The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  Benyawe shook her head. “While I appreciate the kind words, Minister Sokolov—”

  “Please, call me Alexei.”

  “While I appreciate the kind words, Alexei, the ships built by Juke Limited for the International Fleet are the handiwork of nearly three million Juke employees and contractors. Should the bricklayer who laid a dozen bricks get credit for the Great Wall?”

  Sokolov laughed again. “I suspect you’ve laid more than twelve bricks, Dr. Benyawe. And now I must add humility to your growing list of attributes.” Sokolov placed a hand over his heart. “I, shamefully, suffer from what you might call a scarcity of humility, as my critics will tell you. I’m a child of privilege, you see. Fed with a silver spoon all my life, leading me to believe that I can achieve anything I set my mind to. I’m sure you can relate, Lem, having had every privilege and opportunity laid conveniently in your lap. It makes men like you and me somewhat blind and naive to the threats around us, for we think ourselves indestructible.”

  Lem forced a smile and showed no reaction to the veiled slight. “If my father taught me anything, Minister Sokolov, it is to keep enemies close and that everyone is your enemy.”

  Sokolov frowned. “Too true. We must tread carefully. The Formics pose an existential threat, and yet if we survive their assault, I worry that the power struggle that will follow between the Hegemony, the Fleet, and the nations of Earth may tear us apart. I doubt that the Strategos or the Polemarch, for example, will be interested in relinquishing their authority should the International Fleet dissolve. That’s why I was so intrigued to learn that your father, Lem, is considering resigning and calling for the Hegemony Council to elect a new Hegemon. But my goodness, I see from the look on your face that this is news to you.”

  Lem composed himself and smiled. “My father does not include me in his governing decisions, Minister Sokolov. We talk very little, to be honest. The demands of our responsibilities are great. As someone far more involved in the workings of government, you would know better about my father’s plans than me.”

  “Perhaps I am mistaken,” said Sokolov. “Rumors are not always delivered by truthful tongues. But if the rumors are true, we can only hope that the new Hegemon upholds your father’s legacy and serves with as much wisdom and distinction as he has.”

  “I did not realize you thought so highly of my father.”

  “Oh, I have my criticisms. We all do. I have yet to meet the perfect leader who acts prudently in every circumstance. I don’t think such a man or woman exists. The very idea of democracy makes it prohibitive. Abraham Lincoln, beloved by his fellow Americans, said it best. ‘You can please some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people, all of the time.’”

  “I think it was also Mr. Lincoln who took a bullet to the back of the head,” said Lem. “If I’m remembering American history correctly.”

  Sokolov nodded gravely. “That is precisely my point, my dear Lem. Even the noblest leader can be the victim of hate. Your father might be very wise to step aside. For his own safety. There are many who place the war’s losses squarely on his shoulders. I would hate for some lunatic to take your Father’s life in some senseless act of violence.”

  Lem let the words hang in the air a moment and kept his face a mask of politeness. “How kind of you to be concerned for my father’s safety. If what you have heard is true, I hope the Hegemony Council elects someone who sincerely cares for the safety and well-being of all men and women, be they citizens of Earth, Luna, or space born.”

  Sokolov took a sealed glass of champagne from the magnetic tray of a passing server and sipped at the straw, smiling. “Well said, Lem. I could not agree more. I have even heard some suggest your name as a possible successor to your father. I think the idea splendid. You’re young, but tenacious. Outspoken, but articulate. You’ve quadrupled your father’s empire in only a few years, so you clearly understand markets and fiscal self-reliance. Your recent philanthropy work with the refugees shows that you possess sincere compassion toward the downtrodden, an attribute everyone will welcome. Your support for economic initiatives and work-placement programs for the refugees demonstrates an astute understanding of how social concerns can be addressed with sensible public programs. Plus you’re devilishly handsome. Even my wife, who is old enough to be your mother, finds you attractive, though she would kill me for saying so. You are, in short, my dear man, bred for politics. I do sincerely hope that you will at least consider the prospect. Who else is more qualified than you?”

