Richard Russo

by Ship of Fools

  The conversation was pointless. “We’re staying,” I said.

  “Not on my approval. I’ll convene the Executive Council, and we’ll discuss it.”

  “Don’t bother, Nikos, there’s no time. The others are already suiting up and checking suit provisions. I’ve got to join them.”

  “Are you deliberately defying me, Bartolomeo?”

  I sighed. “If that’s how you want to characterize it, Nikos. There’s no Executive Council Order. You want to give a Captain’s Order and force us to disobey it, that’s your choice. I’d advise against it.”

  I was glad we had the video link, because I wanted him to see my face, I wanted him to understand my determination. He gazed at me, hardly even blinking. He finally shook his head.

  “You’re such a bastard sometimes, Bartolomeo. You damn well better hope this isn’t the wrong decision.”

  “No matter what happens, it isn’t the wrong decision.”

  Nikos snorted. “You think not? Things are never that simple, Bartolomeo. You should know that better than most.” He paused, then leaned back in his chair. “Go, Bartolomeo. Go before they leave you behind.” With that, he disconnected the linkup, and the screen went gray.

  IT was something to see: all ten of us in pressure suits drifting in a long, irregular, ragged column, moving from room to room, along corridors and through vast, mysterious chambers in a slow-motion dance of shadow and light from the lanterns as the first person to pass each one turned it on, and the last person to go by turned it off. I was on point, and occasionally I stopped and turned around to watch the others moving toward me. I felt wonder, and even pride.

  We didn’t talk much on our way in—a few words now and again, and only when necessary: to direct the opening of a hatch or door, to check that another hatch was closed—tasks of that nature. But it was not a quiet from fear or tension; it came, I believe, from calm assurance and a sense of unity.

  Three hours into the ship we reached the area of gravity, and the drifting dance changed, steadied to a silent march through more regular shifting of the shadows. When we entered the circular chamber, we unloaded the equipment and supplies we’d brought with us—extra air, replacement food and water—then formed three teams. After we worked together to get the second door open, one team took that corridor, and the rest of us cautiously entered the room in which we’d found the old woman. Pär, Father Veronica, and I stayed in the room and more thoroughly searched through the old woman’s belongings, while the third team went through the open doorway at the far end and explored the area beyond.

  We found little in the old woman’s room. The open cubicle we’d seen the first time, and which we hadn’t been able to examine, housed a functioning toilet; above it was a basin with running water—presumably both hot and cold, since there were two different buttons, each of which produced a flow of water when pressed.

  In the right corner was a covered pad which must have served as a sleeping mat, two or three torn and filthy blankets, and several pieces of clothing as worn and dirty as the blankets—a pair of trousers, something that might have been a skirt, a couple of shirts. No underclothing.

  There were four metal bowls crusted with bits of dried matter. Food, probably. Scraps of colored paper, a pair of rubber sandals. An oxidized metal bracelet inside a wooden box.

  Father Veronica discovered a wall panel above the sleeping mat that opened to reveal a small cubbyhole filled with a jumble of objects. She carefully removed them one at a time, handing each to me after she had inspected it, while I in turn handed each to Pär.

  The first was a large, deep blue stone about the size of my thumb. The blue had depth, and embedded in it were opalescent swirls that seemed to undulate within the dark color around them. I held the stone a long time, mesmerized, before I finally broke out of my trance and handed it to Pär.

  Next came a pair of earrings with pale yellow beads and tiny silver butterflies. After that was a small, red-bound book not much larger than my hand; inside, all of the pages were blank except for a single ink drawing of an eye on the final page. Then there was a pink, egg-shaped candle that had never been used. Also, a thin flexible tube with a cap, but nothing to identify it; when I uncapped it and gently squeezed the tube, a dark blue substance oozed from it.

