Ship of Fools (20 page)

“T
AKE
me there,” the bishop demanded. “Into the belly of the beast.”

I
led the way into the alien starship, the bishop surprisingly graceful in his pressure suit, completely at home in zero g. I wondered how much of this the bishop had already seen. We worked our way slowly but steadily through the explored cabins and passages, the bishop taking it all in, asking few questions. He had insisted there be no record of our excursion, but even so we hardly spoke.

I pointed out the cabin where Santiago had plummeted to his death; we pulled ourselves through the corkscrew passage that had killed Askan and Singer; I opened the door to the second room with gravity that had almost killed Starlin, and let the bishop look down into that long drop. We paused a long time gazing into the strangely lit depths of the huge spherical chamber pocked with its thousands of reflecting facets; the bishop seemed lost in thought, perhaps thinking, as I often did, that there was something significant to that chamber. We crawled along the tubes of glass, surrounded by the dark, mysterious fluid. Finally, after more
than two hours, we reached the point where Earth-normal gravity began, and started walking. We went through the air lock leading into the pressurized section, then stopped in the circular chamber where Casterman had cut his own throat.

We stood silent and still for a long time, the bishop’s breathing steady, calm, showing no distress. I kept thinking of Father Veronica’s warning about the bishop, and wondered if he had made this excursion to gather more evidence to bolster his proposal to abandon this ship.

“Why here?” the bishop asked.

“Why not?”

He turned to me. “Are you trying to be funny? Or clever?”

“No.”

“It’s a valid question. You don’t think he just arbitrarily,
randomly
, removed his helmet and slashed his own throat, oblivious to his surroundings?”

“I have no idea.”

“No, you don’t. Well. Perhaps there’s something in the air.” With that the bishop quickly removed his own helmet and took a deep breath.

“Stop!” I said. “What are you doing?”

He said something, but I couldn’t make out a word. The com systems are built into the helmets, and he was holding his down below his waist—too far away to pick up anything more than a faint tickle of speech. I turned on my exterior speaker and microphone. “What are you doing?”

“Take it off,” he said. “Join me.”

“Not a chance. Put yours back on, Bishop. The air could be lethal.”

“Are you afraid?” the bishop asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s honest. You needn’t be. After all, the old woman is still alive.”

“Yes, and she’s lost her mind.”

The bishop took another deep breath, closing his eyes. He held it for a long time, then slowly let it out. Eventually
he opened his eyes, looked at me, then reattached his helmet.

“I wanted to know what evil smells like,” he said.

“Evil.”

He nodded.

“I didn’t think you believed in evil.”

The bishop looked confused. “Why do you say that, Bartolomeo?”

“You don’t believe in God.”

He hesitated for a moment, taken by surprise, I think. “Of course I believe in God.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“I’m the bishop. I’m the head of the Church.”

I shrugged. “Nevertheless.”

He stared at me without speaking. The sound of breathing—his and mine both—seemed loud in my helmet. Then he turned away and walked past me, through the open doorway into the next chamber. I followed.

We entered the room where the old woman had been found. Everything was undisturbed—in the back corner was the sleeping mat and the pile of filthy blankets, littered with scraps of paper and the metal bowls smeared with the remains of old, dried food; in the other corner were stacks of mismatched, ragged items of clothing set aside for disposal. The bishop walked over to the cubicle next to the clothes, and looked down into the opening of the cylinder that had served as a toilet.

“Looks uncomfortable,” he said.

“I doubt it was designed for human use,” I said. “Certainly not designed
by
humans.”

He made something of a snorting noise, but didn’t comment further. After a brief glance at the clothes, he knelt beside the blankets and poked through them with his gloved hand. He picked up one of the larger scraps of paper, pressed it flat.

“She wasn’t much of an artist,” the bishop said dismissively.

He dropped the scrap and stood. “Show me where she was getting food.”

“Out in the next corridor.”

I led the way through the door at the far end of the room and into the long, wide passage. About ten steps into it, I stopped and gestured at an opening in the wall about chest-high.

“You set one of the bowls on that platform,” I said, “then press one of those two squares.” The squares were colored indentations in the wall next to the opening—one green, one red. “Red, and the bowl fills with water. Green, with a thick mixture of awful-looking stuff that’s food. There are two tubes above where the bowl sits.”

“And this still works?”

“Yes. We tried it. Water and food have both been analyzed in the labs, and there doesn’t seem to be anything toxic in either, although no one has put it to the test. And the food is surprisingly nutritious. You’d get sick of the same thing all the time, I’m sure, but the lab techs say you could live on it forever.”

