Carapace (Aggressor Queen Book 1)

by Davyne DeSye

  As I round a corner near my home, I catch a scent of my Samuel and pause, but then continue on, chiding my imagination. My imagination proves not to be at fault, however. As I approach the entrance to my home, my Samuel steps from the shadows at the side of the building. His scent is unmistakable.

  “Master,” Samuel says, and steps back into the shadows.

  The brightness of the sunlight on the surrounding cement leaves me unable to see him in the contrasting black of the shadow into which he has moved. More confusion boils through me and for a moment I do not move. When I step into the shadows that have engulfed my Samuel, he is on his knees, bowing backward in respect, arms outstretched and throat exposed. For a brief instant, I think to kill him as the queen has ordered. I stand looking down at the soft human I have so relied upon and cared about. My Samuel does not move, quiet in his obvious respect. But then I wonder if I can trust that anything about my Samuel is obvious, given the day’s events. I move a lower pincer toward Samuel’s throat, unsure whether to slash or caress. The sudden image of the queen’s cruel smile decides me. I do not touch my Samuel.

  “Come,” I say, turn, stride into the sunlight, and into my home.

  The furtiveness with which Samuel slides through the entrance behind me renews my feelings of betrayal and confusion.

  I have loved this creature whom I do not know.

  I turn and go to my bed-pit, tasting the air to assure myself he follows.

  “Explain,” I say once I have lowered myself to the cushions. My command is abrupt with my uneasiness.

  Samuel again falls to his knees and opens himself to me. He maintains the posture without speaking. I soften toward my human.

  “Explain,” I repeat, this time with the softened tones of resignation.

  “I apologize, Master,” Samuel says, bringing his head to the upright position and focusing his liquid eyes on me.

  I sigh and stay my pincer before I can reach out and caress him as I wish to do.

  “It was a human betrayal,” Samuel continues.

  “It was my betrayal!” I spit, surprised at the loud harshness of my reply. “You could have cost me my life!” Fear courses through me as I again consider the consequences of the queen’s displeasure. The room grows thick with the bright scent.

  “I was trying to avoid losing my own,” Samuel answers, “although my life is yours now, if you wish it.” He bends his head backward and opens himself to me. Again, I soften to my Samuel and, again, I sigh.

  “How were you aware of the need for your actions?” I ask.

  After a long moment, Samuel answers, “I, like you, have bond-brothers. Human bond-brothers. They made me aware.” I can taste the caution with which the answer is delivered. This causes a renewed surge of fear/betrayal/confusion, and the sour green-yellow of the questions that form in my mind mix with the other scents in the flavor-laden room.

  “Explain further,” I order, frustrated with the need for verbal communication with the human.

  Again, Samuel is slow in answering. After a cautious hesitation, he says, “I have explained, Master.”

  “And you will explain no further?” I ask, astonished by his reticence.

  “No, Master,” he answers, and again, opens himself in an obvious bid to soften his refusal.

  I sink into thought, but can come to no satisfactory conclusion that will allow me to keep my Samuel. This saddens me, but not as much as it might if I were not swirling with feelings that he has betrayed me. I stand and approach him. I reach toward his throat and slide the edge of a pincer under the monitor collar.

  A burst of fear explodes from him, but my Samuel does not move.

  I disengage the collar and step back as it clatters to the floor.

  “I release you,” I say as I turn back to my bed cushions. My Samuel gives a small gasp but I cannot interpret whether this is a sound of relief or grief. The room is a cocktail of strong feelings, exuding from both of us. As I lower myself again to my cushions, I say, “You will be unprotected. Perhaps your human bond-brothers can protect you.” I am ashamed as I recognize the brief flare of black anger that accompanies my thought that he will now have to rely on the bond-brothers he has trusted above me.

  Samuel picks up the collar from the floor and rolls it over and over in his soft hands, as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Go,” I say with another deep sigh.

