Children of God

Joseba Urizarbarrena’s policy seemed to be one of strict nonengagement—staying in his quarters as much as possible, carrying food in, plates out, picking odd hours to come and go, so as to avoid the others, Jesuit and lay. "It’s hard to imagine how this could be justified," Joseba admitted when John cornered the Basque in the galley one night. "But remember the name of the pirate who took Francis Xavier to Japan? Avan o Ladrao—Avan the Thief. I think perhaps God uses the tools He’s got, even the ones that are bent or broken."

When John’s protests persisted, Joseba advised, "Talk to Sean." But when John asked directly for some kind of guidance, the Irishman told him with curt irritability, "Mind yer own business." For Sean, John realized, the matter was now under the seal of confession.

Never one to back off from a fight, John decided in the end to go straight to Iron Horse. "My sins are my affair, ace," Da

His way blocked, the dilemma tossed back in his face, his need to talk all this through becoming more pressing, John considered the others. He couldn’t quite decide if Nico was retarded, but the big man with the small head was unlikely to have much in the way of ethical insight, in John’s opinion. Carlo Giuliani was fond of quoting Marcus Aurelius, but the Caesar that John thought of was Caligula—all honeyed gorgeousness and self-deception: dangerous in more ways than John cared to count.

Which left Fat Frans.

"You’re asking me?" the South African cried, as John laid out his problem one morning when there was no one else in the commons except Nico, whom everyone mostly ignored. "Well, Joh

"Philos—! How the hell did you end up piloting rocks for the Camorra?" John asked, astounded.

Frans shrugged ponderously. "Philosophy, I discovered, is now more of an attitude than a career path—the job market has fallen off somewhat, since the Enlightenment. The Camorra, on the other hand, offers a competitive salary, excellent retirement benefits and very good health insurance," Frans said. "Unless you turn state’s evidence—then they provide a very nice funeral."

John snorted, but went back to gnawing on one of the fingernails that constituted a substantial portion of his diet these days.

"Now then," Frans said amiably, in the clipped lilt of Joha

"Fuck you, too," John said pleasantly, and went back to his nail.

"A gentleman and a scholar," Frans observed, raising an espresso in salute. "Well, then, perhaps we should look for an axiom upon which we can agree." He studied the ceiling for a while. "You feel the need to discern some kind of hidden meaning here, am I correct? Something that will redeem the sorry mess you find yourself in."

John grunted, working on an index finger.

"But that shouldn’t be hard," Frans declared encouragingly. "If your perspective is broad enough, or your sense of history deep enough, or if you are sufficiently imaginative, you can find some kind of deeper meaning in almost anything. Take dreams. Ever hear of the Libro della Smorfia?" John shook his head. "Neapolitans, even educated ones, sleep with a book of dreams next to their beds. First thing every morning, even before they take a leak, they look up their dreams. Long journeys, dark strangers, dreams of flying—everything means something."

"Superstition," John said dismissively. "Tea leaves and tarot cards."

"Don’t be rude, Joh

"Yes. Maybe yes, to both," John said. "I don’t know." He stopped chewing and realized one of his fingers was bleeding.

"Ah. I don’t know: a truth we can rally to." Frans smiled beatifically, small teeth ivory in the pastel face. He adored conversations like this, and years of chauffeuring thugs and stiffs around the solar system had afforded very few of them. "This is delightful. I am playing devil’s advocate for a Jesuit! Perhaps," he suggested slyly, "Abraham invented God because he needed to impose meaning on a chaotic, primitive world. We preserve this invented god and insist he loves us because we fear a large and indifferent universe."

John stared at him and then examined his own response, but before he could say anything, the forgotten Nico surprised them both by remarking, "Maybe when you’re frightened, you can hear God better because you’re listening harder."

Which was an interesting notion, except that it certainly hadn’t worked that way for John Candotti, waiting in the lander bay to be blown into space with nothing but bloody death on his mind. "I don’t know," he repeated finally.

"The human condition." Frans sighed dramatically. "How we suffer in our anxiety and ignorance!" He brightened. "Which is why food and sex are so nice. Have you eaten?" he asked and, with that, got up and lumbered into the galley, leaving John to suck blood from a mangled nail bed.

CANDOTTI WAS GONE WHEN FRANS CAME BACK TO THE TABLE WITH HIS lunch. Frans smiled at Nico, sitting serenely in his corner, humming "Questa o quella" from Rigoletto—the only opera Frans really liked.

"Nico," Frans a

"A kind of old car?"

Frans took another bite. "No, Nico, that’s a Renault. A Runao is one of the Runa—the people who live on Rakhat, where we’re going." Nico nodded and Frans continued. "A Runao is, for all practical purposes, a cow with an opinion," He chewed for a while and swallowed. "His magnificence, Don Carlo, is a megalomaniac whose grand ambition is to rule over a nation of talking cows. To carry out this glorious mission, he has gathered together a circus freak, a dimwit, four priests and a goddamn cripple you had to beat half to death to get onto this ship." Frans shook his head in amazement but stopped, still disgusted by the way his jowls and chins moved out of phase with his skull. "The priests think they’re going to Rakhat to do God’s work but do you know why you and I are here, Nico?" Frans asked rhetorically. "Because I am now so rucking fat I will never get laid again in my life anyway, so what the hell? And you are too dumb to say no. Carlo couldn’t get anybody else to come."

"That’s not true," Nico said with bland conviction. "Don Carlo decided to go because he found out his sister Carmella was going to be boss."

Frans blinked. "You knew about that?"

"Everybody knew, even the Yakuza in Japan," Nico confided. "Don Carlo was very embarrassed."

"You’re right," Frans admitted. Besides, there was no sense in stirring up trouble. Carlo was the padrone and Nico was devoted to him—he’d damned near killed a guy who’d given Giuliani a hard time over a bar bill. "And I apologize for saying you were dumb, Nico."