The Roach God

The outrider arrived nine days later.

The nine days were, in retrospect, the last genuinely quiet stretch the colony would have for a long time, and Sacha spent them doing the work he had been putting off since the corridor: teaching the watch what to do about things his drills had never anticipated.

It was harder than teaching them to fight.

Fighting had a shape.

What he needed now was a category for something arrives that we cannot beat and that is not attacking, and there was no scent-grammar for it, because no roach in the history of the species had ever needed one.

He built it out of four rules, drilled flat and repeated until they were reflex:

hold position, do not close, do not flee, wait for the god. Khrr ran the drill sixty times.

The Increvable line, who had the least natural talent for standing still, ran it a hundred and twenty.

He had assumed he was preparing them for a year from now.

It came alone, in the third hour of the night, down the eastern approach he had been watching since the corridor run — and the watch reported it not as an attack but as a problem of category, because the thing did not do any of the four things the drills had been built around.

It did not probe the perimeter.

It did not attempt concealment.

It did not feed.

It did not turn back at the scent-line.

It walked in, at an unhurried pace, along the exact route the foraging lines used, and stopped in the wide gallery outside the storage crawl, and waited to be received.

Sacha came up from the deep ground faster than was dignified.

Khrr was already there, holding the entire watch back on their positions with a discipline that Sacha, later, would recognise as the only reason nobody had died in the first minute.

The thing in his gallery was a beetle — armored in a way Thresh had never been, plates fitted with the deliberate closeness of something bred rather than grown — and it wore, cut into the dorsal shell in three clean parallel lines, a mark.

Behind him, from the dark of the storage crawl, Sacha felt Thresh stop moving entirely.

[Contact initiated. Emissary designation acknowledged.]

[Affiliation: the Sixth Ascension.]

Divine Creature, it sent, and the sending was smooth in a way that made the rat’s transmissions feel like shouting across a canyon. West cellar. Echelon three. Four bloodlines, none mature. Sixty-one subjects, of which nine are under a season old. One unaffiliated spark sheltering under your claim, formerly of the Fourth Verge, which we removed.

Sacha said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

Every single figure was correct, including two he had not told anyone.

You have been counted, the emissary sent, pleasantly. That is all this is. You are not being threatened, and I would ask you not to respond as though you were, because your people are visibly considering it and it would embarrass all of us.

Sacha kept his own signal absolutely flat. Noted.

He was, underneath the flatness, running an entirely different calculation from the one the emissary presumably expected.

He was not thinking about terms.

Stolen from NovelPhoenix, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

He was thinking about the number nine.

Nine subjects under a season old. Nobody outside the deep ground could count that.

The nursery sat four turns in from the nearest approach, behind a rotation he had designed himself, and the young did not leave it. Sixty-one was a figure a very patient observer might assemble over weeks from traffic on the foraging lines. Nine was not. Nine required someone to have been inside.

Sector Four is scheduled, the emissary went on. You know this. You found the mark, which is more than most in your position manage. A flicker of something almost like courtesy. When the structure comes down, the ground beneath it opens. Every claim in this sector becomes available at the same moment. We are not interested in your cellar. We are interested in the sixty of you who will be standing in a corridor with nowhere to go on a date we can both read.

And?

And when that day comes, you will take terms from someone. The emissary was already turning, unhurried, entirely unbothered by the sixty roaches it had walked past to get here. We would simply like to be the ones you have already met.

It paused at the gallery mouth.

A courtesy, freely given, because you were sensible enough not to attack me. The Ninefold Mother sent someone too. They arrived four days ago.

Sacha’s antennae went still.

They did not come inside, the emissary said. They have been watching your eastern approach since.

And then it was gone, at the same unhurried walking pace it had arrived at, and the gallery was very quiet.

Nobody moved for a long moment.

Sixty-one roaches held position exactly as drilled. His four rules had worked perfectly on their first live application, and he could not make himself feel anything about that at all.

He found Thresh in the storage crawl, where it had not moved since the mark on the emissary’s shell had come into view.

The Fourth Verge, Sacha sent.

That was our name. Flat. I had not heard it spoken in a season.

It said ”which we removed.” As a detail. In a list.

Yes.

Thresh—

It was accurate, the beetle sent, and there was nothing in the sending Sacha could get hold of. That is the part. It was a true thing, correctly stated, in its proper place in a list of true things.

It did not move for a while.

We were not a war to them. We were an entry.

Sacha did not offer anything after that, because there was nothing to offer that would not have been about making himself feel better, and he had learned that particular lesson from the other side of it, in corridors, with families, more times than he wanted to count.

He stayed. That was all he had.

Later — hours later, with the watch reset and the eastern approach doubled and every one of his own instincts screaming for a plan he did not have — he sat with the two facts he had actually been handed, and made himself hold them separately instead of letting them blur into a single mass of dread.

The first:

he had been counted, accurately, down to figures nobody standing outside his territory could possibly have obtained.

He made himself stop there and work it, because how mattered more than that, and he had almost let the second one bury the first.

Sixty-one was correct as of that evening.

Nine under a season old was correct, and was not a thing you established by walking a perimeter once — the nursery sat four turns deep inside claimed ground with a guard rotation on it.

Four lineages was worse still.

The lineages were not visible.

They were a drift in body-shape across generations that Sacha himself had only identified because a bracketed notice had told him where to look.

You did not get that from outside. You got it from inside, over time, or you got it some way he did not have a name for.

He worked the differential in order, the way he used to.

Infiltration — something small enough to move among sixty unremarked.

Entirely possible; nothing in his drills would catch one quiet body that knew the routes.

Long observation of the eastern approach — good enough for a headcount, useless for the nursery.

An informant, which he set aside, not because it was unthinkable but because he could not hold the thought at that hour without poisoning himself against his own people.

Or a property of rank: some way of reading a claim from outside it, the way he could feel a rival Sanctuary through a wall, except far better.

He disliked all four.

He disliked the last one most, because if something two ranks above him could simply look at his colony and read it off, then nothing he had ever planned in private had been private, and the route under the corridor was not an advantage at all.

It was a fact somebody had already filed.

Find out which, he put on the list, ahead of everything else on it. Before the crossing. Before terms. Before any of it. You cannot plan against something that can watch you plan.

There was no version of this where he was still an unnoticed thing in a wall.

That was over — and it had probably been over for considerably longer than tonight.

The second, and worse:

both of them had come.

Not to threaten.

Not to recruit, yet.

To look — because a claim that had taken hard ground off something entrenched, and had done it twice, with a species nobody had ever bothered to count before, was apparently interesting enough to spend an emissary on.

He thought about the rat, holding a good position for three years while both sides waited for it to run out of clock.

He thought about do not say it east of here yet.

And he understood, sitting in the dark of a cellar he had bled eight of his people to claim, that the corridor had never been the thing he needed to get through.

The corridor was just where they’d finally be able to see him.