  “I assure you, Minister Sokolov,” said Lem. “I have no interest in serving as Hegemon or in any public office. My father is made for the task, not me. I’m far too impertinent. I think my life of privilege, as you say, makes me too sassy for politics.”

  “On the contrary, Lem. Sass is what defines a politician. The people hunger for it. Someone with a bit of flair, a gentle giant one moment, a pulpit-pounder the next. But I see that your mind is made up on the subject. Pity. I was rather excited about the prospect of your name being considered.”

  “I would think the Council would look to their own members for a possible replacement to my father,” said Lem.

  Sokolov shook his head. “The law prohibits it, I’m afraid. No member of Congress or of the Council can be elected Hegemon. If that were the case, they would all be constantly campaigning for the job, which would logjam the government. The emergency of our situation is so acute that humanity could not abide that. Only someone outside the Hegemony can be considered. That’s why I was so hoping you would be open to the idea.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” said Lem. “But clearly my ignorance of the Hegemony electoral process should convince you that I’m not the man for the job. I would think someone more experienced in politics and diplomacy better suited, someone with an understanding of the legislature and Hegemony law. Like yourself, for instance. You’re a minister of the Russian Federation, not a member of the Hegemony. And yet you’ve interacted with the Hegemony enough to know how the system works. Could you be elected?”

  Sokolov smiled. “You flatter me, Lem. While there is nothing in the law that would prohibit me from being elected by the Council, and while I would consider it the honor of my lifetime to serve in such a capacity, I fear there are members of the Council who would need a little convincing. Some think me too passionate for the job.”

  “Nonsense,” said Lem. “We’re at war. I would think the Hegemon must have fervor and fire.”

  “How kind of you to give me your endorsement,” said Sokolov.

  “Ah, but you misunderstand me, Minister. I am a businessman. The only endorsements I give are for my own products. And should we be fortunate enough to have you as Hegemon, I assure you, you would hear me endorse my products often. I’m quite the salesman.”

  Sokolov forced a polite laugh. “Indeed.” He took a final sip of his champagne and said, “Well then, I seem to have drained my glass. If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed and walked off.

  Lem and Benyawe watched him deposit his glass on the tray of a passing server and then join a cluster of dignitaries.

  “You think he’s lying?” said Benyawe.

  “About my father resigning? I can’t see why Sokolov would make that up.”

  “Why would your father forfeit the Hegemony in the middle of a war?”

  “My father is a survivor. Perhaps he fears that his life is legitimately in jeopardy.”

  Benyawe regarded Lem with annoyance. “Have you ever known your father to be afraid of anything, especially of thugs threatening his life? If so, you don’t know him half as well as I do.”

  “Then what’s your theory?”

  “Perhaps your father believes this is the only way to prevent Sokolov from taking the Hegemony, by having the Council vote now, before Sokolov can somehow manipulate each of the Consuls to vote in his favor.”

  “Maybe,” said Lem. “But it still feels like defeat, and my fat
her is not one to surrender.”

  “Your father is above politics,” said Benyawe. “The human race is at stake here. I think he values that more than whatever place he may hold in the history books.”

  “But why would Sokolov be concerned about me being elected?” said Lem. “I’m not his political rival. There are a thousand reasons why the Council would never choose me to be Hegemon.”

  “I can think of a lot more than one thousand,” said Benyawe.

  “There we are,” said Lem, smiling. “Different dress, but the same Benyawe I know and love. Always keeping me humble.”

  “No one can keep you humble. I’ve tried. But you ask a legitimate question. What game is Sokolov playing here?”

  “Perhaps he’s planting the thought in my mind in the hope that I’ll pursue the idea, that I’ll voice my desire to be Hegemon. Then Sokolov could attack my father with accusations of nepotism and claim my father is acting more like a king than a Hegemon.”

