Carapace (Aggressor Queen Book 1) Page 3

No.

  I don’t know what the hell it means.

  My hand floats along the warm surface of the wooden table I’m on. Up and down, up and down, looking for something. My fingers close on a patch, and the realization I have an avenue of escape burns in me, outshines the empty hunger and the heavy fullness. My hand brings the patch to my jugular. I don’t feel my way – my body is dislocated – but my arm moves with a muscular memory of the movement that will bring the patch to the correct spot.

  The drug-induced swirl begins anew. I follow the disconnected relentless thought – No – down the swirling drain to the black hole at the bottom, and disappear.

  CHAPTER 5

  FATCHK

  In the warmth and darkness of the private den, I approach my bond-brother. Red light glints off the shell of his body and limbs; red hues reflect off the dark wood paneling of this small lounge. I have secured the heavy, ornate door to this room to ensure privacy from others who may try to enter from the club through which I have just passed. I did not scent-identify any of the brothers in the club and hope none recognized me.

  “Sorm’ba,” I whisper, naming my brother, in the human fashion of greeting. I have adopted this human convention as yet another way of supporting their fight for survival. I am careful to do this only with trusted comrades.

  “Fatchk,” rasps my brother.

  It is unnecessary, this human-style greeting, because we clasp each other, graze each other with mandible and antenna, and taste each other’s identities. Knowing each other by signature smell and taste, we relax to large cushions. As I lower my body, I wonder how this room was furnished when it was a human space. Then, it might have had tables, chairs, couches – as humans prefer. Now, it is equipped in the manner we favor, with large pillows into which our bodies can recline for more comfortable sharing. Our bodies close together, we intertwine our limbs for our brief and risky meeting.

  “There is danger,” says Sorm’ba. I taste the undertones of his statement and understand the danger is that which is inherent in our rebellious activities, and not any particular or new danger.

  “Yes,” I answer, and reflect the flavor and scent of understanding.

  “If the humans are to have a chance, they need many more things,” says Sorm’ba. The space surrounding us thickens with the desperate scent of the need.

  I wait, exuding patience and calm, undertoned with the need for haste due to our personal danger.

  “Five cartons,” Sorm’ba says, and follows the statement with the flavor of the antibiotic medicines the humans use. At the end of this transmission of information, Sorm’ba adds the punctuation that will let me know he is moving to the next item in the list of required items.

  “Much,” he says, and follows with the flavor of machine grease, made overwhelming to indicate the huge quantity indicated by the vague communication of amount.

  “Pistons, ten,” Sorm’ba continues, leaving the barest taste of the metal, since the flavor of the metal matches many machine-made components.

  I trill a sound of questioning, and lick out with the mild sour green-yellow flavor of a question regarding the size of the pistons needed.

  Sorm’ba answers, and then continues with the list of needed supplies and components. I listen and remember, the catalog a concoction of scent and flavor and sound that weaves together into a work of art and that will stay with me easily.

  I compliment my companion, my bond-brother, my friend: “Thank you for the excellent organization of the list, whose flavor is distinctive and memorable.”

  “Yes,” says Sorm’ba. He is aware of the sublime structure he has prepared, but is warmed by the compassion behind my unnecessary praise.

  Our brief meeting ends with a strong combined flavor of the need for secrecy, the smell of trust, and of well-wishes tasted palpus to palpus. I move from the small darkness of the private room and into the crowded club. Even as I focus on each of the brothers and search for signs of recognition, of flavor-scents of suspicion, I ignore the uses to which humans are being put by the infected of my kind. I leave the club and am away.

  CHAPTER 6

  SAMUEL

  I stumble from Refugio’s into the thick night and I catch myself against the dark wood panel outside the bar, pretending to regain my balance. In a wobbling, drunken fashion, I turn this way and that, surveying my surroundings. In the flickering death-dance of the neon sign above the bar, I can’t see anyone watching me, but spy at least one human member of the ant corps moving back and forth, back and forth, across the street. And there’s always the possibility of someone hidden in the shadows.

