by Davyne DeSye
“What do you want?” he asks as I stop before him. His voice is a monotone, neither angry nor kind. His eyes dissect me, looking from my face to my bare arms, to my feet, and back to my face.
I’m so surprised and angered at his apparent indifference to me I can’t speak.
“You’ve cleaned yourself up a bit,” he says. Still monotone.
“Fuck off,” I say, angry. Angry!
“You have a limited vocabulary,” he answers. Before I can say anything more, he says, “You told me to leave you alone. I have. What do you want?” His eyes are locked on mine, but my own eyes move from one eye to his other, to his mouth, in a repeating triangle, trying to read his non-expression. Why am I standing here with this man?
My silence leads to a lifted eyebrow, and a wry twist of his thick lips. He says, as if I’m stupid, with a slight pause between each word, “What. Do. You. Want?”
“I have a message for you,” I say. I’ll end my new pattern. I’ll deliver the message and retreat to my old pattern of patch and patch and patch. This idea both repels and attracts me.
“I see,” he answers. “What is it your ant friends want to tell me?” he says, and I’m confused. He continues: “Decided to join the ant corps, have you?”
My anger at his insinuation flares, and I only recognize I’ve moved after the flat of my hand has dashed across his face.
Samuel’s head rocks a little under my blow. His face doesn’t show the anger in his narrowed brown eyes which, if possible, bore into me even harder.
“Not my ant friends,” I whisper between clenched teeth. “Yours.” I take a deep breath, hoping I’m remembering the name right. “Fatchk.”
Samuel’s eyes open and round, but with no delay of surprise, his strong hand grasps my upper arm and he begins walking, dragging me in tow. It’s several steps until I think to yank my arm from his grasp and stop.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.
Samuel turns toward me, smiles at me – there is the mouth I remember! – and says, barely moving his lips, “we should walk.” He moves a hand toward the small of my back but doesn’t touch me and motions ahead of me with the other hand in a chivalrous gesture. His eyes flick up and around at the humans and ants nearest us, and then back at me. He’s still smiling.
I begin walking and he walks with me.
“Where did you hear that name?” he asks through his smile. The smile hasn’t moved to his eyes.
“From your friend,” I say.
Samuel doesn’t answer and I wonder at the betrayals he’s imagining. Wonder at the betrayals in which I may now be taking part without even knowing it.
“Message,” he says. It’s not a question, but a command for performance. Irritation flashes in me. First he attempted to cajole me into his hopeless rebellion, then abandoned me, and now seeks to command me. But I want to be rid of this burden.
“Nestra. Shame Receptor,” I say. I pause. “I don’t have any idea what this means or if it means anything. I think I’m remembering it right.”
“Continue,” Samuel says. Irritation flares in me again. For several steps I say nothing more.
“Please,” Samuel says. The gentleness in his voice makes me look up at his face, and his eyes are soft as he glances toward me.
“Nestra wishes to share, will share with humans, and this will weaken her loyalty to the queen,” I say, in one breath. “That’s all.” Another couple of steps, and I ask, “Is this Nestra an ant?”
I wonder at my question. I’m not interested in Samuel’s rebellion. I don’t care about his cause. He’s rebellious and will die. I’m compliant and will live.
Samuel doesn’t answer. We continue to walk. I don’t know why I stay with him.
My monitor tingles against my throat. Ilnok calling me. I pull at my collar and the red glow shines out. I’m sick to my stomach. These two worlds don’t mesh.
Samuel stops walking, turns to face me, eyes fixed on my monitor and filled again with suspicion. His mouth hardens.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Samuel says. “I don’t know what kind of joke this is.”
“Wha…?” I start. It’s more breath than word. My mouth hangs open in surprise unable to conclude the truncated question. I’ve lived for days on end with this nonsense rolling around in my mind, and with fear of reprisal for not finding Samuel, torturing myself, and now I find there was no point?
