Malefactor

by Robert Repino

  When they made landfall, Harlan, who specialized in botany, lifted a small chunk of the earth to his mouth and licked it like a cat. “Completely dead,” he declared. “Like plastic.” The texture of the land made D’Arc think of that first night on the island with the Old Man, watching the bonfires stacked with the bodies of Alpha soldiers. A blurry image, filled in mostly by Mort(e)’s stories rather than her own memory.

  The soldiers stationed there gave the crew a tour of the catacombs that would take another lifetime to map out. Following the lamps embedded in the dirt, they visited the nurseries and cupboards and underground highways. Thanks to the ventilation shafts, the air tasted surprisingly fresh. Though she spent many years here, it appeared more alien than anything D’Arc had ever seen. She wanted to feel something as she dragged her fingers along the sides of the narrow tunnels. After all, the humans never stopped talking about the time before the war, an eternal vault of the past that they could reopen whenever it suited them.

  D’Arc had no vault, only a few faded memories. Mort(e) insisted that this made her lucky. It certainly allowed her to conceal her identity. It allowed her to shed things, to move forward. It shielded her. It was why she was here.

  On her last morning on Golgotha, D’Arc got a reminder of the other reason why she was here.

  It began with a siren blaring from the Golgotha barracks. Bleary-eyed soldiers formed into ranks. The artillery maneuvered into position, aiming at the sky. A second siren on the al-Rihla called the entire crew to their battle stations. Someone ran screaming through the bulkheads: “Not a drill, people! Let’s go!”

  D’Arc strapped on her sword and took her position in the 50-mm gun turret. It required a crew of three to feed the shells. Anderson fired the gun while D’Arc and a German shepherd named Buck handled the ordnance.

  A few others stood by the gunwale and pointed at something above. Anderson saw it too. Her thick triceps flared as she pointed the barrels at a high angle. “Oooh, I gotchoo,” she said.

  When D’Arc saw the ant zipping above, she nearly dropped the ammo belt in her hands. Mort(e) had told her about the Alphas with wings, the airborne shock troops sent to destroy the settlements infected with the EMSAH syndrome. She could tell right away that this Alpha was dying. Her body hung from the beating wings. The legs dangled. When the ant arced closer to the ship, D’Arc saw that one of the limbs had been sheared off at the top joint. The antennae flailed, much like the ants on her ranch did when they needed to be euthanized. If this ant had traveled over the flat surface of the water for days, then the sudden appearance of an island filled with people and machinery must have startled her.

  The Alpha looped around the island, its orbit sinking lower each time. She did not seem to notice the row of soldiers in her path as she scraped the earth. The soldiers toppled out of the way like bowling pins. The Alpha dropped again, this time tumbling end over end before skidding to a stop. The legs curled into a crisscross position.

  The lead biologist, a man named Wilson, asked D’Arc to join the other scientists as they performed an autopsy. No one knew where the Alpha came from, though the scouts spotted her heading west. She could have come from as far away as Africa, for all they knew.

  The presence of this creature alarmed the humans the most. A few of them suggested burning the body before it attracted any others in the area. D’Arc needed to contain her excitement as she compared this dead specimen with the ants she raised on the ranch. She could tell that her knowledge made them nervous. While wearing their surgical masks, they at first listened eagerly as she went over what she knew about the ants’ eating habits, the way they moved in columns, the way they explored new territory. “Juke used to tap her antennae on something,” D’Arc said, “then she’d poke her head up like this.” She mimicked the movement. The doctors squinted at her coldly.

  “You named them,” Wilson said, his mask puffing outward.

  “Well, yeah. Juke, Sugar, Anansi . . .” She trailed off when she noticed them all watching her, this animal, siding with the monsters that had destroyed everything they knew. Noticing their discomfort, she pivoted to body parts and behavioral patterns again. Wilson thanked her for her input.

  The next day, as the al-Rihla continued its journey, another Alpha streaked across the clouds. The ship changed course, trailing the ant until she dropped from exhaustion and splashed down. Another autopsy confirmed that she had traveled a long distance, attracted to something so seductive that she kept flapping her wings until she died.

  Twice more the al-Rihla altered its course to pursue the ants. The captain did not disclose the new heading to the crew. Using her compass, D’Arc figured it out anyway. At their current direction, they would make landfall close to where they started, somewhere south of Hosanna.

  All this effort to move forward, to have a new adventure, and the war with no name called her back to her homeland. D’Arc was too tired to get angry about it. She would save that for the morning.

  January 16

  WEather: No wind. Partly cloudy. Moderate swell.

  0600 Prepared notes for science staff briefing with Captain Vittal.

  Personal health: Stable. Some nausea in the morning.

  Captain Vittal insisted on conducting her big meetings at the bow of the ship, usually before first light, no matter the weather. Closed-door meetings made the crew nervous. And standing on the bow, with the sky brightening around them, the waves passing below, reminded them of why they joined this mission. “It puts things in perspective,” she always said. “And it keeps people awake.”

