by Davyne DeSye
“You’re not trusting...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. His head cocks to one side and then straightens. “Are you?” He squints at me and I wonder if I have ever seen him look so solemn.
I’m confused. She saved a life today at great risk to her own. She asked for nothing in return.
“Well, I don’t see...”
I suppose Bell can see the confusion written on my face. “It’s simple,” he says. “She’s a drug addict.” He stands, paces the tile floor toward a sink orange with rust, and then back. “She can’t be trusted. She sells herself for her miracle patches, and she’d sell you, too – believe it, Mate.” Bell looks anxious, which is unusual on a face that is always good-natured, smiling, finding the joke in every situation.
I’m slow to answer. Bell has excellent instincts and has been my lieutenant since the beginning. I trust his judgment. But I’m not making sense of the vehemence of his objection.
Is my interest in and instinctive trust of Khara so extraordinary? Wrong?
“She hasn’t sold me out.” I say the words. “She hasn’t sold anything but her body. Certainly not her soul, if I’m any judge of character. She proved it when she saved that boy today.”
“Samuel!” Bell’s voice is raised. I lift my eyebrows in surprise. He takes two deep breaths and, voice at a normal level again, says, “You really think she risked anything? She’s in with them, Mate. You heard the boy. She asked for him, and they gave him to her. How bloody likely is that? It’s a set-up. She didn’t risk anything.”
This isn’t an interpretation I want to accept, but it adds up as more likely than the one I had assigned to her actions.
When I don’t answer, Bell says, a small smile on his face, “Come on, Mate, who you going to trust? Bellamy?” – he places a hand, fingers steepled, on his chest – “or a known drug addict?” He lets me think for a bit. I take the moment, weighing my instincts about Khara against the logic of his statements. Then he says, “Do you find her that attractive?”
I still don’t answer because I can’t deny Khara has my notice, although not – I don’t think – for the reason he’s suggested. I lost the woman I loved in the invasion. I won’t allow myself the indulgence of that kind of relationship again. Won’t.
“I’ve seen you watching her.” He stands, and crossing the room to put a consoling hand on my shoulder, he says, “I know, Mate, I know. And they call them the weaker sex.”
I’m unsure whether to trust myself, unwilling to trust Bell’s characterization of Khara.
He turns to go, as if this discussion is over, but for some reason I can’t let Khara go. She could be an asset, I am sure of it, and I can’t make myself believe she’s with the ants.
“I still think we could make use of her,” I say, just as he reaches the dingy hallway leading out of the kitchen.
Bell turns. He is not smiling, but he doesn’t look angry either. He looks worried. “You can’t let her in, Samuel.” He walks back to me. We look at each other, and in the silence I remember all the times Bell and I have saved each other’s lives. I should trust what he’s saying, but I keep circling back to Khara.
“She’d sell herself to anybody – you, me, anybody – for another hit, and she’s sold herself to them, Mate. Use your head. If you are that attracted to her, go to her. But don’t let her in.” He is very serious, very sincere. His voice is intense, but low. He’s wrong about my intentions toward Khara, but still…
He stands there looking into my eyes, and I know he’s right. Khara has already told me she doesn’t want any part of the rebellion. She’s already threatened to turn me in. I can’t risk what we have. Not now when it’s heating up and the risks have grown so great.
I sigh, feeling the weight of responsibility in my chest.
“Right,” I say, and clap him on the back. “Right.”
Images of Khara shift past my inner eye: sitting at a bar stoned, wending down a street unsteady on her feet, slumping senseless onto a mat at one of the downtown dorms, sleeping . . . young and strong and . . . yes, beautiful, in the escape of sleep.
Bell’s right. I have attached emotion – attraction – to the idea of Khara. And the events of today make a lot more sense from his angle than mine.
Bell is still looking into my eyes. Searching for something. He asks, still unsure of me, “Right?”
“Right,” I say again, tired now. Ready to head home.