“I don’t know how much of your drug you earned playing your stupid joke, but I don’t think it’s funny. Hope it was worth plenty to you.” He turns and begins striding back the way we came. The set of his massive shoulders is rigid.
“Samuel,” I say. Surprisingly, he turns toward me. Not surprisingly, his anger shows on his face. I pull my hand from my pocket and throw a handful of patches into his face. Most scatter at his feet, one landing in his short, sandy hair before slipping to his shoulder and then to the street.
I want to scream at him, but I don’t dare. Too much attention streetside is always dangerous. “I don’t need them, thanks.” I say. I wish I could feel satisfaction in addition to the betrayal and anger.
His mouth twists as he answers. “I can see that.”
“Fuck off, Samuel,” I say as he turns away. I can’t tell if he’s heard me as he walks away. It’s moments later I wish I hadn’t said those words. I hear again his cutting voice telling me I have a limited vocabulary.
“Fuck off, Samuel,” I say again, to myself alone, as I make my way back up the street behind him, toward the sweetmead vendor.
I hate Samuel and his rebellion. More than having a self-protective desire not to endanger myself with foolish dreams, foolish risks for an ungrateful man, I’m now angry and determined not to become involved. Bastard.
I hate that in these past days I’d come to believe in the softness of Samuel’s mouth. In the gentleness of his eyes, his hand on my face in a dim, blurred room. I realize again the truth that I can trust nothing and no one but myself.
I hope never to see him again. I won’t look for him. I’ll avoid any place where I might see him.
Asshole.
CHAPTER 20
DEV’RO
I am sated. The dead and dissected human at the base of the cushions I have been occupying is being cleared by lesser brothers attempting to keep the lounge somewhat unlittered. One brother gathers the small parts – fingers, toes, ears, nose. Does he count to make sure he has gathered them all or does he just pick up all the pieces he can find? Might there be a leftover nubbin under a cushion? The other brother lifts the body and the mangled head flops backward showing my handiwork. My sigh of satisfaction gurgles as air bubbles from my pores through the thin human blood. I reach for the light, sweet fruit juice that contrasts so pleasantly with the bitter iron of the red fluid.
Excellent toys, these creatures. Almost a shame to exterminate them. What will we do for entertainment then? In thinking “we,” I refer to the queen and myself. She is the perfection of our people. Through my close association with her, I have learned to appreciate her cravings, to feel them myself. And she, I believe, has learned to value me. I have worked hard to acquire her favor and intend to keep it.
I laugh to myself, mandibles drawn into the twisted smile that terrifies so many. I perfected the expression by watching my queen, having almost absorbed the ability from my frequent contact with her. No other courtier is as graced with her touch or brief sharing embrace as I am. My chemical contact with her fills me with such feelings of power. My greatest satisfaction comes when I slake my lust for supremacy with blood – whether obtained in a slashing frenzy or through slow torture. I want to be with her now to share this sensation of hunger temporarily fulfilled. The queen’s tastes are as voracious as my own, and she would enjoy the brief feeling of being sated.
A brother enters the small lounge and moves to sit near me on the cushions as I continue to watch the pieces of human body being removed. I tap my antennae against the brother’s in the barest of greet
ings. This is Ketann, one of the lowliest of courtiers, a wall-hanger, no one important. I know little and care not at all about him, but am careful to remain princely in my manners, if only to emphasize my power at court.
The brother smells of greeting and of awe and – yes, I relish it – of fear. This is appropriate. I pinch my perfected smile toward the brother.
“Pitiful creatures,” the brother says. The brother’s comment is tinged with the flavor/scent meaning pitiable, rather than connoting pathetic or contemptible.
I respond by deepening the flavor and sharpening the meaning toward the latter tones. “Yes.” Again my mandibles draw together into a smile bearing the sharpened edges.
“Do you not think . . .?” says the brother, now deliberately shading the flavor/scent toward pity and perhaps even compassion. He brushes his slim fingers against my arm and I can taste him with utmost clarity.