  I have to find a way past the ant corps member’s relentless path. If I can enter the alley just beyond him, it’ll be difficult for anyone to follow me to my rendezvous point without my detection. The path from the alley to the Comfort Inn is circuitous and only deliberately made.

  I trip off the sidewalk and fall to my knees in the street. I’ve gained the ant corps member’s attention. Teetering, I stand and turn back toward Refugio’s. Tripping back up the sidewalk, I stumble north ten yards to the service alley that feeds Refugio’s. I bend forward in the mouth of the alley, careful to remain visible to the ant corps member, and wretch.

  Drunks vomit. Vomit-covered drunks are amusing, but only at a distance. In close, they stink.

  I stand and make a show of wiping my mouth on my bare arm, wiping my hands on the front of my shirt. I spit into the street and wipe my mouth again on my arm. Then I lurch across the street toward the ant corps member and the alley beyond him. He shortens his insistent path which would bring him close to me, turns from me, and paces several steps away.

  “Hey.” I slur the word and gesture to him with my arm. He glances at me over his shoulder, contempt clear on his face in the streetlight, but he doesn’t answer. He takes another couple of steps.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say again. I stumble into the alley and out of his sight. I fall against one wall and am lifting myself to my feet again when I hear him pass the alley mouth behind me. He mumbles something down the alley toward me, but he is too much the coward to say it so I can hear him. I continue down the alley. I hear him off and on at the mouth of the alley as he paces by but I no longer have his attention. This is good. It means he was not there to watch for me specifically.

  I can feel the vodka’s effect on me when I am free to walk, to stop my act. I despise the slight feeling of impairment. I stop at a street vendor and purchase a serving of greasy noodles and meat, served in a paper cone, and continue toward my meeting. Two of my people pass me on the crowded stretch near the Comfort Inn, but we don’t acknowledge one another.

  I slide into the wide alley behind the Comfort Inn. There is a light above the service door near the over-flowing trash bins, a streetlight at the entrance to the alley, and an orange-yellow crime light at the back of the alley. There is a brick column, attached to and jutting from one wall, and there are the huge trash bins to stand behind, but the light in the alley will cast shadows. Nowhere to hide.

  I stand with my back to one wall, head down, peripheral vision keeping me aware of my surroundings. My ant contact hasn’t yet arrived.

  Within minutes, a small ant – an ant barely taller than I am – glides into the alley. My contact, Fatchk. There are no introductory pleasantries.

  “Timing gears,” he says, and tells me the sizes. “Piston rods. Gaskets.” The words are formed with difficulty. The list goes on. Weapons, medications. It’s a wish list I have to try to fill by stealing, trading, buying with pain. The price is high, but necessary. I hate that I live in this world, and so do as needed. We all die, but not under this yoke if I can help it.

  Most of the parts are for the fleet of vehicles we’re attempting to restore. I don’t know if the ants destroyed and disabled so many to keep humans foot-bound on our streets or because the fumes bother them. I don’t care. They have their flying vehicles but they’re not often in the city and we wouldn’t know how to use them anyway. We need
instant mobility if we’re to carry out the planned attack and, therefore, we need parts. And gasoline. We’re having a hard time finding much gas at all.

  I repeat the list. No notes, no written records – I have to remember what’s needed, in which sizes and quantities. I assume once I’ve repeated the list, our meeting is over.

  “Come,” he commands, and steps out from the alley into the street. This movement into the public eye is unusual, but then we’ve never repeated a rendezvous point or time. Perhaps we’re now also changing the rules regarding method. I once asked Fatchk, in my own attempt to analyze, predict, and understand, how the time or place for our meetings is chosen, and by whom. His answer was surprisingly un-antlike:

  “Habit kills.”

  I knew at the time it was all the answer I’d get. I also understood that within the ant side of the rebellion, patterns were being broken and extraordinary actions taken. I can’t pretend to understand the ant involvement, but won’t deny their assistance in our fight.

