The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  “We don’t know that it’s a girl,” said Imala.

  Rena got that twinkle in her eye again, like a giddy child on Christmas Eve. “It’s a girl. I’m sure of it. A grandmother knows these things.”

  “How exactly?”

  “Intuition.” Rena tapped the side of her own nose, as if the explanation were hidden somewhere inside.

  Imala pulled on the pole and drifted toward her. “You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. It’s just as likely to be a boy.”

  “We’ve got too many boys on this ship already,” said Rena. “We could use another girl. Even the odds, girl power and all that.” She winked. “Let a grandmother dream.”

  Imala smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was too tired to be amused.

  “Take the pill,” said Rena, her voice becoming gentle. “You look half dead. I’ve done this before, remember? I know what eight months of baby feels like, even in zero gravity. Your muscles throb, joints feel stiff, your lower back aches, to say nothing of the constant pressure on your cervix.”

  “You forgot headaches.”

  “Migraines like the end of the world,” said Rena, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the bottle. “Here.”

  “You’re carrying that around with you now?”

  “You weren’t in bed,” said Rena. “I figured you need this now more than ever.”

  Imala took the bottle but didn’t open it. “The baby’s about forty-six centimeters now. On average.”

  “Bigger than a cabbage,” Rena said with a smile.

  Imala smiled back, and this time it was genuine. Up until now, during every week of the pregnancy, the size of the baby had been compared to some fruit or vegetable. At sixteen weeks, an avocado. Seventeen weeks, a turnip. And on and on. It had become an inside joke between Rena and Imala.

  “No fruit or vegetable this month,” said Imala. “At least, the ship’s health wiki didn’t list one. At eight months, it’s the size of a baby.”

  “A beautiful baby, no doubt,” said Rena.

  “Lungs may not be fully developed, though,” said Imala. “Brain is still developing.”

  “Everyone’s brain is still developing. Even mine, though some may doubt it. And anyway, this baby has your genes as well as Victor’s. I’m guessing its brain is going to be just fine. It she still kicking?”

  Imala put a hand on her abdomen. “Like a soccer star. That’s partially why I can’t sleep.”

  “And why you need to take something to help you sleep,” said Rena.

  Imala shrugged. “I don’t know. The idea of taking something that I need and the baby doesn’t feels…”

  “Selfish?”

  “Risky. I know it’s silly, I just can’t not be worried.”

  “It’s not silly,” said Rena. “You’re being a loving and conscientious mother.”

  “Oh yes, what a mother I am, carrying my baby off to war.”

  Rena regarded her disapprovingly. “You didn’t know you were pregnant when we set out, Imala. You can’t beat yourself up about that.”

  “I absolutely can beat myself up about it,” said Imala, “and have, on many occasions, but if we argue the point now, it will only end in you praising me in an attempt to lift my spirits, for which I would be grateful but which would also leave me feeling weak and needy. So let’s just skip it.”

  Rena laughed. “I’m glad we could have that conversation without me actually ever saying anything. That makes my part so much easier.”

  “Why are you even up?” asked Imala. “Not to check on me, I hope.”

  “I got a beep from the Eye,” said Rena. “I have to check it out.”

  The Eye was the ship’s scanning computer, searching the Gagak’s flight path for possible collision threats. Most objects were small pebbles and rock debris, fragments from some long-demolished asteroid or hunk of ice. The ship’s pebble killers handled those easily, vaporizing them with lasers. But occasionally a bigger object would hit the scans, one too large for the PKs to tackle, and Rena would be notified so she could determine if the ship needed to alter course to avoid the danger. Beeps didn’t happen often; the Kuiper Belt was home to billions of objects, but the space between them was so vast that serious collision threats were rare. In the eight months since setting out, Rena had altered course only three times, and in all instances the move had been only as a precaution. Most beeps were simply alarms that said, “Heads up, there’s something in the neighborhood.”

  Imala rubbed the front of her stomach. “If there’s a large object out there closing in on our position, it’s probably my fault. I think my stomach has its own gravity well.”

