The Modern World

by Steph Swainston

  Every sense was alive as I dodged past the Insects hurtling towards me. I flew low, dropping underneath the main concentrations. I would never see down through the flight if I went above it. I stared out towards the Wall and what I saw took my breath away. On the far side of the lake, against the panorama of the muddy valley bottom, thousands of Insects, no, tens of thousands, were crawling out from irregularly spaced breaches in the white Wall. They blanketed the ground, scuttling slowly and purposefully over the bare earth before the lake. Ranks and ranks of Insects were flowing out. Each had four transparent wings, so long that their wider rounded ends overlapped each one’s abdomen and dragged on the ground behind it like a bride’s train.

  They stopped on the bank. I picked one and focused on it. Its elbowed antennae twirled, even more active than usual, and its head was raised, alertly tasting the air. It turned its head, separated its drooping wings with a mandible and a stretched back leg. It began to twist them up and down with beats. The wings beat faster into a blur and the Insect’s back began to arch. It was being tugged up. I could see its feet shifting position and rising until just the tips of its claws touched the ground, then they lifted off and with a tremendous birring the Insect slowly took off from standing, rose into the air and joined lines, skeins, then great clouds of them spiralling up above the Wall.

  Hundreds of metres above, the multitudes were converging. Insects clung together in clusters; enormous aggregations of chitin plates and thrumming wings. They were tussling to touch the tips of their abdomens together. They rolled as they fell, losing height rapidly and separating again. When their abdomens retracted I saw sticky strands of mucus stretched between them. They reminded me of ants in … in a mating flight!

  With this chill realisation I flew a circuit around the rising funnel, risking being attacked, but the insects paid me no attention at all, totally intent on each other. Their numbers seemed to increase and ebb in waves. Individuals in the spiral rose and fell, dropped height and struggled up again, as if with fatigue.

  I glided and watched spent Insects tumble out of the spiral, still trailing strands of slime. They righted themselves and descended, drifting south with the wind, around the town and over it. They fell into the town, onto the wreck of canvas outside the walls, onto the glacis between the walls and moat. The moat was completely full of thrashing, hopelessly tangled brown legs and abdomens.

  Some landed in the reservoir, or in the river, where they didn’t resurface, and I saw the current turning them over and over as it swept them downstream.

  Those that survived were suddenly free of their wings, running rapidly back towards the Wall. Whole wings were scattered all over the ground like glinting shards. The Insects trampled them heedlessly. I concentrated on one Insect alone on the river bank. It settled, took hold of its wings with its nearest pair of legs and pulled them off. They didn’t leave a wound or a scar, or any sign of the enormous muscles that must surely be driving them.

  When the newly grounded Insects reached the lake they joined thousands of others all along the south shore, gathered so densely they were clambering over each other. Many were turning around, dipping their abdomens into the water. What appeared to be streams of froth drifted away from them. All around the lake margin the Insects’ tails were pushing out lines of white foam, which lazily tangled with other streams into an irregular lace, drifted towards the lake centre and became indistinct as it slowly sank in the depths.

  I put some distance between myself and the chaos of the mating flight to gain a clearer picture of what was happening. Were these different Insects altogether?

  The fresh perspective simply brought new questions. More Insects were swarming over the Wall and their saliva was melting the paper as if it was wax. They were working hard to pull out darker lumps from within the liquefying spit. I glided closer to see what was happening – then wished I hadn’t. The lumps were cadavers, the remains of soldiers. Free of the spit that had formed the Wall and preserved them, some were so rotten that they began to fall apart. There were horse limbs and heads, whole sheep from Lowespass farms, the feral mastiffs of the forts, and some chunks of matter I couldn’t recognise, all covered with the white paste.

  The Insects carried them directly to the lake. All along its shores they were wading into the water as deep as their middle leg joint and dropping their burdens. They lowered their heads and nudged the ancient carcasses further in; I could see them bobbing, leaving ripples.

