Carapace (Aggressor Queen Book 1) Page 9

  Jan flies at Eli, landing a glancing punch across his massive flat nose. She stays in close, punches him in the gut several times.

  Eli grunts and grabs her. He twists her sinewy muscled arms behind her. He turns her so her back is against his chest and traps her there with one arm.

  “Damn you!” She slams her head back into his colossal chest, and then again. She is angry, but not at him. Not at him.

  Eli pulls her arms up behind her. She yelps and stops the head butting. He won’t hurt her – both because they are friends and because he’ll be punished if he damages a worker.

  The first ant-guard is almost to them. Jan and Eli can stop the exhausting work of fighting soon. I’m ill with what will come next. I’d like to go back into my office rather than watch the punishment, but I have to observe so I’ll know – and be able to tell others – how best to treat Jan’s injuries later.

  “Release her.” The words click and whistle through the ant-guard’s shiny black mandibles. The speaker at his shoulder amplifies his words so they are heard across the floor. Jan kicks at Eli’s shin with her work boot as he pushes her away. She looks menacing but I notice her boot doesn’t connect.

  “Who is responsible.” There’s no inflection to make the phrase a question. The guard’s top two arms weave before him, while the bottom two point laser pistols at the two humans.

  “He is,” Jan spits. “He insulted me. Called me a man.”

  The guard doesn’t respond or change position, except that his arms continue the odd weaving motion. The second guard appears next to the first. He removes a pistol from the holster slung in the middle of his chest. I scan the floor to assure myself again there are only two.

  “I don’t guess you androgynous brother-humpers would understand, but I’m telling you, I was provoked!” Her hands are tight knots. It is a show of anger, but it’s also a mark of her fear.

  The first ant-guard’s top limbs stop their slow dance. His attention and his weapons are now fixed upon Jan. The second guard has a weapon trained on Eli.

  Through clicks and rasps, the ant tells Jan, “I have determined that even if this was said, this is not sufficient provocation for battle.”

  Here it comes. I brace myself in anticipation, hands wringing the railing, elbows locked, feet frozen to the floor.

  The ant gestures to Jan with his gun. “Step forward.” Jan doesn’t move, fear now evident on her face. The ant says, “The man will assist me.”

  An alarm sounds announcing pending punishment. The humans stop their work and shuffle toward Jan’s workbench to watch. The machines power down from a whine to a low rumble, and then to silence. We’ll all be able to hear the blows connect and the grunts as air is pushed from Jan’s lungs. If Jan were inclined to scream when she was beaten, the screams would echo through the near-silent factory. Jan won’t allow herself to scream.

  Eli holds Jan while the ant beats her from collarbone to shins with an old spring-style billy, pausing to administer additional beatings at her breasts and thighs. Eli’s dark face is stone. He doesn’t protect her because he knows this will gain her additional punishment.

  Jan falls to the floor retching when Eli releases her. She curls into fetal position at his feet. The sting of the guard’s electric prod convinces her to try crawling to her workbench.

  I want to kill the guard. He was unnecessarily hard on Jan. Jan never listens to my speeches about taking it easy but I’m already planning another gentle chastisement. We can’t afford to lose Jan and she can’t take another beating like that soon. Perhaps the pain she’s suffering now will make her more receptive to good sense.

  As she drags her herself along the cement floor, Eli’s guard turns away and crosses the floor, heading back toward the entrance. A beast roused from slumber, the machinery rumbles to life with a building roar.

  Like Eli, everyone is back to work, eyes lowered to the job before them. Eli’s large hands move over his workbench with purpose, but they’re shaking and he’s still watching Jan.

  Jan’s guard moves the prod toward her as she hesitates in pulling herself upright on her workbench. She stands and picks up the unfinished shaft. The ant-guard turns away to join the other.

  I watch Jan until Tamerak comes back in. My jaws ache with the grinding of my teeth. She coughs and works at a slow pace, concentrating on the labor. She and I know if she doesn’t pick up her production, she’ll be punished once more. She winces as she bends into her bin again.

