The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  “Beautiful. Thank you.”

  Crowe tapped at his wrist pad again, and a pair of men came in through a door that Wila hadn’t seen and began removing the gray panels.

  “It’s cruel to keep you in the dark any longer, Wila. So let me explain. You’re inside a facility owned and operated by a division of the Hegemony. I’m its director. My commission is to gather any and all intelligence that will aid the Hegemony and the Fleet in our fight against the Formics.”

  The two-man disassembly crew finished collecting the panels and carried them out the door as quickly as they had come, like the backstage hands of a well-rehearsed theatrical production. With the panels gone, the field of wildflowers stretched unobstructed in all directions. Wila now had a clear view of Nyalok as well, still holding her position near the door, lithe and poised and watchful.

  “Nyalok helps with security,” said Crowe, following Wila’s gaze. “She’s from South Sudan. Her father was a doctor in Pajok. Her mother a sanitation inspector. They shot her father in the street for having ideas and a degree. Her mother was raped and strangled for being the wife of such a man. Her brother was never heard of again. He was likely taken and given a rifle and made to shoot other doctors and mothers elsewhere. He was eleven. Nyalok was nine. She lived in the street for three years until a humanitarian organization found her.”

  Wila stared at him, suddenly feeling as if her heart had burned to ashes. Such horror. Such suffering. “Who would do such a thing to a family, to a child?”

  “Much of the world is made of good people, Wila. But evil is thick as well. Nyalok reminds me of that. Not because you will find any evil in her—there is none. But because she stands to me as a testament of what humanity can overcome. Murderers will not stop us, massacres will not define us. We will be humans still, long after the Formics and their fire are gone.”

  “What is the name of your organization?” said Wila.

  Crowe smiled. “There is no name. Because this organization does not exist.”

  “An agency that does not exist,” said Wila. “So you are real but not real. Like the temple and this field of flowers.”

  Oliver Crowe smiled. “You understand perfectly.”

  “I understand not at all,” said Wila. “While it is not surprising to discover an intelligence arm to the Hegemony, I still fail to see why the director of that nonexistent agency has any interest in speaking to me. Surely, with a war in progress that threatens the very survival of the human race, you have far more important matters that demand your attention than sitting in a field of fake flowers with a disgraced Theravada Buddhist.”

  “On the contrary,” said Crowe. “This is an excellent use of my time. You’re here, Wila, because you see what others can’t. You unravel and reveal what remains hidden and inexplicable to the rest of the world. You discovered the secret to penetrating hullmat. You extrapolated the truth about the Formics mining and building with worms. You took a scant amount of intelligence that had left the world baffled, and you saw order and structure and meaning.”

  “You have misjudged me again,” said Wila. “I am not as capable as you believe. There are many who can piece together the intricacies of Formic behavior. I have studied the writings of such men and women. I have analyzed and marveled at their conclusions and theories and considerations. If you seek to enlist the great minds on the subject, I can give you a lengthy list of names.”

  “Academics,” said Crowe. “Theoreticians. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to minimize their contributions. But they are driven by their need to publish or to secure tenure. To them the Hive Queen is a theoretical construct. An anomaly to be examined and discussed at conferences in stagnant hotel ballrooms over stale refreshments. To them the Hive Queen is a puzzle, a challenge, an academic paper to be written. But to you, Wila, the Hive Queen is just that, a queen. A living thing of majesty and power and complexity. A biochemical wonder. A creature of vast intelligence. A being with a mind and a soul that we must try desperately to understand. To you, she is a creature of infinite depth and power, not only because of what she can do, but also because of what you believe she can become. The enlightened being.”

  “The theory of the Hive Queen has fallen out of favor,” said Wila. “The Fleet now refuses to acknowledge her existence.”

  “I’m not prepared to allow the leadership at CentCom to determine what is and isn’t true,” said Crowe. “I don’t think you are either.”

  Wila said nothing. She did not want to speak ill of anyone of CentCom.

