Empire of the Ants (5 page)

'Do you think it was . . .'

'Yes, Chief, only Venusians could have done such a thing. It's got their name written all over it.'

'In that case, our revenge will be terrible. How many combat rockets do we have left in the Belt of Orion?'

'Four, Chief.'

'That won't be enough. We'll have to get help from the . . .' 'Would you like some more soup?'

'No, thank you,' said Nicolas, completely hypnotized by the images.

'Pay attention to what you're eating for a minute or I'll turn the television off.'

'Oh no, Mum, please don't.'

'Haven't you had enough of stories about little green men and planets with names that sound like washing-powder yet?' asked Jonathan.

'No, I think they're great. We're sure to meet extraterrestrials one day.'

'We've been going on about them for long enough!' 'There's a probe on its way to the nearest star. It's called
Marco
Polo.
We ought to know all about the people who live there soon.'

'It'll draw a blank like all the other probes they've sent into space. They just end up polluting it. It's too far, I tell you.'

'Maybe, but who's to say extraterrestrials won't come and see us instead? After all, there've been plenty of unexplained UFO sightings.'

'I don't see what difference it'd make. We'd only end up fighting them. Don't you think Earthmen cause each other enough trouble as it is?'

'It'd be fantastic. There might be smashing new places to go on holiday to.'

'A
nd exciting new things to worry
about.' He ruffled Nicolas s hair.

'You'll see what I mean when you're bigger, Nick, and probably agree with me then. The only really fascinating animals, the only ones whose intelligence is really different from our own, are . . . women.'

Lucie protested for form's sake. They both laughed. Nicolas scowled. It must be the grown-ups' idea of a joke. He felt around under the table for the dog's soothing fur.

There was nothing there.

'Where's Ouarzazate gone?'

He was not in the dining room.

'Ouarzi, Ouarzi.'

Nicolas put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. It usually produced immediate results, a bark followed by the sound of paws. He whistled again but nothing happened. He went and looked in every room of the flat. His parents joined him but the dog was no longer there. The door was shut and locked and he would not have been able to get out unaided.

They automatically made their way to the kitchen and, more precisely, to the cellar door. The crack had still not been sealed and was just wide enough to let an animal Ouarzazate's size through.

'He's in there. I'm sure he's in there,' sobbed Nicolas. 'We must go and get him.'

As if in answer to this plea, they heard a fitful yapping coming from the cellar. It seemed to be a long way away.

They all moved nearer the forbidden door. Jonathan blocked their path.

'I've already told you you're not to go down into the cellar.'

'But darling,' said Lucie, 'we've got to go and get him. He might be attacked by rats. You said yourself there were rats down there.'

His face froze.

'It's tough luck on the dog. We'll go and buy another one tomorrow'

The child was flabbergasted.

'But Dad, I don't want another one. Ouarzazate's my friend. You can't just leave him to die.'

'What's got into you?' added Lucie. 'Let me go if you're afraid.'

'Are you scared of going, Dad? Are you chicken?'

Jonathan could no longer contain himself. He muttered, 'All right, I'll go and have a look,' and went to get a torch. He shone it through the crack. It was pitch-dark on the other side.

He shivered, longing to run away, but his wife and son were pushing him towards the abyss. Sour thoughts filled his mind as his fear of the dark gained the upper hand.

Nicolas burst into tears.

'He's dead. I'm sure he's dead. It's all your fault.' 'He may be injured,' said Lucie soothingly. 'We ought to go and see.'

Jonathan thought back to Edmonds message. Its tone was imperative but what could he do? One of them would inevitably crack in the end and have to have a look. He had to take the bull by the horns. It was now or never. He passed a hand over his damp forehead.

No, it wasn't going to be that way. At last he had a chance to brave his fears, take the plunge and face the danger. If the dark wanted to swallow him up, so much the better. He was ready to get to the bottom of things. In any case, he had nothing left to lose.

'I'm going in.'

He went to get his tools and broke the lock. 'Whatever happens, don't move from here. Above all, don't try and come after me or call the police. Just wait for me.'

'That's a funny way to talk. It's only a cellar, after all, a cellar like any other.'

'I'm not so sure about that.'

Lit on his way by the orange oval of the setting sun, the 327th male, last survivor of the first spring hunting expedition, ran on alone. Unbearably alone.

He had been splashing through puddles, mud and mouldy leaves for some time. The wind had dried all his lips. His body was coated in amber dust. He could no longer feel his muscles. Several of his claws were broken.

But at the end of the olfactory trail along which he was hurtling, he soon made out his objective. Among the mounds forming the Belokanian cities, one shape loomed larger with every stride. The enormous pyramid of Bel-o-kan, the mother city, was like a scent lighthouse attracting him and drawing him in.

327th at last reached the foot of the imposing anthill and raised his head. His city had grown even bigger. The construction of the dome's new protective layer had begun. The summit of the mountain of twigs almost reached the moon.

The young male searched around for a moment, found a ground-level entrance that was still open and dived in.

He was just in the nick of time. All the workers and soldiers working outside had already returned. The guards were about to block up the exits to preserve the inner warmth. He had barely crossed the threshold when the masons set to and the hole closed behind him, with a slam.

Nothing more could be seen of the cold, barbarous world outside. The 327th male was once more immersed in civilization and could merge with the soothing Tribe. He was no longer alone, he was manifold.

