Bats of the Republic

by Zachary Thomas Dodson

  If Zeke and I start a family together we will be able to reconnect—he will have something other than this Senate seat—something other than himself—that feels meaningful and real. Maybe this is a misdirected idea but I have nothing but my instinct left to rely on.

  I love you like a sister,

  Eliza

  ∧∧ In the morning the air was hung with dust. Zeke wondered if their filter was broken. ∧∧ He wanted to tell Eliza about Bartle and the missing letter, but couldn’t breach the silence between them. She would be upset that he lost the letter. He wondered if he could get books in jail. Or laudanum. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Jail might be unpleasant, but maybe there he could fully retreat into himself. He might train his mind to travel by itself, in the night, across distant lands, to commune with all sorts of other minds. ∧∧ No shadow of thought would be left behind. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Eliza pulled on her brown Vault uniform. ∧∧ “Did my clothes go to the laundry?” ∧∧ Eliza slid the door closed without answering. She left without looking at him. ∧∧ ∧∧ He went to the waterroom. The mechanical pump hissed and clanged as steam filled the copper pipes. Clean water ran down his back. He breathed the steam in deeply. ∧∧ ∧∧ He traced out the words “It will be OK” on the steamed glass of the waterroom door. Droplets rolled off the bottom of the letters. ∧∧ ∧∧ When they first moved from Port-Land they left each other notes. Eliza snuck a pencil out of her job at the Vault. The small theft excited her nerves. They used it to write on scraps of paper until Eliza got paranoid and took it back to the Vault. It was illegal to keep writing instruments. So Zeke began to write the notes anywhere he could: on fogged mirrors, in the dust that coated their walls, in the steam from their power lines. ∧∧ It was easier than speaking, sometimes. No one else could listen in. He enjoyed tracing out the shapes of the letters with his fingers. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He watched his message disappear as the condensation evaporated. He wondered if it would reappear when Eliza took a shower. ∧∧ ∧∧ Back in the bedroom he opened the closet. He stared at the spot where his shirt had been. It was really gone. What if it had been a warning? He couldn’t take the seat unless he knew. ∧∧ He needed to think, so he decided to go to the fountry. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The city-state was maintained by nourishing waters that flowed underground. Too precious to pump, it had to be rationed and collected by hand. This had always been Zeke’s errand. He liked doing it. It felt purposeful. ∧∧ He fastened two large tin containers to a yoke, hoisted it onto his shoulders, and walked. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The fountry was in the city-center, directly below the capitol. The waters bubbled up from the same hot well that provided the city-state’s steam power. ∧∧ ∧∧ He entered the queue room, which was flanked with Lawmen gripping their steamsabres. Zeke passed through the identification station. The woman in front of him carried a phial of blood as her ID. She was too old to be pricked repeatedly. Zeke held out his hand, the small scars lining up along his veins. They pricked him for a single drop, and he moved into the queue. ∧∧ ∧∧ His ID card was stamped with a tiny . He removed his boots and stepped into the boiling tub used to clean feet of contaminants. It hurt a little. His feet turned a raw pink. ∧∧ ∧∧ The fountry was the darkest place Zeke knew. The air was wet, curled with steam. It was a welcome relief from the bright, dry day. The ceiling was low, cut with sloping curves. The wet floor reflected the faint green glow of the phosphor lamps along the walls. The rush of the fount’s burbling, tumbling water blotted out all other sound. ∧∧ ∧∧ The four streams of the fount met in an overflowing haystack of water in the middle. Zeke stepped toward it on a small silver-plated bridge. ∧∧ ∧∧ There were folks on every side of the fount, mostly women. They slung tin cups or pitchers into the flow and pulled them out again, heavy with fount-water. There were singles and pairs alike, dressed in their working uniforms, no fans or fashionclothes here. Apart from the occasional hand signal, there was no communication. They were quiet and reverent, performing the necessary task to sustain their lives. ∧∧ The rhythm was human and ancient. Zeke had read in his books about villages digging wells. He pictured folks dredging up wet mud with bare hands, laying stone walls, carrying water daily. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke found a place at the edge of the fount and waited for a surge that would fill his container entirely. The fountry was messy. Zeke liked that too. He thrust his container in and lifted the full tin up and out. The liquid was a sparkling amber brown. Drops clung to the hair on his forearms. The bittersweet taste of fount-water was heavy in the air. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ A week’s ration provided all the sustenance and nutrients necessary for survival. A splash of fount-water could heal abrasions or small cuts. Some folks consumed nothing but fount-water and skipped the frills, the restaurants. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He liked being underground, in the dark, surrounded by the wealth of the city-state. Just as he was about to submerge the second container, he noticed a message written on the side. The condensation in the fount-water room had revealed a neat row of Eliza’s capital handwriting.

