The Micronauts

by Gordon Williams

  They reached the tunnel. First, the big soldiers went in. Quivering antennae passed the message back. Like military policemen, the warriors kept the column in order,

  turning back any blind worker who deviated from the chosen route.

  They began to flood into the lea.fcutter nest.

  At first, they met only a few leafcutter sentries. These were quickly mutilated and overrun. The column poured down into the narrow tunnels, tearing to pieces anything that stood in their way; a full column of drivers on the march could strip a tethered horse to a skeleton—or devour a large snake without breaking step.

  They were much larger than the leafcutters—but this was the home-fortress for the smaller ants, who also had numbers on their side. Already tense and alert from the intrusion of the two aliens, the leafcutters had geared themselves up for defense. Scouts raced back through the labyrinth. The attack was coming from the other side of the fortress!

  The first stages of the battle took place in total darkness. Guided by scent and touch, the two armies needed no light, no distinguishing uniforms, no banners to rally round. It was a battle of a scale to make human conflict—Austerlitz or Stalingrad or any river of blood from the Middle Ages—seem a mere skirmish, a battle fought by two armies in which there was not a single coward, where every soldier gave of himself far beyond the call of duty, where every combatant would sacrifice his own life without hesitation, a battle fought between thousands of computerized heroes.

  Gradually the superior numbers of the defenders began to push back the invading column of drivers. Having no conception of defeat, they were forced to retreat simply by sheer weight. They fell back up the sloping tunnels. The defenders advanced across a carpet of corpses, their own and the enemies’. Then they poured out into the gray daylight . . .

  “Why don’t they move?” Khomich snarled, glaring at the handful of sentries still guarding the tunnel beyond the midden.

  “They’re not stupid—they won’t leave any entrance completely unguarded,” said Bruce. “Come on, we’ll

  have to kill them, that’s all. Let’s hope all their reinforcements are fighting the drivers on the other side.”

  They came out from behind the buff fungi and raced across the bare plain. They ran past the scattered jigsaw of flesh which had been Magruder and down into the midden, drawing their pistols as they sprinted past the bleached bones of the rodent’s skull. The vibrations of their pounding feet alerted the small company of sentries.

  ‘‘Kill them,” Bruce shouted, ‘‘they’ll carry a message if we don’t kill them all.”

  They came toward the tunnel shoulder-to-shoulder. As the pistols fired and the ants disintegrated, the air filled with the same bittersweet acid that marked the death of every ant...

  A huge driver bit a leafcutter in two with one snap. The severed head of the leafcutter went on fighting, vainly trying to reach the huge black driver with its jaws, oblivious to its own theoretical death. Two more leafcut- ters sank their jaws into the driver warrior’s abdomen, seizing onto its legs. It dragged them at its sides, huge jaws crunching through another leafcutter’s thorax; its front legs were torn off. It went on fighting, dragging its dismembered body across the corpses and the twitching fragments of corpses. They fought head-to-head, like rutting stags, antennae whipping the air. To human eyes, the savagery was incomprehensible in its total lack of emotion. There was no shouting, no ebbing and flowing of fortunes, no tactical withdrawals; eeriest of all, no individual emotions, no distorted faces, no screams; the severed leg caused no hesitation; no wounded limped back from the front-line; no body twisted in pain; no eyes showed terror or triumph; head-to-head, jaw-to-jaw, locked in a combat that was primeval in its intimacy; an Armageddon that sounded like the rustling of sand in a breeze. Cut in half by a leafcutter, a massive driver warrior became two warriors, one which could bite, but not run, one which could move, but had neither eyes nor jaws to find the enemy it still lusted to destroy.

  The tunnels were deserted. They ran down into the heart of the nest. Occasionally, they met a small worker running desperately; they kicked it aside and ran on.

  They reached the half-constructed chamber. Their torches shone on the perspex window. Bruce yanked the door open.

  “Khomich will carry you on his back,” he snapped, pulling Richards off his narrow seat.

