Ship of Fools (19 page)

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.

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.

“
S
HE
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
mal
nourished, 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.”

T
HE
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.

W
E
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.

We were no longer alone in the corridor; we passed people who appeared to be even drunker than we were, as well as a few who looked as if they hadn’t touched alcohol in years—men and women with tight lips and frowns and furrowed brows, in stark and simple clothing.

Finally Pär led the way down a short side passage and activated a door panel. Out from the doorway rolled a quiet cloud of voices and music and lights. Pär waved me inside, then followed and closed the door behind us.

I stood just inside a large room with half a dozen chairs and settees. Light came from two hovering globes that drifted in spiral patterns about the room just beneath the ceiling. The voices stopped with our entrance, but a quiet ether jazz played in the background.

There were five or six men and at least as many women in the room, but I could not refrain from staring at one woman in the corner, seemingly shy, and in appearance amazingly like Father Veronica, if Father Veronica were to wear a blouse and trousers instead of cassock and collar.

The dwarf grinned. “Remind you of someone?”

“No,” I answered, too sharply and too quickly.

Pär’s grin widened; then he clapped his hands. “Drinks everyone!”

I could do nothing except stare at the woman in the corner staring back at me.

* * *

A
N
hour later I walked side by side along a dark corridor with the woman, whose name was Moira. So much about her reminded me of Father Veronica, even up close: her build, the pale and almost translucent quality of the skin on her arms, the shape of her eyes, and the thin but somehow sensuous lips. Even the way the left side of her mouth turned up when she smiled. I began to wonder if she was Father Veronica’s twin.

But I noticed differences as well: the gold-flecked green of her eyes in contrast to the dark brown of Father Veronica’s; the narrow nostrils; and especially the voice. When Moira spoke, her deep, coarse voice drove all uncertainty away, and I knew she was not Father Veronica in disguise. I wanted desperately for her not to speak at all.

Suddenly the woman stopped, swung around, put her hands behind my neck and pulled my face to hers, kissing me deeply. I didn’t respond immediately, taken aback and tasting smoke and alcohol on her lips and tongue, tastes I hadn’t expected, for I had forgotten for a moment who she was. Or who she wasn’t.

But then, overcome, I
did
respond, and kissed her deeply in return, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her tight against me.

Then her hands were at my belt, unbuckling it and pulling at trouser buttons.

“Not here,” I said, closing my fingers around hers, stopping her movements. “We might be seen.”

The woman nodded, grinning. She worked one hand free and plunged it inside my pants, grabbing me. I have to admit I was already aroused.

“My, my,” she said, “
that’s
not artificial.”

“No,” I insisted. “I can’t . . . not here . . . not . . .”

She released me, but then she took my hand in hers and led me farther along the corridor. “No sense of adventure,” she said, and once again I wished she just wouldn’t speak.

Another two minutes and she opened the door to a small, dimly lit cabin, closed the door behind us after we entered.
She kept my hand in hers and led me to the wall bed, which was rumpled and unmade. There was a faint smell of old sweat and a hint of stale perfume; on the shelf beside the bed was a worn brown Bible.

“Now to where we left off,” she said.

“Don’t say anything more,” I told her, trying to keep the pleading out of my voice. “Just silence.”

Thinking she understood, but not understanding at all, the woman smiled and nodded, and pulled me onto the bed beside her.

I
had spent my life on the
Argonos
watching men and women fall in love, or at least make the claims of love for one another; watching pursuits and resistances both real and pretended, and other related behaviors that were often ridiculous, petty, cruel, and only occasionally touching. I had long before decided that falling in love was pointless at best. But falling in love with a priest was even worse, so absurd I could hardly believe it was happening to me. More than that, having sex with a woman because she looked like the priest I had fallen in love with was simply pathetic.

When I saw Father Veronica the next day, my skin flushed; I could feel the heat rising up along my neck, and I wanted to walk away. We were in a small chapel off to one side of the cathedral. She smiled uncertainly at me.