  Dressed in her long rain slicker, D’Arc was the only nonhuman on the science team. Harlan worked in agricultural botany. Cooper was as an oceanographer for a British oil company before the war. Irele was a professor of biology in Nigeria. Wilson wrote a paper on cockroaches for his dissertation, making him the best expert on insects they could find. Their assistant, Madigan, furiously scribbled notes as the wind made her fingers turn pink.

  Moab the bear stood guard near the bridge. When the new shift of crew members loitered nearby, she told them to move along.

  The captain was waiting for them when they arrived. She wore a black overcoat that must have belonged to someone much taller. The sleeves draped over her leather gloves. Her graying hair fit snugly beneath her white cap. If all had gone according to plan—if the war had never happened—she would have been an astronaut by now. Everyone on the ship, including the animals, acted as if they shared in her would-be accomplishment. She still owned a NASA patch that she displayed on her desk. It would be a long time before anyone considered going into space again. For now, an entire world awaited, as it did for the explorers who came before.

  When the science team assembled, all bundled in their parkas and sniffling, Captain Vittal got right to the point. “Tell me about the Alpha,” she said.

  They turned to Wilson. With his hood cinched over his face, only his dark brown eyes were visible. “Ma’am,” he said, voice muffled, “the ant we found is not an Alpha.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s a drone.”

  “A drone.”

  “A male.”

  “Male ants and female ants swarming about. What could that possibly mean?”

  Wilson objected to the term swarm, arguing that they found only a few individuals so far. Harlan sighed at Wilson’s quibbling.

  “Drones have one purpose,” Wilson said. “To mate. But none of the females we found seemed to be in any condition to mate. And this male had an extremely low sperm count.”

  “Ah, so he is like a middle-aged man, then?” Vittal asked. She allowed them a moment to react. Only Harlan chuckled, then immediately stopped.

  “All it takes is one sperm,” D’Arc blurted out.

  Wilson glared at her. Ever since the first Alpha appeared over Golgotha, Wilson faced immense pressure to explain what the hell
was going on. He made no secret that he did not believe her stories of running an Alpha ranch. During the autopsy, he barely acknowledged her presence, treating her like an extra pair of hands instead of a fellow crew member.

  “The scientists at Golgotha have not detected any activity for years,” Wilson said. “This could be some misfiring in the ants’ brains. These insects are going senile. They weren’t meant to live this long—”

  Vittal silenced him by lifting her hand. “I want to hear from the big mouth,” she said.

  Since she was hiding slightly behind Harlan, D’Arc did not realize at first that the captain was addressing her. Harlan moved aside to make room for Vittal. Madigan flipped a page in her notebook.

  “You’re the one who lived with these things. For years, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told me you called them your girls.”

  If she were a human, she would have blushed. “My ladies, that’s right.”

  “What do you think?”

  The weight of it overwhelmed her. The Old Man so rarely asked her opinion on things, believing that he protected her by making decisions for the both of them.

  “The Alphas only respond to a leader,” she said. “Once they’re drawn in, they follow orders. Or they mimic what the leader does.” D’Arc described how she and the Old Man—she didn’t give his name—lured a platoon of Alphas with their pheromone, then sealed them in a pen. Before long, the confused insects looked to D’Arc as if she were their queen.

  Vittal folded her hands and walked to the railing. “The supply ships won’t leave Golgotha for another two weeks. We’re the only ones who can warn Hosanna.”

  D’Arc felt the others stiffen at the news.

  “But there’s a storm coming,” Vittal said. “We’ll have to go through it. If, that is, you think it’s worth it.”

  They turned to D’Arc. A few months earlier, a storm off the coast of Canada nearly capsized the boat. She could tell that they wanted her to say that they shouldn’t bother, that the ants were merely going through their death throes.

  She couldn’t do it. Even while picturing the beaches in Cuba, the rain forests of the Caribbean, she couldn’t do it. “It’s worth it,” she said. “Something is happening.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Vittal dismissed them. “Except for you,” she said to D’Arc, who stood still while the others filed past. A strong wind blew open D’Arc’s coat. She covered herself and waited for the captain to speak.

  “Do you have something to say to me?” Vittal asked.

  “Ma’am, I apologize for speaking out of turn.”

  “Not that. I’m talking about the reports of insubordination.”

  D’Arc’s tongue fell out of her mouth—her default panic switch. Her tail lowered.

  “The doctors tell me you’ve failed to report for your physical for weeks,” Vittal said. “Which I would be tempted to overlook if—if—you had not already told them you were ill.”

  “Ma’am, I was seasick, that’s all.”

  “Seasick. And I see you’re wearing a nice long coat despite being covered in fur.”

  D’Arc said nothing. She wanted to be back in the examination room with drone’s body parts scattered about.

  “I used to run a dog shelter in my hometown,” Vittal said. “The first of its kind there. I think that’s what got me this job.”

  D’Arc was so desperate that she looked to Moab for help. The bear fiddled with the bandolier on her chest, uninterested in their conversation.

  “I know dogs,” Vittal said. “And I know you need more than a physical.” She glanced at D’Arc’s midsection. D’Arc immediately placed her hands over her stomach.

