The old woman closed her eyes and trembled. “Found,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.
“My name’s Glienna. What’s yours?”
The woman hesitated for a long time, then finally opened her eyes and looked at Dr. G. “Sarah.”
“Sarah.” I saw Dr. G. glance at the woman’s arm tattoo, thinking along the same lines I had. “Sarah what?”
But as Taggart had said, the woman didn’t seem to understand the question.
“Sarah,” she repeated. Then: “How . . .” She stopped, grimaced. “How . . . how long have I been . . . ?” She could not quite finish the question.
“We found you three weeks ago.”
“Weeks?” As if she didn’t understand the word.
“Twenty-one days.”
“How. . .how long was. . . was I. . . how. . . other ship?”
“We don’t know,” Dr. G. said. “We have no idea.”
“They . . . they rescued us,” Sarah said, trembling again. “They rescued us, then . . . then . . . died. They died.”
“Who rescued you, Sarah?”
Again, she either didn’t understand the question, or ignored it. Instead, she shook her head slowly, making a faint, keening sound.
“We were on . . . Antioch,” she eventually said. “Oh . . . God . . . all the . . . all the killing . . . the bodies, bodies hanging . . . we couldn’t . . . couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t get away, madmen . . . slaughtering us . . . slaughtering . . .” She was becoming more agitated, clawing again at the blanket. “. . . men monsters, they were men and women they were . . . madmen . . . madmen killing us. . . .”
She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them she looked up toward the ceiling. “They came . . . they came. Then they rescued us . . . who were left, who were . . . took us onto their ship and . . .” She paused. “I . . . they . . . they saved us.”
“Who rescued you, Sarah?”
She made a sound like a strangled laugh. “They did. Then . . . then something happened . . . happened to them and they died, leaving us all alone.”
“How many of you were there?” Dr. G. asked. “Are there others still alive on the ship?”
Sarah didn’t answer. She held up her hand and studied it, turning it slowly. “I was . . . young, then.” Her voice was soft, sad. “I’m old . . . old.” Then she turned back to Dr. G., reached out with the hand she’d been studying, and gently touched Dr. G.’s hand. “I want to die now.”
She lay back, closing her eyes once again. Dr. G. took Sarah’s hand in her own, then sat on the bed next to her.
“No,” she whispered. “You’re safe now, Sarah, you’re . . .”
“I want to die now,” Sarah repeated.
Taggart stopped the video. “That’s the last thing she said. She’s opened her eyes a couple of times, sat up once crying out, but not another word. Dr. G. has tried talking to her, but she hasn’t responded in a long time.” He shrugged. “Hopefully there’ll be more later.”
Nikos looked at me. “Your thoughts, Bartolomeo.”
“She was there. And it sounds like it happened a long time ago.”
“Yes, but what about other survivors? Do you think there are others still alive?”
“You saw the same thing I did, Nikos. She couldn’t answer. Or wouldn’t. If I had to guess, I’d say no. I’d say she was it.”
He nodded. “I have the same feeling.” He turned to Taggart. “I think we should keep this to ourselves for now, until she talks some more. Until we have something more definite. Okay?”
“Whatever you say, Captain.”
“Bartolomeo?”
“Absolutely.”
“Taggart, you’ll tell Dr. G.?”
Taggart nodded. “She’ll understand. She won’t want anyone bothering the old woman anyway.”
“The next time she talks, you inform only Bartolomeo or me, understand?”
“I understand.”
Nikos and I left the observation room together. As we walked along the corridor, he said to me, “What else do you think, Bartolomeo?”
“Nothing, really. I don’t see how it changes anything. Survivors or not, we can’t leave that ship behind.”
“Her story of being rescued might defuse the bishop’s ranting about a malevolent ship out to kill us.”
“But the probability of no survivors might also erode some of the more fragile support we have. I think it’s too risky. I think we should do just what we’re doing. Keep it quiet.”
Nikos nodded. “Agreed, then. We keep this to ourselves.”
44
THE face on my cabin’s video screen was familiar, but I couldn’t remember who she was. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I was still more than half asleep; pieces of a dream still floated through me—amorphous, phantom aliens drifting above me in a huge, spherical chamber while I hung onto a slippery metal ring for support; I was not wearing a pressure suit and I was holding my breath.
I rubbed at my eyes, switched on low light and the camera, and mumbled something incoherent even to me.
“I’m sorry about waking you,” the woman said.
“I know you,” I said, “but . . .”
“Catherine. Francis’s sister.”
It still took me a few moments, until I remembered talking to her in the ag room. I nodded. Then, realizing what time it was, I said, “Has something happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. He asked me to contact you if he wasn’t back in forty-eight hours. It’s been almost that long, and he’s not back.”
“Back from where?” I had a sick feeling I knew what she was going to say.
“The alien ship.”
I was completely awake now, though I still felt a buzzing through my limbs from being dragged out of deep sleep.
“You let him go?”
Catherine shook her head in disgust. “Come off it, Bartolomeo. You’ve met Francis. He decides to do something, who’s going to stop him?”
