Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

“Don’t get carried away, Historian.” The bishop leaned forward and stared at Nikos. “I can refuse access. I will refuse access.”

“Can he do that?” Costino asked.

“Yes,” said Nikos. “Legally.” He turned to the bishop. “You can, Bishop. But in the current climate, I don’t think refusal would be wise.”

We all waited for the bishop to speak; I looked down at his hands lying flat on the table, and I thought I could see one trembling slightly. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight and controlled.

“Access will be strictly limited.”

“Understood,” said Nikos.

“Toller and his apprentice only. No one else. They will have access only under strict supervision, and they will not be allowed to remove any materials from the Church archives. The records are sacred texts. We will not risk loss or damage.”

Toller nodded. “Of course, of course, that’s quite acceptable.”

“Good,” Nikos said. “With these two issues resolved, I propose we call an immediate meeting of the full Planning Committee, present this information, and discuss our alternatives.”

His motion was seconded and passed, with the bishop abstaining. Nikos was about to close the meeting when the bishop spoke up.

“You say that the two issues are resolved. But that is not necessarily true. What if nothing is found in our records? What if that information, the location of some speculative advanced culture or society, doesn’t exist?” He leaned forward again. “What if it isn’t there?”

“I don’t think that’s a very likely outcome,” Nikos said. “Is it, Bishop?”

The bishop didn’t answer.

THREEhours later, the full Planning Committee came to order. Nikos, Cardenas, and I made our presentation. There was surprisingly little discussion, and the vote was overwhelming. Toller and Maria Vegas would begin their search through the Church records, and the engineers would immediately begin preparations to construct the docking mechanism—we were leaving, and we would take the alien ship with us.

Iwanted to apologize to Father Veronica for putting her into a difficult position with the bishop. I also wanted to know how she was holding up.

As I entered the cathedral, I caught a glimpse of her leaving, stepping through a doorway on the right, behind the apse. I was going to call out to her but I stopped, my mouth silently open, when I saw all the long, narrow metal columns in front of me—several mounted in the floor, others hanging from the ceiling at various heights. I’d never seen them before, and had no idea what they were.

I hurried the length of the cathedral, staring at the columns; as I neared them, I realized they were longer and larger than I’d realized. I climbed the half dozen steps to the first of them, and saw they held long glass tubes that I guessed to be light sources. Still puzzled, I turned away from the lights and went through the doorway on the right.

I was in a long, gently curving corridor, dimly lit and gray. I thought I could hear footsteps in the distance. Again I stopped myself from calling out; instead, I followed the sounds.

Closed doors lined the right wall, but I passed them all. I heard a door hiss shut far away, then nothing. Two minutes later the corridor ended at a suit locker, which in turn led to an air lock; panel lights warned that there was someone suiting up inside—Father Veronica was leaving the ship.

I waited until the panel lights indicated the air lock had cycled and she was outside (I didn’t have a choice; the doors had automatically locked and didn’t unlock until she was gone), then entered the locker. I donned a suit, waited impatiently for it to size itself to me, then started the cycling process. Fifteen minutes later I, too, was outside the ship, drifting free.

I didn’t see her anywhere. The ship’s hull spread out around me in all directions, a dark and jagged metallic plain. Yet it was not as dark as the alien ship, and tiny shafts of light leaked out of view ports in the distance so that I did not feel lost or isolated or abandoned, as I sometimes felt on that other vessel. But I did not see Father Veronica, although I turned slowly in a full circle. No signs of movement anywhere.

A brief flash caught my eye; I looked up, and saw her moving far out from the ship. The flash had been one of her suit’s small jets. I crouched, then kicked hard, launching myself from the ship, angled away from Father Veronica.

My momentum carried me quickly away from the Argonos , and soon I was passing her, about fifty or sixty meters distant. Her outward motion had stopped, and her suit’s attitude jets were briefly firing again, orienting her so that she was now directly facing the ship.

Somehow I had made it past without her seeing me. I hit my own suit’s jets and brought myself quickly to a stop. A couple of minor adjustments and I, too, was facing the ship. We both drifted in the dark, surrounded by stars, the ship in front of us. I watched her, wondering what she was doing out here.

It started so slowly that I was barely aware of it at first—a diffuse flicker of color on the Argonos hull. I was watching Father Veronica, and only dimly sensed it in the periphery of my vision. I almost ignored it. Then I realized something unusual was occurring and I turned to look at the growing bloom of color. Just as I did, it silently, almost blindingly exploded to life.

Christ on the Cross.

The enormous stained glass window at the head of the cathedral, which had always been too dull, indistinct, and chaotic to reveal any concrete images, now blazed in the depths of space, burning in the side of the Argonos . The Church’s beacon to the stars.

The Crucifixion.

A crimson sky blazing as if the air itself was on fire.

Against that flaming sky, the Cross, the wood so dark it was almost black, stained with sweat and blood.

Jesus hanging from the dark wood, metal spikes driven through wrists and ankles. He stared not upward but out at the universe, at whoever looked at Him. At me.

Blood on His forehead, His chest, His ankles and wrists. His mouth open in His suffering.

The images seemed both three-dimensional and somehow alive. I thought I sensed movement—the twitching of a thigh muscle; the strained and ragged shudder in His chest; beads of sweat inching along His jaw; the tremor of His cracked and bleeding lips. I knew I had to be imagining it, but it seemed so real. I began to feel hot and sweaty inside my pressure suit.

Terrible and beautiful…

I realized I’d been holding my breath, and I finally let it out. My breathing was deep and ragged for a time, as His must have been. My heart ached for Him, for His suffering.

What was happening to me?

I wanted to turn away from Him, but I couldn’t. His image seemed to be growing, becoming even more vibrant and alive. I felt lightheaded, dizzy. Finally, unable to turn away, I managed to close my eyes.

For a few moments a cool relief washed through me and I felt almost in control again. I kept my eyes closed, although I could still sense the bright colors through my eyelids, and breathed slowly, deeply.

But when I opened my eyes again, His image overwhelmed me once more. I was being drawn into Him, toward the scorched wood, the crimson blazing skies behind Him, toward His scourged flesh, drawn into His glowing visage…. His eyes… His eyes… so deep and penetrating and… and what? Terrified? No, I realized. Tortured. It was awful, and I felt I was being accused by those eyes. But accused of what?

“Who’s there?”

It was Father Veronica’s voice, coming over the open suit channel. I looked at her and saw she had turned toward me. More than that, I was now much closer to her than I had been—she was drifting away from the ship, or I was drifting toward it. Or some of both.