  “Wait until you’re nine months pregnant,” said Rena. “It felt like the skin on my belly was ready to split open and dump out baby, guts, and all.”

  “I thought you were supposed to bury my anxiety, not inflame it.”

  Rena smiled and hooked her arm in Imala’s. “Come on. You need a change of scenery, and I need to check this rock.”

  They moved out into the corridor and headed for the helm. Imala had a hard time of it. With the baby, Imala’s center of mass was off, and flying through the ship now felt like a game of pinball, with Imala pushing herself back and forth off the walls as she moved down the corridors, taking short, slow-moving jumps so as not to put any undue stress on her stomach.

  Rena’s wrist pad beeped, and a voice came through. “The computer’s getting impatient, Rena. You coming?” It was Owanu, the ship’s doctor, a young female IF lieutenant who had never delivered a baby, but who had studied hard in her off hours and consulted regularly with IF doctors via ansible to better treat Imala. The strange part was that Imala, as the Gagak’s communications officer, was the only person on board authorized to use the ansible. Even Captain Mangold, much to his frustration, couldn’t enter the small ansible room. Only Imala had access. She wasn’t even allowed to call it the ansible in front of the others. The name of it, like the tech itself, was classified. To everyone but Imala, it was known as “the device.”

  Which meant that whenever Lieutenant Owanu had a question for another doctor about Imala’s pregnancy, Imala was the one who sent the question and received the response and then relayed that response to Lieutenant Owanu, who would then, out of due diligence as Imala’s physician, share it right back with Imala.

  Imala appreciated Lieutenant Owanu’s efforts, but it bothered her that Owanu had no prior obstetrics experience. What if the baby was breach? Or stopped breathing mid-delivery? Could Owanu handle that? Could she keep Imala’s child alive?

  Rena tapped her wrist pad. “I’m on my way.” She clicked off and smiled at Imala. “We’ve got a team of highly trained marines on this ship, and who goes to the helm to check for danger? The white-haired old lady and the exhausted pregnant woman.”

  “You’re not old,” said Imala. “And I’m more of a floating whale, really. Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll catch up?”

  “Yes, how noble of me to leave the pregnant woman behind.”

  “We’re in space,” said Imala. “Floating in zero gravity. It’s not like I’m trudging up a flight of stairs. I think I can float to the helm easily enough. Plus, I’m pretty sure a giant asteroid crushing us midflight takes precedence.” She flicked her wrist in a shooing gesture. “Go. Before we’re squished. I’ll be fine.”

  After a moment’s hesitation and more shooing motions from Imala, Rena finally pushed on to the helm.

  Imala steadied herself against a wall, took a calming breath, and felt grateful to be alone again. The pressure on her cervix had intensified since moving out into the corridor, but she didn’t want to make a scene of it. This was one of those unexpected pains that Rena had warned her about. At eight months, all the serious discomforts started piling on. This was simply one of them.

  A stabbing pain in Imala’s abdomen nearly took her breath away. She gasped and tightened her grip on the handhold. At first she thought the baby had kicked, as the little stinker wa
s prone to do, but then the pain lingered a moment too long and rolled across Imala’s abdomen like ripples on the surface of a pond.

  A contraction?

  No. She couldn’t be in labor. Not now. Not this soon.

  It occurred to her then that the pressure on her cervix that had bothered her for the past few hours, the discomfort that had nagged at her and kept her awake in the first place, might have been pre-labor pains. Mini-contractions. The body preparing. Imala hadn’t even considered that a possibility, since the pain was so mild. But now it seemed obvious. Even likely.

  I should’ve stayed down in the fuge and forced myself to sleep, she thought. Coming up to the garden, moving around, being active, that had exacerbated labor.

  If it was labor. Which it probably wasn’t. It might have been a fluke ache, or a bout of gas, or a who-knows-what.

  No, it couldn’t be labor. It couldn’t. The baby’s lungs might not be ready, and there was no neonatal unit on board, no synthetic womb, no skilled surgeon with expert hands if Imala needed a C-section because of some complication. Lieutenant Owanu wasn’t prepared for that.