  The last thing Father Veronica removed from the cubbyhole was a cracked and curling photograph of a middle-aged woman with her arm around the shoulders of a much younger woman. The photograph appeared to have been taken at sea; an expanse of blue-green water stretched behind them, meeting a paler blue sky fluffed with bright white clouds. I couldn’t tell if they were standing on the deck of a boat, on a pier, or on a spit of land extending into the water from shore.

  “She looks like the old woman,” Pär said. All three of us were huddled around the picture, staring at it.

  “Which one?” Father Veronica asked.

  She was right. They both looked like younger versions of the old woman. It could have been a photograph of the old woman and her daughter, or the old woman and her mother. Or neither.

  “We can show it to her,” Father Veronica said. “Maybe it will help.” She carefully placed the photograph into one of her suit pockets.

  We returned the rest of the objects to the cubbyhole and moved on.

  THE results of our initial explorations were interesting, but unremarkable. The team exploring behind the stuck door discovered only an empty room shaped much like the old woman’s, and from there a passage that terminated at a blank wall. The other team had more luck, but not much more excitement. They found a functioning wall unit in the corridor beyond the old woman’s room that produced water and what appeared to be food. That corridor, in turn, led to a cluster of empty rooms lined with benches or sleeping platforms; each room in the cluster had another door, but the team had been unable to open any of them.

  When we’d been inside the ship for fifteen hours, I ordered all activities to cease. We needed rest, and a break from the disappointment of not finding any other survivors.

  IT felt like the dead of night. We were in the circular room, and most of us, at my insistence, were trying to sleep—I looked around at suited forms propped against the walls, lying face-up on the floor; Youngman was wedged in a doorway. Sleeping in the suits was difficult until exhaustion took over.

  I sat on the top step, facing the center of the lower level. My eyes were barely open, and I thought I might fall asleep in that position. Night. Arbitrary, but even the diffuse blue light seemed dimmer than usual, although I am sure it was my imagination.

  Movement brought me fully awake, but it was only Casterman getting up from his knees in the air lock, where he had been praying. He stepped over Youngman’s sleeping form in the doorway and came back into the room. For a few moments he stood motionless; then he opened one of his suit pockets, dug around in it, and pulled something out. In the dim light I couldn’t see what it was, and I wasn’t much interested.

  Casterman resumed walking, headed toward the center of the room. He descended the steps, took a few more paces, then stopped. He was not quite in the center of the lower level.

  “Bartolomeo,” he said.

  I looked at him, waiting, but he didn’t say anything more.

  “Try to get some sleep,” I eventually said.

  “I’ve been trying to pray. But I’m not making a connection. The link is broken.”

  I didn’t like the sound of his voice, or what he was saying. It sounded a little bit crazy. I pushed myself up to my feet.

  “Eric . . .”

  “You’ve never called me that,” he said. “Always Casterman.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. None of it does. I’ve made a different connection.”

  He took two more steps and stopped, standing directly in the center of the room. He looked at me, and I thought I could see him smile. He knelt and felt around on the floor with his free hand. It seemed he found what he was searching for, and pressed his fingers into the floor.


  Suddenly a bright silver light came on in the ceiling directly above him, bathing him in a radiant glow that cut through the dim blue fluorescence and made it all seem even that much darker around him. Now I could see what he held in his hand, could see light reflecting from the shiny metal blade of a large, long knife. He brought himself erect, staring up at the light.

  I thought he would try to use the knife on me, and I was afraid; I took a step toward him, anyway. But before I could take another, Casterman popped the seal of his helmet with his left hand, pried the helmet off, and tossed it aside. He was definitely smiling, a soft and gentle smile. Then he brought the knife up, tipped his head back, and drew the knife swiftly and deeply across his throat, crying out in surprise and pain.

  I rushed forward as he fell, blood already spurting from his neck, splattering his face and suit. He hit the floor hard and heavy, and I sprawled on my hands and knees beside him, slipping in the blood.

  “Help me!” I shouted, although I have no idea what I thought anyone could do.

