Book One: A Storm of Glass and Ashes

Chapter Seven: The Fruit of our Efforts

Hawk decided to fire off an email to Emile Yung immediately after they got home. Her fellow entomologist was truly notorious for two things: being vocally non-binary, and holding a grudge until it counts as a fossil. If she sent off a note now, it would give Emile enough time to see that Hawk wasn't blowing smoke up their ass, and to collect whatever documentation they'd put together so they could drop a bomb on Dyson's latest project. Obviously, Emile wasn't going to have a full transcript of Dyson's current notes, but they might have enough to turn whatever samples they collected into a decoder ring for Dyson's new project. Solve the whole problem overnight. Easy.

Right. Like these things ever came in easy.

Hawk and Alex lived in a rather comfortable ranch style home on two acres. Alex managed their garden, for the most part. They weren't allowed to use pesticides--too much collateral damage. It was worth losing a few tomatoes if it kept the soil healthy--so he had made it Hawk's job to manage the insects. He'd been a bit disconcerted when her response to pests was praying mantis egg cases, springtail cultures, and sugar stations for native ant species. Their garden was not flawless and if Hawk didn't net up the younger beds of veggies the caterpillars would eat them. But even Alex had to admit the butterfly garden—yellow bells, Lantana and trumpet plants lined the bed—was an excellent place to lose one's self in a book. And he didn't mind that instead of throwing insect bait around, he was supposed to kill fire ant nests with boiling water. Instant, and less collateral damage, Hawk would remind him. Human chemistry isn't always the better choice.

There were every-day chores at the West place, and the Wests did them quickly. Alex headed over to roll the compost barrel, because it was Tuesday and that was the schedule, and he made sure the timer on the soaker hose was working. Hawk would be inside, tidying up the kitchen. It had been Alex's turn to cook and he made lemon rosemary baked fish and baked French fries, because fuck hot oil right now. Alex really wanted to go find a vat of ice water and lay in it forever. Summer sucked in Arizona. Tomorrow it would be Hawk's turn, and it'd either be something elaborate like lobster ravioli with homemade pasta, or it'd be instant Ramen. It depended on what she wanted to get back to. He didn't care either way, but today he wanted baked fish. There was a safety and normalcy about food, that the Wests dove into with both hands.

They did not talk about going to Elizabeth Cummings' place in a few hours. Instead, Hawk talked about the latest developments with her ants, which weren't all that dramatic. At least, until she brought out the surprise. Six small, round, red-tinted abdomens in a very small cup.

The normal human response to this offering was ew, gross. Ants. But the normal human context does not allow for nuance. This was the thing Hawk valued the most. That was when Alex knew how scared she was.

"You said maybe in a few days."

She shrugged and set down her own tiny cup, and a bowl of vanilla ice cream for each of them, set down with two soft clicks. "Maybe we don't have a few days. Maybe I want to make sure that, you know..." She sighed. "things go sideways, at least I got to taste the fruits of my labor." She tried to smile. It didn't work very well.

"Hawk," he said. "You aren't going to die because we got a couple extra rads."