  I never should have come, thought Imala. I never should have agreed to this. The ship was heading farther into the Kuiper Belt than any sane person would ever attempt, moving toward a Formic ship that someone at CentCom believed might be harboring the Hive Queen. If the Gagak and its crew could reach that ship and assassinate the Hive Queen, it would be a major victory.

  If there was a Hive Queen. And if she was on that ship. And if Imala and the others could reach it without being blown to smithereens. And if they could then board that ship and put a bolt through the queen’s heart. Why then, the mission would be a success and Imala and her newborn-in-arms could mosey on back from deep space to receive their medals of commendation.

  It had all made sense at the outset. Imala had seen the wisdom of it. Cut off the head, and the whole snake dies.

  But that was before Imala knew she was pregnant.

  Now, with a baby inside her, a baby that was possibly pushing to get out, the whole enterprise seemed ludicrous, not to mention grossly irresponsible. What kind of mother carries a child into war?

  Another stabbing pain struck her abdomen.

  She had to get back to the fuge and lie down.

  She readied herself to launch in that direction, but then tightened her grip on the handhold and stopped herself. Going back to a full G might be the worst course of action. She needed the baby to stay up and not drop. Wasn’t that why women went on bedrest on Earth, to take the weight off?

  She turned and pushed gently off the wall toward the helm. Toward Owanu and Rena, toward help.

  At the end of the corridor, a third contraction hit, the pain so sudden and stabbing that Imala buckled midflight and didn’t catch herself in time. Her shoulder slammed into the wall and she spun away awkwardly, arms flailing. She hit the opposite wall and grabbed a handhold, now breathing heavily and in a panic.

  Imala reached for her wrist pad and then realized she didn’t have it. She had taken it off before trying to sleep and had left it down in the fuge. It was no good to shout for help; no one would hear her, not this far from the helm and so near the engine room.

  She was having the baby. If she didn’t stop the contractions, it would come and die in her arms. On Earth it would be fine, given the proper care. But not here.

  She had five more contractions before she reached the helm. Captain Mangold was anchored to the floor near the holotable, with Rena and Lieutenant Owanu opposite him, their faces showing concern and uncertainty.

  “Rena.” Imala’s voice came out strained, almost in a whisper, as if someone else had spoken—a dying version of Imala.

  Rena launched and was beside Imala almost immediately, feet anchored to the floor, grabbing Imala gently and pulling her into the room. “What’s wrong?”

  “Contractions. I think I’m having the baby.” Imala felt so hot. Her clothes were drenched in sweat. She hadn’t noticed until now. Her face, her back. It felt as if she were wearing five layers of clothes. She would have torn them all off if Captain Mangold weren’t hovering over her, his face concerned.

  Rena rotated Imala in the air, leveling her out, until she was parallel with the floor, as if lying on some doctor’s invisible exam table. “I’m easing you down.”

  Imala allowed herself to be lowered to the floor. Rena pulled straps from the wall and secured Imala’s torso to the anchor hooks.

  Captain Mangold stared at her, mouth slightly agape, as if she were some alien being.

  Imala wanted to yell at him to go away. She wasn’t about to spread her legs with him staring at her.

  Lieutenant Owanu suddenly had diagnostic tools out, checking Imala’s vitals, one device over Imala’s heart, another over her abdomen.

  Words finally came to Captain Mangold. “She’s not having the baby, is she?” He sounded incredulous, like the idea of one human birthing another was a feat never before achieved.

  Rena ignored him, looking at Owanu. “Can you stop the labor?”

  Owanu moved one of the devices toward Imala’s cervix. “She’s mostly dilated and already ninety percent effaced.”

  “What does that mean?” said Mangold. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means this baby is coming,” said Owanu. “Rena, help me get her up again, we can’t do this here.”

  “Wait,” said Captain Mangold. “You’re saying you can’t stop it?”

  “We need to get her into the clinic,” said Owanu. “No, I can’t stop it.”

  “We’re in the middle of a situation here,” said Captain Mangold. “A baby complicates this.”

  Rena whirled on him. “We’re talking about my grandchild. Now either help us gently get her to the clinic or get out of the way.”