“What is it, Bartolomeo?”

“Nothing.” My response seemed inadequate, so I added, “I think I might be ill.” Which was true in more ways than one.

She nodded, as if that were to be expected. “It was awful, watching him die like that,” she said.

“And being so completely helpless.”

“You tried, Bartolomeo. You reacted more quickly than anyone, and you did everything you could.”

“Yes and no. Maybe Nikos was right, we shouldn’t have stayed. Maybe if we hadn’t . . .”

“Don’t, Bartolomeo. Going that way accomplishes
nothing. Nothing unusual happened while we were in there. If he hadn’t done it then, he would have done it some other time. I am certain of that.”

I knew that intellectually, but in my gut I didn’t yet believe it, and I wasn’t sure I ever would. It helped to hear it, nonetheless.

“How well did you know him?” I asked.

“I’d known him most of my adult life, worked with him in the Church. But to be truthful, in important ways I did not know him well at all.” She paused, and sighed. “I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t like him.”

“Why are you ashamed?”

She gave me a rueful smile. “It wasn’t very generous. To dislike him.”

“No one’s perfect.”

She almost laughed then. “Certainly not the priests.” She paused again, became serious. “Eric was mean-spirited and unpleasant, and although he claimed he wanted to become a priest, he would never have been approved. He knew he was disliked by most people, and that must have been difficult to live with.”

I knew what that was like, and I wondered if I was as mean-spirited and unpleasant as Casterman had been. I didn’t think so, but how could I know? I also believed that I had changed over the last year, so that even if I had been that way once, I hoped I had become less so.

“Did he ever strike you as being suicidal?” I asked.

She hesitated before replying. “As I said, in some ways I didn’t know him very well. Does it matter?”

“I’m just trying to understand what happened.”

“You think you can?”

“Probably not. But I have to try. I’m in charge of this . . . expedition, mission, whatever you want to call it. What happens is
my
responsibility.”

“You take too much on yourself.”

“Someone has to.”

“No, Bartolomeo. That’s part of why Christ died on the Cross. He takes on what we can’t.”

I really didn’t want to start down that road. There were
times when I relished discussing theology with her, because although we disagreed on most things, she was thoughtful and reasoned and often insightful. But this was not one of those times. I think she sensed my feelings, because she let it go and moved on to another subject.

“How is the old woman doing?” she asked.

“Still alive. She’s undernourished, a little dehydrated, very weak, but the physicians think she’ll survive.”

“It’s incredible. Has she been able to speak?”

“Not really.” I related the conversation I’d had with Taggart.

“So we may never know what happened to her,” she said. “One more mystery held by that alien ship. Full of mysteries, and no answers.”

“We’ve only explored a small portion of it so far.”

“ ‘So far?’ Do you plan to go back?”

I was surprised by her question. “Of course.”

“After everything that has happened?”

“Yes. After everything that has happened. We may have to rethink our approach, be more careful . . . I don’t know. But yes, we continue.”

She looked at me with concern. “I wonder how many other people feel the same way.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. “You?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I won’t go back into that ship, Bartolomeo. I don’t think any of us should.”

“Have you come to believe the ship is evil?”

“No. Just dangerous. Perhaps willfully so.”

I couldn’t really argue with her. “Maybe,” I said, “but it’s still the most remarkable discovery ever made in the history of the
Argonos
. We can’t leave it behind.”

She hesitated for a minute, then breathed deeply. “You had best prepare your arguments, Bartolomeo.”

I cocked my head at her. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“Bishop Soldano is going to propose we set course for another star system and leave the alien starship behind. Before we have any more casualties.”

“Formally? Before the Executive Council?”

She nodded.

I didn’t respond. There was no point in making any of my arguments to Father Veronica; she was not one of the people I would need to convince. I had to think about the council members; I had to think about the case I would make.

“Thanks for the warning,” I finally said.

She smiled sadly at me. “I think you’ll need it.”