Carapace (Aggressor Queen Book 1)

by Davyne DeSye

  Now, the second time, I see her as I make my way to one of the meeting places where we in the rebellion can gather with safety. This time she seems more coherent and seems to be more aware of her surroundings, looking for something or someone. Probably a bar.

  Bell was right. Khara is too weak in her struggle for survival to be trusted. She doesn’t seem to have been punished for her “daring rescue” of Rex, which leads me to conclude it was not a rescue at all, but a planned attempt at sabotage or spying. If so, then the ants are as foolish as I am in believing Khara could be counted on, could be strong enough to stay focused on their mission for her.

  In retrospect, I find myself surprised at my earlier interest in Khara, at my willingness to trust her. Perhaps I singled out Khara as a symbol of the humanity I am trying to protect and wanted in that symbol to protect her, save her from an untenable circumstance that is killing her.

  And yet.

  And yet, I still make my way toward her – ready to duck behind something if she turns in my direction – and pass within inches of her, elbow almost jostling elbow. I inhale her scent as I pass, searching for I-don’t-know-what. Perhaps the telltale smell of whiskey. She doesn’t smell of whiskey, but smells rather pleasant. Like sun-dried laundry.

  Stop it, I scold myself, surprised I could become so fixated.

  Bell was right.

  I pass through a shop selling used items of various kinds, abandoned human items that no longer seem as compelling in the waste the ants have left us – a folding TV table, an elaborate candelabrum, a small glass vase complete with a drooping bouquet of silk flowers, lots of other things.

  I exit through a back entrance, cross a short strip of alley and enter a door marked “Deliveries Only,” which leads to what used to be an illicit gambling hall. It’s now a warehouse of detritus, with overturned tables and chairs, and gambling chips and papers and the odd bit of torn cloth strewn like confetti over the surface of the floor. It’s difficult to move through this room without creating some noise in the passage, which suits us, as it alerts the sentries of any arrival. I crawl into the dumbwaiter and it moves toward the basement. I’ve been recognized.

  In the basement, I move to the vault that once held meat for the restaurant that fronted for the gambling hall. It’s small and cold, but no longer provides refrigeration.

  Diane and Tanner are there, and while waiting for me, seem oblivious to my entrance. Diane, straight black hair hanging around her Asian features, gazes at Tanner’s somewhat effeminate profile, and in her look it seems she’s feasting on his ear, his downturned eyes, the microscopic pores of a chin that almost never needs shaving. Tanner looks at Diane’s hand as his long fingers caress her knuckles. He smiles and raises his eyes to her almond-shaped ones, and she smiles back, both smiles seeming to say much, but not to me. They’ve been inseparable since they found each other. I would almost guess they’d wish the invasion upon us again if this is the only way they could find each other.

  Diane and Tanner, as one, turn their youthful faces toward me. I expect a mild look of embarrassment from one or both of them for expressing such intimacy in front of me. Instead, I feel the flush of the discovered voyeur.

  “Samuel,” Diane says, nodding her head in greeting. She smiles and then clicks at me in the ant language, showing off for me with the air of a child looking for praise.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “Just a greeting. It means something like ‘hive-brother.’” Tanner nods in agreement.

  “You know I’m no expert, but it sounds great.” I squeeze her on the shoulder to reinforce my flimsy praise. “If I wasn’t looking, I’d think you were an ant.” Tanner laughs out loud, and cups her cheek, his pride glowing in his face.

  “You have a report,” I say, by way of starting the meeting.

  “In the queen’s garden,” Tanner starts. My eyebrows rise. While Tanner and Diane act as gardeners in the queen’s sanctum, they don’t often learn any information there, as the queen is always there alone, and thus there is nothing to overhear or learn. It’s dangerous work because the queen’s penchant for killing humans seems unquenchable. Most of the information Diane and Tanner learn is in the bars where humans and ants intermingle. Their facility with languages has taught them much of what they know of the ant’s tongue.

  “It was weird, man,” Tanner continues. “There we were, just trimming and stuff, and this ant comes into the garden, like usual. The other big one we told you about. We were cool because that one never bothers humans, you know?”

