Richard Russo

by Ship of Fools

  I looked around the room. The bishop had a content, almost smug look on his face. “There must be records somewhere on this ship that weren’t destroyed,” I said. “No one can be that thorough. There are always dissidents who will hide copies, who will smuggle information away. They must be out there somewhere.”

  “Probably,” Nikos replied. “But also probably lost, forgotten, damaged, accidentally destroyed.”

  I surveyed the room again. “Give us time to find them,” I said. “We’ll send a plea throughout the ship, to the downsiders as well as the upper levels. Just give us time.”

  “Why?” Bishop Soldano rose slowly to his feet. “So more people can die? Even if we could find complete records somewhere, that doesn’t make your proposal any less absurd. I said it earlier—that starship is evil. Even if we could take it with us, which I very much doubt is even possible, and even if we could find a world filled with a billion people and all their wonderful tools and resources, taking that ship to them would only increase the harm it can cause, would only spread its evil. Would only magnify the death and destruction.” He paused for effect. “We cannot do it. We must not.”

  I turned to Cardenas. “Can we do it?”

  She nodded. “I think so. Your idea of tethering it to us with cables is probably not too practical. Acceleration is one thing, but trying to stop without its ramming us from behind would be more difficult. But I think we could manufacture a docking mechanism that would be workable.” She shrugged. “If the Planning Committee wants me to, I can talk to the engineers and work out the feasibility.”

  I nodded. “That’s all I ask for now,” I said. “Time to search for logs or historical records that point us to a place to go, and time for Cardenas to explore the feasibility of taking the alien ship with us.” I paused, thinking about whether or not I should suggest that, with or without the alien ship, it would be good for us to end our isolated wanderings, connect with real civilization again, but I thought it might actually scare some of them off. “That’s all,” I repeated. “No commitment to a course of action, just the time to explore the alternatives.”

  No one else said anything more. When we finally took the vote, it wasn’t as close as I’d expected. The Planning Committee gave us the time.

  38

  I was taken aback when I saw Father Veronica the next day. A dark, despairing air surrounded her, the darkness haunting her eyes, even the way she carried herself. I had never seen this side of her, never suspected it existed. She was seated on the top step leading to the apse, leaning against the pulpit at which she’d spoken during Casterman’s funeral Mass. As I approached she tried to smile, but the effort was weak and unsuccessful.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She rose to her feet, her hands trembling slightly. “I am overcome by a sense of despair . . . and I can’t tell you why. Two or three times a year, it happens. Usually I disappear for a few days, go into isolation until it passes. Bishop Soldano is aware of what happens, although he doesn’t understand it. He accommodates me. I would be gone today, but we’d agreed to meet. Too much is happening now anyway. I can’t disappear this time.”

  I nodded, remembering. “You were gone when I was released from prison. Father George said no one knew where you were.”

  She looked up into the darkness of the upper vaulting as if searching for solace she knew she wouldn’t find. “Today, this place makes my mood even more foul.” She turned back to me. “We’ll go to my quarters,” she said. “And you can tell me what happened in the Planning Committee.”

  Her quarters were located two levels below the cathedral. The outer two rooms were for church duties—meeting with people, informal confessions, prayer; the interior rooms were her private quarters.

  Father Veronica directed me to sit in one of two chairs partially facing each other, a small table between them. I did; then she withdrew to the interior rooms. The room I was in was small and dark and comfortable. On one wall was a bookshelf constructed of real wood and filled with bound volumes, most of which appeared to be quite old. Another wall was draped with a dark tapestry picturing the Creation.

  She returned a few minutes later with a cup and a carafe filled with coffee. She sat in the other chair and poured coffee for me. I drank some and looked at her in surprise.

  “Good, isn’t it?” she said.

  I nodded. “How?”

  “Your friend Pär was kind enough to provide me with a small supply.”

  I would have expected her to smile at some point in this brief conversation about the coffee, at least with her eyes, but she didn’t, and I began to truly appreciate the depth of her despair.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I asked. “Leave you alone?”

  She shook her head. “I want to hear about the Planning Committee session.”

  I related to her in some detail what had occurred, including my own assessments of the dynamics, the tensions, and the uncertainties. When I had finished, she appeared to be even more distressed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You really want to take that ship with us?”

  “Yes. You understand why, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s perfectly rational. But I’m still uncomfortable with the idea. I would prefer to leave it behind, and never see it again.” She sighed heavily. “There’s something else.” But she didn’t go on.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, Bartolomeo. I don’t know if I should say anything. I’m not sure I have the right to say anything.”

  “You can say anything you want to me.”

  “It has nothing to do with you, Bartolomeo. It’s me, and the Church.”

