“Under unique circumstances in nature (and rather ordinary ones in the laboratory), army ants can be induced to form a tight circular column, a myrmecological merry-go-round, in which they ‘march themselves to death.’” Gotwald, of course, quoting Piels and Schnierla.

And the great Schnierla had established that the diameter of the circular column represented “the sum of the vector of the individual ant’s centrifugal impulse to resume the march and the centripetal force of trophallaxis which binds it to its group”…an equation that never failed to cross Arkady’s mind when he saw large groups of people all making the same stupid mistake at the same moment.

Trophallaxis—the following instinct—was so strong that if you dropped ants from two different swarms into the arena together, they would actually follow each other perfectly peacefully for ten or twenty minutes before they came to their senses and locked mandibles in a last mortal battle.

“You’d think that sometime, somewhere, some of them would just snap out of it and turn the other way,” Arkasha said beside him.

“You have to remember that the following instinct is perfectly adaptive in the environment it evolved in.” As usual Arkady felt an obscure need to defend his ants. “If these ants were on the forest floor instead of in the lab, they would circle around until they found their swarm’s scent and just follow it back to the main column. Or even if the scent trail was gone, washed away in a flood for example, they’d run into sticks and stones and leaves and be deflected little by little until they eventually worked their way back to the rest of the swarm. It’s just here, where there’s no external noise to counterbalance the circling instinct, that it becomes maladaptive. The ants and their environment are an integrated system, just like the brain and its environment. Change the environment and you’re left with half a system. You might as well rip half the wires out of a computer, then blame it for not working.”

“It’s really kind of awful when you put it that way,” Arkasha said. “Actually…why are you doingthis to the poor ants?”

“I’m not going to follow through with it,” Arkady confessed. “I just wanted to see a circular mill in action. I’m going to aspirate them back into their nest before they get too tired. To tell you the truth, I never could do any really nasty experiments on ants. I can’t stand the sight of their little faces when they’re frightened.”

“Their little faces?” Arkasha sounded amused. “Do ants even have faces?”

“Sure. Well, mandibles. And they have this panic-stricken way of antennating that’s just heartbreakin—”

Ranjipur poked his head into the lab, looking thoroughly panic-stricken himself despite his lamentable absence of antennae. “Have you two seen Aurelia?” he asked. “Oh. Arkasha. Thank God. We need you. Bella’s had some kind of relapse.”

Bella was in the bathroom slumped over the toilet when they reached her. Her dark hair was plastered against her skull, and Arkady could see the pale skin of her scalp showing between the damp locks.

“How long has this been going on?” Arkasha asked.

It turned out that it had been going on for a week, and that Bella had somehow managed to hide it from everyone. Shocking. But not as shocking as the look on Aurelia’s face when she finally arrived and got a handle on the situation.

“Come down to the lab and help me run this?” she asked Arkasha after she’d pulled blood from the Motai B.

Arkady tagged along, following Aurelia’s glance at him rather than an explicit invitation.

“What the hell is going on down here?” Arkasha said as soon as the door closed behind them.

Aurelia still had that stunned, bloodless look on her face. “I don’t know. I have no data, no physiological baselines, no standard procedures to follow. I mean, for the ship cat,sure. But this…”

Arkasha flopped weakly onto the stool next to Arkady. He and Aurelia seemed to have reached some basic unspoken agreement about the nature of Bella’s changeling sickness that eluded Arkady.

“Is Bella in danger?” he asked hesitantly. “Can you cure her?”

“She’s in a lot of danger,” Aurelia said shortly. “And I can’t cureher because there’s nothing to cure. She’s not sick, Arkady. She’s pregnant.”

The machine wouldn’t tell them where it was taking them.

It met them alone, without the terrifying woman who Arkady still instinctively thought of not as Catherine Li, but as the Butcher of Gilead. But Arkady’s relief at Li’s absence faded as Cohen led them out of the prosperous modern section of Jerusalem and into the bombed-out tangle of empty streets that tumbled down toward the thickness of the Line.

Osnat followed the AI with a docility that Arkady found more frightening than her usual stubbornness. Her eyes flickered restlessly over the passing house fronts and alleyways, but she gave no other sign of being aware of possible danger. Arkady would have liked to believe that it was because she knew they were protected, but he suspected it was because she’d decided that any dangers out there couldn’t be dealt with and would have to be accepted.

Finally, they turned into an empty street whose houses—not all of them empty by any means—bore the blaring orange biohazard signs that Arkady had come to recognize as the emblem of the poisoned border between Israel and Palestine.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Arkady whispered to Osnat.

“Too late for that, boychik.”

Something clanked softly, metal on metal, in the shadowy interior of one of the abandoned houses they’d just passed. “Don’t move,” said a woman’s voice from the shadows. “You’re perfect just where you are.”

“Son of a bitch,” Osnat muttered.

The machine shrugged apologetically. “It wasn’t my idea.”

More noises came from inside the house, and from two of the houses on the other side of the empty street. Osnat stood stock-still, her hands held stiffly out away from her body, in plain sight, with the palms showing and the fingers open. On reflection, Arkady decided that it might be a good idea to do the same.

The voice that had spoken out of the shadows had almost certainly been Catherine Li’s, but none of the half dozen hard young bodies that emerged from the surrounding houses was hers.

They were soldiers, but there was something disorientingly drab and ragtag-looking about them, even by Israeli standards. Their uniforms looked at first glance as if they’d been torn and roughly patched. It took a few puzzled minutes for Arkady to work out that the “patches” were tape, and the tape was strategically located to cover all unit insignia.

“Hey, guys,” one of the secret soldiers said when he caught sight of Osnat. “It’s Hoffman! We bagged ourselves a tiger. Here, kitty kitty kitty!”

“Oh grow up,” Osnat snarled.

A second soldier came over to frisk Arkady. As the boy’s hands slid under his arms and along his rib cage, Arkady saw a flash of silver on the breast pocket of his uniform. He looked more closely and saw a small pin depicting a viciously curved saber blossoming from a pair of spread eagle’s wings.