Richard Russo

by Ship of Fools

  “God’s own guilt,” she said, but so quietly I wasn’t certain I’d heard her correctly. I tried to understand what she meant, but she began to speak again as if she hadn’t yet said anything, ignoring her own initial response.

  “He was speaking to us. God. He sacrificed His Son, Himself. Became us. Died like us. And resurrected Himself to show us the way. One final, ultimate attempt to help us in our lives to make the right choices. And to show us He will forgive us when we don’t.”

  That I could understand somewhat, but I was more intrigued by her first response. “What did you mean by ‘God’s own guilt’?”

  “I’d hoped you hadn’t heard me. I don’t talk about that, certainly not with anyone in the Church.” She hesitated, then went on. “It’s an idea I have about Jesus and the Crucifixion. I wouldn’t call it a belief. Another subtext to the Crucifixion.” I could hear her take a long, deep breath, then slowly release it. “He created us. He gave us true free will. Therefore He is in some real way ultimately responsible for the suffering we inflict upon one another. He has His own guilt. And sacrificing His Son, Himself, was a way to help expiate that guilt.”

  Suddenly the stained glass image before us went dark. Everything else remained—the stars, the faint lights scattered about the hull, Father Veronica’s dim contours beside me.

  “Someone’s entered the cathedral,” she said. “The lights are set to go out when anyone enters. They’re far too bright, and would cause optical damage.”

  “Perhaps we should go in,” I suggested.

  She didn’t immediately reply. “One more thing,” she eventually said.

  There was something in her voice that caused my stomach to tighten, and I was suddenly afraid, although I didn’t know of what. I didn’t say a thing, I just waited.

  “I know how you feel about me, Bartolomeo. I’m not naive, and I’m not oblivious.” There was a slight pause. “Unless I’ve completely misread you.”

  I knew she would not go on unless I replied.

  “No, you haven’t misread me.”

  “It’s all right, Bartolomeo. I like you, and I admire you. I take it as a great compliment. We both know nothing could ever come of it . . .” Her voice trailed off, unsure. “I just wanted you to know that I know.”

  There was a long and tense silence between us. I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ve distressed you,” she said.

  “No.” We both knew I was lying.

  “We should go in,” she said.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  We activated our suit jets and headed toward a ship that now seemed dark and empty.

  I was despondent. I kept telling myself it was absurd, that I had never expected anything to “come of it,” as she put it. I’d always known the way it was.

  So why did I now feel so bleak?

  I knocked myself out with sleep tabs, and hoped I would feel better when I woke.

  41

  THEArgonos closed with the alien ship. Four days of slow but steady approach, then we stopped several kilometers away and maintained that distance. We waited another two days to see if there would be any response from the alien ship, although no one, except perhaps the bishop, expected anything. There was nothing; it remained just as dead as it had always been.

  Work began on the docking mechanism. There were two crews, one working on each vessel. Progress was slower on the alien ship, because the crews exercised extreme caution—when anything was burned into the ship’s hull, or welded to it, initial roughwork was done by remotes; there were long delays between phases while we waited to make sure nothing untoward would happen. The work was tense and tedious, but there were no accidents, no injuries or deaths.

  Toller and Maria Vegas began their search through the Church archives. No one else was allowed access to the archives, and they promised to immediately report any discoveries of interest. As the days passed, we heard nothing from them.

  Life on the Argonos returned to normal routine. There was nothing for me to do. All further exploration of the alien starship, though it could now be undertaken much more easily, was suspended until the actual docking took place.

  I checked on the old woman, but she was still in shock, unable to speak. Leona’s condition, too, remained unchanged. Pär was occupied with a new coffee harvest. Nikos had gone on retreat to one of the nature rooms with Aiyana. I avoided Father Veronica.

  Violating ship orders, I suited up and made the short trip across to the alien ship. I worked my away along the hull to the air lock entrance I had gone through so many times, and which hadn’t been used since I’d taken the bishop there. After I turned the handle and the hatch slid open, I moved across the entrance but did not go in. I drifted just outside, contemplating the dark interior.

  It seemed like a different place already, as if we had already turned it over to the scientific teams of some advanced society in a star system we might never discover, or might never reach. As if we had abandoned it.

  I still felt a twinge of fear as I looked into the darkness; an air of mystery, too, still emanated from it, vaguely threatening—I thought I could feel a subtle yet persistent force tugging at me, pulling me inside. I nearly succumbed.

  Were there other people alive in there, waiting for rescue? Unlikely, I thought, but it was possible. Yet I did not dare propose further exploration, another “rescue mission.” I couldn’t risk opinion turning against me; we could not leave this ship behind.

  FOR days I stayed away from the cathedral. I felt embarrassed and guilty. At the same time, I was afraid of losing the friendship Father Veronica and I did have, and the longer I avoided her, the more likely it seemed that would happen.

  On Sunday I went to early Mass, but there was no sign of her. The bishop said Mass, with Father George assisting; Father Archibald gave the sermon, but I didn’t register a word of it. At the midday Mass, it was the same. This time I waited for everyone to leave, hoping to speak to Father George alone.

