Текст книги "Gods Above"
Автор книги: Peter David
Жанр:
Научная фантастика
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Then Moke walked away, and McHenry screamed after him. Then he began to sob piteously in frustration, and he’d never been more glad and relieved that no one could see him or hear him.
He lost track of the amount of time that he’d been there, trapped, restrained. Once upon a time, back in the dark ages of humanity’s medical knowledge, a person could have something called a “stroke.” A blood vessel in their brain would burst and they would become virtual prisoners in their own bodies. Cybershunts, of course, had long ago cured such physiological mishaps, relegating them to the same bin where other ailments such as smallpox, cancer, and AIDS had been deposited.
It gave McHenry a feeling for what it must have been like to live back then and suffer such hideous mishaps. He wondered how in the world anyone had ever lived their lives, knowing that at any moment they could be transformed into this ... this state of nonbeing.
McHenry lost track of time. He had no clue how long he had existed in this twilight state, or whether he would continue to do so. He did, however, begin to notice a few things as he turned his attention inward.
He wasn’t breathing.
His heart had stopped beating.
I’m dead... oh my God, I’m dead... well, this just stinks.
But it made no sense. If he was dead, why was he still lying around in sickbay? Since when had sickbay become a morgue? Were they ... were they going to shoot his body off into space? Was he going to just float around forever in the depths of the void, an eternal prisoner in his own corpse? The airlessness of space would likely preserve his body under eternity. Of all the ways he had envisioned his demise and final fate, somehow he had never seen this.
For some reason, he’d always imagined that he would die while having sex. He wasn’t sure why he’d thought that. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. Have one’s heart give out at just the right moment. Go out with a bang. It was the sort of stuff of which Starfleet legends were made. He was wistful for the days when he thought his passing would involve something as trite as that.
Day turned into night and into day and into infinity, and he was suffering from both a lack of, and too much, sensory input. As always, he was able to divine his literal place in the universe. The Excaliburwas definitely moving. It was doing so slowly, cautiously. He began to get the feeling that the great starship was being towed, although he wasn’t certain how he knew. He made some mental calculations, visualized their course and where it would take them, and concluded that they were heading toward Starbase 27. They must have been fairly badly hurt if they required aid at a starbase. Furthermore, he knew Captain Calhoun. Calhoun was a proud bastard; if he admitted that he needed help, they must have taken quite a pounding.
What had Artemis and her pals done to them?
“We gave you a beating, you pack of ingrates.”
Mark McHenry let out a yelp and jolted in shock and jumped up ... all in his head, of course. In reality, his body remained exactly where it was, unmoving, unresponsive. His thoughts were scrambled after days (weeks? months?) of lack of focus, and it took him a few moments (minutes? hours?) to string together words into a coherent sentence. “Who is that? Is that you, Artemis?”
“Of course it is. Who else would it be?”
“You bitch. If I could just get my hands on you, I would—”
“You would what?”
He had no sight, and yet she moved into his sight line. She was smiling at him, looking as strikingly beautiful as she ever had. Her more-than-human beauty still chilled him, although it was a far colder chill than he’d known in his youth. When she had first come to him, he had found it all exciting and amazing. He’d been too young to understand, and then when he’d become a teen and she had introduced him to other “aspects” of male/female relationships, he’d been filled with a sense of wonder and amazement.
Now she just scared the crap out of him ... although there was a large measure of anger in him as well. Because of her and the other Beings, he was in this predicament. ...
“Because of us, you are all that you are,”her voice came, penetrating deep into his mind. Her lips didn’t move. Her eyes were luminous, her thick hair cascading around her shoulders. “The great Apollo lay with your ancestor, and his godhead is carried within you. You do not truly think you would have achieved your current greatness and position if the aura of Apollo did not surge within you, do you?”
“My current greatness and position? My current position is prone, and my greatness is somewhat dimmed by the fact that I’m DEAD, YOU BITCH!”
She circled him, and for some reason no matter where she was standing, his viewpoint of her was exactly the same, unchanging, unvarying. “You’re not dead, my love. Not exactly.”
“Well then what, exactly, am I?!”
She was smiling. The charming facial expression would have chilled him to the bone, had he been able to feel any sort of sensation. “ Why should I tell you, dear one? After all, you’d have no reason to trust me, would you. That is what you told your own captain, is it not? That my kind are not to be trusted. Of course, you are an extension of my kind as well, so what does that say for you?”
