Hellstrom's Hive

by Frank Herbert

  “Yes – yes, I know. Harvey trained me himself.”

  “Learn to use them well. The Hive could have need of such abilities. Let’s see, you’re thirty-two years old, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You still could pass for a youth among Outsiders. It may be that we will send you out to one of their schools before long. We have ways of doing such things. You know about this.”

  “I have not spent much time Outside,” Saldo said.

  “I know. What experiences have you had?”

  “Only with others, never alone. About a month in all. I spent a week in the town once.”

  “Work or training?”

  “Training for myself and others.”

  “Would you like to go Outside alone?”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for it.”

  Hellstrom nodded, pleased with the candor of that answer. Saldo would make a superb security specialist. He already was far and away the most intuitively accurate among the new breed. Give him a bit more experience and there would be none to compare with him. He possessed that beautiful Hive candor. He wouldn’t lie, not even about himself. He was a leader to be preserved and nurtured. Hive conventions demanded this and the present circumstances required that Hellstrom begin that nurturing.

  “You are doing very well,” Hellstrom said, speaking loud enough for the others to hear. “When the present crisis is over, we’ll make arrangements to send you Outside for further education. For now, report to me when you’ve finished out here.” He turned slowly, strolled back toward the Hive, pausing occasionally to glance around. Every movement said he was satisfied to leave matters in Saldo’s hands.

  For a moment, Saldo watched Hellstrom go. The Hive’s first counselor, leader in every crisis, the prime male, the one to whom all others turned when in doubt-even those who guided breeding and food production and tool fabrication-the chief worker among them all had come out on a fact-finding expedition and had approved what he found. Saldo returned to overseeing the cleanup with a new sense of elation strongly tempered by a deeper respect for his own limitations. That, he realized, had been a major purpose of Hellstrom’s visit.

  Minutes of the Hive Council.

  Interview with Philosopher-Specialist Harl (translated from Hive-sign): Again, Philosopher Harl, we must disappoint you by telling you we have not come to take you to the blessed vats. Your great age, greater than that of any other worker in the Hive, the artificial means we must use to keep life burning within you, and all the other things your wisdom uses in its arguments that we give you the release of the vats, all of this is difficult to refute. We respectfully request that you cease these arguments and recall the Hive’s great need for your wisdom. We come again to ask your advice on how the Hive should employ the results of a successful Project 40. We can anticipate your first question and must answer it by saying that Project 40 is not yet fruitful. The specialists charged with the project say, however, they can assure us of success. They say it is only a matter of time.

  The words of Philosopher-Specialist Harl: Possession of an ultimate weapon, of an ultimate threat to all of the life that shares this planet, brings with it no guarantee of supremacy. The very act of threatening to use such a weapon, based on certain conditions, puts control of that weapon into the hands of all those who control the conditions. You face the problem of what to do when these others say to you, “So use your weapon!” In this manner, many will have the weapon. Even more to the point, anyone able to threaten the possessor of such a weapon also possesses it. Thus, an ultimate weapon is useless unless those who control it can temper the weapon’s violence. The weapon must have degrees of application that are less than ultimate. Take your lesson from the defense mechanisms everywhere visible in the insects who provide us with our pattern for survival. The spikes and prickles, the stingers and thorns, the burning chemicals and poisoned spears that jut angrily into the air, all of these are, first, defense mechanisms. They say, “Don’t threaten me.”

  Tymiena realized quite slowly that her hands were bound behind her and that she was fastened securely into a chair of some kind. The chair’s surface was hard and she could feel the cold smoothness of its back against her arms. The most central part of her mind focused on her ankle, which throbbed painfully where she had sprained it. Fighting a deep reluctance, she opened her eyes, but she found only an impenetrable darkness, thick and ominous. For a moment, she feared she might be blind, but a faint glow insinuated itself into her awareness. The glow existed at an indeterminate distance directly in front of her. It moved.

  “Ahhh, you’re awake, I see.”

  It was a deep, masculine voice from somewhere above the moving glow. Something about the echo quality of the voice told her she was in a room, quite a large room.

  She put down her terror with difficulty, forced a false nonchalance into her voice, and said, “How can you see? It’s pitch dark.”

  Hellstrom, seated in a corner of the laboratory where he could watch the glowing instruments that told him the female’s reactions, could only admire her courage. They often were so very brave, these wild ones.

  “I can see,” he said.

  “My ankle hurts like hell,” she said.

  “I truly regret that. We will give you something for that presently. Try to be patient.”

  She found an oddly reassuring sincerity in the voice. It was a man’s voice, ranging from low to tenor. Exquisite control.

  “I hope it won’t be very long,” she said.

  She must be brought into some semblance of calmness, Hellstrom told himself. The nightmask was irritating where it pressed against his nose and forehead. He did not like the way it limned the female in a silvery glow. The irritation came from fatigue, he knew. Sometimes the Hive demanded too much of him. But this Outsider female must be questioned, and he found himself reluctant to turn her over to the merciless youngsters who waited so eagerly for the opportunity to prove themselves. He told himself that he delayed with this female because he did not trust what the others had wrenched from Depeaux. How could the Outsiders know about Project 40? One of the interrogators must have mentioned it! That was it, of course. Well, it could be tested with this female.