  ‘‘Khomich? Butcher Khomich? Who gave authority for a damned Security stormtrooper to interfere in my project?” were the irritable words of Professor George Richards, chief-coordinator of Special Research Projects, Department of Science, World Food Control. “Did Towne send you people? I hope you don’t have any ideas of meddling, Bruce.”

  ‘‘Come on, Mister bloody Professor,” Khomich growled, heaving Richards onto his shoulder.

  They had to go slowly up the tunnel.

  ‘‘There aren’t any ants here,” Richards said, almost accusingly. ‘‘I wish you’d stop banging me against the walls, man.”

  But there were ants still in the heart of the nest. The communal organism, the body whose individual cells had free-range mobility, was not panicked into total disarray. Attacks could come from every direction. Already, on the open plain to the east of the nest, the surviving drivers were being grimly hunted down and encircled and massacred in what had to be a total rout. Some of the defenders were already falling back to man the other defenses.

  ‘‘There’re some coming up behind us,” Bruce said calmly.

  ‘‘Should I put him down?” Khomich asked. ‘‘We’ll fight them off.”

  ‘‘No—keep going. You go with him, Carr. There may be more at the entrance.”

  “We can’t leave you, Professor,” said Carr. ‘‘Where

  “Keep going!”

  He shined his torch back down the tunnel. They were

  leafcutter soldiers, maybe a dozen of them, maybe an endless stream of them. He ran backwards, keeping his torch on them. There was no hesitation now; the hard, stiff bodies flowed toward him like unstoppable machines.

  He drew his pistol. He fired. An ant’s head sank to the ground in a welter of its own blood. The others swarmed over it.

  He turned to run—then stopped.

  Taking deliberate aim, he started firing mercury bullets at the dark ceiling of the tunnel.

  It took five shots—and then there was a shuddering and a light raining-down of earth. When his pistol was empty, he turned and ran. Behind him, the roof of the tunnel started to collapse. As the mass of earth fell to trap them, the leafcutters began to send out their SOS signal, frantically jerking their bodies, spikes rubbing against hard ridges, sending out the urgent chirping noise that would bring help. But the roof was coming down in earnest and, in a moment, there was only silence and dust...

  They carried Richards across the vast brown plain. Anne and Lena came out to meet them.

  “Are you all right, George?’’ Lena asked, her voice quiet and distant.

  “I have a cramp, that’s all,” said the big man with the dyed black hair. He glared at Lena. “I should have thought you would have known better than allow a lot of outsiders to come snooping around the project.”

  Anne started to laugh. ‘‘You look ridiculous, George.”

  Jany’s voice came on the radio.

  “You’ll have to make for Station Three, it’s the nearest,” he said. “Recovery cannot pick you up for a little while—we’re burning out the whole area around the nest.”

  “Why are you burning it?” Bruce demanded angrily.

  THE MICRONAUTS

  “Well, we can’t afford to let any of those drivers loose in the countryside, can we?”

  “That’s ridiculous—even if any of them escape, they don’t have a queen. The cold will kill them off.”

  “It would be bad public relations if even one survived. We’ll pick you up in about an hour.”

  Richards struggled on Khomich’s back. “Jany,” he shouted, “why did you let all these damned— ”

  Bruce switche
d off the transceiver. Looking at Richards, he snorted in disbelief. “Is that a damned toupee you’re wearing?” he said wryly. Richards’s hand shot to his head. “George Richards—the Moses of megalomania!”

  “We should get away from here before they start using the flame-throwers,” Khomich growled.

  The Commissioner came on vision. Bruce was too drained to talk to him. He stood back beside Lena and Carr.

  “Well, Khomich?” said Towne.

  “We have Professor Richards here, sir. He was in a nest of ants, we were lucky to— ”

  “What has he told you?”

  Richards was flat on his back on the floor. He shoved Anne away from his legs. “I’ve told them nothing, Towne,” he shouted. “You had no business sending your spies here to interfere with my project!”

  Unable to see Richards, the Commissioner looked out of the screen at Khomich. “Who has been helping him?”

