Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

I think he was right. But it was too late for that. The cocoon grew and swelled, filaments spinning, engulfing both ships, and soon we lost sight of everything within it.

The cocoon and the two ships moved through the swirling rim of the discontinuity, into the blackness. All the light from the energy cocoon was sucked away, and suddenly there was nothing but the black void surrounded by the vortex of twisted starlight.

The swirling of the vortex slowed, the starlight untwisting. Then it all collapsed in on itself, and the black night sky of space, spangled with the cold shining light of stars, returned to normal.

They were gone.

THEREisn’t much more to write, now. We are nearing Antioch, less than two weeks away. Most of us have survived.

We lost the last shuttle, the one piloted by Virgil Masters. I thought it meant we’d lost our new captain, but Geller had gone with the previous shuttle. We don’t know what happened to the last one. After the Argonos had made the jump, we tried to contact them, but without success. We continue to try, broadcasting a transmission every hour, but after all these weeks no one holds out much hope anymore. It’s possible the shuttle is out there, intact and functional, headed for Antioch just as we are, and will one day arrive and join us. Possible.

Over the course of the three days following the jump, with the aid of navigational beacons and regular communications, all of the other vessels—shuttles and harvesters alike—were able to rendezvous, forming a space caravan which has stayed together now for nearly four months. We travel at a constant velocity, a static string of vehicles, and sometimes we have to take it on faith that we are actually making progress, getting closer to our destination.

Faith.

Four months is a long time under these conditions. Too long. Arguments and squabbles and screaming matches are too numerous to count. Actual fights erupt with regularity, and some have become quite violent; three people have been killed. Several others have died in accidents, two more apparently of old age. A number have died from illness, including fifty-three on Shuttle Six when an epidemic of a still unidentified disease broke out and swept through the passengers; but, as I’ve said, most of us have survived.

Pär and I, along with Maxine, Jimmy, and Amar, periodically rotated out of the harvester and onto other vessels during the first few weeks, to give us a break from the confined pilot cabin, which is the only habitable zone on the harvester. But I soon discovered I prefer the solitude of the harvester, and I have not left it in three months.

I am still blamed by most people for what happened. No one says anything to me, but it is obvious from the furtive glances, the sour expressions, the abrupt silence whenever I approach, the deliberate avoidance of my company. I can’t disagree with their feelings; even if Nikos was right, that docking to the alien ship didn’t make any difference, hardly anyone sees it that way. That I was able to come up with the means of escape does little to diminish the sense of resentment and hostility that emanates from nearly everyone.

Sometimes it becomes almost too much for me to bear. At those times I wish that I had stayed with Nikos and the others on the Argonos , no matter what happened to them. I imagine that I would have felt a sense of accomplishment that seems elusive to me now.

PÄRis one of the few people who does not seem to hold it all against me, and he has stayed on the harvester with me these last three months. His presence is a comfort. And there are small pleasures that come with his friendship—he loaded onto the harvester, in an easily accessible location, his entire store of coffee beans. He has carefully, although generously, rationed them during the voyage, sharing with whoever is stationed on the harvester. His supply will last, he says, at least a few weeks after landfall. He has also told me that he stored a large number of pre-germinated coffee-plant seeds, determined to start another plantation once we reach Antioch.

He has become a great friend, and I feel I would be lost without him.

FRANCIS,too, has become a friend, along with his sister, Catherine. They jet over to the harvester to visit for two or three days at a time. Francis seems much older than his age, as if whatever remained of his childhood had been taken from him. He almost never smiles.

Ithink often of Father Veronica. It would be nice to believe that her spirit, her soul , lives on and is somehow with us yet: watching over us, guiding us in whatever way she can. I want to believe this.

I don’t. I still do not believe—not in an afterlife, not in heaven and hell, and I do not believe in the existence of God.

And yet… and yet she is still with me in a strange and mysterious way—through my memories of her, through my imagination. I talk to her, I imagine what her replies would be, and I talk further with her. I have long, internal conversations, discussions and even arguments; they sometimes bring me comfort, ease my grief, my guilt. She would probably say I was praying, and perhaps I am.

WHENI was in the shuttle bay all those months ago, standing at Pär’s side as we prepared to mutiny and leave the Argonos , I had believed we were about to begin a new life. It didn’t happen then, but we are about to now.

Despite everything, I have great hopes for the future. Life is difficult for all of us now, but that will change when we make landfall on Antioch. We will have other difficulties, to be certain, hardships and trying times, but it will be different. Now, we can do nothing about our circumstances. There, on Antioch, we will have the opportunity to work together to overcome our hardships, to share and cooperate as a real community and build a new life on a new world.

Perhaps we will fail. Perhaps we will be unable to overcome our differences, our selfishness, the resentments and anger of our previous lives on the Argonos . But it is also possible that we will succeed. I find myself surprisingly optimistic and hopeful. This, too, may be part of Father Veronica’s legacy.

THISpersonal history is nearly done. I have taken a cue from August Toller, and have prepared one of the space-burial coffins. I’ll keep the original document with us, but I will put two copies in different formats inside the coffin, seal it, and launch it into space before we reach Antioch. Perhaps some day it will be found. Perhaps some day we will be found.

And so I end this record with hope and anticipation. An old life ends. A new life begins.

Life. That, at least, is something I believe in.

I can’t adequately thank my wife, Candace, who read the entire manuscript several times and made numerous suggestions and corrections, large and small, gently persisting even when I got defensive. This is a better book because of her.

I’d also like to thank Karen Fowler for her many invaluable suggestions on an early draft of this novel, and, once again, for her friendship and encouragement over the years.

My thanks, too, go to my editor, Susan Allison, who helped me bring this book into focus.

Finally, a belated thanks to my long-time friends Patricia Miranda and Paul Katz for their medical expertise and help with my previous book, Carlucci’s Heart. I inexcusably neglected to acknowledge their contributions then, but do so now with apologies. Thank you both.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.