As the fire burned, D’Arc tried to talk to him, to ask if he was all right. Mort(e) noticed something shiny twinkling on her chest. He recognized the St. Jude medal, the one he dropped in Wawa’s hand years earlier. D’Arc caught him looking at it.
“The chief sacrificed her life to save us,” she said.
Mort(e) dropped to his knees and rested his head on the concrete wall. D’Arc brushed her hand through his fur. It was going to be all right, she said. They made it. She repeated it again and again. Sometimes it registered in the voice of Janet, the woman who had owned him as a pet. Sometimes he heard the voice of Tiberius, or a series of clicks from the Sarcops. But as the dizziness finally passed, he could hear D’Arc once again, summoning him from the deep.
Having completed its bombing run, the Vesuvius rotated on an axis until its nose pointed straight at them. In a matter of minutes, the zeppelin would arrive to take them to Hosanna, the place that had defeated Mort(e) in so many ways. On this occasion, he would let it win, and he would move on. He was done fighting.
“Can I see you off?” he asked her. “When you leave on the expedition?”
“Of course. I need you to.”
The ship drew closer. Behind it, the smoke spiraled from the ashes.
Mort(e) spent most of the trip in his quarters at the front of the Vesuvius, the same place where he stayed on the night before the Battle of Golgotha. The green forest splashed across the window, covering over the deserted human towns. Still woozy from his encounter with Taalik, Mort(e) stared at the landscape for hours, his forehead on the cool glass. Over each hill, he expected to see his beloved ranch, with the Alphas marching in formation, and the shingled roof still in need of repair. But the forest kept sprawling out, big enough to hide in, and forget, and be forgotten.
When D’Arc checked on him later that evening, he told her that he needed to rest. It was mostly true. He had tender bruises on his limbs and ribs, and his head still sloshed with the sounds of the ocean floor. A few times, he stuck his finger in his ear to root out the water that clogged it, only to remember that he merely imagined the sensation. Whenever he felt like dozing off, a phantom tentacle jostled him awake. He could feel it growing from his torso and stretching out until it felt ready to break off and drop to the floor.
But even without all of that, Mort(e) was grateful for the time alone. He did not need to see the husky talking with D’Arc, nor did he need to exchange small talk with the same guards who held him captive only hours earlier. Though he was afraid to fall asleep because of the dreams he might have, the exhaustion soon overcame him. He let it happen, like being submerged in warm water. A chorus of Sarcops warriors sang their hymns from some far-off trench, calling him to abandon the skies and the earth and return to the sea where he belonged.
He woke in the morning as the battered Vesuvius entered Hosanna airspace. From here, he saw the devastation below—the swollen river, the broken bones of the dam, the charred buildings, the lines of people waiting for food. This civilization was so fragile, and yet it had the capacity to rebuild. The believers were stubborn, if nothing else.
D’Arc arrived at his quarters as the ship was docking. She took his hand and escorted him to the queue of wounded soldiers as they marched off the ship. On the deck of the Liberty One tower, a crew of medics and doctors waited to take them to the nearest hospital. Other people were there mainly to cheer for the returning heroes. When the noise became too loud for Mort(e), he pressed closer to D’Arc.
Among the people waiting on deck was Marquez, the human who examined him when he first arrived at Hosanna. Beside him, a charcoal-colored cat stood with his arms folded. The doctor waved to Mort(e) as he and the cat worked their way through the crowd. Marquez’s eyes were bloodshot, his face thinner and in need of a shave. As one of the few physicians who had survived the flood, he must have worked for days on end with no break.
“They tell me you speak with the fish-heads,” Marquez said.
Mort(e) tried to bull-rush his way past him, dragging D’Arc along with him.
“Please, Captain,” Marquez said, clasping his hands in prayer. “I work with patients who have used the translator. Let me examine you.”
“It’s okay, Mort(e),” D’Arc said.
