Free World of Fire (Dev Harmer 01) by James Lovegrove Page B

I don’t.”
    “ Dromopoda alighieriensis ,” said Trundell patiently, “has such a variety of hisses, so many intonations and patterns to suit different circumstances, that I can’t help but think of it as a language. I haven’t found another insect quite so intricately expressive, apart from the so-called singspiders on Auriga B with their web harps.”
    “Still freaky, though.”
    “It might because they’re a wholly subterranean species. Their environment lends itself to auditory communication. Tunnels and caves act as natural amplifiers, carrying sounds over long distances. Scroaches see adequately enough, but their tympanal and chordotonal organs – their, for want of a better word, ears – are acutely well developed.”
    Trundell stopped, holding up a finger.
    “Case in point. Hear that?”
    Dev listened as a faint whispery rustle drifted through the air. It was coming from some distance away, and it wavered and skittered like wind-blown autumn leaves.
    “That’s them?”
    “That’s scroaches,” Trundell confirmed. “Lots of them, spread out far and wide. Communing remotely.”
    “Can’t be good. What are they saying?”
    “I’ve been recording their different hisses and attempting to correlate them with mood and context in order to decode the syntax, but I still haven’t fully mastered it. It’s a work-in-progress. That noise could mean a massed spat, or it could be a mating-frenzy summons, or maybe...”
    Now there came a soft tremor, like the noise of one heavy stone scraping against another.
    “Or maybe,” said Trundell, “it’s that .”
    The scroach hissing rose in pitch and volume, becoming sharper and shriller.
    “Earthquake?” said Dev.
    “No, but we’d better hurry all the same. A couple more geodes and we’ll be out in the tunnels. Then we can get some proper speed up.”
    “What is it?” said Dev as they scurried on all fours through one fissure, then the next. “I could be wrong, but those scroaches sound... frightened.”
    “That’s because they are. You must know why.”
    “I’m not from round these parts.”
    “Aren’t you?”
    “Appearances to the contrary, no.”
    “Well, neither am I, but even I know what a moleworm is. And does. Apex predator. Top of the food chain. Favourite meal: scroaches. But it’s not choosy, and if we’re unlucky it’s just as apt to snack on us!”

 
    12
     
     
    O UT OF THE geode maze, Dev and Trundell crouched and scuttled along the tunnels. Trundell’s tracking device was giving out loud beeps at two-second intervals.
    “Ooh, judging by the ping-back strength, it’s a big one,” the xeno-entomologist said. “Probably a female. They outweigh the males by a ratio of one-point-five to one, on average.”
    “Less talking, more moving?” Dev suggested.
    “It’s all right. We’re heading away from her.”
    “Are we? Because those beeps sound to me like they’re getting closer together rather than further apart.”
    “No. No.” Trundell squinted at the tracking device’s tiny floatscreen, which hovered just above the back of his wrist. “Well, maybe. But if we keep going this way, we should...”
    Dead end.
    “Oh. That isn’t... I must have got turned around. In all the confusion...”
    “Spelunking down here for three months, he said. Tunnel rat, he said.”
    “We should backtrack.”
    “Really? You think?”
    They returned to the junction where they had last made a turn. Trundell increased the gain on the tracking device’s scanner. A cross-section of branching tunnel architecture swept across the screen, routes indicated by dotted lines.
    The beeps were now less than one second apart.
    “It’s coming,” said Dev. He could feel a vibration underfoot, as though some heavy road vehicle were approaching. “Which way do we go?”
    “I’m trying to work out the optimal course.”
    “Then try a bit harder.”
    “Don’t harass me! I’m flustered enough as it is.”
    “Stop clucking. Focus.”
    Trundell