  Blood was everywhere. His body convulsed. I could see the arterial pulsing, a tiny fountain shining in the light from above. I covered the fountain with my gloved fingers, knowing it was hopeless.

  My helmet filled with a babble of voices, but I tuned it all out; in the periphery of my vision there was chaotic activity, people scrambling all around the room.

  “Eric,” I said, forgetting he couldn’t hear me.

  The smile was gone, but his face was suffused with peace. He continued to shake and jerk under me. I knew he was dying, and he was dying quickly. Casterman himself knew he was dying, and he seemed to welcome it.

  The flow of blood had slowed, but didn’t cease; it was finding new pathways around my gloves, which could not seal the gaping wound.

  Then there were people all around me, hands pressing pieces of fabric and rubber patches into the blood. It was all so pointless, I wanted to knock the hands and arms away; but I kept my own hands on his neck, although I knew that was just as pointless.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see Father Veronica kneeling beside me. She didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything but look at me and squeeze my shoulder.

  I turned back to Casterman. His mouth opened, lips and jaw moving silently; I’m sure he was trying to speak. A rolling shudder worked its way through him; then something happened to his eyes—they locked hard on something far beyond me. They stayed that way for several long moments, then shifted away, life leaving them, and he went still.

  The light from above continued to shine.

  PART THREE

  Ship of Fools

  34

  I was one of eight pallbearers at Casterman’s funeral. The Mass was to be given by the bishop, with Father Veronica assisting. The cathedral was packed, every pew full and several rows of people standing in the back. Like Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, or Easter Mass.

  We carried the casket down the central aisle; it was large and heavy, burnished copper decorated with folds of rich black cloth and garlands of white ag-room flowers. The scent from the flowers was heavy and cloying. The casket had always seemed a strange part of the ritual to me, but as I gripped one of the handles I thought I understood it a little more. It was one of half a dozen reusable caskets of different sizes. After the funeral, Casterman’s body would be removed from the casket, interred in a much smaller, cramped metal canister, then expulsed from the ship into deep space. Cremation had become more common in recent years as the supply of canisters dwindled and the material to manufacture replacements became more difficult to obtain, but the Church still frowned on it, particularly for its own.

  We carried the casket to the front of the cathedral, up two steps, and set it on the catafalque. Then we walked over to the pew on the side that had been reserved for us.

  Nikos was one of the other pallbearers; he sat beside me, then leaned into my shoulder and whispered.

  “You still think staying was the right decision?”

  I didn’t answer. I had not stopped asking that question of myself since I knelt beside Casterman with his blood and life flowing all around me. I did not need Nikos to ask me the same damn question.

  Bishop Soldano stood at the pulpit and spoke, his voice little more than a drone. I didn’t listen to him. I hardly even saw him. What I saw much more vividly were Casterman’s eyes and mouth, both open to me, yet beyond help or understanding.

  “Sorry,” Nikos said quietly. “That wasn’t fair.”

  I still didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure where I stood with Nikos; I wasn’t even sure I knew where I wanted to stand with him. We’d managed an uneasy truce of sorts since our talk in the Wasteland, but I couldn’t say that we had made any progress restoring our old relationship. Maybe that was just as well.

  I looked at Father Veronica standing motionless behind the bishop, her expression steady and unblinking and ultimately impossible to decipher. I found no comfort in it.

  Nikos put his hand on my shoulder, a surprising gesture for him. “It’ll be all right.”

  I didn’t look at him. I stared forward, wondering if I could stand to remain through the entire Mass.

  “SHE can’t see us,” Taggart said.

  “No kidding. Her eyes are closed,” I pointed out to him.

  He sighed. “Even if they weren’t, she still couldn’t see us.”

  I was looking at the old woman through a large observation window of one-way glass. There were also three concealed cameras in the room, and their images were displayed on monitors above the window. The old woman was sleeping on a bed in one of the med center rooms, curled in a fetal position, mouth slightly open.

