“You better pray she’s on that island,” Mort(e) said. “If she isn’t, I’m coming back here. And I will gut you in front of this whole congregation, got it?”
“She’s there,” the Archon said, pursing her lips. “Michael has never been wrong before. About anything.”
Mort(e) nodded. “Lieutenant,” he said, “you can die with these people if you want, but I’m getting my friend, and then you won’t see me again.”
“Understood, Captain,” Wawa said.
Mort(e) left them on the stairs. He wanted to sit by the fountain that the humans had built. He liked the sound of the burbling water, even if it had been poisoned with some kind of EMSAH-related significance.
From the top of the steps, he heard Wawa tell the Archon, “His name is Mort(e).”
Chapter Eighteen: Fertilization
Two of the Elders found Mort(e) by the fountain and told him that a VIP suite had been reserved for the messiah. He could wait there and settle in until he was ready to talk. The suite was on the level between the fountain and the church, where most of the humans’ quarters were located. It had a bunk and a desk, which Mort(e) supposed was for contemplating his mission of salvation for animals and humankind. But an even better tool for meditation was the window. Because his room was located at the front of the ship, the glass faced forward and curved along the wall to form part of the floor, allowing him to watch the earth scrolling under his feet. He lost track of how much time went by while he stood in this position. From this altitude, the surface appeared to be made of only colors, without any texture. The Vesuvius passed over the ocean, separated from the land by a line of yellow sand and white foam. And from that point, the dark blue spread in every direction. Mort(e) had never seen it before.
Wawa arrived with some food: a plate of roasted beetles, ants, and termites. She sat beside him so that they both faced the oncoming blue sea. People spoke outside the room, and it took a minute for Mort(e) to realize that they were repeating themselves.
“They’re praying for you,” Wawa said. “They have these little necklaces with beads on them, and they use the beads to count the prayers.”
“I’ve seen it before,” Mort(e) said.
She asked him if he was okay. He said he was fine, and repeated the question to her. She said yes.
“Did she ask you to talk to me?” he said.
“Of course. But I would have, anyway.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell me your thoughts on all this. What’s bothering you?”
“They’re all nuts.”
She laughed.
“Must be the lack of oxygen up here,” he said. “They think that death is an illusion. Their leader thinks she’s going to see her son again after he was ripped to pieces.”
“You have to admire their sense of purpose, though. They’re like the ants in a way. And like you.”
“No, not like me. I’m trying to find Sheba because there is no death-life.”
“So you’re going through with this, despite the risk to everyone?”
“Oh, yes,” Mort(e) said. “I meant what I said. I said the same thing to the Queen when she asked.”
“You mean, with the translator?”
“Or a dream,” he said. “I’m not exactly sure anymore. But I told her right to her face that I’d still do it, no matter what. Don’t you admire my sense of purpose?”
“I admire you, Mort(e),” she said. “Culdesac chose his second-in-command well.”
“On more than one occasion,” Mort(e) said.
He placed his hand on top of hers, where it remained for a few moments. A memory crept into his mind, something from his experience with the device. Something about Wawa, the pup in the cage. Mort(e) squinted as he tried to retrieve the memory. A whisper in his mind said, She lost someone. No goodbyefarewell. No pack. No pack. No pack.
The memory disintegrated. Only the feeling of solidarity remained. She stayed with him until long after the sun went down. They talked about the war and their homes. She told him about Cyrus and Tracksuit and all the others. He told her about Sheba and Tiberius and the Martinis. They shared stories of Culdesac, both the ones that scared them as well as the ones that made them laugh. Mort(e) was glad she was there. She made him feel like a normal person. She forgave him for who he was.
IN THE MORNING, someone knocked on his door. When Mort(e) opened it, he found the Archon standing with Wawa and two of the Elders, the same men who had directed him to his room. They were pasty middle-aged white men. One was bald; the other wore his stringy gray hair in a ponytail. Like the Archon, they were both physically fit — the bug-and-organic-vegetable diet appeared to be working. They wore a similar robe and collar, but the cloth was a navy blue rather than black. As they walked through a gauntlet of the faithful, heads bowed on either side, but no hands reached out this time. Mort(e) could still feel their gaze focusing on his St. Jude medal, which made it pulse with energy like a second heart.
They gathered around a square metal table in the Archon’s quarters. There were several maps splayed out, all depicting the Island. The rising sun lit up the humans’ faces and exposed their wrinkles, revealing that they had lived longer than most. The men introduced themselves as Elder Pius (the bald one) and Elder Gregory (with the ponytail). Pius was some sort of military officer, always speaking in terse militaristic jargon. He said negative when he meant no. Gregory, on the other hand, revealed everything Mort(e) needed to know about him in one sentence: “Do you mind if I hold your St. Jude medal?”
Mort(e) leaned forward so that the man could touch the medallion. Gregory held it between his thumb and index finger. He sighed and let go.
The Archon explained that Gregory was in charge of the day-to-day operations of the Vesuvius. He would coordinate the attack from the air, while Pius led the troops on the ground.
“Are you afraid of the water?” Pius asked. “I mean, you are a cat.”
“No.”
Gregory began to tell a story of how he used to discipline his pet cat with a squirt gun. Pius cut him off.
“You won’t get wet,” Pius said. “But what we have in mind will be a little disconcerting.”
He leafed through the maps of the Island until he came across one that gave a three-dimensional view of what the ants had constructed. The false Jerusalem resembled a mushroom cloud sprouting from the ocean floor. A shaft made of earth and stone rose from the bottom of the sea before spreading out into the landmass that broke the surface of the water. This shaft was a tunnel through which the Colony could transport supplies. The humans had attempted an assault on it once but failed. Now the submarines of the old human fleets were scattered or sunken, and the resistance had only a small strike force and a few allies on the ground.
“The goal,” he said, “is to cut off the Colony’s head.”
“Take out the Queen,” Gregory said.
“Yeah, I got that,” Mort(e) replied. “How? We don’t even know where she is.”
“Yes, we do,” Pius said, tracing his finger along the Island’s main tunnel. “Her chamber is right here.”
“Don’t tell me that your prophet is a GPS, too,” Mort(e) said.
“He speaks as God wills him to,” she said. “In riddles and parables and allegory. But we were able to … extract this information from him.”
Extract, Mort(e) thought. He imagined a human hand — Janet’s — grinding half an orange against a plastic juicer.