The group erupted in protest. Chronos said, “Shut up.” Hester said, “Here we go,” and waved both hands at him in dismissal. Archer laughed.
Mort(e) saw an excuse to end things quickly. “We should definitely call it a night,” he said.
“We say we’re out there building a new world,” Bonaparte said. “But we really live for little moments like these, and not much else. That’s okay, but don’t tell me that it’s not what they used to do.”
“The Gregors were planning to eat you, were they not?” Archer asked.
“They were oppressors,” Hester added. “They left you and your brothers and sisters for dead.”
“And now we want to do the same to them,” Bonaparte said.
The voices rose again, this time with Chronos and Archer both talking fast, telling Bonaparte he should be grateful for the Change. Bonaparte said he was grateful, but that he wasn’t going to pretend. Pretend what, they asked. Pretend this, he replied.
The words blended together for Mort(e). He peeked at his watch. In about an hour, the Vesuvius would be sending him another message. He needed to get out of here soon.
Hester switched off the music. Chronos, Archer, and Bonaparte continued to argue. Mort(e) put his hand on Bonaparte’s shoulder to indicate that the pig had said too much. Bonaparte was slurring his words, repeating, “I worked hard to get here, dammit.” Archer assured him that everyone knew that.
“Wait,” Bonaparte said. “Did I? Did I tell you about the pigpen?”
Chronos sighed.
“Time to go, brother,” Hester said, holding the door half open.
“I’m afraid you did,” Archer said. “We may be too drunk to remember, though.”
Disgusted with himself, Bonaparte covered his eyes with his hooves. “You are the master over someone who has told you his story,” he said.
Mort(e) recognized the saying. It was spoken by some dog who died during the war, a general. Culdesac liked to quote him, which was probably how Bonaparte heard it.
Chronos and Hester were already walking out, giving feeble goodbyes. Mort(e) insisted that he take Bonaparte to his bunk. Archer asked three times if he could help. Mort(e) turned him down. Then Archer asked if Mort(e) needed to stay on the base for the night. “I’ve seen some strange things out there lately,” the raccoon said. Mort(e) said that they all had.
The pig stumbled a bit but maintained his footing. They rounded the corner of one of the barracks. A cat stood guard. To prevent any trouble, Mort(e) pointed to his captain’s sash. The cat saluted and let them pass. They were only a few steps from the door when Mort(e) had to prop Bonaparte on his shoulder to get him through the final leg of the journey. Once inside, he flopped Bonaparte onto his bed and asked if he needed anything. Bonaparte said that he did not.
“An aspirin might prevent a hangover,” Mort(e) said. “Works for me.” They went back and forth about it, with Bonaparte saying he would be okay. But Mort(e) kept pressing him. Finally, Bonaparte relented.
“Is it in your strongbox?” Mort(e) asked.
“Yes, but …”
Everyone was issued a strongbox — a metal chest — and no one was supposed to give out the combination.
“Just give me the code,” Mort(e) said. “I’m a captain, remember? Well, sort of. Temporarily. Anyway, you can trust me.”
Bonaparte sighed and leaned back on the bed. He told Mort(e) where the box was, then recited the code. “You are the master over someone who has told you his story,” Bonaparte repeated.
The medical kit was plainly visible when Mort(e) opened the box. He saw the pills and pretended to fumble for them. “Who said that?” he asked. “About being the master over someone?” To the left was a metal cylinder. Checking on Bonaparte to make sure he was not paying attention, Mort(e) reached inside. His hand grasped the antenna of the translator. That a pig had been trusted with this top-secret device was a testament to how peaceful things had been lately.
“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.
Chapter Thirteen: Life, Death, and Death-Life
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.