  Samuel brings the ends of the collar together with a click, places the closed collar on the floor before him, and stands to go. At the entrance to the bedchamber, Samuel turns again, and with obvious concern, says, “The factory . . .?”

  “It is to be purged in two days time,” I answer, “Concern yourself not about the factory. A bond-brother of mine will be foreman, and he is capable of the job.”

  After a pause, Samuel turns and leaves the room.

  “I would have kept you, Samuel, my friend,” I finish, awash in sadness. I cannot be sure he hears me, but that is irrelevant now.

  CHAPTER 40

  KHARA

  Sitting in my self-appointed sentinel post, my stomach is sour with fear. Samuel’s not at the factory today. Were he and his master summoned to the capitol building? Is he dead?

  I’ve found a spot from which I can watch the factory without Samuel noticing – at least I don’t believe he’s noticed me – and I’ve watched him morning and night, coming and going with his master since I delivered my warning. It’s with a sick yearning that I watch him walk, notice the strength of his stride, the beauty and surety of his large muscular body in motion. I haven’t followed him because I know he is expert at noticing streetside trackers. But I watch him move from the moment he comes into sight until he’s gone. I close my eyes after he’s gone and picture the warmth of his mouth, smiling at me, pursing to kiss me.

  This morning, his master arrived without Samuel. This afternoon, his master left without Samuel. I’m stewing in an all-consuming caldron of fear.

  Eli and Jan enter and leave the factory. Nothing in their manner is any different from usual, nor gives me any clues. I want so much to rush to them, ask them, maybe follow them to where they might be meeting with Samuel, or with anybody who can answer my agony. Instead, I wait until they’re out of sight, then sneak down from my perch behind a greasy black chimney and head for the queen’s garden. I have to talk to Nestra. I wait in the garden until nightfall, but Nestra doesn’t come.

  I don’t sleep, and Ilnok’s failure to call me makes the night ironically longer and more unbearable.

  Samuel doesn’t come to the factory in the morning. Jan and Eli don’t come either. Only a small group of humans comes to the factory. Now I’m itchy with panic. They’re gone. Dead, I know it.

  Samuel, oh God DAMN it, Samuel! I need you!

  My arms are clutched around me, hugging me, as I race again to the queen’s garden. I’m willing to face Diane and Tanner and whatever danger that might bring, to talk to them or to Nestra. I need and dread the answer.

  I enter the garden and walk through the bushes, and trees, and annoying bright flowers searching for anyone who can relieve my devouring need for information. Diane and Tanner aren’t there. This only ratchets up my panic that maybe everyone is gone, dead. I sit on the grass next to a low bush where I can see Nestra’s oak tree. I pull at the grass all around me, aware that enough of this will damage Diane and Tanner’s careful work, but daring them to come and stop me.

  Nestra comes. She sees me. I’m panting when she joins me in our secret meeting place.

  “Sister Khara,” she says as she approaches me, and in my imagination her tone seems mournful. I want to jump up and drag her slow moving body down to the grass and shake the information from her, but I restrain myself. I’m trembling as she sits across from me in the cool grass.

  “Is Samuel dead? Is the human leader dead?” I ask. I realize after the words have tumbled from me that I haven’t greeted Nestra with the politeness she deserves, but it’s too late.

  “Sis
ter Khara,” she says again, and now her tone is distinctly mournful. I cry out as I reach for her, clutching at her lower arms and pulling them toward me. I cry out again as her sympathy and love and concern flow over me. “No!”

  No, please God, no!

  “I mourn with you,” Nestra says, and again the flood of sympathy. The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I can’t breathe. My cool tears strike my arms and I’m holding Nestra’s arms to keep from fainting as blackness rushes over me.

  “The human was killed in court, yesterday, in the morning,” Nestra continues. I’m rocking forward and back. A low moan is coming from my throat, but I can’t stop the sound. “I witnessed this. It is truth.” Another flood of sympathy, love, friendship, commiseration. Nestra’s upper arms touch my shoulders, touch my head, and I can’t stop rocking and moaning.