  I suppress a smile at Tanner’s vernacular. Considering he speaks three languages – and is now learning the ant’s – it must be an affectation, and one I find amusing. “Go on.”

  “So we weren’t worried about getting close to it and stuff, and we needed to take care of a couple of plants near it, you know.”

  Diane takes up the story. “Then all of a sudden, it was standing right there in front of us. It scared me to death. I thought maybe it’s just like the queen, and maybe Tanner and I were going to die right there.” She takes the time to squeeze Tanner’s hand while looking at him for confirmation.

  Tanner nods. “Right, man.”

  Diane looks back at me. “Then it opened itself up to us. You know, head back, arms open. Like they do when they show their submissiveness. Then,” Diane pauses and swallows, as if afraid I won’t believe her, “then, it said, ‘I won’t hurt you.’ It was really strange.”

  “Totally weird,” Tanner adds.

  “We left. But we wanted to know what you think. What should we do? Anything?”

  I can’t think what this new information reveals. Ants don’t approach humans with anything other than demands or pain or death. I should pull them from the garden, but this is the one place where we can have humans inside the walls of the capitol complex and still expect them to retain more than a one- or two-day life expectancy. It’s a tactical advantage I don’t want to have to abandon.

  “Stay away from it. From now on, treat it with the same deference – and distance – as you give the queen. Don’t jeopardize yourselves, but keep working there. Report anything else with it. As you know, no one else has the freedom to enter and exit the capitol complex. You’re needed.”

  “Can do,” answers Tanner, with a smile and a thumbs up. Diane nods, glances at Tanner, and squeezes his hand again.

  I leave them there, and start toward Tamerak’s home, hoping I haven’t just consigned them to death.

  ***

  Khara wanders the street near the place where I showed her Rex was safe. She paces, restless, and searching for someone. She’s a traitor after all. She’s searching for us. I’m thankful when I pulled her into the back pantry room she was disoriented and drugged and can’t now find her way back. I’ll pass the word we’re not to meet there any longer. I’ll pass the word to stay away from Khara. I curse myself for a fool. My interest in Khara has endangered us.

  I stay and watch her to satisfy myself she can’t remember the doorway. After some time, she leaves, heading toward Refugio’s and a drink. I follow, wondering at my motivation. I tell myself it’s not attraction or fascination, but to ensure the safety of the rebellion I may have compromised. Once at the bar, she resumes the decomposition she seems determined to accomplish, with whiskey and beer and a patch at her throat. When I leave, her eyes are glazed, as usual.

  Disappointment lies heavy in my chest as I make my way to Tamerak’s. Disappointment in her, even more in myself.

  CHAPTER 14

  NESTRA

  The queen reclines across the huge gape-jawed throne and its covering of garish cushions, her relaxed posture belying her rage. A drugged human lies tossed at the base of the throne, sprawled in the attitude of complete oblivion, spittle escaping its open mouth. It is small for a human, little more than half the height of the queen, and unharmed, as yet.

  As yet. I shudder.

  I pull myself straighter in an attempt to look dignified as I wait on t
he dais at the side of and behind the queen. An echoing pop sounds from the joint between my abdomen and thorax as I straighten, which defies any attempt at dignity. The queen rages at a courtier and does not react.

  “I asked for a projection of time needed to complete fertilization and maturation of the final brothers needed!” The rasp and screech of the queen’s demand makes many more cringe than the courtier addressed. Although all try to hide their fear, the bright red scent in the large room is unmistakable. I wish I could close my pores, as I need no additional negative chemical reactions within myself. I try to meditate through the queen’s storming.

  “Majesty, the larval development on those maturing is excellent and should be completed by the end of the week . . .,” grates the courtier, but the queen interrupts with a scraping roar.

  “Final brothers needed! Time!” The queen twitches forward with her two high, larger pincers and the whole of the audience crests back in the face of her rage. All but Dev’ro, the queen’s most trusted advisor, whose mandibles pinch cruelly toward the unfortunate courtier from his spot at the base of the dais.

