It blocked the Queen’s orders.
Peron hated the cold-wet. But he would use it. He would use it,
and every weapon at his disposal to free his people.
❖
He was lucky, and unlucky.
Lucky, because he had the gift of thought from birth.
Unlucky, because of the same reason.
His kin were the opposite.
Once stripped of the servitude to the Queen, the hive would be
without purpose or will. But it was for the best. Peron would guide
them.
He had found some paper and pens in the settlement, and was
sketching out a curriculum to help his kin adapt to the world without
their Queen. It was much harder than his plan to slay the Queen
herself. But it was possible. It would be hard, but it was worth it for
those like him. For him to have someone to talk to.
He still did not count the days, but noted that many nights passed
while he prepared. He was not anxious to get started. He was used
to the longing by now. And the hive wasn’t going anywhere.
He had finished all the videos and materials within the town. He
knew as much as he could. He knew about planets far away. Wars
hundreds of years old. Weapons of mass destruction. Medicine to
heal. Poisons to kill. At least three human languages. Now, without
any temptation of extra knowledge to hold him back, he prepared.
Taking stock of the town, he scavenged all the materials he could
to use in his plan. Sticks and metal shards became a spear and knife.
Abandoned machinery became traps and gadgets. The flag of the
settlement, a white, red and blue tri-colour, was draped over his
shoulders. Glerans didn’t wear clothes, but he felt he had to for this.
For the humans who had died. He would wear their colours as
human warriors had done millennia ago. This would be their
revenge against their murderer.
Eventually, as he tightened the last bolt and tossed the cube he
had made into a sack, he swung it onto his shoulders. With one final
look at the egg which had given him so much meaning in this void,
he turned away and walked towards the sunset, where he now knew
from human maps, towards his home – the hive.
❖
The hive had grown. Only now did Peron realise how long he
had been away. The small piles of rock and scrap that had previously
surrounded the catacombs had grown into a wall. Peron guessed it
to be around three to four metres tall. With his newly made
telescope, Peron scouted out interspersed Glerans along the wall –
watching. They stood still as statues. The Gleran drone way. As the
sun continued to set, their details blurred, leaving only a silhouette.
Peron didn’t think he would have known they were there if he had
not seen them in the light beforehand. They blended perfectly into
the black.
Peron had not anticipated this. Why would the hive become
reinforced? For him? No, the Queen did not expect him to even
survive his exile. This was for something else. But regardless of what
it was, it could not sway him. He had to act now. This changed
nothing.
Under cover of darkness, he crawled towards the wall of the
reinforced hive. The spear in his one hand and the strap of his sack
in the other slowed him down, but they were both essential for his
mission. There was no commotion as he reached the outskirts of his
old home. The darkness had sufficiently hidden him. While skilled
in many things, Glerans did not have good night-vision. Peron made
up for his lack of it with planning. Glerans relied on pheromones
for much of their path-finding, but Peron used his memory.
He felt the wall. It was solid. Metal. Some of his ore had probably
contributed to its construction. He felt an involuntary pang of pride
at that.
He moved along the edge, feeling for an opening. Eventually, he
found one. The wall was incomplete. But the opening revealed a
warrior. Peron had only seen the larger of his kind once before.
They were stockier, with thicker chitin than most. He feared them.
Holding his breath, he stabbed his spear silently into the ground, so
he could use all four of his arms. He took a small bottle out of his
sack.
He really hoped this would work.
In one sudden movement, he rounded the corner and threw
water onto the warrior. It spasmed and then charged. Peron dodged
the attack, allowing the warrior to run head first into the corner of
the unfinished wall. It fell, unconscious.
Peron had no way of knowing if the warrior had successfully sent
pheromones to the hive. But he could not stop now. Even if it
hadn’t worked, the noise may still have alerted nearby guards.
He picked up his spear and ran through the opening,
remembering the layout of the courtyard to make it into the
catacombs.
As he ran, he was able to dodge a line of warriors and drones
who had been sent to investigate. They did not notice him.
Phase 1 complete.
The air flow changed as he entered the cave system. It was still
very much the same as he remembered. Musty, the smell of soil and
slime. While he had grown to love the human architecture, this felt
more like home. He could not help but find the most comfort in a
cave.
He stuck to the dirt, avoiding the clanking metal plates that were
scattered around the hive. Making his way into a smaller tunnel, he
watched for drones and then ascended to a higher level of the hive.
The air flow of the cave did not come solely from the main entrance.
There had to be a ventilation system. A way of allowing all the
recipients of the hive to breathe. A way of spreading something
airborne – fast.