  It was the bishop who remained. When everyone else had gone, he walked down the center aisle and sat two pews in front of me, body twisted around so he could face me as we talked.

  “She’s not here, Bartolomeo. She won’t be for some time.”

  She had disappeared after all.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

  “No,” I said.

  He nodded. “You know, then.”

  I shrugged.

  “She’s a complex woman,” the bishop said. “A complex priest, for that matter. Sometimes she thinks too much.”

  “Better than not thinking enough,” I said.

  He smiled at that. “You’re arrogant, Bartolomeo.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Oh, I am. Very arrogant. I readily admit it. I try to account for it. I don’t think you do.”

  I got up to leave.

  “Don’t go yet, Bartolomeo.”

  “Why not? We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Of course we do. Father Veronica.”

  I shook my head. “I have nothing to say to you about her.”

  The bishop chuckled. “So sensitive, Bartolomeo. One would almost think . . .” He let his voice trail off, as if expecting me to respond. I didn’t.

  “She will make a great bishop when the time comes,” he said. “A better one than I.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because, as you pointed out some days ago, I do not believe in God. She does.”

  “If you don’t believe, why are you so opposed to bringing the alien ship with us?”

  “Because I do believe in Evil, which is what that ship is.” He paused. “We did not discover that ship by accident.”

  “I know that.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Nikos told you?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Especially now. We have been led into this trap, and we’re staying in it. We’ve had warnings, opportunities to escape, but now we’re about to spring it shut on o
urselves.”

  I shook my head, exasperated. “There is no trap, Bishop. There is only fear of the unknown, and paranoia.”

  He shrugged in resignation. “Nothing to be done, then.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to be bishop?”

  “Veronica? She’ll have no choice.” He smiled again. “But that’s a long time away.” He stood. “All right, Bartolomeo. Go. You’re probably right, we have nothing to talk about. More in common than you realize, but it means nothing.” He waved a hand at me in dismissal. “On your way.”

  42

  PÄR and I watched the docking from the back of the amphitheater; most of the five hundred seats were occupied, and another two hundred people stood in the aisles or off to the side. Thirty or forty teens congregated in small groups, and some of the adults had brought their young children with them to watch.

  The main screen showed the view from a camera on one of the maintenance modules which had gone out several hundred meters from the two ships, providing the best overall view of the entire procedure. In the corners were smaller screens showing video images from other cameras, all of them closer, including one set right next to the docking mechanism on the Argonos so that we could watch the alien ship coming slowly but inexorably toward us—I was glad that picture wasn’t on the main screen.

  “I sense an anticlimax approaching,” said Pär.

  I nodded. “Why is that?”

  “It’s not real. It might as well be a story film. We know it’s real, but that’s intellectual. It feels staged. For most of these people, nothing outside this ship is real.”

  All of the images stopped moving; only an occasional flicker of light gave evidence that the transmission hadn’t frozen. The two ships maintained their distance, the docking mechanisms fewer than ten meters apart.

  Guide cylinders emerged from the Argonos and telescoped toward the alien ship. Just before contact, they were positioned to enter corresponding shafts. The Argonos began to slowly move again.

  We felt the brief, muted jolt. A caption flashed on the screen: DOCKING COMPLETE. Someone applauded, and another dozen or so joined in halfheartedly.

  “What did I tell you?” Pär said. “These people have no idea what this means to them.” He turned to me. “They have no idea it means the end of their way of life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we find human civilization again and take this alien ship there, the mission of the Argonos will be finished. No, not finished . . . that implies completion. This mission, whatever the hell it is, or was supposed to be, will end. We won’t continue on afterward. We’ll all leave this ship, and never set foot in it again.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but Pär was right. I reflected on it as we watched the people drifting out of the amphitheater. The screens went dead. Someone, probably one of the teenagers, threw something at the main screen; red and brown splattered across the gray surface.

  “It will be good for us,” I said.

  “I doubt the bishop would agree,” Pär replied.

  I nodded. If the bishop had considered these implications, it would help explain his opposition.

  “None of this will matter, though, if we can’t figure out where to go,” I said. “I’m going to see Toller.”

  TOLLER hadn’t been this happy in years.

  I was not allowed into the archives. Instead, a cleric asked me to wait in an anteroom while she went to get Toller. The room was small, furnished only with two chairs; the walls were bare. I had the feeling it was rarely used.

  When the cleric escorted Toller into the anteroom, the old man gave off an aura of contentment and well-being. The cleric withdrew, the door sealing behind her. Toller clasped my shoulder, shaking his head with a smile.

  “You should see the archives, Bartolomeo. They are incredible.”

  “Believe me, August, I’d like to see them.”

  “I know, it’s crazy. Does anyone really think you’d steal or harm anything?”

  “The bishop, apparently.”

  “The books, Bartolomeo . . . there are thousands of bound folios in the History. Beautiful workmanship, quality materials . . .”