  “Majesty, if you could visit the crèche more often . . . ,” mumbles the courtier, and the queen roars again.

  “I cannot spend all my time spilling chemicals into eggs! I am not merely a breeding machine!” I hear several sharp rasps of surprise from those in attendance and look up to see the queen re-sheathing her phallus. The shock of the audience at the queen’s lewd display colors the already palpable scent of fear in the room toward teal-violet.

  I sigh around the edges of my mandibles, and the queen spins on me in obvious fury, multi-faceted eyes gleaming. Appalled at my own unconscious breach of protocol, I throw my head back and open myself, but the queen growls and spins back to the courtier.

  The courtier does not answer. There is nothing he can say. The queen is the only one who can awaken the waiting eggs and begin the final maturation process, and yet she suggests she does not have the time, while demanding a projection for the completion of the work force. The unfortunate creature rocks backward, opening himself. I pity him and fear, given the queen’s obvious instability, she will kill him on the spot.

  Queen Tal needs me. She is overloaded and losing control. And yet, I dread receiving her sickness into me. I pull my attention away from the court, and begin again the cleansing mantra, hoping to concentrate over the clamor. My duty. The thought runs under and around my feeble attempt at meditation.

  I am not aware of the remainder of the audience, but know, at least, the queen has not killed the courtier. I pull myself free of my semi-trance when the queen rises and strides past me into the antechamber at the back of the throne room. I follow in haste, knowing her rage will not brook any delay.

  “Ready yourself!” she roars, and this is all the preparation I am given before she pounces on me and begins off-loading a rancid brew into me. I am barely able to enter the life-sustaining trance before the bitter Shame pours into me like regurgitated poison.

  ***

  Fugue state. The protective mantra floats as colored sound, scented sound, as a singing, roiling coil of crystalline bursts of color – mutable, fluid, flowing. I float, unaware, unattached, all but unconscious, except for the awareness which allows me to separate the toxin from my Self. Evil, bitter, black, bruised, omnivorous, acid, poison . . . Shame. A voracious flood of horrors cascades into me.

  Indeterminate time.

  In the midst of the disordered fusion of mantra and self-sense and near hysteria, I feel the ordered sensation of coiling and unfolding as if breathing. Half-formed visions/sounds/smells/tastes coalesce and separate, change in hue, flavor, scent, tone. I tread the path of the mantra in an effort to keep some slight hold of my own sanity amidst the turmoil and fetid corruption. Tread the mantra and follow its loose winding path.

  And there. There in the midst of jumbled images/sounds/scents, there coalesces a beautiful, glowing, golden dewdrop, which hums and vibrates, and gives off the sweet/tart scent of warm fresh fruit. Within the cocoon of protection I have woven about myself, I shudder at the beauty and attraction of the warm throbbing bead.

  Indeterminate time.

  Floating, wafting, but focused on the golden bead, drawn . . . drawn.

  Indeterminate time and hesitation, and then . . .

  Reaching, touching – shuddering at near contact, trembling at scent . . . quivering . . . and finally, lapping the smallest taste.

  Fugue and pleasure. Fugue and warmth. Fugue and joy. The smallest taste, and yet immense pleasure and warmth and joy.

  Indeterminate time.

  Floating, treading the mantra, with greater ease.

  Then, the spiral march up the web of the mantra toward the call of light and breath and consciousness.

  Awake.

  ***

  The queen lies still as I pull myself away, wrap my limbs around my own shell, fingers and pincers tapping on my own back. It’s strange, but I feel I have just awakened after a pleasant dream, with only dim recollection of it.

  “I go to the breeding room,” says the queen. She is quiet, coherent. I wonder why she tells me this much. “But I will need you again later. You may go.” She does not look toward me, but instead seems subdued. No cruel pinch of mandibles. No leering thrust at me as mere tool, indispensable yet disposable.

  “Majesty,” I murmur and move toward the door. From the thickness of the off-loaded chemicals, I know I will have trouble dragging myself to my rooms, but also know how much I need the solitude and solace found there. I pause at the door and turn to open in the ritual bow to the queen. I am astonished to see the queen still sprawled where I left her.

