That night, Mort(e) recorded the flickering light in the sky once again. He had gotten much better at deciphering Morse code, and even recognized a few words right away. One word stuck out among the dots and dashes like a drop of blood on a white blouse:
Purge.
There was no time to ponder it for very long. The light kept blinking. Once the Vesuvius floated off again, Mort(e) brought the notebook to his desk and began piecing together the message. It said, “Good work stealing translator. Watch for Briggs at the Purge in three days.”
There would be very little sleep tonight. Too many things were twisting in his mind. The resistance knew about the translator. They knew about the next Purge. Briggs had been captured, though this was not much of a surprise. Maybe the Archon sent him on a suicide mission. Maybe their prophet foresaw it. Mort(e) imagined Briggs lying in the pile of dead deer in the quarry, his eyes staring skyward with all the others.
Briggs must have planted something in his house, a camera or a radio. Mort(e) overturned every piece of furniture in the garage. The desk, chair, table, stool. The lamp with its St. Jude necklace. He couldn’t find anything. Instead of a camera, the humans most likely had eyes on the ground. Maybe in the Bureau.
Maybe even in the Red Sphinx.
The sun was nearly up when he retreated to his spot in the basement. While trying to plan the next few days, he fell asleep. Soon he was dreaming of flying through the clouds at daybreak. The Vesuvius eclipsed the sun before lumbering out of the way. The rays glinting off the silvery hull did not make him squint. White birds circled the airship like a halo, inviting and mysterious. He imagined Sheba onboard, peering at him through a round window. But he could not get any closer.
THE COLONY ANNOUNCED the Purge over the radio stations. The Red Sphinx was expected to be there.
A book in his lap, Mort(e) sat cross-legged in the square of sunlight until it stretched into a long golden trapezoid. The book was a manual for the translator, titled G-16 Colony-to-Mammal Translation Module: A User’s Guide. It began with diagrams outlining the basic structure of the device, along with instructions on how to establish communication, sort of like the over and ten-four that the humans had used. Every conversation began with a string of prime numbers, the main units of the ants’ mathematical system. Listing the numbers was like a greeting that also booted up the device’s computer. After that, the user would see (or hear, or feel) other data indicating that the device was synching up with the brain. There would typically be a DNA sequence or some other seemingly random information. The first-time user not only heard words but also saw images and even felt physical sensations, like a living dream.
The manual included a special user testimonial written by a Colonel Yojimbo, a feline war hero who went missing in the Battle of the Potomac. The testimonial was printed on special yellow paper in the middle of the book and came with a small photo of the colonel, his maroon sash perched on the silver fur of his shoulder. His whiskers drooped slightly, giving him a dignified yet exhausted demeanor. Here Yojimbo described what the machine did to the mammalian brain, and how the user could prepare for the shock.
“Think of the day you changed,” Yojimbo wrote. “Recall the horror of it: seeing into the future, remembering the past, stacking them together like building blocks. Before they were nothing but amorphous clouds of images drifting about in dreams and half-remembered moments of déjà vu.
“Now multiply that horror by about ten.
“And while you’re at it, think of the drunkest you have ever been. (Yes, I know we do not drink like humans.) And think of the first time you mated. If you are a soldier, think of the first time you killed someone. Think of the first time a loved one died.
“Take all these things, roll them into a sharp-edged mass, and swallow it.”
Yojimbo went into detail about how the inexperienced user had to center himself by focusing on a safer time. “Paradoxically,” he wrote, “you must return to the innocence of your youth, even if that youth was under the control of our oppressors.”
So Mort(e) would have to imagine himself in a scenario that made him feel whole, peaceful, and free of guilt or fear—what humans called a “happy place.” It was necessary because the conversion of chemical signals to spoken language involved every cubic inch of the brain. Those with little experience with the device often had to piece together the meaning later. There were stories of people who were crippled by the translator, virtually lobotomized. Some were even said to have reverted to their previous states, walking on all fours. Culdesac’s talent with the device fit well with his personality. A bobcat could probably imagine anywhere as a safe haven.