We head down the hall and slip outside into a dark alley, then turn in opposite directions. I’m weary and sad. Upset with myself for seeing something in Khara that intrigues me, knowing Bell is correct, but thinking of Khara regardless. I’m weaker than I thought. Emotional attachment of any kind – even if it’s simply the feeling of certainty or curiosity – is a luxury I can’t afford.
As I move through the shadows of the reeking alley, I scan the alley with all my senses, always on the lookout. As I turn back to see if Bell is still in sight, a lighter flares at the end of another hard-to-come-by cigarette.
CHAPTER 12
KHARA
“Khara.”
My name. It arrives with my whiskey and beer. Oddly accented – antly accented – barely heard over the band and the subdued drunken laughter from the party at the end of the bar. There’s no ant seated near me who could have spoken. I look to the ant-tender as he swipes my credit ring for the drinks, and then moves away. I must’ve imagined my name from him. Even Ilnok has never called me by name.
I’m over-tired. I throw back my whiskey and reach for the beer. I’ll collapse soon, maybe without needing another patch to level my mind into mere exhaustion. The noise in the bar washes over me, battering me with its rhythms. I raise my beer to my lips. It’s warm and flat.
“Khara.” Again. Clearly from an ant. From over the top of my beer, I see the tender in front of me, another whiskey in his pincer. He slides the drink toward me across the countertop and reaches for my free hand. My credit ring.
I swallow beer around the sudden lump at my throat.
“Did you say something?” I ask. My first word is a croak. My throat is raw from my time with Ilnok and I haven’t used my voice today.
“You did not kill the human.” The tender speaks without the force of announcement which Ilnok always uses, yet the words flatten me. Ilnok never asked and I figured nobody ever would. I had done my good deed and forgotten about it. But now...
The thrill of fear rushes through me giving me the same spinning nausea that comes with a patch. I’m clear with the preternatural awareness I imagine comes right before death. I recognize the need to run, yet don’t have the energy or volition to move. The tender swipes my credit ring, then holds my hand in his slim fingers a moment longer. I’m trapped.
I look side to side to see if anyone else has heard the ant’s accusation. No one. No one to hear the accusation, no one who will understand what transpired between us before the ant acts on the death sentence he’ll soon execute.
The tender releases my hand. Disconnected from conscious will, my other arm lowers my beer mug to the wooden bar top. In the clarity of my fear, I hear the slight kissing sound of the mug connecting with the wet ring on the counter.
The tender moves away. Moves away! I don’t know what to do with this.
Run. Run. Run. The thought plays over and around the red pit that has opened in my mind, thumps in my brain in time to the music. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and I can’t stop watching the tender. I want to believe I’ve imagined its words.
The tender doesn’t look toward me, isn’t watching me. My mortality, my imminent death rests on me with such weight I can’t breathe without panting.
After long minutes of tortured waiting, the tender returns with a fresh beer and places it next to the full whiskey. My eyes flicker to the half-full beer held in my white-knuckled hand, then back to the tender. His mandibles move as he speaks a single word: “Downtime.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Downtime
. Midnight,” he says.
“The bar?” I’m confused. I feel like a fool, making small talk and waiting for death to come across the bar. I expect his pincer to sever my jugular.
“Midnight,” he repeats. He takes my free hand and swipes my credit ring for the beer. He stalks away.
My mind dances in circles. I fumble in my pocket for a patch, finger the plastic shield – tik, tik, tik – then drop it to the bottom of my pocket, and down the half-full beer in one gulp. I keep looking to the tender but he doesn’t approach me or look toward me again. I shake with need for a patch as I stare at the new beer, the whiskey, wanting them but unable to drink. I need clarity of mind more than the patch or more booze. It’s amazing how fear can clear your head.
Run. Run. Run. The thought continues to beat within me. I try to focus on the implications of our conversation, on the fact I remain alive. Thoughts tumble and choke in knots.
I’m not dead.