  The reservoir edges were filling up with a putrid mass of sodden rotting meat. Chunks washing at the surface and at the water’s edge were releasing a thick, dark brown and oily scum that started to resemble broth. They were turning the entire lake into a waterlogged charnel pit. The amount of matter being dumped was displacing the water and the dam’s spillway glistened as shallow pulses ran down over its cobbles.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said, for want of a better word. I had never seen Insects do something so complicated. What if they were sentient after all?

  The rank smell of rotting fat and skin rose on the breeze, making me retch. I folded an arm over my face and gained height above it, but I knew it would stick in my sinuses for days. I took a last look at the gruesome mess and skimmed away from the lake. More Insects were beginning to build a new Wall around it.

  They were ranging freely over the whole countryside, scurrying on the road, feeding on dead men and horses – and carrying fresh pieces, still dripping, back to join the corruption they had made of the lake.

  I couldn’t stay there, not so close to the stench. It seemed to cling to my feathers no matter how high I flew. I winged towards the town.

  High above the gatehouse I saw an Insect buzz through the hail of arrows. They found their mark and it suddenly bloomed with white flights. Shafts stuck out all over it as it passed underneath me. It went into a steep descent, wings beating furiously, and crashed into the roof of the tavern buckling all its legs. Its wings flickered; the time between each vibration lengthened until it died.

  I took this as a warning – the steel crossbows mounted on the ramparts have an awesome seven-hundred-metre range – so when I was about a kilometre away from town I climbed high and came in above them.

  I looked down into complete confusion. The outermost road of the three concentric squares was totally infested. Soldiers were shooting Insects from the safety of the curtain wall, the large square shutters all hooked back. Archers stood on every available rampart, crossbowmen leant out of windows, rocks and boiling water issued through the machicolations of the hoardings, bombarding the Insects directly underneath. I even saw civilians hurling roof slates into the seething mass.

  From the window in the first ring of barracks, spearmen jabbed frenziedly at any Insects getting too close.

  In the inner two roads and the central square, smaller numbers of Insects ran at random, claws skittering on the cobbles. Bodies littered the streets. Most of the iron paling gates had been shut across the roads. Others were barricaded with heaps of furniture, anything men could lay their hands on in the panic. Slake Cross was designed so that if a road ring was taken, we could pull back to the next one, and so on, to the middle – but that design depended on Insects attacking on the ground, from outside. The Architect could never have envisaged them dropping in from the sky.

  I banked, turning in a shallow glide towards the intense throng continuing to rise into the air above the lake. Their opaque buzzing made it difficult to think and the sweeping movements of the flight were so ultimate, so terrible, it drew my gaze and I watched, hypnotised.

  A shout rose over the buzzing: ‘Hahay!’

  Surprised to hear an Awian hunting cry I glanced down towards the source and saw an Insect pacing me, only a hundred metres below. As I saw it, an arrow storm poured from the walkways. Enfilade shooting from the tower tops caught it in cross-volleys. It twisted in the air. Arrows slashed its wings to ribbons – it seemed to fold up and dropped like a stone, straight down, its abdomen writhing with a blind l
ife of its own. The Insect hit the ground by the moat and splattered – great splits opened up in its carapace and its insides began to seep out, pooling yellow on the grass.

  I slewed left and right in acknowledgement at the favour although in reality I was far more alarmed by the prospect of being riddled with arrows than being bitten by the Insect.

  Time to show them I didn’t need their help. From what I had seen of the Insects’ manoeuvrability I was definitely the stronger flyer. I put my hand behind me, unfastened a stud and drew my ice axe from its holster fastened horizontally on my belt. I went into a glide and tapped its steel head thoughtfully against my palm as I circled the town.

  I stripped off my bangles and shoved them into my coat, and buttoned my sunglasses into my inside pocket. I positioned myself above the nearest Insect, my shadow covering it. Its dragonfly-like head swivelled: it could see three hundred and sixty degrees around it. It saw me and tried to climb to my altitude, but I was far more agile. I stood on one wing and turned, soared directly over, and gave its rapidly beating wings a good solid kick as I passed. The Insect rocked, righted itself in the air and dived.

