Bats of the Republic

by Zachary Thomas Dodson

  He engineered the murders. Encouraged them. He will smoke out the Auspices. He means to overthrow the Senate and take power. He lied to Bic about the Senate seat. He means to destroy them all. The letter may not matter after all, if the Thomas bloodline is eradicated.

  Hide underground or keep to the dead zones. Bic is a monster. I fear he may come looking for you.

  I realize now it was never the Nightman. He moves in shadows, but only to serve the Auspices. He has been at the scene of every murder, on the same trail I am. He doesn’t want the girls dead, he has been working to prevent it.

  If anyone knew I was still here, I would be arrested like my father. But I won’t abandon him. The Law separated us once, I won’t let it happen again. I’m sitting here staring at his sealed file. I feel unable to open it. Now I know how Zeke felt about his grandfather’s letter.

  ~ Are some things better left alone? ~

  Maybe it doesn’t even matter now…I had to write all this down so someone would know. I beg the stars that it will be you, but someone needs to see this to know what Daxon has done.

  This note is my last bye forever. I do not know what will be the end of all of this.

  I love you like a sister, forever,

  ELIZA

  ∧∧ The Lawmen threw Zeke in a jail cell, his wrists locked in bolo-ties. They closed the glass door and sealed it with a pressurized steam valve. ∧∧ ∧∧ A single phosphor lamp droned above him in the cell. His feet were seared. The bolo-catch was still around his ankles. There was nowhere to sit. Standing was excruciating. He fell over and lay where he fell. ∧∧ ∧∧ He was beyond despair. Even if the barriers came down, there was no way out of this cell. He needed to get to Chicago-Land. His grandmother’s plan to secret him away and activate his authority had failed. And he hadn’t been able to sneak out into storm country on his own. Raisin was out there, dead or waiting. Zeke would never know. ∧∧ ∧∧ He felt tired. He didn’t care what happened now. He waited for Daxon. It didn’t matter anymore. He wanted to see Eliza again, just once. To know that she would be OK. Maybe he could bargain for her, give up the Senate seat. His feet pulsed with pain. ∧∧ ∧∧ The door hissed. Daxon was there. He swayed over Zeke. He had a large gash on his forehead. ∧∧ “Get these bolo-ties off.” The Lawmen snapped to. They picked Zeke up and pushed him out of the cell. They carried him down the jail corridors. Other prisoners pleaded or prophesied as they walked by, tapping madly on the glass. ∧∧ “Put him in interrogation?” one of the Lawmen asked. ∧∧ “No, my office.” ∧∧ They forced Zeke into a metal chair. He winced. It took all his remaining strength to keep his feet from touching the floor. The Major sat across from him. The office was a mess, like it had been ransacked. Zeke looked around Daxon’s office, searching for where he might’ve hidden the letter. His eye landed on a hatch in the floor, poorly covered by a rug. He wondered where it led. Someone closed the door behind them. Zeke strained to turn around. It was Bic. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Hello, cuz.” His face was all smug victory. ∧∧ “You’re not easy to catch. But that’s what the steammines are for.” Daxon’s face stretched into a grimace. ∧∧ “I would have thrown you over myself, if you hadn’t done the job for me. Side of the barrier you belong on, ask me.” ∧∧ The Major sat down. He pulled a laudanum phial out of his desk drawer. He added three drams to his glass and took a long draw, showily smacking his lips. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Hardly matters now. The letter seemed a threat, but if we’ve got you, and all the crimes you’ve committed, we’re watertight.” He looked up at Zeke, his eyes tired, searching. Zeke returned a blank stare. ∧∧ “The Senate issued a decree yesterday that you were to assume your seat,” Bic began. ∧∧ “I’m not so sure you even have this letter, anymore,” Daxon interjected. “But you won’t have the Senate seat either. The broadsheets will be informed that we’ve finally caught our murderer, here in Texas.” ∧∧ “You’ll be murderers as well.” Zeke motioned to his feet. A small shadow of dark blood had formed underneath them. ∧∧ ∧∧ Daxon whistled. “That injury won’t play well in court.” ∧∧ “Release me to the hospital unit. To Chicago-Land.” ∧∧ “Hh. We’ve got records of you entering and exiting those tunnels.” ∧∧ “The same ones that the animal came from. On the nights of the murders.” Bic grinned. ∧∧ ∧∧ “You might be careful with that particular fabrication,” Zeke said. “Could come back to bite you.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “This thread is all tied up. The Auspices are implicated. If they hadn’t opened their illegal tunnel for you, you could have never caused all that trouble.” Daxon took another long swig of his drink. ∧∧ “Sealed up now. And the Auspicium will be dissolved. There’s no reason this city-state can’t make its own fount-water.” ∧∧ Bic fingered the handle of his sabre. “And then, of course, you tried to flee.” ∧∧ “Clear admission of guilt.” ∧∧ “Not to mention a crime itself. Treason of the highest order.” ∧∧ “You’re about to have a lot of treason on your hands.” ∧∧ “My cannon is extremely dangerous. Your friends in the desert have no idea how to use it. They are putting everyone’s life at risk.” His face was swelling with anger. “Do you know the survival rate at Atlantas? We’ll lose a generation. We’ll ‘come and take it’ all right. I’ll hobble your Deserters and have them crawling on their bellies like the snakes they are.” ∧∧ Zeke stared at the floor. ∧∧ ∧∧ “This city-state is mine. I won’t have it subverted from below. Or from above. There is a new Khrysalis for the Thomas seat.” He stood, putting a hand on Bic’s shoulder. His eyes were unfocused. “And things will be different in the Senate too.” ∧∧ Bic stiffened. “If you’ll excuse me, cousin, I have preparations to make. Seems the burden of our bloodline has fallen upon me.” He walked briskly out of the room, jaw set. Through the open door of his office, Daxon called to the Lawmen. ∧∧ ∧∧ “Put him in one of the big cells. Bandage his feet. Make sure he lives.” ∧∧ They grabbed his arms and led him up another corridor, pushing him inside a cell. They pulled a valve and the door sealed. The cell walls were solid glass. Zeke sat down on the single bench. ∧∧ There was a cell next to his. He could see a man inside, through the glass. He blinked hard. It was Henry Bartle. His nose looked broken. ∧∧ Zeke opened his mouth. Bartle raised a hand. ∧∧ “Jail Recorders.” He indicated a man in the corridor sitting at a raised desk with a typowriter. ∧∧ Zeke nodded slowly. Bartle waited until the Recorder glanced down to type, and then flashed a quick series of hand signals to Zeke. ∧∧ ∧∧

