Richard Russo Read online

  I thought I detected a touch of a smile from her.

  “They can’t find him?”

  “No. They have been searching the ship for days. Speculation is divided between two possibilities. Either he is still aboard and well-hidden, or he somehow managed, in all the confusion, to get down to Antioch before we broke orbit.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

  “No. But there is a shuttle missing from the other transport hold. We don’t know how, nor do we know if Pär was even capable of piloting it. But we can’t find it or him.”

  We sat without speaking for a while. It was good just to have her there in my cell with me. I didn’t much mind being imprisoned, but I had missed her.

  She said she had to go, then asked me if there was anything she could do or get for me.

  “No,” I told her. “I have everything I need, everything I could ever want.” But then I shook my head, and said more seriously, “No.”

  She got up from the bed. “I’ll go now, but I’ll visit again.”

  “Thanks.”

  She went to the door, tapped on it, and was let out. As soon as she was out of sight and the door locked shut again, I began to miss her. Once again, I smelled honey and cinnamon.

  I hoped Pär was alive out there somewhere. I imagined him, as unlikely as it seemed, piloting the shuttle out of the Argonos, perhaps struggling with it even as he guided it out of orbit and into a rough and ragged descent.

  Did he try to find one of the deserted settlements to start his new life? Or did he head for unknown territory as mysterious and uncertain as his own future? I didn’t know. But in my mind he landed the shuttle safely, and stepped out onto solid ground, alone and free.

  THE days continued to pass without change. I saw no one, I talked to no one. Father Veronica did not return to see me again. I tried not to speculate on the reasons.

  I thought a lot about our betrayal, and what Father Veronica said, thought a lot about “my captain.” I came to believe he knew about the insurrection all along. He may have known about it even before I did. He’d told me he had plans to consolidate his position, to take care of the bishop. I wondered, did he know of my involvement all along? Was I just a price he had to pay? Perhaps he never thought it much of a price.

  I passed the time sleeping, meditating, exercising infrequently, and thinking. I did not become bored. I was in a kind of trance, as if I’d shifted out of normal time so that I had no sense of its passage. I existed, and I waited. For a time, that was enough.

  FATHER Veronica finally came to see me again. She was distraught, and apologized for not coming sooner. “I was denied access to you,” she explained.

  “Why?”

  “I still don’t know. Perhaps because of what we talked about when I was here; I was probably unwisely indiscreet. I have been permitted to visit any of the prisoners except you. It’s taken all this time for me to work out permission for one last visit.”

  One last visit. I felt something hard and heavy sink into my stomach with those words.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I will try to get visitation rights reinstated. I’ll keep at it, but it may take time before I make any progress. No one has any interest in helping me, and no one has any sympathy for you. The other leaders were all downsiders, but you come from the upper levels. They see your betrayal as greater than the others.’ Everyone of influence is quite adamant about keeping you isolated.”

  “Let it go,” I told her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let it go. Drop it. It won’t do me any good, and it certainly won’t do you any good.” I tried to smile. “Maybe when things have settled down, when people are not so angry. But for now . . . don’t bother. You’re a priest. Save your energy for those you can help.”

  She didn’t say anything in reply. She recognized the reality as well as I did, although I was beginning to understand some things that she did not.

  She approached me and took my hand in both of hers. “They’ve only given me five minutes.” Then, still holding my hand, she said, “I am very sorry, Bartolomeo. Please take care of yourself in here. It won’t be forever.” She released my hand, and it became immediately cold. “You might even want to try praying.”

  “Yes, I might,” I said, smiling.

  “Don’t trivialize it, Bartolomeo. There can be great comfort in prayer.”

  Then she turned away from me and left, and for the first time since I had been imprisoned here, I felt despair.

  A strange thing happened the next day. The door was opened, a guard put a tray on the floor, then quickly retreated without a word. On the tray was a large thermal pot and a glass cup.

  I sat and stared at the tray for a long time, thinking. Was I being offered poison? An honorable end? I couldn’t imagine what else it would be, but at the same time I couldn’t believe that it really was poison.

  Eventually I went over to the tray, released the top of the thermal pot, and poured hot, dark brown liquid into the glass cup. It smelled like coffee.

  I let it sit there steaming for a minute or two, then I picked up the cup and raised it to my face. I breathed in deeply, and the coffee aroma was strong, without any other detectable odors. I thought to myself, What does it matter? I brought the cup to my mouth and drank.

  It was coffee. Hot and strong and so delicious I knew only one person could have made it.

  I drank slowly, savoring it, then capped the pot, sealing in the heat. Enough for two or three more cups remained, and I saved it; the thermal pot would keep it warm for another day.

  I wondered where he was, and how long he could remain free.

  NO changes now. There were no more visits from Father Veronica, nor anyone else. Every five or six days another full pot of coffee would arrive, and each time I rationed it. I relished it greatly, but I wished I could contact him somehow and tell him not to send any more, tell him not to risk his freedom. And yet . . . the coffee was a great comfort to me, and I knew I would miss it if it stopped, just as I missed Father Veronica.

