Bats of the Republic

by Zachary Thomas Dodson

  “I’m suffering from Law brutality. I need sleep.” Zeke rolled over. ∧∧ “Bic and I talked about the Senator’s…” He squeezed one of his hands in the other. “About your grandfather’s passing, and I wanted to offer my condolences.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “My cousin isn’t the best representative of the bloodline.” ∧∧ “I introduced myself last week when I arrived here. He wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped.” ∧∧ “Can’t stand him.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I noticed your sabre there.” Bartle pointed to it, motionless above the mantel. Zeke tensed. “Looks like a gift from Bic’s collection. He showed me some very old sabres.” ∧∧ “It was my grandfather’s. Listen, I’ve got things to do today.” ∧∧ “That’s actually the very thing I hoped to ask you about. About your grandfather.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke searched the strange man’s face. For a moment he wanted to trust him, open up, tell him about the letter, ask for help. ∧∧ ∧∧ “He’s dead, so I’m sure it can wait.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle pulled off his glasses. He cleaned them with threadbare shirtsleeves. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “The sun is barely up,” Zeke said. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Look at this, please.” Zeke took a file stuffed with paper and carbons from Bartle’s thick hand. He leafed through it silently. When he looked up he caught Bartle staring at a picture of him and Eliza on the mantel. “I couldn’t, maybe, use your waterroom? If it’s not too much trouble,” Bartle asked. ∧∧ “It’s in the back,” Zeke said. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke inspected the file Bartle had handed him. It was full of classified documents: stoic black-and-white photos of relatives, newspaper clippings, birth and death records, all dated back hundreds of years. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Someone had done a lot of additional research on his bloodline. He stopped at an elaborate rendering of the Thomas family tree. ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke read over the old names slowly. Had his ancestors ever felt this restless, this uneasy? Was it the barrier, or was it in his blood? ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ When his grandfather ran for the Senate, his bloodline was thoroughly vetted. The Correctors employed by his opponents pried all the files open. They were looking for dirt, disinheritance, disgrace. ∧∧ ∧∧ Some stories had become exaggerated over time. But the reputation of the bloodline held. His thread was clean and he ascended to the Senate seat. ∧∧ ∧∧ Why would someone reopen his file? ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke heard a drawer close. It was not near the waterroom. He leapt up and ran into the bedroom. Bartle was crouched in front of his desk. Half of the drawers were open. He spun around. ∧∧ “What are you doing?” Zeke’s voice surprised him. Bartle’s hands trembled. Worry lines banded on his high forehead. ∧∧ “I…You don’t understand what’s at stake—” ∧∧ “Get out before I call a Lawman.” ∧∧ “Zeke, I’m sorry, if you’ll just—” ∧∧ “I’m calling a Lawman.” Zeke ran back into the livingroom. He popped the cap off the phonotube and punched in three zeros. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Republic Dispatch.” A woman’s officious voice reverberated through the unit. “What’s the situation?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle scuttled to the door. He glanced back at Zeke and ran out. Light flooded the open doorway. ∧∧ “Identify yourself. Is that Zeke Thomas?” ∧∧ “Hh, yes, sorry. Zeke Thomas.” He picked up the end of the phonotube. He could report Henry Bartle to the Law. Even if he was a Corrector. “It’s nothing. Bad punch. Never mind.” ∧∧ “Your thread shows an uncarbon’d document. Did you wish to—” ∧∧ Zeke capped the tube. He pressed his face into his hands. The house was silent. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He thought of the letter. He hadn’t checked it since yesterday morning. He ran back into the bedroom. When he opened his closet door, the shirt was gone. Bartle hadn’t been near the closet and he hadn’t had a shirt with him when he ran out. Zeke flipped through the hangers. It wasn’t between any other shirts. He searched the floor of the closet. He plowed through a pile of dirty clothes on his desk chair. He tossed handfuls of fashionclothes out of Eliza’s hamper. He pulled out all of his desk drawers, thumbing through stacks of paper. He looked through Eliza’s things. He searched each drawer of the bureau. Neither shirt nor letter could be found in the bedroom. Had he moved it in a laudanum haze? ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He closed all the windows in the livingroom. They didn’t seem to latch tightly enough. A violent wind was kicking up dust outside. It hissed against the walls. He would have to search the entire unit. He looked everywhere. All the cupboards, the drawers, the closets. Under the sparse wooden furniture. Every corner. Inside the end of the phonotube. Everywhere the Major would have looked. The letter was not inside the unit. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He went back into the bedroom and kicked clothes around the floor of the room, still searching. He picked up every item of clothing and put his hand in every pocket. The touch of paper in one made his heart jump, but it was just an old wrinkled greenback. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The letter was gone. The shirt was gone. Bartle had to have taken it. Even though he had nothing with him when he left. Zeke looked through the file left behind on his desk. It started with the Thomas family tree. Bartle was clearly obsessed with his bloodline. Zeke realized he had no idea how to find him again. ∧∧ Zeke put the stack down and quickly climbed to the roof, in case Bartle could still be seen. Up top, a whipping duststorm stung his face. There was no one out on the plankways. On the barrier’s horizon he could see a churning thundercloud, slowly being destroyed by the weather pylons before it could reach the city-state. Lightning flashed and thunder reverberated inside the city-state like a musket ball rattling around in a tin can. ∧

  FAM. ANTILOCAPRIDAE

  GEN. ANTILOCAPRA

  7.9.43, 13:45, 95 deg., no wind, no clouds

  Mountainous desert country. Blazing hot

  Antelope. Skinny, light brown coat. White and gray markings. Diminutive twisted horns. I have seen many thin herds of these desert antelope, which are quite small and have the character of a goat crossed with a grayhound. They cling tightly to their peer groups and shun the rest of the animal kingdom, though this lady I caught sleeping. They do not make for much of a meal.

