The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  Colonel Li reached into his pocket and produced a data cube. “This contains an animation of the battles below the ecliptic. It has taken the Fleet this long to assemble the data from the surviving ships and piece together what likely happened. The animation was built based on the navigational data and scans taken immediately prior to, during, and following the attack.” He then produced a small tablet and handed it to Mazer. “You’ll connect the data cube to this tablet, which is encrypted and requires a password.”

  He told Mazer the password.

  “Don’t use the terminal in your quarters or access the network here at GravCamp for your analysis. Everything you need is on that tablet and cube. Analyze what’s there and write me a report.”

  “You said this was classified,” said Mazer. “I don’t have clearance for this.”

  “We’ve increased your security clearance,” said Li. “And Bingwen’s as well. Once you’ve made your conclusions, you may show it to him.”

  “As another test?” said Mazer.

  Colonel Li smiled. “You still don’t understand, Mazer. Bingwen only has one test. It started a long time ago, and it won’t stop until he’s dead or sitting on a throne.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Lem

  Upon discovering that the Formics were building warships within the hollowed-out centers of asteroids and that the Formic threat was essentially all around them, asteroid-mining families and Fleet contractors throughout the solar system fled for the safety of Luna. The massive and sudden influx of refugees into the city of Imbrium reignited tense debate on existing immigration laws and introduced a multitude of economic and housing concerns for a city already burdened with overpopulation, dwindling food supplies, and an aging infrastructure.

  Transporting refugees from Luna to Earth was, in most instances, not a viable option due to the high cost of fuel for any atmospheric entry or exit, the relatively low number of shuttles not already commandeered for use by the International Fleet, and the simple fact that most refugees were unable to withstand a full G of gravity. Even the relatively low gravity of Luna was more than some could endure, and hospitals on Luna quickly filled to capacity with those needing reconditioning treatment to build bone mass and muscle strength.

  Since hospitals were already understaffed due to many medical practitioners on Luna having joined the Fleet or returned to the greater safety of Earth, countless refugees received little or no medical treatment whatsoever. The subsequent increases in homelessness and crime incensed many longtime Luna residents, and protest marches and riots soon followed.

  Many local charities organized assets and resources to provide food and temporary housing for those in need, but it was not until the Hegemony Council created the Department of Rehousing and Refugee Assistance (DORRA) that the plight of refugees received significant financial attention.

  —Demosthenes, A History of the Formic Wars, Vol. 3

  * * *

  Lem wove his way through the crowded lobby of the convention center on Luna, greeting guests warmly and acting as if nothing pleased him more than to have them attend the fundraiser. It was a lie, of course. Lem hated playing host. He despised schmoozing and hobnobbing and pretending to be interested in other people’s lives. “How are the children?” he would ask, if the couple had any. Or, “How is it that you look younger every time I see you, Mrs. So-and-So? Whatever magic elixir you’re drinking, please share.” Or he would grow somber and say, “Yes, I read the latest laserline. Just awful news. We must pray for our troops.” And on and on, smiling and nodding and forcing himself to laugh at other people’s weak attempts at humor.

  They had come in numbers this evening: heads of industry, tech giants, dignitaries, entrepreneurs, wealthy socialites, celebrities, the most elite citizens in all of Luna, dressed in formal attire and fine jewelry and decorative magnetic greaves to keep them anchored to the floor in the Moon’s lower gravity. Servers moved among them, carrying trays of wine and shrimp flown up from Earth. Lem peeled himself away from the Canadian lunar ambassador and crossed to a corner of the room where Benyawe, his chief engineer and most trusted adviser, was standing in the shadow of a large plant, avoiding all conversation.

  “You’re trying to hide over here,” said Lem. “It’s not very inconspicuous.”

  “I was succeeding until you showed up,” she said with a scowl. Benyawe wore a gown with a green and black pattern that nodded to her Nigerian heritage. And her long gray hair, normally in braids down her back, was now arranged in an elegant cone atop her head.

  “You look lovely, by the way,” said Lem. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in an evening gown before. It’s very…”

  “African?” said Benyawe.

