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Not the official title ... at least, I don't think it is. |
~~*~~
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
~~*~~
Chapter Five
The Q of the Sapheads
~~*~~
In my many years of life, I never felt panic and despair
quite like that night. As I stood there, riveted to the floor, Mom came to me
and reached and placed her hand against my face and curled her antennae around
mine in a way that only a mother could do. And then she said something that I
had only ever heard from my wife.
“I believe in you,
Bartholomew. This is your time to shine.”
“Yes, Mom,” I
choked out, fighting furiously not to weep like a terrified child.
“I love my home,” she
said. “I love my children. My faith and trust are in you, and in them. Let’s be
audacious, shall we?”
“Yes, Mom.”
Mariana had
answered with me. Mom turned to her and held her the same way after releasing
me. “Our holy book says it takes one to build a tunnel, but with two working
together and with love an entire city can be hollowed in a day. You are the
rock, Mariana, upon which my faith and hope is entrusted.”
She released my
speechless wife, opened the door, and without another word left us. Her Guard
closed it an instant later.
Mariana stared at
me. I went to her and held her. Together we wept.
The human leader named Trump was going to this hot, sandy
land (“Dubai ”)
on the other side of the world in eight months. That was what your media announced
last night.
We had eight months
to do something about it.
I didn’t sleep
after Mom left. Mariana didn’t either. While she sat glumly in the living room
watching television (re-runs of the comedy classic series Just Three Antennae came on after 1, which cheered her up a
little), I put on the equivalent of a human coat and informed her that I was
going to take a walk. My right side twinged with every movement, but I no
longer cared. I was skating along the precipice of despondency and needed to
think. She gave me a depressed nod and went back to her show.
The tunnels near
our home are well-lighted and, at this hour, virtually abandoned. Many humans
mistakenly believe that ants are blind, but that is not the case. Our species’
eyesight, as a matter of fact, is likely better than yours. We know our sense
of touch is far superior—what to you humans might liken to having sonar on your
hands.
We walk differently
than most ants, who use all six legs to move. If we’re in a hurry we’ll use all
six, yes; but when walking we use only four. Our mid-sections are jointed in
the middle, allowing us to stand upright, freeing our forelimbs and our hands
for other tasks. It’s an adaptation that I believe appears in no other ant
species on Earth.
To that end, I was
in no hurry, so I had put shoes on my mid- and back feet, grunting and groaning
against the pain of doing it.
I walked and
walked, eventually finding myself at Clifftop. The big glass double doors
leading outside were still open, which meant that the weather wasn’t dangerous.
A monitor greeted me: “How are you doing tonight, sir?” To which I nodded with
a subdued smile before pushing on the left door handle and leaving him at his
post.
A “monitor” really
doesn’t have much of an equivalence among humans. I suppose the closest is
police officer. The thing is, we don’t suffer crime among our people. Not in
any real or pervasive sense, at least. Our senses of community and responsibility
are far too strong. We don’t let our own starve—what you humans excuse as
“capitalism.” Or “communism.” Or even “socialism.” Those are all just clever
words that attempt to mask the reality of your unending greed and malice
towards one another and the living world.
The floor of the
lookout was rough, the railing too, in the event of “sneaker” wind gusts which
could easily lift us off our feet and hurl us over the edge. The roughness
allowed us to grab and hold on, if need be; it was a clever innovation by the
engineers that tickled the back of my brain for a moment as I made for the
railing.
The lookout was a
wide space, and abandoned save for a young couple in the darkened far left
corner, who were “necking” and completely oblivious to me. (How do ants “neck”?
I’ll leave it to your imagination.) They looked very happy and were totally oblivious
to my presence. I got to the railing and gazed out.
Picture a balcony
fifty miles in the sky. That’s the perspective we’re working with here. Below
me was the whole of the Queendom. We existed in the rock and soil of this
wonderful cliff that bordered this magnificent ocean, the one you call Pacific.
The word pacific comes from one of your dead
languages. Latin, if I am not mistaken. It means peace. But peace wasn’t what you had in mind for it, or for us, or
for any living creature swimming beneath its mysterious depths. Conquest: that was a better word. Exploitation: that was an even better
one.
I couldn’t see the
dark waters far, far below. There was instead only the great ocean’s
omnipresent bass roar, and a tremendous darkness, one greater than the starry night
above.
The air was rich
with brine and pine. I tried to savor it, but couldn’t. Everything in my being
was fixated on the question: Could we save this little part of our world and
ourselves in the process?
