“I don’t know about that. Everyone interprets the words of the Prophet differently.”
“What about you? Do you hear God’s voice?”
He needed to tread carefully. She may not have been ready to listen. “I hear my own voice,” he said.
He told her about wandering the countryside after the quarantine, waiting to die. And when the Colony fell, he sought out the alliance of humans and animals. When he saw the mortal enemies joining hands, begging forgiveness of one another, Falkirk knew that God had new plans for him. And they would not be easy. He would be tested.
“The person I was would have to be burned away,” he said. “There’s no other way to change. Fire and ice. Acid and steel. They do the trick.”
“You’ve convinced me,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”
She returned to her telescope. One day, maybe soon, she would understand what he was talking about. Then he could ask her the question that still nagged him, ever since the gulag: Was she part of his long crucible, or the end of it? Or perhaps she was the real test. He would need to prove his worth by protecting her. Even if that meant following her across the sea, far from here, where it was quiet enough to hear God’s voice.
That night, Falkirk dozed on the floor while D’Arc kept watch. A lovely dream washed over him, transforming the cracked ceiling into storm clouds, and the hardwood to a crunchy snow. He walked on all fours. His paws made a sucking sound as he extracted them from the footprints they made. Far off into the white, smoke curled from the chimney of the Weyrich’s cabin. Falkirk was so excited that he emptied his bladder. The hot urine hissed in the snow, releasing a burst of steam that tickled his belly. The clouds brightened and the wind blew, carrying the howls of his brothers and sisters. They called him forward. Or they warned him to stay away. Falkirk could not tell anymore. Tell me, he said. Talk to me. Soon the wind and the howling merged into one screeching noise. A voice emerged from the din. His mother. The white takes you, she barked.
“Falkirk!”
He jolted awake. The brief sensation of falling made his legs weak. He rolled to his side, facing D’Arc, who peered out the window through the telescope. “What is it?” he asked.
“One of the opossums just went inside.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
It didn’t. Rubbing his eyes, Falkirk got to his feet and went to the window. Across the street, the light clicked on in the opossum’s apartment. D’Arc stayed at the telescope. Falkirk took the binoculars from the windowsill.
“What was he wearing?”
“Vest. Work boots. Duffel bag on his shoulder.”
The shades were open in only one window, and the opossum did not go near it.
“Let’s go over there,” D’Arc said.
“I’d like to see what he does first.”
“Let’s talk to him now. Maybe catching him by surprise rattles something loose.”
She was already heading for the door.
“I’ll wait by the fire escape, and you ring the bell,” she said.
“Remember all those procedures we talked about?”
“Of course I do. They got us stuck here.”
Minutes later, Falkirk stood at the main entrance. He entered the building and climbed the five flights. A few of the marble steps trembled underfoot, as did the metal railing. At the top floor, Falkirk stopped at the opossum’s apartment and caught his breath. He listened for movement, heard nothing, and banged on the door. “Tranquility,” he said. “Open up, please.”
Footsteps approached. Falkirk held his ID in front of the peephole.
To Falkirk’s surprise, the opossum opened the door all the way. The apartment was dark, and the animal’s enormous pupils constricted under the hallway lights. Falkirk could tell that this was Teyu from the scar that ran from his eye to his neck, a result of an accident at work, according to the reports. His left hand was missing two digits, lost in the war in some human-made trap. Possibly gnawed off, judging from the uneven pink scar left behind.
“You are fast,” the opossum said.
“What do you mean?”
“I called the police. Someone is climbing my fire escape.”
Falkirk groaned. “Sir, I’m terribly sorry. That’s my partner outside.”
To be safe, Falkirk asked Teyu to stand in a corner while he opened the window. Passing the kitchen, Falkirk noticed a plate of unidentifiable scraps on the counter, probably taken from the trash. These people made no apologies for holding on to their old ways. At least the food didn’t stink. Yet.
Leaning out the window, Falkirk saw D’Arc making her way to the top. “I thought you said you were going to wait by the fire escape.”
“Was I that loud?”
“Yes.”
Falkirk radioed in to headquarters to alert them about the false alarm. With the tension behind them, he and D’Arc sat on the couch while the opossum fixed himself a glass of water mixed with a spoonful of powdered beetle. Teyu offered some to his guests. Falkirk could not tell if the opossum meant it as a joke.
“Why are you here?” Teyu asked.
“There’s a murderer targeting people who have used the translator. And you and your brother have been missing for several days.”
“My brother is the translator user. Not me. And he is not missing.”
“Where is he?”
“On his way to Fort Pius. He helps to train cadets there.”
Fort Pius was located near the edge of Union territory, one of the few bases remaining from the occupation. Yatsi went there every couple of months to help with maneuvers. “My brother takes the soldiers on some campout, walkabout,” Teyu added. “I do not know what.”
This opossum rarely spoke with others, that much was clear. But he answered calmly, and with confidence. He did not seem threatened.
“Do you know who he works with?” Falkirk asked.
“No. But someone at the academy should. You ask. Someone knows.”
