by Davyne DeSye
He is looking toward the entrance of the alcove. We are pressed so close. My need for his mouth is an ache in my chest, in my gut. I wait for him to turn his face to mine, but he doesn’t.
“Samuel?” I whisper. My voice is rough from the hard breathing and the running. He doesn’t hear me. “Samuel?” Louder. I can hear the pleading in my voice and hope he can’t.
He doesn’t turn toward me. “Khara, don’t.” His arms are clenched at his sides. The muscles in his back are taut. He’s fighting with himself or with revulsion. I’m frightened he’ll push me away. I’m paralyzed wanting to clutch him closer to me and afraid of what his reaction may be.
“Kiss me, Samuel.” I’m begging. I can feel my face flushing as I hold his body against mine. I want him. I’m terrified he won’t do me this kindness.
After what seems an hour, he turns his face to mine. His eyes dart back and forth as he looks down into my eyes. He seems to want to ask me something, but I can think only of the unfamiliar, thrilling sensation of his body pressed against me, his warm breath on the skin of my burning cheek and on my lips. He doesn’t push me away.
“Kiss me, Samuel,” I say again. I raise myself onto my toes, pressing my body tighter against him as I lift my mouth to his. I’m braced for the intimate stab of rejection. I don’t close my eyes. I need him as much as I have ever needed a patch or a drink. I’m shaking with need as my lips touch his.
His mouth is warm and wet and open. My hunger is returned with a fierceness that incites me. His massive hands are in my hair. His mouth devours mine. One hand closes on the back of my neck above my monitor, pulls me into him. The other hand moves to my back, pressing my hips to his. My fingers dig into the muscles of his chest, his thigh.
I push my body from his and lift my shirt, wanting it off. I want his skin against mine. His mouth doesn’t release mine, so I can’t lift my shirt over my head. I pull the remains of his shirt up. I press my bare chest against his. My flesh against human flesh in an electrifying moment, bodies slick against each other with the sweat of our exertions. My hands fly across his body, caress, pull at him, hungry for the feel of him. His breathing is no longer controlled.
My body is on fire, alive to the sensation of us. Pressed against the brick, I want to drag him into me with an astonishing violence. He sucks in a rough breath as I reach into his pants, tug down on his pants. In only a few frenzied moments my own pants are on the floor of the alley.
Samuel slows the pace. He cups my uninjured cheek in one hand and looks into my eyes. He smiles. We are both panting. Then he kisses me again, and with eyes closed, I’m only sensation, surrounded by strength. His large strong hands clasp my naked ass, and lift me on to him.
He is urgent, and gentle, and as hungry as I am. For a time that remains immeasurable, we are breathing each other, sharing each other. None of the humans or ants that pass the mouth of the alley appears to spare us a thought.
I’m beyond thought, intoxicated.
CHAPTER 32
BELL
I’m craving a ciggie. However, smoking is either a shared occupation – for those of us who have them – or a solitary endeavor. Given how few of us do have them, it is, under most circumstances, the latter. I’ll have one when I’m done meeting with Samuel. It wouldn’t do to appear to have an endless supply. My fingers twiddle at the pack in the front pocket of my trousers as my bum grinds into the wooden crate I’m sitting on.
“You’re sure your contact can deliver that much gasoline?” Samuel asks from his perch on his own crate. We are meeting in one of our regular spots, what used to be a storage room, one with exits at either end – two exits, something we tend to like.
“I’m quite certain.” I remove my hand from the temptation in my pocket. “When have I ever let you down?”
“Never, Bell.” His eyes flash to mine for a moment of camaraderie, and he puts his big hand on my shoulder.
I like Samuel, I truly do. He is so genuine and warm, even though he spends most of his time trying to deny any human frailty.
