Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

An astute and clever politician, Nikos had hung on to his position despite the pressures, but we both knew he could not last much longer. The ship’s original mission, whatever it was, had become irrelevant. What mattered now was the ship’s current mission, and its future leadership. Both were quite undecided.

THEExecutive Council met in the dead of shipboard night. I was not an official member of the council, though I attended all council sessions, seated in a corner of the room; it was a perspective I actually preferred. Nikos sat at the head of the long, wooden table, and there were four seats on either side. His table keypad glowed faintly in front of him, but the wall screens were dark. To his left was Aiyana, his wife—a nonvoting member. To his right was the bishop.

To Aiyana’s left was Rocco Costino, head of Maintenance; he was the bishop’s man, no matter what the circumstances. Beside him sat Susanna Hingen, the ship’s quartermaster, an organized but thoroughly unimaginative woman. Next came Margita Cardenas, the chief engineer—she was thoughtful and intelligent, and I had more respect for her than for anyone else on the council.

On the opposite side of the table, to the bishop’s right, sat General Marshal Wainwright in full dress uniform emblazoned with medals and ribbons that were purely ceremonial—the man had never participated in an actual military action in his life. His eyes were slightly dilated, he licked his lips repeatedly, and his hands were afflicted with a discernible palsy; he was a Passion addict in the terminal stages. Next to the general was Michel Tournier, the appointed representative of the First Echelon, the ruling circle of the ship’s upper levels; he was a handsome but empty-headed man. Last was August Toller, the oldest man on the Argonos at nearly a hundred and forty standard years, and the ship’s official historian (though hardly anyone ever read his accounts); he walked with the aid of a wooden cane that he claimed had originally come from Earth.

Maximilian, the chief steward, came in with a tray of coffee and tea and iced fruit nectars; he served the drinks, setting cups and glasses before each member of the council according to their usual requests. He left pots and pitchers in the middle of the table, and retreated.

Nikos was about to speak when the bishop straightened, leaned forward, and said, “We will be making landfall soon, and I shall appoint the exploration team.”

Nikos was so stunned he did not know how to respond. I was just as stunned, as was everyone else on the council. This was bad. The meeting had hardly begun, and already Nikos had lost control of it.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Nikos finally managed to say.

“We all know about the transmission,” the bishop said. “We know we’ve adjusted our course. We will be making landfall, and I just wanted to assume some of the burdens. You are a busy man, Captain. I want to help. It is quite simple.”

“It’s not that simple,” Nikos said. “First, we don’t know what the environmental conditions will be like, and we won’t be making landfall on a world we can’t live on.”

The bishop sighed. “My understanding is that initial readings are very favorable. Is my understanding inaccurate?”

After a brief hesitation, Nikos replied. “No, your understanding is not inaccurate, but the data is very preliminary.” He paused, and I knew he was angry, wondering where the bishop was getting his information. “But even if environmental conditions are favorable, we have no idea what the social conditions are—who, if anyone, is living there, and what the situation is. We need to discuss the possibilities so we can be prepared for whatever we might find. Our last landfall, if we all remember, was a major disaster. I’m certain you remember, Bishop.”

I could barely keep from smiling. That last landfall, nearly fifteen years ago, was the bishop’s disaster—he tried to convert people who did not want to be converted. We were driven away by angry mobs eager to rend us limb from limb. Several of us were killed before we made our escape. But the bishop waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal; he had never accepted, or admitted, that he was in any way responsible for what happened.

“Nothing like that is likely to occur again. Those people were barbarians. I don’t think we need to worry about the ‘social’ circumstances. Certainly we will try to contact anyone who remains, and there will be specific plans, but those are logistical details which will be worked out over the coming days.” He paused, obviously for effect. “What we do not need at this point, after all these years of failure, is timidity. We need an assertive plan of action—an exploration team ready and waiting, and then landfall. I will take responsibility for it. It’s quite straightforward. If there is a problem, say so, and we can have a discussion and vote.”

Time and tension stretched interminably. Nikos was livid, but he knew there wasn’t much he could say or do. Finally General Wainwright spoke.

“Yes,” he said, his voice shaking almost as much as his hands. “That sounds like a perfectly reasonable approach. My soldiers will provide the necessary protection; yes, I will see that the arrangements are made. Yes, yes…” His voice trailed off as if he were speaking to himself, which he probably was.

The bishop looked around the table, his gaze ending on me, in the corner of the room. “Any other comments? Objections?” No one replied. They all saw how it was going. Besides, it was what everyone expected would happen eventually, assuming there were no unexpected surprises, and no one saw any percentage in coming to Nikos’s defense. At least not yet. The bishop turned his attention to Nikos. “Captain?”

Nikos shook his head. “No, I have nothing else to say for the moment.”

“More at another time?” the bishop suggested.

“Yes,” Nikos replied. “Another time. And much more.” But his words sounded hollow.

“Good. One final thing,” the bishop said. “Two days from now is Holy Thursday. I am preparing a special sermon related to our forthcoming landfall. I expect you all to attend.” With that, Bishop Soldano rose to his feet and walked out, effectively ending the meeting on his own.

The other council members remained seated, waiting for Nikos to formally close the meeting. Most would not look at him. Even Aiyana kept her gaze averted, and stared at the table. He closed the meeting, and we left.

NIKOS, of course, was not happy with the way the council meeting went, and was especially unhappy with the way it ended.

He and I and Aiyana went to his personal stateroom afterward, and when he asked Aiyana to leave, she glared at me with jealous hatred. She could not bear her regular exclusion from our private conferences, and I did not blame her—she had always wanted to consider herself an equal partner in everything, including the running of the Argonos . This had caused so much friction between Aiyana and Nikos that their marriage had become as shaky as his position on the ship.

When she had gone, Nikos sat slumped on the wall couch and dimmed the stateroom lights. A dozen small orange globes near the ceiling provided the only illumination, casting moving shadows as they drifted randomly above us. I sat in the padded chair behind his desk.

“Bishop Soldano is preparing to move against you,” I said.

“He has been for a while,” Nikos replied, as if that could minimize what was happening.

“Yes, but now he can hardly restrain himself. He is no longer waiting for the opportunity, he is working to create the opportunity.”