Morte (38 page)

Several officers went first, while two others stood at the edge of the former chapel and exhorted the recruits to make the jump. With each leap, the Black Hats let out a throaty cheer, like spectators at a sporting event. Wawa peered over her new comrades and saw a gap in the clouds. The Island passed underneath them, taking up the entire opening in the wall, spreading out like a horde of ants. A row of inflated parachutes trailed the ship.

One man jumped, and the cheers died down. His chute did not join the neat row that had formed in the sky. The next jumper hesitated. The major told him to go. Instead, the man raced to the back of the line, where Wawa was waiting. While the officer yelled at him, the man grabbed Wawa’s necklace, kissed the medallion, and whispered something in either Spanish or Portuguese. Then he ran in the opposite direction, leaping into the void. The Black Hats roared again when his chute opened. His arms flapped as he waved to his comrades on the ship—or maybe he had simply failed to operate the parachute correctly. From then on, they all kissed her medallion before jumping. The officers gave up trying to stop them. Instead, they moved Wawa to the very end of the line, so everyone could
have a chance to kiss St. Jude before plunging toward the earth.

It was almost Wawa’s turn. One hand was on the rip cord, the other on the medal. When she finally made it to the front, the major yanked her hand away from the necklace. “Proper stance,” he yelled over the wind.

Mechanically, she tucked her chin into her chest and pulled in her elbows. She wanted to close her eyes when she went, but she knew that the officer was watching.

Go
, she thought.
Go!

She stepped into the whistling wind and fell.

And fell.

She counted in her head.
One thousand. Two thousand
. But she was going too fast.
One
one
thousand
, she corrected.
Two one …

“Choke it,” she said, pulling the rip cord. The straps unraveled out of her pack. Then the chute deployed, jolting her body before stabilizing. She breathed again. Between her dangling feet, the surface of the Island expanded. She was part of this airborne pack, held up by the hand of God, bringing his justice to the earth.

THE SOLDIERS EAGERLY
manned their foxholes, trenches, and pillboxes, desperate to pretend that their enthusiasm would make up for a lack of experience. Though Culdesac was drained from discussing his past—it felt like donating a pint of blood—the reaction of the soldiers seemed to be worth the trouble. They were excited. And afraid. And maybe even a little angry that this war was still not over.

The Alphas, however, remained motionless in their formation. They did not need the cover of barricades. Their presence alone was enough.

There was a command post set up at the rear of the mammal
army. Instead of a tent, it was a cave that seemed to have been sculpted by skilled artists. The ants were able to manipulate the landscape. The surface felt strange to Culdesac’s feet. He thought of the ground as a living thing that could pull him under if he did anything that the Queen found suspicious.

The colonel, along with the coyote and several soldiers, met with the envoy inside. Two orbs made up of some bioluminescent material lit up the cave. From here, Culdesac had a perfect view of the soldiers and the sea. The overcast sky, though, was an impenetrable milky white.

A raccoon operated the radio. While he fussed with the machine, Culdesac readied the translator. He would be able to speak with the person on the radio while the device sent the exchange into the Alpha’s antennae. The chemical signal would eventually travel to the Queen in the Colony’s version of whisper-down-the-lane.

“Ready, sir?” the raccoon asked.

Culdesac took the receiver. “Speak, human,” he said.

“Good morning, Colonel,” replied a woman’s voice. Definitely human.

“Congratulations on getting this code,” he said. “May I ask how you acquired it?”

“Your lieutenant gave it to me,” she said. “The one you left for dead.”

Culdesac looked to the Alpha for some reaction. The creature remained still.

“She forgives you, Colonel,” the voice said. “And you’ll see her again before the day is done.”

“You have my attention, human,” he said. “Does this conversation have a purpose?”

“Yes. I’m calling to give you a chance.”

“A chance for what?”

“Salvation. Surrender now. We will forgive all debts, but you must join us or die.”

Culdesac laughed.

“Can you see me yet?” the voice asked.

Pulling the radio’s cord, Culdesac walked to the entrance of the cave. The Alpha lumbered beside him, still connected to the translator’s antenna. The sky was empty, a white expanse. But then, like a mirage, the ship cut through the clouds, its chameleon skin switched off to reveal a dull silver bullet heading straight for the Island.

“Do I have the pleasure of speaking with the Archon?” he asked.

“You do.”

“I thought the
Vesuvius
crashed years ago.”

“This is not the
Vesuvius
,” she said. “My ship is called the
Golgotha
. The place of the skull. Your island has never had a formal name. I’m about to give it one.”

Culdesac reached over and swiped a pair of binoculars hanging from the coyote’s neck. He could see no cannons or other weapons on board the ship. He handed the binoculars to the coyote. There was a commotion brewing among the soldiers. Culdesac could hear the sergeants and officers shouting, “Hold your ground!”

“No weapons visible,” the coyote whispered. “Kamikaze, maybe?”

“Sorry,” Culdesac said into the receiver. “I have to turn down your generous offer. I never had a slave master. I don’t intend to start now.”

“You could have fooled me,” the Archon said, “now that you’re the Queen’s little mascot.”

“Is she trying to take out the tower?” the coyote asked.

“If she is, she’s going to miss badly,” Culdesac replied.

“This war can come to an end if you join us and fight the real enemy,” the Archon continued.

“I’ve seen the enemy,” Culdesac said.

“Your lieutenant no longer agrees with you. She saw hope in our cause.”

“Congratulations. You brainwashed another one.”

“And the spirit and the bride say, ‘Come,’ ” she said. “And let him that heareth say, ‘Come.’ ”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.”