His eyes return to the brief notes he’s been consulting. “I wasn’t questioning your reliability, but that of your contact. I’ll have Eli coordinate the pickup,” Samuel says. He seems distracted as he continues, finger flicking at the top corner of his notes, eyes running over the unpainted plasterboard walls without seeming to see them. “Keep your ears open for any caches of med supplies or weapons. Can’t have too much of either.”
“Always, Mate. I take it you think we have enough vehicles in working order? What do the numbers look like?”
“We’ll never have enough of anything, but the cell directing the trucks is doing a great job. Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” Samuel says. He tosses the answer off as if he’s saying “don’t worry about it,” but I know Samuel. He never tells more than he needs to. Not because he doesn’t trust me, of course, but for the safety of the rebellion. It’s deuced hard to get information out of Samuel, which is a good attribute for the leader to have.
It’s late and our meeting’s wound down, so I stand and stretch. I’ve another meeting to get to and then later, a delightful lady to meet.
Samuel looks up at me as I stand, a strange expression on his face. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then drops his chin and shakes his head.
This could be interesting.
I settle to my uncomfortable seat again. “Samuel. What’s wrong?”
“I...” He doesn’t get any further.
“Samuel, Mate, this is me. Bellamy. What is it? Maybe I can help?”
“I shouldn’t say anything.”
But...? I don’t push him, don’t move. His shoe scrapes across the cement floor as he adjusts his position on the crate.
“But,” he says. He glances up at the water-stained, buckling ceiling – it’s almost an eye roll – then leans closer to me and says, “We have a traitor – a human traitor – in the rebellion.”
“What?” My stomach flutters – my characteristic first response to danger. “Who? What do you know?” My hand moves to my pocket again, to the ciggies.
“I don’t know who. Khara...” – sweat blossoms on the back of my neck during his pause – “When Khara and I met with my ant contact, that’s what he told us. It’s too dangerous for me to try to meet with my contact again, so Khara is going to try to get Nestra to find out more.”
“I should bloody hope so,” I say, because it is expected. But this is not good. I knew Khara was going to be trouble.
“Don’t say anything to anybody about this,” Samuel says, running a hand over his short-cropped, sandy blond hair. The hair on the top of his head remains standing – something that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but on this ruggedly handsome man only increases his look of determination.
I raise my right hand as if taking a pledge and put the other on my heart.
He sighs. “I probably shouldn’t have told you.”
I put my pledge hand flat on my thigh, rub it to remove the perspiration there. “Hey. Mate. This is me, Bellamy.”
“Yeah. I know, buddy. See what you can find out, will you?”
“Priority one. It’s our lives at stake,” I answer. I need to get out of here. The air is too close. I put on my best chipper smile. “Got to run for now, but I’m on it.”
“Yeah,” Samuel says, gaze directed at the wall again. Now I understand his distracted and dejected manner. With this news, we all have reason to worry.
When I’m a block away walking through the darkness, I light a ciggie, inhale, then inhale again without releasing the first drag, let loose the double puff in a slow stream of smoke through pursed lips.
Khara.
When Samuel first wanted to bring her into the rebellion, I knew she’d be trouble. I tried – Lord knows I tried! – to convince Samuel it was a bad idea. Drug addict. But he didn’t listen, did he?
My mind flashes to the first time he brought her to meet us. She was nervous, but no more than I.
But she hadn’t. She acted like she’d never seen me before. Those drugs of hers must be mind-blowing.
After that, I’d thought myself safe. I’d lightened up towards her.
Now... what to do?
I take another long drag and let the smoke trail out of my nose, letting it burn away the stink of the street. I look at my watch. Realizing I still have time before my next meeting, I slow to a stop, press my back against the rough blond brick between a supermarket and a restaurant. I have to think.
Khara. With her connection to Nestra she is more of a danger than ever. I take another drag.
She has to go.
I’m satisfied with the answer that floats into my mind as if it’s not my own. I never liked her anyway.
But even with Khara out of the way, Samuel remains a danger. He will work with relentless determination to ferret out the traitor. Even without Khara.