  I step onto the sidewalk behind and to the left of Fatchk. He chatters at me in his language which I can’t comprehend. He turns toward me, and I’m braced for additional angry chatter, am prepared to look complacent and submissive in response. It’s the game we’re playing tonight for anyone who might be watching.

  “When?” he asks, then turns away from me and continues moving down the sidewalk. He’s asking when I might have the parts available. I wait until we’ve moved far enough that no one who may have heard his question will hear my answer.

  “Unknown.” I shuffle after Fatchk as he increases his speed and moves across the street. He turns toward me as we step up the far sidewalk.

  “Seven days,” he says, and then chatters angrily at me again. I act my part. I open my arms and bare my neck. He moves away from me again. I follow. I have the pain of panic in my chest as I wonder how to respond to this latest request. I can’t imagine how I’ll fulfill the parts order in just seven days. For every part the ants notice is missing, one of us dies. For every disturbance of factory operations, one of us is beaten. My factory doesn’t even produce all the supplies requested.

  “Impossible,” I answer. I keep my voice toneless, devoid of the panic rushing through me.

  “Imperative,” Fatchk answers. He snaps his head over his shoulder, mandibles first, in the odd, mechanical fashion of the ants.

  I can’t answer. I don’t have an answer. My mind races through the deceptions necessary to fulfill the order. I want to explain to Fatchk that speed may translate to sloppiness, to the deaths of my team members. I want to ask the necessity for the quick turnaround time. I can’t. Fatchk escorts me into a dark alley. He backs me against the wall and places a pincer, open, at my throat above my monitor. I am not afraid of Fatchk. He has proven himself time and again.

  “Dangerous times,” Fatchk says, sibilant. “Must move faster. Larval production is up. The queen’s madness is rampant.”

  Madness?

  I don’t have an answer. Fatchk wouldn’t be pushing me without cause. Fear slices through me, and I don’t care for its taste. Like blood in the mouth.

  “Do you wish to die?” Fatchk isn’t asking me if I want to die, but the grander question of whether I want the human race to die. I want to shake my head from side to side – NO – letting his pincer cut into my neck to show the vehemence of my answer; however, the slices are marks I couldn’t explain to my own master.

  “No.”

  “We make aggressive move in queen’s court. We risk much. You must risk much.” Then Fatchk releases me and slides from the alley.

  I move deeper into the darkness. I’ll wait before I leave this alley for my home. Unless someone is watching us, no one will notice Fatchk and I were in this alley together. And if someone is watching us, we’ll both be dead soon. I use the time to solidify the parts list in my memory, and to think through what has to be done. Who must be contacted.

  On my way to my home – my master’s home – I stop at the Camelback and set a meeting for tomorrow with a warehouse manager for medical supplies. This stop requires more vodka, and more excruciating, slow, diffuse communication. I can’t move fast enough. My impotence fills me with anger. I show the world emotionless stoicism. It’s what is required of me.

  CHAPTER 7

  NESTRA

  Waking in the warmth of my own bed-pit, clothed in the delicious comfort of darkness, I relax for a long moment. I revel in the peacefulness I find within myself, exploring its depths. I slept after treading the mantra many times.

  A heavy, serene sigh escapes me.

  “Bless you my dear queen.” I leave the rest unspoken, knowing the likelihood of eavesdroppers. Bless you for controlling your gluttony long enough for me to recover. But then, with what evil have you engorged yourself while I slept? Are you needy of me yet again?

  I chastise myself for my uncharitable thoughts and chuckle as I realize my spirit is too light to do a proper job. A small mental pinch is all I can manage.

  I wonder if it is day or night. I am hungry.

  “System.” It is the default name for the computer. Most others have chosen nicknames for their terminals, but I use the default “System.” Everyone else has brothers, friends. By the tens, or the hundreds, or the thousands. Everyone except those specially bred – females of the species, like me, like the queen. I have no bond-friends, nobody to share with, and I confirm my enforced isolation by refusing to name the computer as if it is a bond-friend.

  My bedside terminal wakes at my summons and the screen shines red in the darkness. I intend to ask the time, but decide I do not want to know.

