Malefactor

by Robert Repino

  In the morning, he would pack his things and begin the long march to his beloved ranch. There, he would find dust, rotting crops, a few remnants of the Alphas that he had raised with D’Arc. Mort(e) would go there and wait to die. Maybe he would survive long enough to see the first wolves sweeping across the land on their way to Hosanna. He would wave to them from his rocking chair. If they had any mercy, any compassion at all, they would shoot him before moving along.

  He heard unfamiliar voices at the door. More Tranquility agents, no doubt. An oversized beaver named Shiloh guarded the entrance. Too young and cocky to know any better, Shiloh demanded to know why Tranquility targeted the beavers in their investigation. “After all we did for this city!” he said.

  Mort(e) listened from his stool. He had no identification on him, no papers. He was another old stray. The only people who could verify his identity were dead or long gone. He considered waiting here for the agents to arrest him. He would follow their orders without resisting. Just a smile and a nod. It would be like living as a pet again.

  The arguing outside quieted to a whisper. Another beaver intervened, scolding Shiloh for his lack of respect. “Don’t you know who this is?” he asked.

  More crosstalk followed. “Please come in,” another beaver said. “You are welcome here.”

  The group entered, with a tall figure following close behind. The beavers shuffled and bowed like the pathetic court of some exiled king. Mort(e) spun on his stool. The figure came straight for him. It was a dog with bright blue eyes, grayish-white fur, and an airman’s vest, blue with gold piping.

  Falkirk. So this is the bastard they sent to arrest me.

  “This day keeps getting better and better,” Mort(e) said.

  The bartender hustled together a drink—a terrible draft beer that would make a drunk human recoil.

  “Oh, sure, get him a free one,” Mort(e) said. “He only spent the Battle of Lodge City wrapped in a spiderweb.”

  Falkirk would not take the bait. He waved off the drink. “We need to talk.”

  “I was mourning the death of the Prophet,” Mort(e) said robotically. “I don’t know anything about an incident at the dam.”

  “Not about that.” Falkirk glared at the bartender, who sequestered himself at the other end of the bar. A quick glance got the table full of beavers to look away.

  Falkirk took the stool next Mort(e). The detergent from his officer’s uniform nearly overpowered the scent of his dog hair. Mort(e) blocked it out with another sip of his drink.

  “I don’t care what happened at the dam,” the husky said. “Though I know a lot of people who do.”

  “What do you want, then?” This dog, acting so important. His authority came from humans. They could take it from him whenever they wanted. He either didn’t know that, or didn’t care.

  “You heard the news about the al-Rihla,” Falkirk said.

  “Yes. But I guess it doesn’t really matter. Your people will be at the city gates any day now. You’ll have to pick a side.”

  Falkirk turned away. “I’ll take that drink after all,” he said. The bartender slid a mug toward him, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Falkirk said. “My people, if you want to call them that.”

  Mort(e) wondered how much his crew trusted him, what with so many canines leaving Hosanna. So many had been arrested for waving a flag with an image of a wolf’s paw covered in mud, a symbol of the rebels. Tranquility had begun arresting dogs by the dozen, quartering them in cells like strays in an animal shelter. The canine representative on the council went silent on all of this, issuing a bland statement about the need for law and order. Every day, his office used a column of bodyguards to repel scores of protesters, many of whom probably joined the Mudfoot shortly after. All it took was one rogue wolf clan to drive both the dogs and the humans crazy.

  Hosanna would burn. Mort(e) knew that now. And loyal pets like Falkirk would probably be impaled on the last flagpoles standing.

  “Hosanna is keeping a closer eye on things than people realize,” Falkirk said. “Most of the wolf clans want peace. They’ve been sending us information on the separatists.”

  “Is that what they’re called now? Separatists? If you ask me, it looks like they’re trying to unite everyone.”

  “They can’t. Not without the support of the clan elders. The real leaders are committed to peace. It might stick this time. That’s why these Mudfoot are so scared.”

  “So scared they’re overrunning every outpost, every base—”

  “So scared they have to rely on refugees and strays to build an army,” Falkirk said. “They can’t go any farther. They need the other clans.”

  “I find myself saying this a lot,” Mort(e) said, “but what does this have to do with me?”

  “It has to do with both of us, actually.”

  Falkirk pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket and flattened it on the bar. The corner of the page curled as it encountered a wet spot. The paper showed an image of wolf and dog soldiers marching along a dirt road. A few of them knew they were being photographed, and they gestured to the camera. Others walked on all fours, a pretentious way of showing that they stuck to the old ways—despite the fact that many of these warriors had been born after the Change. In every species, the young could not resist mimicking the old until they became old themselves.

  It was the same kind of photo Mort(e) had seen many times since the Mudfoot uprising began. Every day, more dogs joined, some brazen enough to take pictures of themselves in war paint, armed with anything from spears to rifles. Someone had printed numbers over the heads of each person in the photo. In the corner of the page, a key gave the names of every person identified. At the top of the list, in bold letters, hung an ominous word: malefactors.

  “We lost contact with the al-Rihla near the coast,” Falkirk explained. “They were investigating something. Reports of flying ants.”