  There was no way to tell when it had been written. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ With the yoke on his shoulders he walked back out into the bright morning. Ropes of dust snaked through the dry air. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke would bring the tins home and Eliza would combine the fount-water with flavors from the grocery, or make tea. If they ever made up. Zeke paused to read the broadsheets on the watchpost nearby. ∧∧ ∧∧ Largest was a notice urging girls who didn’t want to be paired to join the Auspices in their strange alchemy. Zeke read the news broadsheet instead. There was an apology for the false all-quadrant alert. With uncharacteristic honesty, the broadsheet gave the reason: the string of murdered girls. Yet another body had been found. Citizens were advised to stay inside after dark. And then, hidden at the very edge of the sheet, the most disturbing news of all: There had been a cannon attack. Atlantas had collapsed. ∧

  FAM. CANIDAE

  GEN. CANIS

  8.9.43, 17:00, 90 deg., 10 knots, few clouds

  Indian pueblo, estimated 42 miles from Santa Fe

  Coyote. (A Spanish word. Perhaps prairie hound for the English?) Gray body with lighter underbelly, black-tipped tail. Long pointed ears and snout. Smaller than I had imagined, my guess is 4 feet long. I found my specimen quite lithe and ragged. I chose not to render his cage. Rodriguez said finding him here was a bad omen, but I can’t see how. I have never seen a canid with such slippery grace. His screams, however, are quite wretched. They were answered in the night by his brothers in the wild, unless I imagined it. Their cries at first sounded to me like wailing children stranded in the desert. If my habitat were constantly this unbearably dry, and I was jailed, I might cry out in such a way as well. He must be unbearably thirsty.

