Morte (22 page)

To position the telescope, Mort(e) used an old tripod that had originally been intended for a mounted machine gun. He pointed the scope at Orion. Rigel was the brightest, and he used it to focus the lens. After some fiddling, the star went from a blurry ball of light to a crisp white sphere. He moved the sight line up Orion’s leg to the belt. Something floated underneath the star Alnitak, the easternmost one. He saw it moving and could
tell right away that it was much closer than the star, suspended in sub-orbit. It was shiny, with three bulbous objects—balloons stacked with two on the bottom and one on top. They were mounted over several smaller rectangular shapes. And then it turned before puttering toward the center of the constellation. Several propellers spun at the rear of the object. At least six of them. It was some kind of zeppelin. Briggs must have come from there, along with many other humans. The ship was probably too high for the Colonial bird patrols. Or maybe the ship had a means of repelling them, with a sonic device similar to the one Briggs carried.

The zeppelin found a spot and hung there, its propellers whirring periodically to maintain position. It spun a little, allowing the moonlight to reflect on the fat part of the airship, creating a tiny silver crescent.

How far up was this ship? Mort(e) guessed many miles. Had it positioned itself so that he alone could see it near the Orion constellation? Or was this a routine for members of the human resistance who were still on the ground somewhere, like when the bees danced to give directions to food? Where was it during the day? How many were on board? Was Briggs able to travel to and from the ship, or was he stranded on the surface? How many humans from the airship had been caught and disposed of in the Purges?

At 11:59 Mort(e) readied his codebook, a pencil in his hand. The zeppelin oscillated to face him. At its base, a bright light flashed three times. Then the code began, all dashes and dots, which he recorded on the inside cover of the book. He missed the first few letters but managed to catch up. The signal was paced for someone who was not an expert. It seemed to go on for a long time until he realized that it was repeating itself. After a few minutes, the flashing stopped. The airship turned and flew away,
its rear propellers facing him. He tracked it until it vanished. He then packed up the telescope and returned to the garage.

It took him a few minutes to match the dots and dashes with the corresponding letters. When the message was complete, Mort(e) leaned forward and gazed at it.

“Greetings, Sebastian from the USS
Vesuvius
,” it said. “Sheba is alive. Find the source of EMSAH, and you will find her. More messages at 12
A.M
.”

He read it again. The casual salutation. The use of his slave name. The old human ship prefix, the ship itself named for a dangerous volcano from the Roman Empire. The mention of Sheba. The promise of more information, like a secret between them.

The war was still on, he thought. EMSAH was on its way. The world that the Queen had promised would have to wait.

Though these things worried him, he felt a sense of calm. Sheba was alive somewhere, perhaps watching the skies for the airship along with him. Why else would his enemies have gone through so much trouble to get him this message? He wanted to hear her stories in her new voice. He imagined her talking like Janet in her younger years, before she cried and prayed all the time. They would say things to each other like
I love you
and
I missed you
and
I will never leave you again
and
I’m sorry
and
Don’t go
. She would be older and wiser, perhaps hardened by sadness, but stronger. Like him.

Mort(e) took the code with him to his spot in the basement. That way, when he woke up, the message would be waiting for him, and he would not think even for a moment that it had been a dream.

“OUT OF THE
question,” Wawa said.

The way she said it, with the emphasis on the word “out” like a scolding mother, made Mort(e) laugh inwardly. She must
have been parroting some movie from one of Culdesac’s human behavior classes.

Mort(e) expected this answer when he went to Wawa’s office to request access to Colony’s archived files. He knew that his explanation—that he was trying to connect the owners of the animals who had shown signs of EMSAH to see if they had been Purged—would not fly. “You asked me to investigate,” he said. “I’m doing that.”

“Here’s what you don’t understand,” she said. “Those ‘files’ you mention are not files at all. They’re part of the Colony’s acquired memories, stored with the Queen herself. It’s not like booting up a computer. You would have to use a translator and link with the Colony. And even if you had clearance for that, we both know you’re not up to it.”

Just as Mort(e) was about to interrupt, she continued.

“Thankfully, the colonel has already done the work for us,” she said. “And you can see in his report—”

“I’ve seen his report,” Mort(e) said.

“Then I don’t understand the purpose of this conversation,” Wawa said. “Unless you’re suggesting that the colonel has not been forthcoming with the facts.”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting it. I’m stating it. Unequivocally.”

Wawa folded her slender hands on the desk. She blinked once. “Mort(e), I realize there are some special rules set up for your … role. But don’t push it.”

“I’m not trying to start trouble, Lieutenant. I’m just wondering why the Colony wants us to investigate this thing, but then withholds information from us.”

“Has it occurred to you, Mort(e), that it’s time for us to handle our own affairs?” she said. “That’s the point of all of this, isn’t it?” She gestured to their surroundings before folding her hands again.

“You’re talking to the wrong person if you want to know ‘the point.’ ”

“The Colony is ceding authority to us,” she said. “They’ve kept their promises. Within a year or two, the Bureau will finish its work, and we’ll be fully autonomous, answering only to the Council. The Colony will continue to weed out any human stragglers like they’ve always done. You can’t say that they haven’t been upfront about the insurgents they’ve purged.”

“If they’re doing such a great job, why are we on the verge of another quarantine?”

“We’re trying to
prevent
the quarantine,” Wawa said. “It’s our responsibility, even more so than theirs. We just have to get through this.”

“You think that bomb we found is the only one out there?” Mort(e) asked.

“No. There are probably others. We have to find them.”

“So you agree that this is more than an outbreak,” Mort(e) said. “EMSAH might be the least of our worries. This could be a full-scale rebellion.”