  Mort(e) snickered. Might as well bring in the ants too, he thought.

  “This photo was taken near the beach,” Falkirk said. “If there were any survivors of a crash, this is where they would have landed.”

  Mort(e) pressed his stubby fingers on the photo and spun it toward him.

  “Right side,” Falkirk said. “Number 28.”

  Among the dogs walking upright, a single figure stood out. A tall canine, female, long snout, a patch of dark fur extended over her white face. A silver medallion glinting in the center of her neck. Slung over her shoulder, a strap held a makeshift scabbard fashioned from cloth. In the scabbard was the handle of a samurai sword. Mort(e)’s eyes zipped to the key, which listed number 28 as unidentified.

  “Don’t waste time thinking it can’t be,” Falkirk said. “I already did that. It’s her. You know it.”

  Mort(e) heard something like distant shouting. It was blood rushing to his ears, burning them.

  “We need to go get her,” Falkirk said.

  “Do we? She defected. Like a lot of other dogs. You can still join her.”

  Falkirk leaned in and whispered. “She won’t survive. None of them will.”

  “You overestimate your chances.”

  “See, that’s the thing. We know the Mudfoot are getting stronger. Which is why we’re going to fix it.”

  Mort(e) didn’t like the sound of that.

  “The Vesuvius has been ordered back to wolf country,” Falkirk said. “We’re bringing heavy ordnance. Incendiary bombs. Thermite. Everything will burn. The other clans gave us their blessing. They say the Mudfoot are diseased anyway, so we should cleanse the entire countryside with fire.”

  The husky stopped. Most likely, he had never received such an order before. And it had already changed him. Maybe it broke him.

  “My ship leaves soon,” Falkirk said. “We can get there in—”

  M
ort(e) raised his hand. “I can’t.”

  “What?”

  Mort(e) tapped his temple with his finger. “I’m no good to you. I’m damaged. Ask the beavers. I’m going crazy, and it’s only getting worse.”

  “You weren’t crazy before?” Falkirk said. “I need you. Trust me, I wish I didn’t. But you’ve been to wolf country.”

  “So have your comrades. You must know someone who was part of the occupation.”

  “You’re not listening. I need someone with your connections. The wolves have a nickname for you, don’t they?”

  Mort(e) waited for him to say it.

  “Tekni, I believe they called you,” Falkirk said. “What does that even mean?”

  Mort(e) had not heard the name in so long, and it sounded like a joke coming from Falkirk. “It doesn’t mean anything,” Mort(e) said. “And besides, none of that matters. Not after today.”

  “All right, fine. Tell me what happened.”

  To stall, Mort(e) licked his paw, rubbed it over his face. “It was a convoy. Some humans shipping something out of the city. Something big. Something they needed to hide.”

  “And you stopped them.”

  “We got one of the trucks. The other got away.”

  “What did you find?”

  Mort(e) laughed so bitterly that he hardly recognized the sound of it. “It was empty. A decoy.”

  He described the hydraulic door of the truck opening, revealing a void that seemed to stretch on forever. And then a tense silence from the beavers as the bleakness of it all sunk in. All that effort—one beaver dead, another dying, the dam torn apart—and they came away with nothing.

  “They toyed with me somehow,” Mort(e) said. “They knew I’d pick the wrong one. It was like—” He stopped there. Had it not been too crazy to say out loud, he would have told Falkirk that he felt an invisible force compelling him to choose the wrong truck. He drowned the thought with a thick gulp of his drink. “Still want me?” he asked.

  “The Mudfoot are at the edge of Mournful territory,” Falkirk said. “If I go there, it’s an act of war. But the Mournfuls know you. All I need you to do is get me safe passage.”

  Mort(e) drummed his fingers on the bar. “You could pretend you’re another deserter.”

  “Do you know what they do to spies? Do you know what they’d do if they found out I’m an officer?”

  “Then tell your masters to send a human.”

  Falkirk growled. “My masters don’t know about this.”

  Mort(e) waited for him to elaborate. But he didn’t need to. Falkirk the Good Boy was going rogue.

  “You heard what’s happening,” Falkirk continued. “The leader of the Mudfoot gave birth to a son. The first child born in a year. They’re getting stronger, and D’Arc’s caught up in it . . .”

  He trailed off. His ears twitched. There were voices outside. Falkirk gripped Mort(e)’s shoulder. “Is there another way out of here?”

  Mort(e) heard Shiloh at the door again, interrogating another group of unwelcome guests. Tranquility agents. Had to be. They had pieced it all together and realized that the main culprit had the audacity to hide in plain sight. Hey, good for them, he thought.

  “The kitchen,” Mort(e) said.

  The urgency overrode his despair from a few minutes before. He felt himself propelled from the seat and into the kitchen, where the chef had left a fresh pot boiling on the stove. In the bar, heavy boots clopped on the wooden floor. There must have been three officers, most likely armed.

  With his hand still on Mort(e)’s shoulder, Falkirk pushed him toward the rear exit. “I’ll hold them off. You stay out of sight. Meet me at Liberty One Tower tomorrow at noon.”

  “I didn’t say I’m going with you.”