“Artemis... if you can get me out of this... please...”
“Offering me prayers?”She laughed softly. “My, my, that does bring back a wave of nostalgia. And tell me, Marcus, honestly,”and she leaned in closer to him. He would have felt her warm breath upon him provided he could feel. He wanted to scream, to claw his way out of this ... this shell of whatever he was. But all he could do was lie there and continue to die, if that was indeed what was happening to him. “Tell me... aren’t you the least bit interested to know what it’s like to be prayed to? It’s quite a heady sensation, you know. It lifts you up, it makes you grateful to be alive... provided you are, indeed, alive... ”
“ What do you want?”he said coldly.
“To help you. That is all.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Simplest thing in the world, Marcus. All you need to do is give yourself over to us, freely and of your own will. It’s such a little thing, really. In fact, I can’t believe that you’ve delayed this long. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You know that, don’t you?”
“Be one of you, you mean.”
“Yes, of course.”
“One of a group of creatures who assaulted our ship?”he said, and he wasn’t sure if his voice was getting louder, rising with anger, but he certainly felt angry enough to be causing that to happen. “Who put a hole through us? Who killed us? And why, exactly, should I join with a bunch of murdering bastards like you?”
Her face darkened. Literally darkened. He could see shadows creeping across it as her quiet fury grew. “Need I remind you, ‘my love,’ that you are not in the best position for displaying such an attitude. I am the one who is showing generosity at the moment. I could leave you to rot. Perhaps that’s what I’ll do. That would do you some good, I think. To just lie there, unmoving, trapped for all time. Caught in a stasis of your own making, that you’ve neither the puissance nor the knowledge to comprehend. Or better still... I could end you right now. I’m not certain which would be preferable. Leave you to your condemned uncertain state of helplessness, or... ”
“Leave him alone!”
The unexpected voice jolted both of them. McHenry didn’t turn—that wasn’t an option—but it was as if his mind’s eye shifted around, and suddenly he was looking at a boy. For a heartbeat he didn’t recognize him, and then he saw it was Moke. The captain’s adopted son was standing perhaps three feet away, still favoring his injured leg even though it was mostly healed by this point. He was trembling, although McHenry couldn’t immediately discern why, and he was pointing straight at Artemis, and shouting, “Get away from him! You ... you get away!”
“Moke!”McHenry’s desperate mind reached out. “Moke, can you hear me?! Tell them I’m alive! Tell them to do something! Tell them—”
Moke gave no sign that he had heard McHenry’s silent plea. Instead he was still looking at Artemis, and he was advancing on her, his pointing finger shaking without letup, and he cried out, “You’ve hurt him enough! You’ve hurt all of us enough! You just ... you leave him be! Leave all of us be!”
Her attention attracted by his shouts, Dr. Selar came over to him. Her face was impassive as always, but her voice carried with it a distinct sound of annoyance. “Moke, you should not be back here.”
“Make her go away!” Moke demanded, and he was continuing to point at Artemis.
Artemis appeared completely disconcerted. Seeing her that way was something of a first for McHenry. Until then, she had always been completely in control of whatever situation she had thrust herself into. By rights, if Moke was any sort of irritant to her, she should have been able to dispose of him with a wave of her hand. Instead she was rooted to the spot, staring at the dark-eyed boy and apparently unable to do a damned thing about him.
Selar’s frustration was mounting, although again she kept it in check. “Moke ...”
“You will be worshipped, Marcus,”Artemis said, sounding arch even though there was a tinge of desperation to her voice. “You will be worshipped with us... or cast adrift on the byways of space, to spend eternity as you are now. Those are your only choices.”
“Make her go away!” Moke repeated.
“To what ‘her’ are you referring?”
“Her! The god lady! She’s standing right there, in front of Mr. McHenry!”
And something within Selar, some fundamental intuition, told her that these were not simply the ravings of an annoying child. Her eyes narrowed, her interest obviously piqued, as slowly she said, “What god lady, Moke? Where? Describe her to me.”
“She’s gone.”
And indeed she was. McHenry felt at once a swell of depression, and yet a simultaneous glee in that Artemis had apparently been chased off by this ... this kid. “Great job, Moke!”
