"A signal. Something visible to a satellite that wouldn't mean anything to the Brotherhood but would mean something to the clan. Something that says, we know you're watching, and we want to talk."
Petrov snorted. "A smoke signal encoded in Morse. That should work."
"What is Morse signal?" Number One asked.
"It's called Morse code. It’s a way of encoding language using only two signals with two different durations. Each letter and number is represented by a pattern of short signals that are called dots, and long signals that are called dashes. The signal can be anything. It can be sound, light, radio transmission, or smoke."
"I don't get it," Mattie said.
"Short bursts and long bursts." Petrov demonstrated by puffing out breaths. "A quick puff is a dot. Hold it longer, and it's a dash. Empty air between them does the rest of the work."
"Sounds simple enough." She turned to Dave. "Since you don't know what Morse code is, the others won't recognize it either, right?"
"The Eight are young," Petrov said. "The older ones will know what it is and probably know how to decipher it. It's not likely that we are the first ones on this island to think about signaling in Morse code to the outside world. If it hasn't been done yet, there is probably a good reason for it."
Mattie wasn't ready to give up on the idea. Instead of a single column of smoke, they needed something that could produce discrete puffs and pauses. Duration was the key. Short bursts for dots, longer sustained plumes for dashes, with clean gaps marking the spaces between letters and words. The challenge was precision.
"It's very difficult to control smoke," Petrov continued. "Wind is your enemy. A steady breeze stretches signals, and gusts erase timing. Redundancy helps. You keep sending the same message over and over again. The problem is that anyone can see that something is being said, but only someone who is trained and attentive can tell what it is."
Mattie liked it. It was primitive, inefficient, but oddly elegant. It was language translated to breath, fire, and time.
"Would smoke be visible from a satellite?" she asked.
She had no idea what satellite cameras could resolve from orbit, or if the smoke signal would register as intentional or random. Those were problems for Dimitri and Petrov to solve. They were the scientists. Her contribution was the concept. The engineering was their department.
"We don't know what the clan would recognize as a signal," Dimitri said. "We don't know their monitoring capabilities, their protocols, or what would get flagged as significant or just random noise."
"It's just a seed of an idea," she said. "A starting point. Now all of us can try to come up with ways to implement it."
"We will think about it," Number One said.
The plan was absurd. She knew that. She had known it from the moment the idea of rescuing the dormant women had taken root in her mind, and every new complication made it even more absurd.
But that wasn't a reason to give up.
Sometimes the best ideas arose because of impossible odds.
Dimitri picked up the next syringe and moved to Number Six, and the return to routine was welcome after the intense brainstorming session.
"Two to three days for my fangs to emerge?" Dimitri asked, his voice assuming its usual casual timbre.
"Yes. For the base growth," Number One answered in the same measured tone. "Don't worry about them elongating. That will take weeks, and until then, they will look like normal canines."
"That's good to know." Dimitri moved to Number Seven.
22
DIMITRI
The dinner trays arrived shortly after the Eight had left, delivered by the same human kitchen worker who brought them every evening. Three trays, three portions of whatever the central kitchen had produced that day, were handed over to Petrov, who was usually the one who accepted them.
Tonight it was grilled fish, rice, and a miserable excuse for a salad that was mostly lettuce with some purple onion strips and two cherry tomatoes for decoration. The smell of vinegar was so overpowering that Dimitri hesitated to remove the plastic wrapping from his tray.
"Don't stare at the food," Petrov said. "Eat."
"I hate vinegar."
"You haven't tasted it yet," Mattie said.
