Richard Russo

by Ship of Fools

  Nikos slapped the command channel open. “Kirilen! What’s going on?”

  “Don’t know, sir,” a man’s voice replied. “We’ve lost control of them. They’re not responding to any commands.”

  The remotes continued to disperse, tumbling farther from the two ships, growing smaller and smaller. Mechanical diaspora.

  “Are you still trying, Kirilen?” Nikos asked.

  “Still trying. Still nothing, sir. We’ve lost them.”

  The remotes were gone from our view; tiny images still appeared on the monitors, but even those were shrinking rapidly.

  “Kirilen.”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  A series of small, bright flashes sparked in the black sky above us.

  “Explosives have detonated, sir,” Kirilen announced. “All of them. They’re all gone.”

  Nothing left. Nothing. The monitors showed nothing except two untouched starships.

  Cardenas shrugged. “Yes, Captain, three or four. Zero didn’t quite get it done.”

  THERE was still no activity from the alien ship. Over the next several hours, preparations were made to launch guided missiles at the docking mechanism, which included evacuating the three most forward levels.

  Again, we observed the attack from the command salon, although this time, since the missiles would be launched from the opposite side of the Argonos, we watched on the monitors.

  Nikos gave the order. The missiles were launched, blasting out from cylinders in the stern and initially heading away from the ship. Then they altered course, sweeping around and heading straight for our bow and the docking mechanism.

  As with the remotes, the guidance systems failed long before the missiles reached their target. Attitude jets fired randomly, sending the missiles weaving in all directions. Three missed the ships entirely, but several actually struck the Argonos, although nowhere near the docking mechanism, and rebounded from the ship; fortunately, none of the warheads detonated.

  The last missile, purely by accident I am certain, actually continued directly toward the bow of the Argonos, very near the docking mechanism.

  “Detonate!” Nikos shouted over the command channel. “Detonate that warhead!”

  Five seconds . . . No response.

  “Detonate!”

  Ten seconds.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  The missile struck the ship at a shallow angle, but without detonating; it caromed away and joined the others, tumbling into space where they all quickly disappeared from sight and eventually could not be detected at all.

  STILL, nothing from the alien ship. I thought about what Father Veronica had suggested in the Wasteland, and I could understand how an argument might be made that the aliens (or, I suppose, the alien ship’s systems, in an automated response mode), were taking only defensive actions, and that their lack of any other overt action was an indication that they meant us no harm.

  But I had seen all those bodies in their ship, the frozen and mutilated corpses, along with all those on Antioch, and I knew the aliens were responsible for them. I’d also seen that old woman who was clearly not an old woman, and I knew. I had made mistakes, and I had been wrong about any number of things, but I was not wrong about this. We might not understand what they were doing, or why they had not yet made an overt attack or attempt to board us, but I knew it was only a matter of time. They would come after us—in stealth or in a frontal attack, singly or in hordes. They would come.

  I met with Cardenas and Nikos after the failure of the missiles. We went to a viewing room much like the command salon where we could sit and look out at the alien ship. Cardenas looked haggard—her face was drawn, the skin beneath her eyes puffy and dark. Nikos didn’t look much better. I wondered how I looked.

  “When was the last time you slept, Margita?” Nikos asked.

  She shrugged. “Don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. We need to remain alert. Take a one-or two-hour sleep tab whenever there’s a lull. That’s what I’ve been doing. You, too, Bartolomeo. Anything will help.”

  “Sure thing, Captain,” Cardenas said. “Now let’s talk about something important—what we do next.”

  Nikos sighed in resignation. “Fine, Margita. What do we do next? Blow off the forward levels of the Argonos, if I remember right.”

  “That’s the plan.” She gave a tired laugh. “Hopefully we won’t be blowing off too much of the ship. I’m not surprised nothing’s worked so far. They were able to detect explosives directed at them, and their technology to deal with them is obviously better than ours. But I don’t see how they’ll be able to stop this, because this time we’ll set off explosives in our ship.”

  Nikos gestured for her to continue. “Just tell us what needs to be done.”

  “As a precaution, we evacuate three more of the forward levels.”

  “That’ll mean personal cabins. They won’t like that.”

  “Too damn bad. And we can’t give them time to take anything with them. Tell them it’s only a precaution, and that their cabins will be intact afterward. It’s probably true. Just get them out. Hell, if they don’t want to get out, screw ’em, let them die.”

  “Then what?”

  “While that’s happening, we place shaped charges on the interior walls of the hull, in a ring around the area of the docking mechanism. Two rings, actually. And we go an extra level deep. Make sure every hatch in the top few levels is sealed. We’re going to rupture the hull, we’re going to blow a big hole in it. If the docking mechanism remains intact, it won’t matter, because we’ll have blown off that section of the ship.” She cocked her head at Nikos. “The drives and engines are still ready, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. As soon as we break loose, we’ll want to get out of here faster than hell. The crew and security soldiers will be at battle stations.”