  I whooped and dived after it. It wouldn’t let me stay above its head. I saw dark patches on its compound eyes that looked almost like pupils, one pair on the top, another pair facing forwards. At first I thought they were reflections, then I realised they were areas of smaller facets, set closely together. Perhaps the eyes of these mating Insects are different too; it seemed to see well directly above it. I decided to attack by coming in fast and from the side. I swerved away, turned so steeply the ground and all its towers swung up to my left. I beat with my wings close to my body and bore down on it with full speed.

  The Insect saw me too late, jinked, but I rammed into its thorax, grappling so it couldn’t turn to grab me. We whirled together, losing height, and the wind stream roared up past us. The ground rotated and spun crazily. I didn’t look down, I have a sense of how close I can fall, how big the buildings can grow before I seriously start to panic. I hefted my axe and chopped through its neck. The Insect’s head detached and I let it fall but the body flew on thirty metres before tumbling to the ground.

  I wheeled away, plastered in yellow blood, yelling in triumph. ‘Get out of my sky! Back on the ground, you fuckers!’

  I spotted another on the far side of town. I beat upwards, climbing to approach it, then swooped. Its wings whirred beneath me and their wind streamed out my ponytail. I hacked with the axe, missed and collided with its shell back, pushing it downwards in the air. My axe fell free, jerking on its lanyard. My hands were next to the bases of its front wings. They were moving so fast I didn’t dare touch them. The great, glassy wings flicked back and forth on either side of me – dry black veins around clear cells – I saw the moorland distorted through their transparent surfaces. I matched its pace, hanging on to the top of it while I recovered my axe and chopped through the base of one wing. The Insect jerked away erratically. Spines on top of its abdomen grazed my hands. It began to fall. Its antennae with ends like strings of beads flicked frantically. Its other wing started beating twice as fast. It spun violently, spiralling tighter and tighter until it hit the road and exploded into a thousand shards.

  ‘Great!’ I shouted, and swung into a long turn looking around for more. One was buzzing in a straight path from the mating flight, at around seventy kilometres an hour. I can do twice that. I let it pass overhead, beat hard to come up behind it. Its very thin waist and haze of wings passed beneath me an arm’s length away. I tilted, slowed down. The Insect beat faster and it knocked up underneath me, hitting me along the length of my body. I gasped a breath, frightened, then swung my axe and cut through a wing stem. It plummeted away, curling into a ball so tight the pointed tip of its abdomen was over its mandibles. It spun; the brown hunch of its thorax, smooth rounded abdomen, goggle compound eyes.

  On the ground, I saw upturned faces and men pointing at me. I grinned and pressed the fingers of my wings together like paddles, pulled the air past me more strongly with the right than the left, rotated as I rose steeply showing them the soles of my boots. Then I fanned out my wings’ fingers, came to a standstill for a second, levelled my flight and sped swiftly towards the next Insect, wondering if this is how a peregrine feels.

  I ran rings around them. I had no real impact on their numbers but I was more effective than the arrows. I sparred with them for the next three hours until sunset. The swarm above the reservoir was starting to falter and disperse; fewer Insects were crawling out from the Wall. Below me, troops were being marched out of the buildings of the two outermost rings, in an attempt to clear the centre. Civilians packed the hall and church to capacity. I could still see clearly, my eyes had attuned to the dusk and the red-gold smudge of sunset over the hills in the distance. The town’s floodlights were abandoned but lamps glowed along the concentric roads and the square. I was exhausted and losing concentration but a few Insects were bombilating in from the flight.

  I cut the wings off one and swept on to the next. I soared over and tore a wing, stalled deliberately in front and cracked its head with my boot heels. I glided towards another and dealt it a blow that smashed both antennae roots, knocking it sideways. It turned over and I felt a strong tug above my belt. I looked down – the Insect’s back right foot had caught my shirt, its claw had closed and now as it turned away from me it was winding the material around its foot. I pulled frantically at my shirt but I couldn’t free it. I yelled and flapped madly – then we plummeted together.