  8/9/43

  PUEBLO, TEXAS

  Dearest Elswyth,

  The hour is late now, but all along the last few miles we heard the rattling cry of the prairie woodcock. I have found it quite common here, but tonight its peculiar song seems an echo of my loneliness. Our separation is wearing, I have slept little, and my heart is heavy.

  We made an open camp. Rodriguez says McMarrow receives telegrams from his command, which he shares with no one. Rodriguez thinks they concern this fantastical gun that General Irion possesses, which I thought at first must just be a ship’s cannon. The further he described its size and firepower the more it seemed another instance of Rodriguez’s paranoia. Though McMarrow has his vices—lying and gambling—I remain thankful for his rough-and-ready leadership.

  Last night we passed through the ruins of an ancient pueblo. When we first crested the hill, a figure in rags ran off, leaving a cart behind. In it we found a cage containing a motley coyote. There was little debate that the animal should be left in its prison, though it pained me to see its distress. It did give me ample time to draw it, however.

  Our Indian escort would not come near the pueblo, claiming it was haunted. Among the crumbling walls, occasional geysers of steam hissed straight up into the air. Rodriguez wanted to investigate, if for nothing else than to separate from McMarrow for a spell.

  The long-deserted village was indeed impressive. How did they procure enough water to sustain themselves in this desert? The structure in best repair was the church. I dismounted and Rodriguez and I went inside to look about. It was large, but built of the same sunburnt bricks common in this territory. The ceiling was quite high and doleful in appearance. There were many glyphs carved in and about the dwellings, including on the wood of the great door. An indication of a literate civilization aware of the grandeur of myths.
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  On this door was found a curious creature devouring its own tail. Rodriguez said it is the Indians’ principal deity, a bird-snake. This benevolent god was the morning star, and created a new race from the bones of the old by adding a drop of his blood to make them live. Rodriguez seems well-versed in Indian lore.

  In a room with a fire pit he began to tell me that the pueblo was inhabited until recently by one family, the remnant of a once very large population. Rodriguez also spoke of the temple on the other side of the village which housed old bones. The temple was supposed to have been in use five hundred years before the Spanish arrived. Legend holds it was built by a race of giants fifteen feet in height that preceded even the Aztecs. The ladder in the center of town was made to allow giants to reach to the heavens, or appears that way. It is broken now.

  The Navaho fear these ancient people and their ghosts, Rodriguez told me. Only the sorcerers of the Navaho visited this place now. The primary ingredient in their witches’ brew is the bones of the deceased, and I expect they find them here in no short supply.

  The ghosts are called skinwalkers for their souls’ ability to take the form of any animal. I thought of Aunt Anne, and wondered if her traveling soul could visit this place.

  All around the church and temple there were ruins as high as three stories. These rooms were entered by ladders up against the buildings that could then be drawn up in case of an attack. The inhabitants were secure to throw stones or any other missiles at enemies below.

  The sky has turned muddy and dark. We are again in flat desert. At supper, I gave a small bit of my ration to the caged coyote, who hungrily devoured it. Don’t fret. I’m sure once we are gone, its owner will return for it. We camped not far from the edge of the ruins and I admit feeling strange next to the ruins of such a city. Rodriguez’s tale has spooked me, which was perhaps his intent. The sky is moonless. The dust blowing strangely through the bones of the old town whispers in the night, and mixes eerily with the coyote’s plaintive cries.

  May These Bones Return to You, Zadock

  Leeya,

  I found Zeke’s letter. I was gathering our clothes to take them to the washatorium and I felt it crinkle in one of Zeke’s shirts.

  I put the letter in my bag and brought it to work. It was like I didn’t even decide to do it.

  I haven’t been able to catch my breath all day. Was it a really stupid thing to do?

  But I have a plan. I’m going to duplicate the letter. I can steal some Corrector’s glue, and reseal it. Then I’ll put it back in Zeke’s shirt at home. If he notices it’s gone, I’ll just say it’s at the laundry, and I’ll run down here and get it. Either way, I’ll bring it back and he’ll never know the difference.

  That way if he doesn’t turn it in by the deadline, I can turn it in for him, and keep the family name clear. And the Senate seat available. It’s a safeguard, so that Zeke doesn’t go to jail for an uncarbon’d document.

  He almost got arrested the other night. !!! A saloon brawl, of all things. I have no idea what is making him act out this way. If it’s the letter, then I intend to take care of it.

  But I can’t tell him about it. We are really fighting now. Our fights are so stupid. They’re not even about anything. We fight over…pomegranates or something. I don’t understand why he puts us at risk. We have to get out of Texas soon. You too.

  I hope I don’t have to lie to Zeke. I think I can return it before he notices. Something had to be done—Daxon knows he has it. Daxon might also know that I know. I can feel him watching me at work. I used to be invisible to him and now his eyes linger on me whenever we are in the same hall. It is totally creepy.

  The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s Daxon who’s messing w/ my work at the Vault. He used my namestamp on that book. He’s trying to use me to get at Zeke and the letter.

  He pays no attention to my reports on the murder thread. He is entirely dismissive of my work there, but very interested in what I’m doing otherwise. My nerves are frayed.

  Now more than ever, I am determined to get us to Chicago-Land. I am confident if we can get there then we can start again and have a family. I have been waiting for that since the day my father left. For years, I resented the prescribed path of the lifephases, like Zeke does. Now it’s all I want.