  Richards dragged himself toward the screen, grabbing at a bench to pull himself up. “This is my project, Towne, I didn’t need any help from any damned bureaucrats!”

  “You stole a lot of materials, Richards,” the Commissioner said severely.

  “I am the chief-coordinator, I don’t have to steal equipment, I have the authority to commandeer what I need.”

  “You have no authority to bypass official channels!”

  “I’ll make a full report to the Supreme Council, Towne. They can decide whether I was stealing or not They’ll tell you to forget your stupid channels when they hear what we have achieved here!”

  The Commissioner stared coldly at Khomich. “You had my instructions—why have you not carried them out?”

  Khomich said nothing. Towne banged his hand on his desk. “Khomich—why did you disobey me?” Khomich shook his head slowly.

  “Captain Robinson was killed because of your instructions, Commissioner,” Khomich said firmly. “Another man was eaten by the ants— ”

  “I don’t care about that! Why is that traitor still alive?"

  “I will make my report when I am back in Geneva,” Khomich said. His voice grew louder. “There has been enough killing, Commissioner—”

  Richards grabbed at Khomich’s chair and pulled himself in front of the video-screen.

  “I’m no traitor, Towne,” he shouted. “When I make my report to the Supreme Council and tell them what I’ve achieved here, they’ll know who’s been acting against the interests of the human race!”

  “For God’s sake, George,” Anne began, putting her hands on his shoulders. He shoved them off, glaring maniacally at the silver-haired man in the flickering screen. “Wait until I tell the Supreme Council what I know about your double-dyed machinations, you old fool!”

  The commissioner pulled himself together. “Let me speak to Bruce.”

  Bruce moved in front of the console.

  “What is your evaluation of this lunatic project?”

  Bruce shrugged. “It’s a bit like space exploration—it might not be very logical if you look at it on a cost-budget basis, but it could be one way— ”

  “There you are, Towne,” Richards shouted. “Your own man—and he’s convinced this is where the future lies!”

  “What I was going to say,” Bruce went on calmly, “is that the Project could well be worth maintaining if it wasn’t under the control of a cranky hysteric like Richards. I would like to see it put under a special

  Evaluation Group. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say I’d like to be put in charge of the whole thing.”

  “No,” the Commissioner snapped. “The whole place will be closed down immediately!”

  “It’s too big a decision for you to make alone, Towne. We need a high-powered Advisory Group, a proper budget, a lot more— ”

  “I cannot allow any information about this wasteful nonsense to become public knowledge. It would cause panic among the population and dissension among the Zonal Councils.” The Commissioner sat back, his face assuming its impassive, public expression. “You will remain where you are until further notice.”

  The screen went blank.

  Bruce turned to Khomich. “Which instructions didn’t you carry out?”

  Khomich was chewing the inside of his cheek, head nodding slowly.

  “In the event of certain circumstances, I was to have everyone connected with Project Arcadia eliminated and all traces of the illegal establishment destroyed.”

  “All of us?” Khomich nodded. “You mean, right from the start—all the time, you knew you’d probably have to kill us all?” Khomich nodded again. “What made you change your mind?”

  Khomich’s mouth tightened in a quick grimace. “A personal matter.”

  “What were the circumstances under which you had to kill us?”

  “I was to bring Richards back to Geneva only if he was in a widespread conspiracy against the Commissioner. He would have been needed for a Popular Trial.”

  “And with no conspiracy?”

  “This project has been carried out in defiance of all the Commissioner’s policies—it is no longer simply a scientific experiment, it is a direct challenge to his authority—by a man who is regarded as his chief rival. It was to be suppressed with maximum efficiency— ”

  ‘Would you have killed us all, Khomich?”

  Their eyes met.

  They both began to frown simultaneously. Without speaking, they knew what thought had just occurred to each other.

  “Try to get Control on the radio,” Bruce said quickly.

  Lena switched on the transceiver. ‘‘Station Three to Control.”

  ‘‘Control receiving Station Three,” came the stiff, metallic voice of Major Wollaston.