“That’s exactly what it could be,
Captain
!” Wawa said, slamming her enormous palm on the desk. “Your mastery of the obvious never ceases to amaze me.”

Her outburst startled Mort(e). She wore the same death stare from when she had pointed a gun between his eyes.

“That message they found tattooed on the deer’s hoof,” she said, slightly calmer now. “We translated it. It was in a language that the humans called Hebrew. You probably already know what it said. ‘The Queen is blind.’ ”

She let that sink in for a few seconds.

“So yes, I know that we’re possibly dealing with an outbreak, and an insurrection, and a threat to everything we’ve fought
for,” she said. “I don’t need you to remind me. We have to make do like the loyal soldiers we are.”

“I hope there are still people left to make do,” Mort(e) said. He stood up, accepting that he had said all he could. He muttered that he would hand in his reports at the end of the week as usual. Then he headed for the door.

“You know, Mort(e),” Wawa said, “if I didn’t know any better, I would say that you were withholding something yourself.”

“
Out
of the question,” Mort(e) said.

“I’m sorry, Mort(e),” she said. “There are some things we can’t control here.”

Mort(e) considered asking her what she thought they actually
could
control. He wished he knew how to get her on his side. There was no denying how much they had in common. Not everyone could handle being second-in-command to Culdesac. But besides being Mort(e)’s successor, Wawa was the first dog he had gotten to know at all since Sheba disappeared. For as much as she reminded him of his old friend, Wawa was the living rejection of all his childish fantasies of Sheba. She did not need Mort(e) or his useless memories. Maybe Sheba wouldn’t, either. If they ever met again, Mort(e) would have to earn Sheba’s trust. He would have to convince her they had a future and not merely a shared past

The messages from the
Vesuvius
continued. On the second night, the flashing light said, “Accept EMSAH. Find the true source.”

The third message was, “We are devising a plan to get you to the Island. Never stop believing that you will meet her again.”

When placed next to the previous messages, it made Mort(e) think for a moment that Sheba was somehow the source, whatever that even meant. He wouldn’t put it past the humans to play word games like this.

The fourth message was, “When the war is over, there will be peace among all species. Our vision is brighter than that of the Colony.”

The fifth message said, “You are the key. Do not listen to the Queen. You are more than a piece or a number. You are the key. You are the light.”

Mort(e) wondered if
key
and
light
should be capitalized. That seemed to be the human thing to do.

The sixth message: “The Archon knows that you will succeed, and that you will free your people and ours. Find the source. The Queen knows. All you have to do is ask her.”

Mort(e) found this to be an odd choice of words. Humans tended to use the terms
free
and
freedom
to indicate states of
being that were anything but. To suggest that the animals were not free now, after rising from slavery, was outrageous. Was this Archon willing to tell him to his face that he had fought for nothing? That it would have been better for him to remain the property of people who mutilated him, then die as their plaything? All these thoughts led him once again to his most reassuring mantra:
no wonder they lost
.

But the possibility of finding Sheba overruled all other considerations, even his distrust of the humans. There was Sheba, and there was death, and there was nothing else in his future. The finality of it was liberating in a way.

Find the source
, the humans said.
All you have to do is ask
.

To do so would require gaining access to the “files” Wawa mentioned. The humans had anticipated what he was already thinking.

Even the Red Sphinx had a weak spot.

MORT(E) ARRIVED AT
the barracks after sundown. He checked Culdesac’s and Wawa’s offices. Both were locked up for the evening.

Mort(e) went to his own office and found Bonaparte shutting the door on his way out. Startled, the pig saluted him. “Sir, I left a report on your desk—”

“I thought we had the first confirmed case of EMSAH today,” Mort(e) said.

“Really?”

“But it turned out he had had too much of this,” Mort(e) said, handing Bonaparte a bottle of amber liquid. The pig’s eyes lit up when he recognized the name: Jack Daniels. These bottles were nearly extinct. Luckily, the Martinis’ stash was still intact.

“Culdesac made us drink this one night as a feat of strength,” Mort(e) said.

“I know,” Bonaparte said. “I heard you were the only one who didn’t puke.”

“I also shot a pinecone off the medic’s head.”

“Culdesac didn’t mention that.”

“Probably didn’t want to give you any ideas.”

Bonaparte did not appear ready to return the bottle.

“I’m supposed to hand this over to Lieutenant Wawa,” Mort(e) said, “but that would be a real waste.”

“You know,” Bonaparte said, lowering his voice, “there are some people who are qualified to dispose of this evidence.”

Mort(e) pretended to be surprised.

“Unless, of course, you wanted to keep it for yourself,” Bonaparte said. “It’s just that … whiskey tastes better in the company of comrades.”

“Indeed it does,” Mort(e) said.

They went into Mort(e)’s office, poured two drinks into a pair of army-issue cups, and toasted the end of the war. After one drink, Mort(e) could see that Bonaparte was feeling better than he had in ages. Wawa must have been running the entire unit ragged. When Mort(e) suggested that Bonaparte round up some of his drinking buddies, the pig could hardly contain himself.

Within fifteen minutes, they were in the back of a troop transport truck parked at the far end of the base. Bonaparte continued reveling in his role as social organizer, asking “Isn’t this great?” multiple times. The others were patient with his enthusiasm, nodding politely. There were five of them, their faces lit by the orange glow of a lamp: Mort(e), Bonaparte, a raccoon named Archer, and two cats—one female, one male—who expected Mort(e) to remember them. Named Hester and Chronos, they were from the same litter and had matching black coats and white bellies.