Mom had made it plain
that she was counting on me to find a way. The pressure on me was of such an
intense degree that, contradictorily, I no longer felt it, like its gravity had
fed back in on itself and consumed itself, leaving me free in this airy space.
I almost wished that moment that a sneaker gust would lift me off my feet and
carry me down, down, down to that tremendous roaring darkness. It wasn’t a
suicidal wish; not really. If anything it was an overpowering desire to plumb
the darkness’ mysteries—
In the darkest of tunnels can sometimes be found the sweetest morsels.
So says our holy
book.
Our species is
deeply “religious,” if you can call it that. Perhaps “spiritual” is a closer
approximation. We don’t have “churches,” so called. Our sense of community is
so strong that “church” and “shopping” and “taking a walk” and “eating at a
restaurant” and a million other activities are fairly melded together into one
thing: being together. It is from
there and only from there that our sense of the numinous or divine or holy arises.
Perhaps that was
where you humans stumbled. Perhaps that was why you sought now to dominate one
another and the earth. You had forgotten about the true meaning of community.
In eight months
this Trump ape of yours was going to sign off on the leafwork that would
decimate ours utterly.
I stayed there, at
the railing, long after the young couple left. I got home in the small hours of
the morning, disrobed, and crawled into bed next to my wife, who woke long
enough to push her close antenna into my polob.
With the back of my
brain still tickling, somehow I managed to fall asleep.
I woke mid-morning. I had resolved to get up at dawn, but my
aching body must have really needed the rest, because I slept right through it.
That was quite unusual for me: when I go to bed, I tell myself what time I want
to wake up, and somehow I always do. I have never needed an alarm clock for
that reason. (Yes, Spaniards have things like alarm clocks, too!)
Mariana had already gotten up. I listened for
her milling about, or the steady hiss of the shower, but was greeted with
silence. I pulled the covers from my body and glanced down at myself.
My bruises were
finally fading a little. I tried moving my mid- and back legs on that side.
They didn’t ache nearly to the degree they had just a few hours ago. Excellent.
I got out of bed
and used the toilet, took a shower, and emerged with a new resolve. I was going
to call on the engineers and have a frank discussion of our current dilemma.
Given Mom’s actions in coming to see me last night, and her general mood, it
was a sure bet that she had let many others not present in the Royal Court that
day know what was going on. It was time to put the engineers to work, if they
weren’t at work already, Andy or no Andy. That was the tickle in my brain; that
was the plan.
The engineers
weren’t part of the CSA, but were their own agency—“The Engineers.” They were
headed up by a wise old ant by the name of Rudecindo Vicario, one of the
Original 100. What is the Original 100? It is the exalted title given to one of
the first hundred children the Queen gave birth to once she landed at Clifftop.
Rudecindo was a born engineer, and had headed up the agency from Spain ’s very
beginning. Neither he nor any of his member engineers had been present at the
meeting with the Queen. If I knew Mom’s thinking, it was probably because they
weren’t needed in that “phase of planning,” very charitably named, which in
reality was nothing more than a royal panic session.
With Mom’s
appearance at our door last night, it was certain that we were in a new phase
of planning—or, that is, panic.
“Mariana?” I called
out once I made it to the living room. A large empty bowl sat on the “coffee”
table—what you humans call a low table that is between a couch and a
television, and usually holds drinks and snacks and whatnot.
(We ants don’t
drink coffee, but I don’t have a better name for our version of the same, so
I’ll just call it a coffee table too, if you don’t mind.)
The bowl was
probably full of a tasty snack of some kind; an empty glass stood next to it,
one that had likely been repeatedly filled with vintage iraksam, a favorite drink made from rare and expensive fermented
honeys and saps. I picked the glass up and regarded it sadly.
“Sweetie? Where are
you?”
Glass in hand, I
went into the kitchen, where I put it in the sink. A note was taped to the
refrigerator.
It’s my turn.
Going to Purple Rock.
Won’t return withoutAndalusia .
Going to Purple Rock.
Won’t return without
--Love you
I used an
expression then that I occasionally heard you humans use on your shows:
“Son of
a bitch ...”
I tried not to worry about her as I ate breakfast. She had,
after all, heard my woeful tale of my trip down there, and knew all about the
hazards waiting along the seaward trail, having seen the evidence of those
hazards all over my body. Another problem, however, concerned me, and that was
rain. It was raining out.
I have tried many
times picturing what a typical rainstorm for you humans might be like.
