Morte (24 page)

“Some dog,” Bonaparte said. “But a human said it to me, too. The other day.”

“The other
day
?”

“No, no,” he said. “Not the other day. I was
thinking
about it the other day. No, it was a long time ago.”

“Okay.” Mort(e) did not have time to interrogate him.

“So you see?” Bonaparte said. “We’re just like them. I know you think that, even if you’re scared to say it.”

“I’ve never been scared to say it,” Mort(e) said. “And that’s why I’m not in the Red Sphinx anymore.” He removed the translator from the cylinder while lifting the pill jar from the chest.

Then he closed the lid, slid the translator under Bonaparte’s bed, and stood up. He put two pills on the small table beside Bonaparte’s bed and asked if he needed water. Bonaparte said he would be fine. Mort(e) leaned over, picked up the translator, and headed for the door. He kept the device close to his side, confident that the room was too dim for Bonaparte to notice anything unusual.

“Thanks, Mort(e),” Bonaparte said.

“Thank
you
,” Mort(e) replied. “And remember: you crawled through that awful life, and now you’re a war hero. Even if
you’re more human than you expected, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Understand?”

“Sure, sure,” Bonaparte said. He was already asleep by the time Mort(e) shut the door behind him.

Mort(e) fought the urge to return the device during the long walk to the camp entrance. Betraying another member of the Red Sphinx was unforgivable. Even Culdesac would torture him for this. To keep his feet moving, all he had to do was to imagine himself, as he had so many years earlier, growing old and dying alone in the same place. Still calling out his friend’s name. He had this mission, or he had nothing. It was awful, Mort(e) thought. And then he thought,
But it’s beautiful, too
. This quest was the only beautiful thing left in the entire world.

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.”