  Eli shuts his eyes, suffering for his part in Jan’s pain. The muscles in his arms flex and dance as he works a shaft into its receptacle and crimps the ends. He wipes at his nose with the back of a massive hand and leaves a streak of blood to his wrist. I am sure he believes it fitting he should bleed at the hand of Jan, although he and Jan understand the greater good they served today.

  As Tamerak reaches the bottom of the stairs, my eyes seek out Simon. I hope Jan’s pain bought us something.

  Simon glances up at me from under his furrowed brow. Seeing me watching him, he barely nods. Despite his success, he does not smile.

  CHAPTER 18

  NESTRA

  Sunlight dapples and dances on the earth around the stool as I sit, rigid, under my favorite tree in the queen’s garden. My tight posture is not due to stiffness in my limbs or any feeling of physical infirmity – I feel better physically than any time in recent memory. My tension is, in fact, due to my well-being.

  For the last ten days, I have been regaining my health. My guilt lies in the reason behind my new-found soundness.

  Despite my resolutions not to take any of the queen’s strength during the fugue state necessary for off-loading, I find my unconscious self is hungrier and more insistent upon self-preservation than in repentance. Time and again I have lapped at the sweet wellspring of the queen’s strength. Even now, as I chastise myself, I cannot stop feeling pleasure at my renewed energy.

  I sigh, air rushing in gusts through my files and scrapers, sounding a low moan across the garden. As I push the elongated breath out, I slouch back against the tree trunk, and the scrape of the rough bark of the tree up my back adds a small scratchy echo.

  No brother to wipe the scratches from my back, I think, more as an internal lament at my inability to share than as any complaint at having to maneuver to wipe my own shell.

  I try to clear my mind of the argument between my conscious self demanding my own death would be better than stealing from the queen again, and my unconscious self screaming for life. I feel divided between the two selves, and then feel also a third self: the self that like a teacher over newly hatched brothers demands cessation of argument and commitment to harmony of the whole. I force my attention to the garden, distracting myself with patterns of light, the fragrance of the pungent white flowers, the colors of the ball-shaped blossoms, and brilliant climbing, flowering vines. I listen to the voices of the garden – wind sighing through leaves, the grate of branch on branch, the hymn of the many insects. I also notice through the symphony of sight/scent/sound, the flavor of humans and the monotony of metal shears scraping slowly open, quickly closed, slowly open, quickly closed.

  I focus on the taste/sound and glimpse the two humans working at the far end of the garden, trimming the opposite side of a hedge. Ever since I approached them, they have either been absent from the garden or working at a great distance from me. They are afraid of me. I cannot resent their fear, given the fate of most humans in the queen’s court – and out.

  As I catch brief snatches of the humans through the loose hedge, I recall why I had approached them. They had appeared to be sharing. I am again fascinated by the idea, and envious of their ability to share and their clear enjoyment of touching.

  Ridiculous. I am so obsessed with the desire to share, I attribute senseless human behavior with meaning and find myself envious of these mush-soft beings.

  Curiosity compels me to focus on what I can see and taste of the humans through the dark leafy hedge. I try to turn my a
ttention back to enjoyment of the garden and stand to walk among the loamy paths, to feel the sun’s warmth on my shell and move among the flower fragrances.

  The scent of the humans draws me and before long, I realize what had seemed random wandering has taken me rather close to the far end of the long hedge upon which the humans labor. I step to the backside of the hedge. The humans have not noticed my presence. The shock of their postures freezes me.

  The taller brown-haired human clutches shears in its hands and stretches its face to reveal white teeth as it trims the ragged offshoots of new growth from the hedge. The smaller black-haired human stands behind the working human with arms wrapped around its middle, body pressed against body, head resting on the taller human’s back, face turned away from me.

  Sharing! I cannot imagine what else to call it.