Yojimbo also discussed the rumors that humans were incapable of using the device. “The rumors are true,” Yojimbo said, “and they’re even worse than you thought.” Human brains, already tainted with EMSAH-like symptoms, would often simply shut down after exposure to the translator. The only humans who did not die within minutes of initiating communication were children, and they did not last long afterward. Maybe the Queen designed the device for that very purpose.
Mort(e) readied his things. He placed the translator into his backpack. Before he left, he went to the basement, touched his fingers to his lips, and placed them on the SHEBA IS ALIVE message. If he died, the next person to read this would not understand its significance. That person would erase the message, and everything about Mort(e) would be forgotten.
EVERYONE GATHERED AT the mouth of the temple.
Before finding a spot in the crowd, Mort(e) passed a bonfire where adolescent dogs sang and danced around the flames in celebration. The rest of the spectators gathered quietly, speaking to one another in nods and grunts like guests at a funeral. Nearby, two lines of soldiers staked out a path from the opening of the ziggurat to the vessels on the river.
After sunset, the anthill lit up with its otherworldly light. The aperture opened. Everyone gasped at once. And then the humans were trotted out. A smaller number than last time, but enough to put on a show.
Mort(e) began easing his way to the front. People gave him dirty looks—no one was expected to stand up yet. It wasn’t part of the tradition. By then, some of the humans were already crying. On cue, the weeping increased when the animals rose and began to mockingly wave at the prisoners. The movement of the crowd provided an opportunity for Mort(e) to get closer until he was right at the edge of the path.
Mort(e) picked up the scent of raccoon. He stood on his toes to get a better view. Briggs was easy to find, dressed from the waist down in his animal disguise. A mud-spattered gray shirt covered his upper body.
Mort(e) pressed forward, barely noticing the person in front of him until he felt the bushy tail of a fox brush his face.
“Watch it, pal,” the fox said.
“That man was my master,” Mort(e) said.
“Give me a break,” the fox said.
“No, look.”
The commotion caught Briggs’s eye. He recognized Mort(e).
“Sure, go ahead of me, no problem,” the fox said, stunned by the coincidence.
Mort(e) stepped to the front. Behind him, the fox told everyone within earshot that this choker had seen his old master. The fox then corrected himself. “This cat, I mean.” Mort(e) could feel everyone’s eyes on him as they whispered.
When Briggs got close enough, he acknowledged Mort(e) with a nod and said, “Find the source.”
“Yes,” Mort(e) said.
“Keep searching,” he said, lower this time. “Every day she calls for you. We can hear it just like you can.”
Briggs began reciting a verse—either a prayer or a poem, Mort(e) couldn’t tell. An Alpha shoved Briggs from behind, moving him along with the others. One by one, the nearby onlookers each placed a hand on Mort(e)’s shoulder and offered words of encouragement.
“I’ve never seen that at a Purge before,” someone said.
“Hang in there,” someone else said.
“He won’t hurt you again.”
“I can’t believe he recognized you!”
“He must have had a really guilty conscience.”
Mort(e) nodded and thanked them all. Before he could get away, an elderly dog approached him. Her muzzle was pure white, her face so droopy it resembled a mask. “Be strong,” she said, on the verge of tears. “I realize this must be hard for you.”
“I’m fine,” Mort(e) said.
But she would not let him walk away. “There are people you can talk to,” she said. “Everyone handles a meeting with the former master differently.”
“I’ll be all right,” he said, turning away from her.
Some members of the audience were already leaving. The rest followed the humans as they moved on to the ships that would take them away forever. Many animals were still waving. Mort(e) could no longer see Briggs amidst the flapping arms.
“Enjoying the show?” came a voice to his left. It was Wawa. Her arms were folded like a human’s. People continued to stream past them.
Wawa invited him to walk with her toward the dock. A row of RS vehicles was parked near the water, where the humans would be loaded onto the ships. Archer was there, along with the nameless cats who had replaced Mort(e)’s comrades from the war. Culdesac stood beside one of the transports. He acknowledged Mort(e) with a tip of his head. Bonaparte was nowhere to be found.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Wawa said.
“The war’s over?”
“One of our members has EMSAH,” she said softly, so that the incendiary word dissolved into the background noise.
