Carapace (Aggressor Queen Book 1) Read online

  As the tender approaches, the ever-present fear washes over me again as a wave of skin-prickling instant sweat. My breath comes fast. Nausea again, and I groan as the tender deposits the whiskey on the bar top and swipes my credit ring. He doesn’t look concerned.

  Now my least favorite withdrawal symptom. I throw myself back off my stool and stumble toward the bathroom for another bout of diarrhea. Ilnok doesn’t care for diarrhea either. It’s the one of my bodily fluids that seems to annoy him. In fear for myself, I’ve managed to control it during my time with him, which makes for worse nausea and cold sweats, but these are better than having Ilnok decide I’m not useful any longer. From the bathroom, I lurch into the street. My fresh drink sits on the bar top, untouched. The world sways around me and my bones ache.

  Heat from the street, the close buildings, the bodies everywhere. More ants than humans. Panic-induced sweat coats my body. I imagine panic-sweat tastes different and fear Ilnok calling me now.

  I have to find Samuel. I finger the patches in my pocket again, but I won’t be coherent enough to search the passing bodies with the drug’s seductive swirl blinding me. My teeth chatter through another flash of chills.

  Somehow I manage to keep my hands in my pockets, fists clenched around what I so very much desire.

  I decide to risk Refugio’s. The toilet. I’ll find Samuel, regurgitate my bastard message and leave, warning him that I’ll kill him if he comes near me again. I lock the vision of Samuel’s warm mouth in my mind and imagine smashing it.

  I press the white mark at the back of the toilet. I hit it. Again and again, I try to find the door. With the violence of my thrashing against the wall and the whiskey in my veins, the floor lurches and I fall to the floor, hitting my jaw on the urinal. I pray it doesn’t bruise. Ilnok is knowledgeable of which marks on my body are the result of his entertainment and which are not. The scratches on my neck and ass and inner thighs are his. A swollen jaw is not.

  After another wave of gut-clenching nausea, I stand, remembering the boy I brought here last. Young, hairless, perfect. I have to remember what I did to make the wall open.

  I close my eyes and picture the boy, shirtless, eyes leaking large, slow-moving tears. The image swims and I’m picturing my brother, Kenny – not the boy. Maybe I never saw the boy. Maybe I acted to save my kid brother. This would explain my inexplicable actions. I don’t like that it relieves some of the blame I want to shove squarely down Samuel’s throat.

  Kenny. Again, rage. Rage over the fact there was nothing I could do to save my family. Mother, father, brother. Gone. Rage that I didn’t die then too, that I’m here and not with them. Rage that I’m too much the coward to join them. I don’t want to think of these things. I don’t want to remember. Not for the first time, I wish they had wiped us all out at once, like they did with Asia and Europe. Why did I have to be left in this half of the world?

  I pound at the wall again and again until the strength drains from me, and I slip to the cool, damp, muddy-yellow floor. Am I doing something wrong? Or has Samuel closed me out?

  I go to the bar and order whiskey and a beer. I glare at the tender, daring him to speak. Daring him to kill me for my failures. He brings my drinks, doesn’t look at me, moves away.

  I’m thinking of the patches in my pocket again. I’m picturing pulling one from my pocket. I wrap my left hand across the front of my throat in a parody of self-strangulation, covering my jugular with that hand, keeping my right hand from slapping on a patch. My right hand fiddles with the patches in my pocket.

  I can’t. I have to find Samuel. I have to stay clear enough to find Samuel.

  ***

  Ilnok is finished with me. I’m tired. I’m sore. I have to sleep. I’m afraid I won’t be able to move. The need to be away from Ilnok and his group helps me jerk my aching muscles into action around loose and painful, over-stretched joints.

  Ilnok pushes the bowl of patches toward me, already engaged in some kind of almost silent conversation with another of the ants in the high-walled, red-trimmed room. I grab a handful, although my pants pocket is still full of them.

  I allow myself one patch to endure my time as play toy for this crowd of monsters. It was my ritual, the application of the patch at the end of a session, but I can’t. I have to have the strength Samuel accuses me of having. I have to remain clear.