  ∧∧ Zeke returned with the fount-water. It was midafternoon and the dust was starting to blow in, whistling around the weather pylons. The sun flashed in and out, catching the silver rooftops. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ As he neared the unit, he could hear voices inside. It was Monday, Eliza should be at work. He walked around to the kitchen window and glanced inside. ∧∧ Leeya sat cross-legged at the low wooden table, and Eliza was going through the motions of the tea service. She gathered the cups and utensils from the cupboards and put them in the large metal sink. She seemed frustrated. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Everything is out of place.” She pumped the faucet handle vigorously until water began to flow. She washed the dishware in the prescribed order, arranging them carefully in front of her guest. She started to apologize for the lack of fount-water. Zeke headed back for the front door when he heard Eliza say, “It was illegal, but it had to be done.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He froze, the yoke of fount-water on his shoulders. He crept back to the kitchen window to watch. He felt like one of them, a Recorder. ∧∧ “I’m grateful, you know that,” Leeya replied. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I just can’t believe Daxon caught me,” Eliza said. “I mean, I assume that’s why I’m fired. I shouldn’t have written all those notes. Those drawi
ngs.” She had lost her job. Why hadn’t she called him? “I thought I had an eye for fake records. I thought I was good at falsifying.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “You were. You are. You got me to Texas, didn’t you?” ∧∧ ∧∧ “It’s turned out so badly.” ∧∧ “For me,” Leeya said. “Raisin was obsessed with what was happening in the storm country. How could we pair? He just wanted to see the outside world.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “You’ll find a pair. You’re beautiful. You can practically see the good blood in your cheeks.” ∧∧ “What about Zeke’s cousin?” ∧∧ “Bic?” ∧∧ “He’s single, isn’t he? Accomplished. I know you approve of the bloodline.” ∧∧ “Leeya, that’s not a good idea. He’s…creepy.” ∧∧ “Courting is impossible. I should join the Auspices.” ∧∧ “Don’t joke.” ∧∧ “You can’t see me in a robe?” ∧∧ “I get notices from them. All the Gray girls do. I don’t have my job anymore, and I still would never join the Auspicium. Auspex is just a nice word for spinster.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “How else is a woman supposed to be useful?” Leeya asked. “I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a mother. Or a pair. The fellows here are all dumb or blissed out on laudanum.” ∧∧ “That sounds familiar. Zeke and I are in such a bad place.” Eliza sat down and began to shakily fan her teacup. “I’m afraid he’s not going to take the seat. He’ll drop out of the lifephase system and disappear. Just like my father did.” Leeya was silent. Eliza rarely mentioned her father. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Did you…want to talk about it?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Eliza’s eyes started to blur. ∧∧ “Oh, lady.” Leeya got up and came around the table, breaking the ritual. She offered her hand-kerchief, and Eliza used it to quickly wipe her eyes. ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke thought of his grandfather. He wrote in the dirt at his feet. ∧∧ Those who came before are lost to us now. ∧∧ “He’s not your dad. That won’t happen. You’ll get paired. He just doesn’t know what to do with himself.” ∧∧ “At least Daxon doesn’t know about Zeke’s letter. That problem won’t be solved by…” ∧∧ One of Zeke’s canisters of fount-water slid from the yoke, and hit the ground, ringing like a tower bell. Zeke quickly ducked down and tried to right it. ∧∧ “What was that?” Eliza stopped. She came to the window and looked out. Zeke stayed down. He held his breath. She had told Leeya about the letter. He felt desperate. Fount-water slowly leaked from the loosened lid of the tin. She had given away his secret. ∧∧ “It sounded like someone on the roof,” Leeya said. They both listened. Wind wound through the grid. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Paranoia’s catching.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “There’s plenty to worry about inside the walls. I heard there was another murder.” ∧∧ “The supposed suicide.” ∧∧ “I can’t tell if that’s better or worse than an animal attack.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “It’s more lies, is what it is. The case is rife with falsification. A lot of the animal thread references this obscure file number. I tried to look it up, but it’s been pulled from the Vault, under the namestamp Daxon.” ∧∧ “Figures.” ∧∧ “So then, I went back and checked for cross-references and found a couple of mentions of that record number from when the city-states were founded. They refer to the Auspicium.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “The Auspices are allowed to have animals in the city-states. They need what’s inside them for certain mixtures.” ∧∧ “I think that’s what makes me maddest about getting fired. Who will work on this thread? I’ve gone back and compared the records—the murders happen like clockwork. Not exactly animalistic.” ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke felt someone watching him. He glanced toward the watchpost. From just below it, a figure in a wide-brimmed hat was walking toward him. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ It was Henry Bartle. Zeke set down the tins by his front door and quickly walked over. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Zeke, I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve got to talk to you.” Bartle stood between Zeke and his front door. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Where is the letter?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I owe you an apology for the other day. I lost control of myself. Seeing you here with…I just—” ∧∧ ∧∧ “I want it back.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “It’s gone?” ∧∧ ∧∧“This fount-water needs to go into the caches or it’ll spoil.” Zeke gripped the yoke tightly. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Zeke, if it’s gone, then we need to find it. Right away.” ∧∧ “So you deny taking it?” ∧∧ “I’m in a position to help. I’m a Corrector. Or, as I prefer, Historian. But I’ve been called a Corrector since we first set up the Vault of Records and carbon’d everything. I’ve been researching your grandfather. It hasn’t been easy, believe me. The size of the Thomas file—” ∧∧ ∧∧ “You left some of it here.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧

  “Yes, I wanted you to read about one of your ancestors in particular: Zadock Thomas. He lived pre-Collapse, in the mid-1800s. But…I fear…” Bartle lowered his voice. He glanced up at the watchpost. He made the hand signal for move, walking toward a dead zone. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke followed him. They stood on the edge of the plankway. ∧∧ ∧∧ “My research turned up things that needed to be corrected,” he whispered. His mouth flecked with spittle. “And things that…couldn’t be corrected. The Vault is wrong. Those who control it can’t be trusted. The legacy requires…” ∧∧ Bartle’s whisper was barely audible above the strong wind. Zeke put the yoke down, keeping his fingertips on the cool metal. The Deserters ranted about falsifications in the records. Eliza said it generated huge threads. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Why do you care so much?” Zeke asked.