  “The Fleet pretends the Hive Queen doesn’t exist because they fear what they don’t understand,” said Crowe. “Humans don’t like fear. But sweeping it under the carpet doesn’t make the thing we fear go away. I need people who will face what we fear, Wila. Who will seek to understand the Hive Queen. Or, if she doesn’t exist, I need people who will seek to understand whatever it is that makes the Formics do what they do. You see things differently, Wila. The world judges the Hive Queen based on our moral compass, on human morality, what we perceive to be right and wrong. But you, you seek to understand the Hive Queen from her own alien perspective, from her own morality. Not because you fear her, but because you love her. Not in the sense that a mother loves a child, or a wife loves a husband, or a believer loves a god. But in the sense that a flower loves sunlight.” He gestured to the flowers all around them. “That flower is drawn to a thing of power, whose reach and influence is so great that even from a distance it gives organisms life. I don’t mean to suggest that the Hive Queen has influence or power over you. I merely mean that you see the Hive Queen as a creature with immense philotic power. I need someone who thinks that way. Who considers what others don’t. The very future of the human race may depend on it.”

  Wila sat in stunned silence. He had read her dissertation, processed her beliefs, internalized her own careful considerations, and found—to her great astonishment—something to respect and admire.

  But that of course was foolish. He did not know her. His was respect poorly placed. He knew only what the printed words and reports had told him. The elevated perception that people like Lem had for her.

  “Mr. Crowe, I am deeply flattered by your kind words and consideration. But I fear that they are misplaced. I do not have the answers. I do not understand the Hive Queen. My fascination with her may be greater than that of most people, but it does not come by way of any confirmed comprehension. If you seek someone who can unfold the mind of the Hive Queen to you, someone who can provide some explanation for Formic behavior, or clarify and state unequivocally their motivations as a species, I am not that individual. I understand the Hive Queen as much as a dog understands calculus. I seek to understand her, yes, but desire is not knowledge. Curiosity is not mastery. I am not even certain that she exists. I hold to the belief more so than others, but that doesn’t make me right. I can’t help you.”

  “You helped Lem Jukes with the hullmat,” said Crowe.

  “I recognized a possibility,” said Wila. “I imagined an explanation for how the hull had been created and what materials had been used.”

  “An explanation that proved accurate,” said Crowe. “I’m not expecting you to have all the answers, Wila. I’m asking you to use your mind to help us see what no one else can. You’re not an expert on the Hive Queen, no. But no one is. My job is to find the people whose best guesses are as close to the truth as anyone can get and then to pay them handsomely for their efforts.”

  “Money is of no concern to me,” said Wila.

  “Of course it isn’t,” said Crowe. “But your faith is. I need to find the Hive Queen, Wila. She’s out there. Close. Probably in a hive somewhere. And I need you to find that hive for me. You want to stop human suffering? You want to follow your path? Then you’ll help me stop the Hive Queen, the greatest source of human suffering the world has ever known.”

  It bothered Wila that he would use her own beliefs as a tool of manipulation. But had he said anything untrue? Perhaps
he understood Theravada Buddhism better than she did.

  Crowe said, “You can’t possibly continue in Juke Limited’s employ, Wila. Not after tonight. You know that as well as Lem does. I am offering all parties a solution. Lem can do PR cleanup, and you can do what you’ve wanted to do since you arrived on Luna: study Formic habitats. I wouldn’t keep you at a desk. You’re no good to us there. We have facilities in the Belt where you will find plenty to study and analyze, including mining worms and weaving worms.”

  A surge of excitement struck Wila. “Did you say weaving worms?”

  “That’s what we’re calling them. Worms that consume the mined pellets from the asteroids, and then weave alloys in their gut.”

  In an instant Wila’s feelings flipped like a switch. She needed to see these worms, to handle them, examine them, understand them.

  “There’s more,” said Crowe. “The Fleet has captured many Formics, but whenever a Formic realizes that escape is impossible, it dies. It’s as if the Hive Queen is somehow discarding it, killing her own soldier so we don’t extract information from it. However it’s done, the fact is, we’ve never been able to study a live specimen. Until now.”