  I have to find Samuel. This is my chant as I drag my pants over my sticky legs. The pants cling to the moisture and I feel raw as the fabric grips my skin when I pull.

  I move to the street, wanting nothing more than a drink and a patch on which to reach oblivion. But I have to stay clear.

  I spend an hour dragging myself through streets – streets on which I know I’ve seen Samuel – and only twice stop for a drink. I don’t put on a patch. I succumb to the nausea and puke once. I ache everywhere – elbows, knees, hips, fingers. My head pounds.

  I don’t put on a patch as I roll onto a dorm mat, curl toward the wall, and fall asleep.

  I dream of my brother, mother, father. Gutted, throats cut. Long, tapered fingers missing from my mother’s hand. My brother’s arm, hand reaching toward me, resting on a table on the other side of the room from his body. Then I dream of Samuel smiling at me, my brother standing beside him in a small room, with others – humans. I dream of hope filling my brother’s eyes.

  “Kenny!” I shout, then realize I’m awake and have said it aloud.

  I have a patch halfway to my jugular to wipe out the dream before I realize it’s been a long time since I didn’t have kaleidoscopic drug-hazed dreams.

  I need the patch! I don’t want to dream!

  I return the patch to my pocket. I have to stay clear. I have to find Samuel.

  Just as dawn breaches, my monitor lights and I hurry toward Ilnok. At least when I am with Ilnok, my entire mind is engaged in blanking itself out. And I don’t want to think any more. Not about Samuel, not about Kenny.

  It seems I can only obtain peace in the midst of abuse.

  CHAPTER 16

  FATCHK

  I creep along the dark street, open to the taste of the night and the brothers around me. I cannot appear to hurry, although I am late to my meeting. Refuse swirls around my lower limbs as I search the street and taste the scents again.

  I believe I have lost the two brothers who have been trailing me. The clumsy human members of the ant corps that attempted to follow me were lost due to their blind inability to taste the street, but the two brothers were harder to lose. To do so, I needed to move with haste through two separate hive-groups in order to dissipate my scent, but not with a speed that would raise alarm, all while masking my anxiety with a purposeful concentration on things pleasant.

  I dart down an alley and then curve back toward the meeting place.

  Ketann is rising to leave the private eating room when I enter. I close and lock the door. Ketann sinks back to the blue and green cushions, exuding a mixture of concern and irritation over my tardiness. The irritation is fair. We both endanger ourselves through our efforts to help the human rebellion.

  Registering the décor – all themed to the sea, oceanscapes, sailing vessels, this world’s underwater creatures – I join Ketann and we embrace in greeting, identification, and sharing.

  “Apologies,” I click. Flavor-scent of sincerity. “Very dangerous.” Slight crimson smear of fear. “I am being watched.”

  Ketann exudes his own slight red blossom of fear in response, recognizing this meeting is now more dangerous for himself as well.

  “I have not been able to meet with my human contact, Samuel,” I continue. Sight-scent of the human tints my words. “I have attempted to send a message regarding potential use of Nestra.”

  Scent-identification of the queen’s Shame Receptor fills the air around us, along with the unmistakable soft gold flavor of my admiration. Nestra is strong, so full of duty to our mad queen, yet so much the epitome of all that is good in our people. I long to share with her, to show her the dep
ths of my esteem.

  Ketann’s yellow-green scented question comes after a long moment. “How can I assist?”

  “Can you meet with others at court?” Warm flavor of hope tints the sour of the question.

  Ketann discharges more red fear, then with a small shudder and the unquestionable scent of loyalty answers, “Yes. I, and others of my bond-group.”

  My hope rises and I bathe my brother in warm satisfaction.

  “Dev’ro,” I say, transmitting the scent-identification of the queen’s favorite.

  Bright crimson burst of fear from Ketann. “Hazardous!”

  This is true. Dev’ro is as sick as the queen, infected by her, perhaps unredeemable. But we must take the chance. If he can be turned...