  “What’s happening?” said Imala. “What’s the situation? A collision threat?”

  “One thing at a time,” said Rena.

  “Tell me,” said Imala, just as another contraction came on.

  “First the baby,” said Rena. “Captain, go ahead of us and get all the doors.”

  It was awkward moving her. Imala’s body kept trying to float away, and Lieutenant Owanu didn’t want her pushing off any walls. She was weightless, but maneuvering her through the corridor and doorways was cumbersome, especially since Imala kept having contractions, like explosions in her abdomen, worse than she had imagined they would be.

  Her water broke as they were securing her to the clinic’s table. Rena began cleaning it up immediately with a vacuum tube. Fortunately Imala’s clothing soaked up most of it. Imala knew she should be humiliated, but the pain was so intense, she didn’t care.

  Owanu was moving quickly, grabbing equipment, strapping Imala down, shouting orders to Captain Mangold. “Wake Corporal Merryweather. Rena, start an IV.”

  Imala was looking up at the ceiling, but couldn’t seem to focus on anything there. The panels blurred together. A light moved into view, bright, burning, like a white flame descending. The voices were slowly slipping away, silence pushing in. Her breathing was labored and yet slow, as if someone else’s lungs were doing all the work. An oxygen mask covered her mouth, but she didn’t remember anyone putting it there.

  Had Owanu given her something? A sedative? She didn’t want a sedative. That might hurt the baby.

  The world seemed to be moving in slow-motion now. Or maybe it was hyper-motion and Imala was only catching brief snippets.

  A blur of motion in her peripheral vision. Lieutenant Owanu maybe. Or Mother. No, not Mother. Mother was still on Earth, far from here. Imala’s fist clenched, opened, shut again, calling for Victor. Victor, take my hand. Hold it, squeeze it tight.

  “The baby’s heart rate is dropping, blood pressure’s dropping.”

  Imala heard the words. They hovered there in her mind, drifting at sea, as if they expected someone to reach out and grab them and give them meaning. The baby. The baby was hurting. Trouble.

&n
bsp; Spots of black danced before Imala’s eyes. The silence was stronger now, leaking in, flooding out the noise.

  There was a situation, Imala remembered. Not just the baby. Something else. Something dangerous.

  The ansible. No one could operate it but Imala. No one knew how to operate it but Imala. How would they speak with CentCom if she died?

  Pain. Like a package of thunder opened inside her. Her arm. Her abdomen. Her lower back.

  A hand gripped her own. Rena’s face appeared, trying to smile, pretending there were no tears. She was looking directly into Imala’s eyes, her face close, expression earnest, lips moving.

  But the silence and the pain and the blackness closed in, and Imala blinked and tried to focus and to squeeze the hand back, but then darkness, like a stone dropped in deep water, settling, sinking, swallowed in ink, dragging her down with it, wrapped her in thick nothingness and snuffed out all the light.

  * * *

  Imala woke to a light beeping noise, not an alarm, but a machine. Life support. Her heart rate. Steady. Normal. She was on the bed, gently strapped down. A gown covered her now, not her clothes from before. Someone had changed her. The lights were dim.

  Rena was beside her, her feet anchored to the floor. Imala focused on her, blinked again, her mind coming out of a cloud. “The baby.”

  “Is fine,” said Rena. “A tiny thing. Arms, legs, fingers, toes, all there and accounted for. I checked. Skin so pink and wrinkly. And a head of hair so thick and black that she looks like a duster. I’ve never seen a girl with that much hair.”

  Imala’s eyes welled with tears. “A girl?”

  Rena smiled. “Yes, yes. I won’t say I told you so. She has her father’s spunk, I think. I could never keep Victor still for a minute. This little one here will be no different.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Lieutenant Owanu is feeding her and checking her out.” Rena placed her hand gently on Imala’s arm. “Owanu saved her life. And yours, I suspect. She had to do a C-section. The Med-Assist guided her, but it turns out Owanu was prepared. She’s been studying for this.”

  Yes. Imala could feel it now. Stitches in her stomach. Pain, poking through the numbness.