I do not hesitate. With both upper pincers I throw back the head of the other and snap out his throat with a sharp crushing clamp of my powerful mandibles. The decapitated head falls into my upper pincers. With my lower arms, I push the body from the cushions as thick yellow blood flows over the shell of his shiny black thorax. I kick the body toward the brothers just now finishing with the human detritus, and toss the head among the still twitching limbs.
I know better than most the consequences of tasting, when touched by the queen, as this revolting brother did. Shuddering with the thought, I order another human brought forth. I take my time with this one, removing the digits from its limbs, then smearing its face with its own blood before forcing it to swallow the small pieces. I remove the ears and tongue before slicing into the body cavity, savoring the screams and denying the human even the comfort of their drugs. It does not die until I have removed half of its viscera.
By the time I have finished, the flavor/scent of the traitorous brother is impossible to recall. I go to my meeting with my queen flush with self-satisfaction.
CHAPTER 21
SAMUEL
I’ve been at this bar for some time hoping for news of Fatchk. As I sit here, I realize hope is not a strategy. I have to move now because I can’t sit here without drinking and I can’t drink any more without endangering my equilibrium and blurring my senses.
None of my normal contacts has been able to put me in touch with Fatchk. They haven’t indicated he is dead, but I haven’t been able to gain any information as to where he might be, nor what danger might be keeping him from meeting with me. I can’t entertain the thought that he’s no longer a part of the rebellion. Ants, I have learned, are either for us or against us, although many refuse to be involved with us outside of following the queen’s dictates. Humans are the same: those with the rebellion, those with the ants, and those too afraid to be involved either way. My confusion regarding where Khara stands is distracting – logical distrust battles against intuitive attraction. I shake my head in a physical effort to get her out of my mind.
I don’t like it, but I have to take the risk, and approach an ant whose loyalties are not altogether established with me. I have seen him with Fatchk. But he also met with Tamerak once regarding the business of the factory. I rise and walk to him. He’s alone.
“Do you wish to dance?” I ask. I have seen this approach from the more pathetic of the humans – those in search of favors and willing to sell themselves for an evening or a dance. Under normal circumstances, this tactic is accompanied by an opening of the shirt to reveal the soft flesh of our chests, but I can’t do this without revealing my collar.
The ant raises an arm as if to wave me away, but I say, “My name is Samuel.” This shouldn’t raise suspicion because the ants know we identify each other with names, not by scent, and often identify ourselves to ants in this manner in the hopes of being remembered later, for perhaps another evening of favors exchanged. I believe they can’t often visually distinguish between us, just as we struggle to differentiate one ant from another.
The ant pauses and then rasps out, “Samuel?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Do you wish to dance?”
The glittering eyes of the ant focus on my face. My armpits prickle with sweat, both at the danger of trusting this unknown, and at the idea of what this ant may want to do during our “dance.” I can’t allow it to harm me in ways Tamerak will notice, but I may not get the choice.
“Sorm’ba,” says the ant. It’s telling me its name. “I will dance.”
Instead of moving toward the dance floor, as I expect, Sorm’ba guides me to a dark hallway which leads to small private lounges. I balk at entering the hallway. “I only wanted to dance,” I say, hoping to back out of my mistake.
“I am brother to Fatchk,” hisses Sorm’ba. “He has spoken of you. Come, Samuel.”
The relief that floods through me is tempered by my lingering caution. I want to believe this means he is close to Fatchk and shares Fatchk’s ideologies, but all ants refer to each other as “brother,” and it’s their apparent ability to taste or smell the nuances behind the word that lend it different meanings.
He has spoken of you. I decide to take the risk. I follow Sorm’ba as he leads me to a small lounge, opens the door, and enters the oil-black darkness. I follow and Sorm’ba closes the door. I hear the door latch, but don’t move in the perfect blackness. The hair stands on my neck and legs as I wonder who or what else might be in the room.
A dim red light glows from the ceiling and I’m relieved to find Sorm’ba the sole occupant of the small room. He moves to cushions, gesturing to me to join him.