  The smaller human disengages from its embrace, moves around to the side of the taller human – back still toward me – and, trailing an arm across the back of the taller, lifts its head. The taller human stops the clipping and presses its mouth to that of the smaller. My legs weaken and I must utter some sound, because the taller human glances at me and the smaller human spins to look at me. Neither move. The smaller human retrieves clippers from the earth near its feet, then both turn toward the hedge, and commence clipping. Both steal occasional glances toward me. Their attitudes show fear.

  I take two shaky steps toward the humans – for what purpose I do not know. The humans stop clipping and dart around the far end of the high hedge, clinging to each other.

  Sharing. A shudder of pain courses through my abdomen.

  When I have collected myself enough to move again, I wander the garden with labored steps, searching for the flavor of the humans, wanting to watch them. They are gone.

  ***

  I eat in the solitude of my rooms. The tinkling of bells as a breeze moves through the window and sways the branches of the homeworld tree in the corner does not sooth me. I know the queen will be calling me soon, and the negative chemicals produced by my sharp-toothed guilt melt into my already dark mood and make it heavier.

  A subtle dread slows my already hesitant reach for the terminal as I hope for a different quotation. Each time I have touched my terminal in the last three days, the same quotation has appeared.

  Gather your strength from those whom you serve.

  The same quotation. I growl in frustration, recognizing the circular manufacture of negative chemical production leading to negative reactions, thus creating additional negative chemical production.

  I will not! I will take no more strength from the queen! I can control myself! I, too, am strong, or I would not have lasted this long!

  I fling myself from the terminal and into my bed-pit, vowing never to ask the terminal for another quote of benediction. Instead of benediction, it has become a taunt, a curse.

  In my bed-pit, I loosely tread the cleansing mantra. I do not fall into the light trance which will make it truly effective, but instead drape it as a rote filigree over my tumultuous thoughts.

  I am an addict, I admit to myself, chanting the mantra as a background song.

  The queen is being affected by my theft. I click through terse thoughts as though composing a list.

  I am committing treason, I add to my list.

  I will cause no more hurt, I demand of myself, and the part of me that demands the queen’s strength adds, except unto yourself! I wince at the cowardly addition and continue my list.

  I should be, will be – am! – the most loyal of the queen’s subjects, and will never betray her again.

  Satisfied with my fervor and sincerity, I fall into the solace of the mantra and only rise when summoned by the queen.

  ***

  Fugue state. I lower myself in the cushion of the protective mantra, but do not relax into unconsciousness. I am determined to maintain control enough to keep the queen safe from the self who lusts to rob her again and again. I float the colored scents and sounds that keep me safe and separate from the venom and contagion flowing into me, but because of my refusal to succumb to the trance, the poisonous bile burns me, testing my ability to endure. I straddle between sweet mantra and pain.

  Indeterminate time. Indeterminate, not because of the trance, but because of the apparent elongation of time through agony.

  I endure.

  I follow the mutable, wending path of the mantra, knowing where I long to go, where I will not allow myself to go.

  The mantra leads me down and, as I knew it would, spirals me toward the beautiful, magnetic, irresistible, glowing dewdrop of the queen’s strength. I wrench away, insides twisting in pain, but determination burning in me as brightly as that strength which I lust for and refuse to take.

  I resist, and do not take, although the path of the mantra refuses to flow away from the golden prize.

  Soon, too soon, the firm knowledge settles that I am beyond what I can safely accept from the queen.

  No more. The thought bubbles up through the viscous thickness that infects me and I hope the queen will relent.

  The mantra twists away and out, and I crawl, holding to tendrils of light until the red light of the queen’s bedchamber washes over me.

  Awake.

  Bent, cramped, sick, but awake. Awake, and the victor, and ill beyond any recollection of illness. I lie without moving for some time, eyes failing to pull the collection of visual images through my various lenses into a coherent whole.