The drops falling
from the sky wouldn’t appear as big as transparent boulders, each one capable
of drowning you. The “rivulets” as you call them wouldn’t appear, each one, as
a flash flood, eager to sweep you away. The rain would probably come as a
nuisance. And what you call a flash
flood wouldn’t look like a tremendous, foamy, black mountain range bearing down
on you.
(Or maybe it would.
Visualizing natural phenomena as one of you is extremely difficult.)
We had, of course,
long ago met the various challenges posed by rain—from light drizzles, as you
call them, to terrifying downpours. Our engineers were on constant alert for
weather events and would certainly be out and about today checking on the
various systems and technology that kept us safe, dry, and warm.
Still, I was
worried. Purple Rock was a rustic little village. The Spaniards there liked to
“rough it,” certainly more than those at Clifftop.
Did Mariana take
the Latedrone? She must have. My guess was that the Seaview Trolley was
offline. Or—I prayed that it was. Or perhaps I was just worrying too much.
Mariana was a very strong, hardy ant. She was quite capable of taking care of
herself, arguably more so than me. Mom really must have lit a fire beneath that
abdomen of hers to get her to do something like this. It was definitely out of
character.
“Q,” I said with a
bow, “it is good to see you again.”
Señor Rudecindo Vicario
grasped my lowered antennae. “Bartholomew, my good friend. What brings you down
to the Garage?”
(The actual ant
term for where the engineers worked is unspeakable to you humans. The closest
equivalent I could find in English was “garage”—though ours has much more to do than store or repair
vehicles, or to throw junk in you don’t use and will give to thrift stores a
few years down the tunnel).
The Garage was a
grand place, a great, airy space that housed our large machinery, yes, but also
included many workspaces, both out in the open and tucked away in many lighted
coves, for engineers to solve the various and sundry infrastructure, chemical,
and electrical issues of Spain. I had taken the Latedrone here.
The place fairly
bustled. Spaniards hurried here and there, rolled-up leafwork in hand (or
sometimes in their mandibles or bouncing in packs on their backs as they ran), rows
and rows of bright computer terminals everywhere, engineers busily working over
and around them, drones and engineers discussing current projects, elevators constantly
moving up or down. Ants worked on the ceiling high above; and hurried up the
walls if they didn’t want to wait for an elevator. Balconies were here and
there, in no seemingly ordered fashion. The low hum of activity and
conversation was constant and in its own way quite soothing. Every time I had
visited here, I enjoyed the sights and sounds. This time was no different.
He released my
antennae as I rose. “Please. A quiet place where we can talk?”
“Certainly, certainly,” he answered; and
together we made our way to his office, which was here on the ground floor. It
was somewhat unusual for two q’s to
meet in such a way, which probably explained the looks we got as we walked.
He closed the door once
we got inside and turned to face me. “I already know about what’s going on,” he
began, his mood suddenly very sober. “After Mom visited you last night, she
came to see me. I met with my senior staff not an hour ago. We decided to call
in our workers from remote tunnel and housing projects, but only in stages. A
Frenzied Queendom will not help anyone, agreed?”
I nodded glumly. It
was one of our greatest faults, in my opinion: our propensity to “go crazy”
once threatened and Frenzy. It occurred to me as remarkable just then that it
was such a feature of our psyches when so confronted that its word, even in our
language, was capitalized! Until then I hadn’t even thought of it! It was a
seriously dangerous state for us to be in, for the three times it had happened
during the Queendom’s existence (and just once during mine, when I was very
young) great destruction followed. The Queendom had to be, essentially, rebuilt
each time.
“Ants are going to start noticing,” I
responded. “They already have. I’m certain the gossip just in my neighborhood
is already at a fever pitch! Mom herself
was knocking on my door last night!”
“As well as mine,”
replied Señor Vicario with a concerned nod. “And yes, our tunnel too was filled
with gawking neighbors. You, the Central Scout Agency q; and I, q of the
sapheads!”
“Saphead” was the slang term engineers were
often called. Long ago it was rumored that sap from the Mom tree boosted the
intelligence of the first engineers who worked on and under it. Many studies since
have shown that such was not the case; but the moniker stuck.
A distinct sense of
unease permeated everything. It was easy to trace. Call it our “hive mind.” The
Queen was upset—we could all plainly feel it. As I had mentioned before, it
wasn’t a common occurrence.
“We’ve got our best
and brightest working on it,” Señor Vicario offered consolingly, reaching out
to grasp my “shoulder” (just above my midleg).
He meant well, but
I wasn’t in the mood to be placated, even by an ant of his elevated rank.