  “First, I must ask you a few questions,” he said.

  “Why’re you keeping it so dark?” she asked.

  “So you cannot see me.”

  Sudden, wild elation filled her. If they didn’t want her to see someone, that meant she would have an opportunity to describe her captors. It could only mean they meant to release her!

  Hellstrom read her reaction on his instruments and said, “You were very hysterical out there. Did you think we were going to harm your?”

  She wondered what he meant by that question. They had her tied up like a Christmas turkey, which didn’t indicate the best of intentions. “I was terrified,” she said. “Did – did I hurt anyone?”

  “You killed five of our people and injured two others,” Hellstrom said.

  She had not expected such a coldly candid answer and it shocked her. Five dead? Could they actually release her after that?

  “I – I felt trapped,” she said. “My – my husband was not back and I was – alone. I was terribly afraid. What’ve you done to Carlos?”

  “He is suffering no pain,” Hellstrom said. And that was true, he told himself. It was difficult to lie outright, even to a wild Outsider. His statement was true. Depeaux had been blissfully unconscious when his torn body had been slipped into the choppers and thence to the dissolving fluids of the vats. He had suffered no pain there, and surely death had overcome him before any glimmering return to consciousness. The choppers were quick.

  “Why do you have me tied this way?” she asked.

  “To keep you in one place while I ask my questions. Tell me your name.”

  They would have her cover identification papers, she thought. “My name’s Tymiena – Tymiena Depeaux.”

  “Tell me about this government agency f
or which you work.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, but she managed a semblance of masked response. “Gov – I don’t work for any government agency! We were on vacation. My husband sells fireworks.”

  Hellstrom smiled sadly at what his instruments revealed. It was true, then. Both of them worked for a government agency and that agency was curious. Although he had been opaque to most of their probings, Porter had revealed as much. But Porter had not said anything about Project 40. Would this female impart such information? He felt a quickening of his pulse. This was the kind of danger the Hive had always feared, but there was something in it that aroused his hunt juices.

  “Is your agency the CIA?” Hellstrom asked.

  “I’m just a housewife!” she protested. “Where’s Carlos? What’ve you done with my husband?”

  Hellstrom sighed. It was not the CIA, then – provided her responses could be trusted, and provided she even knew the connections behind her employment. It was possible she did not know. Such agencies had a proclivity for putting covers on covers on covers. “Do not worry about your husband,” he said. “You will be with him soon. We know, however, that you are not a simple housewife. Simple housewives do not carry such weapons as you had in your possession. They certainly do not demonstrate the proficiency you displayed with such a weapon.”

  “I don’t believe I killed anyone,” she said.

  “But you did.”

  “Carlos insisted I have that gun. He taught me how to shoot it.”

  Another lie, Hellstrom observed. He felt cheated. Why was she continuing to hide? Surely, she must know by now that she had been exposed by her accomplice. His questions could not conceal this. Hellstrom had forced himself to read the Depeaux interrogation account, avoiding nothing. What the merciless youngsters did, they did in the name of all the Hive. He wondered if he dared put her through a chemical reduction of personality. The youngsters argued against it. The method was painless, but uncertain. It had reduced Porter to slavering imbecility. The heroic totality of such an effort tended to erase memories as it exposed them. He did not want the Porter effort repeated and decided not to listen to his own inner revulsions. What must be, must be. He would continue with present methods, however, as long as she did not suspect her emotions were being monitored and as long as information was being gathered. The tapes were spinning to record everything that occurred here. They could be subjected to full analysis later. Even the Hive’s central computer might be helpful in the analysis, although Hellstrom tended to distrust computers. They had no emotions. Having no emotions, they failed when confronted by human problems.

  “Why do you lie?” he asked.

  “I’m not lying!”

  “Is the agency that employs you an arm of the U.S. State Department?”

  “If you won’t believe me, there’s no sense answering. I just don’t understand what’s going on here. You chase me, knock me out, tie me up, and all for –”

  “And you killed five of my friends,” he reminded her. “Why?”

  “I don’t believe you. You’d better let me go. Carlos is a very important man in his company. There are people who’ll come looking for us if I don’t call them.”

  “If you don’t report in?” Hellstrom studied his instruments. She’d been telling the truth there, for once.

  “It’s not like that!”

  So she was supposed to report in, probably at regular intervals, Hellstrom thought. The eager youngsters had not elicited that from Depeaux. But then they hadn’t asked.

  “Why were you sent here?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t sent!”

  “Then what were you doing here?”

  She seized this opportunity to elaborate on her cover story: the long hours Carlos usually worked, the rare vacations, his interest in birds, her own interest in landscape painting. There was a certain delicate practicality about her account, a sense of domesticity she found herself almost wishing were true. Carlos hadn’t been such a bad sort in spite of . . . She broke off her account as this thought intruded. It confused her. There was internal significance in such a thought. Why would she think about Carlos in the past tense? Carlos was dead! She felt certain of this. What had that character over there in the dark said to give her this feeling of certainty? She trusted her instincts and felt fear rising like a tide of bile.