  ∧∧ Bartle made the hand signal for lower your voice. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I have…an interest in the Senate seat. I had to leave…my family. Zeke, this letter…without it my research has been like trying to square the circle. It could be the essential—” ∧∧ “Are you working for Daxon?” ∧∧ “Quite the—” ∧∧ “You showed up at a convenient time.” ∧∧ “Well, it’s true, I do have access to your file. Listen, I know they’re after you.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle looked about suspiciously. Through the dust, a tram ascended the distant sky. Zeke watched it climb. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Zeke, listen. I care about what happens to you. And what happens to Eliza. My daughter…I’m…I’m Eliza’s father.” Zeke stayed frozen. He stared at Bartle, trying to see the truth. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle began again, nervously. “She doesn’t know I’m here. But I’ve made this bundle…I’ve been writing her since…I’m worried she’s in danger.” Bartle seemed on the verge of crying. He started blinking rapidly to keep the tears from streaming down his face. In the exact same way Eliza did. Zeke softened. He saw that Bartle was upset, that he was telling the truth. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Hey, I…” Zeke touched his shoulder. “I don’t want her to be in danger either.” ∧∧ “I know,” Bartle said, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand, “but we all are as long as Daxon’s murder case remains open. He’s got everyone with a licensed sabre on a list, including you and Bic. That’s how the girls were killed. If he doesn’t find a culprit soon, he’s just going to pick a name off his list. I’m guessing it’ll be yours. He disagreed with the Senate about how Texas should be run. He didn’t like your grandfather.” He lowered his voice further, his breathing labored. “I think I can help, is what I was trying to say.” ∧∧ Zeke realized this man was a wreck. “Do you want to come inside?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “NO! No. You can’t tell Eliza I’m here. I’ll go to jail. I don’t want the Law watching her either.” He inched closer. “Has Daxon been at your unit lately?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke met Bartle’s eye. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Zeke, the letter has turned up. The records say there’s a copy at the Vault now. Daxon got hold of it.” ∧∧ “How is that possible?” ∧∧ “Maybe he had someone steal it. In any case, an uncarbon’d document supports his case against you.” ∧∧ “What’s in the letter?” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle stopped. He took off his glasses again and wiped the dust from them with his shirtsleeve. He put them back on and blinked up at the ascending tram. It lifted above the duststorm, small and bright as a rising star. ∧∧ “Whatever it is, Daxon wi
ll use it against you. You need someone at the Vault.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Eliza.” Zeke hoisted the yoke back onto his shoulders. The tin containers of fount-water sloshed. ∧∧ ∧∧ “No…I’m afraid for her. She’s lost her job there. I need to save her. We do.” Zeke struggled to balance the containers, which were swinging in the strong wind. ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle steadied him. ∧∧ “I’d really like to have the letter.” ∧∧ “You and I both. I’ll go searching in the Vault, first thing tomorrow.” ∧∧ “OK.” Zeke entered his unit sideways with the yoke. He spun around and met Bartle’s eye before closing the door. It was strange to look at Eliza’s father. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He set the containers down and peered back through the peephole, locking the door. Bartle was gone. He felt crazy. He couldn’t tell Eliza that he had just sent her father to steal something from the Vault. ∧∧ ∧∧ He had forgotten to tell Bartle not to open the letter if he found it. ∧

  Eliza, always in the back of my mind is the idea that the letter I’m composing to you may be the last. This time it seems more certain than ever. Zeke’s letter has been turned in. I’m going to the Vault to get it back. This is all to ensure your future.

  The Sisters Gray has revealed a disturbing fact. If Elswyth Gray took her sister’s child and raised it as though it were her own, the whole bloodline might be in question. She might truly be a Gray child, in the modern sense. Unless Zadock and Elswyth had a natural child of their own, the Senator and his grandson might not be related to Zadock Thomas by blood after all. This could call into question Zeke’s right to the Senate seat. You may not be paired with a Khrysalis after all.