“With all respect, q, no, you don’t,” I replied quietly.
He gave me a
quizzical look. “I am sorry, Bartholomew. I do not understand.”
I shook my head. “Again,
with respect, Señor, this problem requires ... thinking and therefore solutions way beyond what your engineers can
offer.” Before he could respond, I began pacing. “This is an engineering
problem never before faced by the Queendom. Spaniards ... bless us ... we love
our corners! We love our tunnels! We love our maps and our trails and our guidelines
and our tight, secure spaces! And the engineers have served us spectacularly in
these capacities. Unfortunately it is time to think beyond corners and tunnels,
maps and trails and guidelines and tight spaces.”
The quizzical look
came now with a tilt of his head. “It seems you have thought of someone who can
help.”
I shook mine with
great frustration. “I mean no insult to the engineers, q. Forgive me. This little trip, I fear, was inspired last night by
desperation and can be nothing better than pointless.”
I went to leave. He
came around the desk and cut me off. “I am not offended, Bartholomew. We do not
have the luxury of offense at this time. Please,” he motioned for me to sit.
With reluctance, I
did. He pressed his intercom button. “No visits or calls, please.”
The answering voice
was male and slightly muffled, “Yes, q.”
Señor Vicario came
around and sat next to me.
“Speak your mind,
Bartholomew. You can entrust anything to me.”
The bruising along
my right side was still there. I stood and motioned at it. “Did you not wonder
what caused this?”
“Of course I did,”
he answered. “I considered that it was part of a grand tale of misadventure.
But good manners forbade me from mentioning it—at least among my subordinates.
May I hear that tale now?”
“I was commissioned
to go to Purple Rock to look for an ant who is known as ‘Crazy Andy.’ ”
Señor Vicario’s
expression didn’t waver.
“You haven’t heard
of her?”
He shook his head
slowly. “Should I have?”
“Perhaps not,” I
offered glumly.
“Or perhaps I
should know this Spaniard. The Queen herself sent you to find this individual.
That by itself makes him—? her—? noteworthy.”
“Her.”
“I see. ‘Crazy’?”
“Something of a
loner.”
“That hardly seems
important enough for the Queen’s attention ...”
“It isn’t.”
“What is it about
this ‘Crazy Andy’ then that got Mom’s attention? And how is she connected to
the engineers?”
“How do you know
she is?”
“Our earlier
conversation, for one. But for another, I have known you your whole life,
Bartholomew. You do nothing without a plan, even if that plan was concocted just
last night. You wanted to tell me about how you got your injuries, which was
the polite way of mentioning this ‘Crazy Andy.’ ”
I’d heard enough of
that word and could hear no more. “She isn’t crazy. Her name is Andalusia . I visited her home. I took the time to look
around it, to notice it, to notice her.”
His antennae widened
to let me know he understood what was under my words. “She is no ordinary ant.”
I wanted to say
something in response, but all that I had in me was a defeated nod.
“She is ...
extraordinary,” he amended.
“Your engineers may
have already worked with her and know her. Especially the ones you send to the
Queendom’s sea-level frontiers and villages.”
“She has done
engineering work for Cottonwood ? For Purple
Rock?”
“She’s not a
selfish sort. If she had worked with engineers in the past, she would have told
me. My guess is she ...” I didn’t want what I needed to say next to come out
the wrong way. “My guess is ... uh ... she has improved on work your engineers have done down there to keep Purple
Rock from being swept away by high tides and the like.”
Once again, if Señor
Vicario was offended, he didn’t look it. “We send engineers to villages and the
like largely though requests by their local councils.” He stood and went to the
intercom and pressed it. “Paolo, bring me all work orders for Purple Rock dating
back ...”
He glanced at me.
“She’s in her
mid-twenties,” I guessed.
“Go back twenty-five
years.”
“Yes, q,” responded Paolo.
The intercom
clicked off.
Paolo came in much
faster than I thought he would. I expected him to be burdened with boxes of
files, but he held instead a small silver tube—the equivalent, I suppose, of
what you humans call a “flash drive.” In truth, where we Spaniards lagged
behind in technology in comparison to you humans, we struggled extra hard to
catch up or even surpass you, which in several ways we had. The difference for
us was that we did everything with making the lives of those who would follow
us better and cleaner, as well as living sustainably with nature. If a bit of
technology harmed either, or had the strong potential to, we refused to adopt
it, no matter how much easier it would make our lives.