  Zeke nodded and rested his back against the wall. Four o’clock? There wasn’t a clock in sight. It seemed impossible that he was here. Retreating into his mind didn’t seem like much of a possibility. How would he bide his time? He stared at the floor, the white wall, through the glass. There was enough condensation to write: ∧∧ Fate is time’s meaning, measured by the mind. ∧∧ “You want to hear a story?” Zeke addressed Bartle, but looked straight ahead. He could see Bartle nod out of the corner of his eye. ∧∧ “I’ve just been sitting here, and the fair came to mind. Do you remember it? They’d bring a petting zoo inside the city-state for kids.” ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle nodded. Zeke could hear the Recorder clacking frantically on his typowriter. He didn’t mind. ∧∧ ∧∧ “There was this one game they had. I think it was supposed to teach us about the mines. How the city-state was built from the hollowed ground beneath it. How we got metals and fount-water and all that.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle shook his head. ∧∧ ∧∧ “No? You never took Eliza? The game was a wall of little cavities, hollowed out like mines. They were jagged inside, and just big enough for a kid’s arm to fit through. Part of the thrill was bravery, I guess, to reach into some dark hole like that. You had to go in up to the shoulder for your hand to come out the other side. And if you did it, there was a fair worker standing behind the wall who would put a prize in your hand.” Zeke looked over at Bartle. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ∧∧ ∧∧ “A fair prize. Nothing special. But they made it seem like if you picked the right cavity, you’d hit pay dirt. I think the only two prizes
they actually had were hard candy and these little carved birds, painted white. The thing is, I didn’t really want either. There were better prizes at the fair. But I spent all the greenbacks my mother gave me playing this one game over and over. I was hooked on the mystery of it, I guess. I ended up with one pocket full of birds and one full of rock candy. I left crying and begging my mother for more tries at the game.” ∧∧ ∧∧ Bartle shrugged, like that should have been expected. ∧∧ ∧∧ “I knew there was someone behind there with only two kinds of prizes. I’m not sure why it made me so upset.” Zeke lifted his tender feet onto the bench and lay down. “I know what I want now. I’ll take care of Eliza.” The clack of the Recorder’s typowriter ceased and the jail was silent. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Finally Bartle spoke. “I wish you had opened the letter.” ∧

  Eliza, this note is a backup. I’m working on arrangements for us to flee, but in case something happens to me before then, I leave you these instructions. I hope that you never have to read them.