  “Battle stations,” Nikos repeated with a shake of his head. “I didn’t believe we’d ever resort to that on this ship. Drills, theory, irregular practice runs on weapons . . . I wonder what the real thing will be like. I wonder how people will perform.”

  “We’re going to find out soon enough, Captain.”

  SEVEN hours later, everything was ready. I joined Nikos, Cardenas, and a small operations team in the emergency bridge. The bridge was small and dark, the only lights coming from instrument panels and tiny, focused hazard lights. Kirilen manned the main controls. Small monitors displayed images of the area around the docking mechanism.

  Nikos nodded, and Kirilen keyed in the codes to arm the charges. Red lights flashed in front of him, indicating they were armed. Nikos looked around the dark room once more. He turned back to Kirilen and nodded again.

  Kirilen pressed the detonation switches and we all tensed, waiting for the shock to hit us. Seconds passed. Too many seconds. We felt nothing, not even the slightest jolt.

  The red lights continued to flash. Kirilen pressed the switches again. Ten more seconds. Still nothing.

  “Son of a bitch!” Nikos said. “What happened?”

  “Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”

  “Again, damn it!”

  Kirilen punched the switches. Nothing. Nikos looked at Cardenas.

  “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “They can’t have known. They can’t have deactivated those charges inside our own ship. They can’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her expression was blank, her gaze unfocused. Then she turned and stared at the still flashing red lights.

  “Sir?” Kirilen asked, waiting for orders.

  No one answered him.

  “Margita?” Nikos said.

  She blinked once, then finally looked up. She stared at him, her expression still unchanged. “I don’t know, Captain.”

  She straightened, the sounds of her back cracking loud in the small room, then walked to the door and opened it, letting in a wide beam of dim corridor light. As she went through the door she stopped and turned back. “I’m going to take your
earlier advice and get some sleep. If I come up with any other ideas, I’ll let you know.” She paused. “But I wouldn’t count on it.” Then she turned and walked out.

  Nikos turned to me. “Bartolomeo?”

  “Think the bishop still wants to be captain?” It was the only thing I could think to say.

  It did get half a smile from him. “Go get some sleep, Bartolomeo.”

  “And you?”

  “I will, too. I doubt anything will happen soon—they don’t seem to be in any hurry—but I’ve got to set the watch.” He looked at the flashing red arming lights. “In twelve hours, Executive Council session. Assuming nothing’s come up before then.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  48

  I slept for six hours, and could have slept six more. When I emerged from my quarters, I could feel the change—a stifling, acrid and electric bite to the air. Fear.

  In the corridor not more than fifty meters from my quarters, an old woman lay facedown against the wall, arms cradling her head. I shuddered, fearing for a moment that the old woman from the alien ship had returned, teleporting herself from her coffin back into the Argonos. But the hair color was wrong, the clothes were different, and she was shorter than the alien had been.

  The woman was murmuring to herself, punctuating indistinct words with tiny, quiet, barking sounds. As I passed her, she turned her head, exposing her face and staring at me. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

  “Cantus astronomicus, domine astronomy . . .”

  She was chanting what seemed to be a mix of ersatz Latin and Standard. I knelt beside her.

  “Can I help you?”

  She stopped her chanting and closed her eyes. “No one can help me,” she said, quite distinctly. “No one can help any of us. We’re drowning in the whirlpool of the universe.” She turned her face back to the wall and resumed her murmured chant.

  I tried to check in with Nikos, but he was unavailable. There was no emergency, or at least no new one, so I didn’t pursue it. Cardenas was also unreachable. When I tried to contact Pär, his com system answered, but there was no video.

  “Pär, are you there? You all right?”

  No answer. I broke the connection and headed for his rooms. On my way to the lower levels I passed through corridors so empty and quiet it seemed the Argonos was deserted, and others so crowded and noisy and panicky, I was afraid a riot was about to break out. Nothing was normal.

  I found Pär reeling drunk, clutching a whiskey bottle. He could hardly keep his eyes open, and couldn’t walk. He half rolled, half crawled across the floor after he let me in, then pulled himself up onto a chair.

  “Tried calling you,” he said. Surprisingly there was no slur to his words, but his voice was faint and hoarse. “No response. Calls denied. Couldn’t remember override.”

  “I was sleeping.”

  He looked at me with one half-open eye. “How can you sleep?”

  “Exhaustion. And timed sleep tabs.”

  “Drank too much,” he muttered, the eye closing. His head rolled back so that he would have been staring at the ceiling if his eyes had been open. “Hate being this drunk.”

  I went into the bathroom and at the meds console punched up a mega-vites patch and a three-hour sleep patch.

  “Your turn to sleep now,” I told him when I came back.

  I took the bottle out of his hand (it was empty, anyway), pressed the patches to his neck, and helped him to the bed. He didn’t resist. Eyes still closed, he waved a hand at me, but said nothing.

  “I’ll be back later, Pär.” I turned the lights down and left.

  THE cathedral was nearly full; a sense of fear and despair permeated the atmosphere. The bishop was speaking, but I didn’t pay much attention—something about the arbitrary nature of God’s mercy and the wages of sin. If anything, he was making those in the cathedral even more frightened.