  Wila felt a second surge of excitement so sudden she nearly slipped off her pillow. “You have a live Formic?”

  “It won’t allow us to test it,” said Crowe. “There were two of them at first. When we sedated one of them, it died. So we haven’t sedated the other. We don’t know how long it will live, but I need someone who can reach it, understand it, communicate with it, if such a thing is possible. I think that someone might be you.”

  For a moment Wila said nothing because no words would form. The idea of facing a Formic, of looking into its eyes, of being that close to the Hive Queen …

  “Where is it?”

  “In our facility in the Belt,” said Crowe. “I have a shuttle standing by. It will take you to a transport outside Luna’s gravity well, and you’ll be on your way. Nyalok will accompany you. She’ll assist you however she can and protect you. I assure you, she’s very good at her job.”

  Wila glanced at Nyalok, who hadn’t moved.

  “I recognize that sending you to the Belt is extremely dangerous. But not enlisting you in this effort is the greater risk.”

  Wila lowered her gaze and stared at the false flowers around her. Only moments ago she had prayed for an escape. And now here it was. Coupled with an opportunity that she could not have dreamed of. A chance to find the Hive Queen.

  But the shuttle was leaving now? How could she make a choice so quickly? What of Lem? What of the damage she had caused, the mess she had made? She could not simply walk away and leave it for others to resolve.

  Crowe, sensing her hesitation, said, “Whatever you want to say to Lem Jukes you can say once you’re on the transport. You’ll have time to gather your thoughts and express yourself clearly. But know this: The greatest service you can do him right now is to disappear. That is what the company needs and what investors will insist upon. If you stay, Wila, you’ll only do him greater harm.”

  She looked up at him, surprised.

  He regarded her with a look of sympathy, almost pity, like an adult amused by the naiveté of a child. “Lem Jukes isn’t kind to you because he’s a good man, Wila. He’s kind to you because he loves you. He wouldn’t admit that if someone asked. I’m not even sure if he knows it himself. He may not be capable of knowing it, of allowing himself to be that vulnerable. But I do know that he will try to protect you if you stay. He will lash out at your critics. He will rise to your defense. Even if it hurts him and the company. That’s what love does to a man. It blinds him to reason. You want to minimize the harm to Lem Jukes? Leave, Wila. And don’t look back.”

  Wila stared at him. Love? How could he suggest such a thing? What did this man know of Lem Jukes? Or of her? Or of anything? She was a Buddhist. Lem was one of the most powerful and influential men alive. A man who could have his pick of women, should he seek them; a man who was smart enough to see that she had absolutely nothing to offer him. Not companionship, not beauty, not prestige, not power. She had nothing, was nothing.

  And yet … there were moments when she had caught Lem looking in her direction, moments when he seemed to give her more attention than others in the room, moments when his kindness to her exceeded the norm.

  Was Crowe right? As backward as the idea seemed, as ridiculous as it was to consider, could such a thing be possible? Did Lem Jukes love her? As a husband loved his wife?

  She almost laughed aloud at the notion.

  Yet to Wila’s surprise, she realized that a part of her wanted it to be true. A fact that suddenly alarmed her. Why should she long for such a thing? Why should she desire that his affection be directed toward her? Was she subconsciously trying to elevate herself? The companion of Lem Jukes would be a well-known woman. Did Wila subconsciously desire such attention? No. That meant nothing to her. Nor did his influence and wealth. Nor his standing, his ambition, his command over millions. All of that had no value to her. Then what exactly? Was she merely vain? Did she silently wish that a man would acknowledge her and find her beautiful? That idea disappointed her, because it had the ring of truth.

  But what Wila wanted was irrelevant. Crowe had said Lem loved her only to strengthen his argument and give her another reason to go. He was tinkering with her emotions. It was a lie wrapped up and served to manipulate her and bend her to his will. Because it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Lem Jukes could not love her. Not in this world or in any other.

  Wila stood.

  Surprised, Crowe quickly got to his feet as well.

