“No,” he lied. “I’ve been fixing up the place, removing some of the human junk. I haven’t noticed anything.”
“Mort(e),” Culdesac said. “You realize the implications of this better than anyone.”
“Of course. But what did the Queen expect? She killed billions of people and turned everything upside down and then thought we would all be grateful for it.”
“We should be grateful,” Culdesac said. “We were slaves—”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Mort(e) said. “You don’t think we’re slaves now?”
“We are the masters of this planet—”
“If you need the Queen’s permission to be a master, then you’re really a slave.”
“If I may,” Wawa cut in. “Mort(e), everyone admires your work. But I know your story. The therapist in the camp said that you had unresolved issues from the Change. You’re in the same condition now as when the colonel found you. What was it you were doing at the time? Shouting a dead person’s name?”
“Oh, right,” Culdesac said. “Sheba. Have you heard from her lately?”
Mort(e) was about to say maybe, but thought better of it. “Well, if I’m such a basket case,” he said, “then why give me security clearance?”
“Wasn’t my decision,” Culdesac said. “The Colony gave the order.”
It was odd enough that the Colony had brought in Culdesac’s team. Now they were helping him micromanage personnel.
“Do you think they forgot your little stunt during the war?” Culdesac said. “Like you said, Tiberius is dead, and you’re the closest thing to an expert around here. They thought you could help. And that you would keep your mouth shut. And that you wouldn’t be surprised by what you saw.”
“I’m never surprised,” Mort(e) said.
“Maybe you’re right,” Culdesac said. “Maybe these anomalies are a reversion to the old ways. I’m hoping it’s a temporary phase as we sort things out.”
“Or it’s EMSAH,” Mort(e) said.
This struck a nerve with Culdesac. He squinted his bright eyes and said, “Be careful with how you use that word around here—”
“What, EMSAH?” Mort(e) said, louder this time.
“Officially, this is part of the standard security procedures for a new settlement,” Culdesac said. “Unofficially, I share the lieutenant’s concern. I have to. It’s my job.”
Mort(e) tried to think of how Tiberius would have handled this. He probably would have pointed out that EMSAH made people do, say, and believe illogical things, but that it was rare for the virus to drive someone to suicide before any other symptoms arose. If these deer had EMSAH, they would be in no position to organize and execute such a spectacle. But it also made sense that the virus would mutate, adapt, and attack in new, unheard-of ways. That was the nature of viruses.
“Relax, Colonel,” Mort(e) said. “We’d be quarantined by now if there were an outbreak.”
“We’ll be calling on you in a few days,” Wawa said. “But if you see anything, I want you to call me here.”
“Right,” Mort(e) said. “If you see something, say something.”
As she handed him a card with her information, a dog arrived at the entrance to the tent. She was a Labrador, too young to remember the war. Mort(e) could always tell with these young ones. Their eyes were innocent, and they didn’t keep their heads on a swivel. But there was something else. This soldier was clearly spooked by something. She panted, trying her best to keep her stupid tongue in her mouth. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said.
Culdesac and Wawa turned to the young recruit, who saluted diligently. “What is it?” Wawa asked.
“The envoy from the Colony is here.”
Culdesac rubbed his hands together and nodded. “Tell Bonaparte to get the device,” he said. The dog left, the flap of the tent swaying behind her.
“Well, Mort(e),” Culdesac said, “you get to see me kiss some abdomen again.”
They stepped outside. Standing before them were two Alpha soldiers, side by side, perfectly rigid. Even their antennae were still. And the compound eyes — half-globes protruding from their enormous heads — pointed in hundreds of directions. Mort(e) could never be sure that he was outside of their gaze.
At the foot of each soldier was a pool of swarming ants, the regular-sized ones, who gathered information about the terrain that the larger soldiers could miss. Ultimately, the Alphas’ orders came from the smaller sisters. Culdesac often compared the Alphas to giant remote-controlled robots. “Their brains might be a potato with wires attached to it,” he once said.
Bonaparte arrived with the device cradled in his short, plump arms. This model was more advanced than the one used by the Great Dane at the most recent Purge. The devices were so important — and so classified — that every unit had a designated soldier to guard it. This translator was basically a helmet made of some kind of organic material fashioned by the Colonial scientist guild. If it had been made from bits of dead Alpha soldiers who had willingly sacrificed themselves, Mort(e) would not have been surprised.
While the ants stood there like a pair of icons, Culdesac placed the device on his oversized head. It barely fit. The antenna poked into the sky. A mouthpiece hovered over his whiskers.
“Get back to work,” Wawa yelled to her soldiers. Most of them had stopped what they were doing to watch their great leader speak to the ants. It took months of training for an officer to use a translator. Only a well-prepared mind could interpret, store, and retrieve what was needed from the data stream without becoming like a teacup underneath a waterfall. Many animals aged prematurely and suffered immense physical pain and mental degradation by using the device. Even so, they were probably smarter now than any human who had ever lived.
Mort(e) tried to get closer so he could hear the alien voice coming through the speaker. Wawa’s paw on his arm stopped him.
“Leave them be,” she said, as protective as a mother canine. He figured that she must have been one of the old bobcat’s projects, as he had once been.
Apparently finished with the exchange, Culdesac got the attention of one of the sergeants, a dog wearing a surgical mask. The colonel twirled his finger, indicating that they should wrap things up. The sergeant nodded.
Suddenly the ants came to life. Moving in unison, they faced one another and touched antennae, their abdomens throbbing. With their smaller sisters surrounding them, the Alphas walked off, leaving Culdesac standing there. Bonaparte was already at his side to retrieve the translator.
“Ready to watch the future?” Culdesac asked Mort(e).
Moments later, the Alphas returned, this time with at least twenty more behind them. The procession made its way to the quarry in the same single-file formation the ants had used in the quarantined settlement years earlier. The sergeant frantically ordered the animals to stay clear. The soldiers who had rappelled into the pit scrambled up the rock face and scurried away as the ants arrived at the lip of the quarry. The creatures climbed down the side, their claws latching into the rock.
“Are they going to disinfect?” Mort(e) asked Culdesac.
“They’re recycling.”
Mort(e) let out a cynical snort.
“What?” Culdesac said. “You’ve seen this before. Do you want these corpses stinking up the place?”
Minutes later, the antlers of a dead deer appeared over the edge, the body clamped in the unforgiving jaws of an Alpha. Soon more of them arose, each carrying a corpse. The ants’ footsteps landed in the exact same spots, leaving behind only a single pair of tracks. The line headed out of the gate, marching to the nearest ziggurat.