  I thought of her often. Prayer, for me, was still impossible. I suspected it always would be.

  I had been imprisoned for several weeks, but I was still content; at last I came to understand why: I didn’t believe I would be locked up for very long.

  I had heard nothing at all from the captain, but his sense of security on this ship would not last forever. He was the “savior” for the moment, but this would pass, and people would realize that little had actually changed; the Argonos was still a ship without a mission, and the maneuvering would resume, the probing of weaknesses, the pushing, the stresses. The captain would find himself pressured from all sides; he would find himself alone, with no one he could trust, and he would find himself once again in need of my advice. The day would come when he needed me.

  If I was any judge of what things were like on this ship, and of what people were like, that day would come soon. And when it did, someone would come to the door, unlock it, then step aside for me, and I would be free.

  PART TWO

  The Dead Ship

  18

  MY sense of contentment did not last. The weeks became months—far longer than I had expected. The tedium was mind-numbing. There was simply nothing to do. I asked for writing supplies and tried to work daily on a chronicle of sorts, a recounting of the events that had brought me to my cell; a task to sharpen and focus my mind. But soon after Father Veronica’s visits ceased, I had brought the chronicle up to date and had little else to write about—rambling, barely coherent thoughts.

  I began exercising vigorously, eating every morsel of tasteless food, trying to pull myself together and clear my mind. I re-read all that I had written. I destroyed much of it (though what I did save serves me well now as a reminder of details surrounding those events), and determined not to write any more.

  I had no visitors in all that time. Father Veronica would have come if she had been allowed to, I was certain of that. Pär,
of course, could not. When I realized there was no one else who would have wanted to visit me, I was surprisingly depressed.

  Then I sensed a change. I didn’t know what it was, and I couldn’t determine where it was coming from, but I was certain it was there—in the ship somewhere, something . . . Something had happened. I could feel it.

  The routine did not vary for the next few days—food and monotony remained the same—but the feeling persisted, grew stronger.

  One morning I received another pot of coffee. When I poured out a cup, I noticed something flash inside the pot. I pulled out a strip of plastic on which was printed these words: SOMETHING’S BEEN FOUND.

  What did that mean? It was important, or Pär would not have risked adding the note.

  I felt energized, and my hope for release was rekindled.

  Something’s been found.

  BUT after that, nothing.

  Days passed, then weeks. Could I have been wrong?

  No, I still sensed a strange tension. Undefined, but palpable. And yet, there were no further messages from Pär; in fact, even the coffee ceased to arrive. That alone distressed me.

  I began to feel out of control. I paced my cell. I fought the urge to pound on the door and demand my release. My left eye twitched uncontrollably much of the time, and even my own skin seemed confining.

  Unfulfilled expectations. Each time I heard a sound, I expected someone to appear at my cell door—Father Veronica, Nikos, Pär, anyone. To release or visit me; either one, I didn’t care.

  I spoke to the masked and shielded guards who brought my food, but they did not respond. Even the one who normally brought the coffee from Pär would not acknowledge me, refused to look at the handwritten questions I held up before his masked face.

  What was happening out there?

  I began to dream of Antioch again. Skeletons. Bones and ravaged skulls and stifling jungle. I dreamed repeatedly of the failed mutiny. Each time, the actual events were slightly different, strange and distorted from what had happened, but the dreams always ended with the harvesters rising silently outside the open transport-hold doors, blazing mouths waiting to devour me.

  MORE time passed, the days interminable. I came to believe that whatever had happened, whatever had been found, would have no effect on my confinement. My hopes faded, and I prepared myself again for an indefinite stay.

  19

  ONE day a man named Geller, who had spent two terms on the Executive Council some years back, entered my cell without warning. I was only half-dressed, lying on the floor working through the daily stretching and exercise routine for my back, the exoskeleton propped against the bed.

  Geller stopped, looked down at me, then looked away. “I’ll come back later,” he said.

  “No, don’t.” I didn’t know why he was here, but I didn’t want him to leave, not even if he had bad news.

  I turned over and pulled myself up onto the edge of the bed, put on my shirt, then worked my upper body into the exoskeleton. As I struggled with it, I glanced at Geller. He kept his eyes turned away from me; he knew I didn’t want any help. I remembered him as a quiet man who took his position on the Executive Council seriously. He was intelligent and thoughtful, made reasoned and forceful arguments without being aggressive or obnoxious, and always voted with principle, even in a losing cause. Because he could not be manipulated, he had been replaced by General Wainwright, who could be.

  When I was finished I offered him a seat, but he declined.

  “I won’t be long,” he said. “I am here to inform you that you are to be released tomorrow.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, stunned. I should have been elated, but felt more disoriented than anything else. I don’t think I quite believed it, although I could not imagine Geller’s being involved in any kind of deception; at least, not knowingly.