Samuel has to go.
I’m less happy with this thought. I like Samuel, I truly do.
I stride across the pavement again, trying to escape this latest idea, wanting to find a different answer. Another deep inhale and then I toss the remains of the ciggie a good five feet in front of me so I can crush it out with my next step. Only half smoked, but I have more.
I push all thought from my mind for the few minutes it takes me to get to the back alley of the Westin Peachtree. I go in through the entrance that leads to the kitchen, ride a short way up in the service elevator and make my way to the bar.
“Brother Temsa’a,” I say as I approach my contact. I slide onto the stool beside him. He pushes three packs of ciggies to me and I stand to put them away – one in each of my front trouser pockets and one in the breast pocket of my shirt.
“Credits?” I ask. I don’t often ask but when I do, I get whatever I ask for.
He picks up the wand that sits in front of him on the bar top and I pull my credit ring from my watch pocket.
“Five hundred,” I say and watch as my balance rises by the requested amount. More than enough to keep me in my nice little flat for another month, eating what I like instead of the mush so many of us are forced to live on.
“Tomorrow, at about this same time in the evening, the rebels will be picking up a large delivery of petrol,” I begin. I give him the same details I have just given Samuel. I don’t feel too bad about this as Samuel told me Eli will arrange the pickup. Eli is smart. He’ll make sure his people are not captured when the transfer is interrupted. And if they are, whose fault but theirs?
Temsa’a raises a pincer and the bartender brings me a chilled vodka. I lift the glass in salute to my benefactor.
I like Temsa’a, I truly do.
CHAPTER 33
SAMUEL
My day at the factory ends after an eternity. The workers leave under the watchful eyes and occasional searching pincers without incident. I bow backward as Tamerak takes his leave of me. As with most evenings, Tamerak does not require me. I move through the streets in a manner I hope looks aimless, confirming I am not being followed. I have to meet with my people to coordinate the various deliveries of the goods and equipment and weapons we have managed to cache.
I hope Khara is there.
In the week since our robbery of the weapons warehouse, Khara has been a constant companion, if only, at most times, in my thoughts. Instead of confusing or distracting me, our sudden relationship seems to have clarified me, intensified my focus on the importance of our survival. In the random moments we have found to be alone together, her barriers against physical contact seem to have crumbled – in fact, inverted – and she insists on touching me, on me touching her. When we are with the others, her reserve returns, but I don’t know if this is to preserve herself or to preserve decorum in the face of our relationship.
All of my top people are at the meeting: Bell, Jan, Eli, Rex, Diane and Tanner. Khara. The various deliveries are coordinated in short coded bursts – my people know their jobs well. They each report on the status of the planning for the first strike of the rebellion. From what Khara has learned from Nestra and what I’ve discovered through Fatchk, our attack is focused on the queen and those closest to the queen – those whom both Nestra and Fatchk have referred to as “sick” or “ill.”
Our hope is that resistance will be negligible once these “sick” leaders are removed. If this isn’t the case, then we’ll go out fighting, which is better than dying as we do now, by an ever increasing rate of disposal. The streets are less crowded by the day and stories of mounds of dismembered human flesh abound. Jan, Eli and I work at the factory, wondering if each day will be our last as we are replaced by ant brothers. I look to Tamerak for signs of a coming purge, but don’t know if he’d give any indication, despite his apparent affection for me, his pet.
Khara’s monitor lights during Bell’s report regarding our weapons cache and all eyes flick to her. She clenches her jaw and the red gash across her cheek squirms as she stares toward the middle of the table, unwilling to meet our eyes. Her hands on the table are clenched white.
“Fuck this,” she murmurs. Her eyes rise to mine and she says, “I can’t do this anymore. Not anymore.” It seems our relationship has lowered her resistance to Ilnok, her acceptance. In this way, I’ve hurt her.
