Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

When I reached the hollowed-out bay, everything was silent and deserted. The bishop’s machine was dark and lifeless. Although I was still curious about the bishop’s intentions, I had in some important way lost interest. Two more days, and I would be gone from the ship, and would never see the bishop or his machine again.

AFTERsearching the chamber, I roamed through several of the lower levels, asking people I met if they knew Francis, or knew of him. I wandered through a smoking club, nearly overwhelmed by the harsh reek of tobacco and star-leaf smoke, and asked about the boy at each table I passed. I got shaken heads, a few muttered negative words, but just as often I received silent, hostile glares.

In a barter shop I was given shrugs and several offers for my exoskeleton, but no one admitted to knowing Francis.

On another level I inadvertently interrupted a group of flesh gamblers, close to twenty men and women rolling twelve-sided illuminated dice into shadowed maze boxes. As the scarred and tattooed gamblers looked up at me, scowling, I quickly backed out of the darkened room without a word.

On the same level, I walked into a small chapel, where a Shinto priest was quietly speaking with a dozen men and women. There were a number of smaller chapels like this scattered throughout the ship, mostly on the lower levels, with several unofficial and unsanctioned sects and alternative religious groups holding their services in defiance of the Church. The bishop was always trying to suppress them, but he received no support or cooperation from the captain or the Executive Council, so his efforts were ineffective. I don’t think he understood that he was better off that way. I mumbled my apologies to the priest and withdrew.

I recognized a few of the people I saw, but most I had never seen before, something which no longer surprised me. Just as the bishop claimed that the ship had always existed, I sometimes imagined that it folded and twisted in on itself so that there were an infinite number of cabins and levels, and an infinite number of people. It made me feel lost and overwhelmed, and I wanted nothing more than to launch myself from the ship, escape its gravity, and drift out into the silent calm dark of space.

I had almost given up. Two or three levels lower down, I came across the open doors of an ag room, a high-ceilinged hold of growing fields and a grove of fruit trees. A small herd of pygmy goats grazed at the edge of the field. Seven or eight people were working in a shed with planting boxes and soil and starter plants. I entered and walked toward them.

“I’m looking for a boy,” I said. “His name is Francis, he’s about thirteen or fourteen years old.” There was no response, although they were all staring at me, not all of them unfriendly. “No father, and his mother’s sick, maybe dying.”

A young woman who had been kneeling stood up and brushed dirt from her hands. She observed me for some time from where she stood, then said, “I know Francis.” She appeared to be about twenty-five, perhaps a little older, dark hair cut quite short. “Why are you looking for him?”

I took a few steps closer to the group. “I’m concerned about him. He said he was living on his own, no place to go. I was just hoping to find him, find family or friends who could take him in.”

“Why do you care?” the woman asked.

She was gazing intently at me, and I felt compelled to answer her honestly. “Because he reminds me of myself.”

The young woman broke away from the group and approached me. The others returned to their tasks. She put out her hand, and didn’t flinch when I grasped it with my artificial fingers.

“My name is Catherine,” she said. “Francis is my brother. Half brother.”

“My name’s Bartolomeo.”

She nodded. “I know who you are.”

“Is that good or bad?” I asked, trying to smile.

She ignored the question. “I appreciate your concern, Bartolomeo, but Francis will be all right. He always is.”

“That may be so, but I still want to help him.”

“He’s a downsider. He doesn’t need your help.” And with that she turned away and rejoined her group.

I stood there for a minute, not wanting to leave. I felt rejected, which confused me. Catherine didn’t look back, although a couple of the others glanced briefly in my direction as though afraid I was going to stay. I left.

NIKOSwas preoccupied. We spoke rarely, and when we did, neither of us said anything of substance. He did not raise the issue of his plan for dealing with the bishop in their power struggle, and I did not ask him about it, afraid to be drawn into something that would take me away from the work I needed to do with Pär and the others. I even began to wonder if he suspected me of something.

But if he did suspect, there was nothing that could be done. It was far too late for that now. There was no turning back.

And yet, at times I wasn’t sure why I was doing this. Why did I want to go back to that world, a world that held the dead, that induced nightmares?

I was not sleeping much, and what little sleep I did get was disturbed by haunted dreams—visions of the dead, strings of bones making ghastly music as they clacked together in an uneasy breeze, rotting corpses floating through the air with eyes staring, tiny babies drowning in sand.

I could only hope that eventually the nightmares would end.

Ithought often of Father Veronica. I would miss her.

THISwas mutiny.

It was so quiet at first, I could hardly imagine what was about to occur.

Silence and shadowed darkness filled the vast transport hold. Scattered about the far and upper reaches were dim blue lights that cast little illumination—stationary fireflies, tiny beacons in an endless metal cave. A long, muted hissing sounded from somewhere far off, then slowly faded away. Quiet again.

Soft floor lights came to life, and the silence was broken as I led a small group of eight across the open space of the hold to the shuttles on the far side—heavier, darker shadows within shadow. Behind me, in the darkened holding area, were more than eleven hundred people with all the personal possessions they were allowed; a shifting, anxious mass of humanity, waiting. I did not look back at them.

Timing would be critical. We had rehearsed these procedures repeatedly—everyone knew where they would go, what they would do. My group approached the first shuttle, then moved along its dark form to the rear. I gestured at Amelia Ritter, who took her station at the fuel intake. Then I hurried with the others to the fueling equipment in the back wall. One step at a time, one step…

I keyed in the access codes, then nodded at two men who pulled the fueling hose structure from the wall, hydraulics whispering in the semidarkness—a metallic, massively tusked and wingless dragon. They guided it to the shuttle and, with the help of Amelia, locked it into place. But fueling was not to begin yet; not until the last minute, timed to finish when everyone and everything was loaded and ready to go. The fueling, even with authorized access codes, would almost certainly alert someone, somewhere, resulting in an investigation. It had to be put off as long as possible.

Amelia remained at the rear of the shuttle, ready to perform the disconnect, while the rest of us moved on to the next shuttle, where the process was repeated with someone again stationed at the rear. Four more times, step by step, no hesitations, no mistakes, until all six shuttles were hooked up to their fueling structures, waiting. Everyone, everything, waiting.

All was quiet again except for the hushed, tense hiss of machinery. Coils of evaporation swirled in and out of the dim blue overhead lights. I paused, scanning the hold, mentally reviewing our plans, while everyone continued to wait.