  The Insect kicked its extended leg, struggling frantically, and every movement just wound my shirt tighter into a knot around its three claws. I grabbed the hard ankle joint and pulled at it.

  The Insect and I began to spin around each other, centripetal force pulling us away from each other the length of its leg. Airflow rushed past faster and faster. I flared my wings, desperately braking, but lying on my side I couldn’t gain any purchase on the air. The Insect’s underside faced me, the ball and socket joints of its legs under its thorax. Its five other legs razored past as it kicked and it bent at the waist bringing its tail close to my legs. The roaring airstream tore its wings along their length and the loose strips started fluttering around us.

  Relative to the Insect I seemed to be stationary but the ground below us swept round faster and faster. I sipped at the rushing air through gritted teeth. The horizon climbed up the sky and the awful gusts buffeted us, blowing my ponytail upwards. The end of it tangled with the Insect’s other back foot.

  My axe dangled. I grasped its shaft back into my hand and swiped down at the leg projecting from my shirt. I missed. Tried again, and missed. Panicking, I reached down and tapped with little cuts but the angle was impossible. The narrow blade kept chipping past the smooth leg on both sides. I couldn’t put any force behind it so even when I did strike the tubular chitin, flattened to barbs on the back, I couldn’t sever it. Fuck, fuck, fuck, why do I never carry a sword?

  The town blossomed up beneath me. The stone rings opened up; widened; then I lost sight of the outer wall and all beneath me were barracks roofs and the square. I’ve only got seconds.

  I folded my wings in and bent my legs arching my back concave so my feet were almost behind my head. I scrabbled in my boot top for my flick knife. With less drag, we whirled round each other faster – the Insect pulled my shirt and the tight material cut into my waist, restricting me further. I flicked the blade and swept it behind my head, cutting the end of my ponytail free. Then with swift cuts I slashed through my stretched shirt feeling it open up around my sides and tear of its own accord over my stomach. The claw ripped free.

  I snapped one wing closed, raised the other and stalled – slipped sideways away from the Insect.

  It turned over in the air, legs uppermost, mandibles snapping and antennae whipping. A long bronze line of light reflected from the sunset along the length of its body.

  I braked as hard as I could. I spread my feathers wide and fl
at, fighting against the airflow forcing them up. They hissed and jiggled, bending like bows. I splayed my legs trying to counteract the spin. The distance between me and the Insect increased. It shrank below me. I saw it, still rotating along its length, fall towards a messy impact with the barracks roof.

  I did not have enough distance left to stop. I was braking as hard as I could but the spinning roofs were too large, too near. Well, this is it, I thought. This is how it ends. At least it’ll be over quickly. I had an image of Tern in my mind like a portrait. I spun as I fell, every couple of seconds, trailing my foot in the corner of my vision. The barracks ring flashed away. I levelled with the towers; they shot above me. I glimpsed soldiers on the ground, their mouths round Os. Detail leapt out: the flags, the cracks between hall roof slabs, grit in the drainpipes. I hugged my arms and legs in tight. I closed my eyes and my mind was already dissociating, awaiting the impact.

  Thumpf! I hit something elastic and jolted. I seemed to arc out in a slow trajectory. I almost stopped, then – crack! crack! – I tumbled head over feet straight down and hit the ground heavily, backside, wings, and my head jerked back and hit the stone.

  Oof. I skidded to a halt feeling my skin burning. I opened my eyes and looked around. I was loosely wrapped in voluminous folds of canvas, through which the lamplights shone orange. The stuff around my face blew in and out with my panting. All right, I thought; I’m alive. I’m on the ground and alive. Ooh, my head. I pressed a hand to it with Eszai stoicism but nothing gave way. I rolled around, winded, and scrabbled at the material but I couldn’t find an opening. I stabbed my axe into it, cut a rent and crawled out, onto the cobbles of the central square.

  Acres of orange canvas seemed to curl away from me on both sides. I looked at it and saw the massive letters, backwards and upside down: ‘Riverworks Company Est. 1692’. A glance up to the roof of the hall told me I had snapped the flagpoles holding Frost’s banner. They hung down, trailing it between them.