Paolo handed the
info-tube to Señor Vicario, gave us both a quick bow, and quickly exited the
office, closing the door behind him. Q
took the tube and inserted it into the only computer in the office, one not on
his desk, but on a side table. I stood next to him. He tapped on the keyboard
and began reading, as I did.
I noticed nothing
interesting in the information, which was basically pages and pages of
summaries of work done in Purple Rock and surrounding areas, which dramatically
tapered off some thirteen years ago, as though Purple Rock simply emptied of
ants, or the ones there had all become engineers themselves and were fixing the
problems themselves instead of sending for the real ones up-cliff.
He gave me a
quizzical look and went back to reading.
“Ah,” he finally
said, motioning at the screen, “this
is interesting. We’ve got a work order here to clear and expand a tidewater
drainage system, which was done some thirteen years ago.”
“I don’t follow,” I
said. “How is that interesting?”
He grinned—just one
mandible rising: “We didn’t construct this tidewater drainage system.”
“Oh.”
He went back to
reading. “A particularly powerful storm clogged it up. Says here the villagers
said it ran perfectly until that point, and had helped immensely with keeping
them dry.” He glanced at me. “Do you think this is the work of your Andy?”
I found myself
smiling at that—my Andy. “Wouldn’t
the villagers know who made it?”
“They wouldn’t if
they thought this Andy was one of us, or if she told them the same ...”
He went back to
scanning the screen. “Look here. Here’s another—a waste recycling system. The
engineers didn’t know how to fix it because it ...” he laughed “... because it
didn’t appear to be of any design they had ever seen before. They returned the
next day to find it working perfectly. Villagers thanked the sapheads even
while my team tried to explain that they had done nothing.”
We spent another
half-hour searching for other disparities. We found only two—a lower tunnel
excavation project, seemingly always being requested for a particular tunnel
which seemed always in disrepair, was filed as “fixed” by a visiting engineer,
who noted half a dozen changes in the tunnel’s basic architecture which ensured
that it would stay fixed and working indefinitely. It came to me as I was gazing
at the report that it was the very tunnel the spider had been blocking and
which Andy led me through back to Cottonwood !
The second
disparity was the one we’d noticed first: the noticeable lack of work orders
making it up to the engineers.
“Even in a village
that small we should get several hundred a year.” He glanced up at me. “At
least. Look at this, q: here’s the
total for thirteen years.”
I looked. The list
didn’t even fill the computer’s screen. I counted only eighteen requests.
Eighteen requests—in thirteen years.
Someone had been
taking care of Purple Rock above and beyond the engineers. Way above and beyond.
Señor Vicario stood
after pulling the info-tube out of the computer and pocketing it. He went to
his desk, unwrapped a sweet, offered me one, and chuckled. “Well, I can say
this: I have never seen such an impressive resumé in my life.” As I unwrapped
my candy and began sucking on it, he continued: “Though it mystifies me how a
born engineer could escape detection by Maternity, or by the Queen herself for
that matter.”
“That’s just the
thing!” I said, tapping his desk emphatically. “That’s just the thing, q! She isn’t a born engineer! Or—more accurately: she is one; but she’s also a
born artist; a born philosopher; a born chef; a born designer; a born writer; a
born laborer! Hell, she’s probably also a born soldier and a born drone!”
Señor Vicario
listened to my outburst, and began nodding slowly. “I see ... I see.” He
offered me another sweet, took another for himself, and motioned for us to sit
on the couch along the far wall, which we did.
“So I guess this
leaves me with one more question. Why, Bartholomew, are you here? We both seem
quite helpless in this moment. This Andalusia ,
I have gathered, has no desire to help with our crisis? Did you expect me to
travel to see her, to perhaps convince her of our need? I wonder as well why
Mom didn’t visit her herself ... ”
“Mom’s presence is
... intimidating,” I offered. “It was clear that Andy was intimidated with just
me.”
Unlike you humans, Spaniards
do not draft or conscript our citizens. There has never been a need to. It isn’t
because we are all of a “hive mind” and therefore have no free will; it is
because we respect the right of the individual ant to say no. It’s really that simple; and it’s really that valued as a
principle in our culture, even if by saying no
an ant potentially condemns that culture to extinction.
“If by some miracle
she chooses to help us, she will be working with you most directly, I should
think,” I speculated. “Do you think you could work with an out-of-the-tunnel
thinker like Andy?”
Perhaps that was why I was here. I was
optimistically assuming Andy would
help, and in doing so, projecting forward a little, perhaps trying to make her
path a little easier. The Queendom’s sapheads were an impressive lot. But would
they resent working with someone who, frankly, put their high intelligence to
shame? I needed to know.