  She didn’t say or do anything for a minute; then she abruptly stood and went into the other room, sealing the door behind her.

  I assumed she wanted me to stay, but how could I be sure? If she’d wanted me to leave, she would presumably have asked me to do so. How could I know what she wanted?

  I stayed. The room was quiet, a hushed silence that seemed to have substance. I drank my coffee, poured myself a second cup. I got up and walked over to the bookcase, studied the ancient volumes: Vetera Analecta. No author. Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. Summa Theologica, by Saint Thomas Aquinas. Black Commentaries, by Straphe. Confessions, by Saint Augustine. Books in French and Spanish, a couple of other languages I didn’t recognize. Even alphabets that were unfamiliar. None of the names meant anything to me. I was tempted to pull one off the shelf and open it, but I didn’t know what Father Veronica’s reaction would be if she were to return and see me with one of the books in my hands. Were they holy texts not to be touched by unbelievers?

  I returned to my seat, drank more coffee. As time passed, I grew increasingly uncomfortable, afraid I had misunderstood and was expected to leave. Twice I got to my feet, intending to leave, but both times I sat again to wait a while longer.

  I was about to get up for the third time, when the door slid open and Father Veronica walked back into the room. She did not sit down, but stood in front of the tapestry.

  “The bishop never mentioned the Church’s own historical records.” It was more statement than question, but I knew she expected a response from me.

  I hesitated, sensing the implications of what she’d just said. “No,” I replied.

  She nodded slowly, as though still thinking, still trying to decide something. “They are quite extensive,” she said. “And detailed. They go back hundreds of years . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “How detailed?” I asked. I could feel my heart rate increasing.

  “They include much that would have been in the ship’s logs.”

  “Including star coordinates.”

  “Yes.”

  He had said nothing. The bishop had sat there as we discussed trying to find lost or damaged records, any surviving remnants, and had said nothing about the Church’s own substantial and intact records.

  “Nothing would be as simple as you might i
magine,” Father Veronica said. She finally sat again in the chair, glancing at the books, then back at me. “There is no indexing of any kind. And they are very extensive. I have read little of them. The bishop is probably most familiar with them, but even he has read only a small portion. Trying to find very specific information, which is what you want, would be extremely difficult.”

  I hesitated, watching her. My thoughts were jumping frantically, barely under control. “Are you willing to tell the Executive Council about the records? I know this must be hard for you, and it’s a bad time, you’re having a hard time—”

  “If necessary,” she said, cutting me off and closing her eyes for a moment. “But could you not tell the council about them yourself?”

  “Sure. But you don’t understand the dynamics. With the bishop there fighting me all the way, everything would be changed. It’s not so much that they wouldn’t believe me concerning the records’ existence; but the bishop would have a good chance of convincing them that the records are unimportant, would not be useful, and would in fact not have the kind of information you say they have.” I paused. “If you tell the council, he won’t be able to do that.”

  She hesitated a long time. “I’ll talk to them, Bartolomeo.”

  “Thank you, Veronica.”

  “It’s the right thing to do.” She stood. “Let me know when you want me to talk to them. But until then, I need to be alone.”

  Now I knew it was time to leave. I rose to my feet and did.

  39

  I went to Nikos. Time for further reconciliation. I was going to need all the support I could muster from now on, and he represented my best opportunity. And I hoped there was still something salvageable between us, a remnant of friendship, mutual respect. Something.

  I found him in the command salon, the canopy retracted, the stars and the eternal night sky engulfing him. He was relaxed and at ease in the command chair, more so than I had seen in months, if not years; he appeared rested, no longer haunted.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happened to the strain and tension? You look almost . . .”

  “Peaceful?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and sighed. “I don’t feel like the captain anymore, Bartolomeo. Surprisingly, that’s a good thing.” He smiled gently. “It’s as if no one is in charge, and who would want to be? Circumstances are in charge. I wonder now why I was so caught up in it, in holding on to this position. If people wanted me out, I should have let them depose me.” He shrugged, the smile fading. “But I didn’t know anything else. It was my life. It was all I had.” He paused for a few moments, then said, “I don’t need it anymore.”

  We were both silent for a time. I tried to find the tiny occlusion that marked the alien ship, but couldn’t locate it.

  “Then what do you think of my plan?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s a good plan, Bartolomeo. Alien ship or not, it would be beneficial for the Argonos to contact civilization once again, good for all of us. We’ve been out here far too long.” He looked at me and frowned. “But I’m not hopeful of finding any records that will show us the way.”

  “Be hopeful,” I said. “They exist.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  I grinned and told him what Father Veronica had revealed to me.

