The zeppelin found a spot and hung there, its propellers whirring periodically to maintain position. It spun a little, allowing the moonlight to reflect on the fat part of the airship, creating a tiny silver crescent.
How far up was this ship? Mort(e) guessed many miles. Had it positioned itself so that he alone could see it near the Orion constellation? Or was this a routine for members of the human resistance who were still on the ground somewhere, like when the bees danced to give directions to food? Where was it during the day? How many were on board? Was Briggs able to travel to and from the ship, or was he stranded on the surface? How many humans from the airship had been caught and disposed of in the Purges?
At 11:59 Mort(e) readied his codebook, a pencil in his hand. The zeppelin oscillated to face him. At its base, a bright light flashed three times. Then the code began, all dashes and dots, which he recorded on the inside cover of the book. He missed the first few letters but managed to catch up. The signal was paced for someone who was not an expert. It seemed to go on for a long time until he realized that it was repeating itself. After a few minutes, the flashing stopped. The airship turned and flew away, its rear propellers facing him. He tracked it until it vanished. He then packed up the telescope and returned to the garage.
It took him a few minutes to match the dots and dashes with the corresponding letters. When the message was complete, Mort(e) leaned forward and gazed at it.
“Greetings, Sebastian from the USS Vesuvius,” it said. “Sheba is alive. Find the source of EMSAH, and you will find her. More messages at 12 A.M.”
He read it again. The casual salutation. The use of his slave name. The old human ship prefix, the ship itself named for a dangerous volcano from the Roman Empire. The mention of Sheba. The promise of more information, like a secret between them.
The war was still on, he thought. EMSAH was on its way. The world that the Queen had promised would have to wait.
Though these things worried him, he felt a sense of calm. Sheba was alive somewhere, perhaps watching the skies for the airship along with him. Why else would his enemies have gone through so much trouble to get him this message? He wanted to hear her stories in her new voice. He imagined her talking like Janet in her younger years, before she cried and prayed all the time. They would say things to each other like I love you and I missed you and I will never leave you again and I’m sorry and Don’t go. She would be older and wiser, perhaps hardened by sadness, but stronger. Like him.
Mort(e) took the code with him to his spot in the basement. That way, when he woke up, the message would be waiting for him, and he would not think even for a moment that it had been a dream.
“OUT OF THE question,” Wawa said.
The way she said it, with the emphasis on the word “out” like a scolding mother, made Mort(e) laugh inwardly. She must have been parroting some movie from one of Culdesac’s human behavior classes.
Mort(e) expected this answer when he went to Wawa’s office to request access to Colony’s archived files. He knew that his explanation — that he was trying to connect the owners of the animals who had shown signs of EMSAH to see if they had been Purged — would not fly. “You asked me to investigate,” he said. “I’m doing that.”
“Here’s what you don’t understand,” she said. “Those ‘files’ you mention are not files at all. They’re part of the Colony’s acquired memories, stored with the Queen herself. It’s not like booting up a computer. You would have to use a translator and link with the Colony. And even if you had clearance for that, we both know you’re not up to it.”
Just as Mort(e) was about to interrupt, she continued.
“Thankfully, the colonel has already done the work for us,” she said. “And you can see in his report—”
“I’ve seen his report,” Mort(e) said.
“Then I don’t understand the purpose of this conversation,” Wawa said. “Unless you’re suggesting that the colonel has not been forthcoming with the facts.”
“Oh, I’m not suggesting it. I’m stating it. Unequivocally.”
Wawa folded her slender hands on the desk. She blinked once. “Mort(e), I realize there are some special rules set up for your … role. But don’t push it.”
“I’m not trying to start trouble, Lieutenant. I’m just wondering why the Colony wants us to investigate this thing, but then withholds information from us.”
“Has it occurred to you, Mort(e), that it’s time for us to handle our own affairs?” she said. “That’s the point of all of this, isn’t it?” She gestured to their surroundings before folding her hands again.
“You’re talking to the wrong person if you want to know ‘the point.’ ”
“The Colony is ceding authority to us,” she said. “They’ve kept their promises. Within a year or two, the Bureau will finish its work, and we’ll be fully autonomous, answering only to the Council. The Colony will continue to weed out any human stragglers like they’ve always done. You can’t say that they haven’t been upfront about the insurgents they’ve purged.”
“If they’re doing such a great job, why are we on the verge of another quarantine?”
“We’re trying to prevent the quarantine,” Wawa said. “It’s our responsibility, even more so than theirs. We just have to get through this.”
“You think that bomb we found is the only one out there?” Mort(e) asked.
“No. There are probably others. We have to find them.”
“So you agree that this is more than an outbreak,” Mort(e) said. “EMSAH might be the least of our worries. This could be a full-scale rebellion.”
“That’s exactly what it could be, Captain!” Wawa said, slamming her enormous palm on the desk. “Your mastery of the obvious never ceases to amaze me.”
Her outburst startled Mort(e). She wore the same death stare from when she had pointed a gun between his eyes.
“That message they found tattooed on the deer’s hoof,” she said, slightly calmer now. “We translated it. It was in a language that the humans called Hebrew. You probably already know what it said. ‘The Queen is blind.’ ”
She let that sink in for a few seconds.
“So yes, I know that we’re possibly dealing with an outbreak, and an insurrection, and a threat to everything we’ve fought for,” she said. “I don’t need you to remind me. We have to make do like the loyal soldiers we are.”
“I hope there are still people left to make do,” Mort(e) said. He stood up, accepting that he had said all he could. He muttered that he would hand in his reports at the end of the week as usual. Then he headed for the door.
“You know, Mort(e),” Wawa said, “if I didn’t know any better, I would say that you were withholding something yourself.”
“Out of the question,” Mort(e) said.
“I’m sorry, Mort(e),” she said. “There are some things we can’t control here.”
Mort(e) considered asking her what she thought they actually could control. He wished he knew how to get her on his side. There was no denying how much they had in common. Not everyone could handle being second-in-command to Culdesac. But besides being Mort(e)’s successor, Wawa was the first dog he had gotten to know at all since Sheba disappeared. For as much as she reminded him of his old friend, Wawa was the living rejection of all his childish fantasies of Sheba. She did not need Mort(e) or his useless memories. Maybe Sheba wouldn’t, either. If they ever met again, Mort(e) would have to earn Sheba’s trust. He would have to convince her they had a future and not merely a shared past