Carapace (Aggressor Queen Book 1) Page 15

  Nestra comes. I’m again settled in our meeting place before she reaches me. I’m glad to see her. I can no longer imagine her as belonging to the species of monster that inhabits our planet.

  “Sister,” I say, smiling, and am struck again that I can consider an ant a friend and enjoy our meetings so much. Nestra settles to the ground without speaking. I reach for her lower arms but she pulls them away and out to her sides.

  “Sister Nestra?” I’m confused.

  “You are my friend,” Nestra says. “Trusted friend?”

  “Of course!” I answer. I can’t imagine the purpose of this question. “I would never betray your trust. I . . . .” I want to say, “I love you,” like a child to a beloved grandmother – surprising as this revelation is to me – but I don’t know the words. If she would let me touch her, she would taste this on me. “I . . . we are . . . bond-sisters.” I’d reach for her again, but I can’t disrespect her obvious desire not to be touched.

  “I will trust, sister,” Nestra says after a pause. She sighs as if she has decided something burdensome. She brings her lower arms together in front of me.

  I fill my thoughts with trust and affection and place my hands on her arms. A panicked fear fills me and I pull my hands back in my fright. It takes me a moment to realize the fear is Nestra’s and not mine.

  “You’re scared!” I almost shout the words. I take a deep breath and release it through pursed lips and then ask, “Why are you so scared?” It occurs to me that when I first started sharing with Nestra I would have feared for myself, but I can’t bring myself to distrust Nestra. We’ve shared so much.

  “The queen,” Nestra says. I understand fear of the queen, but Nestra has always been near the queen without this level of fear.

  I wait. When she doesn’t continue, I reach for her again, filling my mind with memories of shared comfort and thoughts of calm. It is hard to maintain this with Nestra’s fear coursing over me, but I inhale deep breaths and try.

  Nestra sighs, but can’t shake off her fear.

  After several minutes like this, she says, “I will confess.” Again I wait. Guilt, fear, trust wash over me from Nestra and I battle to overcome the negative emotions while reinforcing the trust. After another minute, she says, “I . . . steal from the queen.”

  “What?” I’m not asking her to repeat herself, but what she has stolen. Nestra will feel the intention behind my question.

  “Strength,” she answers.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, although I’m sure she can sense my confusion.

  “Strength. In fugue state. I take strength from the queen.”

  I can’t begin to imagine how this can be done, but there is much about the communication between ants I don’t understand.

  “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, for us?” I’m referring to Nestra and me. “If she’s weaker?”

  “No. She is more unstable. More angry.”

  I now understand Nestra’s fear. “Did she catch you? Are you in danger?”

  “All are in danger near the queen,” Nestra answers.

  My thoughts swirl through the imperfect understanding that exists between us, as I attempt to continue to comfort Nestra.

  “All humans will die by the end of the next lunar period,” Nestra says. It takes me a moment to break from my spinning thoughts and register this next statement. My own fear courses through me with a jerking stab.

  “What? Why?” I can hear my own panicked breaths panting from me. I want to run to tell Samuel, run to safety – although there is nowhere safe.

  “No longer needed. Sufficient brothers will hatch.” Nestra tries to wash me in comfort but our combined fear overwhelms her efforts. I can smell the cold sweat that has sprouted all over my body.

  “Can you put the strength back?” I ask. It’s ridiculous, but it seems Nestra’s theft has caused this problem and maybe she can fix it. That we will not die if she returns what she has stolen.

  “This will not stop the death of humans,” Nestra answers. Sympathy and comfort. In my panic, they seem fruitless, an icing over putrid flesh.

  “I will help humans,” Nestra says. “I will help my sister.” Affection, fear, affection – waves that crash against me.

  Again, as if my brain is trapped on a speeding circular track, it takes a second before her words have any meaning. Then, “How?”

  “My sister Khara will tell me,” Nestra answers. Trust. Affection.

  I have to meet with Samuel. There has to be a way. I don’t want to die, but more than that, the idea of all humans . . . gone . . . is a tragedy bigger than my death.