The bishop was silent for a long time; then he turned to me and I could see a faint smile. “This would be
my
idea of Hell,” he said. “It’s no wonder the poor woman lost her mind.”

We continued along the corridor in silence. When we reached the cluster of rooms, we went through each of them, but the bishop had no more questions or comments. Back in the corridor, he studied the strips of nacreous blue light that illuminated it.

Finally he spoke again. “Let us assume, purely for the sake of this discussion, that I
don’t
believe in God. That does not preclude my believing in evil. This ship is evil.”

“You really believe that?”

“Oh yes. Have you forgotten what has happened on this ship?”

“Accidents.”

“So many?”

“This is an alien starship. Everything about it is alien. We don’t understand it, we don’t know anything about it. Accidents are inevitable.”

“And how is Casterman an accident?” he asked.

“He’s not. But I don’t need ‘evil’ to account for a man killing himself. It’s infrequent, but not unknown.”

“He was a cleric,” the bishop said. “His faith was important to him. Suicide is a mortal sin.”

“For those who believe.”

“Yes, and Brother Casterman believed.”

“Did he? He didn’t act like a man of faith.”

The bishop nodded in acknowledgment. “He was a weak man in many ways. And yes, what you suspect is true: he was with the team to be my eyes and ears. So he was capable of deceit. But he believed, Bartolomeo. Suicide would have been unthinkable to him.”

“A mortal sin, you say, but you held a Mass for him.”

“Circumstances,” the bishop said. “I believe that, in a way, he did not kill himself. Something else did it to him.”

I shook my head, realizing we could go back and forth like this for hours, getting nowhere.

“And what about the others?” he added.

“What others?” Although I knew what he meant.

“Barry Sorrel. Sherry Winton. Starlin. Sorrel’s wife and daughter. Nazia Abouti. I can’t remember all the names. How do you account for them?”

“I don’t.”

“Exactly.”

But what the hell did “exactly” mean? I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I was as disturbed by what had happened to people as the bishop was; probably
more
than he was. I didn’t pretend to understand it; I couldn’t even offer a reasonable explanation. But I knew that to attribute to the alien ship an abstract concept such as Evil, to somehow infuse this dead, inanimate object with that quality and blame our own psychological and emotional failings on it, was absurd. At the same time, I recognized that it was also absurd to deny that something extraordinary was occurring among those who had explored the ship, and that its effects were often devastating.

“What
does
it smell like?” I asked.

“What?”

“Evil.”

He gave me that faint smile again. “Like unwashed flesh and bodily wastes.”

With that, he started back along the corridor, and I followed.

“W
E
cannot continue in this way,” the bishop declared, his gaze slowly sweeping the long table and the twenty-four other people who sat around it. Instead of an Executive Council meeting, the bishop had requested a session of the full Planning Committee. It was a gamble. The rules were different, the dynamics uncertain—no one could count on committee member votes. Although the Executive Council could override any vote or action taken by the Planning Committee as a whole (the Executive Council formed a third of the Planning Committee, but acted independently as well), they would need seven votes out of eight to do so.

I was sitting with Maria Vegas and Dr. G. in chairs set back from the table. We were there primarily to answer questions, but it was also understood that we could participate in any aspect of the discussion, as long as we did not abuse that privilege. The eight Executive Council members sat together at one end of the table, Nikos at the head. Then there was a gap the size of an empty seat on each side, and the other members of the Planning Committee occupied the remainder of the table.

“The exploration of the alien starship must end now,” the bishop continued. “Before there are further casualties.”

No one objected to his argument, but no one spoke out to support it, either. Caution all around. When it became clear that even the bishop was not going to take it any further unless pushed, I spoke up.

“The bishop says we cannot continue this way. I would agree with that much. But I would also argue that we can’t abandon the alien ship. There are two reasons. First, there is the possibility of other human survivors like the old woman. I find it incredible to believe that on that entire ship, with large sections habitable for human beings, there was only one person aboard. If there are others on board that ship right now, and we abandon them, we are responsible for their deaths.”

Again there was no response, as if everyone was content to let me and the bishop argue the issue between us—possibly they were afraid of the responsibility for any decisions. But I could feel the tension gradually increasing throughout the room as people sensed the building confrontation.

“Before I respond to your point,” the bishop said, “what is the second reason?”

“The alien starship is far too important to be left behind. There has never been anything like it. It’s the greatest discovery the
Argonos
has ever made, and possibly the greatest discovery
anyone
has ever made in human history. Its potential value is unlimited. We have no way of knowing what we might find.”

The bishop sighed heavily. “Not everyone would agree with your characterization of ‘greatness.’ But that aside, we do know what we
have
found. Evil. Death. And one tortured soul. There is nothing to suggest we will ever find anything more than that.” He shrugged. “And that is my response to
both
of your points.”