  “So the bishop was holding out on us,” Nikos said when I had finished. “I’m surprised she told you about it. I would have thought that it was some kind of Church secret.” He fingered the chair controls and the canopy began closing over us; the salon grew darker until the canopy was completely sealed and the only illumination came from glowing colored lights on the command chair. I could barely tell that he was looking at me. “I assume you have something in mind,” he said.

  “Call an Executive Council session.”

  “And?”

  “Father Veronica and I will be there, and she’ll repeat what she told me. We demand that the bishop grant us access to the church records.”

  “And if he refuses? The Church has a certain degree of autonomy on this ship. He could legally refuse, and we could not force his hand.”

  “He won’t refuse. Right now, that would be politically disastrous for him. He’d lose most of the support he has on the Planning Committee, even the Executive Council.”

  Nikos pulled slowly at his beard, an old habit I had once found reassuring.

  “I believe you’re right. That’s what we’ll do.” He sighed heavily. “We could have been a formidable combination, Bartolomeo. We were at one time.”

  “We can still work together, Nikos.”

  “Yes, and we will. But it can never be the same as it once was, and that’s a sad thing.”

  He was right, and I had no response.

  WHEN Father Veronica and I walked into the council session, the bishop leaned forward in his chair, face tight, and said, “What is this?”

  “I asked them both here,” Nikos replied. “They have information that is useful to us.” He gestured at us to sit, and we did.

  “What kind of information?”

  “Patience, Bishop.” Nikos looked around the table. “We’re all here, yes? Then let’s start.” He turned to Cardenas. “Margita, do you have answers from your engineers yet?”

  Before she could reply, the bishop interrupted. “If this concerns Bartolomeo’s demented proposal, we should be meeting with the full Planning Committee.”

  Nikos waved a hand in dismissal. “No formal action will be taken here, Bishop. We won’t be voting on anything. We’re simply gathering information that will be presented to the full committee.” He tipped his head toward the bishop and his tone hardened. “Besides, Bishop, I think that before we’re through here, you will be glad it’s just the council.”

  The silence was tight with tension, with the bishop’s struggle to maintain his composure. Nikos finally turned back to Cardenas and said, “Margita?”

  She nodded once. “A simple answer, though not a simple task. Yes, we can do it. We can construct a docking mechanism, build one half onto the bow of the Argonos, the other centrally located on the hull of the alien starship—we put the ship right on our nose. Acceleration will be slower, but the drives can handle the extra mass. The docking mechanism will be somewhat simplified by the fact that we need no communication, no passage between the two ships, no cabling, no air locks. Everything on the exterior. It will take some time, but we can do it.”

  “That’s what we wanted to hear,” Nikos said. “No, let me correct that. That’s what we expected to hear. I have more faith in the ship’s crew than in almost anything else. Thank you, Margita.” He glanced down at the table as if reminding himself of something, then looked up at Father Veronica. “Now, for the second thing we need. Father Veronica. Tell us about . . . the Church’s historical records.”

  “NO!” Bishop Soldano rose to his feet, slamming his hands on the table.

  “Let her speak,” Nikos said.

  “Don’t do this, Veronica.”

  Father Veronica appeared unhappy, yet determined. “It’s too late, Eminence.”

  “It is a betrayal of the Church!”

  “No. It is upholding the Church’s principles. God’s principles.”

  The bishop sat down heavily and closed his eyes for a moment. “You are making a serious mistake, Veronica.”

  “Perhaps, Eminence. But I make it with good conscience.”

  The bishop had no response to this except to stare at me with that same malevolence he’d directed at me the day before; eventually he sank back, still shaking with rage. Father Veronica regarded him, then looked away.

  “Father?” Nikos said quietly.

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  She then proceeded to describe the Church’s historical records to the Executive Council. She spoke at length, without interruption; as she spoke, the bishop sat rigid, his eyes hardly blinking.

  When she was done, Father Veronica was obviously still conflicted. She slowly rose to her feet.

>   “I’m sure the bishop can answer any questions you may have. He is more familiar with the records than I am.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, but I must leave.”

  “Certainly,” Nikos said. “Thank you for speaking with us.”

  Father Veronica nodded once, then left. I wanted to follow her, and talk to her, but I couldn’t leave now. There was more to come in the session, and if Nikos had his way we would immediately convene the Planning Committee. I sat in silence at the foot of the table and waited.

  Most of the council members were stunned, but Toller was excited. “I always suspected,” he said in an awed whisper. “Bernard, you’ve kept this from me all these years.”

  The bishop glared at Toller. “In public, you call me Bishop or Eminence.”

  Toller nodded, but could not keep the smile from his face. “My apologies, Bishop.” He breathed deeply once. “Those records must be wonderful. I can’t imagine what it will be like to see them, to start reading through them—”

  “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.”