“Where have you been?” Falkirk asked.
“The hospital. I had an infection. In my mouth.” He opened his jaw wide and pointed at the raw, purplish gumline above his left incisor. “I stayed for a few days. Check their records.”
D’Arc nodded to indicate that she would check on it right away.
“Do you know what’s been going on here?” Falkirk asked.
“The human told me. At the hospital.”
“A human spoke to you?”
“Yes. With the rings.” The human had asked him about Yatsi, the translator, everything. The strator was most likely Duncan Huxley, Grace Braga’s number one.
Falkirk cut things short when he felt the conversation straying. Yatsi might be dead already, and his brother would not provide anything useful this evening. Besides, the humans had gotten to him. If he needed to lie, he was well prepared.
Falkirk thanked the opossum and got up to leave, ignoring D’Arc as she silently pleaded with him to stay. Outside, as they walked to the safe house, D’Arc asked why they left so soon.
“The place is compromised,” Falkirk said. “Our best bet is to keep an eye on it.”
Falkirk regretted losing this chance to show D’Arc some exciting detective work. He wanted an excuse to wrestle the opossum to the ground in front of her. And then, with his knee on the suspect’s spine, he would order her to call for backup. He soon became so lost in the image that he couldn’t hear D’Arc speaking.
“. . . when we report this to the chief, right?” D’Arc finished saying.
“Right, right.”
“What is it?”
He stopped. They stood on the sidewalk, under a streetlight that cast fuzzy shadows onto the concrete. “I was worried that this wasn’t what you expected.”
“It’s not,” she said. “But this is
the first time that’s ever happened to me. Not knowing what to expect. I think I like it.”
The relief he felt was almost embarrassing. He resisted the urge to pant, despite the heat building in his chest and shoulders.
“Let’s close up shop,” he said. One day—very soon, he realized—his thoughts would not simply hide behind his eyes, bottled up in his mind. They would spill from his mouth. And she would understand.
The communion began after dark, with a horn sounding from the dome of the temple. Fashioned from an old cathedral, the temple had only three walls, made of white stone, with the gargoyles chiseled away. The humans had removed the front of the edifice, exposing the pillars, chandeliers, and wooden pews. From several blocks away, Falkirk and D’Arc could see inside, to the altar where the elders delivered their weekly sermons. Rows of seats continued outward into what had once been the potholed street. The founders of Hosanna tore out the asphalt and planted fresh sod, transforming the church into an open-air plaza that occupied the entire block. The old ways called for a castle. But after the war with no name, the walls came down to invite everyone in, so that friend and foe, master and slave could stand together before God.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” D’Arc said.
“I’m saving my voice for the singing.”
Standing on a corner, D’Arc seemed out of place with the hilt of her sword leaning on her shoulder. All around them, animals waited eagerly for the march to begin.
From the foot of the marble altar, the humans streamed out, over a hundred of them, all wearing robes made of simple white cloth cinched at the waist with a rope. With the street lamps out, their candles provided the only light, a symbol of their journey through a time of darkness. With their free hands, they gripped the shoulders of the people in front of them, so that the entire procession became like a dragon’s tail unfurling into the streets. The Queen was wrong about these humans. Though they had evolved to track and kill prey, here the candlelight transformed them into the angels they claimed to be. For all their faults, they uncovered the truth before the others. They fell, but they also repented. It was hard for Falkirk to accept sometimes, especially since his own trial had no end in sight. But if it wasn’t true, then nothing was true.
The procession exited the building and veered to the right. The animals waiting on the sidewalk joined the humans in the street. Most brought their own candles. The lucky ones in the front got to touch a human. The dogs were so excited that their tongues hung out. Falkirk saw a bear as well, towering over the human in front of him, his paw nearly swallowing the man’s upper body. And yet the human remained serene, a faint smile on his lips. Falkirk noticed the scent of sweat and fur, mud and soap, incense and wax. By the time the singing started, a galaxy of tiny flames rolled along the battered street.
Here I am Lord. Is it I Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go Lord, if you lead me.
I will hold your people in my heart.
As the march approached the intersection where Falkirk and D’Arc waited, the light from the candles reflected off the windows of two office buildings, like molten gold. Beside him, the flames danced in D’Arc’s eyes. Falkirk wore the same expression at his own first communion. He needed to enjoy this moment. Before things changed again, as they always did.
As the human vanguard passed, Falkirk and D’Arc lit their candles and joined the procession. She held his shoulder, sending instant warmth through his vest and into his fur. He took the shoulder of a cat in front of him. The crowd grew so large that it had to stop and start again, forcing people to jostle one another. D’Arc maintained her grip on Falkirk, even when two people squished her as they rounded another corner.