  “I was going to say colorful,” said Lem. “But yes, I suppose the pattern and cut have a uniquely cultural design about them. I think it’s stunning. Especially all the green. Makes for good camouflage in these plants.”

  “You saw me easily enough,” said Benyawe. “It’s not working as well as I had hoped.”

  “Flying solo?” said Lem. “I thought you’d bring that new husband around.”

  “Mandu is not one for formal affairs,” said Benyawe. “He finds them tedious.”

  “They are tedious,” said Lem. “They’re downright exhausting. I’m surprised you even came. I thought engineers preferred lab coats and takeout Chinese as they worked into the wee hours of the night.”

  “Call it morbid curiosity,” said Benyawe. “I wanted to see if anyone actually showed up. I thought the protests would keep people away.”

  Lem had thought the same. Union workers and immigration hardliners had taken to the streets in Imbrium for two days now, denouncing the Hegemony’s open-door policy on Luna for space refugees fleeing the war. The protesters claimed that refugees were taking jobs and inviting crime, which to some extent was true. Half-starved people had a tendency to get desperate, especially if children were involved. Lem wanted to punch the protesters in the teeth.

  “It looks like I was mistaken,” said Benyawe. “There’s quite a crowd here. If anything, the protests have brought attention to the refugees. Maybe peoples’ hearts are pricked. My faith in humanity is somewhat restored.”

  “Let’s hope their hearts are pricked enough to open their bank accounts,” said Lem. “Every shelter is full, and we’ve got hundreds of refugees arriving every day. The hospital is turning people away if they don’t have a life-threatening injury.”

  Benyawe laughed quietly and shook her head.

  “What?” said Lem. “You think the desperate cry of refugees is funny?”

  “Not at all. I’m laughing at you. At this.” She gestured at him and the crowd. “I never took you for a philanthropist.”

  “And what did you take me for? A cold-hearted rich boy consumed with self and leisure?”

  “I’ve never known you to be leisurely,” said Benyawe.

  “I am not without a soul,” said Lem. “It surfaces every now and again, and it isn’t scared at the sight of its own shadow.”

  “Are you sure it’s your soul that sparked all this?” said Benyawe. “Or is Wila wearing off on you?”

  She meant Wilasanee Saowaluk, a biochemist the company had hired from Thailand because of her unconventional theories on the Hive Queen and her belief that the Formics used bioengineered organisms to mine asteroids, separate minerals, and build their warships—a theory that had turned out to be accurate.

  Lem raised an eyebrow. “What are you insinuating?”

  Benyawe shrugged innocently. “Precisely what I said, that a beautiful woman determined to stop all suffering in the universe, and who has shown a particular interest in the refugees, and who seems to have your ear on all subjects, might be having a little sway over you. And that’s not a bad thing. You could use a little reforming.”

  “Wila is a practicing Theravada Buddhist,” said Lem. “She has sworn off any interest in men, including wealthy, handsome, brilliant, eligible ones like myself, so s
top smirking like some middle-school gossip queen. Wila and I are not a thing and never will be.”

  “But you wish you were a thing,” said Benyawe, smiling.

  “Wow,” said Lem. “I thought I grew out of conversations like this when I was seven.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “The answer is no. I don’t wish we were a thing.”

  “Shame,” said Benyawe, shrugging again. “I happen to like Wila.”

  “I happen to like her as well,” said Lem. “But not in the way your accusing eyes seem to suggest. She’s not my type. Beautiful, no question, but far too devout. I prefer women who are unburdened by faith. Religion takes all the fun out of relationships.”

  Benyawe scoffed and made a face of disgust. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And adorable. You can be both at the same time, you know. I looked it up. Any progress on the request from the kid at GravCamp?”

  “The kid’s name is Bingwen.”

  “Right, Bingwen. What’s the update?”

  “I’ve assembled a team and responded to him. We’re looking at ways to arm marines with NanoCloud. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re letting me pursue this. If we give tech to the Fleet, we don’t get paid.”

  “I’m calling it our customer appreciation sale. Buy a fleet from us, and we’ll throw in a few kitchen knives and maybe a NanoCloud device for free. Further evidence that I do have a soul.” Lem scanned the crowd. “My father is a no-show, I see.”

