Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

“I’m going back now,” she said. “I want to be there if I’m needed. I just wanted to see that you were all right.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can see that,” she said. She turned and walked back toward the settlement, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the swirling of the water beneath my feet.

THEorbiting probe surveys were completed that day. Photos and imaging scans were transmitted both to the Argonos and to us on land. The science team spent hours in consultation with the captain, the bishop, and another science team up on the ship, trying to determine what, if anything, needed further exploration.

There was only one obvious site, another large group of buildings, although no electromagnetic emissions whatsoever could be detected from it, and there were no signs of life. It would be several hours to the southeast by flyer.

After that there was much disagreement. Lots of discussion, lots of uncertainty. I retreated to the rear of the shuttle’s main cabin, not wanting to get involved. Eventually, though, their uncertainty was overcome, and it was decided that two other sites warranted further exploration. Then it was time to select a two-person team to make the trip. I wondered if anyone would volunteer. This was an alien and unknown world, and any venture would only add to the risks we all currently faced.

“I need to be with the exploration party,” Father Veronica said. “In case there are survivors that need help, comfort.” She paused. “Or more dead to be buried.”

I waited for the objections, but none were forthcoming. There was silence, people in the shuttle looking around at one another. The bishop’s voice came through the linkup.

“I approve,” he said.

His approval surprised me, until it occurred to me that the bishop might actually want Father Veronica put at risk. Just as Nikos saw the bishop as a threat to his captaincy, the bishop might see Father Veronica as a threat to his own position. The fact that Father Veronica had never demonstrated the slightest ambition might only make her more dangerous in his eyes.

I came forward and said, “I’ll accompany Father Veronica.”

Everyone was surprised, I think.

I had two reasons for wanting to go with her. First, I preferred to be with her rather than with any of the others; and second, I suspected the bishop’s motives, and felt protective of her. If he was willing to put her at risk, I was willing to risk myself to provide what protection I could. Absurd, perhaps, but that was what I felt.

“Shouldn’t one of the science team go instead of Bartolomeo?” It was Sari Mandapat raising the objection.

But none of the science team wanted to leave. They wanted to remain together; they believed from what they’d seen of the charts and photographs that there was likely nothing of much interest at the other sites; and they had gained renewed excitement there in the settlement with the afternoon discovery of an extensive laboratory which was fairly intact.

“If something is found,” said Barry Sorrel, “the flyer can be sent back and one or more of us can go out to the site and investigate further. We don’t need to go now.”

There were no other objections, and no other volunteers. Andrew Thornton, though not the coward Michel Tournier was, would never take any added risks, and I’m certain Sari Mandapat felt she had to remain with the shuttle in case something needed to be done for the mutiny. And so, by default, I was approved.

Father Veronica and I would go. We would leave at first light the next day, after the harvesters arrived.

THEharvesters descended screaming from the sky. Three great shining metal leviathans dropping almost directly over the settlement, their descent gradually slowing even as the screaming sounds intensified.

The entire exploration party had come out to watch. Pre-dawn, we couldn’t yet see the sun from where we stood, but the harvesters were high enough for the sun’s rays to illuminate their scarred metal bellies, the rims of their enormous gaping maws.

The reprovisioning of the ship was about to begin. The ship’s recycling systems—of air, water, waste—were incredibly efficient, but the ship was not a completely closed system. No matter how efficient, there was always some leakage, loss, dissipation…. Fresh organic matter was needed.

For the next several days, the harvesters would ravage this part of the continent. With blazing, churning mouths they would consume all organic matter in their paths—animal and plant and anything in between. When their holds were full they would return to the main ship and unload, and all that organic material would then be broken down into basic constituents and detoxified, neutralized, then revitalized and cycled back into the ship’s food and environmental systems.

This was long overdue. Too many years without this opportunity.

One of the harvesters broke away still howling, slowly banked around and headed east toward the shore, where it would begin harvesting from the sea. The other two continued their steady descent, drifting away now from the settlement. Copper and orange and magenta flowers of light floated around them, and it was impossible to know if that light came from the sun, the engines, or the burning furnaces within them.

The two finally dropped out of sight, but soon flames could be seen rising above the jungle in the distance, along with swirling towers of smoke. The sound changed, became a deeper, harsher roar tearing the dawn air. The harvesting had begun.

FATHERVeronica and I, along with Marcus Krisk and Trude Stimpl—our two soldiers/escorts/pilots—boarded the flyer and took off, headed south and east. There were no windows in the flyer except for those in the pilots’ cabin, and our only view of the terrain came from a set of small video monitors, only half of which functioned—watching them was like trying to put together a child’s mosaic puzzle with some of the pieces missing. But I could make out thick forests below us, sectioned off by rivers carving their way through the dense vegetation. This was followed by vast marshland, then more forest. The woods rapidly transitioned to dense jungle, and a torrential rain began, obscuring visibility.

When we finally reached our destination—a grouping of perhaps thirty buildings in the middle of the jungle—we could find no place to land. Trees and vegetation surrounded the buildings, enclosing them, sometimes overgrowing them so that their roofs were only partially visible, and there were no nearby clearings. We circled the area, but the nearest clearing we could find was twenty kilometers away.

We flew back to the buildings, and after hovering over them for several minutes, Trude picked out what appeared to be the strongest flat roof (based on what, I had no idea), and made a slow, careful descent. As we touched down, the roof buckled, but held.

It was still raining hard. Cloaked in waterproof body coverings, the four of us left the flyer to begin exploring. I was stunned by the heat. Because of the rain, I had expected the air to be cool, but it was hotter and more stifling than anything I could remember experiencing. We had difficulty breathing. Marcus and Trude returned to the flyer for the breathers, but when Father Veronica declined to use one, I decided to do without as well.

We climbed down from the roof using a tangle of trees and lianas; once on the ground, progress became more difficult. Presumably there had once been pathways between the buildings, but if so they had long ago become overgrown, and passage was impossible. Marcus and Trude burned trails through the foliage with their stone burners, the same weapons that had been used to carve out the grave back at our original landing site. The air filled with smoke and the stench of burning, vaporizing plant matter; probably animal flesh as well, for we occasionally heard what sounded like screams.