Dr. Tajni slipped upstairs to her hotel room, changed out of a tight black suit into a flowing dark green skirt and top, then exhaled. Breathe. The only sound was a bluebottle fly buzzing on the windowsill. Dr. Taj (as students called her) yanked the pins out of her bun and rubbed her scalp. It was sore. She walked to the door, then paused. Hungry, she noted.
She popped the fly in her mouth, then headed back downstairs.
◊ ◊ ◊
Everyone was still in formal clothing, waiters slipping through scientists and guests with trays of canapés or drinks. There was a sense of elegant control. I had given my presentation lucidly, I thought, and answered questions on the panel. Hopefully I’d enlightened those who thought bees and butterflies were the only insects worth saving. Really, who wasn’t a pollinator?
I exhaled, and shook out my hands. These were all members of the audience, right? I had flown a long way to speak at this COP Agriculture conference. A very long way. These people cared about Big Agriculture and the Climate Crisis; it was probable that I would enjoy speaking with them.
I thought longingly of my quiet lab, my handful of friendly grad students, then forced my feet toward the first cluster.
These were three males in black suits. The eldest, a stout one with scarlet veins across a pinky face and a nose growing rosy, was holding court. He wore a red tie and his thin yellow hair combed sideways across his head reminded me of a former famous politician—or a House Centipede. He was expounding on the topic of GMO crops and spraying.
I was curious to see what they’d taken in, as I’d addressed the billions of insects lost by this practice. Regenerative Farming was the only way to preserve the human species. I took a water from a passing waiter, smiled thanks, decided to introduce myself.
“And if you get the general drift of the whole metaphor of no chemicals, I mean, it’s just a, you know, a symbolic kind of thing—“ the older man waved his right hand in the air.
This seemed an appropriate time. “The ecosystem collapsing is not a metaphor,” I said in my most polite voice. “Kia ora, let me introduce myself. Dr. Ta—“
He rolled his eyes and interrupted me. “I mean it’s complicated, it’s upper level thinking, you know?” His voice grew loud, with a bit of a drawl. “This pseudo science,” he waved one hand, “it’s hard to tell from the real thing. You need to study something real like economics to understand it.” An apologetic half-nod in my direction. “Take that doughnut economics theory thing. Sweet on top, no substance, right? I mean, luckily I studied World Economics. Out in the real world. Top of the class.” He tilted his pinkish head and gave a small smile of false modesty.
The others tittered.
“I was on the panel discussion,” I inserted, then sipped my water. Was outright lying the new fashion? Hard to fathom social mores.
“Our scientists are real scientists,” he continued, raising the decibel to 67 or 68. (Perhaps he was hard of hearing?) “We’ve got them from Cambridge, Harvard, Yale, Oxford, you name it. And they say that the only way we can safely feed the billions—8 billion people, boys—is to use GMO crops. An’ we’re just spraying the weeds. Our seeds are designed by top scientists—top—he turned the width of his back to me, “and they don’t hurt anybody. They feed the whole goddamn world! I mean, this whole thing was bullshit. Clearly bullshit.”
What a truly ignorant person, I thought. He needed instruction. I stepped into the group, beside him, and raised my voice to 68. “The extinction of many of the world’s species has been verified–,” I began.
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, made a “pfft,”sound and made a face for his sycophants.
They chuckled, as expected.
I realized alcohol would be needed here. I flagged one of the waiters, a young woman with a pretty triangular face under short red hair. She had muscular legs and arms, and perhaps a slight fluttering of wings under her uniform, fighting their strapping. I hoped nothing was chafing. I motioned “drinking.”
“So I get it. I really get it. You know? If you combine Pyramid Economics—I should explain that for the little lady here—“
“You needn’t bother,” I said at level 70, gritting my teeth. Four Steps, I reminded myself. My mother had drilled those four steps into me since I had first emerged. It was a critical guide to surviving on this planet, and I imagine that millions of human refugees have used the very same four steps. Yes Mother, I told myself. I can control myself. And I would control myself.
Four Steps. I cleared my mind.
“You have to think of all the production in one country…” he continued, still waving that right hand.
(I wanted to grab his other hand with the drink and shove it in his face.)
Number One: Take five deep breaths.
I took a long, very deep breath. Then again.
“And you know what GNP is?” He patronized, raising a white eyebrow.
Where was my nametag? Dr. Tajni, Panelist. Canada. Left on the hotel bed upstairs, of course. Was it possible to knee him, hard, by some accident? Drop him to the floor? I looked away, concentrating on the four steps.
Number Two: Empathize. Perhaps this idiot, er, person, had been brought up by a doting grandmother. Who had never taught him manners. Or perhaps he’d grown up in an abusive home? Where they listened to fake news and misinformation? I turned my eyes to his face.
His pink skin was flushed, red veins in his nose brighter, eyes pale marbles between puffy lids and cheeks. Wonder of wonders—his mouth was still flapping.
Number Three: Give the facts without emotion. Politely.