  “Your father is the Hegemon of Earth. He keeps a busy schedule, what with the human race on the verge of extinction and all. Try not to take it personally. Besides, it’s best if Ukko isn’t here. His presence would only remind people of DORRA and dry up any hope of people opening their purses.”

  “DORRA is a good idea on paper,” said Lem. “In practice, it’s mired in bureaucracy and red tape and doesn’t take unique circumstances into account. That lady that died near the shipyard, that wasn’t DORRA’s brightest day.”

  A young space-born mother, newly arrived on Luna and unaccustomed to any gravity, had registered for DORRA upon reaching the shipyard and then, unable to get immediate approval and assistance, had died in an alley nearby, holding her infant, the weight of her own body having put too much stress on her already strained heart. The baby was still in the hospital.

  “It’s a complex problem, Lem,” said Benyawe. “Some of these refugees have never set foot on a moon, much less a planet. Their bodies haven’t developed with gravity. They don’t have the needed bone density to jump into the workforce here. They excel in space on mining vessels, but they’re essentially handicapped from the moment they arrive on Luna. And we don’t have the medical personnel or facilities to accommodate them.”

  “I should have you give the speech,” said Lem. “You say it better than I do, and you’re far more persuasive.”

  “You don’t want me addressing the wealthy and elite,” said Benyawe. “My contempt for pretentious haughtiness would be all too evident.”

  “Is that the look you’re always giving me?” said Lem. “Contempt? And here I thought that was your resting face.”

  “Your father may not be here,” said Benyawe, “but I see several of his cabinet members and plenty of Hegemony staff.”

  “Hegemony spies, is more like it,” said Lem. “Father’s eyes and ears, catching every conversation they can overhear.”

  “If your father uses spies,” said Benyawe, “I hope he’s a little more creative than parlor room eavesdropping or he won’t last very long in office, not with enemies circling the Hegemony with claws out.” She nodded discreetly to her right, and Lem followed her gaze to the opposite corner where Alexei Sokolov, the Russian minister for Lunar affairs, was chatting it up with the CEO of Minetek, a competitor.

  “Sokolov,” said Lem. “What a pleasant surprise. I’ll need to fire whoever put him on the guest list.”

  “Not inviting him would have been a bigger mistake,” said Benyawe. “He would have felt slighted. And his allies would have noticed his absence and taken offense. Plus this way your father’s spies can catch his conversations.”

  Sokolov was Father’s biggest critic, lambasting the Hegemon for every battle lost in the war—as if Father were the Strategos or Polemarch. Now Sokolov was building a back-room coalition against Father with the obvious intention of replacing him as Hegemon once Father’s popularity waned. The press was all too eager to stir the pot and give Sokolov the pulpit, since political turmoil, ugly as it was, was a nice break from the demoralizing coverage of the war.

  “Does he honestly think anyone would follow him if he were Hegemon?” said Lem. “The man oozes self-importance. The IF can’t stand him. The Strategos, who’s a fellow Russian, doesn’t even hide his contempt. Sokolov has zero chance of unseating my father.”

  “I wouldn’t say zero,” said Benyawe. “Sokolov has the support of the Warsaw Pact and the rest of eastern Europe. Even your native Finland has its share of Jukes haters. The war isn’t helping. Your father’s poll numbers have been abysmal.”

  “The unfortunate massacre of Fleet ships was not my father’s doing. He’s a politician, not a general. You would think people would know this.”

  “You’re defending your father,” said Benyawe. “That’s not something I see often.”

  “I’m defending good sense,” said Lem. “My father might be cruel and callous and a miserable excuse for a parent, but he’s a halo-wearing Saint Peter compared to worms like Sokolov. If that clown was running the Hegemony, we’d be extinct already.”

  A few people nearby glanced in their direction.

  “I’d keep your voice down,” said Benyawe. “Making enemies with Sokolov isn’t advisable. We can’t afford to be a secondary target. Your father will take care of him. Let Sokolov be.”