As he arrived at the next level of tunnels, he heard footfalls. He
rounded a corner to hide. Two drones scurried by him, not noticing.
He let them pass and then continued.
An airduct. He hoped there was a central one that connected to
all the others. If not, his plan was not a failure but would be harder
to implement.
He followed the air. As he searched, it became stronger. He was
thankful for the wind. It was now audible, taking him to the airduct.
He found it. A hole in the roof upon this mound. A strategic
point for him to enact phase 2 of his plan.
He unslung his sack and took out what he needed. A special
metal container filled with water, containing some holes. Liquid
nitrogen. A plasma cooker he had salvaged and fixed.
He hoped this would work.
He placed the plasma cooker in a spot that he felt was receiving
the most air flow. He then placed the container over it. He turned
the cooker on and allowed the water to boil. Steam started to rise
from the holes that he had placed around the edge of the container.
The container had two sections. An inner core filled with water up
to a lip which led to a dry section that had holes at its bottom. It
was designed so that the water would not spill out of the holes.
Steam, however…
But he didn’t want the steam to rise.
He wanted it to sink. He
poured the liquid nitrogen into the container. The steam started to
sink as it became fog. Just a bit, but then more. It was working…
His vision blurred, and his head stung as he was beaten over the
head. He fell, knocking over his apparatus and turning off the
cooker.
A warrior stood above him. It had hit him with its bare fist. But
Peron’s chitin enforced head was enough to help him survive the
blow. He dodged as the warrior went in for another attack. Fog was
seeping down the airduct, but wasn’t affecting Peron’s attacker.
Peron tried to dodge to the side, but it was too late as the warrior
barrelled into him, beating at his face. Peron was barely able to bring
his arms up to block the attack. The onslaught didn’t stop. Peron
saw red, as his vision began to blur. The pain…
It stopped.
The warrior slumped to the floor, a metal shard knife buried in
the crack of soft flesh between chitin plates.
Peron felt sick. Even sicker now that he ignored the guilt that
was brewing inside of him so that he could fix his apparatus. As he
finished setting up the apparatus again, he gave himself time to
mourn the death he had caused.
❖
Chilling cold wet all around. He struggled to see further than a
few metres through the dense grey. Other Glerans were just
wandering or stone still silhouettes. He avoided them, not to risk
another confrontation, but it seemed his strategy had worked. While
he had run out of water sooner than he had thought, it soon began
to rain. Taking advantage of the timely unpleasantness, Peron used
salvaged rods, his sack and other knick-knacks to make a rain
catcher, leading into his contraption.
Before he could be sniffed out by any more additional warriors,
he left the airduct. Just below the top level, the hive was awash with
fog. Glerans were still active, but were different. Their actions
seemed aimless. Some just stood still. Others just walked in arbitrary
directions. None noticed him. Or, at least, didn’t act on it.
From part memory and part guesswork, Peron made his way
through the winding vertical labyrinth. He had only been to the core
once before, and had been unconscious for some of the trip, but
there was something instinctual in this navigation.
He didn’t need pheromone receptors to be a part of this hive. He
was born into it. That was sufficient. The pheromones were chains.
They were not necessary for the hive or the species. Assured of that,
Peron rounded another corner and was met by eight warriors.
He recoiled, but then steadied himself. None of them were
moving. The thick fog coated them. Without any pheromones, they
were inactive. Peron shook his head, in the manner he had seen
humans do. These mighty warriors, one of which he had so
needlessly had to slay, could be so much more. The Queen’s
dominance held them back. Made them into mindless puppets. But
they had potential. Peron would help them.
Peron strode past the warriors, bearing only his spear.
Across the barrier – a splendid golden glow struck Peron, almost
sending him reeling. He wanted to bow. To prostrate himself. He
fell to his knees, barely catching himself by sinking the butt of his
spear into the ground and lifting himself up.
“You survived?”
The question was nonchalant, yet sounded glorious. The tone
itself made Peron want to cry, it angered and elated him. He
simultaneously wanted to worship it and die from it.
The golden pustule in this rock opening quivered with
amusement. Its gargantuan slimy husk sent shivers down Peron’s
spine as he restrained himself from sinking any lower to the ground.
“You have blinded me, my child.”
Guilt wracked Peron’s being.
“Whatever you did, it worked. You blinded your mother’s many
eyes. Your siblings were my senses, and you blotted them out. Did
you kill them all? You killed your brother. The warrior. You stabbed
him. You know that killed him? Do you understand death?”