“There is
plenty
to suggest we will find more than that,” I said. “The alien starship is so large, it holds months, if not years, of exploration. That’s daunting, perhaps, but it’s also exhilarating. Leave it all behind? If we abandon it now, the odds are—if you will excuse the expression—astronomical against its ever being found again.”

The bishop smiled slyly, without looking directly at me. “Oh, it will be found again. It
wants
to be found.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Costino.

But the bishop only shook his head and would not reply. I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t going to explain it either.

Silence hung in the room. I waited, hoping someone else would venture into the discussion—preferably taking my side, of course. If the debate remained between the bishop and me, I knew I would lose.

I could sense Maria and Dr. G. shifting in their seats beside me, but neither spoke up. Just as well, I thought. I needed support from outside sources. But I needed
something
.

The bishop was leaning back in his chair with a sense of satisfaction, and I had just decided I couldn’t wait any longer, when Alexandra Malfi, the chair of the Planning Committee, spoke.

“We should carefully consider what Bartolomeo has said. For both of his reasons, but primarily the possibility of other survivors. He is right about one thing. If there
are
any, and we abandon that ship, we are abandoning
them
. If they die, we are responsible.”

“But if we leave, we would never know either way,” Costino said.

“Does that make it okay? That we wouldn’t know if we’d left anyone to die?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Costino said defensively.

“Then what did you mean?”

“I was just pointing out that there is no way for us to know. We could spend the rest of our lives searching for survivors that don’t exist. When do we stop?”

Toller spoke up. “We certainly don’t stop right after finding
one
survivor.
That
makes no sense at all.”

“Perhaps it’s like Schro¨dinger’s Cat,” the bishop said with an amused expression. “As long as we don’t look for them, as long as we don’t explore any more of the alien ship, then there’s no one really there. Or if they
are
there,
they are neither dead nor alive. Finding them could be the worst thing for them.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked a man named Wexler. “What’s Schro¨dinger’s Cat?”

Cardenas answered, shaking her head. “The bishop misunderstands it, either deliberately or through ignorance. I won’t speculate on which.” The bishop’s expression hardened. “It’s an ancient, theoretical paradox suggested by quantum theory,” she added. “First, it’s theoretical, as I said, and probably has no actual application in the physical world. Second, it’s completely irrelevant to the discussion. It has absolutely
nothing
to do with whether or not there are any more people on that ship, and nothing to do with whether they are alive or dead.”

I was afraid someone was going to ask her to explain it, anyway, but thankfully no one did. The bishop leaned forward as if to say something, then thought better of it. He settled back in his chair, eyelids lowered, his expression not at all softened.

“Let’s get back to it.” This was said by Renata Tyler, a dark-haired woman blind in one eye from a wild bird attack in one of the nature rooms when she was a child. “While I have sympathy with Bartolomeo and others concerning the possibility of survivors, there are some important considerations. Even if we assume there
are
other survivors, and I suspect that’s actually unlikely, how much are we willing to pay to search for them? Look at the cost so far.” She looked down at her hand screen. “Six dead, and another ten or twelve with severe psychological problems. All to save one woman who has lost her mind and may never recover. At that rate, we’ll have half the population of the
Argonos
dead or deranged in another year, and we’ll have rescued a few dozen traumatized men and women who will need to be cared for the rest of their lives.”

A few people laughed, but most realized Renata was essentially serious. I could feel Maria getting angry beside me, could sense her trying to keep her anger under control. She stood and spoke, her voice tight but steady.

“We also might find a section with a hundred survivors tomorrow, if we go back in. We have to take that into consideration as well.”

The dynamics in the room shifted, and several people started talking at once. Suddenly everyone wanted in.

I sat silently in my chair for the next hour as the discussion and arguments swirled back and forth and all around. For a long time it didn’t seem that any one point of view was dominant, but during the last part of that hour I began to sense a subtle coalescing of opinion—most people
wanted
to stay and continue searching for more survivors; but the majority of those who wanted to stay also felt the risks and dangers were too great, and the possible benefits did not outweigh the probable costs.

I had to get back into the discussion before it was too late. I’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I’d known it probably would. I stood and waited for the talking to subside as the committee members turned to look at me.

“I have a proposal to make,” I finally said. There must have been something in my voice because I could sense a palpable intensifying of their attention.

As I stood there preparing to speak, I wondered at how much had changed in the last year. Before, these same people would have been listening to me, but only to gauge what Nikos was thinking and planning, to assess the political currents and to aid their own ambitions. Now, I felt certain that many of them were listening to me with a genuine interest in what I had to say. It was different for me, too. My proposal was coming from
me
, from what I believed, and not simply to achieve some subtle (or even unsubtle) manipulation of people and actions.

