"What!?" I puff, as consciousness returns.
I get back nothing. Just scent-silence from the computer. Though the aromatic connection to The
Queen lingers strongly.
I can see through my ship’s skin that the universe outside is within entropy;
not the null-gray of deep space wormhole flight. This is where The Queen
has sent me.
I recall the last pheromone-modulated tachyon message from Home, which
had plotted my cruiser toward an 8-planet solar system at the outer wash of this
spiral galaxy, and the origins of an archaic, lightspeed digitized
signal. What had caught The Queen’s attention was the scent
which the signal incorporated. One of our regional tachyon probes had
intercepted it, and our Linguist-caste had been intrigued by what came from a
primitive platform, symbolically, they determined, named after a local species
of endoskeletal creatures that fly through an atmosphere. And just as I had gone anti-entropy again,
something else within the pheromone message tickled an ancient memory. A powerful drive.
I can already feel hormones changing the composition of my body into another caste. Wings are sprouting. I am to become a Seeder. A deep desire to lose all rational thought as an Explorer and merge with The Queen percolates ever louder in the background.
It is quite interesting to have all these thoughts consciously rise to the surface, and become textual within the cruiser’s pheromone matrix-history. Each thought I now have will be assimilated by The Queen upon final invasion. A most perfect biosphere has already evolved on this planet.
Oh!?
What is this? An alien has begun scurrying in and out
of view outside. Through the transparent crystal structure of my cruiser, I
note that this creature is only slightly larger than myself and similarly
shaped, exoskeletally, and a sterile female of the Labor-caste.
What reckless, stupid gnawing.
Clsshiick, Clsshiick Clsshiick!
So I aggressively rub my thoracic plates in response.
Such an obsolete and primitive display. This is not the individual, nor
the species, which had attracted The Queen's attention..
The creature outside heard my clicking and stops her movements, cocking her
triangular head. Then she hurriedly taps her antennae sensors against the
ship's glassy skin. Her compound eyes, though similar to mine, project a
shocking lack of sentient reflection. But like our superior race, her
behavior is orchestrated by a queen.
Much as I try, there is no hope for us to pheromone mind-merge. None. Far too
primitive -- in relation to the planet's dominant species -- for The
Queen's purposes. The Queen only seeks habitable
planets where the dominant species is predisposed to surrendering rational
thought, and unable to fight the final invasion. The intercepted message,
which Linguist-caste had translated, indicated that the individual most capable of unleashing fire and fury control on the planet had already lost rational thought,
by a pronouncement of obeying a non-existent omnipotent omnipresent intelligence.
Hah!
Ignoring the foolish creature outside, I unfasten my remaining appendages from
their respective harnesses and walk aft. With a little puff from my abdomen, I
instruct the graviton field generator to switch on its interdimensional
connection with Home. The
connection will be complete once the ruling majority of the dominant species
has lost its will to think. It disables my cruiser, but that is how it is to
be.
I must work fast! I already feel the powerfully disabling, sensual attraction to fully merge with The Queen . Oh how exhilarating this will be.
I think of Home, and the
buzz of her city-caverns, where every pheromone-guided thought is on the same
wave. And ritual fungus feast debaucheries among the minions, with The
Queen’s scent orchestrating. But
Home has lost too much oxygen.
In the next instant, my crystal ship shifts. There are now five creatures outside,
roughly carrying it up a sandy incline.
The clicking outside intensifies. Enough
of this! I puff a command for the hatch to open, and puff again to
tell these puny creatures to go away. They do, as I luxuriate in the
atmosphere that entered. The Queen is right. This is a
most perfect planet. It must have taken almost one-third of the
universe’s age for life to have evolved it to this state.
I walk out and instantly get the whiff of him
through my antennae sensors. It is unpleasant, but every spiracle pore in my body
delights in its gas exchange with this oxygen-rich atmosphere. I can certainly
understand why The Queen would choose this to be the new hive… Home
My wings have now hardened well enough, so I scramble within a forest of green
photosynthesizing blades towards a grouping of thorny stems in full rosy
bloom. I climb one to the tip of a green blade. I open my wings,
and with exhilaration...
—Is this true? Do I do this with
exhilaration?
...follow his scent, my continual thinking weaving a scent-matrix into the
atmosphere for later analysis.
On I go, following the irresistibly pungent scent with my antennae. A memory of
my world — Home — buzzes through my mind; only for an instant do I feel
wrongness in all this.
A frightening shadow passes behind me. Without thought, I buzz around then up.
The wing-beats of an endothermic flying and tweeting creature flaps furiously
past me in a bungled predatory dive.
And there he is... His scent is overwhelmingly powerful
now. It draws me almost as to The Queen. I fly above him, my
motions completely automatic. With all my might I alight upon his thin orange
mane and thrust my abdomen hard against the pale pulsating thin skin, stinger
piercing and ejaculating
The euphoria is blinding.... The Queen.... THE QUEEN! It is
blinding... THE........ QUEEN!!!.......... ah............
***
It was a briefing with the VP like many others in the Oval Office, with
Trump sitting like Napoleon behind the desk, tiny hands gesticulating as he
finger-tapped his tweeting pad.
“Mr. President?” coughed Pence.
“I know, I know. Just let me finish this. They ABSOLUTE love me,”
replied Trump, coughing, something greenish-red dribbling from his nose.
“Damn cold. Got bit yesterday by an insect. Asshole Secret
Service. Didn’t whack it in time. Still got an itch. Am going to mow down that Rose Garden." Trump looked up to the ceiling, a thin smile creasing his pasty face, as he whispered, "Jackie... would have liked to grab hers."
“It was a fire ant," Pence said, trying to ignore the remark, thinking about recording devices. "Kind of a weird one. So they shipped it to the
CDC.”
“Bunch of moron science know-it-alls down there. Anyways, about your
public school Christian education strategy? Read the first
sentence. Good work. Perfect. Go for it. America will
LOVE me for it.” Suddenly Trump could not hold back a fart. He
squeezed his sphincter muscle hard, to let it slowly ooze out rather than with
an abrupt noise. A bunch of tickly things seemed to scratch their way out
as well too. Trump wrinkled his brow and smiled, remembering the Russian
prostitutes.
“Ryan drafted most of it,” Pence said, catching the whiff of something that…
then excited him.
“Come here, Mike.”
“Donald?” he said, rising.
“Got something you’ll like.”
Mike Pence approached the desk.
“Closer,” said the president.
In the next instant, Trump grabbed Pence’s tie and yanked his head to his own,
and said, “That mouth of yours. Anyone ever tell you
it looks like pussy?” Trump’s tongue then invaded Pence’s mouth.
Probing for gratification, he was somewhat disappointed that the wet slimy
pocket lacked the acrid scent of urine… as
alien molecules began to do their purpose on the heels of the anal pheromone.
When the spasms of orgasm died off, Pence breathlessly staggered across the new
carpet, into which was woven Trump’s face, to his chair. As Trump’s head
thumped to the polished wood, a line of little red warrior ants marched out of his anus. And as his brain sank into its final void, his very last thought was that his pants were on fire.
Did the message come across?
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