“It’ll be over soon, Khara,” I answer, pushing aside my concern for her, my regret at what the next few hours will bring for her. “Don’t quit when we’re so close. Don’t get yourself killed right before we’re free.” Free to be together without the torture you endure, I want to say, but don’t.
Khara’s eyes are locked to mine, and I don’t look away. I know what I’m asking of her and can’t blame her for the anger evident in her rigid posture.
Khara rises from her chair, and the loud sound of the chair legs scraping away from the table fills the room. She steps around the chair, pauses, then lifts the chair, spins, and launches it at the wall behind her. Her scream of “Fuck this!” drowns the sound of the splintering wood.
Diane leaves the table and the room. As Khara stands there, breathing in heavy pants, Diane returns with a bowl of sweetmead and holds it out to Khara. After a moment, Khara sighs and takes the bowl. Diane leans toward Khara to whisper something I can’t hear, placing a hand on Khara’s shoulder. Khara doesn’t shrug the hand from her shoulder, but nods, drinks the sweetmead down and leaves the room. She doesn’t look back at me, and I am pained by my inability to reach out and comfort her. For long moments, I look at the dark hallway into which Khara disappeared.
“Well, that was dramatic,” Bell says, bursting the bubble of silence in the room. Several of us chuckle in appreciation of the return to normalcy, although none, I would guess, find Khara’s situation funny. Bell finishes his report. The meeting breaks up, and everyone leaves except Bell.
“Nowhere to be?” I ask. I had hoped to spend the rest of the evening with Khara, so I have no plans.
“Mate, I have information for you that you aren’t going to like.”
“The traitor,” I say. It’s not a question.
Bell nods, still serious, which is unusual but not unexpected given the topic.
“Sit down, Mate.”
I sit. Bell sits. Still he says nothing.
“Out with it, Bell. We need to start figuring out what to do with this . . . this . . . .” I can’t think of a polite word to use.
“Bloody bitch?” Bell finishes for me. I’m stunned at the uncharacteristic curse word. Then his statement registers.
“It’s a woman?” I ask. My mind runs through women I know to be involved in our organization. I can’t think of many, as we’ve compartmentalized as much as possibl
e. It’s impossible to suspect Diane or Jan.
“It’s Khara,” Bell says.
For long moments my mind can’t fix on who Bell means with his brief statement. When it registers, a laugh bursts from me at the ridiculousness of the thought. I wait for the joke I know is coming.
Bell doesn’t laugh, but looks down at his hands, his carefully manicured nails, still serious. “It’s Khara,” he says again.
I can think of nothing to say. I don’t believe it.
“I’m sorry, Mate, really. I know you worked hard to get her in, I know you trust her, but it was all a ploy.” His strange emphasis on the word “trust” seems unfair.
Now I’m angry. I trust Bell, I know from his manner this isn’t one of his jokes, but I’m angry. I feel betrayed. I’m confused by the juxtaposition of two people I trust. I shake my head in denial, but then force myself to focus so I can determine what Bell knows. I can’t afford an emotional reaction right now, although my instinct is to push Bell backward out of his chair.
“What do you know?” I ask. The quiet rationality of my voice is a feedback loop that calms me. He’ll tell me what he knows and I’ll be able to convince him he’s wrong.
Bell explains – again – that Rex’s apparent rescue was designed to provide an entrance into our organization. He reminds me of how much of the ant language Khara appeared to know at the beginning and how quickly she became proficient. He explains the interrupted robbery on the weapons warehouse was due to information passed on by Khara – “Despite overwhelming odds against it, you got away, right? With Khara?” He tells me that Khara’s frequent “calls” by Ilnok are as often to report on the organization as to serve Ilnok’s other demands.
It all sounds plausible. But I still don’t believe it. I let Bell keep talking.
“I’m not trying to suggest anything, but...,” he says. His voice is lower, confidential.
“Yeah?”
“After all that ‘don’t touch me’... She’s given in, hasn’t she? You’re now... intimate?”
