Chapter Twelve: The Story of Bonaparte
The messages from the Vesuvius continued. On the second night, the flashing light said, “Accept EMSAH. Find the true source.”
The third message was, “We are devising a plan to get you to the Island. Never stop believing that you will meet her again.”
When placed next to the previous messages, it made Mort(e) think for a moment that Sheba was somehow the source, whatever that even meant. He wouldn’t put it past the humans to play word games like this.
The fourth message was, “When the war is over, there will be peace among all species. Our vision is brighter than that of the Colony.”
The fifth message said, “You are the key. Do not listen to the Queen. You are more than a piece or a number. You are the key. You are the light.”
Mort(e) wondered if key and light should be capitalized. That seemed to be the human thing to do.
The sixth message: “The Archon knows that you will succeed, and that you will free your people and ours. Find the source. The Queen knows. All you have to do is ask her.”
Mort(e) found this to be an odd choice of words. Humans tended to use the terms free and freedom to indicate states of being that were anything but. To suggest that the animals were not free now, after rising from slavery, was outrageous. Was this Archon willing to tell him to his face that he had fought for nothing? That it would have been better for him to remain the property of people who mutilated him, then die as their plaything? All these thoughts led him once again to his most reassuring mantra: no wonder they lost.
But the possibility of finding Sheba overruled all other considerations, even his distrust of the humans. There was Sheba, and there was death, and there was nothing else in his future. The finality of it was liberating in a way.
Find the source, the humans said. All you have to do is ask.
To do so would require gaining access to the “files” Wawa mentioned. The humans had anticipated what he was already thinking.
Even the Red Sphinx had a weak spot.
MORT(E) ARRIVED AT the barracks after sundown. He checked Culdesac’s and Wawa’s offices. Both were locked up for the evening.
Mort(e) went to his own office and found Bonaparte shutting the door on his way out. Startled, the pig saluted him. “Sir, I left a report on your desk—”
“I thought we had the first confirmed case of EMSAH today,” Mort(e) said.
“Really?”
“But it turned out he had had too much of this,” Mort(e) said, handing Bonaparte a bottle of amber liquid. The pig’s eyes lit up when he recognized the name: Jack Daniels. These bottles were nearly extinct. Luckily, the Martinis’ stash was still intact.
“Culdesac made us drink this one night as a feat of strength,” Mort(e) said.
“I know,” Bonaparte said. “I heard you were the only one who didn’t puke.”
“I also shot a pinecone off the medic’s head.”
“Culdesac didn’t mention that.”
“Probably didn’t want to give you any ideas.”
Bonaparte did not appear ready to return the bottle.
“I’m supposed to hand this over to Lieutenant Wawa,” Mort(e) said, “but that would be a real waste.”
“You know,” Bonaparte said, lowering his voice, “there are some people who are qualified to dispose of this evidence.”
Mort(e) pretended to be surprised.
“Unless, of course, you wanted to keep it for yourself,” Bonaparte said. “It’s just that … whiskey tastes better in the company of comrades.”
“Indeed it does,” Mort(e) said.
They went into Mort(e)’s office, poured two drinks into a pair of army-issue cups, and toasted the end of the war. After one drink, Mort(e) could see that Bonaparte was feeling better than he had in ages. Wawa must have been running the entire unit ragged. When Mort(e) suggested that Bonaparte round up some of his drinking buddies, the pig could hardly contain himself.
Within fifteen minutes, they were in the back of a troop transport truck parked at the far end of the base. Bonaparte continued reveling in his role as social organizer, asking “Isn’t this great?” multiple times. The others were patient with his enthusiasm, nodding politely. There were five of them, their faces lit by the orange glow of a lamp: Mort(e), Bonaparte, a raccoon named Archer, and two cats — one female, one male — who expected Mort(e) to remember them. Named Hester and Chronos, they were from the same litter and had matching black coats and white bellies.
“We joined to serve under you, sir,” Chronos the male said. “But you left the RS the following week.”
“There are days when I can’t say I blame you, sir,” Archer said in his weirdly formal accent. “But look at all the fun you’re missing.” He poured a flask of his own mystery booze into Mort(e)’s cup. It had a greenish-brown color — or perhaps that was the lighting. Mort(e) detected a strong minty fragrance.
Bonaparte’s snout twitched when he picked up the smell. “Aw, don’t tell me you brought that nepotism stuff,” he said.
“Nepetalactone,” Archer corrected him.
“What?” Mort(e) asked.
“The active ingredient in catnip,” Hester said. Her brother was already leaning forward for his share. She poked Archer with her claw and handed him her cup so that he could fill both. Archer obliged.
“The RS recruited me for my bravery and my intelligence,” Archer said. “But they have allowed me to remain despite my allegedly inferior species because of this invention.”
Mort(e) took a sip, allowing the vapor to glide into his nostrils. It was heavenly. The animals probably would have lost the war if this drink had been invented sooner. “I think you can have the rest of the Jack Daniels, Bonaparte,” Mort(e) said.
“What are we toasting?” Archer asked.
“Old friends and older friends,” Mort(e) said.
“Well said.”
Four hands and a hoof clinked their metal cups together. Bonaparte’s drinking apparatus caught Mort(e)’s eye. The handle had been hammered out so that it wrapped around the hoof. That way, he would never have to clumsily pick up his drink by squeezing it together with both limbs. While Mort(e) marveled at Bonaparte’s stubborn ingenuity, Archer went on about how the nepetalactone was originally meant to be a tea, but the fermented variety had proven to be more popular.
Mort(e) glanced at Bonaparte. The pig’s blinks lasted longer, as did his sips of whiskey. Meanwhile, Chronos turned on his small stereo. It had an old compact disc in it that played light piano music from some unknown human artist. The tinkling sound was pleasing to the feline ear. Mort(e) suspected that other animals refused to admit that they liked this music due to its association with cats.
After a few drinks, the group was happy to get Mort(e) up to speed on RS gossip. Chronos and Hester finished each other’s sentences as they related the tale of a human child — no more than thirteen years old — who had survived on Twinkies and his pet goldfish while camping out on the roof of a hotel. He fried the fish on a skillet he had made out of a metal desktop. Culdesac calculated that the boy cooked one fish a day for two weeks while standing guard. The RS waited on the ground below, hoping for him to tire out. They could not simply leave him. He was such a good shot with a rifle that he could hit targets at two hundred yards in any direction. The stairwell leading to the roof was barricaded and booby-trapped. A frontal assault would get someone killed. When Culdesac called in a troop of birds, the boy shot every one that came near, the raptors exploding in a burst of feathers that fluttered to the street. While the unit waited, Chronos collected the feathers of the fallen birds and made a headdress out of them. Wawa told him to get rid of it out of respect for the dead.