“A cat?” Mort(e) asked.
“The pig, actually. Bonaparte.”
She explained that Bonaparte tried to take a Humvee off base that morning. When the guards at the checkpoint requested his authorization, he rammed the gate. The soldiers shot out the tires. The vehicle flipped over, and they dragged Bonaparte from it. Even worse, Wawa believed that he smuggled the company translator away from the barracks. It was probably in the hands of the resistance by now.
Mort(e)’s stomach clenched as she related the story. He wondered if his theft of the device had triggered all of this somehow. Or perhaps Bonaparte would have gone crazy with or without losing the translator, especially if he really had been infected by a human. Mort(e) knew that his own behavior could be interpreted as a sign of EMSAH. The only difference was, he hadn’t been caught yet.
“Are you sure he’s infected?” Mort(e) asked.
“Does it matter?” she asked. “I’ve been reading your reports. There have been a lot of late-stage symptoms out there. Paranoia. Delusions. No concern for living or dying. Talking in non sequiturs. Bonaparte is showing all of these. He even confessed that he’s been visited by a human. The doctors are running tests on him now to confirm.”
“Don’t you have those little strips that turn yellow?”
“We do,” she said. “And they’re all negative. But I don’t care—it’s definitely EMSAH. I’m not waiting for some doctor to make the call.”
There was genuine anguish in her voice. Bonaparte was supposed to be the success story of the RS, having overcome his past as a farm animal, the lowest of the slaves. She truly worried about him. It was so like a dog. So like Sheba.
“So when does the quarantine begin?” Mort(e) said.
“We don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? What other information do you need?”
“The Colony has ordered us to stand by.”
“Stand by for what?”
“Mort(e), you know that the Queen doesn’t have to explain herself. But there is some good news.”
“You’re fired. There will no longer be any need for your investigation. We’re going to set up a hospital to keep the potential victims away from the others. We hope it buys us enough time to evacuate the settlers. So my last orders to you: turn in any outstanding reports, go home, and remain calm.”
All the people Mort(e) interviewed were under house arrest, she said. But all military personnel would be sent to a processing station and reassigned to some other settlement.
They were almost to the river. Mort(e) gripped Wawa’s elbow. “You don’t really believe that, do you?” he asked.
She snapped her arm out of his grasp and headed toward the trucks. “Pull yourself together before I put you in a cell with Bonaparte,” she said.
“Answer me.”
“Go home,” she said, spinning away from him. “That’s my answer.”
She headed toward the RS trucks, where a large horseshoe of Alpha soldiers kept the remaining crowd at bay. Another group escorted the last of the humans into the ship. At the base of the plank, an Alpha awaited the report from the leader of the Red Sphinx.
Culdesac passed through the line of Alphas and approached the lead ant soldier. The colonel wore his translator—a newer model, slightly smaller than the one Mort(e) had stolen. The onlookers jostled one another to get a closer look at the exchange. That left a few Alphas at the end of the row standing guard against nothing.
Mort(e) stood in front of the last Alpha and pulled the device from his backpack. The soldier remained still. The only movement came from the hundreds of normal-sized ants that crawled on her exoskeleton. Mort(e) placed the translator on his head, adjusting the mouthpiece. The smaller ants stopped moving. They waited for him to begin. Mort(e) took a deep breath and pictured himself resting in the basement, lounging beside Sheba, when the Martini house was the entire universe and nothing could disturb it.
He put the earbud into place.
A thousand voices screamed random numbers and sounds into Mort(e)’s ears. The same figures scrolled across his field of vision, brushing against his coat until he felt them crawling on his skin like insects. His only connection to the real world was the feeling of his useless choker hands coiling into fists. According to Yojimbo, the randomness should have been coalescing into words by now, if not full sentences. Mort(e) was losing control of it. The words grew louder. They changed color and began cutting into his skin. They smelled like an electrical charge. He tried to imagine the basement. Sheba was no longer there. Only the message remained—SHEBA IS ALIVE. The words rattled and fell from the wall, shattering on the floor.