I pushed forward a little into the sacred space directly in front of him and Sycophant One, turned to face the wretch with a forced smile. “I think I understand your interpretation,” I cut in, enunciating in case he needed to read lips. “I, too, studied Economics. I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood Doughnut Economics. But,” I smiled and waved one hand as though it were an error anyone could make. “I do hope you enjoyed the talks and the panel discussion today? It’s terrible, is it not, that the depleting numbers of insects across the world will lead to a human disaster? Of great magnitude?” I gave my best impersonation of a warm smile.
Perhaps I overdid the smile.
His eyebrows raised at me in a different sort of assessing way and he stepped closer. His belly brushed my hand clutching an empty glass.
“Yada, yada, yada, no offense, little lady. We’ve heard it before. Nothing new. It’s like they literally want billions, not millions, my friends, but billions of people to starve! Right?” He then forgot he had meant to be intimidating me and looked past me to his slaves. “My company is in the lifesaving department, and we’re poised to beat Google, Facebook and Microsoft next year in profits. And that’s the truth, boys. A lotta money, we’re talking. There’s pure profit to be had in being the good guys, the saving guys.” He nodded back at me like a pleased schoolteacher.
“Do you think New Zealand is ready for such a radical change?” inquired Sycophant Two.
Number Four: Exit.
I yawned, making no effort to cover it. “Well, I just don’t get those really big numbers you’re all tossing around, gentlemen,” I turned to include all three, “PhD’s never need to work with data you know; it’s all song and dance. So—I’ll be leaving.”
I turned, a smug expression unavoidable, and searched for a quick exit. The room was stuffy with too many suits and grating voices. How could they possibly have let this post-COP conference be hosted by a producer of genetically modified seeds and insecticides and herbicides? Absurd! It was like that COP hosted by Saudi Arabia and Big Oil. Inconceivable.
A double glass door led out to a wide curved, lower deck. I stepped outside, set my glass on a table. Ahead, a broad fieldstone path led past topiary fantasy, tall shrubs pruned in the shape of birds. I shuddered. The walkway wove through those, then headed to the back of the property, a thick forest of local New Zealand trees and shrubs. Aotearoa, I should say. It was a small wild spot. Dense. Shady. Perfect.
I strode forward, past horrific birds larger than myself, straight on. I shivered. At the forest, I turned down a narrow grassy path to the right. I slipped into a grove of majestic Rimu trees, poked myself on their tiny spiky scale leaves hanging like clumps of green streamers, apologized. It was lovely in there, quiet, among the giants, smaller green leaved shrubs everywhere. I recognized a few waxy leaved Māpou saplings, beech trees, and the long spear-like leaves of Lancewood. It smelled heavenly.
I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths in, out.
Really, I was growing quite tired of humans. Or just males. And I was hungry. I grinned, aware of all the insect and bird life in this grove. I could snack here, take the edge off. I slipped behind the broadest trunked Rimu, and looked up. The canopy was in the sky, far above the others. I smiled, then raised my small hands to my chin as though meditating, and poised.
My sense of smell isn’t brilliant, but I heard small birds nearby, or rather, the echo of their journeys bouncing off the trees. I adjusted my position minutely, trying not to blink. In some sense I am more than human, with thousands of photocells in two of my eyes. (Beat that, Superman.) We’ve been on Earth for over 150 million years. We believe some of us developed humanoid characteristics about 50,000 years ago. It’s all moot now. We’re all interdependent; we need to live together. People of all kinds. Life, of all kinds.
Oooh, over there, emerging in the gloom, were a dozen caterpillars, fat and juicy, black with blue dots in the front then pairs of red dots just calling to me down the back. And the soft little white hairs like delicacies from orangey side colorings! I defy anyone to resist Spongey Moths. And it’s like I’m doing everyone a favor, right?
I felt the small spines down the inside of my wrist stand up. Quicker than a boxer, I snatched two, then three, then five more, stuffed them into my mouth.
What would my mother say?
She’d say I was being a glutton.
I used the back of my wrists to wipe my mouth, one side, then the other. I’d barely tasted them, I was that famished. I heard the click of a wingbeat off the tree beside me and snatched the sparrow. My hands might look dainty, but believe me, they’re tough as nails. I held the bird, promising to do better. This time I took more polite bites, one at a time. The head first.
There. Mother would be pleased.
Honestly, I told myself, I did not have the patience for that fool because I was famished. I thought of airline safety pamphlets: Place the oxygen mask on yourself first, before you help others.
Or in my case: Eat something first, before you confront human males.
I licked my wrists, gave myself another quick face wash, then turned and stepped back out onto the grass toward the main stone walkway.
Where I found that same human was now clomping down toward me.
“We hadn’t finished our convo,” he shouted, winking, (I winced), and saluted me with his drink. “You know, I work for a very important international corporation,” and he had the temerity to nod sagely at me. “I might be able to find you a job. A good job! We always need secretaries,” he added, now waving the hand without a drink.
I retreated a few steps backwards into the shadows, nearly slipping over one odd rock, my hands popping up under my chin automatically. He followed and I froze, in defense mode.
