The Roach God

Khrr’s first runner came back on the third day of preparation, and it came back wrong.

Not injured.

Not pursued.

It came in through the fracture mouth alone, at the wrong hour, carrying a scent-report that Sacha had to read four times before he could accept what he was reading — because the grammar was Khrr’s, and the content was not from Khrr.

It was a message.

Passed through Khrr, relayed in the drill-shorthand only the two of them could write, from something that had needed a translator to reach him.

Sacha’s first reaction, before any of the content registered, was a flare of pure cold fear — because a message relayed by Khrr meant something had reached Khrr, and everything he had built in the last two days assumed eight people moving unobserved through ground nobody could follow them into.

His second reaction, arriving perhaps four seconds later and considerably more useful, was that a hostile contact does not send you a letter.

The one with the stiff leg came down, the report began.

Sacha stopped breathing in whatever way this body did that.

He did not bring anyone. He asked to speak and I could not answer him so he spoke and I wrote it. He says I am to carry it exactly. He waited while I wrote it.

And then, in Khrr’s flat unadorned marks, the cricket’s words, four days old:

Your people came up out of ground that has no way up. I have watched that ground for nineteen years and I would have told you it was sealed. I was wrong, and I am too old to enjoy that.

I have not reported it.

I will not report it for as long as it remains true that you have not used it against anyone. That is not friendship. It is that a road nobody knows about is worth more to the Mother unused than spent, and I am the only one who knows about it, and I would rather be the person who decides when it is spent.

Your building is coming down sooner than the mark says. The machines came to the lot on the day your people came up. I do not think you know that. I am telling you because you will find out in four days and will have had four fewer days to move.

When you move — and you will move — you will arrive in the Mother’s outer ground with sixty subjects and nothing to trade. That is a bad way to arrive. Arrive with something.

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I am not telling you what. If I tell you what, it is the Mother’s offer, and it is not the Mother’s offer. It is mine, and I am nobody, and it expires when I do.

The message ended there.

Sacha sat in the reporting crawl for a long time with a scent-report from a dying cricket relayed by a roach who could not read it, and did the only thing there was to do, which was to take it apart piece by piece.

The cricket had known about the machines four days before he did. It had sent that knowledge down a route it could have simply reported instead, at the cost of nothing to itself and considerable cost to its own faction’s interests.

It had told him to arrive with something and refused to say what — which was either the single most useful piece of advice he had received since waking up in a wall, or the opening move of a negotiation so patient he would not recognise it as one for another year.

Both, he decided. It’s both. That’s what an old thing looks like.

He made himself do the hostile reading properly before he allowed himself the generous one, because the generous one was so much more pleasant that he did not trust his own preference for it.

The hostile reading went:

an experienced agent of the older power identifies a small claim about to be displaced, establishes a private channel outside its own faction’s structure, provides one piece of genuinely valuable free intelligence to establish credibility, and instructs the target to arrive bearing a gift — without specifying the gift, so that the target selects it himself and therefore believes the arrangement to be his own idea.

That was a good operation.

Sacha had seen the human version of it and had never once been on the receiving end.

But it did not explain the last four lines.

A patient agent establishing leverage does not tell its target that the offer is personal, that it carries no institutional weight, and that it expires when the agent dies.

That is not how you build leverage.

That is how you hand somebody a thing while telling them exactly how fragile it is.

So: both. A genuine kindness, delivered by something with a lifetime of practice at making kindnesses look like arrangements, and possibly no longer entirely able to tell the difference itself.

And underneath all of it, one line he kept returning to:

I am the only one who knows about it.

Not the Ascension.

Not the Mother.

One elderly cricket with a stiff leg, sitting on a ridge, who had made a private decision not to write something down.

The single most valuable asset the colony possessed was currently resting on the discretion of a creature who had told him, in as many words, that it expected to die soon.

There was nothing to be done about that.

He turned it over looking for a lever and found none: he could not protect the cricket, could not reach it, could not offer it anything it wanted, and could not verify a single word it had sent.

The entire future of sixty-one lives was balanced on a decision made by somebody else, for reasons of their own, that could be reversed at any moment without warning.

He recognised the feeling eventually.

It was the one from the back of the truck, on the calls that went to the surgical team — the handover, the moment the doors closed and the outcome stopped being anything he could influence.

He had hated it for his entire working life.

He had never once found a way to make it easier, and had eventually settled for a rule instead:

you do the part that is yours, completely, and you do not spend the drive back re-running the part that isn’t.

The part that’s mine is a colony and forty-eight hours, he thought, and got up.