. Bringing the word of God to all worlds, all people regardless of station or history. His usual colonization speech.”

  “Yes. Your captain has a transcript of the sermon. And he has pointed to one particular passage, the one you were referring to, in which the bishop said that we need to spread the word of God to as many places as possible, that we need to colonize as man
y worlds as we can, putting permanent settlements in place so that when others come, be they human or alien, there is someone there to present to them God’s word. The captain doesn’t claim the bishop was helping to plan the mutiny, or even that he knew of it, although he suggests that those are certainly possibilities—after all, recolonizing that world is what the downsiders were trying to do. However, Captain Costa says, the bishop’s sermon certainly can be seen as condoning such actions if they were to occur, or, if nothing else, fostering a climate that would encourage them. Very clever, your captain.”

  “Why do you keep calling him ‘my’ captain?” I asked her angrily. “He’s imprisoned me, and apparently has no intention of releasing me soon.”

  She didn’t reply. What could she say? I waved my hand, and said, “Never mind. Who else has ‘my captain’ imprisoned?” I wanted to know what had happened to Pär, but didn’t want to mention him by name. It was just possible, I thought, that no one knew of his role. He had, after all, managed to get away before I did.

  “Sari Mandapat,” she said. “Arturo Morales. Alice Springs. Conrad Martin. And Samuel Eko.” She paused, thinking, and I waited. “Yes,” she said. “That’s all. Everyone else has been released.”

  Not Pär, I thought. So they didn’t know about him. But that small bit of pleasure was short-lived.

  “Do you know Pär Lundkvist?” she asked.

  I was surprised by the question. Surely she knew of my friendship with him. I’d never made a secret of it.

  “The dwarf,” I said. “Yes, I know him. Why?”

  “He, too, has been identified as one of the leaders. However, although they would like to arrest and imprison him with the rest of you, they cannot find him.”