The airship pointed down at a forty-five-degree angle, its nose aimed right for the Alpha soldiers. He heard more yelling from his own troops, along with random orders to hold their fire and stand ready.

“For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book,” the Archon continued, “if any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book.”

Culdesac put his hand over the receiver and faced the Alpha soldier. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

STAND BY
, the creature said.

The rows upon rows of Alpha soldiers began moving away from the impact site like a receding oil slick.

“Such a waste,” Culdesac said into the receiver. “Destroying that lovely ship because a magic book told you to do it.”

“He which testifieth these things saith, ‘Surely I come quickly,’ ” the Archon said, trancelike. “Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.”

“See you in the next life, human,” Culdesac said. “Or not.”

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.”

The ship was dropping fast. It was only seconds away.

“There is still love,” the Archon said. “There is still hope, Colonel. There is still a chance.”

The nose of the ship touched down on the hilltop with a sound like a thousand bones breaking. The frame crumpled, collapsing the giant balloon. A great fireball blossomed like an orange flower. The boom shook Culdesac a second later. There was a loud
pop
, then a deep
thwoom
that drowned out the screaming of the soldiers. The Archon had aimed her suicide mission right between both forces. The young ones began to cheer, acting as if they had brought down the ship themselves. The yellow bloom of the explosion hung in the air for a few seconds before dissipating into a gray cloud.

The flames consumed the rear fins of the ship. The propellers, still whirring, ground into the surface and then came to a halt. The glorious wreckage exploded one more time, releasing clouds of oily smoke.
So stupid
, Culdesac thought. He breathed normally again, for he knew that this sacrifice would not convince anyone to join the humans. It amounted only to fire and theatrics and martyrdom, the only forms of art that mankind had perfected. Only in destroying things could the humans create something beautiful.

This war would be over soon.

When the hatch opened, Mort(e) faced the ceiling of a chamber. It was like being inside an intestine. He was being digested, though he could not imagine an animal’s guts smelling much worse than this. For all its efficiency, there was no way that the Colony could expel its waste fast enough to avoid turning the tunnels into a sewer. Having an exoskeleton just made it easier for the ants to walk around in their own shit.

Gun in hand, Mort(e) stepped out of the torpedo to find a swarm of ants already working to repair the hole created by the impact. The device itself was a wreck. The fins were ripped off, while the molten metal injection gun was crumpled inward, its last drops of melted steel oozing out of the cracks. The trajectory of the torpedo had left a tunnel of its own, with a pulsing red-hot mouth that had cauterized, so that only a small stream of water entered the tunnel. The ants gave their lives trying to seal the crack. Some were fried on the piping-hot rock, while others were swept away by the water.

A trail of ants flowed toward a faint light. Mort(e) followed them around a bend, where the tunnel straightened and narrowed. In the humid air, the light shot like a laser straight out of a hole in the wall. The ants poured into it. The beam flickered
as they entered.

The ground rumbled, and the opening grew wider, like a dilating pupil. Mort(e) raised the gun. But the light blinded him, forcing him to shield his eyes. The brightness of it had a warmth to it, as if the ants had harnessed the sun in this otherwise dank place. When at last he took his hand away, he faced a new chamber, round like the inside of a giant empty stomach, where the river of ants gathered into a vast, writhing pool. They made room for his feet with each step he took.

And there it was. There
she
was. The Queen. Even more vivid than the residual memories from the translator. Enormous, with a bobbing head and antennae extending out seven or eight feet like an enormous headdress. A pair of long-dead wings hung from her shoulders. Surrounding the abdomen on either side were bloated workers licking her sedentary body. A massive egg, obscenely white, sprouted from her rear. The workers nudged it toward an opening on the other side of the room, a chute that presumably went to the nursery.

A sense of déjà vu poked his brain.
I’ve been here
, he thought.
No, I haven’t
.

“Drop your weapon,” a voice said. It seemed to come from the floors and the wall. The voice was that of a human woman, very familiar. As she had in his dream, the Queen spoke with the voice of Janet. “You are welcome here,” it continued. “We mean you no harm.”

The entire room was some kind of translator, vibrating with the ghostly voice of his former master.

“Welcome, Sebastian,” the Queen said.

The movement in the room stopped. The flow of ants on the ground came to a halt. The workers lifted their heads and faced him.

“Lower the gun, please,” the Queen said, “if you wish to see
your friend.”

Mort(e) removed the strap and dropped the weapon. A wave of ants traveled up his right leg, making him jump.

“Remain still,” the Queen said. “They are checking your belongings.”

They were already inside his bag by the time she finished her sentence. Mort(e) felt the contents shift around: the canteen, the packets of beef jerky. The hand grenade.

“Please tell your daughters to be careful with the grenade,” Mort(e) said. “It’s very sensitive.”

He felt the lump of the grenade lift out of the bag. The ants walked down his leg. They carried the gun and the grenade to the other side of the room, too far away for him to try to retrieve without the insects overwhelming him. Meanwhile, the enlarged workers returned to their incessant tongue bath.

This was not the same Queen he had encountered in the echoes of the translator. The one before him was old and tired. Unsightly cracks ran throughout her armor, to which the workers dedicated extra attention. The fissures in her skin must have been unbearably painful, littered with germs. Her face was tightly drawn in, the flesh warped and wrinkled like a rotting fruit. Her claws were weak and thin, broken sticks hanging together by the bark. If this is what her body was like, Mort(e) had to believe that her mind was similarly damaged. He pictured it as a dying ember in a room with no windows.