Or attack. I wondered if my face was clean. I could feel my mandibles growing, growing. I blinked and tried to lower my folded hands.
“Maybe you’ve heard of me? I mean, I’m very high up,” he began, and launched into some sort of strange courtship speech—
—but I looked at his fat and juicy balding head, with those red spots across his soft flesh, those tiny blue eyes a pair of dots calling me. That blonde comb-over like lacy delicacies and those little ears like elegant fungi! Imagine how crunchy he would be, with a blast of fresh wetness if I just—if I just—bit down.
My hands twitched, shivered. My mandibles were about to emerge out of my mouth—I had to do something. I turned away, hard, and blinked, swallowed, and swallowed again, strained to not to look at him, to not to sense him and his delicious looking head—
—and then he grabbed my left arm to yank me toward him and I lost it
—two strong mandibles with the strength of steel
—a squeak of alarm from the pinky one
—my mighty herculean struggle against nature’s instinct
—my tiny hands touching his neck, so softly. A small twist–
—and he was lying face-down in the underbrush.
I stepped away. Further. Further away. I took five deep breaths.
I looked down at my forest green clothing, wiped at it. Examined it. No wrinkles, no mess. Mother would be proud of my self-control. Under unusual circumstances as well. I smoothed the skirt to be thorough, then erased my grassy footstep with my foot. A scientist is always thorough. I exhaled.
I retreated down the grass path, erasing the touch, turned left at the first trail and circled back through the lovely trees.
Light footsteps were approaching this time. Was there a sign posted that read—Follow the Scientist! No Privacy Allowed! This Way! Honestly. Where could a scientist go to find a little peace? My hands slid up into place and I leaned back slightly on one leg: a dancer, a monk, a warrior.
“Doctor?” came the voice. It was the young triangular-faced woman, the server. She held a tray in one hand and a wineglass in the other. Why a wineglass?
“Er, yes?” I straightened and tried not to glance behind me. I wondered if she could intuit the dead fellow down that side path. He could have slipped on that rock, fallen awkwardly?
She held the tray out, smiling. “A small snack perhaps?”
I glanced at the tray and saw only a few thin crackers overladen with salmon. I popped three in my mouth, another three, then burped. I covered my mouth. “Pardon me! Absolutely starving.”
The woman’s red hair was constrained all over in tiny braids, a fuzzy halo escaping. Warm brown eyes, widely spaced, seemed to know more than she ought. “Still?” She blinked. “Merlot, perhaps? You’d signaled for a drink. You must be thirsty.”
I could not help myself; I glanced back toward the shrubbery.
The waiter squinted that way but her smile remained firm.
“Er—sorry about the mess—“
The waiter, Jemmy, according to her badge, gave the tiniest moue with one shoulder and thrust the full glass into my hand. “Perhaps it might be an idea to use a different door to rejoin the party?” She paused. “Er, now that you’ve got the drink you’d asked for, earlier.”
I blinked and shook myself. It was forbidden among our people to damage humans. The repercussions could be astronomical. This waiter could be dialing the police right now. “But you—?”
Jemmy was already leading the way in the opposite direction toward a side wing of the building. “Never saw a thing, Doctor.”
And I, a humbled world renowned entomologist, followed her through the deep shadows along the back, then through a grey door toward a small washroom off a hallway.
No one has ever known my true nature, all these years. Not through twenty-four years of school. Never. Mother had warned me and warned me and warned me. We had to keep it a secret.
I paused at the washroom door. I could hear no one inside or nearby so I took a wild chance. “Kia ora.” I paused. “And I know vitamin E oil helps. With wing chafing.”
The waiter full-on grinned, pulling her nose ring a little crooked. “This is just a part-time gig to help pay the bills. Student, you know. Maths. Loved your talk, by the way. You were the best on the panel.”
I smiled fully for the first time that evening, never mind the mandibles still retreating. “I’m always looking for grad students,” I offered. “Seriously. For a broader research project. Other fields would be a great addition, especially math.”
Jemmy nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind. Not sure yet.” She held up one hand, small like mine. “Not great for rugby, but I play. A wannabe Woodman.” She nodded, took a few steps away, then turned back toward me.
Jemmy blinked, and under her hair, three smaller mantidae eyes blinked as well. A grin, a shrug, then she was gone.
Jerri Jerreat’s fiction, from Anishinaabe & Haudenosaunee territory, Ontario, appears in Split Rock Review, Fairlight Books short stories, Belladonna’s Garden, Fictive Dreams, Grist: Climate Fiction, Flyway: Journal (in 2022), Onyx Publications, Alluvian, Feminine Collective, Yale Review Online, The New Quarterly, The Penmen Review, Dalhousie Review, The Antigonish Review and in several solarpunk anthologies. (World Weaver, Flame Tree, etc.) She has an op-ed online in On Spec, “Why We Need Solarpunk” and directs a solarpunk writing project for youth: https://youthimaginethefuture.com/