  “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” said Benyawe.

  “Well I hope you get it back because dinner, it appears, is served.”

  Butlers had swung the dining-hall doors wide and were now ushering people to their tables.

  The dining hall was a massive space with an opaque glass floor and glass ceiling, which meant everyone was now moon-hopping to their tables as their magnetic greaves no longer had purchase. The transition was a bit alarming, but the citizens of Luna were accustomed to reduced gravity, and they made their way to the tables without incident.

  The décor was bright and minimalist and elegant. Spotless white magnetic tablecloths with white china place settings and white rose centerpieces. A string quartet on the far end of the hall, also dressed in white, played a soothing melody that kept the crowd quiet and whispering. Lem led Benyawe to their table near the platform at the front and then waited until everyone had taken their seats, the music had stopped, and the lights had dimmed. Lem then bounded up onto the platform in a single leap, a move that earned him a smattering of applause. Lem smiled, then raised a hand for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I want to thank each of you personally for your attendance this evening and for your interest in this cause.”

  An image appeared behind him on a large screen: a refugee family deboarding a transport at the Luna shipyard, the eyes of the children wide and fearful, their faces dirty, their little bodies thin and emaciated.

  “Every day more than three hundred refugees fleeing the horror of war arrive here on Luna,” said Lem. “Many with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They come hungry, homeless, and in some cases helpless, unable to withstand a gravity environment. Their livelihoods have been taken from them. Many of these men and women enlist in the Fleet, leaving their children with spouses or other relatives so that some income can be earned. As a result, families in crisis are separated and strained. Wives without husbands, children without fathers. In other circumstances, one parent takes a position with a shipbuilding enterprise like my own because as free miners they possess unique skills that make them crucial to the war effort. In short, these refugees are crucial participants in the war effort, giving of themselves to preserve and protect us all. Tonight is our chance to return the favor.”

  Lem gestured to his right, where Wila was waiting beside the platform in the shadows, hands clasped demurely in front of her, head shaven, wearing her immaculate white mae-chee robe, the standard dress of priestly women in Theravada Buddhism. Lem couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her, so free of adornments or jewelry or anything that might heighten her appearance, yet beautiful all the same. Pure and unrefined, with eyes full of empathy and understanding and calm.

  She smiled at him, and Lem was certain that there was nothing in the expression other than sincere friendship, and yet the smile quickened Lem’s heart all the same.

  Lem said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you one of our chemical engineers and a scholar of the Formic species, Wilasanee Saowaluk.”

  Polite applause echoed as Wila stepped onto the stage and Lem returned to the table with Benyawe.

  Wila smiled at the applause, bowed slightly, and then began. “Here on Luna, far from the horrors of war, it can be difficult for us to fully comprehend the suffering of our brothers and sisters caught in the conflict. Go with me now as we board the Kotka, a transport vessel that has served as one of the many ships carrying refugees here to Luna.”

  The image on the screen winked out and the lights in the room extinguished. For a moment, there was only darkness. And then the holoprojectors hidden beneath the glass floor and above the glass ceiling turned on, creating a dim blue holofield that filled the dining hall. In a matter of seconds, the light seemed to organize into shapes as a room-sized holo materialized all around them. Walls formed, holos of people took shape, vague shapes increased in definition and become holographic objects. The dinner guests turned their heads to take in the scene that now surrounded them. They were no longer sitting in a white minimalist room; now they were in the cargo bay of the Kotka, surrounded by hundreds of people huddled together in the cramped space. Sleep sacks were attached to a series of ropes that crisscrossed the bay, floor to ceiling, like cluttered lines of hung laundry. The room was filled with families, crying children, mothers nursing infants. An elderly woman with her arm in a sling held a sleeping toddler wrapped in a ratty blanket. A group of teens maneuvered among the crowd passing out small pieces of flatbread, their expressions hopeless and empty.