  I sat in the last pew in one of the side sections. There was a crackle in the nearest speaker so that the bishop seemed to spit and sputter as he spoke; then it cleared up, and his voice came through loud and resonant.

  Nearly all the people around me appeared to be downsiders. Entire families huddled together. Younger children squirmed in their seats, and infants slept or fussed in their parents’ arms. A few of the older children listened intently, their faces marked with confusion and concern, trying to understand what was happening to them. Most of the adults, however, seemed resigned. How many here were nonbelievers searching desperately for a new faith? How many were believers praying for a miracle? How many had simply given up all hope?

  The bishop finished his speech or sermon or rant or whatever it was, and turned the pulpit over to Father Veronica. She stood for a minute or two in silence, looking out over the congregation. When she began to speak, her voice was steady and calm.

  “We are all frightened,” she began, “afraid of what may happen to us. It is nothing to be ashamed of. It is normal. It is human.

  “There is a strange and mysterious ship out there, manned by strange and mysterious beings we have never seen. We are trying to escape from them, and it is likely they mean us harm. As much as anything, though, our fear comes from uncertainty: we do not know what will happen to us, or when. We do not know if we will be able to defend ourselves. We do not know.”

  She paused, her gaze again sweeping across everyone in the cathedral.

  “I won’t tell you not to be afraid,” she resumed. “But I want to remind you of what we do know. Of what we know about ourselves, and what we know about what will happen to us.

  “We are the children of God. It is very possible that those alien beings are also children of God. Perhaps they have lost their way. Perhaps they do not understand us, perhaps there is something critical they do not understand about themselves. Perhaps they do not understand what God wants from them. After all, sometimes we don’t understand. Sometimes we lose our way.

  “The most important thing to remember now is that no matter what happens to us, or when, in the end we will be with Him. Our souls will go on, in life eternal. Our suffering will end, our pain will end, and we will dwell forever with peace and joy and love in His Kingdom.”

  I sensed a change gradually manifesting itself in the people around me as she spoke. The fear eased—not completely, but perceptibly, little by little as a sense of peace gradually suffused the cathedral.

  Father Veronica continued to speak. I don’t remember much of what she said after that, but I will never forget the effect she had on those who were in the cathedral. She accomplished what the bishop had utterly failed at—she eased their fears, she calmed and comforted them, and she renewed their faith, both in God and in themselves.

  I felt proud for her, and admired her more than ever. But I also felt increasingly uncomfortable and guilty. I still did not believe, although at that moment I wished I could, and I felt I did not belong in that place of worship with everyone else.

  I rose to my feet and walked out of the cathedral.

  SEVERAL hours later I returned to Pär’s quarters. He was sober and freshly showered, his hair still damp, and he was drinking coffee.

  “I’m ashamed,” he said.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I told him.

  He snorted. “When I heard, I thought to myself, ‘What’s the point of being sober? So I started drinking, and couldn’t stop.” He poured me a cup of coffee, refilled his own. “I . . .” He sighed and gave me something like a smile. “I thought I was better than that.”

  “You’re as good as any of us, Pär. And better than most. I slept, you drank, and hundreds of people have gone to the cathedral to find comfort in God.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Just now. The bishop was useless, making people even more terrified. But Father Veronica managed to give them what they needed—comfort. Eased their fears. Gave them some peace.”

  Pär nodded thoughtfully. “I wish I could find comfort in faith,” he said.
“I used to think that religion was for the ignorant, but I’ve seen some intelligent people who have a sincere belief in God. Father Veronica’s at the top of that list.”

  “So why is it she can’t convince either one of us?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “You and I will never believe, Bartolomeo.”

  “No,” I agreed. “We won’t.”

  I checked the wall clock. “Sorry, Pär, but I have to go. Nikos has called for a council session.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Brilliant minds working together to solve all problems. I’m sure you’ll figure out something to save our asses.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure we will.”

  Pär just shook his head again, and I left.

  EVERYONE was there, and everyone was exhausted. Most also appeared to have already given up. Bishop Soldano stared at me with a barely controlled malice that made me distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Everyone rested?” Nikos asked. “Good,” he said without waiting for answers. “I’m open to ideas.”

  No one knew how to respond. Nikos had been so abrupt, and at the same time almost nonchalant.

  “There’s only one thing left to do,” Michel Tournier said, his voice rising. “What I tried to suggest before. We attack them. Now. We have plenty of weapons, we’re not defenseless. We have the Metzenbauer Field to protect us. It’s so damned obvious, and I don’t understand what we’re waiting for.”

  “It’s not damned obvious,” Toller said. “You really think an attack on their ship has any chance of success? After what happened with the remotes and the missiles?”

  “We have to try,” Tournier insisted. “What else can we do? Just wait for them to come and slaughter us?”

  “No, we don’t have to try,” Toller said. “We haven’t made any direct attack on them, and that may be the main reason they have not attacked us. We don’t have any idea what they’re thinking, or how they think. Attacking them may provoke just the kind of response you’re most afraid of.”