She had a point, and I admitted as much. “So it’s been two days since he went.”
“Nearly. I just can’t stop worrying about him. He’s pretty self-sufficient, but it’s been a long time.”
“Try not to worry too much,” I told her. “Forty-eight hours isn’t really that long. He doesn’t know the ship, and it would take a long time for him to make his way to the end of the explored areas, which is what I’d guess he would do. He’s probably just working his way back now.”
“How long are we supposed to wait?”
“I’m not going to wait,” I assured her. “I’ll suit up right now and get over there.”
“I want to go with you.”
I shook my head. “That would just slow me down. I know that damn ship inside and out. Or that part of it, anyway.”
“What if something’s happened to him? What if you need help?”
“Then I’ll call for help. But I’ll be able to get to him a lot faster on my own.”
“Okay. Call me as soon as you know anything. Promise me that.”
“I promise.”
She gave me her com code. Her concern for Francis surprised me; the last time I’d talked to her I didn’t get the impression they were very close. I was glad for Francis that she obviously did care so much for him.
“If anything’s happened to him . . .”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It doesn’t do any good.” It also wouldn’t do any good to tell her not to worry, but I had to say it.
“Is it true, what we’ve heard?”
“What?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“That we’ve actually docked with the alien ship, and that we’re taking it with us?”
“Yes, it’s true. Or mostly true. Nothing final has been decided yet.”
“You people in charge of this ship are all crazy, you know that?”
“Why?”
“You figure it out, Bartolomeo. You’re supposed to be so intelligent. But obviously you can’t.” Sh
e paused. “You’re risking the lives of thousands of people. And for what? The trophy of an alien ship.”
“It may be the greatest discovery mankind has ever made.”
“It may be the last discovery the Argonos ever makes.” She sighed heavily, resigned. “Just find my brother, Bartolomeo. Please.”
“I will.”
AN hour and a half later I was back at the air lock entrance to the alien starship. When the hatch slid open, I was not surprised to find the lamp on inside.
I pulled myself into the air lock and spoke over the open channel. “Francis? Are you in here? It’s Bartolomeo.”
No response. I didn’t even hear breathing, but he could have closed the channel.
I didn’t move for a long time, just hung there in the air lock, unwilling to close the hatch behind me so I could open the interior door and continue. I didn’t understand why, but I did not want to have to do this; I did not want to work my way through all those rooms and passages. Maybe I was simply afraid of finding Francis dead in one of them. But it seemed more than that. Something like Father Veronica’s nameless dread. All of my excitement and enthusiasm for exploring the alien ship was gone, replaced by disquiet and exhaustion. I wanted nothing more than to turn around, return to the Argonos, and go back to sleep.
But I couldn’t. I finally turned the handle and watched the hatch close, cutting off the stars.
I worked my way quickly through the explored areas, following Francis’s progress by the lights that were on in the rooms and corridors. Either he’d known the most direct route to the farthermost rooms, or he’d turned off the lights in the dead ends after he’d backtracked.
After a short time, I slowed a little. Not by choice, but because the dread returned and seemed to drag on my limbs, although I was still in zero gravity. Damn him. I moved slowly but steadily from room to room, passage to passage. As I continued, I periodically called out Francis’s name, but never got a response. If not for the lights, I would have believed there was no one in the ship.
It took me two hours to reach the section with Earth-normal gravity and atmosphere. I was already sweating, and it got worse; in normal gravity, I was working harder just to move.
I found Francis in the circular blue-lit room. He was sitting on the steps holding his head in his hands; his pressure suit lay on the floor halfway across the room. He heard me come through the doorway and looked up.
The blue light was dim, but I could see the haunted look in his eyes. Something was terribly wrong. I wasn’t sure he knew where he was.
“Francis.” Then I realized he couldn’t hear me and switched on the external speakers. “Francis, it’s Bartolomeo.”
He didn’t respond. His expression didn’t change.
“Francis, put your suit back on. We don’t know what’s in this air.” I spoke gently, afraid to spook him.
His mouth turned up slightly and he said, “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
I started toward him. “Put it on, Francis.”
“I needed air,” he said.
“You’ve got air in the suit,” I said.
“I needed air,” he repeated.
I sat beside him. “What happened, Francis?”
He turned to me, his expression still haunted. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Your sister called me.”
“Oh. It’s been that long?”
“It has. Francis, what happened?”
He buried his head in his hands again. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand.
“What did you say?”
He raised his head and without looking at me said, “Go see for yourself.”
“Where?”
“Past the place you people got stuck. One of the doors just opened when I tried it. A couple more empty rooms, then an air lock.” He breathed in deeply, then slowly exhaled. “Be careful. You lose air and heat and gravity all over again.”
I was afraid to leave him alone, but I had to go see. Besides, I told myself, he’d been alone here for hours, and he was still alive.
“I’ll be right back,” I told him.
I stood waiting in the air lock, weightless and unsure, reluctant to work the bar in the wall which would open the door. What had Francis seen? I was afraid to find out.