DARKNESS. A METAL smell. Sweat and dirt. Mort(e)’s knees rubbing against a steel surface. His sides are closed in. An air duct. Tiberius (Socks) is right behind him. Culdesac is ahead. (One time, before a mission, Culdesac asked Tiberius if he was ready to die, and Tiberius said, “Do you think I joined this outfit because I wanted to live?” And everyone laughed.) Culdesac’s enormous tail wags. They are infiltrating a cell of humans who have taken shelter in an old army bunker. The humans are smart. Willing to die. The walls are impervious even to bomb strikes. The ants are unable to dislodge the enemy without devoting an enormous effort to the task. There are explosives rigged everywhere. Culdesac tells them to move quickly, but to touch nothing, and to be quiet. “Anything can trip the bombs,” he says.
Then gunshots, penetrating the air duct. The humans have detected them. They panic, firing at everything. The sound rattles the entire shaft. Rays of fluorescent light poke through the darkness with each bullet hole. Younger members of the team yell out, giving away their position. Culdesac tells them to shut up. They try to scramble back the way they came, making more noise. “Over here,” the humans yell. “Over here!” Culdesac takes his rifle from his shoulder. He crawls to a section of the duct riddled with bullet holes. With the butt of his rifle, he slams the panel and bursts through it. He has only one chance before the humans begin shooting. He crashes down into a room, tearing through metal and drywall. Mort(e) prepares to jump in after him. He calls to Tiberius (Socks). Tiberius (Socks) does not answer. Tiberius (Socks) lies motionless. Tiberius (Socks) is dead. Mort(e) plunges into the fountain of light. He lands on a table. The room is some kind of lounge. Culdesac kneels behind a couch, screaming for Mort(e) to take cover with him. A dead man sits on the couch. Other than the bleeding hole in his temple, the man seems relaxed. Mort(e) leaps behind the couch. Culdesac shoots the lights out. Now only the cats can see. Muzzle flashes light up the room, each one a blinking star illuminating a terrified human face.
MORT(E) STOOD IN the Martinis’ basement again. The message about Sheba was on the wall. Sunlight entered through the windows. But it was cold, and Sheba was not there. Still, he felt relieved. The initial shocks of the device were beginning to subside. He controlled his brain’s reaction, but he was not ready to communicate yet. He no longer had a connection to the real world. He could not feel his finger stumps pressing into his hands. For all he knew, he was standing there with his mouth open, already surrounded by Wawa’s soldiers. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. Maybe he would survive this after all, even if the quarantine killed him and everyone else the next day.
He opened his eyes. The basement had now returned to its prewar state. The graffiti was gone. Sitting in her favorite spot, in defiance of all those lost years, was Sheba. Mort(e) got closer. She rose like she had on the day he took her on a journey to the attic at the top of the world.
IDENTIFICATION, she said. But her mouth did not move. Mort(e) felt the word travel through him.
Now that he had arrived at his happy place, Mort(e) was unable to gain control of his mouth.
IDENTIFICATION, the voice repeated.
Mort(e), he said at last. OF dash 2.961630.
Sheba shuddered like an ancient machine switched on after years of lying dormant. At one point, she even flickered like an image on television.
COMMUNICATION ENGAGED.
A clicking sound began, which Mort(e) interpreted as the device’s software kicking in, manifesting itself in the dream world interface he had created.
I’m … Mort(e) stopped, remembering that he needed to speak in short, declarative sentences. The ants did not communicate in messages that began with personal acknowledgements or ended with question marks.
Requesting description of EMSAH syndrome. That one sentence was exhausting, leaving him gasping for air.
Sheba flickered again. BIOWEAPON HUMAN. DEPLOYED. INFECTIOUSSPREADINGCONTAGIOUS. NO CURE. DEADLY. CURE UNKNOWN.
This was what Yojimbo talked about: you had to keep the questions simple in order to keep the fragmented answers manageable. Sheba blurted out adjectives, all telling Mort(e) what he already knew.
Acknowledged, Mort(e) said. Sheba stopped. Requesting source of EMSAH.
HUMANS HUMANITY HUMANKIND.
Requesting … description of EMSAH infection.