After a few blocks, he could see their destination—an early-twentieth-century university hospital, three stories tall and nearly as wide as the block, made of red brick, with white stone columns supporting the main entrance. Whereas the temple became a town square, the Prophet’s residence functioned more like a castle. Strators stood on the roof. Stair towers on opposite ends of the building acted as turrets, complete with narrowed windows that served as sniper nests. Anyone who wanted to get to Michael would have to pass through several layers of mortar, muscle, and lead. And yet, with the candlelight flickering against the bricks, the building became like a country house, an inviting place where people would gather, sing songs, tell stories. The pilgrims filled the courtyard, while the rest clogged the street. The grass patches were still flattened from the last communion. Two trees on either side of the cement walkway guarded the entrance, and a few cats and squirrels climbed the trunks to get a better view.
The crowd swelled, closing the gaps between the spectators. D’Arc became wedged behind Falkirk so that her chin poked over his shoulder. He pictured her once again leaning on the gunwale of the al-Rihla, where she belonged, watching the sunrise.
“What happens next?” she asked. Her warm breath smelled like milk.
“We sing. Until the humans come out to talk to us.”
“Will we see Michael?”
“I hope so.”
He felt a thud in the asphalt, a quake that made his knees wobble. Another thud seemed to warp the street. The singing died out as everyone heard it: an avalanche, rumbling, getting closer.
“What is that?” D’Arc asked.
Then, the impossible. A red car slid through an intersection several blocks away, carried by an unseen force, and slammed into a row of parked vehicles. The car resembled a toy, like something Yeager or Amelia would have pushed across the carpet. More vehicles and other debris followed it. They were elevated somehow, lifted higher than the street signs by—
Water. A wall of water, bubbling white, engulfing the street.
D’Arc gasped in his ear. Falkirk dropped the candle, extinguishing the flame.
CHAPTER 15
Trojan Horses
“How much longer are we going to do this to each other?” Wawa asked.
On the other side of the desk, Strator Grace Braga sat with her legs crossed and cracked her knuckles, one at a time. She wore her usual outfit—black T-shirt, khaki vest, camouflage pants with a holstered pistol. Ropey muscles bulged from underneath her sleeves. Her thermos made a coffee ring on the desktop. Behind Grace, the windows of Wawa’s new office put the chaos of Tranquility’s headquarters on full display. The officers on the floor argued, laughed at jokes, ferried papers and boxes from one place to the next. A few of them watched from their stations while pretending to write reports. A cat even had the gall to turn in her chair. After a withering glance from Wawa, the cat got back to work.
“I asked you a question, Grace.”
Wawa had summoned Grace to headquarters to talk about the SOA’s latest power grab. The day before, Grace lobbied the Archon for full access to Tranquility’s files, as well as the discretion to deploy Special Operations as she saw fit, bypassing the chief. One of Wawa’s own agents told her that he was under orders from the strators not to share anything with Tranquility.
“Do you think we’re hiding something?” Wawa asked. “Is that it?”
Having run out of knuckles, Grace folded her hands on her knee. “As a matter of fact, I do. I’m told you recruited an outsider to help with the investigation.”
Wawa opened her mouth to answer, then stopped.
“A certain person of interest,” Grace said.
“D’Arc?”
“Sheba. The Mother.”
“She changed her name, like everyone else. She asked that we not broadcast it.”
“I don’t care what she asked.”
“What’s your business with D’Arc? You want to recruit her for the Sons of Adam?”
“I want to know what she’s doing here. I want to know why she isn’t at her rightful place, at the Warrior’s side.”
“She’s her own person, G
race. She can do whatever she wants. Besides, aren’t you already monitoring her?”
With her lips closed, the strator ran her tongue across her teeth.
“If you have evidence that D’Arc has done something wrong, let’s see it.”
“It’s not D’Arc I’m worried about. It’s Tranquility. You’ve got the wolf country debacle. The Ramen satellite. The refugees. Now this. You’re on a roll.”
“I’ve made my point,” Wawa said. “You’ve made yours. The door is right behind you.”
Grace didn’t move. “It’s amazing,” she said. “It’s amazing how human you are.”
Wawa exhaled loudly through her snout.
“I’m sorry if you take that as an insult,” Grace added. “It’s just that, you speak like us. You have the same inflections. The same mannerisms. How much of that was learned, and how much was drilled into your mind?”
Wawa knew to keep her cool. She couldn’t afford to have Grace storming out of the office in full view of everyone. “Does any of that even matter anymore?”
“It matters. Have you ever wondered what else might be planted in that brain of yours? Some hidden instructions. Equations. A trigger mechanism perhaps. All buried beneath your human façade so you can earn our trust. So you can lecture me from behind that desk like a high school principal.”
Her heart pounding, Wawa pretended to grow tired of the conversation. “I’m meeting with the Archon tomorrow. I want him to tell me to my face why he’s going along with all this.”
“The Archon,” Grace said. “The Archon was there when we took a risk and trusted one of your people. Did he ever tell you about that?”
Wawa shook her head no.
About a year into the war, Grace served on a salvaged Coast Guard ship. The humans used it to ferry refugees along the Hudson. One day, they came across a raft with a dog on it. The creature was in wretched condition, bloodied and starving. When they questioned him, the dog swore that the ants had turned on him for helping the other side, and he barely escaped with his life. The crew brought him aboard, hoping that capturing an animal defector was worth the risk.
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