  “Released,” I repeated.

  “Yes. Tomorrow morning at 0900.”

  “Why?”

  Geller just shook his head. I didn’t know whether that meant he didn’t know or he was forbidden to tell me.

  “Is this to be temporary, or permanent?”

  “Permanent.” The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Assuming you don’t attempt to lead another mutiny,” he said.

  “My sentence commuted?” I asked.

  “I believe you were never tried or sentenced,” he replied.

  I nodded, remembering my conversation months earlier with Father Veronica. “The charges dropped?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who requested you do this?”

  “Captain Costa.”

  “If I’m to be released,” I said, “why can’t I just go now?”

  Again Geller just shook his head. “Be ready at nine tomorrow. That’s all I can tell you.”

  He turned and started to leave, but I stopped him.

  “Wait.”

  He looked back at me.

  “What’s going on out there?”

  Geller didn’t answer. His expression didn’t even change.

  “What’s been found?”

  Still no answer, but this time his face visibly tightened. “Be ready,” he repeated, then walked out.

  THE next morning, upon my release, I was not allowed to return to my own rooms. Instead, I was escorted directly to the captain’s quarters by a contingent of six masked and armed security soldiers. I did not feel like a free man.

  It had been less than a year, but already the captain’s quarters seemed unfamiliar. The six soldiers didn’t help, but even after Nikos had dismissed them I still felt like a stranger in those rooms.

  Nikos sat behind his desk, saying nothing. I stood in front of him, my hands clasped behind my back as if they were bound and I was still a prisoner.

  “It’s been a long and difficult time, Bartolomeo.”

  I gave him a half-smile and said, “For whom?”

  Nikos nodded in acknowledgment. “More difficult for you, yes. But difficult for me as well.” He waved at the chairs across the desk from him. “Please, Bartolomeo, make yourself at home.”

  “Like old times?”

  “Yes, like old times. We can try, can’t we?”

  I sat in one of the chairs, which felt unusually soft and comfortable after all the months in my cell. The orange glowglobes were stationary above us, distributed in a patterned matrix. The faint aroma of mood incense lingered in the air, almost cloying.

  “I had no choice,” Nikos finally said to me.

  “Imprisoning me?” I asked. “Or releasing me?”

  He sighed heavily. “Is our entire conversation going to be like this? I understand how you feel, but I don’t want to do it this way. I don’t have the time or the energy for it.”

  I just shook my head.

  “Why don’t we have a drink?” Nikos suggested.

  “All right.”

  He seemed greatly relieved. He got up and poured two glasses of whiskey. I remembered the last time we drank together—just before landfall, when he kept emphasizing how much he was depending on me. Apparently he had been depending on me to keep the mutiny going so he could be the hero and save the ship. Now, months later, he brought a glass of whiskey to me, and I could not help but wonder in what new way he was about to deceive me again. He sat back down, and we both drank.

  “You were saying you had no choice.”

  He nodded. “That’s correct. No choice. I could not let you remain free while we incarcerated the others. Too many people knew you were involved.”

  “How long had you known of our plans?”

  “Some time,” Nikos replied. That was vague enough.

  “That was your plan all along to fend off the bishop. You knew about the mutiny all that time, and let it proceed so you could stop it at the last minute and be the hero.”

  His silence was all the response I needed.

  “And how long had you known of my involvement?”

  “I only found out at the very end, just before they started boarding
the shuttles, when it was too late to warn you. By then I had no choice—I had to let it happen.”

  I didn’t believe him, but I let it go.

  “I did what I could,” he went on. “I managed to convince the Executive Council not to proceed with the charges, no trials, no sentences. I kept things as open-ended as possible.”

  “Why have I been released now?”

  Nikos hesitated a long time before answering, and I began to sense how difficult this was for him. “I’ve risked everything to have you released. I had to release all of the other conspirators as well.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  He pulled at his beard, always a sign of distress. “I need you,” he finally said.

  I almost smiled, but managed to keep my expression under control.

  “Does the bishop know?”

  “By now, probably. He’ll be furious. I’ve bypassed the entire Executive Council doing this.”

  “All right,” I said. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “Better if I show you,” he replied.

  WE walked through the ship corridors to the command salon, a half-hour of tense silence—more uncomfortable for Nikos than for me, I was certain. He carried the whiskey bottle and glasses, which showed me the depth of his distress. The few people we passed pointedly ignored us, although some did appear surprised to see me.

  Once inside the salon, Nikos sank into the command chair, setting bottle and glasses on the floor. He did not look much in command of anything. He moved his hands to the control consoles and tapped out a series of key sequences.

  There was a faint vibration, a barely audible hum, and the canopy began to retract—robotic iris, a giant eye to us, but a tiny eye to the ship, opening to the vastness of space. Stars came into view, only a handful at first, then more as the canopy continued to retract, a dense and growing expanse of radiant dust.