More clicking and flickering. Then:
PATHOGEN CONCEPTION-INTRODUCTION TO SUSCEPTIBLE-SUGGESTIBLE SUBJECT.
Mort(e) sighed at the jargon. Sheba stopped talking.
Requesting description of EMSAH infection, Mort(e) repeated.
Sheba began again. ACUTE CEREBELLAR ATAXIA CEREBRAL HYPOXIA. INSERTION POINT SELF-TRANSCENDENCE VESICULAR MONOAMINE TRANSPORTER. ENVIRONMENTAL STIMULI …
The illusion of the basement began to disintegrate. The faces of the human soldiers appeared in flashes around Sheba.
NEUROTRANSMITTER INHIBITOR. EUPHORIA-FLYING. LOGICAL FACULTIES DISCARDED. SUBJECT DESIRES [DESPERATE-WANTING] DEATH-LIFE. SOCIAL PATTERN REINITIALIZED. NEW CONSTRUCT …
Death-life?
Acknowledged, Mort(e) said. Sheba stopped talking. For a moment, the flickering images of the human soldiers stopped. Requesting explanation of death-life.
The muzzle flashes returned as the translator processed the request, blinking in synch with the clicking noise.
LIFEDEATHLIFEDEATHLIFEDEATHLIFEDEATHLIFEDEATHLIFEDEATHLIFEDEATH.
Death-life is life-death? That doesn’t make any—
REPEAT.
Requesting explanation of relationship between EMSAH and death-life.
EMSAH IS DEATH-LIFE. SUBJECT DELUDEDPOLLUTEDCONTAMINATED WITH DEATH-LIFE. SUBJECT DEATH-LIFE. SUBJECT BECOMES DEATH-LIFE.
DEATH-LIFE BECOMES SUBJECT. OVERLOAD. SOCIAL REINITIALIZATION FAILURE INEVITABLE.
Requesting explanation of relationship between subject and death-life.
SUBJECT ENTERS DEATH-LIFE. OVERLOAD. DEATH-LIFE OVERRIDE. LOGICAL FACULTIES DISCARDED.
Requesting explanation of relationship between logical faculties and death-life.
Sheba tilted her head as if being tempted with a treat. INCOMPATIBLEIMPOSSIBLE.
So death-life was not logical now?
Requesting description of final stages of EMSAH.
Sheba did not hesitate: NO-NAME WAR.
Requesting explanation of relationship between EMSAH and Mort(e) OF 2.961630.
Mort(e) blinked once to find himself in the Martinis’ living room, standing before the mirror. But in the reflection, Daniel’s son Michael stared at him. He wore the translator, his eyes vacant like a doll’s.
SEBASTIAN, he said. Then he repeated it, only this time stretching each syllable out in a screeching sound, like the twisting beams of a collapsing building.
The noise made Mort(e) wince. Sheba’s barking cut through the sound. When Mort(e) opened his eyes, he was in the basement again, his safe place. Sheba was with him once more. There was a subtlety in her voice that he recognized. It was the same impatient tone she used on that morning when she gave birth to her little ones. She was begging him to understand something, and losing hope that he would.
The sound of it nearly made him weep like a human. He searched for a way out. The staircase was gone. The windows sealed up. The lights dimmed. Sheba vanished. In her place stood a bearded man painted in shimmering silver and dressed in a long robe. The ring floating around his head made Mort(e) recognize him: St. Jude, the little man from the medallion worn by the old female dog, Olive. He stared at Mort(e) with metal eyes, the pupils smoothed out.
MORT(E) COULD FEEL breath moving in and out of him. The oxygen permeated his entire body and then released from random apertures along his sides. He could move several appendages at once—he waved arms above his head and stretched another pair of arms that were linked to his waist. There was nothing unnatural about it. He accepted that this was how he was put together. He realized that he was experiencing things from the perspective of an insect. An ant.
The Queen.
A shiver of chemical signals told him that he was in a chamber. There were others arrayed about him, standing in a semicircle. Massive worker ants. The ants held smaller ones—baby Alphas, yes—in their jaws. Their chemicals made contact with Mort(e)’s antennae, stimulating his brain with scents, sounds, written words, throbbing pain, colors—all at once.