  ‘‘Control—has the Recovery Vehicle finished with the ants? We want to come back.”

  ‘‘That is not possible.”

  ‘‘Why not?”

  ‘‘The Commissioner has ordered you to stay exactly where you are.”

  ‘‘Let me speak to Doctor Jany,” Bruce said.

  ‘‘That is not possible.”

  Khomich pushed in front of Lena. ‘‘This is Khomich —get us out of here immediately, Wollaston. That is an order.”

  ‘‘You will remain exactly where you are,” said the cold, metallic voice.

  ‘‘Understood,” Khomich said calmly. He gestured to Lena to shut off the transmitter. Even then, his voice remained low. ‘‘Our only chance is to reach the stream. We must leave this place immediately.”

  ‘‘What are you talking about, man?” Richards demanded.

  ‘‘Wollaston has had orders to kill us all,” Khomich

  * '

  said.

  ‘‘He’s right,” Bruce said. ‘‘If you’re as mad as Towne, it’s the only logical thing to do. Carr—give me a hand with Professor Richards.”

  Richards folded his arms and sat upright in his chair. ‘‘I am going nowhere except back to the house. Towne would never dare to touch me."

  ‘‘I’m staying here as well,” Lena said firmly.

  ‘‘I think they may be right, George.” Anne went toward his chair. “Let them carry you— ”

  “You always were a fool, woman. Get away from me.”

  Khomich nodded to Carr. Richards saw them coming toward him. He quickly pulled his pistol.

  “If any one of you touches me, he will get his brains blown out!’’ Then he sneered. “If that isn’t a contradiction in terms.”

  Lena reached down and started taking off his boots. Without any warning, Khomich grabbed her around the waist...

  They ran down the slope, heading for the ferns. When Anne hesitated, looking back up the slope at the alloy dome of the Safety Station, Khomich caught hold of her hand and pulled her into a sprint for the shelter of the huge fern forest.

  When they came out of the ferns, they found themselves at the edge of the pool. “We must get into the water,” Khomich shouted.

  The water level had dropped now that the rainstorm flooding was over. On the other side of a sma
ll inlet, Bruce saw the bottle they had sailed down the stream in. They ran toward it, climbing down off the grassy bank into the oozy black mud.

  “Turn it around,” Bruce shouted. “Get the water out of it!”

  As they began to wrestle with the slippery glass, Anne stood back, undecided. “The soldiers wouldn’t kill us,” she said doubtfully.

  “Tell her, Carr,” Khomich shouted, floundering in mud as he pulled the neck of the bottle toward the water-line. “What happens to a soldier who. disobeys orders?”

  “He gets shot,” Carr yelled.

  “You think they would face a firing-squad for the sake of some scientists and a Security officer?” Khomich snapped. “They would enjoy burning me to death.”

  Muddy water began to gurgle out of the bottle.

  “I don’t think we should leave George,” Anne said, looking back up into the lush greenery of the garden. “Couldn’t we— ”

  They appeared above the wall surrounding the gar-

  THE MICRONAUTS

  den at that moment, black-uniformed men in helmets and goggles. A command was shouted. From the nozzle of the first flame-thrower came a spurt of white incandescence. An immense roaring sound filled the air and the sky turned into a red and yellow inferno. Each soldier directed his spout of flame into Arcadia. A storm of fire enveloped everything that stood above ground. Leaves went black, shriveled and disappeared into the holocaust. A giant sunflower seemed to stagger sideways, then toppled into the flames. A fire-wind came scorching toward them, buffeting their tiny bodies. Flame swept the garden inch-by-inch, burning the Safety Stations and the plants and the creatures hiding under the plants, the white heat of death reaching into every crevice, burning the garden to a carpet of black ash and cinders, wiping the last vestige of Arcadia from the earth ...

  The bottle bobbed upright as it swung into the main current. Above them, their circle of sky was a red and yellow furnace. A thunderous avalanche of noise made words irrelevant. They could only stare at each other.