Morte (35 page)

Amidst the noise, the Archon whispered in Mort(e)’s ear. “The story is true,” she said. “Your master’s son gathered disciples and escaped from the Colony. He was only a child, but he could see into the future. A gift from God.”

Mort(e) again turned to see the boy in the stretcher. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the Archon’s hands clasped at the middle of her chest.

The congregants broke into song, something about being washed in the blood of a lamb. Beside him, Wawa swayed to the music while glancing at those around her to be sure she was doing it correctly.

“That child is our Oracle,” the Archon said in a shaky voice. “He foretold your coming even during the bleak days, when there were only a handful of us.”

With the humans singing all around him, Mort(e) walked over to the boy. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with a shaved head, nodded at him, her scalp reflecting the track lights above. The entire congregation had turned to face him. They were singing
at
him, as they would to some holy statue. He was their idol now.

The boy was definitely Michael. He was older, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. He smelled different, the soap and sugar replaced with sweat and peanut butter. The brown eyes were completely blank. This child did not know where he was, if he knew anything at all. If Michael’s mind were active, then it had taken him to some other place, far away from this floating church.

“The Queen,” Michael whispered. Mort(e) leaned in closer. He extended his hand, although he was not sure what he would do—put it on the boy’s shoulder? When his arm hovered over
Michael, the nurse’s hand shot out and grabbed him at the wrist. She glared at him. A vein inflated on her forehead, tunneling up her bare scalp.

“Reflex,” she said. She released his wrist but kept her eyes fixed on him as a warning.

“You watch over him?” Mort(e) asked.

“Yes,” she said, “because he watched over us. He saved us from the Island.”

Mort(e) understood the determination in her eyes. This woman was Michael’s protector, as Sebastian had once been.

“The Queen,” Michael said, his eyes fluttering.

Mort(e) and the nurse leaned in to hear.

“She’s so lonely,” Michael said. “So lonely. So lonely.” He made a choking sound before repeating the phrase several more times.

“She still speaks to him,” the nurse said, showing no emotion beyond a quiet sadness over the fate of this boy. “In dreams mostly, but sometimes during the day.”

Mort(e) raised his hand to his mouth when he realized what they had done to him.

And then the nurse said bitterly, “The Queen sees—”

“Everything,” Mort(e) interrupted. “I know.”

“You’ve spoken to her?”

Mort(e) said yes.

“You’re even more special than we thought,” she whispered.

Mort(e) could not piece together the jumbled memories, but he was certain that he had come across Michael when he used the device. Maybe Michael would visit his dreams as the Queen had. Instead of a field, they would be in the Martinis’ backyard, surrounded by corpses.

Mort(e) turned and faced the Archon, his gnarled fists shaking at his sides. She stood a few feet away, clapping to the music.
The singing continued, sounding no different from the broken noises of the Queen’s terrible communication device.

When she was close enough, Mort(e) grabbed her by the collar, throttling her. The singing came to an abrupt stop. “They used the translator on him, didn’t they?” he growled. “
Didn’t
they? That’s how they knew about me. That’s how Michael knew so much about them.”

People on either side placed their hands on his shoulders and biceps and tried to gently pull him away. He wasn’t ready to let them.

“This child has the gift of sight,” the Archon said, maintaining her calm. She nodded to the others, letting them know that it was okay. They took their hands off Mort(e). He was still breathing loudly through his snout, big, heavy breaths. Then he finally let go of her.

“Our prophet has told us things that we never could have learned on our own,” the Archon said. “He told us about you.”

“He’s not a prophet,” Mort(e) said. “The device did this to him.”

“God has chosen him,” the Archon replied. “Besides, the translator would not explain how he escaped.”

“The Queen let him escape.”

“Why would she let him get away?”

“Why would your
god
let him get away?”

“Michael has given us more intelligence about the Colony—all of it confirmed—than we could have ever gathered from anyone else,” she said. “God speaks through him.”

He turned to the crowd. People stood on their toes to see over one another, to see if the messiah would address them. They were ready to receive his wisdom.

“Your warrior is here,” Mort(e) said, extending his arms. The people cheered, as if he had performed a trick for them. A few
fists reached for the ceiling. Some of the onlookers were so overcome with emotion that their neighbors had to support them.

“I am here to find my friend,” Mort(e) said.

“That’s right,” someone said.

“And I don’t care how many of you die in order for me to find her,” he said. A few faces dropped. Most of the others were so enraptured with his presence that they did not seem to notice. He hated them. They phrased their offer of salvation so modestly, so peacefully. But it was an offer one could not refuse, more of a threat than a promise.
Join with us in friendship
, they said.
Or else
.

“I’m not doing any of this for your god,” Mort(e) said, his voice rising. “If I have to kill everyone in this room to find her, I’ll live with that. So sing your songs and read from your magic books, talk to your little Oracle here, because I don’t give a shit.”

Mort(e) marched through the crowd to the door. He was at the foot of the steps when Wawa and the Archon caught up with him.

“Sebastian,” the Archon said.

Mort(e) stopped and stared her down. “Do you have any idea what I’m trained to do if I hear you say that name again?” he asked.

The Archon glanced at Wawa, who shook her head as if to say,
Don’t ask
.

“When I was still an animal,” Mort(e) said, “I swore I would kill anyone who harmed that boy. I took an oath. The only reason you’re still breathing right now is because you promised to get me to Sheba.”

“We are here to help you as much as we expect you to help us,” the Archon said.

“I’m not here to help you. I don’t need all this EMSAH nonsense. You’ve concocted some fantasy about me.”

“It’s no fantasy. Even the Queen foretold this.”

“You’ve played right into the Queen’s hands!” Mort(e) replied. “If Michael could think straight, he’d tell you. But he’s so fried that he doesn’t even remember what I did. I
killed
Daniel Martini.”

The Archon maintained her stony expression.

“Did you hear me?” Mort(e) asked. “I said I shot that boy’s father because of what he did to Sheba. And I didn’t make up a bunch of fairy tales so I could feel better about it.”

“Mort(e),” Wawa said, “this isn’t helping anything.”

“Oh, you want to go cuddle with these humans now?”

Mort(e) was almost ashamed of the hurt that registered on her face. “These people saved our lives,” she said.

“For what?” Mort(e) asked. “So they can start over?”

“We seek peace with all God’s children,” the Archon said.

“
After
you use them to finish your war,” Mort(e) said. “And what happens then? What happens when your god wants you to have pets and farm animals again?”

“That won’t happen,” the Archon said. “We tried to prove it to you earlier. Have you already forgotten that young man who gave his life to save you?”

“Of course not.”

“Neither have I,” the Archon said. “He was my son.”

A painful pause followed. Wawa let out one of her canine whines.

“So you see,” the Archon said, “we’ve sacrificed. Just like you.”

“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).”

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?”