  “How will all the humans die?” The pit inside me opens with the question.

  “This I do not know,” Nestra answers. “My apologies.” I am awash with her regret.

  Great. If they use the same weapon they used at first, on the other side of the planet, we’ll be just gone in a flash – disintegrated or whatever. No chance to fight.

  I push my prickling fear aside and concentrate again on sending Nestra trust and love.

  “I am a traitor,” says Nestra. This snaps me from the whirl of panicked thoughts overlain by my efforts to transmit friendship.

  “No!” I say. “The queen is a traitor. You are my sister!” This seems to appease and comfort Nestra, and I feel a wash of relief, as if I had granted absolution of some kind.

  “I must go now. I will come again,” I say. I haven’t told her I’m part of a human rebellion – not because I don’t trust Nestra, but because I have Samuel’s trust and won’t betray it – so I can’t tell her I have to meet with him to discuss this.

  As I turn to leave, I say, “One lunar period,” more to myself than to Nestra. One month.

  We have one month to win and live. Or one month until we die.

  CHAPTER 29

  SAMUEL

  I’ve gotten a message from Fatchk. It came through a trusted source, but he got the information through dubious channels. It could be a trap. Yet, I have to take this risk.

  It’s been weeks since Fatchk contacted me, which only adds to my anxiety. With the shocking information Khara’s gotten from Nestra, there’s no more time for planning, no more time for building up our resources. We’re not ready, but we have to act. I’ve passed this on to my outside contacts in Lithonia, Stone Mountain and Forest Park but have heard nothing from Douglasville. It’s as if all contacts from there have disappeared. I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.

  Based on what we’ve learned about the queen’s “sickness” and how it’s spread, I’ve changed our local plan from joining in the generalized attack to a focused assault on the capitol complex. And Fatchk may have information that will make the difference between probable death and certain death.

  Khara offered to come with me. I need a woman for the meeting, as it’s to take place in an ant club under the cover of supplying male and female humans to a patron. If this isn’t a trap, the patron will be Fatchk. I planned to take Jan, but she can’t get away from her factory dorm for this meeting. Khara volunteered. For some reason, this makes me uneasy.

  “We are to enter the club as a couple,” I explain, as we hurry toward the meeting. She doesn’t answer, so I explain further. “We link arms.” I pause, waiting for the injunction against touching to be raised. Still Khara says nothing. “We don’t allow any other patrons to separate us. We say we are borrowed as a favor between brothers.” Our monitors will help with this ruse. I open my collar.

  Khara nods, concentrating on my explanation, as she matches my movements and opens her own collar.

  I’m exasperated at what seems to be a failure for her to understand my point. “We will need to be always touching. Arms linked at least. Perhaps other touching.” I watch her face for reaction. I hate that I’m pleased at the thought, but there it is.

  “I understand,” Khara answers. She isn’t looking at me now. She seems amused.

  “Can you do this?” I ask.

  A faint smile
touches her lips, and her eyes flick to mine and away. “I think I can handle it,” she says. “I’m touched by Ilnok every day and live through it,” she says, then continues with added vehemence, “even when I’m sure I can’t stand another fucking moment.”

  Her words come with an internal stab that Khara feels she needs the same endurance to tolerate her master’s abuses as to link arms with me, and then I’m angry with myself for my ridiculous desire that she feel different toward me.

  “Not that you’re anything like that monster,” Khara adds, “I didn’t mean that.”

  The adolescent elation that flurries through me at her statement angers me further. I can’t allow myself this distraction. The stakes are too high. In my self-directed anger, I increase the pace of my stride.

  After a minute, Khara’s hand clutches at my elbow, then closes around my arm. “Hey!” she says. “Slow down, I can’t walk that fast.”

  I look down at her hand and through a weak smile she says, “See?”

  I slow my stride until Khara can keep up with my brisk walk. She drops her hand from my arm.