  “You must mourn in silence, sister-friend Khara. There is danger,” Nestra says. My first thought is that I don’t care. Her escorts can come kill me. Make this pain stop. But then Nestra, too, will die, and the thought of losing my last and only friend brings a measure of control.

  After many more minutes of sharing, of allowing Nestra to fold me into her love, I’m able to find my voice.

  “Was there much pain?” I ask. My mind shies away from her possible answer, but I need the nightmare visions floating in my mind to solidify into something bearable. I want to hear he died quickly and without pain.

  “No pain. Quick. His master cared for him and is not very ill.”

  “His master? His master killed him?” I swear his master won’t survive another morning going into the factory, even if tearing the monster limb from limb is my last act. As it will be.

  “The queen ordered it,” Nestra answers. Against my most fervent desires to destroy the monster, I find myself excusing him. A little. Then the pain rolls back over me and quenches my brief flare of anger.

  Samuel!

  Again, a flood of love and comfort from Nestra, battering at my pain, my self-pity. It’s a measure of how much Nestra has helped me that I’m able to think of Nestra and regret I have nothing to give her in return.

  “Thank you, Friend Nestra,” I sigh. I’m in no hurry to leave her or the garden. I have nowhere in particular to go.

  After another several moments, I think of Nestra again, determined to make an effort for this alien who has done so much for me. She’s all I have now. My need to let her know I cherish her glows within me.

  “Can I do anything for you?” I ask her, and Nestra gurgles, as though sighing through liquid.

  “Your friendship heals fear,” Nestra answers.

  “Fear? Are you in danger?” I ask. As soon as the words are out I realize how stupid the question is. She is always in the presence of the queen, which is danger enough.

  “The queen. She grows worse.” After a moment, she adds: “I am to blame with my thievery.”

  I close my eyes and concentrate on feelings of love and comfort.

  “Our friendship must come to an end,” Nestra says.

  “What? Why?” I push down the quick stab that burns through me – a child’s entreaty inside me crying, Don’t abandon me!

  “I do not believe Queen Tal will allow me to live much longer.” Again Nestra sighs. “I have prolonged myself wrongly.”

  “No!” I cry, and clutch harder at the inflexible limbs in my hands. It is again a child’s cry of desperation, less a denial of Nestra’s statement than a rejection of the unfairness of the world.

  “Also, the brothers are almost ready. I do not believe humans will live when they are hatched,” Nestra answers. “I fear for you, my sister.” Sadness, comfort, love. “Already there are fewer humans each day.”

  I can’t deny our dwindling numbers. But I’ve been so focused on Samuel that my passage through streets and the quietness of the dorms has seemed irrelevant background.

  Samuel!

  Through the fresh stab of pain, my mind whispers to Samuel, At least you didn’t have to see us all die, the battle lost, the human race gone.

  I close my eyes. I can think of nothing to say. Together Nestra and I despair of our deaths, of the end of our friendship, of everything, and still find it within each other to commiserate, to comfort, to console.

  A screechy whistle sounds from the far side of the garden and Nestra says, “I am summoned.”

  As I rise to leave, I say, “I will try to come every day, my sister.”

  “As will I,” Nestra answers as she turns to go. Her tone holds all her doubts that there will be many more days. Even without the physical contact between the two of us, I’m sure Nestra shares my sense of resignation, of endings.

  I’m brooding, watching only my feet, walking through the garden toward the back entrance, when I hear the familiar snick of pruning shears. I glance to my right, and there’s Tanner, stopped mid-motion, a look of surprise on his face as he sees me. I hurry to leave the garden as he turns to where Diane must be, hidden by some tree or bush. As I rush away, my alarm fading as I make my way down the street away from the garden, it occurs to me Tanner didn’t look angry to see me there. Maybe I could have questioned him, learned more.

  I shake my head and my sweat dampened hair lashes at my face. I have the important answer. Samuel is dead.

