Mort(e) followed the soldier to a fluorescent-lit room at the rear of the ship. Shelves filled with the torpedoes from the schematics lined either side. The “catpedo” prototype was mounted on a small platform, facing a metal tube that presumably exited at the bottom of the ship. The Archon, Gregory, Pius, and Wawa stood solemnly alongside it, like pallbearers next to a coffin.
The Archon broke the oppressive silence. “The fleet is on its way,” she said. “Everything is in place.”
“Good cloud cover, too,” Gregory said. “God is shielding us.”
“Right,” Mort(e) said.
He approached the torpedo. The hatch was open, revealing the small space where he would sit, upholstered with white cloth and fitted with a harness in order to lessen the impact. Mort(e) would have to curl up in order to fit. Pius had assured him in the meeting the day before that the entire trip would take about twelve minutes. There would be no windows for him to see the Island, so he would have to rely on his watch. Its glowing face would be the only source of light inside the capsule.
Pius asked Mort(e) if he was ready. Mort(e) said yes. He removed the gun from his pack and slung the strap over his shoulder. The Archon appeared ready to speak.
“Pray for me later, Madam Archon,” Mort(e) said.
She bit her lip, and he realized he had said the wrong thing. For better or worse, on this day she was a warrior alongside him. “I’m sorry about your son.”
“Thank you,” she said. And then she stretched out both arms and placed her palms on his face. He allowed her to do it without flinching.
“Even if you are not a believer,” she said, “your courage inspires us. That part of the prophecy you must believe.”
“Listen, I’m no messiah,” he said. “But thanks for giving me the opportunity to find my friend. I hope this war I’m restarting is worth the trouble.”
She lowered her hands. “God will decide.”
“Let’s hope his judgment has improved,” Mort(e) said. “Good luck to you.”
He felt Gregory’s hand on his shoulder. The man was holding back tears. He embraced Mort(e) tightly around the neck. Mort(e) did not return the hug. When Gregory’s arms lingered too long, Mort(e) cocked the machine gun. The man stepped away suddenly. Mort(e) grinned.
“Aim true, human,” Mort(e) said. “Stay on the hunt.”
Wawa was next. Her eyes were so red that it seemed that she had not stopped crying since her conversion the night before. “I know you’re disappointed in me,” she said.
“You did what you had to do.”
“I’m not trying to change your mind,” she said. “But I’ve been searching for this for years. For as long as you’ve been searching for your friend.”
“Just remember,” he said. “Maybe these guys are nice, and the ants are mean. But that doesn’t mean their fairy tales are true.”
“There’s so much love here, Mort(e),” she said. “When you and your friend make it out, this pack will be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting. Please come back to us.”
Mort(e) removed his St. Jude medal and held it out. She accepted it in her palm, the chain bunching up in her hand. She looked at him.
“No,” he said.
He left her standing there with her arm extended.
Pius waited by the torpedo, his face as stern as ever. Mort(e) climbed inside and hooked himself up to the harness. Pius placed his hand on the hatch.
“No more talk,” Mort(e) said. “I’m tired of it. Let’s go.”
“Aim true,” Pius said. The old warrior’s grin was the last thing Mort(e) saw before the hatch closed. His eyes adjusted, and his nose grew accustomed to the smell of iron and oil. The glowing watch on his wrist read 5:19. It resembled the first thing he ever read: the Martinis’ address.
It changed to 5:20. He felt the platform shift. Gears clanked as the mechanism moved the torpedo into the shaft, rattling so badly that his teeth clacked a few times. The torpedo came to a halt. There was nothing for a moment. Then he felt the vibrations of another door opening directly in front of him. It was the port from which the device would be launched. A wind whistled through the tunnel.
There was loud metal snap: chkkk! And then the torpedo dropped out of the ship.
Mort(e) gripped the cloth seat, his body sickeningly weightless. The gun levitated and bounced off his nose. He brushed it away, and it floated above him, its strap still attached to his shoulder. The torpedo began to spin and wobble. Thankfully, it did not tumble end over end. The force of the revolutions pinned Mort(e)’s head to the hull.
“Come on,” he growled at the parachute.
He imagined the torpedo piercing the clouds. He thought of his body shattering when the device struck the water without a parachute.
Finally, the mechanism kicked: shunk, zzzzz, tick-tick-tick-tick.
The chute released with a loud pop. His body jerked downward, and the gun hit him on the crown of the head. The device stabilized. The descent was slower now, and the spinning subsided. Mort(e) was grateful that he was a cat. Few other species could have done this without covering the inside of the torpedo with vomit. Mort(e) breathed again. His watch showed that a mere fifty-six seconds had passed.
Two and a half minutes later, the torpedo splashed down. The sounds changed. Sloshing water replaced the wind. The high-pitched whirring of the propeller began, followed by a series of clicks — the sound of the fins redirecting the torpedo toward the Island. The intrepid little machine was on its way.
Reclining on the makeshift seat, Mort(e) settled the gun onto his chest and checked his watch. Only seven minutes until impact, if the humans’ calculations were right. He fumbled for the St. Jude medal, only to recall that it was no longer there. Wawa was probably wearing it now as she prepared to parachute in with her newfound pack. Despite what he had said earlier, he suddenly missed her. Maybe, he thought, he could try to find her when this was all over, let her make fun of him for trying to be the tough guy. Ever since the Change, he had tried to be left alone, and had gone to extraordinary lengths to carve out a little spot for himself. There was no happiness in this. Only freedom.
And then the torpedo hit its mark, rocking the tiny capsule. All around him, the sound of grinding metal and crunching stone made Mort(e) feel as if his own body were being mashed to a pulp along with everything else. The canister slowed and came to a stop. Mort(e) readied his gun and took a deep breath.
The hatch opened.
Chapter Nineteen: The Christening
The troops lined up on the rocky shores of the Island. Fresh off the Colony’s ships, the new recruits had spent the day establishing a beachhead to defend the Island against a human attack. Tents sprang up, trenches were carved into the earth. Culdesac had been waiting a long time for a straight-up fight that would involve both the ants and the surface animals. It would be like the old days of the war. No more of this administrative nonsense, no more politics, no more wiping civilian asses, no more smiling at Council members who had never picked up a gun or faced down a rabid human. It would be him and his soldiers, and the Queen’s song in his head, guiding him forward.
Culdesac told the troops that the Queen desired witnesses for this battle. The last time the humans came here, not a single one was left alive. Every inch of the Island had been scrubbed clean. Even the craters had been smoothed over. This time, the surfacers would see the power of the Colony firsthand and spread the word to their comrades on the mainland. A new legend would arise, telling the final destruction of the human rebels.