“If need be, I will
give her the run of this entire Garage,” declared Señor Vicario with a sober
chuckle. “You have given me some ideas today, q,” he went on. “I know of a small group of young ants about Andy’s
age. They like to meet weekends—socially, that is. A couple of them are
married, but the rest are not. One weekend I saw them at this little tavern and
thought I’d drop in. They were engaged in a very animated discussion over some
leafwork of some kind. As I got closer, I saw it wasn’t leafwork, but
plans—what looked like drafting plans. By then they’d noticed me and tried to
hide them. They were a bit daunted, I’m afraid, to see me outside of the
Garage. I told them to show me what they were so animated about. With some
reluctance, they did.”
“What was it?”
“Sketches of a
seaworthy flotation rescue device of some kind, to rescue Spaniards swept into
the water. Quite ingenious, really.”
I didn’t have to
ask why such a device hadn’t been produced and put out into the water already;
and that was what bothered me so much about Andy and more so, much more so, about
us, her fellow citizens. We love our corners and our tunnels and our
maps and our trails and our guidelines and our tight, secure spaces! But the
rest of the world ... no thanks! Even something so common-sense as a rescue
flotation boat of some kind intimidated us back into ourselves. It was a true
wonder that we weren’t all packed together under a big boulder somewhere,
huddling mindlessly in the dark!
We needed Andy. We had to get her help!
I thought of my
lovely bride, and of her meeting Andy.
How would that go? Andy was quite stubborn. But so
was Mariana. Mariana was brilliant, of course, but didn’t hesitate to resort to
blunt headstrong measures, essentially cutting off quieter, more politic, more
skillfully cunning means to get what she wanted, as I typically did.
I didn’t want to
admit it to myself, but I couldn’t see
how their meeting would be anything other than disastrous, even catastrophic.
For that reason I struggled against anger towards my bride: her trip to Purple
Rock may have ended up sealing our doom.
Señor Vicario was
patiently watching me. I realized I had gone silent for longer than good
manners allowed, and quickly brought myself back to the present.
“Forgive me, q.”
He shrugged his
antennae. “It seems to me that we’re left with two options: attack or retreat.
Do you agree?”
I had no idea what
attacking the human named Trump looked like, no matter where in the world he
ended up, so I went with: “What would retreating look like?”
“Moving the entire
Queendom.”
“Moving it—where?” My mind cowered with the scale
of such an endeavor!
“Across the human
highway. Into the hills. Away from the coming despoilment.”
“The way I
understand these oil derricks,” I answered unsurely, “they despoil everything around them for millions upon
millions of square quaooms. The Trump ape wants to erect a dozen or more. What are our chances of success to move; and once we
move everyone, what are our chances of surviving such a menace, not to mention
hostile ants and a host of other predators that we can so easily guard against
now?”
He nodded and held
up a finger. “Exactly my thoughts. Exactly! But consider, Bartholomew: Wouldn’t
choosing to attack involve no less a
monumental diversion of resources, time, and effort; and wouldn’t it in the end
total up to the same degree of danger?”
I couldn’t argue
with him, so I said: “At least we know what retreat looks like. We have no clue whatsoever what an attack would look
like. Agreed?”
“Attacking a human
leader on the other side of the planet?”
Señor Vicario laughed without humor. “I cannot even visualize it if he traveled
to Clifftop and had a picnic!”
I laughed too. But
my laugh was at least one that saw the humor in it, even over my clawing desperation.
“I would like to
meet that team—the one that was brainstorming the rescue flotation device that
never saw the light of day.”
“Tell you what,”
said Señor Vicario, putting his hand on my shoulder again. “If this Andy
decides to see reason and join us, if she decides to fight those loner
instincts, that’s the team she will work with directly. She will lead them; and
by doing so she will lead us all. They are all very brilliant young sapheads,
the best of the best. Sound good?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I would send for
them, but I believe they are largely scattered throughout the Queendom, working
here and there on other things. I apologize, my friend.”
Señor Vicario gripped both my hand and my antennae at the
station, and said, very wisely, “Faith, Bartholomew, isn’t for larvae. We have
mandibles, and we have eyes, and we have each other. That is where we must build from!”
The ride back home
was ten minutes. I was still considering his words when I felt someone lovingly
grasp my antennae from behind.
It was Mariana.
Behind her, looking resentful and frightened, stood Andy.
~~*~~