  Saturday mornings at 4am you will find the door to the steam distributor unlocked. It is a regular maintenance phase, and usually in a dead zone. If I am captured, only cutting the steam power to the entire city-state will release the jail-cell doors.

  **This is a last resort.**

  I’ve found Daxon’s namestamps on a dizzying collection of documents. In the brief time I was inside I could not parse them all out: telegrams, handwritten notes, a grayhound training-manual. One thing was clear: he traffics in falsified documents. Beyond the thread of murders, many concern what is happening outside the barriers: new cities and folks who have organized civilizations and armies in the years since the Collapse. The Queers were right. I fear Texas will become another Atlantas. These barriers won’t hold. We need an escape plan.

  Though reality seems to be shifting underneath us, there is one thing I must make clear. I leave you these last instructions to underscore the importance of the missing letter. I hope my plans do not fail us even if I am arrested by the time you read this. Tell Zeke all of this. Whatever happens, the letter must still be recovered at all costs. It cannot be allowed to fall into Daxon’s hands.

  These final letters see Zadock fall apart completely. He has lost his mind. His decisions have become rash, his actions unconsidered, and his purpose all but lost. There is evidence of insanity in these late letters.

  Zadock becomes more liberal with the attributes he gifts his fantastical animals. More troubling is that after he loses his way in the southwestern desert he seems to believe in these mutated creatures. He invents amalgamations such as “the Plumed Owlette,” and an anomoly like an albino bat gives birth to a whole new species. To manufacture false animals to win publication and fame is one thing, to record observations of them as though they are real is quite another.

  I also distrust his other descriptions. Take Irion’s weaponry. The steam power used in his day was mostly on boats. It wasn’t widely applied, and certainly not used for weaponry until after the Collapse of 2043.

  I feel convinced that much of what Zadock’s letters contain after Santa Fe is pure fabrication. The question then becomes “Why?” Was it purposeful invention, meant to supply him with creatures he could use to impress the patrons of the Museum of Flying? Or to self-mythologize—create a biographical legend where there was none? To become a hero in Elswyth’s eyes? The truth stalks from just beyond the edge of the dark.

  Zadock Thomas didn’t write much else in his life, only about flora and fauna in small pamphlets relating to the museum. An illustrated volume on bats was eventually published and remains the only official work to bear his name. It is in the Vault somewhere. As he planned, it is titled “bats of the Republic.”

  The details of the journey’s end are lost. There is no verification of the bloodline. The unopened letter is never made mention of again.

  Maybe I’m suffering from delusions, just like Zadock. His instability of the mind could have been caused by any number of factors: a foreign climate harsh with strange air, lack of proper diet and nutrition, a sustained injury and its attendant pain, or substances like Abril’s peyote, a known hallucinogen.

  This sealed file contains the last letter Zadock ever wrote. After reading all his others, I expect you’ve come to the same conclusions I have. Do not break the seal unless you already know what you will read.

  It contains something else. It may be the letter. But I can’t be sure. It’s a faded impression on the back of a page, like an old-fashioned carbon. There’s no way to know who Gray was writing to, or if it’s the one. Records must be read carefully: though first-hand sources are the best, they too can be deeply flawed, and when there is no corroboration, the careful Threader always considers them suspect. All should be cross-checked, compared, verified. Always hold the thought that some larger power or higher mind could be manipulating everything.

  Daxon’s grip is tightening. His plans stretch far beyond the Texas barrier. I’m worried about what will happen to you. I hope you are safe. If Zeke is locked up, they will surely bring you in as well. Seek to escape, or if not: find a hiding place.