  “Let him be?” Lem said. “Hardly. I’m tempted to go over there and bury a knee in his groin. Or maybe just insult him and avoid the lawsuit. How do you say, ‘You have a stupid pig face’ in Russian?”

  “This is no joke, Lem. Sokolov has deep connections with Russian intelligence. Even from his position up here on Luna, Sokolov twists arms all over eastern Europe. Plus he has close ties with the Russian Shipbuilders Guild, many of whom we employ in our shipyards. Sokolov could easily agitate those people and make life hell for us. If our Russian guild workers were to strike or walk out, it would severely cripple our operations and delay our deliveries to the Fleet. We’re in the middle of a war that we’re losing, Lem. If we fail in our commitments to the Fleet, who do you think our stockholders are going to blame? Sokolov?”

  “This is why I hate the guilds,” said Lem. “They have leverage, and they know it, and so they exploit us. Did I mention that I hate them?”

  “Spoken like a true capitalist,” said Benyawe. “And you’re right, it’s ‘guilds’ plural, as in more than one. If the Russian shipbuilders strike, there’s a strong chance that the other guilds follow suit: the Russian mining guild, and metal-processing guild, and safety inspection guild, and—”

  “Yes, yes, and their hamburger guild and their toenail clippers guild,” said Lem. “They have a guild for everything. I get it. I hate it.”

  “Again, spoken like a true capitalist. My point is, if we make an enemy of Sokolov, we make enemies with a lot of other people as well. Some of whom are our own people. That’s not a hornets’ nest we want to kick. Sokolov could make our lives very difficult very quickly. That would not only hurt the company, but also the war. Best strategy? Ignore the man.”

  “I don’t like dancing around the devil,” said Lem. “I like stabbing the devil in the heart.”

  “Sokolov isn’t the devil. He’s more like a first cousin. Besides, I know a few people who would say the same about you.”

  “That I’m the devil? Who says that? I’m as tender as a kitty cat.”

  “Leave the backroom battles to your father,” Benyawe said, patting his arm. “Focus on the battles that will keep us all
alive. The war. If the company falters, the Fleet will falter, and it won’t matter who the Hegemon is. In the meantime, your father will keep an eye on Sokolov. You and I will just ignore him.”

  “That may be difficult,” said Lem, “considering he’s coming this way.”

  It was true. Sokolov had ended his conversation and was now moving toward Lem, with a smile as pleasant and innocent as a viper.

  “I knew I should have stayed home,” said Benyawe.

  Sokolov reached them a moment later, shaking hands and bowing slightly in some courtly show of respect. “Lem, how kind of you to arrange this. And Dr. Benyawe, you are even more lovely in person than I imagined.”

  “Since I don’t know the extent of your imagination, Minister Sokolov,” said Benyawe, “your words might not be much of a compliment.” Benyawe took his proffered hand and gave it a tepid squeeze.

  Sokolov laughed heartily, a deep baritone guffaw. He was a large man, a good ten to fifteen centimeters taller than Lem, with a generous double chin and a sculpted head of white hair that looked thicker in photos than it did in person. His trimmed white beard and jolly disposition gave him an air of innocence and gentility. Lem thought he looked more like the mascot for a Bavarian beer-drinking festival than a dangerous Russian bureaucrat.

  Sokolov shook a playful finger at Benyawe. “A brilliant mind and a sharp tongue. Formidable traits. No wonder she is your chief engineer, Lem. I suspect she runs a very tight ship while she busies herself building them.”

  “Benyawe would defeat the Formics singlehandedly if we’d only give her the chance,” said Lem.

  “I believe it,” said Sokolov, laughing again. “You are to be commended for your efforts, Dr. Benyawe. What Juke Limited has accomplished in a few short years is nothing short of remarkable. I never imagined that ships of such size and complexity and strength could be built and armed so quickly. And equipped with Formic tech, no less. Tech that had to be reverse-engineered, understood, and then redesigned to fit human vessels and our methods of warfare. It is, without question, the greatest achievement in human engineering. Ever. The Great Wall of China and the pyramids have been bumped from their lofty position in the history books to make room for you and your fleet.”