  “Yes.” A bare acknowledgement of his statement. “And Nohj’sem,” and again, I evoke the scent-identification of another courtier close to the queen’s court.

  “They are both sick with the queen’s contamination. Much risk.” The room is thick with Ketann’s fear now. I cannot fault him. If I could come close enough to make these connections, these efforts, I would do so. I cannot. So, I look to those brothers who might. Even so, I understand and forgive Ketann’s fear.

  I force myself to calmness and exude comfort and consolation, all four upper limbs locked around Ketann in empathy. We sit in silence for a time, while I secrete compassion and dark warmth.

  After some long moments, Ketann slumps against me with a small click of thanks and clears the air with the color of his determination.

  “Dev’ro,” Ketann repeats, “Nohj’sem.”

  I transmit my gratitude. “Yes.”

  “Others?” Ketann asks.

  “Your discretion. The two I have identified are closest to queen,” I answer.

  “Those farther from the queen may be easier to convince, to win, and may still be helpful,” Ketann says, flavor-scent questioning his own judgment.

  “Your discretion,” I repeat.

  “Dangerous,” says Ketann again, but this time with only a flicker of fear. Again, he tastes of determination. Then comes the flavor-scent questioning the necessity of this perilous foray into the queen’s courtiers.

  “The time draws near for the humans,” I respond to the unstated question. “The queen is nearing the full complement of brothers. Mere months, no more.” I pull my two right limbs away and nestle back in the cushions in thought. “Nestra may be unwilling to assist,” I continue, although again the soft gold of my admiration for Nestra belies my willingness to believe such a thought.

  “We must risk much,” Ketann says with sincerity and more determination.

  “Yes.” Comfort, consolation, warmth, well-wishes.

  “Must you go now?” Ketann asks.

  “Yes.” As much as I would like to relax and wordlessly share comfort and strength until the room is bright with confidence, I am suspect amongst some of my brothers. I would not endanger Ketann by lingering here.

  When I emerge from the private eating room, I spot one of the brothers who followed me earlier this evening. Perhaps I was not as clever as I hoped in eluding him. He stands at the entrance of the main dining hall, antennae twitching, head swiveling. I move further down the hallway of private eating rooms and let myself into another – which is thankfully empty.

  Watching through the cracked door, I see Ketann leave the room in which we conferred. I close-focus on Ketann, apprehensive he will meet with trouble, guilt oozing from me that I will be the cause. Instead, he is greeted by a brother and led to a table in the main dining hall.

  The brother trailing me does not appear to take notice of this and my breathing relaxes. I watch for a long time as Ketann orders and consumes a meal with his bond-brothers. I wonder if he has prearranged this rendezvous, or if luck is with him.

  After a time, the brother who was following me leaves the hall. Even so, I leave from a back entrance, well-wishing sent in Ketann’s direction although he will not detect it in this crowd.

  I cannot relax during my navigation to my home. Cannot stop a twitch of nervousness each time I turn a corner. I keep my antennae focused on everything and everyone around me, the entire time attempting to exude relaxed contemplation and serenity. Even though I arrive home safely, I worry I am as transparent as I feel.

  CHAPTER 17

  SAMUEL

  From behind my desk and through a mud-streaked window, I watch the changing of the guard. I haven’t fathomed the reason or the exact timing, but I have discovered at least once a week, all but two guards leave the factory and it’s sometimes as long as twenty minutes before the replacements arrive. Now is the time.

  I’m preparing the report of last week’s production. The factory is producing well and although the quota keeps being raised, my workers meet the demand. My workers. These humans are pressed to the limits, and still they give me what I ask when I tell them I need more. I have to review the line process again, see if I can concoct another streamline to greater efficiency. I have to find a way to give back to them, to ease their load, if only until the next, higher, quota comes in.

  Tamerak does nothing more than pivot his head toward me as he rises to greet the new guard supervisor at the factory entrance. It’s still odd to me the way his body moves in one direction, while his head looks toward another. His eyes, unlike ours, see to the side as well as to the front, but I humanize Tamerak. I expect him in his apparent love for me to become like me.

