THE THAW, by Lindsay Smith
Soon the ice will thaw, and we must face what we have done.
Silent for now, the city’s bones lurk on the edge of the vast and slick span of water. What once throbbed with so much life and noise while we prepared the assault, what once bore so many human smells and whimpers that drilled inside my skull as we reviewed the plans, has stilled at last. They have deemed our grim work finished. The ice pulled like a blanket over what remained of the city, tucking it in for the long sleep of winter. Covering our bloody trail through the streets, weaving cold like a curse over what humans were left. But no curse can last forever, and when the ice retreats, it will expose what we have left undone.
The Elders say not to worry. That the cold surely killed off even the strongest of them. When the first storm hit, it snapped like a bone. Retreat, the Elders said, at the peak of our frenzy. Retreat to the far shore. Our work here is done. Let the ice finish them off.
But I looked up from the storefront I had ravaged, fine silk and flesh and glass alike wedged between my claws, and I saw those eyes watching me from beneath the rubble heap.
Retreat, the Elders screamed, inside my skull. Retreat before the storm takes hold.
I dampened the neural ether to muffle the Elders’ orders. Beneath the eyes were lips, tightening and softening, teeth tapping together, shaping that ugly cacophony humans called speech. It rankled something deep in my abdomen, rattling around my weaker senses and forcing me to lean in closer.
Or maybe it was those eyes, so unlike the wide gaze that accompanied their screams. These eyes were taut, determined. They demanded that I look back.
The Elders were distracted, trying to herd us back to the far shore. They would not know if I engaged. They would not sense the dim ripple in the neural ether as I activated the filter for speech.
“—because we intruded first? Sure, we tore into your plane like it was a bag of powdered doughnuts. But you can see for yourself we don’t know any better.”
The pheromones and data samplings emanating from the speaker told me all I need to know: female, post-menarche, white blood cell surge in response to fresh wounds. Her skin reminded me of the shade of the gems set around the Confluence Throne on our home plane, though I knew she could not even see into the necessary color spectra to see how she glowed.
“I know you can understand me, damn it.” The shattered wood frame and crumbled plaster spilled across her shake as she tries to move. “We didn’t understand. We tried to, though. We tried to make peace. You think you’re too good? Too powerful, too smart? I’ll show you—”
She shoved forward, rocks shifting, glass twinkling, but it wasn’t enough. Her scream rasped with every last breath she had to give.
“Maybe it won’t be me. But someone will stop you. I swear it.”
I laughed, then, recalling my own whelpling rage before I’d proved myself in the Ring of Ascension and earned my node in the neural ether. I wanted to conquer the heavens for myself, and sunder every plane I could find. I did not see the use of submitting to the Elders, of letting them channel the Confluence into my mind and compel me to work for the good of the plane as a whole. I just wished to fight for any cause that struck me.
“Why do you think your plane is worth saving?” I asked her. “Surely you have heard of the fates of your other cities, destroyed by our other hives. We will claim your plane for our own.”
She laughed then—not matching any of the behavior patterns we’d been issued through the ether. I stood back, gore still dripping from my claw tips, and tried to determine the correct response. But if I amplified the ether again, the Elders would know that I had already waited too long to end this wretch’s life. That I was stalling. Disobeying.
“You don’t know, do you?” Her smile shone through the plaster dust. “Even your Elders don’t know.”
“Know what?” I hissed.
Her eyelids fluttered shut. “Help me out of here, and I’ll tell you.”
I stretched out my claws, edges snickering together, and braced myself into a fighting stance. Everything in my trials urged me to slaughter her as I had so many before. But perhaps I was still that greedy whelpling, not ready to submit to the Confluence and its anointed Elders just yet. Perhaps I still craved some simple truth that I could hold deep in my mind—something the Elders did not yet know.
And so instead of raking through her flesh, I raked the rubble away.
She coughed and sputtered; plaster dust and blood sprayed across her chest as she forced herself to sit up. Her wound was deep. I could smell the hint of infection rimming its edges. She would not live much longer.
“Your Confluence is gone.” Her shoulders shook and something I could more or less match to a smile appeared on her face. “We already destroyed it. You’ll never return to your plane.” Then she looked up at me. “Your hive has been abandoned here. And soon enough, we’ll find a way to kill you, too.”
Again, I should have killed her. A thousand excuses chased me across the lake as I fled for the far shore, fled the encroaching ice. But at the center of them all, my desire for vengeance burned—the same whelpling who yearned for battle and power now yearned to be free of the Confluence. Of the Elders and all the hives. Of the neural ether, binding me like circuitry to all the rest. If she spoke the truth, then I was free. Free to wander this new plane and find out what I really wished—not just what the Confluence wished of me.
But I had to await the Confluence’s chosen date.
In four months’ time, they were to come from us. Four months from our invasion’s start. When the ice thawed and the threads between planes pulled taut, the Confluence would return to recall all the hives and marvel at our victory. But if the Confluence were truly destroyed, then there would be no rescuing for us.
The others seem unconcerned. Here on the far shore, the celebrations drag on, three months, four, epic songs and poems growing fat as the tale of our invasion becomes ever more fantastic. We claim, because the Confluence cannot tell us otherwise, that we will be heralded as saviors. That this plane is ours for good now, the humans vanquished forever.
But still the Confluence does not come.
Four months, now. At nightfall each evening, the Elders await that flicker of blue on horizon that signals the Confluence’s return. The city’s burned-out structures hunker, dark silhouettes backlit by the stars. But the only light I see is a bonfire, burning on a distant roof.
They are not beaten yet.
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Lindsay Smith is an ex-Oklahoman and an unapologetic Washingtonian. She has an unhealthy fascination with foreign affairs. When not reading or writing, she can be found nerding out over food, board games, modern history, the Science channel, and all things cheesetacular. She writes historicals and fantasies, sometimes in the same book.
Her debut novel, SEKRET (Macmillan), is about teen psychic Russian spies.
Learn more about her: Tumblr | Twitter | Website
’ winter gala! Because apparently nothing gets me in the holiday spirit like extraplanar monstrosities.
