Ship of Fools (9 page)

If I was any judge of what things were like on this ship, and of what people were like, that day would come soon. And when it did, someone would come to the door, unlock it, then step aside for me, and I would be free.

M
Y
sense of contentment did not last. The weeks became months—far longer than I had expected. The tedium was mind-numbing. There was simply nothing to do. I asked for writing supplies and tried to work daily on a chronicle of sorts, a recounting of the events that had brought me to my cell; a task to sharpen and focus my mind. But soon after Father Veronica’s visits ceased, I had brought the chronicle up to date and had little else to write about—rambling, barely coherent thoughts.

I began exercising vigorously, eating every morsel of tasteless food, trying to pull myself together and clear my mind. I re-read all that I had written. I destroyed much of it (though what I did save serves me well now as a reminder of details surrounding those events), and determined not to write any more.

I had no visitors in all that time. Father Veronica would have come if she had been allowed to, I was certain of that. Pär, of course, could not. When I realized there was no one else who would have wanted to visit me, I was surprisingly depressed.

Then I sensed a change. I didn’t know what it was, and I couldn’t determine where it was coming from, but I was
certain it was there—in the ship somewhere, something . . . Something had happened. I could feel it.

The routine did not vary for the next few days—food and monotony remained the same—but the feeling persisted, grew stronger.

One morning I received another pot of coffee. When I poured out a cup, I noticed something flash inside the pot. I pulled out a strip of plastic on which was printed these words:
SOMETHING’S BEEN FOUND
.

What did that mean? It was important, or Pär would not have risked adding the note.

I felt energized, and my hope for release was rekindled.

Something’s been found
.

B
UT
after that, nothing.

Days passed, then weeks. Could I have been wrong?

No, I still sensed a strange tension. Undefined, but palpable. And yet, there were no further messages from Pär; in fact, even the coffee ceased to arrive. That alone distressed me.

I began to feel out of control. I paced my cell. I fought the urge to pound on the door and demand my release. My left eye twitched uncontrollably much of the time, and even my own skin seemed confining.

Unfulfilled expectations. Each time I heard a sound, I expected someone to appear at my cell door—Father Veronica, Nikos, Pär,
anyone.
To release or visit me; either one, I didn’t care.

I spoke to the masked and shielded guards who brought my food, but they did not respond. Even the one who normally brought the coffee from Pär would not acknowledge me, refused to look at the handwritten questions I held up before his masked face.

What was happening out there?

I
began to dream of Antioch again. Skeletons. Bones and ravaged skulls and stifling jungle. I dreamed repeatedly
of the failed mutiny. Each time, the actual events were slightly different, strange and distorted from what had happened, but the dreams always ended with the harvesters rising silently outside the open transport-hold doors, blazing mouths waiting to devour me.

M
ORE
time passed, the days interminable. I came to believe that whatever had happened, whatever had been
found
, would have no effect on my confinement. My hopes faded, and I prepared myself again for an indefinite stay.

O
NE
day a man named Geller, who had spent two terms on the Executive Council some years back, entered my cell without warning. I was only half-dressed, lying on the floor working through the daily stretching and exercise routine for my back, the exoskeleton propped against the bed.

Geller stopped, looked down at me, then looked away. “I’ll come back later,” he said.

“No, don’t.” I didn’t know why he was here, but I didn’t want him to leave, not even if he had bad news.

I turned over and pulled myself up onto the edge of the bed, put on my shirt, then worked my upper body into the exoskeleton. As I struggled with it, I glanced at Geller. He kept his eyes turned away from me; he knew I didn’t want any help. I remembered him as a quiet man who took his position on the Executive Council seriously. He was intelligent and thoughtful, made reasoned and forceful arguments without being aggressive or obnoxious, and always voted with principle, even in a losing cause. Because he could not be manipulated, he had been replaced by General Wainwright, who
could
be.

When I was finished I offered him a seat, but he declined.

“I won’t be long,” he said. “I am here to inform you that you are to be released tomorrow.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, stunned. I should have been elated, but felt more disoriented than anything else. I don’t think I quite believed it, although I could not imagine Geller’s being involved in any kind of deception; at least, not knowingly.

“Released,” I repeated.

“Yes. Tomorrow morning at 0900.”

“Why?”

Geller just shook his head. I didn’t know whether that meant he didn’t know or he was forbidden to tell me.

“Is this to be temporary, or permanent?”

“Permanent.” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Assuming you don’t attempt to lead another mutiny,” he said.

“My sentence commuted?” I asked.

“I believe you were never tried or sentenced,” he replied.

I nodded, remembering my conversation months earlier with Father Veronica. “The charges dropped?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who requested you do this?”

“Captain Costa.”

“If I’m to be released,” I said, “why can’t I just go now?”

Again Geller just shook his head. “Be ready at nine tomorrow. That’s all I can tell you.”

He turned and started to leave, but I stopped him.

“Wait.”