  Inside the club, we’re escorted to a reservation book, and then to a room on the second floor. My worries about the difficulty of getting to the meeting room were over-blown. Khara clings to my arm throughout the procedure, and I don’t tell her this now seems unnecessary. Her breast brushes my triceps as we stand outside the appointed entrance, and the prickle-skinned pleasure that warms me causes me to vow I’ll never again touch Khara outside of this one mission.

  Our escort scratches at the door, opens it, waits until we enter and then closes the door behind us. Fatchk is there, alone. The relief that torrents through me clears my head.

  “This is Khara,” I say. He’s met with Khara – the last message I received from Fatchk was through Khara – but even Fatchk has difficulty recognizing differences between humans with whom he is unfamiliar.

  Before I can say more, Fatchk gestures at the four walls and ceiling as though a king displaying his castle, and says in haughty, loud tones, “I do not need names, creatures, I need drink, I need pleasure.”

  In an instant, I am alert and worried about what Khara’s reaction might be. My eyes dart toward Khara, expecting fear and distrust.

  Khara’s face is placid. She bows her head back, spreads her arms wide, and says, in a cool monotone, “We are your servants.” I’m impressed at her frigid reserve and perfection of reaction. She doesn’t have my reasons for alarm at this most un-Fatchk-like behavior from a trusted comrade.

  Fatchk gestures at Khara, and Khara walks, still open, to stand before Fatchk.

  “Remove,” Fatchk says, flicking a pincer at the front of Khara’s loose shirt. Khara pulls her shirt over her head and drops it to the floor. I am horrified and excited. Even in my uneasiness over Fatchk, my eyes dart to the rounded profile of her young breasts. She points to her loose pants – an unspoken question – and at Fatchk’s gesture, kicks off her sandals and drops her pants to a pile on the floor. She is nude. Too thin, but shapely. And beautiful.

  At another gesture from Fatchk, Khara drinks a proffered bowl of sweetmead and lies back on cushions, head back. I am aghast at what I am watching, both because Fatchk is involved, and because of Khara’s obvious complacency with the procedure. I have to find a way for us to escape from this apparent trap, but can’t yet fathom how this might be done. I am . . . distracted . . . by Khara’s nude body sprawled before me.

  Fatchk dips his large head toward Khara, palpus extended. Khara pushes her head back and opens her mouth. The palpus writhes between Khara’s lips. The excitement I am beginning to show in response to Khara’s open nudity and prone form is doused by my revulsion at this scene. I’m frozen. Even my thoughts are frozen around the bare determination that I have to get Khara out of here.

  Fatchk removes his palpus and leans again toward Khara’s face, mandibles clicking, head nodding toward one of Khara’s ears and then the other. If Fatchk clips or hurts Khara . . . . I step toward them.

  Fatchk glances up at me and Khara rises from his lap. She is expressionless, although her eyes lock with mine from the moment she begins to rise until she is beside me, turning way, turning back to face Fatchk.

  “Remove,” Fatchk says to me. I don’t move, other than to clench and unclench my fists, confused at the point of this trap.

  “Go,” Khara whispers through lips that don’t appear to move. “Go,” she repeats, and there’s urgency in her command.

  I remove my clothing. I drink the sweetmead offered. I recline. I open my mouth. I hope to mimic Khara’s acceptance of this, but Tamerak has never asked such things of me and I don’t know what to expect. Fatchk’s palpus moves into my mouth. It is dry and scabrous, like the tongue of a cat. I prepare for the gag reflex that must come as the palpus moves toward my throat. But the palpus stops just inside my mouth, and I feel a slight – almost provocative – suction against my tongue, nothing more.

  When Fatchk removes his palpus and begins moving his mandibles toward my head, I understand.

  “Nestra . . . ,” Fatchk breathes toward my left ear.

  “. . . must . . . ,” as a breath toward my right ear.

  “. . . discover . . . ,” toward my left ear.

  “. . . who . . . ,” toward my right.

  Fatchk pulls back and centers his head over my face, and with the faintest click, I am sure I hear, “Friend.”