  I bend my head back and expose my neck to him. He doesn’t take the opportunity to run his mandible across my neck in the gesture which, between us, I have come to equate as a pat of affection. When he pats me, he’s gentle and tender, his antennae tapping against me, smelling me, while the smooth outside of his mandible runs over my skin. It is a macabre game we play – I, offering my life, and he, sparing it by failing to rake his mandible into my jugular, my windpipe. It’s appropriate to the circumstance.

  I wait until Tamerak is outside the factory entrance receiving whatever communication they have for him, delivering his report, before I leave the gray metal walls of our office. I stand against the railing looking down at the production line. No one looks up at me. I stroll the length of the catwalk and confirm there are only two ant-guards on duty on the floor.

  I walk to the hanging metal steps that lead down to the floor. Simon glances up and – after making sure the guards’ attention is elsewhere – I give Simon the barest of nods.

  He turns his grinder off, puts a final timing gear into the full cart at the side of his workbench, and begins rolling the cart toward the back wall of the factory – all as normal. I can barely hear the squeaking of the overloaded cart wheels over the rumble of machinery.

  Today is the culmination of Simon’s plan. If it works, it’ll revolutionize how we smuggle parts out, reduce the personal danger to each thieving worker and let us take as many parts as we want – so long as we still meet quota. Failing to meet quota comes with its own penalty.

  The bins at the back of the factory open both ways – into the factory so workers can load them, and out of the factory into what used to be a passage with a conveyor belt for moving the parts to the loading dock. The conveyor passage is no longer used now that human labor is so abundant – and, until two days ago, was inaccessible.

  By working through a maze of ductwork, Simon located the conveyor room and made short work of breaking the lock on one of the bins – an unallocated, unused bin. All Simon has to do is get a couple of gears into that bin without being caught and by midnight, we’ll be that much closer to having a couple more trucks ready to roll.

  Despite the genius and apparent ease of Simon’s plan, the sweat on my forehead increases with each step he takes toward the bins. My fingers grow cold as though all blood is draining from them. I cast my eyes in random pattern over the factory floor, determined not to be caught focusing on Simon or the guards.

  Just as Simon reaches the bins, one of the ant-guards begins moving in his direction. My stomach lur
ches toward my throat and I tighten my fingers around the railing. My arms shake.

  Jan jerks her head up from her work, looking first toward Simon, then at the guard moving toward him. Our eyes meet in a shimmering moment of despair. I see on her face the instant she makes the decision.

  She yells to be heard over the tooling machines. “I said stick it up your ass, Caveman!”

  She slams the metal shaft she is finishing on the metal workbench. The people around her feign deafness and continue filing, sanding, assembling, trimming – eyes fixed on the work before them. They want no part of the trouble that will come from this.

  I am overwhelmed by Jan’s bravery.

  Eli – “Caveman” – turns to her, swollen blacksmith’s arms hanging loose at his sides. With no enthusiasm for the role he is about to play, he lifts a shaft in one large dark-skinned hand and bangs it on his workbench to add to the noise. His normally iron-curtain face droops with pity. His lips move as he mumbles something. I know Eli. I can’t hear him, but they are words of sympathy and compassion.

  “Screw off, man!” Jan yells. “Think you can call me names and get away with it because I’m a woman?” Jan is loud. I can see from her face she hates his pity. She is strong enough for this. She slams the shaft on the workbench again. “I ain’t afraid of you.”

  “Get back to work!” Eli yells the words, deep voice rumbling, but there is no anger in his face, no force other than that necessary to make himself heard above the machinery. Again, he bangs the shaft twice on the workbench. The metallic clang rings through the open area of the production floor.

  The guard who was heading toward Simon pivots and heads toward Jan and Eli. He doesn’t hurry to reach them. There’s no need. They’re only humans and he’ll mete out whatever punishment has been earned. I am relieved when the second guard moves – with the same complacent slowness – toward them as well. I spare no glance to Simon – he’ll make use of Jan’s distraction and I don’t want to draw attention to him.