  “Minimal lights, System.” Dull red light oozes from the far end of the room, barely bringing the room out of blackness.

  I light smokeless candles, cut the system lights and eat a light meal, tranquil in the fragrant, velvet dark. After a time, my need for interaction, for sharing – although I do not consciously form the word – draws my mind from its quiescence. I equate the need with a desire to emerge from my quarters.

  Please let it be day so I might enjoy the garden. “System, time of day?”

  “Early afternoon. You could consider the meal you just consumed your noon meal.”

  “Music, please.” Satisfied, happy, I scrape myself clean within the comfort of the candlelight to the lulling classical tones I so enjoy. I gather my painting supplies and, as usual before leaving my quarters, touch the terminal for a random quotation. The terminal lights up:

  Gather your strength from those whom you serve.

  Chrenu VII, Book 6, Gru

  The shock of the words hits me as a pincer to the gullet.

  “System?!” Never since awakening from larva to consciousness on this planet have I seen a quotation repeated. Never. I take several panicked breaths.

  Random doesn’t mean without repetition, I remind myself. In a random system – even one with thousands or millions of variables, one quote might be followed by the identical quote. Mightn't it? I touch my terminal again.

  Civility is borne of belief in the society and love of the individual.

  Semlach, Epoch II-9.32.00007

  I touch the screen again, and obtain a third quotation. Another sigh. For two years, I have wondered if perhaps the system anticipates my various needs, my moods, and finds an appropriate quote. Now I console myself with the idea the system produces quotes in a random manner.

  My guilt speaks volumes. I have attached a meaning to a phrase that gnaws at me. I move into the hall, hoping to escape the dread that envelops me. Instead, it settles on my back, cloak-like, as my escorts move in to flank me. I force myself to slow my pace as I head for the gardens, knowing I can shed my escorts there, and hoping to cast off the foreboding that now shadows my short-lived tranquility.

  I step into the warmth of the sunlight – a warmth different from the blanketing warmth of the darkness I have enjoyed all afternoon, but soothing nonetheless. I give an involuntary twitch of my shoulders as I shake o
ff my escort at the entry of the garden. No other of my people is allowed within this, the queen’s private garden, which makes it the sole space I have discovered – outside my own quarters – where I have any measure of freedom. I’m thankful that she does not come here often, of late.

  Moving across the trimmed lawn, I enter the shade of my favorite tree – the shape of the leaves resembles the hands of my people beneath our lower pincers. Encased in the protection of the gardens walls, I am content, embraced by the spaced shade trees and the artistically arranged flower beds.

  I am happy to notice the human gardeners work quite a distance from me. The soft-bodied, larval vulnerability of humans makes me uneasy. I stay away from humans, much as a hatchling would keep away from an old relative’s collection of breakables – with both a fear of breaking the collection, and a complete lack of understanding as to why one would collect such mad, useless items. With a hatchling’s high rasping voice the thought comes, unbidden, Someday, when I’m old, I’ll have a collection of such things.

  I shudder. Never. Never shall I have such a collection of delicate rag dolls. I glance at the humans as they clip and shape the low shrubbery. I’ve seen enough of how the queen uses her fragile collection. I force my eyes from the humans, repulsed, yet thankful only these creatures work the garden. Should I ever touch one of the humans, they will not taste the queen’s Shame on me. And so my escort stands down when I enter the garden, undoubtedly bored, blessedly uninterested.

  Before I sit on the stool I keep under the large tree, I make a final effort to shake off the black shroud of guilt that has engulfed me upon the reappearance of the enigmatic quote.

  I take nothing from the queen but her Shame.

  I drop my painting supplies to the loamy ground, plant my feet, and shake myself in a tremulous wave that moves up my body. I twitch my legs, from jointed ankles up my body, out my four arms, up my neck and head and to the tips of my antennae. As I shake my head, the files and scrapers under my mandibles jam against each other and let loose an uncontrolled garbled sound that would be a screech if I put any air behind it. I know the guard, my escort, watches my twitching and ululation as a sign of madness. I do not care.