Dinnid’s wings flashed, and he darted high into the air, entered the maw of the hive. Ahead of Veriasse, the dronon vanquishers began clacking and mumbling, readjusting their bodies so that an opening appeared in the wall. Veriasse looked back at Everynne, telling her with his eyes to follow. Gallen, Maggie, and Orick followed, too, and they walked through a tunnel formed by the black bodies of dronon warriors.
When they reached the saucer-shaped belly of the hive, the dronon lowered a ladder much like any that a human might use, except that the rungs were spaced inconveniently far apart. Veriasse climbed, noted the thin gray powder of dried dronon stomach acids on the rungs but decided that his gloves would be ample protection. Only poor Orick among the group did not have gloves, and Veriasse hoped that the padding on the bear’s paws would prove adequate insulation.
When they reached the lowest level of the hive city, they came to a security station where strange, gleaming, three-eyed cameras photographed them. Message pods, like tiny balls, whizzed through the air, flying between various levels with a hiss. Small white female dronon workers scurried through the hallways like lice, infecting him with their tremendous energy. They seemed incapable of moving at anything less than breakneck speed.
The group climbed more ladders, and everywhere were tan dronon technicians with green tattoos and long segmented fingers growing from small battle arms. Vanquishers lined the halls. When they reached the mid-level of the hive, Veriasse glanced down one corridor, saw a vast incubation chamber. Thousands of white workers scurried among eggs, adjusting heating devices, catching the grublike newborns as they hatched, regurgitating acidified food into the gullets of grubs.
At last Veriasse climbed to the highest level of the great city, stopped to catch his breath. Dronon vanquishers lined the passage. He stared down the dimly lit hall for a moment, waited for the others to catch up with him. The air here was thick with the acrid scent of dronon, warmed uncomfortably by the heat of hundreds of thousands of bodies. Everynne breathed heavily but tried to stand tall and regal. Orick was panting from the effort of climbing, and Maggie was drenched with sweat when she reached the landing platform. Veriasse let them catch their breaths, then led the way down a long corridor lighted dimly by golden globes.
Some dronon vanquishers raised their battle arms over their heads, crossing them as a sign of respect for Everynne and her retinue, but most of the vanquishers refused that honor.
The air grew hot and fetid as they neared the belly of the city, until at last they came to a wide, circular room two hundred meters across.
Around the room, thousands of dronon lined the walls. Black Lord Vanquishers with their enlarged forelegs and flashing wings seemed to make up the majority of the audience, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Veriasse saw that they were really outnumbered by small whitish workers, plump as lice, who ran about under the feet of the warriors. Dozens of the large tan technicians with their green facial tattoos had also come.
At the far end of the arena, the Lord Escort Dinnid sat beneath the lights beside an enormous young queen. She was a light cream in color, but gold highlights on her upper thighs and battle legs indicated that she would soon develop into a Golden. The queen was perhaps six meters long and three meters tall. Her saucer-shaped egg sac looked as if it were ready to burst, and indeed as he watched, a translucent egg about two decimeters across fell from her sac. A white worker rushed forward and carried it away.
Dinnid raised his battle arms over his head, crossing them as a sign of a temporary truce. Veriasse stopped at his side of the arena and raised his arms in the same token, crossing his wrists.
“You stay here,” he whispered to Everynne and the others, indicating a red box drawn on the floor.
As one, he and Dinnid advanced to the center of the arena.
Veriasse studied the battleground-the light in the room was diffuse and came from yellow globes set in the walls all around the arena. The metal floors seemed to be of heavy steel and were uneven, curving slightly like a bowl until they reached a low point in the center of the room. The ceiling was perhaps fifteen meters high-enough so that if Veriasse were the Lord Escort from another hive, he and Dinnid would be able to fly about the room, engaging in aerial combat. Indeed, it was the preferred method among dronon. The males flew at tremendous speeds, batting one another with their heavy forearms, lashing out with their hind legs, grabbing with their sensor whips. The battles tended to be fast-paced and ended quickly.
As Dinnid marched forward, Veriasse studied him. The big male was perhaps two meters tall as he walked, and he bore scars from a recent fight. His right sensor whip had been ripped off near the mandible and had not yet grown back. The right front array of eyes had been damaged. Of the seven faceted eyes of various sizes, two of the larger ones were broken. An ugly white ooze dripped from one mandible.
Yet the dronon lord had impressive forearms. The serrated edges at the bottom of these arms were exceptionally well developed, so that it looked almost as if he had triangular axe heads emerging from those arms. One blow would crush the exoskeleton of nearly any dronon. To be hit with those arms would mean Veriasse’s death.
Around him, the dronon began to sing a slow dirge, their mouthfingers tapping rhythmically upon their voice drums. Veriasse looked to the far side of the room, saw that beneath the queen, several white things that he had thought to be workers were in actuality larvae-royal grubs with six small legs and poorly developed eyes.
When the two were forty paces apart, Dinnid uncrossed his battle arms, began to wave them threateningly. Veriasse knew that as soon as he uncrossed his own wrists, the battle would begin. The dronon always considered it a good strategy to strike first, and Veriasse suspected that the Lord Escort would leap into the air, try to strike while flying past. Indeed, the dronon’s superior aerial troops had always devastated humans, who relied too heavily on ground-based operations.
Veriasse took a deep breath, uncrossed his arms. Almost before he could see it happen, Dinnid leapt into the air, wings buzzing.
Veriasse dodged right. The Lord Escort twisted his abdomen, tried to kick with a rear leg. Veriasse considered grabbing it, but elected instead to simply avoid this first blow.
Dinnid flew past, circled like a great black fly. It took him several seconds to cross the arena, then return.
Dinnid flew up near the top of the ceiling, then swooped low at the last possible second. Veriasse dodged right again, but the dronon anticipated his move, turned his head, and spat the contents of his stomach into Veriasse’s face. The acid splashed out in a wave, and Veriasse saw that he would not be able to dodge it. He leapt up in frustration, kicked the forward edge of Dinnid’s lower right wing and heard a satisfying crack.
The lord spun, crashing into the metal floor, then rolled upright. He raised his wings and flapped them madly, apparently terrified on some instinctual level at the thought of being grounded. He lifted himself in the air, but moved slower and was forced to flap his wings much harder to fly at all.
Veriasse pulled up his tunic, wiped the acid from his face. The goggles he wore were dirty with the fruits of the vanquisher’s stomach, and Veriasse only managed to smear the glasses. He threw them off in frustration, gambling that Dinnid had emptied his stomach and would not be able to spit any more acid in the course of this battle.
Dinnid circled the vast arena, building up speed, and Veriasse clenched his fists. The metal studs sewn into the fingers of his gloves felt heavy, comforting. He watched the vanquisher circle, saw that Dinnid was breathing hard. His rear thighs flexed and unflexed rapidly, the air holes expanding as he sought to draw air into his lungs.