  My fate in that regard is sealed. I was recorded w/ you. And then I took Daxon’s blood. I have shown my hand. They are coming for me. If no one finds that letter soon, I’ll be thrown in a cell.

  I am sorry I have ruined your bloodline, and left you alone and nameless all these years. I know now that being with you is more important thn any of that, I know it from getting the chance to be with you again.

  How I wish I had known what to do all those years ago. With you, with our family. All that’s left now is my small hope for your future with Zeke.

  I hope the path the fates have set out for you is easy to realize. Mine never was. Like an impossible trick, the patterns always seemed just beyond my grasp. The mind cannot solve the puzzle of the mind. But I suppose that which is most important in the world cannot be organized or classified. Meaning multiplies and confounds. It seems our hearts breed feelings, and we cannot fully capture them, subject them to our taxonomy, or examine them under the glass of a display case. They float up restlessly into the air on wings we cannot understand, and flap away beyond the mortal grasp.

  All along the universe swells, swallowing its own tail, a great sighing spiral, repeating itself.

  We should all be with those we choose.

  Our secrets are ours to

  She could hardly believe where she found herself. It all seemed like a story to her. A story, yet one that was inevitable, as though things could be no other way. Elswyth plotted it while she braided Louisa's hair.

  Mr. Thomas’s return was triumphant. But their wedding had to wait until she could nurse him back to health. The fine beauty of that summer day. How the geese flew in an arrow above their heads when the wedding bell was rung, pointing a way toward the future. Mr. Buell had been tried and banished from the city. It was astonishing how little Elswyth thought of him, out there on his own. She wondered if the wilderness were preferable to poison.

  Mr. Thomas was hard at work on his field guide, and Mr. Gray had dedicated a hall at the Museum of Flying as ‘Thomas’s Tunnel of Bats.’ Dark and strange, it had become immensely popular with all the new Chicagoans looking for a thrill, leading to a steady source of revenue for her father. And a resplendent wedding.

  Louisa had calling cards from seven suitors for that day, all fine young men, desperate to escort her to her sister’s wedding. Well, six calling cards filled with longing and one filled with mirth. Aunt Anne had made a card from the Auspicium, asking one last time for Louisa’s pledge. All were amused by its cleverness.

  Aunt Anne truly did not require any more new recruits—the Auspicium was growing in membership and strength.

  But not growing nearly as finely as John William. He was a beautiful boy. Quiet, bright, and curious. Elswyth loved him above all else. He asked her to read The City-State to him every day. He never tired of the chase or the hiss of the steam weapons.

&nb
sp; Once the last four pages had been restored, Aunt Anne saw that the book found a publisher and illustrator both. More importantly, the prophecy was fulfilled.

  At least, if things were as Elswyth imagined them.

  If only true life were a story like this one…

  DO NOT CLICK HERE

  The night is a tunnel, she thought, a hole into tomorrow…

  —Bene Gesserit witch Jessica in Frank Herbert’s Dune

  The outcome in any work of fiction is arbitrary.

  —Peter Chung

  Who are you, anyway?

  —Favorite saying of my grandson, probably

  PHOTO: AL HICKS

  ∧∧ ∧∧WHITE-NOSE SYNDROME is a relentless new disease that has devastated the North American bat population in recent years. White fungus appears on the faces and wings of hibernating bats, causing them to wake up in the middle of winter when food sources are scarce. The mortality rate at the caverns where the disease is discovered often approaches 100 percent. More than six million bats have died since 2006. This ecological disaster is the most precipitous decline of wildlife in a century, and has wide-ranging implications for the environment, farming, and biodiversity. A portion of the proceeds from this book will go to help fight White Nose Syndrome. To find out how you can help, please contact Bat Conservation International, Austin, Texas.

  BatCon.org

  PHOTO: NATHAN KIRKMAN

  DRAWING: VIKTOR VANBRAMER

  ∧∧ ∧∧ZACHARY THOMAS comes from a long line of overthinkers. He is a fifth-generation Texan, born deep in the heart and raised in the desert southwest. During his young-adult lifephase he ran with a rebel group of writers in Chicago under the banner of featherproof books. Recently, he and his pair transferred to the city-state of Helsinki, where he fences and teaches in between dreams.