“Everyone in this room knows the situation we are in. But the reason this meeting has been called is that we have a proposal. An idea, a plan for a way out.”
“What?” someone asked. “The Casterman Method? Mass suicide?”
Someone else gave a halfhearted laugh in response, but it quickly faded.
“We’re going to Antioch,” Nikos said, replying quickly. He wasn’t going to let the meeting get out of control. “Not in the Argonos, but in shuttles and harvesters.”
The questions began immediately, as well as the criticisms, and outright dismissal from a few people. Nikos explained in some detail what we planned to do, then he and Cardenas spent the next two hours answering questions, responding to complaints, passing a few on to Costino or Hollings. Pär was right; it was taking a lot to drag most of these people out of their despair; but by the end of the second hour I could see that the mood had changed. People were coming around, slowly but surely, and a subtle but palpable excitement was growing, a blossoming sense of hope. Then Bishop Soldano tried to destroy it.
The bishop pulled himself forward and rose to his feet, silencing the entire committee. I was surprised there was any life left in him; I was surprised that he’d been listening.
“I have one question,” he said. “What’s the point?”
He remained standing, watching the looks of puzzlement and confusion growing around him. He finally spoke again.
“They’ll come and find us. They know where Antioch is, remember? They were responsible for what happened there. They’ll know that’s where we’re headed. After all, they led us out here from Antioch.”
Oh no, I thought to myself, watching the fear and panic reappear in faces all around the table, although they could not know what exactly they were afraid of, they could not yet understand what he was saying.
Bishop Soldano turned and looked directly at Nikos. “Tell them, Captain.”
Nikos nodded. “Yes, that’s true. And that’s why there is a second component to this plan.”
“Forget the damn second component,” a man called out from the far end of the table. “What the hell does the bishop mean, ‘they led us here’?”
Nikos looked askance at the bishop; he was probably wishing he had locked him up after all. Then he looked out at the committee.
“When we were on Antioch, after the skeletons were discovered, a highly directional signal was transmitted from the landing site—perpendicular to the system’s orbital plane, so we knew it wasn’t meant for any of the other worlds or satellites. We couldn’t locate anything it might be destined for—the nearest star in its vicinity was hundreds of light-years away.” He hesitated. “When we left Antioch, it was decided that we would follow the direction of the signal. We ended up here.” He turned to me and gave me a half-smile. “See, Bartolomeo? Everyone can make decisions that don’t work out.”
“Who decided?” someone else asked.
“Bishop Soldano and I decided.”
Cardenas stood up. “It doesn’t matter who decided,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how we ended up here. What matters now is how we get out of here. That’s all we’re discussing.”
“But the bishop is right,” Renata Tyler said. “There’s no point in any of this if they’ll just follow us to Antioch.”
I stood, intending to argue just what Pär had said: that at least we would have a chance on Antioch. But Cardenas spoke first.
“Let Captain Costa finish, and you will understand.” She sat back down, and so did I. I wondered what Nikos had in mind; we hadn’t discussed any “second component.”
“I will be staying with the Argonos,” he said.
I sat there stunned, not yet understanding.
“The bishop has a point,” Nikos resumed. “We can’t leave the alien ship here, even if we can escape from it. It will find Antioch again, or some other world, some other starship. We can’t let that happen. Margita Cardenas and I, along with three other crew members, will stay aboard the Argonos to direct it on a blind jump out of this galaxy. With luck, completely out of the universe.”
This set off a lot of murmuring, questioning looks; I saw someone biting their knuckles, as if afraid for Nikos and the others. I wanted to object, but I was dazed, and couldn’t think very clearly, couldn’t think of a reason to object. What Nikos said made perfect sense, as much as I didn’t like to admit it.
But Geller spoke. “Can’t we just set the ship to do a blind jump automatically?”
Cardenas shook her head. “It has to be piloted into the discontinuity. Besides, if it doesn’t go as expected, we want to be aboard to make a second jump if necessary. I don’t like it, but there’s no choice.”
Everyone was quiet, letting it settle in. The bishop slowly rose to his feet again. “Then I, too, will be staying aboard the Argonos. I will speak with Father George, and ask him to be the new bishop. I will stay with the cathedral, with our archives.”
Now he would be a martyr, I thought to myself. Let him.
“That’s it,” Nikos said, essentially ignoring the bishop. “If we are to have any chance at success, we need the complete support of this committee. There is way too much that will need to be done, and it needs to be done quickly.”
The vote was unanimous, but I felt sick. I was losing nearly everyone who had meant anything to me. I considered offering to stay with Nikos and the others, but I recognized the urge for what it was—a fear of appearing to be a coward; a conceit.
“One more thing,” Nikos said. “I want to nominate Duncan Geller to replace me as Captain.”
Though Geller was surprised, he reacted as a fine future captain should—he accepted the nomination with grace and respect and sincere humility. His nomination was seconded by Cardenas. That vote, too, was unanimous.
That was the end of the meeting. A dozen smaller meetings would take place almost immediately. We adjourned. Preparations began.
