John Steakley

Two hours, perhaps. Two hours before the suit began to slow down. He would no longer be able to fight, no longer be able to dodge and duck. In two hours, he would no longer be able to run. They would have him. He would lie down somewhere. The weight of the armor would force him down. And in some canyon or gorge he would lie and wait, a helpless statue, for the ants. Shuffling slowly up to him and around him, gesturing to one another with heavy claws and snapping mandibles. They would prod him, poke at him, lean over and stare into his helmet, great gray globular eyes his last living sight.

It didn't matter that it had no antennae and walked upright and was too , too , damn big . From the begining , men had called it ant.

It stood three meters tall and weighed, on average, four times more than a human being—damn near as much as a suited warrior. It had six limbs, two for walking upright and erect, four for work. The upper limbs, call them arms, were incredibly massive, hanging down one and a half meters from two titanic shoulder joints. The arms ended in huge, hulking, two-pronged claws twice the size of an armored human fist. The middle arms were smaller, approximately human size. Curved, two-pronged pincers here for delicate work. The legs were the size of tree trunks, ending with semicircular pads splayed flat to the ground. There were two gnarled knobs on each. Each limb, upper, middle, and lower, had three joints.

The body had three sections: shoulder, abdomen, pelvis. Each was covered with coarse, hairlike fibers spaced widely apart

The head, half again larger than a warrior’s helmet, bore a dull globular eye on each side. The mandible-mouth opened in three vertical sections of varying width and shape. Closed, it resembled nothing so much as a smooth-sheened, toothless, human skull. The skin was not skin at all, but bone. Ectoskeleton. The muscles were inside. It was awesomely powerful.

It was the Enemy.

It was an ant.

It was called something else, something long and technical and dreamed up out of range. But scientific jargon had nothing to do with what men had felt when they saw it move, saw it coming. It didn’t matter that it had no antennae and walked upright and was too, too, damn big. From the beginning, men had called it an ant.

Felix saw no reason to change that. He stood watching the holo of the enemy in the wall of the passage leading from the Briefing Room. The others had long since filed past. They used their last minutes before drop as a time to be with friends or check equipment or fight panic or yield to it and vomit or to pray with undreamed-of piety.

Felix, alone, watched the ant.

Un peu que Dieu existe. Je le sais. Pourquoi ? Parce que je suis un tueur de vampires. Oui vous avez bien compris. Je chasse les vampires et on me paie pour ça. Beaucoup d'argent. Alors n'allez pas me dire que Dieu n'existe pas. Merde ! Je sais que Dieu existe.

L'ennui c'est que je suis incapable de comprendre ce qu'il veut.

Lorsque le calme retomba, Jack laissa passer cinq longues secondes avant de dire :
- Leur chef n'aurait jamais dû sortir si vite. Il fait toujours passer les autres en premier.
- Comment... fit le maire, mais sa voix se brisa.
Il s'éclaircit la gorge et fit une nouvelle tentative.
- Comment savez-vous que c'était leur chef ?
Jack alluma une cigarette et baissa les yeux.
- Avec un peu d'habitude, on peu les distinguer des autres.

- Mademoiselle, vous seriez surprise si vous saviez tout ce que j'ai pu faire quand j'étais bourré.
- Humph ! fit-elle en rajustant sa jupe. Non, je ne crois pas.
- Bon Dieu, j'ai même affronté des vampires soûls comme des polonais !