  “Over eight hundred refugees are crammed inside the Kotka,” said Wila. “What you are seeing is actual footage from the cargo bay of that ship, now heading to Luna and scheduled to arrive in five months’ time, if it survives the journey. Food and water are scarce. Meals are rationed. Families are frightened, not even certain if they will safely arrive at their destination.” Wila paused and said nothing while the dinner guests took in the sight before them. Lem had told her before the event, “Let them soak it in. Give them a minute to process what they’re seeing.”

  Wila waited, then glanced at Lem, who nodded for her to continue.

  Wila broke the silence. “Formic warships have destroyed two transports just like this one in the last thirty days alone, killing over six hundred innocent civilians seeking safety here on Luna. The passengers aboard the Kotka are aware of these losses. They receive the reports just as we do. Can you imagine how they feel, knowing that their ship could be attacked at any moment? They live in constant fear. What will we as a people show them when they arrive at our port, desperate for relief? Kindness? Compassion? Understanding? Or will we shun them and push them into the streets, to fear once again for their lives and future?”

  The holo of the cargo bay winked out, and the lights in the room returned.

  “The Department of Rehousing and Refugee Assistance is doing great work,” said Wila. “We applaud their efforts. However, the influx of refugees now exceeds the reach of DORRA, and the Hegemony is asking that corporate and private institutions assist in the rehousing effort. Generous tax incentives will be granted to those who help. It is on us, ladies and gentlemen, to welcome our brothers and sisters with open arms. The Juke Humanitarian Foundation, founded by Mr. Lem Jukes, is prepared to donate three billion credits along with the Formic scout ship currently in Earth’s orbit. This structure, which has served as a research facility since the first war, will be converted into a vast housing facility for those refugees requiring low G or zero G housing.”

  The holofield projected schematics of the ship, a giant glowing teardrop-shaped monstrosity that split in half to reveal the proposed architecture inside.

  “This is the Formic scout ship from the first war,” said Wila. “Its exterior, as you know, is made of indestructible hullmat, an alien alloy of Formic design. The ship’s interior architecture, however, is composed of more familiar alloys that Juke Limited has mostly removed to create space for refugee housing. Construction on that housing is already underway, with offices and workspaces to
be built alongside the housing units, giving refugees work opportunities close to home and family. Areas for additional workspaces and housing, as you can see, are available to other entities and corporations who wish to build inside the ship and aid in the effort.”

  A voice from the back of the room interrupted her. “I thought this was a fundraiser. This sounds like a real-estate proposal.”

  Lem strained to see in the low light who had spoken and identified a junior minister from the Russian consulate, one of Sokolov’s lackeys.

  Wila maintained her poise and didn’t miss a beat. “The issue at hand, sir, is one of housing for displaced free miners seeking refuge here on—”

  “The issue at hand, madam, is one company’s profiteering on the sympathies of these good people.” The junior minister spread his arms, indicating the gathered crowd. “You’re asking the distinguished members of this audience to invest in a real-estate scheme that will only benefit your corporation through massive tax write-offs, deplete our resources here on Luna, and in all likelihood end in financial disaster.”

  Lem was on his feet before he knew what was happening.

  “Lem.” A whispered voice to his right, Benyawe warning him, motioning him to sit down.

  Lem ignored her, facing the junior minister. “You have every right to be skeptical,” said Lem. “But I assure you this is completely legitimate and motivated by no other reason than to help those who need it. Each of you will receive a data cube of information showing this to be a humanitarian effort with only the interests of refugees in mind.”

  The junior minister scoffed. “Please, Mr. Jukes. You may be able to spread those untruths within your own company, but you’ll find your audience here far less gullible. Juke Limited is preying upon the misfortune of displaced citizens who have no choice but to accept your housing, whereupon you use them for cheap labor because, again, what other choice do they have, while you profit off whatever they produce for you and sweep all of your expenses under the tax table. Did your father engineer this plan? It sounds like something the Hegemon would do.”