Moke did not respond. He was frowning at the air where Artemis had been, but he was not reacting in any way to the silent shouts coming from McHenry. Again and again, the frustrated navigator tried to get the boy’s attention, but there was nothing. Not the slightest acknowledgment that McHenry was there.
Here McHenry had felt a brief swell of hope, only to see it being crushed as Selar said, “What about Mr. McHenry. Do you see anything unusual about he himself? Or just the woman standing near him.”
“There is no woman,” Moke said. He was tilting his head slightly, like a dog trying to home in on the distant trill of a sonic whistle. It might have been that he was, on some level, perceiving McHenry’s cries for help, but was unable to discern exactly what they were. “And he’s just ... lying there. I think.”
“Yes. Yes, he is,” Selar said, looking with detachment at McHenry. “Moke ... we shall reexamine that leg to ascertain the quality of the healing, and then we will speak to the captain about what you think you saw.”
“I know I saw her,” said Moke, but he allowed himself to be led away, leaving Mark McHenry crying to the emptiness within himself.
II.
For Robin Lefler, it was as if her life had moved into slow motion.
First, it had taken seemingly forever for the Excaliburto be towed into drydock. Once there, the damage to the ship had been so comprehensive that additional crewmen and members of the engineering corps had been called in to aid in the rebuild. They’d been laid up for two weeks as it was, and the estimates for bringing the ship back up to working order were elongating.
Some of the ship’s personnel had been put on temporary transfer to the Trident,which was continuing to patrol the area. Apparently the Beings had not shown their collective glowing faces again in the immediate vicinity. That, however, did not automatically mean anything. Who knew what they were up to?
As for Robin, there was an emptiness within her that she simply could not shake. She spent most of her off-duty hours in the team room, staring vacantly into glasses of synthehol and making polite chitchat with those people who opted to swing by and extend their condolences. A small, quiet ceremony had been held for the mortal remains of a supposedly immortal woman, Morgan Primus Lefler. Her body had then been placed into a photon torpedo casing and fired into the vastness of space. By this point in time, Robin imagined, it had been caught in the gravity field of a star and likely been pulled in. So ... that was that.
Except it wasn’t. She felt as if Morgan was still there with her, watching over her, whispering consoling words to her as she dropped off to sleep. She would have hoped that it would have eased her loneliness; instead it made it all the more painful.
With her off-duty hours stretching to infinity in the team room, Robin began spending more and more time at her post. Her continued presence started eliciting comments, but Robin turned a deaf ear to them all. At Burgoyne’s urging, Calhoun considered ordering her to take time off. Ultimately, he decided against it.
“Everyone deals with grief in their own way, Burgy,” he had said. “Who am I to decide what’s right and wrong for Robin Letter? Besides, we’re stuck here at starbase. It’s not as if we need her at peak performance because we’re about to head into battle. We have some margin for error.”
And so the bridge became Robin’s second home as she did all she could to try and bring operations systems back up to speed. During those times where repairs called for the ops station to be offline, she would just sit there and stare out at the emptiness of space, picturing her mother’s coffin tumbling away toward its fiery fate at the heart of a star.
“Wake up.”
The words jolted Robin from her reverie. She rubbed her eyes and leaned forward at her post, realizing to her chagrin that she had indeed fallen asleep. Robin turned in her seat to see Soleta staring down at her with that vague Vulcan annoyance she so easily projected. “Ohhh God,” muttered Robin, stretching her arms. “Falling asleep at my post. I’m turning into McHenry.”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she felt mortified. Soleta’s face was like an expressionless mask. Zak Kebron, still at his post even though there was no need for him to be, looked up but said nothing. The rest of the bridge was filled with techies working on bringing systems online, and the name of McHenry meant nothing to them, but even they sensed that the mood on the bridge had abruptly shifted.
“I’m sorry. Sorry, folks,” Robin said with genuine chagrin. “I ... it’s ...”
“It is difficult to think of him as gone?” asked Soleta quietly.
Immediately Robin nodded, feeling a rush of relief. “Yes. That’s it exactly.”
“Understandable. Particularly considering the curiosity of his ‘corpse’ in the sickbay.”