He looked back at me.

“What’s going on out there?”

Geller didn’t answer. His expression didn’t even change.

“What’s been found?”

Still no answer, but this time his face visibly tightened. “Be ready,” he repeated, then walked out.

T
HE
next morning, upon my release, I was not allowed to return to my own rooms. Instead, I was escorted
directly to the captain’s quarters by a contingent of six masked and armed security soldiers. I did not feel like a free man.

It had been less than a year, but already the captain’s quarters seemed unfamiliar. The six soldiers didn’t help, but even after Nikos had dismissed them I still felt like a stranger in those rooms.

Nikos sat behind his desk, saying nothing. I stood in front of him, my hands clasped behind my back as if they were bound and I was still a prisoner.

“It’s been a long and difficult time, Bartolomeo.”

I gave him a half-smile and said, “For whom?”

Nikos nodded in acknowledgment. “More difficult for you, yes. But difficult for me as well.” He waved at the chairs across the desk from him. “Please, Bartolomeo, make yourself at home.”

“Like old times?”

“Yes, like old times. We can try, can’t we?”

I sat in one of the chairs, which felt unusually soft and comfortable after all the months in my cell. The orange glowglobes were stationary above us, distributed in a patterned matrix. The faint aroma of mood incense lingered in the air, almost cloying.

“I had no choice,” Nikos finally said to me.

“Imprisoning me?” I asked. “Or releasing me?”

He sighed heavily. “Is our entire conversation going to be like this? I understand how you feel, but I don’t want to do it this way. I don’t have the time or the energy for it.”

I just shook my head.

“Why don’t we have a drink?” Nikos suggested.

“All right.”

He seemed greatly relieved. He got up and poured two glasses of whiskey. I remembered the last time we drank together—just before landfall, when he kept emphasizing how much he was depending on me. Apparently he had been depending on me to keep the mutiny going so he could be the hero and save the ship. Now, months later, he brought a glass of whiskey to me, and I could not help but wonder
in what new way he was about to deceive me again. He sat back down, and we both drank.

“You were saying you had no choice.”

He nodded. “That’s correct. No choice. I could not let you remain free while we incarcerated the others. Too many people knew you were involved.”

“How long had you known of our plans?”

“Some time,” Nikos replied. That was vague enough.

“That was your plan all along to fend off the bishop. You knew about the mutiny all that time, and let it proceed so you could stop it at the last minute and be the hero.”

His silence was all the response I needed.

“And how long had you known of
my
involvement?”

“I only found out at the very end, just before they started boarding the shuttles, when it was too late to warn you. By then I had no choice—I had to let it happen.”

I didn’t believe him, but I let it go.

“I did what I could,” he went on. “I managed to convince the Executive Council not to proceed with the charges, no trials, no sentences. I kept things as open-ended as possible.”

“Why have I been released now?”

Nikos hesitated a long time before answering, and I began to sense how difficult this was for him. “I’ve risked everything to have you released. I had to release all of the other conspirators as well.”

“Why?” I asked again.

He pulled at his beard, always a sign of distress. “I need you,” he finally said.

I almost smiled, but managed to keep my expression under control.

“Does the bishop know?”

“By now, probably. He’ll be furious. I’ve bypassed the entire Executive Council doing this.”

“All right,” I said. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“Better if I show you,” he replied.

W
E
walked through the ship corridors to the command salon, a half-hour of tense silence—more uncomfortable
for Nikos than for me, I was certain. He carried the whiskey bottle and glasses, which showed me the depth of his distress. The few people we passed pointedly ignored us, although some did appear surprised to see me.

Once inside the salon, Nikos sank into the command chair, setting bottle and glasses on the floor. He did not look much in command of anything. He moved his hands to the control consoles and tapped out a series of key sequences.

There was a faint vibration, a barely audible hum, and the canopy began to retract—robotic iris, a giant eye to us, but a tiny eye to the ship, opening to the vastness of space. Stars came into view, only a handful at first, then more as the canopy continued to retract, a dense and growing expanse of radiant dust.

As almost always happened in that room, I became disoriented once the canopy had fully retracted. I felt unmoored, adrift in a glass bubble.

Nikos raised a hand and pointed out through the clear steelglass. “There,” he said.

I followed the direction of his trembling finger, studied the unending night. Nearly lost in all the stars was a tiny smudge of bluish light against a small dark occlusion.

“What is it?”

Nikos handed one of the glasses to me, which I took. He filled it along with his own, then drank most of his down at once, eyes clamped tightly shut. He shuddered, then opened his eyes and stared at the bluish light.

“An alien starship,” he said.

Something’s been found,
Pär’s note had said. Oh, yes, something had been found. I stared at the azure light, the dark area within and around it. An alien starship.

“How do we know it’s alien?” I asked. “Are we communicating with them?”

Nikos shook his head. “There’s no one there. It’s a dead ship. Abandoned or deserted, who knows?” He drank again, refilled his glass. “Maybe just empty and dead because everyone aboard has perished. We haven’t found any bodies yet.”