  CHAPTER 41

  SAMUEL

  Jan and Eli and I have searched the barrooms and clubs Bell frequents. This has been made difficult by the fact we are now all unprotected, perhaps even wanted. If Bell sees us, our lives are in danger. He’s proven our lives mean nothing to him. Certainly not mine. He lined up on the front row to watch me die a bloody and public death. I wonder if he’s told his masters it wasn’t me who died, or whether fear of their reprisal has silenced him.

  I’m hit with another pang as the scene plays out in my mind again, the vision of the proud and confident boy I let go to his death in my stead. My guilt is not assuaged by the fact that I didn’t believe it would come to death. Even at the end, even at the last moment, I couldn’t make myself believe Bell was party to my planned execution.

  I believe now. And we have to find him.

  I wait in the muggy alley where Jan and Eli have agreed to meet me after our latest reconnoiter. I am crouched behind a large, green trash dumpster, trying to read my watch by the light of the moon. Sweat trickles into my left eye, and I swipe at it with a damp wrist. I hear a low growl, like that of a large dog, and know Jan has arrived. I wait as she crawls behind the receptacle toward me.

  “Found him,” she says, in a whisper I can barely hear. “Eli’s watching the front entrance.” She purses her lips downward and blows a stream of air down the front of her sweat-soaked gray tank top, then runs her fingers up through her short, spiked, sweaty hair. “Let’s go.” As I prepare to follow Jan, the smooth sensation of my perspiration-soaked arm sliding against my slick thigh adds to my feeling everything is slipping away, out of control.

  In minutes we are crouched behind broken and empty crates at the back entrance of a dance club. The music is a low sluggish throb spilling into the alley, pounding in dull time with the beat of the pulse in my ears. The thought that Bell is inside enjoying himself raises a blunted anger in me I refuse to indulge. My mind darts away from my anger and toward Khara, but I can’t allow this right now, can’t focus on my betrayal of her trust, on the pain in her eyes at our last meeting. I have to focus on Bell, and be ready.

  Time passes at a slow march, broken only by the sound of the muted music, my breathing in my ears and the rough scuttling of rodents near the back entrance.

  With the loud squeal of metal on metal, the door we’ve been watching opens. A dark head emerges, twists to search the alley in both directions, and then disappears. The door squeals again as it’s pushed farther open, and Bell emerges, holding the hand of a plump, big-breasted girl with purple hair. Her giggle chases up the alley followed by Bell’s shushing admonishment. She giggles again, but this time with her hand over her mouth.

  Jan and I don�
��t move as Bell, after another searching glance up and down the alley, bends to kiss the girl. Their hands wander over each other, and the girl giggles as her hand finds his crotch. Jan opens her mouth, points down her throat with one finger, and mock-vomits into the space between us. I agree with her sentiment. I’ve only ever seen the suave side of Bell’s interactions with women. This doesn’t qualify.

  We don’t move. The girl shouldn’t be involved.

  Bell is quick to turn the girl toward the wall, lift her short skirt, and enter her from behind. The gusts of his breathing as he moves in her end, and he places his large hands over her small hands on the wall, and nuzzles her ear, perhaps whispering something. She titters, adjusts her skirt, and kisses him before sliding back through the still open door. The last I see of her is her fingers waggling goodbye through the opening.

  Bell secures his pants, leans back against the brick, and fishes a cigarette from his pocket. He raises a knee and rests his foot against the wall behind him, then enjoys several long drags, letting the smoke curl out in slow wisps. With another look up and down the alley, he begins moving away from the door, staying close to the dark wall.

  Now.

  Jan stands, jogs on her toes until she is near Bell, then slows to a walk to match his. She whistles an appreciative wolf-call. Bell jerks to a stop with his back against the wall, and Jan continues to walk past him, turning toward him. Bell glances down the alley where I still crouch, then turns toward her, his back to me. Jan smiles with a suggestive leer.

  “She had nice tits,” Jan says.

  “You always do like them big,” he answers. He doesn’t sound as certain of himself as he usually does. Again, he glances over his shoulder down the alley toward me.