Robin shuddered at that. The entire thing had taken on an air of ghoulishness. Starfleet had even sent someone from the surgeon general’s office, and she hadn’t been able to make any more sense of it than Selar or her people. It seemed that McHenry’s body was caught in some sort of ... of cellular stasis, as Robin had heard it (admittedly thirdhand). There had been a brief hope that some sort of miracle might occur, that a regeneration of the cells would commence. Such had not been the case. He was just lying there. Starfleet had requested the body be turned over to them for more detailed analysis, and Calhoun had point-blank refused. That she had heard about firsthand, specifically because everyone on the bridge had heard Calhoun’s raised voice from within his ready room ... a certainly unusual-enough occurrence.
“You people can’t seem to determine whether he’s alive or dead!” he’d said loudly and clearly. “Until such time as you do, he’s still under my command, even if he’s just lying there. And there is where he’s going to stay until we get this sorted out.” Perhaps realizing he’d let himself get too loud, Calhoun had promptly reined himself in and the rest of the conversation was lost. The end result, though, was that “there” was indeed where McHenry had stayed.
Now Robin looked up at Soleta and shook her head in bewilderment. “Do they have any clearer idea of what’s happened with him than they did before?”
“None,” said Soleta. “It is ... perplexing. I ...”
She looked briefly uncomfortable, and Robin frowned. “What?” she asked in a lowered voice. “What is it?”
Soleta glanced right and left, seemingly ill at ease over the prospect of anyone else listening to her lowering her guard, however incrementally. But the rest of the bridge crew had returned to its respective duties and was paying no attention. “It is most illogical for me to find it frustrating ... yet I do. I have known McHenry for many years, going back to the Academy. I dislike the current situation, and I am increasingly of the opinion that, if I can find some way in which to take a hand, I am obligated to do so. I have not yet determined, however, what that might be.”
“It sounds to me like you actually might have determined it, and just don’t want to think about it.”
Appearing momentarily amused, Soleta replied, “You are most perceptive for a human.”
A muttered curse came from across the way at the engineering station. A cybertech named Devereaux was working on it. Although he was in his twenties and purportedly quite brilliant (having spent his internship at the Daystrom Institute), he looked to Robin as if he was about twelve years old. Not surprising; most of the best and brightest computer experts looked like juveniles.
Soleta, who had been leaning over, stood. “Problem, Mr. Devereaux?” she inquired.
He scowled at her. “The mnemonics in your whole computer system are still off by a huge margin.”
“How so?” She glanced at Robin and said, “The system has been functioning in a satisfactory manner, has it not?”
“Aside from when it screamed a few weeks back, yeah,” Robin replied with a shrug.
“Yeah, well, it shouldn’t be. The rhythmics are completely out of whack.”
“Rhythmics?” asked Robin.
“Lord, don’t they teach you people anything?” Devereaux said impatiently. “Rhythmics are ...”
“Rhythmics are the electron flow of a computer’s ‘thinking,’ ” Soleta cut in, not even bothering to glance in Devereaux’s direction.
“Right, except computers don’t actually think,” said Devereaux. “They process information, but draw no conclusions, nor do they have personalities beyond what we program into them to give a semblance of personalities. So the rhythmic for a computer is very, very consistent. It never changes, because it doesn’t react to anything.”
“And that is not the case here?” asked Soleta.
He shook his head vigorously. “They’re all over the damned place. It’s like the computer is ... I don’t know. Studying its own databases. Trying to comprehend what it knows rather than just regurgitate on command. Except it’s impossible. The only time I’ve ever seen anything like it is in textbooks.”
“So you’re saying it’s a textbook case?” Robin asked, confused.
“History textbooks. The M5 computer. A computer that Richard Daystrom had imprinted with human en-grams. That had these kinds of hiccups ... except this is a hundred times worse. I just don’t get it.”
“I am certain,” Soleta told him, “that you will figure it out.”
He gave her a sour look that indicated just how much her confidence in him meant before returning to work.
Leaning back in toward Robin, Soleta said softly, “You have detected nothing unusual in ops?”
“All systems seem normal,” replied Robin. “Then again, I’m not running the sort of detailed analysis that he is.” Then she chuckled and added, “Maybe I should ask my mother for guidance.”
“Your mother?” Soleta’s eyebrows came together in a puzzled frown. “Is that some manner of intended jest?”