53
IF nothing else, I told myself, this gave people hope; it gave them something to do, which had to be better than withdrawing frightened and paralyzed and despairing into psychological cocoons, waiting in terror for death.
There was too much to do, and of course no one knew how much time we had. Maybe we had all the time we wanted, maybe we could have spent weeks retrofitting the shuttles and harvesters, rebuilding them and outfitting them, planning carefully until everyone and everything was accounted for, packed and loaded, everyone leisurely boarded and settling themselves in for the long journey. Maybe the aliens would come the next day, and we wouldn’t have a chance.
We tried to decide on the absolute minimum necessary to make it to Antioch and survive once we got there; then we set to work on that minimum. There were screwups and tempers and accidents, shouting and crying and fistfights, pouting and nervous breakdowns. But there was also laughter and tears of relief and companionship, stolen moments of affection, and much cooperation.
Through it all, the work got done. With the bishop’s assistance, we installed the gravity generator in one of the harvesters. Partitions were erected in the vehicles; sleeping bunks and benches were built into walls. Bathrooms and recyclers, water tanks. Storage lockers and food systems. Minimal amounts of packaged foods in each vessel, just enough for the voyage to Antioch; larger stores would be loaded into the cargo harvester.
Fuel was a problem. We would maximize all tanks, but the shuttles weren’t designed for long-distance space travel. If there had been more time, perhaps we would have been able to build special tanks to store the fuel in the cargo harvester, build fueling systems so the shuttles could be refueled during the journey. There wasn’t more time.
Even if there had been time, it wouldn’t have been a good idea; we couldn’t depend too much on what was loaded in the cargo harvester. It would be the last to leave the Argonos; what would happen if it was attacked by the aliens, destroyed or disabled? What would happen if there was some other kind of unforeseeable accident? Each vessel, each shuttle and h
arvester, needed to be self-sufficient, equipped to be capable of making the journey to Antioch and landing without aid from any of the others.
We’d be crammed into the vessels, without privacy, like the herd animals down in the lower levels, but amazingly we had the capacity to take everyone. However, there were people who couldn’t go. Decisions were difficult to make, they were brutal, but there was no choice. Most of those in the downsiders’ madhouse would have to stay. The same for a dozen people in the upper-level psychiatric wards. Of those in the ship’s jail cells, the lesser offenders were released; the more violent remained imprisoned.
One of the most difficult decisions was what to do with those people who had begun to behave strangely after going into the alien ship: Barry Sorrel and his family, Leona Frip, Nazia Abouti. We didn’t know what was wrong with them. Infected somehow? Possibly contagious? Perhaps they were in the early stages of becoming possessed by the spirits of alien beings. It was impossible to know. As hard as it was, amid the feelings of guilt at the price they were paying for all their efforts, in the end we knew we had no choice: they would have to remain.
Starlin and Winton might have presented another problem, but they were both still missing, apparently stalking each other throughout the Argonos. We stopped looking for them.
There were also people who wouldn’t go: some upper-level residents afraid of losing the power and authority they had enjoyed all their lives; twenty-three families who belonged to a religious sect called the First Ship of Christ, who believed it was blasphemous to leave the Argonos; twenty or thirty people on the official ship census that could not be located; and some people who simply couldn’t imagine life outside the ship.
I can hardly remember now everything that had to be done, everything that had to be accounted for. I can’t remember everything. So much of what took place during that time has now become hazy, distorted by tension, anxiety, fear, and severe sleep deprivation.
But it got done, somehow, and soon it became clear that we would be ready to leave in less than twenty-four hours.
TOLLER came to see me down in the harvester bay, where I was helping load cargo. I sat with him on bundles of packaged foodstuffs that weren’t slated to be loaded for several hours.
“I’m staying with the Argonos,” he said. “I wanted you to know.”
I wasn’t expecting it, but it did not surprise me. “Why?”
“I’m not a martyr like the bishop. It’s not that.” He sighed and held up his cane. “I’m an old man, Bartolomeo. I’m one hundred and thirty-eight years old, and I’ve spent every one of those years on this ship. I’ve been ship historian for sixty-seven years.” He set the tip of the cane between his shoes, rubbed the carved wooden handle. “I need to stay here. I need to know how everything ends for the Argonos. Finish its history, if possible.”
“Finish its history? For whom?”
“I don’t know. For me. Hopefully for others. I’ll work until the last possible moment. I’ll have a copy of the Histories in a burial capsule, and when I have written my final words I will add them to the others. I will seal the capsule, and launch it into space. With luck, a great deal of luck, someone will find it someday and learn something from it.” He smiled gently. “The historian’s eternal hope.”
I thought I understood how he felt. “I guess I won’t try to talk you out of it,” I told him.
“Thank you. I don’t have the energy for it.”
“Have you told Geller yet?” I asked.
“No.”
“You should. He’ll be our captain. Or already is.”
Toller nodded. “Yes. I will. And I’ll suggest to him that he maintain the position of historian on Antioch. On the journey as well. It’s more important than most people realize. Maria Vegas has been well-trained. She will make a fine historian.”
“I’ll lend my own support,” I told him.