  Hellstrom saw the emotion on his instruments, tried to divert her. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She found it difficult to speak at first, then responded in spite of a dry mouth. “No, but my ankle hurts terribly.”

  “We’ll take care of that pretty soon,” he reassured her. “Tell me, Mrs. Depeaux, if you were frightened, why did you not drive down to Fosterville in your camper?”

  That’s what I should’ve done! she told herself. But she suspected this character and his friends had been prepared for such an attempt and that wouldn’t have succeeded, either. She said, “I must’ve done something wrong. It wouldn’t start.”

  “That’s odd,” he said. “It started immediately for us.”

  So they had the camper, too! All evidence of Depeaux and Grinelli would be gone by now. Carlos and Tymiena, both dead. A tear trickled down the edge of her left cheek.

  “Are you a communist agent?” she husked.

  In spite of himself, Hellstrom chuckled. “What an odd question from a simple housewife!”

  His amusement filled her with bracing anger. “You’re the one who keeps talking about agents and the State Department!” she flared. “What’s going on here?”

  “You are not what you appear to be, Mrs. Depeaux,” Hellstrom said. “There is even some doubt in my mind as to whether you actually are Mrs. Depeaux.” Ahhh, that hit a nerve! he noted. So they were just working together and not married. “I suspect you did – do not even care much for Carlos.”

  Did not care! she thought. That’s what he was going to say! He caught himself. The lie came out!

  She began to think back over this unseen man’s every reference to Carlos. The dead felt no pain. There was a sense of over-and-done-with about every mention of Carlos. She revised her assessment of her own situation. Darkness could have more significance than hiding the identity of her interrogator. It could be a deliberate ploy to confuse her, lower her defenses. She began exploring her bindings, straining against them. They were damnably tight!

  “You do not answer me,” Hellstrom said.

  “Why should I? I think you’re awful!”

  “Is your agency an arm of the government’s executive branch?”

  “No!”

  He read otherwise in her responses, but it was a tempered reading. The answer probably was that she believed this to be the case but harbored her own doubts. He noted she was twisting frantically, trying to escape her bonds. Didn’t she believe he could see her?

  “Why does the government investigate us?” he asked.

  She refused to answer. The bindings were deceptive. They felt like leather and appeared to give when she strained against them, but when she stopped struggling even for an instant, they felt as tight as ever.

  “You work for an agency associated with the executive arm of government,” he said. “It is a matter of curiosity that such an agency should pry into our affairs. What interest could the government have in us?”

  “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” she asked.

  She gave up struggling, felt completely exhausted. Her mind teetered on the edge of hysteria. They were going to kill her. They’d killed Carlos and were going to kill her. Something had gone very sour. It was the very thing she’d sensed in this assignment from the first. That damn fool, Merrivale! He never got anything right! And Carlos – the dope of dopes! Carlos had probably walked right into a trap. They’d caught him and he’d spilled his guts. That was obvious. This questioner knew too many things already. Carlos had babbled and they’d killed him anyway.

  Hellstrom’s instruments revealed her approach to hysteria. The fear disturbed him. He knew it was
partly his own sensitivity to her subtle bodily excretions. She was broadcasting terror for anyone Hive-trained to receive. No worker could escape such awareness. He didn’t even need his instruments. This room would have to be flushed out later. They’d had to do the same thing after interrogating Depeaux. Any workers who encountered such emissions would be disturbed. He still had his duty to the Hive, though. Perhaps in her fear she would reveal what he most wanted to know.

  “You work for the government,” he said. “We know this. You were sent here to pry into our affairs. What did you expect to find?”

  “I wasn’t!” she screamed. “I wasn’t! I wasn’t! I wasn’t! Carlos just told me we were going on vacation. What’ve you done with Carlos?”

  “You’re lying,” he said. “I know you are lying and you certainly must realize by now that your lies are not working with me. It will go better with you if you tell me the truth.”

  “You’re going to kill me anyway,” she whispered.

  Damn! Hellstrom thought.

  His brood mother had warned him that this crisis within a crisis might come in his lifetime. His workers had tortured a wild human. It had been done far outside the concept of mercy. Such a concept had not even entered the workers’ awareness as they went about their business of extracting information necessary for the Hive’s survival. But such actions left their mark on the entire Hive. There were no more innocents anywhere in the Hive. We’ve moved a step closer to the insects we mimic, he thought. And he wondered why the thought saddened him. He suspected that any life form that inflicted unnecessary pain tended to find its consciousness eroding. Without consciousness to reflect back upon life, all life might lose its sense of purpose.

  In sudden anger, he snarled, “Tell me about Project 40!”

  She gasped. They knew everything! What did they do to Carlos to make him tell everything? She felt icy with terror.

  “Tell me!” he barked.

  “I – I don’t know what you’re talking about.”