  “That’s fine, August, but what about what’s written in them?”

  “That, too, is incredible. Not so much the prose itself, which is sometimes awkward and pedestrian, but the content . . . the detail and texture . . .”

  I was becoming impatient. “What about what we’re looking for?”

  Toller shook his head. “Nothing yet, Bartolomeo. It’s so slow-going. All of it is handwritten, none of it is recorded in any other media, so it’s impossible to do a computer search. I’ve asked the bishop if we could scan the records into the computers, but he refused.” He shrugged. “We can only push him so far.”

  I shouldn’t have expected this to be easy; I was beginning to realize it could take weeks, or months, to find what we were looking for. I knew we didn’t have that kind of time—people on the Planning Committee would grow impatient, support for my proposal would wane, and eventually the decision would be made to undock from the alien ship and resume our travels in the same manner we’d been traveling for decades.

  “We’re working our way back from the time of the Repudiation,” Toller said.

  “Why start there? Why not start at the beginning?”

  He smiled. “You forget, Bartolomeo. The bishop claims there is no beginning. According to him, the Church’s History goes back forever. We have no choice but to work backwards. What else should we do? Pick out volumes at random? Ask for one from three hundred and fifty years ago? Five hundred? Any other approach would be arbitrary. This is the best way. We won’t miss anything.”

  “Try to hurry it up, August. Skim the damn things.”

  “We are, Bartolomeo. Maria and I are working in shifts, and most of our shifts overlap. We’re not getting much sleep.” He grinned. “But it’s wonderful. It’s difficult not to get caught up in the archives, not to get lost. . . . We are historians. But we’re working through them as fast as we can.” He sighed, frowned. “There may not be anything there, Bartolomeo.”

  “It’s there, August. Somewhere in all those beautiful folios of yours is the information we want.”

  The cleric returned. “Mr. Aguilera?”

  “Yes?”

  “A call for you. From Mr. Taggart.”

  “All right.” I turned back to Toller. “Find it, August.”

  He nodded. We left the anteroom through the same door, but Toller went down the connecting corridor to the right while the cleric led me off to the left and a communications station. Taggart’s face was on the screen.

  “Bartolomeo,” he said, “I’ve been trying to find you for half an hour.” His face was flushed. “You’ll want to get up here. She’s talking.”

  “The old woman?”

  “Yes. In English.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  43

  BY the time I got to the med center, the woman had lapsed into incoherence. Dr. G. was with her. Nikos was already in the observation room with Taggart, and the three of us stood side by side, watching the two women through the one-way glass. The old woman lay on the bed, trembling slightly; Dr. G. was seated beside her, holding the woman’s gnarled hand. The old woman whimpered through dry, cracked lips.

  “It’s all right, Sarah,” Dr. G. said, her voice soft and comforting. “Nothing can hurt you here.”

  “Sarah?” I said to Taggart.

  He nodded. “She said her name was Sarah.”

  I remembered the letters tattooed onto her arm—S.C. “Sarah what?”

  Taggart shrugged. “She didn’t say. Or couldn’t. Dr. G. asked the same question, but she didn’t seem to understand.”

  We watched the old woman, listening, but nothing changed. Nikos appeared rested and at ease, more so than he had in a long time. I wondered if he’d quit drinking.

  After five minutes without change, Taggart nodded toward the glass. “It lo
oks like we won’t get any more for a while. You can watch the recording of what you missed.” He shook his head. “It was something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll let you see for yourself.” Taggart crossed the room to his console.

  The old woman’s eyes were closed now, but her hand still gripped Dr. G.’s: a pale, shaking claw that would not let go. Dr. G. adjusted her position, prepared to stay a while. The woman’s face seemed to relax.

  A monitor came to life above the one-way glass. The image jumped, then settled and the recording began to play. Dr. G. was seated in the chair beside the bed, and appeared to be dozing. The old woman lay on the bed with her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. The only sounds at first were of breathing.

  The old woman’s eyes widened; then she sat upright and croaked out, very distinctly, “Help me!” Her fingers clawed at the blanket. “Help . . . ahhhh . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Dr. G. had jerked awake at the woman’s cry and now rose. She stepped to the bed, cautious, as the woman turned to look at her. “It’s all right,” Dr. G. said. “You’re safe here.”

  “Safe?”

  “Yes, you’re safe now. No one will hurt you.” She reached out to her patient, but the woman flinched and Dr. G. pulled her hand back. “Safe.”

  The woman looked around the room, her head movements stilted. When her attention returned to Dr. G., she stared at the psychologist for a long time, hardly blinking.

  “You understand me?” Dr. G. asked.

  The woman hesitated, then said, “Ye-e-esss . . .” Drawing it out.

  “You didn’t speak when we found you.”

  “Where . . . ?” the woman said. “Where am . . . ?”

  “You’re on the Argonos,” Dr. G. answered.

  “Ar . . . go . . . nos.” Then: “What . . . Argonos?”

  “It’s a starship. We found you on board another ship.”