“Much danger,” says Sorm’ba. Given the nerve brightening panic of my last few moments, I find this understatement almost comical.
“Fatchk is watched,” says Sorm’ba.
“I received a message from an untrusted human,” I say. “I do not believe it is from Fatchk. I believe it is a trap, but I don’t understand the trap.”
“Message?” says Sorm’ba.
I repeat Khara’s message. The fact of whether or not the message is from Fatchk, this brother may not know. However, perhaps the ant will be of some help in understanding the purpose of the message.
“Message is from Fatchk,” Sorm’ba answers. “Must try to subvert Nestra’s loyalty. Humans can help.”
I can’t breathe as I recall my last meeting with Khara, my reaction to her, my insults to her, when she was telling me the truth and risking herself to do it.
“I don’t understand,” I say. Sorm’ba tells me what I already know about ants “sharing” their chemical message through touch, and then explains Nestra is the queen’s Shame Receptor. I tell him I don’t understand this reference.
“The queen is sick,” says Sorm’ba. “She has illness. She should not have survived.”
“Survived what?” I ask. “Survived the voyage here? Survived the illness?”
“Survived,” he answers with finality.
I still don’t understand. I don’t say anything because I can’t think of how to sort through this misunderstanding between us.
“Queen is infection,” Sorm’ba says at last. “Queen makes us sick. Our people are not sick without a sick queen. Sick queens are not permitted to survive.”
“You mean she should have been killed?” I’m afraid of injurious insult with the statement, but I can’t manage to interpret his statement in any other way.
“Yes,” says Sorm’ba.
“You are fighting to kill the queen?” I ask. I’m incredulous.
“Yes.”
I allow this thought to spin through my head until a gust of laughter escapes me. “Then why don’t you?”
“Queen is infection. Those closest to queen are infected. Those infected infect their brothers. Sickness spreads, but weakens with distance from queen. Those close to queen taste like queen. They will not kill her. Those without sickness are killed if they approach.”
I think I’m beginning to understand. The queen is the apex of a pyramid. Those immediately under her are sick, and in tur
n, those under them are sick, perhaps to a lesser degree, but infected. Any bottom layer ant that attempts to get to the queen has to get over the infected layers under her, and can’t. Over time, the infection spreads down the line.
“You don’t want to be sick?” I ask.
“No.”
“Okay, who is Nestra? What is this Shame Receptor?”
“Infection weakens queen. Negative chemicals. Shame.” Sorm’ba waits while I nod. “Nestra digests negative chemicals. Nestra saves queen.”
Again I’m flailing for understanding.
Sorm’ba continues. “Queen orders none can share with Nestra. Nestra desires sharing. If loyalty of Nestra can be tainted, perhaps Nestra will turn against queen. Hurt queen.”
I like the idea, but I’m still not making the connection. “Nestra is saving the queen. Does this not mean Nestra is very loyal to the queen?”
“Nestra is not sick,” answers Sorm’ba. This doesn’t make sense to me if Nestra is the one who takes the queen’s sickness, but I move on.
“The message said Nestra could share with humans. But we don’t communicate with chemicals,” I said.
“You do not perceive chemicals. But your bodies release them. The taste of your fear was very strong.” I’m embarrassed. I feel somehow naked in front of this ant – although actual nudity wouldn’t have embarrassed me. I wonder at what Tamerak has smelled on me from time to time and either ignored or misunderstood. “Nestra wishes to share,” Sorm’ba continues.
“I have humans who will share.” I think of Diane and Tanner and what I’ll soon be asking them to do, but I also know they’ll do it. “What happens if this is accomplished? What happens if the queen is . . . ,” I want to say “killed” but can’t bring myself to believe in such a possibility, “hurt . . . by Nestra?”
“Infection will ease,” Sorm’ba says. After a pause, he says, “Our people are not sick.” It seems important to this ant I understand this, but I don’t.