“No, I ...” Robin’s cheeks colored slightly. “Not at all. I’m sorry, that probably sounded a little weird.”
“Just a touch,” Soleta acknowledged.
“I was just thinking about that program you created for the holodeck. It seemed so ... so realistic. So much like her. And since she always seemed to have all the answers ...”
“Wait.” Soleta’s head was cocked like a curious bulldog. “What are you talking about?”
“I know, I know,” sighed Robin. “I should have thanked you for it ages ago. I’m sure you went to a lot of work for that, and I’m sorry, I simply got distracted with all of the ...”
“Robin,” Soleta said firmly, placing a hand on Robin’s shoulder to command her attention. “I have no clue as to what you are referring.”
“When you suggested I go to the holodeck a few weeks back,” Robin reminded her. “And the holoimage of my mother was waiting for me. The one you put together.”
“I put together no such thing.”
“You did! You must have!” Her voice was getting louder, once again attracting attention. “I mean ... why else did you suggest I go to the holodeck if you didn’t have that waiting for me?”
“Because the holodeck can be a diversion. That’s all,” Soleta said. “I had no ulterior motive other than to suggest you engage in some pastime that you might find amusing.”
“So ... so what are you saying? That you didn’t ... ?”
“I believe,” said Soleta with careful patience, “that I have said this far more times than should be necessary.”
“Well then who ...”
Her voice trailed off and very slowly, she looked at the ops station. She felt a pounding beginning in her head as matters that seemed too insane to contemplate began to occur to her. “It couldn’t be,” she whispered.
“What could not be? What are you ... ?” And then Soleta’s mind went in the same direction as Robin’s, and she likewise was stunned at the notion, although the shock did not register as openly on her face. “You ... are not insinuating what I think you are ...”
“Devereaux!” Lefler suddenly called, and she didn’t realize she was standing even as she rose and backed away from the ops station. “Stop fiddling with the computer systems a minute!”
“Fiddling?” He sounded very put out. “I would hardly term what I do fid—”
“Just shut up!” She licked her suddenly dry lips, cast a quick glance at Soleta, who nodded in encouragement, and then called, “Computer.”
“Working,” came the familiar computer voice. Except for the first time, Lefler noticed it sounded a little ... too familiar.
Her mouth started to move, to try and form the next words, but nothing emerged at first. And when it did, it was as a strangled whisper. “Mother?”
Silence from the computer.
All eyes were on Robin as she took a step forward, cleared her throat, and said more loudly this time, “Mother? It’s me. It’s Robin. Mother ... if you can hear me ... say something.”
Another pause, and then ...
“You really need to do something about your hair, dear,” came the slightly disapproving voice of Morgan Primus from the computer console. “Mourning is all well and good, but you don’t have to let yourself go to seed because of it.”
The world went black around her, and for the first time in her life, Robin Lefler passed out dead away from shock.
RUNABOUT
SI CWAN STARTED TO WONDER what was going to get to him first: the damage to the runabout’s life-support system, or the deathly quiet.
Ever since the runabout had torn away from Danter, Kalinda and he had known that there had been systems damage from the farewell shelling they had taken. They had managed to keep the engines going, and between those and the simple tendency of objects in motion to stay in motion, they had continued on a fairly straightforward heading away from Danter.
They had watched for any signs of pursuit for the longest time. It wouldn’t have been all that difficult for anyone chasing them to catch up in fairly short order. The ship was barely able to attain warp speed, and even then it couldn’t maintain it very long without sustaining serious structural damage. No one, however, did. For a time, Si Cwan wondered why, and then it occurred to him: He and Kalinda simply weren’t important enough to go after. It was a harsh realization for him to come to, and irrationally he almost wished that they had come in pursuit and blown them out of space. Better to be dead than ignored. Then he realized what he was thinking and cautioned himself not to repeat his sentiments to Kalinda, lest his sister give him that dead-eyed stare she used to indicate she thought he’d just said something amazingly stupid.
It was not long after they had made their initial escape that Si Cwan realized his ruminations about oblivion being preferable to obscurity might be coming to unfortunate reality. The systems-wide damage they’d sustained was worsening at an exponential rate. The runabout was simply not on par, in terms of quality, with similar Federation equipment.