  “She always sleeps like that,” Taggart said. “As if she’s holding herself together.”

  The old woman had been aboard the Argonos for five days now. She was still hooked up to IVs, and monitoring strips were taped across her forehead and arms. Every time she’d been given solid food, she’d refused to eat. On the other hand, she drank all the juices offered to her, and appeared to plead for more.

  “She whimpers when she sleeps,” Taggart added. “Sometimes she cries out. When she’s awake she speaks gibberish. She doesn’t appear to understand a word we say to her.”

  “Are you sure it’s not just another language?”

  “Of course we’re not sure. We’ve tried as many languages as we can find speakers on this ship, which isn’t that many, to be honest. Some languages have been lost over the centuries. Toller’s been dredging up old texts in any language he can find, and he reads a few lines to her to see if we get some reaction. So far . . . nothing.” Taggart shrugged. “Whatever she’s speaking doesn’t sound like another language to anyone who’s heard her.”

  “Maybe it’s alien language,” I suggested half seriously.

  “Yes, and maybe it’s just gibberish. Think about it. She’s been through extreme deprivations—social, nutritional, psychological, maybe even sensory. And for an unknown period of time. Years, most likely. I would guess that would turn most people’s minds into mush.”

  “That’s what you think has happened to her?” I asked.

  “That’s what I think. Severe psychological trauma. You should talk to Dr. G. about it. That’s her area of expertise.”

  I don’t know why I was giving Taggart such a hard time about his evaluation of the old woman. I agreed with his assessment, but I hoped that, given time, the woman would become more secure and comfortable here on the Argonos, her mind would come back to her, and we might actually begin to communicate. I told Taggart as much, but he didn’t respond, and I realized he was annoyed with me.

  “Physically, how is she doing?” I asked.

  “All right. Getting better slowly. Remarkably strong heart. She was terribly undernourished, but her lytes showed she wasn’t too badly malnourished, if you see the distinction.”

  “I do. That glop she was living on must have been well-formulated.”

  Taggart nodded.

 
“I’ll check in with you once a day or so. You’ll let me know if there are any major changes?”

  “I will.”

  I started to leave, and had just opened the door when Taggart said, “Bartolomeo?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think she’s ever going to get better. Mentally. I don’t think she’s ever going to recover from what she’s been through.”

  I took another glance at the woman, who was still holding herself tightly, and I remembered the way she’d wept as I held her. “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

  35

  THE dwarf and I roamed one of the lowest levels of the ship, quietly drunk. Pär smiled crookedly and cast furtive, sidelong glances at me; my limp had become more pronounced and almost out of control—occasionally I crashed against the corridor wall, cursing, and rebounded, losing my balance. The motorized exoskeleton caused the problem, exaggerating each slight misstep or drunken shift of balance.

  We had spent two hours in Pär’s room drinking the harsh and bitter liquor he claimed was Scotch whiskey. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to blot out the recurring images of Casterman’s blood splattering away from his face and neck and across my helmet, his eyes so calm and peaceful as if leaving his life behind was a great relief. Pär was trying to help us both forget.

  I stopped, put a hand against the metal corridor wall to steady myself, and glanced down at the dwarf.

  “Never again,” I said to him.

  Pär just laughed.

  “How much farther?” I asked.

  “Not much,” Pär replied.

  “Stop grinning.”

  Pär’s smile widened, and he turned away and started off again along the corridor. I followed.

  WE dropped one more level, and everything seemed to change: the air was muggy and stagnant, and stank of overcooked ersatz meat; the corridor walls were streaked with soot and paint; a thumping bass beat seemed to come from all directions, or no direction. Farther on, a wide doorway on the left opened into a bistro where a trio of mad-rock musicians played to a dozen tables of diners and drinkers. The atonal squeals hurt my ears as we hurried past.