Morte (36 page)

Mort(e) leaned forward so that the man could touch the medallion. Gregory held it between his thumb and index finger. He sighed and let go.

The Archon explained that Gregory was in charge of the day-to-day operations of the
Vesuvius
. He would coordinate the attack from the air, while Pius led the troops on the ground.

“Are you afraid of the water?” Pius asked. “I mean, you
are
a cat.”

“No.”

Gregory began to tell a story of how he used to discipline his pet cat with a squirt gun. Pius cut him off.

“You won’t get wet,” Pius said. “But what we have in mind will be a little disconcerting.”

He leafed through the maps of the Island until he came across one that gave a three-dimensional view of what the ants had constructed. The false Jerusalem resembled a mushroom cloud sprouting from the ocean floor. A shaft made of earth and stone rose from the bottom of the sea before spreading out into the landmass that broke the surface of the water. This shaft was a tunnel through which the Colony could transport supplies. The humans had attempted an assault on it once but failed. Now the submarines of the old human fleets were scattered or sunken, and the resistance had only a small strike force and a few allies on the ground.

“The goal,” he said, “is to cut off the Colony’s head.”

“Take out the Queen,” Gregory said.

“Yeah, I got that,” Mort(e) replied. “How? We don’t even know where she is.”

“Yes, we do,” Pius said, tracing his finger along the Island’s main tunnel. “Her chamber is right here.”

“Don’t tell me that your prophet is a GPS, too,” Mort(e) said.

“He speaks as God wills him to,” she said. “In riddles and parables and allegory. But we were able to … extract this information from him.”

Extract
, Mort(e) thought. He imagined a human hand—Janet’s—grinding half an orange against a plastic juicer.

“Hypnosis?” Wawa asked.

“We did what we had to do,” the Archon said.

Mort(e) pictured another preposterous ceremony, a séance, in which a hypnotized Michael spoke in tongues while the humans clutched their prayer necklaces and howled and shook and danced.

“There will be three phases,” Pius said. “We begin tomorrow morning. First, you will take out the Queen. Second, the Archon will fly her section of the ship to lead the attack. Third, we will mount an amphibious assault at the northern end of the island.”

“What do you mean her section?” Mort(e) asked.

They explained that the top part of the
Vesuvius
—the balloon that rested above the other two—could detach and fly on its own. They named it the
Golgotha
.

“Sort of like the saucer section of the
Enterprise
from
Star Trek
,” Gregory said. This prompted bewildered expressions from Mort(e) and Wawa. Gregory’s follow-up—“You know,
The Next Generation
?”—did not clarify anything.

“Okay, let’s stick with part one,” Mort(e) said. “How do I get in?”

Pius fumbled through the maps again until he came across a schematic for some kind of missile, showing a side view of the projectile and a diagram of its working parts. Once Pius
flattened out the paper, Mort(e) realized that it was not a missile. It was a torpedo.

“Do you mean to tell me—”

“We’ve modified it,” Pius said. “We can deploy it from the
Vesuvius
. There’s a chamber inside that’s big enough to fit a human. Or a really big cat.”

The torpedo, Pius explained, had a parachute to ensure a soft landing so that it would not “break every damn bone” in Mort(e)’s body. The front, meanwhile, was equipped with a cannon that would inject molten metal upon impact, allowing it to drill through the rock. The hatch would automatically burst open once the infiltration was complete. While Pius bragged about the ingenuity that went into the “catpedo,” Mort(e) and Wawa tried to communicate with facial expressions.
This is crazy
, Mort(e) signaled.
What did you expect?
she asked with a tip of her head. Mort(e) imagined himself in the torpedo, a metal sperm swimming through the water on its way to fertilize an egg.

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts,” the Archon said. “You were so eager you threatened to kill me, remember?”

“You’ll be armed,” Pius said. “Don’t worry about that. And we have a few weapons that the ants haven’t seen yet.”