The first thing to develop problems was the replicator, which would be providing them with food and water for however long they were out in space. Neither Si Cwan nor Kalinda were technicians; nevertheless, they did everything they could to effect repairs with the help of oral computer instructions. This worked right up until the moment when the computer suggested they slam their heads repeatedly into the console, then blow open the hatch and go for a long walk, at which point they realized the computer systems were malfunctioning.
So they eked out what they could from the replicators whenever they could get them to work in some sort of spotty fashion, and that kept them going for quite a few days until the air started feeling thick. It was at that point they realized the air purifiers were going offline. They weren’t running out of air, but the toxins from their exhalations were being filtered out at a slower and slower rate. The Thallonians realized it would be only a matter of time before they were unable to function or even breathe.
They minimized their activities. Both of them were trained in deep meditative techniques, and they reached into that training in order to minimize both their breathing and their movements around the cabin.
Si Cwan had no idea how long this situation went on, because the chronometer had started counting backward. For a while he’d hoped this was indicating that they were, in fact, going back in time. That, at least, would be interesting. Eventually, he had to settle for the realization that something else was broken on the runabout.
Along with the navigation system, of course. Never had Si Cwan so wished for the presence of Mark McHenry. That amazing conn officer somehow always just knew where he was in the vastness of space, with or without guidance systems. Si Cwan, however, was not quite as blessed. He had a general idea of the star systems, but navigation was more than just being able to pick out stars unless one was interested in heading into a collision course with a sun. It meant being able to know precisely where a planet was in its orbit in order to find it. Otherwise solar systems could be mighty big affairs while trying to locate one particular sphere. And that was information Si Cwan simply didn’t possess. Nor did he know where particular man-made outposts or space stations might be.
Besides, it wasn’t as if the ship’s engines would have been up for the voyage even if he knew precisely where to go. They were coasting well enough with occasional warp-speed thrusts, but the aim was to conserve energy in the engines because who knew when those might go?
The com system went shortly thereafter, so any sort of distress signal was moot. There would have been an automatic distress beacon on a Federation runabout, but he didn’t know if a Danteri craft carried such equipment. Ultimately the entire question was likely moot. Even if it did have such equipment, the way things were going it would probably be broken.
And so they sat in the runabout.
And sat. And sat.
Because the Excaliburso routinely interacted with other vessels, and because there was so much to occupy one’s time on the great starship, and because the ship went so damned fast, Si Cwan tended to forget just how gargantuan and empty space truly was. At first he had told himself that they couldn’t possibly travel for too long without running into another ship that would be able to provide them succor. Now, however, so much time had passed that he was starting to wonder if the opposite was true. If they would, in fact, ever see another ship for the rest of their lives ... however long that might be.
Every so often in the endless floating haze of their existence, he would glance over at Kalinda and smile, or give her an encouraging nod. At first he had been filled with confidence that they were faced with only a temporary inconvenience. That confidence eroded as time passed, although one could never have known it from the way he continued to look in a positive manner at his sister. What choice did he have? Focusing on the growing likelihood that they would not survive their predicament wasn’t going to help anything.
But the silence was just ... just staggering.
Naturally there was no sound in airless space. On a day-to-day basis, the Excaliburwas filled with noises, ranging from the distant thrumming of the engines to conversations, laughter, argument, and so on. Here, though, there was nothing. Endless nothing. He thought he was going to go insane.
So he was slightly startled when Kalinda abruptly said, after who knew how long, “We’re not getting out of this, are we.” There was no whining or fear in her voice. She was very matter-of-fact about it.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at that. She was, after all, someone who seemed to have extended congress with the spirit world. Kalinda tended to view death as an extension of existence rather than the end of it. Si Cwan didn’t find that view comforting, unfortunately.
He wanted to lie to her. To tell her that everything was going to be okay, and that she shouldn’t worry her pretty little bald red head. But he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He had too much respect for her to insult her by feeding her cheery fabrications just to spare her feelings.
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. He was surprised to hear his voice coming out as a sort of croak. That made sense. They hadn’t been talking all that much. The smart thing would be to refrain from talking now as well, but dying in the vacuum of space was pointless enough. Dying in silence while waiting for it to happen seemed a true exercise in futility. “I admit, matters look bleak. But they’re not hopeless.”