  “Who’s the father?” Vittal asked. “All the dogs on board are neutered, so it couldn’t have been one of them.”

  D’Arc nearly collapsed. She lowered her head and let out a low howl that ended with a long wheezing sound, like some broken machine. For weeks, she had bottled her terror inside of her. It crept out in the open now. It no longer belonged solely to her.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Vittal put her arm around her.

  “I swear I didn’t know when I came aboard,” D’Arc said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ve jeopardized the mission.”

  “Look at me.”

  D’Arc raised her head. A few crew members stood behind Moab, trying to see what was happening. Moab shooed them away.

  “This is the mission,” Vittal said. “Life is the mission. Remember, this ship is the prototype. We have to test it. Even if that means building a nursery.”

  “No one has to go out of their way for me.”

  “Ah, but they do,” Vittal said. “It is through these acts of kindness that we will rebuild. We have to be a beacon of light in the darkness, guiding the other ships home. That’s what Chief Wawa told me once. And she gave you her highest recommendation. She knew all the good you did with those ants. Empathy will save us. And forgiveness. Not conflict. Not punishment.”

  D’Arc thanked her. Vittal signaled to Moab that she was done here. The bear could go about her usual routine of growling at people who were out of place.

  “You still have a job to do,” Vittal said. “You will do it as long as you are able, no more. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I hope the father was handsome,” Vittal said. “I’m sure the other female canines would love to hear all about it.”

  D’Arc imagined the other dogs gossiping, sniffing her, rubbing her belly, asking what names she’d pick. For the first time, that prospect seemed like a good thing. A natural thing.

  The captain let her go. D’Arc clumsily thanked her again and headed for the mess hall. The breakfast bell would ring at any second. Kang would joke with her about arriving on time for once.

  To the east, the sun bubbled on the horizon, peeking under a gap in the clouds. It was a new day in the new path D’Arc had chosen. The unknown, expanding around her in every direction, wider than any sea.

  January 17

  WEATHER: Unseasonably warm. Heavy rain. Windy.

  Personal health: Fair. (Relieved.)

  0920 al-Rihla enters the storm.

  Under an ashen sky, the deck of the ship tilted one way, then the other, shifting the angle at which the rain fell. In the filtered light, the ocean became the color of iron, foaming white at the peak of each wave. The wind took all the noise of the ship—the engines, the shouting, the sirens—and tossed it out to sea. The crew members formed a line at the stern. A few feet away, a mass of twisted metal marked where the main turbine had once been, before the gale tore it from its base. The turbine sat half-submerged behind the ship, still connected by wires and cables. The engineers had managed to get a chain around it. The crew—every last one of them—stood ready to reel it in.

  Wearing soaked gloves and a heavy parka, D’Arc gripped the chain and wondered if she was somehow to blame for all of this. They could have continued south. They could have let Golgotha send the warning to Hosanna. They could have continued their mission. She had learned so much in her time here. All of it could be lost so quickly. And if that happened, no one would even know that she was here, at this moment, trying to hold in her vomit as the ship bobbed in the waves.

  Only a few minutes earlier, D’Arc had been lying in her bed, writing in her logbook. Though the boat swayed, the storm was a distant rumbling. All nonessential personnel were ordered belowdecks for the duration of the storm. She imagined climbing out of the hatch the next morning under the bright sun, the puddles on the deck the only clues of what happened. When the alarm sounded, calling all hands, D’Arc was so startled that she grabbed her sword and raced to the exit.

  She felt silly with the weapon strappe
d to her back and her logbook soaked in her pocket. Luckily, no one seemed to care. She could sense their fear in the way their knuckles whitened against the chain, the way they gawked at the turbine as if staring incredulously at a severed limb.

  A human officer leaned into the wind, holding his visor over his eyes as he walked the length of the chain. So stubborn. He probably thought that this gesture gave everyone hope.

  “Get ready!” he screamed. The howling gale nearly drowned him out.

  At the front of the ship, one of the engineers signaled him by waving her hand.

  “Now!” he said. “Pull!”

  D’Arc dug her feet into the deck and put her weight into the chain. To her surprise, it moved so fast that she nearly tumbled over. A woman in front of her slipped, and the officer raced to her spot and pulled the chain until she got to her feet again.

  Like some strange flower, the turbine grew over the stern of the ship, its petals bent. Along with the engineers, Moab the bear waited at the railing to help steady the base. Another tug from the crew lifted the turbine a few more feet.

  Something in D’Arc’s stomach moved—a terrifying sensation until she remembered what it was. Wait till you hear about this day, she thought. Wait till I tell you all about this. You won’t believe it.

  Maybe her children could hear her thoughts. Why not?

  A collective scream at the stern caught her attention. The turbine, having cleared the railing, toppled onto its side. The engineers tried to peel the windmill away from the starboard gunwale. But the propellers, now suspended over the side, caught the breeze and began to spin. As the boat tilted in that direction, it leaned directly into the path of an oncoming wave, a wall of dark water that rose higher than the bridge of the ship. D’Arc lifted her hand, as if that would stop it.