  “You need not bring Mr. Jukes into this,” Wila said simply. “I’ll have that name now.”

  “Name?”

  “Of the agency you direct, of which I am to become a member. The agency that does not exist.”

  “Agencia de la Seguridad de la Hegemonia.”

  “A Spanish name?”

  “Our headquarters are in Argentina. We’re known internally as ASH.”

  “ASH? Let us hope that ashes are not what we leave behind us through our service. Now, Mr. Crowe, if you would be so kind. Where might I find this shuttle?”

  CHAPTER 11

  Vandalorum

  Ansible transmission from the Hegemon Ukko Jukes on Luna to the Polemarch Ishmerai Averbach aboard the Revenor, Operation Sky Siege. File #489950. Office of the Hegemony Sealed Archives, Imbrium, Luna, 2119

  * * *

  UKKO: Operation Deep Dive was a failure. I’ll send you a full report momentarily. We believe the Formics built large camouflaged structures big enough to hide a fleet behind. They may be doing the same where you are. We’re trying to identify a way for you to see these blinds before you reach them.

  AVERBACH: Did F1 reach the motherships?

  UKKO: Negative. Not even close. Ten of our ships were lost.

  AVERBACH: And the remaining ships?

  UKKO: We’re bringing them home. They’re needed in the ecliptic.

  AVERBACH: You’re abandoning the target?

  UKKO: I’m salvaging a broken fleet before we lose the rest of it.

  AVERBACH: And what of us?

  UKKO: You are to press on. What you find at your motherships will help us determine if abandoning the motherships below the ecliptic was wise.

  AVERBACH: So we’re guinea pigs?

  UKKO: You’re marines. Charging into danger is what you do. Just make sure you charge cautiously. Expect an ambush not as a possibility but as a likelihood. Stand by for the report.

  * * *

  Victor woke to blurry vision and dim lights and a heavy sluggish mind. He had hovered in a thick black fog of sleep for so long that breaking free of it took some effort. He tried opening his eyes, but the fog pulled back at him, resisting, unwilling to release him. Yet he somehow knew that his eyes needed to open, that he needed to wake, that the drowsy blanket of sleep that enveloped him needed to be tossed aside.

  His eyes fluttered o
pen, blinking, focusing. Sounds reached his ears. The hum of equipment. The murmur of voices. Soft, quiet, nearby. There were smells as well: antiseptic, gauze, clean linen. His vision cleared, sharpened.

  He was in a white, clinical room, devoid of any furniture, strapped to a padded floor and connected to various machines monitoring his vitals. His arms floated in zero gravity in front of him, atrophied and thin, but they moved when he sent them the mental impulse. He was not dead. He was not in the zipship, either. Someone had recovered him, grabbed the zipship, and pulled him in. Saved him.

  He looked down at himself. He wore blue cotton scrubs. Plastic gray casts covered his legs and feet. Had he broken his legs? He couldn’t remember.

  Victor pulled down the neck of his gown and found sensors on his chest. He felt the side of his head and found sensors at his temples as well. He ran a hand across the top of his head and felt the soft fuzz of hair, buzzed to his scalp. One of the monitors to his right had a shiny aluminum surface. Victor looked at his reflection. He was thinner now. Gaunt. Sickly.

  Beyond a large glass window to his right, nurses moved up and down a corridor, coming and going, all walking in the stiff, awkward gait that comes from wearing magnetic greaves. To Victor’s surprise, the nurses’ orientation matched his own. It was then that Victor realized that he was not lying down on the floor, but rather he was upright and against a padded wall.

  One of the nurses noticed Victor and spoke into her wrist pad. Victor expected her to come in and tend to him, but she turned and disappeared down a side corridor.

  Was he on the Vandalorum? Or another ship? How long had he been out?

  “Hello?”

  His voice was weak and hoarse.

  He searched for a nurse call button but didn’t find one. The straps across his chest, waist, and legs that kept him against the padded wall were not uncomfortably tight, but he couldn’t easily wiggle out of them, either. He started pulling at the top strap to free himself.