  “You’re going, choker. For the same reason I am.”

  Falkirk gave him one last shove and then turned back to the bar. Mort(e) opened the door, hesitated. Did Falkirk know all his reasons? Finding D’Arc, perhaps. But he also had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. No one else who cared.

  Mort(e) listened as Falkirk spoke to the officers. The husky put on his best commander voice, telling them that there was no cat here. “Got the call on the radio,” he said. “I was in the area, so I checked it out. It’s clean.” They meekly apologized, making sure to finish every sentence with sir. Falkirk apologized to the staff, and then they were gone.

  The taste of brine filled Mort(e)’s mouth again. He let it pass, though he would never get used to it. Swallowing, he stepped through the door and into the sunlight.

  Chapter 9

  The Matriarch and the Ratwing

  Nikaya waddled as fast as she could along the trail, heading deeper into the forest, where the canopy blotted out the overcast sky. She weaved through thick trees, scraping her fur as she hurried past. Her stumpy legs brushed the weeds and ferns, creating too much noise. The ratwing Gaunt clung to her like a tumor, his wings girdled around her torso. He squeaked something in her ear.

  “Shut up,” she whispered.

  He squeaked again. It meant run—“feet fast”—the same thing he had been saying for days. Another squeak and a chirp meant that he smelled something. She did too, a thick, rotten smell, wafting through the trees.

  Somewhere far behind her but closer than before, a heavy footfall snapped a twig. A wolf was tracking them.

  Nikaya counted the ways in which she wanted to murder Gaunt.

  She could have drowned him. On that first day, after the prison break, he made it easy for her by wrapping his wings around her as she swam. With a big lungful of air, she could have dived to the riverbed while holding on to the thin bone in his wing so he could not flap away.

  Later, after they came to rest on a riverbank, she could have smashed his head in with a rock while he was passed out. Despite her renewed strength from working in the caves, she did not trust herself to do it in one strike. Who knew what a bat could do when injured and flailing for its life?

  Still later—after he convinced her in his stilted English that he knew the safest route to Thicktree—she could have punctured his jugular with a sharp stick or poisoned his food with some bad berries. Or she could have shoved him off the side of a steep rock face. That was her favorite. The irony of a bat falling to his death. He whined every day about his injury while she carried his ratwing ass, despite her arthritic knees. What better way to find out if he told the truth?

  His screeching interrupted her fantasy. He pointed the long finger bone on his right wing toward an opening in the trees. There! his screeching announced. There! There!

  “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  There! There!

  She needed to keep him alive. If she could bring him back in one piece, the bats would have to pardon her. Oh, they would do more than that. They would apologize. They would take the blame for everything that went wrong in Lodge City. They were the aggressors. They betrayed the beavers’ trust, those ingrates. With any luck, Gaunt would drop dead just a few seconds after she laid him in front of his people.

  Another set of feet troubled the leaves and sticks on the forest floor. Then another. Beasts advanced on all fours as if the Change had never happened, not bothering to hide anymore. They must have thought her a fat morsel bobbing along with an appetizer attached. Gaunt swore he knew how to get around them, but unless they could find a place to hide in this clearing, there would be nothing left of them except a patch of dried blood, which would wash away when the rains returned in the spring.

  She could still kill him right now before all that happened. Might be worth it.

  They emerged from the trees atop a sloping ravine, lightly dusted with snow. Descending the hill would take too long and would surely result in a bad slip, though Nikaya supposed the bat would break her fall. But there was something else. Gaunt chirped in her ear again, a word she could not
translate. He pointed to a pile of boulders near the center of the ravine, where the elements had torn open the earth and exposed its bones.

  She stopped. They were not boulders. Too round, all the same shape. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no . . .”

  Despite the snow covering them, she could tell that these objects were the husks of dead Alpha soldiers. Some were freshly deceased; others, rotting for days or more, their carapaces cracked open by the weather. Well over twenty, she guessed, piled haphazardly like the debris of a collapsed building, with beams and broken walls jutting out in unnatural directions. An ant graveyard. Gaunt must have seen it on one of his recon missions.

  Nikaya picked one at random and rubbed away the snow from the thorax. The carapace was clean. No branding. These were not the ants that destroyed Lodge City, the ones who so often hunted her in her dreams.

  A tree shivered, losing its snow into the wind. The wolves would arrive any second. Nikaya hauled the bat into the circle of the dead. She got to her knees and wedged herself between the abdomens of two petrified Alphas. One of them must have been there for a while, for its exoskeleton let out a hollow sound when she bumped it with her elbow. Cringing, she rolled the husk so that it lay partially on top of her, shielding her from view. For once, Gaunt did not complain. Nikaya hoped that the rottenness of the corpses would mask their scent.

  When the wolves got close, their breath heavy and wet, Nikaya tried to think of the first time she showed a live Alpha to her granddaughter. The ant had gone astray, like so many did after the Colony fell. Confused, unable to fend for itself, the insect wandered into an area that the beavers had cleared out for a new lodge. The adults formed a perimeter around the Alpha as it doddered about, inspecting the tree stumps, each perfectly carved into a cone.