  “I don’t allow for lazy, languorous workers, and certainly not in my bedchamber.” The queen’s words are strongly delivered, too loud and laced with cruelty.

  I will myself to move, but merely manage a jerking spasm of limbs.

  The queen’s cruel laughter lances through the room and echoes from the walls, from the rapiers dangling from the ceiling toward me, from the ceiling itself.

  “Go!” shouts the queen, and her cool pincers close on my throat, squeeze in threat, and then release. She laughs again.

  I gurgle as I struggle to the side of the bed-pit, barely managing to drag myself to lower elbows and knees, and crawl toward the door. I am almost to the door when I regurgitate the remains of my last meal along with a glutinous black acid onto the floor. Somehow, I manage not to fall forward into the filth.

  The queen roars in anger and kicks at me, knocking me to my side on the floor, limbs draped through the spew.

  After screeching to a brother to clean the mess, the queen lifts me to my feet and slams my head against the wall in the hallway outside the door. My ever-present escorts draw back.

  “You grow old, Nestra,” the queen spits, mandibles pinched into her fierce smile, as if my decrepitude pleases her. I hear the threat behind the words.

  Without the strength to open in the ritual bow to the queen, I drag myself along the wall toward my rooms. I hope I can get to my rooms without crawling.

  As I near the end of the corridor, the queen bellows, “Pull yourself together. I’ll need you again soon. You didn’t do half your job!”

  ***

  I crawl the last distance to my rooms. I struggle to my bed-pit, ignoring the vomitus still clinging to my limbs. As I fall, helpless, to the cleansing mantra, the small voice of my inner self speaks up in taunting tones:

  Certainly the queen is better off for your sacrifice. But how do you fare?

  CHAPTER 19

  KHARA

  I’ve fallen into a new pattern. Not so different from before – still Ilnok and loathing and nausea, still sleep and food, still time in bars – but beer instead of whiskey and beer, and patches only with Ilnok. I have discovered a self-control I didn’t believe I possessed.

  I’ve reclaimed Refugio’s as my own. I walk the streets, those places near Refugio’s where I know I’ve seen Samuel in the past.

  No ant has spoken to me again, not even the tender at Refugio’s. I’m again just a pet. The fear of death for failure to deliver my message has lessened. My pattern, my search for Samuel has taken on a purpos
e of its own, which I don’t analyze or understand, but continue to pursue.

  In searching the streets, I’ve learned others have patterns. I’ve learned to recognize certain humans in their hopeless meandering, learned it may not have been as hard for Samuel to track me streetside as I’d thought. Before now, the patch obscured so much. So blessedly much – attraction and repulsion at the thought. My new awareness of my surroundings has shown me I’m not the only human in pain. I’m ashamed that this helps.

  I pause in the street, back to a rough, grimy wall, and watch humans and ants push by. I can’t picture Samuel – nothing but his thick, warm lips – and hope I’ll recognize him if I see him again. Ilnok will be calling me soon – repulsion/patch bliss – and I watch the street partially hidden behind a sweetmead vendor.

  A man turns the corner toward me, and I’m struck with a jolt of recognition. Big man, large lump of nose, thick mouth, high collared shirt which hides a monitor like my own. He’s taller than I remembered. The mixture of relief and buried anger freezes me. I’m not as angry as I expect to be, want to be.

  His eyes meet mine; his mouth grows taut and pulls down into an expression of anger. At me? At himself for letting me find him? I know now he has been hiding from me. He crosses the crowded street moving away from me, no longer looking at me, but keeping me in his peripheral vision. This is too much.

  “Samuel!” I cry, incautious as this may be. “Samuel!”

  He slows. He finishes his crossing of the street and stops, turning to look at me. I walk to him, willing him to stay, anger rising in me again and overriding the relief. That he would try to avoid me! He’s the bastard who first approached me! He got me into this!

  He waits, watching me approach, a look of unhappy resignation crossing his face before all expression flees his features. His mouth is not the warm, soft mouth of my memories.