Her sad eyes were enough to get him to agree. Besides, once he returned to the wilderness, he might never see another doctor again. Might as well get a checkup before he disappeared.
D’Arc told him that she needed to stay, and would meet with him later. He knew what she meant—she needed a few more moments with Falkirk. She repeated it several times before he released her hand. Marquez said that he had reserved a suite at the hospital for him, hidden away from the pilgrims and the hero-worshipers. “If I could have a few days with you, it would help so many others,” the doctor added.
While Mort(e) contemplated this, the charcoal cat stepped in front of D’Arc. He plucked the St. Jude medal from her chest and examined it. Mort(e) flinched, but D’Arc put up her hand to let him know it was okay. “This is Grissom from Tranquility,” she said. “Wawa’s assistant.”
Without acknowledging Mort(e), the cat let go of the medal.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the news,” she said. “I’m very sorry.”
The cat nodded.
“She gave it to me before she died.” D’Arc lifted the necklace to her chin. “Maybe you should have it.” The cat stopped her by raising his hand, shaking his head. Without a word, Grissom let her know that the medal had found its rightful owner. “Thank you,” D’Arc said.
All around them, the crowd cheered as Falkirk emerged from the portal, along with his senior officers. Ignoring the shouts, Falkirk continued issuing orders to his staff. The dog pointed at the wounded soldiers and said something to the doctors, like a worried mother making sure her young ones were safe.
It was the perfect time to slip away, though Mort(e) was not entirely ready to do so. He squeezed through the mob, managing one last glance at D’Arc before she disappeared among the faceless animals and humans. At the elevator, Marquez flashed his ID badge to the guards stationed there. The doors slid shut, sealing off the racket.
To avoid the crowd in the lobby, Marquez led them through the building’s parking garage. They hopped into a jeep, with Grissom driving and Marquez on the passenger side.
Moments later, the vehicle puttered through the nearly empty streets. In the early morning light, the broken city was slow to awaken. The tall buildings, casting shadows from one end of the street to the other, became like the walls of a canyon. For a brief flash, Mort(e) imagined them as the sides of the trench in which the Sarcops lived, with the sky rolling like the surface of the water. When the moment passed, he saw something moving among the clouds. He blinked a few times, thinking at first that it was a bird. It was Gaunt of Thicktree. He must have jumped off the side of the building and begun his long flight home. Mort(e) regretted not saying goodbye—not that the bats had much interest in sentimentality. But having learned some Chiropteran, Mort(e) thought it would have been nice to share war stories with the bat one more time.
Gaunt veered to the right and disappeared behind the buildings. Once Mort(e) got his bearings, he realized that the bat flew to the east, toward the river, rather than west to the mountains, to his homeland. At each intersection, Mort(e) caught a glimpse of the bat heading northeast, along the river.
“Where’s he going?” Mort(e) asked.
“Where’s who going?” Marquez said.
“Wait. Stop the car.”
He had to say it a few more times before the grumpy, silent cat applied the brakes and glared at him. “Do you hear that?” Mort(e) asked.
“No,” Marquez replied. Of course you don’t, Mort(e) thought. But there it was, a deep humming sound that throbbed in his head. When the sound changed pitch, Grissom was able to hear it as well. The cat rolled his eyes, spun the wheel to the righ
t, and headed for the riverfront.
As they made a left onto Columbus Boulevard, Mort(e) caught sight of the bat again. Gaunt circled over the wreckage of the dam. The river gushed through the gap in the jagged concrete. On the side of the road, a pack of furry animals stood in a circle, some of them singing, some of them humming. One of them stood in the middle of the formation with his hand placed on a wooden altar.
Grissom parked the jeep. Mort(e) hopped out just in time to hear the lyrics.
We will meet again
In the darkness
Where you and I
Will be the only light.
And by our light
We call everyone home
Where the water flows
And the dirt knows your name.
One by one, the beavers stopped singing and turned to face Mort(e). Castor, who stood at the altar, was the last. The others moved aside as the beaver waddled over.