Sentries approached him. They had not recognized him under his film of dust. He quickly emitted his identification scents and the others recovered their serenity.

A worker noticed his scent of tiredness. She offered him trophallaxis, the ritual gift of her body.

Every ant had a kind of pocket in its abdomen, a second stomach which did not digest food but kept it fresh and intact indefinitely. Food could be stored and regurgitated at a later date and passed into its 'normal' stomach for digestion or spat out and offered to another of its kind.

The gestures were always the
same. The ant offering trophal
laxis accosted the object of its desire by tapping it on the head. If the ant approached in this way accepted, it lowered its antennae. If it raised them, it was a sign of refusal. It was not really hungry.

The 327th male did not hesitate. His energy reserves were so low he was on the verge of catalepsy. They joined mouths and food came back up. The ant offering trophallaxis regurgitated first saliva, then honeydew and a mush of cereals. It tasted good and gave the 327th male a real boost.

Once he had received the gift, the male immediately withdrew. It was all coming back to him now, the deaths, the ambush. There was not a moment to lose. He lifted his antennae and sprayed the information in fine droplets around him.

To
arms! We're at war. The dwarves have des
troyed our first expedition. Th
ey've a terrible new weapon. Clear for action! War has been declared.

The sentry withdrew. The alarm scents were grating on her nerves. A crowd was already gathering round the 327th male.

What's the matter?

What's happening?

He says war's been declared.

Can he prove it?

Ants came running from all directions.

He's talking about a new weapon and an expedition that's been decimated. It's serious. Can he prove it?

The male was now at the centre of a knot of ants.
To
arms, to arms! War has been declared. Clear for action! Can he prove it?

They all started repeating the scent question.

No, he could not prove it. He had been in such a state of shock that he had not thought of bringing anything back with him. Antennae stirred. Heads moved doubtfully.

Where did it happen?

To
the west
of
La-chola-kan, between the new hunting ground found by our scouts and our cities. It's an area often patrolled by dwarves.

That's impossible. Our spies have returned. They state quite categorically that the dwarves aren't awake yet.

An anonymous antenna had just emitted this pheromone sentence. The crowd dispersed. They believed it, they did not believe him. He sounded as if he were telling the truth but his story was so unlikely. The spring wars never began so early. The dwarves would have been mad to attack before they were even all awake. Everyone went back to work without taking heed of the information emitted by the 327th male.

The sole survivor of the first hunting expedition was dumbfounded. He had not made up all those deaths, damn it! They were bound to notice gaps in a caste's ranks in the end.

His antennae drooped stupidly on his forehead. He felt useless and degraded, as if he no longer lived for others but for himself alone.

He shivered with horror at the thought, then rushed forward, ran about feverishly, roused the workers and summoned them to witness. But they scarcely stopped even when he repeated the time-honoured saying:

I
was the exploring leg

I was the eye on the spot

Now
I’
m
home,
I’
m
the nerve stimulus.

No-one gave a damn. They listened to him without paying attention, then went away again without panicking. If only he'd stop trying to stimulate them.

Jonathan had been down in the cellar for four hours now. His wife and son were sick with worry.

'Shall we call the police, Mum?'

'No, not yet.'

She went to the cellar door. 'Is Dad dead, Mum? Did he die like Ouarzi?' 'No, darling, of course not. What a lot of rubbish you talk!' Lucie was dreadfully worried. She leant forward to look through the crack. Using the powe
rful halogen torch she had just
bought, she thought she could make out a spiral staircase a little way ahead.

She sat down on the floor. Nicolas came and joined her. She kissed him.

'He'll come back. We've just got to be patient. He asked us to wait, so we'll just have to go on waiting.' 'What if he never comes back?'

327th was tired. He felt as if he were struggling in water. You move but you don't get anywhere.

He decided to go and see Belo-kiu-kiuni in person. Mother was fourteen winters old and possessed of incomparable experience whereas the asexual ants who made up the bulk of the population lived for three years at most. Only she could help him find a way to get the information across.

The young male took the express route leading to the heart of the city. Several thousand egg-laden workers were scurrying along the wide gallery. They were bringing their burdens up from the fortieth floor of the basement to the nurseries in the solarium on the thirty-fifth floor above ground level. The vast flow of white shells carried at leg's length was moving from below to above and from right to left.

He had to go in the opposite direction. It wasn't easy. 327th bumped into several nurses who called him a vandal. He himself was jostled, trodden on, shoved and scratched. Fortunately, the corridor was not completely jammed. He managed to force a way through the teeming mass.

After that, he made his way along small tunnels. It was a longer way round but the going was easier and he kept up a good pace. He passed from arteries into arterioles and from arterioles into veins and venules. He covered kilometres that way, going over bridges and under arches, through empty and crowded places.

He had no difficulty in finding his way in the dark thanks to the infrared vision of the three simple eyes on his forehead. As he drew nearer the Forbidden City, the air grew heavier with the sickly sweet scent of Mother and the number of guards increased.

There were ants there of every warrior sub-caste, every size and every shape; small ants with long notched mandibles; powerful ones with wood-hard thoracic plates; stocky ones with short antennae and gunners with tapered abdomens, brimful of convulsive poisons.

Armed with valid passport scents, the 327th male passed through their screening posts without mishap. The soldiers were calm. You could tell that the big territorial wars had not yet begun.