A meeting. Why? Extortion? All an ant could take from me – other than my life – has already been taken.
I’m not dead. The tender could have killed me in my chair with no question, no repercussions. He should have killed me.
I’m not dead . . . and neither is the boy. This second thought is a minor comfort to me now. In my confused terror, I almost wish I’d killed the kid. Almost. It’s a revolting thought of self-preservation.
Almost midnight. Do I dare go to Downtime? Do I dare not go?
The tender comes over again and takes both drinks. I’m frozen to my stool, arms stiffened against the bar top, anticipating more words. He wipes the bar top before me as if I’m leaving and moves away.
I drop from my seat to the floor, weak and unsteady on my feet, and leave Refugio’s, hand in my pocket, fist full of patches.
The streets are almost empty. The pavement bleeds heat up into my face, hot currents of revolting smells. Whether it’s the vile odor or abject terror, my gorge rises and I puke. I wipe my mouth on my shirt and keep moving. Downtime’s not far from Refugio’s.
The doorman swipes my credit ring on my way through the door. Like Refugio’s, Downtime is full of noise, although this noise is harsher – a ruined jukebox bellowing loud, distorted music, and too many people. And ants. Here, I could almost believe we’re not mortal enemies, humans and ants, with the gambling and dancing and mingling.
I move to the bar and order a whiskey. A small ant – only about a foot and a half taller than I am – approaches me as the tender moves to fill my order.
“Let me purchase your drink,” he says, leaning into me. I brace for the fatal bite of its mandibles, then realize as he leans closer and repeats himself, he’s trying to be heard over the din.
One day ago, I’d have moved to another spot on the bar. I’d have shown my monitor to let him know I was already owned and moved away. My world has slipped sideways. I don’t know how to react. I stare into his enormous eyes, wishing, as I always do with ants, to read some expression there. Small sparks of light from the disco ball flash in the facets of his eyes.
“Can you hear me?” he asks, louder.
I nod.
“Let me purchase your drink.” It’s less of a question than a statement. What will happen if I refuse?
I nod again.
My drink arrives, and the ant pays. Although I crave the warm potion at the back of my throat, want to wash the foul taste from my mouth, I don’t drink. I hover over the whiskey, allowing the fumes to torment me, waiting for the next step.
“Drink,” he says. “Drink.”
I can’t lift the glass, fearful of what will come after.
“Drink,” he says again, with no more force than the first time.
I doubt drinking or failing to drink will change anything – and I want the numbing comfort of it – but with my head already spinning from fear and the booze I’ve had, I push the whiskey away.
“I don’t want it.” What a damned lie.
“Let us dance now,” the ant says. He holds out his lower pincer toward me, and I’m struck with the oddity of such a human, gentlemanly gesture from this creature.
I turn away from the ant. I’ve noticed what passes for dancing in this place. The humans are dancing, or having sex, or both. The mixed human-ant groupings are for penetration of one kind or another. No thanks.
I drop into routine. Without looking up, I pull down my shirt collar and display my monitor with the markings that indicate my rank. He can’t claim me. I expect him to go away.
“Let us dance now,” he says again, and I’m forced to turn toward him, to see if he has somehow missed my monitor.
He’s looking at me, can’t have missed my meaning.
“Do you see – ?” I start, but he interrupts me, leaning into the space above my shoulder. He speaks so quietly I don’t hear all he says. But I hear the last three words:
“ . . . kill the human.”
Panic shoots through me again. I’m frozen except for my breathing which is hot and fast.
“Let us dance now,” he says again.
I take the pincer he offers, shaking, wondering if allowing this ant to use me will buy my life. And for how long. Ilnok will not hesitate to kill me if he learns I didn’t kill the boy. Ilnok, despite my being his favorite toy, will use me, then kill me, then use me further, as a lesson to others.
The small ant moves me across the dance floor toward the back of the bar. He stops when my back is pressed against the dark, rough wooden wall. It’s strange that in such a crowded bar we are relatively alone.