  I don’t understand this scrap of a message, and hope Khara will have more to add. I can’t ask for clarification. Fatchk has gone to a vast convoluted effort here and I can’t betray that effort with stupidity.

  Fatchk releases me, reclines backward in a human attitude of boredom, and with the back talon of a foot, flicks the small pile of Khara’s clothes away from the cushions.

  “Bring me drink and then go,” he says, without looking toward either of us. “I now wish rest.”

  Khara, naked, lithe in her movements, brings Fatchk a drink and then dresses.

  I feel the self-consciousness pulling my clothing back over my body I didn’t feel in removing them.

  As Khara and I leave the room, I look back at my friend. I fear for Fatchk, and am confident we are not betrayed. Given how short a time we humans have left and the danger to Fatchk that necessitated this charade, I’m certain this is the last I’ll ever see of him.

  Back on the street, Khara releases my arm. She has lost the languid fluidity of her movements through the club and the glassy look in her eyes. She seems bursting with pent energy.

  “Human traitor in rebellion,” she says. “What did he say to you?”

  I don’t answer, feeling the shock of Khara’s statement in my gut and groin. Fatchk must believe the human is high in the organization to have risked this meeting just to ensure the information got to me.

  “Nestra must discover who,” I answer. “Will she do that?”

  “The question is can she,” Khara answers. I sense defensiveness in her answer. “I’ll ask her tomorrow, if I can.”

  “Tell no one,” I say. Khara doesn’t answer but throws an exasperated look at me to say she’s not stupid.

  At the next intersection, we part, Khara heading toward a streetside dorm. I have to arrange another meeting of my cadre. I have to determine how to ferret out a traitor without announcing that I know. Betrayal is black within me.

  ***

  Khara is with me again. I try to suppress the question within myself of why she has volunteered to help me again, whether it’s an indication she . . . . No. She’s trying to help the rebellion. She trusts me and is confident in my abilities. As I am in hers. She’s shown a cool capability in all she’s attempted. Our meeting two days ago with Fatchk could not have been handled better.

  The thought of the meeting recalls a vision of Khara, nude, splayed over the cushions. I move an inch or two farther from Khara as we walk, to avoid touching her arm by accident. I must clear my mind of Khara if I’m to remain effective. This mission may cost us
our lives, and this unwanted emotional – and physical – reaction Khara arouses in me can’t be indulged.

  Tonight, we commit outright theft. Breaking and entering. Rash, and not to be considered, except for the fact we only have time left for rashness.

  We round the corner at the back of the old warehouse that, if our information is correct, is now a weapons cache. With only a month left, our careful stockpiling of trucks, gasoline, food, medication has become moot. We need weapons.

  We’ll keep walking, feigning drunkenness, if the ant-guard is still at the door.

  There’s no guard. The bulb above the door is broken and the far end of the alley is in blackness. Although this is as planned, I’m uneasy at what may be hidden in the shadows.

  Khara and I walk to the far end of the alley. The depth of the darkness there makes it difficult to search, but I take one side of the alley as Khara walks in silence against the wall of the other side. We meet at the far end. She shakes her head to show she found no one lurking behind dumpsters. We walk back up the alley in the same way. We wait in the shadows.

  A human figure turns the corner and staying close to the warehouse wall, moves to the darkened door. After a moment, and a piercing metal clang, the human walks back the way he came. Again we wait. No alarm is raised.

  Khara and I emerge and walk to the door. The lock and chain are on the ground to the side of the door. The door hangs open a mere crack. There’s darkness beyond. I pull the door mere inches and both of us squeeze through the opening, the broken glass of the light bulb crunching beneath our shoes.

  In the pinhead of light from a laser pointer, we move through crates upon crates of machine pistols and automatic rifles and other weapons confiscated by the ants. I locate the boxes of ammunition and begin marking the boxes to go with the weapons we’ll take. Khara begins moving the heavy metal ammo boxes toward the door, one by one. She is preternaturally silent as she moves.