As he scuttled through the labyrinth of narrow, dripping tunnels, he ran his tongue thoughtfully over his tiny, pointed teeth.
He had seen them again today; two of them, in one of the deserted marketplaces just to the south of his nest. They were like the others, the ones who had thrown him thoughtlessly onto the pyre; like men, but different; almost twice as tall as men and slender, their bodies pale and smooth and hairless.
Thinking of them he shuddered, hating them for what they'd tried to do to him. If he had not crawled from that choking, suffocating heap of burning bodies he would be dead. As it was...
Nearing the nest he slowed, crouching once more to sniff the air and listen. He had set guards these past few weeks, covering all the approaches. Even so, strange things were happening up above, and what began above soon found its way down here.
He went through, past the watchful silent figures of his guards, and into the great sphere of the nest itself, conscious of a hundred pairs of eyes immediately upon him as he entered, watching from their sleeping niches in the surrounding walls. They watched him, obedient and fearful, knowing his moods, knowing - simply from the look of his tensed and angry body - that something had happened.
"Come," he said, his cracked voice echoing in that large yet claustrophobic space, his eyes alight with a dark desire for vengeance, "we have a job to do!"
Emily crouched beside Tybor on the parapet as he pointed out various things about the distant encampment. They had seen one of the strangely-shaped craft before - twenty li to the West, where it had crashed, but this one had landed safely and its occupants now busied themselves preparing defences.
"They're like you," she said, staring through the zeiss glasses at one of the creatures.
"Yes," Tybor said, "but much stronger. Look at the development of the upper body, at those arms and thighs. Those are .his soldiers. Those are what he means to use to conquer us."
She looked sideways at him, surprised by that "us", wondering, not for the first time, why he had chosen to help them. Was it a programming fault, or was it really as Tybor had said - that DeVore had made them better than he'd intended: not merely physically, but morally superior. Whatever, there was no doubting the seriousness of Tybor's intentions. As much as any of them, he wanted to defeat these half-beings. The fact that he looked like them made no difference. The real difference was inside.
She had first seen Tybor a month back, watching him from a hiding place overlooking a courtyard where he tended to a small group of survivors - children, all of them, the eldest no more than six. Fascinated, she had returned over several days until she was convinced he meant no harm. Only then had she approached him.
"We should hit them now," he said, turning to face her, his long, large head half in shadow. "Now. Before they're ready."
"But it's light. Surely . . . ?"
"The darkness won't help. Their eyes are different from yours. They see as clearly in the dark as now. But they would also be expecting you. Right now they're unprepared. We'd have the advantage of surprise."
"And if we succeed? He'd know, surely? He might send someone to scour this sector until they found us."
Tybor smiled and gently shook his head. "They're not that ' organised. Not yet, anyway. And even if he did, do you think they'd find us? There are tunnels down there, Emily. A whole labyrinth of tunnels. We could live down there. We could come up behind his lines and strike him, time after time."
She stared at him, taken by the oddness of his head, by its sheer, inhuman length and size. But his eyes. . . they were eyes that could be trusted.
"So this is it, eh? Guerrilla warfare? But how long can we keep it up?"
He smiled, his mouth a good six, seven, inches across. "Ten years? Twenty? What does it matter? We have no choice, neh?"
That "neh" made her laugh, it was so clearly a mimicry of her. But deep down she was happy suddenly. Strangely, inexplicably happy. After all, this was what she knew best - what she was good at.
"Okay," she said. "Let's hit them now."
"Good." Tybor turned and, crawling back, leaned over, signalling to Michael, who was waiting in the alleyway below, fifty or so survivors crouched with him, all of them armed. Then, as Michael began to carry out his part of their scheme, Tybor took the rocket launcher from his back and handed it to Emily.
"Thanks," she said, laying it on the parapet beside her before taking the pack from her back.
Forgive me, Lin Shang, she thought, loading the first rocket into the launcher, but Chuang Tzu never had De Vore to contend with.
As she lifted the launcher to her shoulder, she smiled, understanding what she was starting here. It was a battle; a battle for survival.
She looked through the sight, lining up the hairline to the central cross, then squeezed the trigger, the concussive thud deafening her as the rocket streaked toward the alien ship.
Yes, and who knew who would finally win? Only the days ahead would tell.