They tried to give Mort(e) an idea of what he would see on the inside. Chances were that the chamber would have some light in it if Sheba was held prisoner there. They could not confirm Sheba’s condition. Mort(e) would have to carry her out if she was incapacitated. No one had the nerve to suggest that Sheba would not wish to go along with him.

They moved on to the attack itself: the Archon’s ship would bombard the Colonial army, and then paratroopers would join with a D-day force comprised of loyal animals using old human boats. The Archon said that these animals had “converted” and
were awaiting orders from the
Vesuvius
. When Mort(e) asked how many there were, the Archon said there would be more today than yesterday, and more tomorrow than today.

The Archon concluded the meeting by asking that they pray. Gregory and Pius faced her and bowed their heads. Wawa joined them. Her mouth moved while they talked about God watching over them, delivering them from evil. Mort(e) nudged her. He wanted her to see him roll his eyes at this ritual. But she kept her head bowed and continued praying.

THE HUMANS HELD
another church service that night. Wawa told him he should attend, if only as a diplomatic courtesy. Mort(e) agreed, but insisted on sitting in the last pew. There he cringed at the many things that he found disturbing: a choir of children singing songs about drinking someone’s blood; Elder Gregory announcing that they were slaves for God while casually flipping his ponytail off his shoulder; grown men and women weeping and shouting in incomprehensible dialects. Mercifully, Michael and his nurse did not attend. A child in his condition could not be trotted out for every religious service. Mort(e) tried to think of the boy as he had first met him, lying on a towel on Daniel’s bed. Instead, Mort(e) kept picturing the translator fastened to Michael’s head, poisoning his brain.

Later, the Archon blessed the soldiers who would be leading the assault. They were barely adults, and each wore the flag of the defunct country from which they came. Most had American flags, but there were others that Mort(e) recognized: Mexico, Canada, the United Kingdom, some Caribbean nations. They did not strike him as soldiers so much as wide-eyed converts only a few years removed from performing plays in Miss Teter’s class. The Archon assured them that they would either be victorious in the morning, or they would
go to heaven. One by one, she went before the soldiers, placing her hands on each pair of shoulders and whispering a prayer.

The children sang again. Mort(e) realized that Wawa had left her pew.

It did not take long to find her walking up the center aisle. The congregants, who had been warned about gawking at the two mutated visitors, turned their heads as she passed by each row. One pew at a time, the singing came to a stop. With her back to the crowd, the Archon noticed the song dying out. She turned to see Wawa stepping forward. This great warrior, second-in-command of the Red Sphinx, wept like a human child.

“Yes, my friend?” the Archon said.

“I wish to join with you in the battle tomorrow,” Wawa said.

“You wish to join this church?” the Archon asked.

“I want to be a part of your pack,” Wawa said, her voice breaking.

The Archon ran to Wawa and embraced her. People applauded, wiped their eyes, laughed, raised their arms in the air, and shouted that their god was great. A new soul had joined them. Miss Teter had the children sing the song from the day before:

Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing pow’r?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Are you washed in the blood
,

In the soul-cleansing blood of the Lamb?

Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

The soldiers formed a circle around Wawa, each giving her a hug. They cried and laughed at the same time. Soon all the
humans left their seats to get closer to their newest member, all while singing the atrocious song. At one point, a little girl from Miss Teter’s class left her place in the choir and wormed her way through the legs of the adults. She pulled on Wawa’s tail and giggled. An adult scolded her, but the lieutenant gave the girl a hug. They spoke for a moment. Then the girl pointed at Mort(e) and said something that he could not hear.

He got up and left. When he returned to his quarters, he sat by the great window again. He could still hear the singing from downstairs, a low grumble through the floor.

MORT(E) BARELY SLEPT.
It made little sense to do so, now that his life could be measured in hours rather than years. He drank some water and ate a bag of dried beetles that had been left in his quarters. A soldier came for him in the morning, a boy of seventeen or eighteen. He handed Mort(e) a backpack containing all the supplies he would need. Inside, Mort(e) found a submachine gun, a grenade, a small canister of oleic acid, a digital watch, a canteen of water, and some food. The young soldier led him to the promenade area, where once again the civilians onboard were gathered. This time, they prayed in whispers, their eyes on the ground. Some even covered their faces with their hands, their voices indistinguishable from the babbling fountain.