“My friend!” Castor said. “You are welcome!” Mort(e) bent over slightly to let the diminutive beaver give him a sloppy hug. “How is your queen?”
“She’s well,” Mort(e) said. “What are you doing here?”
Castor laughed. “The water flows. So here we are.”
The beavers had staked out a construction site, with logs ferried along the river and then stacked in neat little pyramids. Hosanna needed experts to rebuild the dam, and who else to ask but the cleverest engineers in the entire Union? Wawa herself had made the request.
Gaunt landed on the concrete. He folded his wings and crawled over to them. When he said hello in his bat language, Mort(e) replied with a simple greeting, a few basic screeches that meant good morning, brother. Or so he hoped.
“Mort(e), we could use someone like you,” Castor said. “Have you ever built something this big? It’s the greatest adventure there is!”
“I’m no engineer.” Mort(e) thought about saying that he had blown up bridges this size, but the beaver was too damned earnest to hear something like that.
“Come on,” Castor said. “Don’t go back to your ranch. There’ll be plenty of time to rest later. There’s so much work to do.”
Mort(e) held in a laugh. The day before, a warlord saluted him as Mort(e) of the Red Sphinx. It was absurd to picture himself humming along with these rodents. Culdesac would have spit out his coffee if he ever witnessed such a thing.
“I’ll have to pass,” Mort(e) said. “But I’m glad to see this is in good hands.”
He started for the jeep, but Castor got in his way. “You helped us,” the beaver said. “We can help you.”
“How?”
“Maybe you were meant to find us again. Maybe the Three Goddesses brought you here to discover your true destiny.”
For a second, while the beaver’s eyes pleaded with him to reconsider, it all sounded so perfect. If he considered all of the events of the past few months from just the right angle, everything fell into place to bring him here.
He came to his senses with a chuckle. “Good luck, my friend.” Mort(e) tried to say goodbye in Chiropteran. Gaunt replied with something too complicated to understand, but he made out the words brother, safe journey, and peace. It must have meant something good.
Mort(e) hopped into the jeep and told them he was ready to go. As the vehicle rolled away, the humming started again.
To Mort(e)’s surprise, the suite at the hospital comprised the entire top floor, complete with a stocked kitchen, a lounge with a billiards table, and a private bathroom. Over the next few days, Marquez ran a series of tests on him, one every few hours. He gauged Mort(e)’s reflexes, his senses. He shined a penlight into Mort(e)’s eyes until it left purple blotches in his vision. He took samples of hair, nails, stool, urine. Mort(e) asked him why he was so interested in the well-being of animals. Marquez gave him the standard answer, about how he wanted to use his skills for good after so many years of war. But then he pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to say something more honest.
“I know this is not, uh, politically correct,” he said. “But I often think of my pet dog, from before the war. I saw him right after he changed. He watched as I drove away from the house. He wanted to be brave, but all I could see was fear in his eyes. I wanted to help him, but I knew I could not.”
Culdesac would have ripped the man’s throat out for saying something so condescending. Then he would have asked, who looks scared now? But Mort(e) believed him. He was in good hands here.
Thanks to the solitude, the quiet, and the pampering, Mort(e) felt like a resident at some rest home, doddering about in a robe, feeling drowsy from the drugs and the food, getting chilly even in the sunlight. It was a future that drew closer. If he could not stop it, then he might as well get some practice. To complete the effect, D’Arc visited him each day, during the hour or so that Marquez would allow for guests. She brought him snacks, along with a jar of honey that she swore was almost as good as the stuff he produced on the ranch. She seemed so different now, a new person forged from the madness of the last few weeks. While the other animals were altered in a mere day, D’Arc endured a longer transformation, one that she chose for herself.