“How do we know it’s alien?” I asked again.

“Because there’s not a damn thing recognizably human on that ship, inside or out.”

“So we’ve been inside.”

“Yes. We’ve explored the smallest piece of the thing.” He turned to look at me. “That ship is huge, Bartolomeo. A lot bigger than the
Argonos
.”

“How far are we from it?” It seemed so small.

“About three thousand kilometers. I wasn’t going to bring the
Argonos
any closer until we had a better idea what it was. And now that we do, I still don’t want to.” He turned his attention back to the alien vessel. “We picked it up three months ago. Spent a week on our approach and deceleration, another week of observation—scanning, listening, probing. No response, so signs of life.”

Nikos worked the console, and the monitor screen rose from the floor, three meters square and already coming to life. A black shape flickered into focus, somewhat ovoid, and so dark, its surface features were almost impossible to make out; it seemed to be covered with smaller half-ovoids, like bubbles. Bluish light beacons hovered above the surface of the vessel.

“The lights belong to the ship, or are they ours?”

“Ours,” Nikos answered. “Navigational guidance, they help provide orientation and perspective, as well as some illumination. The ship’s surface has almost no reflectivity. We don’t pick up anything from it. No lights, no heat radiation, no drive disturbances or engine exhaust, nothing. Dead ship. But deadly.”

“What does that mean?”

Nikos made a huffing sound. “Nine weeks ago, the first exploration team flew over in one of the maintenance modules and made contact. They spent three days just locating an entrance. It took two more teams and another day and a half to finally figure out how to work the air lock system. We call it an air lock, but there’s no atmosphere inside. Cold and black as space . . .” His voice and attention drifted. “Sent in a couple of remotes, but they aren’t sophisticated, and they’re not very dexterous. Couldn’t get any
further than the air lock itself, couldn’t manipulate the doors. There was another day of discussion and argument on the Executive Council, which won’t surprise you, but we finally reached a consensus, and a team went in. A few hours later we had the first casualty.”

I waited for him to continue, but he just stared at the image on the screen, eyes glazed.

“What happened?” I asked.

Nikos breathed in deeply and slowly let it out. “An accident. See for yourself.”

More finger movements on the console, and the image on the monitor shifted, flickered, went through a series of changes before finally resolving into shaky video of a pressure-suited figure crisscrossed with light and shadow, drifting weightlessly near a curved, dark metal wall. The figure’s left hand reached out and took hold of a bar on the wall, anchoring itself; the right hand held a large hand torch whose beam swept unevenly across the wall.

“That’s Santiago,” Nikos said. “On point. Every member of the team has a camera and light mounted on their helmet, so we have a pretty thorough record of everything that happens during each excursion. We try to have the video transmitted live back to the
Argonos
so we can follow along and communicate with them, but the transmissions break up fairly quickly, and the teams don’t get far inside before we lose them altogether. But everything is recorded, so we can always review it later.”

He touched another control, and the team’s audio was added to the video images. I could hear someone laughing, then a woman’s voice.

“Oh, man, Santiago, you’re a crude bastard.”
Then more laughter, some of it stifled.

“That was Winton,” Nikos explained. “That’s her video we’re watching now. It shows the best view of what happened.”

For a time, we could hear only breathing. As Winton looked around, her camera revealed an enormous spherical room twenty-five or thirty meters in diameter. The walls were nearly featureless, broken only by regularly spaced
bars that projected out half a meter—the bars served as handholds for the exploration team, but it seemed unlikely that that was their original purpose.

A third suited figure drifted into view, then just as quickly drifted out of sight.

“Marx,” Nikos said. “There were three in the first team.”

I knew Marx well. He was a very serious and quiet man, did not dislike me, and we got along. He was married and had two children, and I remember hoping as I watched that he wasn’t the casualty.

“Over here.”
Santiago’s voice.

Winton turned her head and Santiago came back into view. He was next to a large opening or doorway, a hand on one bar, a boot resting against another. His hand torch was aimed into the opening, the beam cutting its way into darkness.

Winton pushed off the wall and floated toward him.
“What have you got?”
she asked.

“Not much. A huge room of some kind.”

She landed on the other side of the doorway as Santiago worked his way closer to the opening, shifting his grip from the bar to the frame.
“I can barely make out the other end.”

Winton turned to look at Marx, who was watching from several meters away, holding onto a bar, his legs drifting about.

“Well, let’s check it out,”
Santiago said.

Winton turned back to him. With one hand on the door frame, he swung himself out into the opening and began floating through it into the next room. Winton’s helmet light and hand torch crossed him and cast irregular beams into the darkness.

“What the . . . ?”

He suddenly began moving more quickly, lost his grip on the door frame; then both hands reached out frantically as he picked up speed. But it was too late, the door frame was out of reach and Santiago plummeted into the room.