Swarm

The boxes of the hooded Serpe are there, ringing the bowl.

In one sits my family. I don't look for them.

Roaring fills my ear embeds as the Serpe clap for me. I ignore them, studying the shape of the boxes, the arches, the rows of seats, all designed to form the perfect lookout upon this most savage theatre.

I have never studied architecture, but I grasp their shape and heft, weighing them with my third eye.

They will do.They must.

– SWARM –

Below, in the valley of the Cage, thousands of tiny, seamless doors click open.

The Swarm arises.

From this height, they are so many ants. The black tide swirls, coalescing around the pinnacle's base. They are climbing.

I have four minutes.

I touch my index fingers to my tattoo as I have been taught before dropping my hands to my sides. I raise the left in a wide, slow curve. Energy arcs in response from the ledge's not-stone surface to my fingers as the Cage answers my psionic presence, amplifying the signal. Energy pulses around me, forming an ultramarine ball.

Below, the Swarm emits a high-pitched noise that sets my ear embeds on edge. They are hungry and I have just dangled the food. The vibrations beneath my feet intensify as they climb faster.

I raise my other arm and feel an answering surge, augmenting the first. The air around me quivers, hotter than I expect against my exposed face. But I'm calm, steadier than I allowed myself to dream, as I pull my hands close over my head, gathering every ounce.

00:00:30.

00:01:00.

My fingers start to shake and spasm as I pull more of my blue power, letting it mass for as long as I can bear the pressure. No one has ever beaten the Cage, but the best contenders mass for at least a minute. I will do two, if I can.

Quick glance down. The Swarm is gaining quickly, perhaps a third of the way now.

00:01:30.

I want to vomit, the agony is so intense.

00:02:00.

And I release my energy in a pulse of blue light.

Not down the long walls of my stone perch. I would kill some that way, perhaps 1,000, but not enough. The Swarm can climb over the carcasses of their dead as swiftly as they do Serpe rock. 

There's a hissing wave of surprise from the onlookers as my pulse flashes across the Cage's upper lip, splitting into a myriad of tendrils that wrap themselves around the box seats, digging into minute imperfections even the Serpe cannot see. I extend my arms, flinging them wide as I hold my flimsy net in place, still pulling as much psionic power as I can grab from wherever the Serpe have conditioned me to find it.

I spin more threads, anchoring them to my joints: neck, shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, ankles.

And I wait.

The air thickens with the hissing film that passes for Serpe cheering. They love new attempts to break their trap. It is the highest art they know, this rite that feeds their young.

I will choke them with it.

My legs are shaking, sweat dripping in my eyes. My fingers may snap like so many twigs. I've never been this cold. But I hold as the Swarm climbs.

Below, I see thousands of eyes, flame yellow. A million angry candles against the Cage's dark. They are hissing, too, as their wormlike bodies slither up the stone.