Mort(e) followed the soldier to a fluorescent-lit room at the rear of the ship. Shelves filled with the torpedoes from the schematics lined either side. The “catpedo” prototype was mounted on a small platform, facing a metal tube that presumably exited at the bottom of the ship. The Archon, Gregory, Pius, and Wawa stood solemnly alongside it, like pallbearers next to a coffin.

The Archon broke the oppressive silence. “The fleet is on its way,” she said. “Everything is in place.”

“Good cloud cover, too,” Gregory said. “God is shielding us.”

“Right,” Mort(e) said.

He approached the torpedo. The hatch was open, revealing the small space where he would sit, upholstered with white cloth and fitted with a harness in order to lessen the impact. Mort(e) would have to curl up in order to fit. Pius had assured him in the meeting the day before that the entire trip would take about twelve minutes. There would be no windows for him to see the Island, so he would have to rely on his watch. Its glowing face would be the only source of light inside the capsule.

Pius asked Mort(e) if he was ready. Mort(e) said yes. He removed the gun from his pack and slung the strap over his shoulder. The Archon appeared ready to speak.

“Pray for me later, Madam Archon,” Mort(e) said.

She bit her lip, and he realized he had said the wrong thing. For better or worse, on this day she was a warrior alongside him. “I’m sorry about your son.”

“Thank you,” she said. And then she stretched out both arms and placed her palms on his face. He allowed her to do it without flinching.

“Even if you are not a believer,” she said, “your courage inspires us. That part of the prophecy you must believe.”

“Listen, I’m no messiah,” he said. “But thanks for giving me the opportunity to find my friend. I hope this war I’m restarting is worth the trouble.”

She lowered her hands. “God will decide.”

“Let’s hope his judgment has improved,” Mort(e) said. “Good luck to you.”

He felt Gregory’s hand on his shoulder. The man was holding back tears. He embraced Mort(e) tightly around the neck. Mort(e) did not return the hug. When Gregory’s arms lingered
too long, Mort(e) cocked the machine gun. The man stepped away suddenly. Mort(e) grinned.

“Aim true, human,” Mort(e) said. “Stay on the hunt.”

Wawa was next. Her eyes were so red that it seemed that she had not stopped crying since her conversion the night before. “I know you’re disappointed in me,” she said.

“You did what you had to do.”

“I’m not trying to change your mind,” she said. “But I’ve been searching for this for years. For as long as you’ve been searching for your friend.”

“Just remember,” he said. “Maybe these guys are nice, and the ants are mean. But that doesn’t mean their fairy tales are true.”

“There’s so much love here, Mort(e),” she said. “When you and your friend make it out, this pack will be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting. Please come back to us.”

Mort(e) removed his St. Jude medal and held it out. She accepted it in her palm, the chain bunching up in her hand. She looked at him.

“No,” he said.

He left her standing there with her arm extended.

Pius waited by the torpedo, his face as stern as ever. Mort(e) climbed inside and hooked himself up to the harness. Pius placed his hand on the hatch.

“No more talk,” Mort(e) said. “I’m tired of it. Let’s go.”

“Aim true,” Pius said. The old warrior’s grin was the last thing Mort(e) saw before the hatch closed. His eyes adjusted, and his nose grew accustomed to the smell of iron and oil. The glowing watch on his wrist read 5:19. It resembled the first thing he ever read: the Martinis’ address.

It changed to 5:20. He felt the platform shift. Gears clanked as the mechanism moved the torpedo into the shaft, rattling so
badly that his teeth clacked a few times. The torpedo came to a halt. There was nothing for a moment. Then he felt the vibrations of another door opening directly in front of him. It was the port from which the device would be launched. A wind whistled through the tunnel.

There was loud metal snap:
chkkk!
And then the torpedo dropped out of the ship.