“Should I get undressed?” I’ve only been with Ilnok and his crowd; I don’t know what passes for play in a bar. In none of the human-ant groupings do the humans appear to be fully undressed. Nor fully dressed. I’m in new territory.
“Take off your shirt.”
I do as he says. I find myself switching from fear to the disconnected state I enter when I’m with Ilnok. I pull a patch from my pocket, but the ant pins my wrist to the wall near my shoulder before I can get the patch to my jugular.
“You will not need your drug.”
Tears fill my eyes. I blink, registering desperation, fear, and self-loathing all in the same moment.
“You did not kill the human,” he says. It strikes me the phrase has not changed since I first heard it from the ant-tender in Refugio’s. As though it’s a code that requires a response.
My breath coming fast, my skin prickling with instant sweat, I take a long moment before answering. “No,” I answer with a sigh. Will I be killed with this admission?
“You work with Samuel.”
“No!” I answer. I don’t understand the vehemence of my response, or why Samuel leaves me so uneasy.
“I work with Samuel,” he says.
“What?” I can’t believe I heard the words. My wrist is still pinned to the wooden wall and my fingers begin to tingle.
“You work with Samuel. I work with Samuel.” He speaks barely loud enough for me to hear him. “Have information for Samuel. Will you remember?”
It all clicks into place. I understand. I’m both relieved and angry. Damn Samuel, damn him.
“My hand.” I unclench my fist, and the patch falls to the ground. “I won’t use the drug. Please let go of my hand.”
The ant releases his grip and I bend to retrieve the fallen patch, shove it into my pocket with the others.
“Nestra, Shame Receptor. You repeat.”
“Nestra, Shame Receptor,” I say.
He places his two high pincers on the wall next to my head and his two low pincers between my bare arms and my torso. He opens his mandibles and extrudes his palpus a short way. I lean my head back and open my mouth.
“No need. This is deception. I do not use humans.” He finishes his statement with something in his own language. Maybe a curse, or a call to some ant deity. It’s new information to me: All ants are not like Ilnok.
“Nestra wishes to share. You repeat,” he says.
“Nestra wishes to share.”
“Nestra will share with humans. This will weaken loyalty to queen.” As the ant speaks, he pulls one high pincer and one low pincer away from the wall and tucks them in tight to his torso. To anyone watching, this will look like he’s using them on me.
“Humans may learn information from Nestra.”
I repeat this last sentence. He makes me repeat the entire message, then again.
“Tell Samuel,” he says. “I am Fatchk.” He extrudes his palpus a short way again. I lean my head back and move closer, but fight the ingrained urge to open my mouth. I think I understand the show we’re putting on, but part of me expects to be disciplined for not opening myself.
“Nestra is good. I . . . ,” He pauses, apparently searching for the right word in our language. “. . . admire Nestra.” He lifts my shirt to me with one pincer, and says, “I admire you.”
He stalks away, leaving me speechless against the wall, shirt in hand.
He admires me? Tears fill my eyes again.
The ant leaves Downtime without pausing at the bar or interacting with anyone else. I pull my shirt over my head and return to the bar, to my abandoned whiskey. I repeat the message in my head. I bring the glass twice to my lips, but I don’t drink.
He admires me. Even if he is only an ant, this ant has dared to give me more than I would give myself.
I guess I’d better find Samuel.
CHAPTER 13
SAMUEL
I’ve seen Khara twice today, but made sure she didn’t see me. She is not at all practiced at perceiving the spaces and crowds around her – which follows, given her complete self-absorption.
The first time was this morning, on the way to the factory with Tamerak. Khara stumbled down the middle of the street, being spun and bounced by the shoulders and hips of humans as hopeless and oblivious as she. She looked like she was coming from an all-night session with her master, and I couldn’t imagine her coherent enough to do anything but stumble by accident into a spot where she could sleep. Stoned again.