One of the workers offered a little one for him to inspect. Mort(e) extended his claws to the small creature. He cradled it. The Alpha spoke to him in rudimentary chemical phrases, signaling recognition and acquiescence to authority. And acceptance of whatever fate was in store for her.
Mort(e) understood that he was not simply communicating with the Queen—he was living her memories, absorbing each moment in her thousands of years of life. This larva he held would be given the same data. It would spill outward from the Queen’s brain.
Moments from her life flowed past him. A march through the desert. An animal devoured by a horde of the Queen’s daughters. A tunnel winding into itself, then veering into an infinite number of directions. A parade of human artifacts taken from the surface—pages torn from books, a match, a thimble.
And then there was another Queen before him, a sickly thing, dying. The Misfit, Daughter of the Lost One.
As their antennae touched, Mort(e) felt the agony of thousands of years of despair and solitude. The current of memories stopped, coagulating into a pool around him. Mort(e) could not control himself—he sank his jaws into his (her) mother’s head and tore it off. The claws scratched at the massive fatal wound. The Misfit’s body slumped over.
Mort(e) saw everything now.
He felt the Queen’s rage against the humans. It welled up inside and became a part of her. The anger stitched her exoskeleton together, kept her blood pumping all these years. Mort(e) couldn’t breathe. It was like a choir of dying human children screaming in his ear, or a white-hot flame sucking in all the oxygen around it. The Queen lived with this every moment. She relived it every moment. She was shackled to the past. There was no rest. Mort(e) tried to scream. The children’s broken voices burst from his mouth. Cries for help were no good here. He was lost. His body would be a shell, his mind absorbed into the Colony. A drop of ink in a pool of water, dispersed into nothingness.
He thought of Sheba dying somewhere. Sheba. Sheba would save him. If not for that thought, Mort(e) would have forgotten everything and melted away. He closed the jaws of his mechanical insect mouth. He had to speak like an ant, think like an ant. He felt himself choking. But he concentrated and at last spoke again in the chemical language of the ants:
Requesting description of EMSAH syndrome.
A VIRUS ENTERS a bacterium. The virus multiplies. The bacterium adapts. The virus overtakes it.
The bacterium dies.
A virus enters a bacterium. Many viruses enter many bacteria. Many bacteria die. Many survive. Their defensive systems adapt, destroying the virus. But the bacteria have changed. They move differently, react to outsiders with more hostility. They cling to those that are similar, exchanging nutrients with them. They grope for the light as one.
The bacteria evolve.
A SCHOOL OF fish. Moving as a unit, silver strands of thread in the water. They are starving. Hunted. Drawn to an ancient place. Mindlessly driven by their senses. They are picked off by predators. By disease. By exhaustion. They arrive at this sacred location, the place of their birth. Their senses confirm it, the chemicals pouring through their gills. Their brains pulse with excitement. They begin the ritual as one. Ravenous, they mate, their sperm and eggs exploding into the water, christening it with the chemical signals of their clan.
PRIMATES DESCEND FROM trees. The leaves blot out the sun. They gather to watch a battle between the alpha male and a challenger. The alpha has ruled for three seasons, like his father before him. But this is a different time, when the trees have begun to die out. The rains have become less frequent. Predators have grown more aggressive. They smell weakness.
The challenger waits for his opportunity. When the alpha lunges for him, the challenger dodges and pounces. The sycophants jump with delight, with the same mindless glee they would show for the alpha. The challenger seizes the advantage and pummels the leader until provoking a desperate squeal for mercy. The alpha is banished. His blood stinks of defeat. The challenger becomes the new leader. The others whoop and holler. They reach out to touch the coat of the new king. The females fawn over him, clawing at one another to claim him. The little ones offer scraps of food. The new leader holds his hands out to his subjects. He will protect them. But he will also prevent the next challenger from arising.