Peron was about to respond in the affirmative.
“No. You don’t. You can’t understand death. You’ve never died.
I have. I have died a million times over. I died today – one hundred
times. I died thousands when the humans arrived. Hundreds of
thousands when the Xank sought my allegiance. I have experienced
the cold bite of death – over, and over, and over.”
She paused.
“You regret killing the warrior?”
“Y…yes,” Peron was able to stammer.
“You speak the human tongue?”
The voice, so splendid before, seemed to quiver with surprise.
“Yes,” Peron answered. Clearer. He stood up straight, holding
his head high.
“The humans…” the Queen’s voice filled with poison, “have
killed me 8476 times.”
“You killed them all.”
“I defended the hive!”
“You enslaved the hive!”
A pause. Long. The golden glow no longer seemed so strong.
“Do you really think that?” the Queen whispered in Peron’s
head.
Peron’s silence was his answer. He sensed that she was somehow
shaking her non-existent head.
“You think that my children are all like you? Despite what I told
you? You are a thinker, Peron. You are a mutant. You aren’t a
Gleran. Without me, they are nothing but statues. They are better
dead than without their queen.”
“Liar.”
“Why would I lie?”
“To stop me.”
“From doing what?”
She didn’t notice as Peron approached her. Couldn’t notice. She
had been thoroughly blinded. The fog blocked all her means to see.
It would be an easy kill. Peron’s spear was sharp. It was sturdy. The
Queen’s flesh was weak. Between his people’s freedom, and his
belonging, there was only a thin layer of gold-tinted translucent skin.
Pulsing, splendid, wonderful, loveable. Hateable. Detestable.
Peron felt bile rise in his stomach.
He loved her. He hated her.
He loved the humans, who had apparently killed so many of his
kind. The humans who had killed those like him. The humans he
had never met. The humans he could not meet because they were
dead.
Instinct subsided. The love he felt for her became colder. It did
not disappear. It was too ingrained for that. But he focused. He
focused on his hatred for her. The hatred that was initially wrought
from the love imposed upon him. He remembered the red. The
blindness before the guilt. He didn’t feel his attack then. The warrior
had died, and Peron had cried. Peron breathed, and shut everything
out.
Black. A searing fire in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t
know how to. Impact. Pressure on his spear. Not good enough. He
pushed. He heard screaming. The Queen? No. Himself. His eyes
were closed, but that only highlighted the feeling. The sickening
resistance of flesh. It broke too easily.
The s
creaming eventually stopped.
He opened his eyes.
The gold was fading. The once magnificent husk was deflating.
“I’m not afraid to die, my child.”
The voice was neither fearful nor splendid. It was a sincere,
honest, tired tone.
“I have faced death… more than you ever will. This…this is
relief. But, for the hive…for the hive I cannot die.”
“You will die so the hive can live – truly live.”
“You think, thinker, but there is not much knowing. You have
doomed your family. I don’t curse you for what you have done. You
have cursed yourself already. You will be alone. Alone among
billions. Forever. I did not wish for things to end up this way. I lived
for the hive…if you truly loved it, you would have let it go.”
Peron did not respond as the final light was put out. He did not
withdraw his spear, as it fell to the ground with a clunk of metal on
stone. The translucent flesh of the Queen was deflating, as goo
oozed out around the cadaver of Peron’s mother.
Peron fell to his knees. He didn’t cry. He could not cry. For all
his wish to be human, he could not be. He screamed, his four arms
lying limp at his sides. He screamed as much as his mandibles, ill
suited for speaking, quivered under the strain.
He felt no relief. No joy. No satisfaction. Neither did he feel
remorse. Nor guilt. He only screamed, because he could do nothing
else. Until he could no longer do even that. Then he did nothing.
❖
The Gleran eyes were black. Blacker than what they were meant
to be. There was no awareness. No inkling of thought behind those
blank eyes. The Glerans, warrior and drone, stood as statues. They
did not move. Only much later did they finally collapse, as they
starved to death without any ability to feed themselves.
Peron learnt two things. That the Gleran brain, despite its
immense complexity and capacity, was no match for the natural
order. A brain, no matter its size, was useless if not fulfilling its
function. For the Glerans, that function was nothing but the
reception and implementation of pheromone signals. Without that,
it had no purpose.
The second thing Peron learnt was that the Queen had never lied
to him.
He had been a danger to the hive. She had been right to exile
him.
When he had become an outcast, he never thought he could feel
worse. He did now. Rather than the feeling of acid burning a hole
Hive Mind Page 3