  “Majesty?” I ask, surprised.

  “Go,” she mutters, and then pulls herself to her full regal height and swipes a pincer in my direction. “Go!”

  I am even more surprised to discover I do not need the support of the doorframe to turn and leave the room.

  ***

  I move down the corridors toward my rooms, aware of the escort behind me. They keep their distance, knowing I often falter after my sessions with the queen and unwilling to walk too close, to perhaps touch me if I flail or fall.

  I do not falter. I move with slow steps, yes, but halfway to my rooms, I realize my careful pace and meticulous attention to my feet on the path of the corridor before me is more habitual than necessary today.

  I am stronger after this session than usual.

  I stop in the corridor and stretch, and feel a bubble of humor rise in me as the guards stop, each exuding the orange aroma of surprise, followed by the sour green-yellow flavor of questioning. They do not question me with words, however. No doubt, they want no interaction with me at all in my current state.

  I move on, called by the thought of my rooms, and rest, and the dissipation of the poisonous concoction within me.

  ***

  I tread the mantra quickly, less ponderously than is usual for my first time through after a session with the queen.

  Perhaps the queen has been behaving herself and the Shame was less thick than usual. But even as I try to explain the ease with which the poisons are dissipated, the weight and depth of the poison I absorbed did not seem less.

  The lemon breeze and the soft music wafts over me, lifting my mood further. I should walk the mantra again, cleanse myself further, since the queen will, without doubt, call me again soon, but I cannot bring myself to feel the need.

  Do I have time to relax in the garden? Perhaps to paint?

  The desire recalls to me my last painting: the beautiful golden dewdrop, glowing in its desirability. Tal’s Strength.

  The connection crashes on me as I also recall tasting of the dewdrop during my recent fugue state. Tal’s strength!

  The nausea which I have avoided through my pursuit of the cleansing mantra threatens now. I am washed with my own shame and guilt as I recall what seemed a dream – a beautiful, enticing, entrancing dream.

  It was no dream . . . No d
ream!

  And now I have done it! I have taken strength from the queen!

  I cringe with the horror of my own wickedness in taking from the queen. The weakness that descends upon me with the whirlpool of my own castigatory shame overwhelms me, and I lower myself into the cushioned floor of my bed-pit and tread the cleansing mantra again, and yet again, before I am summoned to the queen. Even after the cleansing and rest, I still feel weakened by my own shame and only muster a feeling of some normalcy upon swearing to myself I will never commit such an unimaginable breach again.

  CHAPTER 15

  KHARA

  Samuel’s gone. It’s clear that I saw Samuel as frequently as I did because he was looking for me, following me. And now, with a message burning in me, with these fucking withdrawal symptoms as I try to wean myself from the patch, with fear of reprisals for a failure to deliver the message, Samuel’s gone.

  Damn Samuel.

  I’m in a new bar, afraid to go back to Refugio’s and face the ant-tender who first spoke to me. I finish my whiskey, throwing it back, burning the opening to my sinuses at the top of my throat. Damn Samuel! Anger fills me, threatening to bring the whiskey back up. Not just anger. Rage.

  My existence, such as it is, was bearable. Endurable. With alcohol and the patch, yes, endurable. At least for today. I never thought about tomorrow. Today and tomorrow strung together in my mind, with the knowledge of what I force myself to do each day, would be one day too many to endure.

  I realize my rage is directed at myself. I allowed Samuel . . . allowed him to what? Awaken me? Samuel with the soft mouth, and the warm eyes.

  Samuel has violated me. Damn him! I was surviving. And now, I’m pregnant with a message that means nothing to me, other than fear and a loathing for Samuel that he put me in this position of danger. I cringe each time an ant comes near me with a dread I don’t feel even at Ilnok’s most cruel moments. Will I be killed for failing to deliver the message?

  I finger the patches in my pocket. I want so much to forget Samuel and the message. Instead of the patch, I order another whiskey. The booze doesn’t help my nausea, doesn’t do a hell of a lot for the shakes. But, it does help me space out a bit, does help me get away from the pain of existence.