A MAN KNEELS in prayer, wearing sandals and a robe. His village is under attack. An ant infestation. The elders have gone mad. They have already taken the whores to be sacrificed. But that has not satisfied their gods. So they took some of the wives, the disagreeable ones who blamed the men for the invasion. Now they have taken children to the altar. Screaming little ones, with scraped knees and elbows. The man’s daughter is dead at the steps of the altar, the last sacrifice before sundown. The high priest smears her entrails on his forehead, then wipes the gore onto the heads and shoulders of the firstborn males. A symbol of strength and purity. The others beat drums. The women wail and lament. The man is sad but hopeful. Surely this will be enough to sate the gods’ thirst for blood. Surely he will see his daughter again. They will race to each other across a breezy field of wheat. They will embrace in the shade of a passing cloud.
Yojimbo had said this would happen. Mort(e) had gone as deep as he could, and now backed out of the layers one at a time. He passed through the membrane that led to the Queen’s lair. One moment, he was in her head, surveying her empire. The next, he was one of her daughters, a baby Alpha being presented for her communion ritual. The Queen held him, her antennae probing. And then she lifted him to her jaws and crunched down, slicing his soft exoskeleton in half. Alarms sounded. But then another signal came through from the Queen, ordering him to be still, to embrace this essential role for the Colony. Death would bring forth new life.
MORT(E)’S MOUTH OPENED, but he could not speak. He was in the basement again. He was alone, though he could still smell Sheba. And Michael.
He swallowed.
DARKNESS AGAIN. ENOUGH light to see. The bunker is secure. The iron scent of blood hangs in the air. Sticking to fur and skin. A bullet has grazed Mort(e)’s right hand. Bruises and cuts on his body from the fall through the ceiling. No pain yet. That comes later.
Culdesac reloads his gun. The others have their orders. Red Sphinx soldiers collect weapons from the dead humans. Mort(e) approaches him. Culdesac does not need to hear any encouraging words. Mort(e) stands nearby until Culdesac finishes with the gun. “They killed Tiberius,” Culdesac says. Voice all gravelly. He has not used the name Tiberius in months. Only Socks.
“This one’s alive, sir,” someone says. The soldiers gather around a dying human. The sound of congested, labored breathing. Frightened, exhausted eyes gaze up from the ground. There is a piece of metal on the man’s chest. A necklace.
Everyone stares at him to see if they recognize him. From before. They do not. But the man’s fear is familiar. Mort(e) kneels down. The man reaches out a bloody hand to him. Mort(e) wonders if this is the man who fired the shot that killed Tiberius (Socks). “Lord,” the man says. “Lord, forgive these wretched creatures. They know not what they do.” Mort(e)’s eyes lock on the metal object. It is a medallion with the image of a man with a sun standing behind his head. Culdesac aims his rifle at the human. “Yes, we do, you choking liar,” he says. Culdesac fires. A spray of blood and bone. The body jerks and then lies still. A red drop covers the medallion. The silver man with the sun behind him is submerged.
MORT(E) FELT THE urge to spit. He lay facedown in the dirt at the feet of the Alpha soldier. He coughed in order to expel the mud from his open mouth. The Queen’s hatred lifted from his body like steam, leaving him wet and shivering. It was impossible, he thought. How could she even still be alive with all that going on inside her? He hated her. He couldn’t resist adopting what appeared to be her only emotion, cultivated and harnessed over thousands of years. He hated her and he wanted her to die.
He propped himself up on his forearms. The crowd was still watching the ships. Culdesac stood at the podium, ready to begin his speech. As Mort(e) had expected, the entire procedure had taken only a few seconds.
“Are you all right?” came a voice behind him. A male cat and his two daughters stood nearby. Mort(e) simultaneously got to his feet and removed the device, holding it at his side, pretending it was just a hat. He caught his breath.
“We saw you fall,” the cat said.
“Requesting explanation—”
“What?”
Mort(e) had to refocus all over again. The act of standing up made him dizzy. “I’m okay,” he said at last. He inhaled deeply to fight off a wave of nausea. “I’m okay,” he repeated.
“Do you need—”
“No.”
One of the little ones asked, “Daddy, why did he fall down?” In the distance, Culdesac’s amplified voice began talking about the new order. But it was all clanks and whistles and buzzes to Mort(e). He was already running home.