It took three visits before he asked about the expedition. She spoke cautiously, sticking to the details about the preparations, the food stores, the itinerary. The crew members attended an orientation one morning. D’Arc met the captain, an Indian woman who claimed to have been chosen for a mission to Mars before the war. Another human recognized D’Arc’s medal and said that it would bring good luck. Mort(e) conceded that it might.
He asked about Falkirk. The husky would stay in Hosanna, she said. The Vesuvius would have a new captain. Falkirk had discovered his true calling. Or it discovered him. Again.
Mort(e) remembered the husky posturing with him when he boarded the Vesuvius. “But what about . . . I mean, did anything happen between the two of you?”
“No,” D’Arc said. “Nothing happened. He’s a friend who I trust. And he gets to start over. Like we do.”
In between D’Arc’s visits, Marquez evaluated Mort(e)’s cognitive functions. Every morning began with a memorization game, a set of cards with random images that Marquez would flip over. Mort(e) felt great relief when he got them correct. Before he went to bed at night, Marquez would repeat the procedure. In the afternoons, after a lunch of seaweed and insect fritters, Mort(e) reclined on a couch, sipping tea, while the doctor asked him questions about what he saw in Taalik’s mind, what he heard, what he could smell and taste. Mort(e) told the same story again and again. But one time, the process of describing the memories took Mort(e) straight into Cold Trench. The Sarcops swam around him, protecting their eggs, watching out for predators. Marquez’s soothing voice became like an echo ricocheting through a tunnel. As Mort(e) sank deeper into the dream, he heard Marquez shouting for him, begging for him to wake up, to swim to the light. It was only when he heard D’Arc calling out to him—barking for him—that he managed to extract himself from the illusion. He awoke on the floor, with the doctor towering over him.
“How long was I gone?” Mort(e) asked, his throat raw, as if he had screamed for hours.
“Long enough to make me worry. We will not do this anymore. I have seen enough.”
Marquez told him about some of his other patients, including the opossum who confessed to killing the last translator users. Many of them had deteriorated to the point where they could no longer distinguish the past, the present, and the future. Mort(e) was one of the lucky ones.
“In fact,” Marquez added, “I think this Sarcops showed mercy.”
“Why would he do that?”
“You tell me.”
Mort(e) smiled as he imagined the fish-head on the couch next to him, his tentacle wrapped around a mug of coffee. He would have to keep digging to find out what Taalik was thinking when he let him go. But perhaps he did not need to know for sure. A
few echoes and whispers here and there were enough to show that the Sarcops had changed as well. They would have to learn to live with who they were. Or they would keep running away.
That night, unable to sleep, Mort(e) sat by the open window and watched the windmills spinning, the lights switching on, the vehicles rolling along the highway. Crimson clouds tumbled across the sky. Though he could not see the river from here, he knew that the al-Rihla was docked a few blocks away. D’Arc may have been on board at that very moment, preparing her quarters for the journey, taking inventory. The odor of salt water wafted into the room. Mort(e) rose from his chair, panicked and shaking. Like in his dream, a great wave washed over the horizon, consuming everything. The crest of the wave carried with it debris, overturned vehicles, corpses. As the streets became like rivers, Mort(e) squinched his eyes shut.
“No,” he said.
When he opened his eyes, the wave was gone. The city was safe, going quiet for the evening.
“No,” he repeated. He sank into his chair, tired but at peace.
On the morning of the launch, a mob descended on the pier, eager to catch a glimpse of the explorers. Onlookers, well-wishers, friends, and relatives crowded the dock, many of them walking right across the highway. The resulting traffic jam created a bottleneck for over a mile. Tranquility officers tried to divert vehicles around the mess. An interspecies choir from the temple claimed a space along the railing. Their voices provided some harmony to the murmuring and the occasional crying. Behind them, the al-Rihla sat anchored in the water. Two gangplanks extended from the hull to the pier. Crew members dressed in olive jumpsuits formed a line to pass the last few crates on board. With all the movement, the ship bobbed and jostled, creating waves that smacked the barrier.
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