“A full-scale, comprehensive exploration of the alien starship
is
beyond our capabilities,” I began. “We do not have the time, or the human and physical resources necessary to do it properly. But I will reiterate what I passionately believe—that the alien starship is too important to abandon. I’ve already explained why, and more than once.”

I paused, looking around the room. “There is also the question of more survivors. But that, too, is problematic.
Even if we could agree that it was worthwhile to spend more time searching, it is clear that we can’t agree on how to decide when we have done enough.”

“We have already done enough,” the bishop interjected.

“So you’ve said,” I replied. “But there is no universal agreement about that.”

“Give us your damn proposal,” Costino demanded.

“All right,” I said. “We leave, but we take the alien ship with us.”

That set them off. For five minutes the meeting room was a demented, disorganized chorus of voices. Finally Nikos stood, and held up his hands until the babble faded.

“There will be plenty of time for . . . discussion,” he said. “Later. For now, let’s hear from Bartolomeo, let him explain what it is he’s suggesting.”

I nodded my thanks. “Just what I said. We take the alien ship with us.” I paused for a moment, organizing my thoughts. “I don’t know how, but I’m fairly certain it
can
be done. We would ask the experts—Cardenas and her crew, I’d say. Tether it to us with cables, maybe. The details aren’t important at the moment—”

“The details are always important,” someone interrupted.

“They
will
be important, but not right now. For the moment, let’s assume it can be done. The question becomes, To what purpose?”

“As I said, we don’t have the resources for a thoroughgoing exploration of the alien starship. But it needs to be done. It
must
done, or too much will be lost. What we do, then, is take it with us so someone else, someone who does have the time and resources, can do it properly.” I paused again, looking around at everyone. “We need to rediscover civilization.”

I was surprised by the restraint, by the rapt attention. There was some squirming, and I could sense the struggle within a few people to refrain from throwing questions at me.

I sensed Nikos’s excitement and anticipation. Cardenas was nodding to herself, both waiting for me to continue
and, I knew, trying to work out the logistics of taking the alien ship with us. And Bishop Soldano steamed silently, his half-closed eyes radiating something close to hatred.

“There are worlds out there,” I said, gesturing expansively with my right hand, “worlds we haven’t seen in centuries, if ever. Worlds with millions, billions of people, huge thriving cities of advanced civilization, powered by wonders of technology, and with the resources to explore the alien starship in a way we never can. All we need to do is find one of those worlds.”

“Yes,” the bishop said, nodding and smiling. “That should be an easy task.”

Someone snickered, but choked it off quickly. No one was really sure where this was going to end.

“No,” I said, “it won’t be easy. But there must be a way. There must be records somewhere in this ship. The
Argonos
must have visited worlds or systems like that in the past. If nothing else, it had to have been built in orbit around one those worlds, if not Earth itself.”

Before the bishop could interrupt, I turned to him and held up a hand. “I know what Bishop Soldano claims—that the
Argonos
has
always
existed. Presumably created outside of time in some way and disconnected from Earth.” I shook my head. “But none of us really believes that. I’m fairly certain the bishop himself doesn’t believe it.”

The bishop surged up from his chair. “You!” he roared. “I have had enough from you! Now you presume to tell me, tell all of us, what
I
believe. I will not have it!”

I’d gone too far. His arms trembled, his hands gripped the edge of the table; his skin was flushed and sweating. I had to do something.

I bowed my head once, then said, “I apologize, Bishop. I was out of line—” I hesitated, not sure what else to say. Saying too much could be just as bad as saying too little. “I apologize.” I left it at that.

He remained standing a long time, glaring at me. Neither of us had good options. He could walk out of the meeting, but that would be dangerous for him; he needed to know what occurred, he needed to see and hear it; he needed to
be there to try to influence the outcome. As for me, I could do no more than I had. And I still had to complete my presentation. I wasn’t backing down now, and I couldn’t afford to appear as if I had any hesitations. The bishop would leap on any sign of weakness.

The silence and the tension stretched out until at last the bishop breathed deeply once and nodded. “All right, Bartolomeo.” He slowly lowered himself back into his chair. “I will accept your apology. But that doesn’t mean I accept your absurd notions, your ridiculous proposal.”

Okay, I thought. Standoff. I turned to Toller. “August. You’re the ship historian. You know our records. What do they tell us about what I’m looking for?”

The old man slowly shook his head. “They are incomplete. Or rather, they are complete only for the last two hundred seventy-three years. That is when they began. We have nothing before that.”