I had a single lantern with me. After breathing deeply once, then again, I reached forward and grabbed the bar. I pulled and turned it, and the door slid open.
A short empty passage that angled to the right. I pulled myself into it, drifted along until I reached the angle. Ten meters farther on, the passage ended, opening up into darkness. I moved slowly forward and stopped at the opening.
I held up the lantern, but its dim light did not penetrate deeply into the darkness beyond. I had the sense of an immense room, but that was all. I maximized the lantern’s brightness, and the light radiated somewhat farther, but only revealed that the room was even larger than I’d thought. Something like a strange, frozen mist seemed to swallow the light from the lantern.
I held the lantern out past the opening to confirm there was no gravity. The lantern remained weightless in my hand, but as an extra precaution I released it. It hung in the air before me, turning slightly. No gravity. I put my head into the room, looked around the opening, and saw only walls that extended beyond the reach of the lantern light; no floor or ceiling was yet visible. I took hold of the doorway and pulled myself into the room.
I hung there in front of the opening, searching the emptiness before and above and below me. Nothing happened, nothing changed. But I knew there was something out there. I breathed very deeply once, set my boot against the wall behind me, and kicked off into the gloom.
As I moved forward, a deep blue luminescence slowly bloomed, filling the open space as if my entrance had triggered it. The strange mist itself seemed to glow with the blue light, revealing this place at last. The room was enormous, a vast artificial cavern whose dimensions were still unclear. The light continued to grow, then stabilized, slightly brighter than the blue-lit room where Casterman had killed himself, and where Francis now waited for me. Like the Argonos corridors at night. As my eyes adjusted to the light, and as I continued to drift steadily across that huge cavern, I finally saw on the distant wall what Francis had seen.
Bodies. Human bodies. Men and women and children naked, blue and gray and dusted with ice crystals twinkling in the faint light, the bodies impaled on hooks like the skeletons of the dead infants back on Antioch.
Rows of them on the far wall, row after row both rising and descending until I could no longer see them in either direction. Thousands of mutilated corpses preserved in this cold dark chamber for who knew how many years, how many decades. Preserved for what purpose? Why would they let us discover this? Why now?
I drifted closer, paralyzed, unable to think, unable to stop myself, unable to look away. The bodies stared back at me with open, frozen eyes glittering with a false life. Drawing me to them.
Vicious metal spikes protruded from broken ribs and ragged flesh. Other wounds decorated their bodies, their faces: bloodless gashes, deep holes rimmed with scorched and blackened skin, blossoms of deep blue-black and purple, broken limbs and broken fingers with jagged bone visible in the open wounds, torn and shadowed sockets that had once held eyes.
Still closer, still paralyzed. I felt pulled to them by my own horror.
Finally, when I was no more than a few meters from the nearest body, I found I could move again. But it was too late; I could not stop my momentum. I fumbled for the suit jets, but couldn’t locate the controls and drifted toward the corpse of a man with flesh more bruised than not and a broken jaw twisted unnaturally to the side.
I panicked. I kicked out, I flailed with my arms, desperate to get away. The corpse’s hand seemed to reach for me and I kicked again, making contact with its leg and sending myself at last back across the metal cavern.
Terrified and disoriented, I tumbled slowly across the deep blue abyss, the
endless wall of tortured bodies flipping in and out of my vision. I may not have believed in God, but in those interminable moments I believed in Hell.
I made contact, stopped tumbling, and scrabbled for purchase on the wall just above the opening through which I’d entered. Trembling, I managed to hold myself against it, facing the smooth dark metal. I closed my eyes and didn’t move for a long time. I was sick and dizzy.
And then, against my will, I slowly turned around to again face the horror of those innumerable mutilated bodies. I stared, and did not turn away for a long, long time. It was as if I felt an obligation, to them and to myself, to witness this, and to sear their images into my mind so I would never forget.
I dragged myself back into the air lock, shaking violently, barely able to control my own hands. Somehow I managed to work the wheel and the door sealed shut. My breathing was way too fast and irregular and I tried to slow it, concentrate on each breath, control it . . . control it. . . .
I needed gravity. I pushed myself across the air lock, worked the other door, then pulled myself into the short corridor and back into normal gravity. I sealed the air lock door, then lay down on the corridor floor and stared up at the ceiling.
My breath was still ragged and loud, and I was feeling hot again. A clammy sweat broke out all over my body in places that didn’t normally perspire—forearms, thighs, knees, every inch of skin, it seemed. I understood why Francis had taken off his suit.
There was something wrong here, terribly wrong. I thought about what the old woman had implied, that this ship, the aliens on this ship, had rescued her and others from Antioch where they were being slaughtered. They may have rescued them, and they may have kept her alive, but the aliens had surely killed all these others.
What had happened here?
I had to get out. We had to get out.
I pushed myself to my feet and staggered back to the blue-lit room. Francis was where I’d left him. He looked at me as I came through the doorway.
“You saw?”
“I saw. Get your suit on. We’re going back.”
“Was it this bad on Antioch?”
“No,” I said.
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