“Thank you, Bartolomeo.” He leaned forward and with the help of his cane rose to his feet. “I’ll return to the Church archives, now.” He slowly shook his head. “They will be a great loss.” His gaze became unfocused for a moment, then he looked at me. “Goodbye, Bartolomeo.”
“Goodbye, August.”
He limped across the bay, his thin figure surprisingly erect, then went through one of the passage doorways and was gone. I never saw him again.
THERE were only a few hours until the first shuttle was scheduled to leave. Nikos and I met in the command salon. The clear dome was two-thirds filled with stars and one-third with the deep black hulk of the alien ship looming over us. There was still so much to do, and we both felt slightly guilty taking time away from the preparations. But this would be our only opportunity, our last opportunity.
He had a bottle of Scotch and two glasses with him; he held up the bottle and offered me a drink.
“Just one,” I said.
He nodded, and poured some for each of us. “This is my first drink in weeks,” he said.
I’d wondered about that. The Scotch burned, but it burned cool and smooth going down.
“This is the last of the best,” he said. “Why let it go to waste? I’ll probably finish the bottle once we’ve pulled this off.”
Pulled it off, I thought. I watched him, trying to guess whether or not he was frightened. Not, I decided. Or at least not much. He’d come to terms with it, and if I knew Nikos, which I did, he was ready with a way to end it quickly for himself. He and Cardenas and the others might have talked about it.
“It’s been an eventful year,” he said.
I smiled. “That’s a word for it.”
“You and I have had our differences.”
“Long done with,” I replied.
He nodded slowly, sipped at his drink. He looked up and out through the steelglass at the alien ship. “That could have been the most fantastic discovery in history. It was the most fantastic discovery. But it’s turned into the most fantastic nightmare. It’s done terrible things to most of us.” He turned back to me. “I’m sorry about some things, Bartolomeo.”
“So am I, Nikos.”
I was afraid he was going to get specific. It would have been a bad idea. It was possible that the things he was sorry about were not what I thought he should be sorry about. And vice versa. We didn’t need that now.
Isolated in the salon, we couldn’t hear anything at all except our own breathing. We might have been the only people on the Argonos.
Nikos finished his drink. “After all these years,” he said, “there really isn’t much to say, is there?”
“No,” I answered.
“Bartolomeo.” Then he hesitated, unsure. “Bartolomeo, do you want to know who your parents are?”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since I became captain.”
I didn’t have to think about it long. I felt surprisingly little curiosity. “No,” I told him. “It’s too late for that. They’ve been dead and buried in space to me all my life. Better they stay that way.”
Nikos smiled. “I thought you would say something like that.” The smile quickly faded. “Well, I have a strange request. It seems strange to me, anyway.” He glanced into his empty glass. “Watch my wife for me, Bartolomeo. Make sure she’s all right. She’s . . . she won’t ask for help, especially not from you.”
“Aiyana doesn’t like me.”
“No.” He looked up at me. “Will you do that for me, Bartolomeo?”
“Are you surprised she chose not to stay with you?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but I could see the pain working into his features. “Maybe. A little. Should I not have been?”
“I don’t know, Nikos. You know her far better than I do.”
“Were you surprised?”
I wondered what answer he wanted to hear. Probably not the one I would give him. Maybe I should have lied, but I just couldn’t.
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t surprised.”
&n
bsp; He nodded and turned his attention once again to the alien vessel. There were still no signs of activity on that sinister, black ship. Sometimes, looking at it, it was hard to believe what was happening.
“I have to go,” I said. “There isn’t much time. Final preparations . . .”
“I would have stayed with her,” he said.
“I know.” I felt pity for him, and wished there was something I could do or say to ease his pain. But I knew there wasn’t, or if there was, I had no idea what it could be.
“This won’t be forgotten,” I said. “What you and Margita and the others are doing. What you’re doing for us, for—”
He shook his head, cutting me off. “Just get to Antioch alive, Bartolomeo. Make it worthwhile.”
“We will, Nikos.”
He turned back to me one final time and took a step forward. For a moment I thought he was going to embrace me. But we had never done anything like that in all the years we’d known each other, and I couldn’t imagine it even now. Apparently he thought the same thing, for he did not come any closer.
“Goodbye, Bartolomeo.”
“Goodbye, Nikos.”
54
I stood with Pär at the side of the transport hold, watching the first shuttle slowly move along the track toward the open doors. Apparently someone had christened it the Veronica—her name was painted on the hull in large, bright red letters. I choked up watching the shuttle and those huge letters rumble past, feeling the vibrations deep in my bones. One of the pilots signaled down to us from the cockpit that everything was clear.
“What would she have thought of that?” Pär asked.
I couldn’t answer immediately. I had to struggle against the despair just waiting to overwhelm me. “I don’t know,” I said. “Probably she would have smiled and shaken her head and said nothing.”
The shuttle’s speed picked up slightly as it approached the energy fields across the open doors. Its nose made contact, and a rippling, iridescent hole opened in the field; the launch mechanism cranked forward and the bow supports dropped away as the shuttle was propelled through the opening. The energy fields re-formed and returned to invisibility, and the shuttle was free of the ship.
Richard Russo Page 31