The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  A light tap at the door. “Imala?”

  It was Owanu.

  Chee had finished nursing and was sleeping again. Imala covered herself and moved out of the ansible room, cradling Chee in her arms.

  “Hiding?” said Owanu.

  “A big upside of nursing,” said Imala. “It’s a great get-out-of-any-situation card.”

  “Let’s look at that wound.”

  They moved to the clinic and gently strapped Chee into the bassinet. Then Imala was strapped down on the examination table and Owanu removed the bandages. They had done this multiple times during the rescue flight, checking Imala’s wound between each acceleration. The bruising around the incision was a wide, deep blotch of purple, as if someone had whacked Imala repeatedly with a canoe paddle. It was blood coagulating around the wound, brought on by the G-forces of acceleration, but Lieutenant Owanu thought it looked worse than it actually was. The pain had been terrible during the flight, and if not for the pain patches that Owanu had given her, Imala doubted she could have endured the flight.

  Owanu used a few scanning devices and gently prodded with her fingers and ran a few tests. “Wound looks good,” she said when she finished. “Better than expected, to be honest. It was the healing strips.” Nanosheets of synthetic skin had been applied to the wound to help rebuild muscle structure and accelerate healing. “I’ll apply some new nanosheets and give you another patch for the pain,” said Owanu. “And no, don’t object. It’s localized and doesn’t affect your milk. You’re not doping up the baby. I’ve watched you wince all day long, and it’s starting to hurt me to see it.”

  Owanu did her work delicately and well, and after the patch was administered, Imala immediately felt relief.

  “We didn’t have these nanosheets five years ago,” said Owanu. “Without them, I’m not sure you would have made it. I know the bruising looks terrible, but you’re not hemorrhaging internally, which was my concern. Everything looks good. If I hadn’t done the stitching myself, I would have guessed that this incision was at least a month old. That’s how fast it’s healing.”

  “I owe you my life,” said Imala.

  “I’m doing my job,” said Owanu, smiling. “Now let’s take a look at this little pooper.”

  Owanu gently pulled back the blanket wrapped around Chee and placed a device near the infant’s heart, head, and hands. The device flashed red and green and then Owanu said, “Blood pressure normal. Body temp normal. Oxygen normal. She’s doing fine.”

  Imala visibly relaxed.

  “The bad part is over,” said Owanu. “She took a few Gs with no problem. It scared her to death, it stressed her little heart, but she did okay. Here.” Owanu pulled a bundle of fabric from a cabinet. “It’s a baby-wrap sling. Rena and I made it from some excess gowns and fabrics here in the clinic.”

  She helped Imala off the table and they placed Chee against Imala’s chest. Owanu then showed Imala how to wrap the sling around her back and over her shoulders to create a little pocket where Chee was tightly held.

  “Are you sure she can breathe in there?” said Imala.

  “She’s fine. Her head is to the side. Moms wear these all the time. And with her tucked into your little papoose here, your hands are now free to help stabilize you while you fly.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Imala. She could feel tears welling up inside her, so she said nothing more.

  Owanu gave her a sideways hug. “You can name the next one after me.”

  With Chee tucked in her sling, Imala went looking for Captain Mangold, who had arranged for the interviews to take place inside his office.

  They first met with the short man, whom they had learned was named Liam and who had become the group’s de facto leader when the captain was killed in the raid.

  “They took out our engines and retros using IF weaponry,” said Liam. “Highly targeted lasers built by Juke Limited for IF warships. Khalid bragged about them. He claimed he had stolen the weapons from the Fleet. He said he had attacked an IF shipyard and stripped the ships under construction for parts. He said he’d killed over twenty shipbuilders and marines. He said it was the biggest news in the system, but the Fleet was too cowardly to put it in the press.” Liam turned to Captain Mangold apologetically. “I mean no offense. I’m only telling you what he told us.”

  “None taken,” said Mangold.

  Imala turned to Mangold. “Is that true? Did Khalid hit a shipyard?”

  Mangold shrugged. “Maybe. We don’t get updates like that from CentCom. They tell us what they want us to know. Or they tell you, anyway. But if it’s true, if Khalid did hit a shipyard, I can assure you it’s not something the IF would want broadcast. It would be too embarrassing and wouldn’t play well in the press.”

  “The press don’t know about it,” said Liam. “That’s what angered him. He wanted the world to know what he had done. He was furious that the story wasn’t all over the nets. That’s why he made the vid.”

  “Vid?” said Imala.

  “He and a few of his crew were wearing bodycams when they raided us. They recorded the whole attack. They kept recording until right before they left. They downloaded the video into our holotable and told us we were to give it to whoever rescued us, if we were lucky enough to survive. He said he was also putting the vid on his channel, that the world would soon know the name of Khalid.”

  “You still have this vid?” said Imala.

  “At the helm,” said Liam. “On our holotable. You don’t want to watch it. He kills people.”

  “Does the vid show Khalid’s face?” Imala asked.

  “He was the star of the whole thing,” said the miner. “He was performing for the cameras. It was all about him.”

  “Can this file be moved to a data cube?” asked Imala. “Can you show our marines where it’s located and bring it on our ship?”

  Captain Mangold called Sergeant Lefevre and ordered him to suit up with Liam and a few other marines and recover the vid.

  As they waited, Imala relayed what she knew back to CentCom via ansible. The commanders ranted and cursed and called her irresponsible for conducting the rescue and disobeying orders. They told her she was removed from office and was to be confined to quarters and would endure a court-martial via ansible with them as the acting judicial body. They told her she was treasonous and undisciplined and her actions unconscionable. They told her Captain Mangold was now the only person authorized to use the ansible. They told her she would spend the rest of her life in a cell, and that if the mission failed, the consequences to Earth, however great, would be squarely on her shoulders.

  All things considered, Imala thought it went better than expected.

  She wrote back that she would gladly leave her post if the commanders could produce an order from the Hegemon calling for her removal.

  The commanders cursed her again and used even more colorful language and told her she was insubordinate and out of line and that they didn’t need to bother the Hegemon with such a ridiculous and lowly matter as this and she should leave the ansible room immediately and have Captain Mangold take her place.

  “Nice talk,” wrote Imala. “I so look forward to our conversation tomorrow.”

  Then she and Chee left the ansible room because she had nothing further to say to them.

  “Well?” asked Mangold. “What did they say?”

  Imala told him. Every word. Even the colorful ones. When she finished, she said, “So now you have a choice, Captain Mangold. Follow CentCom and put yourself in that room. Or follow the Hegemon of Earth.”

  Mangold was quiet while he considered. “And you would stay out of the ansible room?” he said. “If I followed their orders and took over the ansible, you’d stay out?”

  “What choice do I have?” said Imala. “You have twenty marines at your command on this ship. And I’m a recent mother with a killer birth wound. I couldn’t beat you in a thumb-wrestling contest.”

  “So you’ll follow my orders, but not C
entCom’s?”

  “I follow the orders of the person who is the greatest superior to whom I have access. Unless the Hegemon of Earth gives me different orders, that superior is you.”

  “I don’t want your job,” said Captain Mangold. “As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t hear this order from CentCom.”

  “They’ll think I kept the order from you,” said Imala.

  “So what? You can’t annoy them any further than you already have. So until they produce an order from the Hegemon, the ansible is your business.”

  Sergeant Lefevre returned with the data cube and said, “Sir, the vid. The miner said he’d rather not watch it with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” said Mangold. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Lefevre left them, and Mangold called for Rena and Lieutenant Owanu.

  “Are you sure you want to watch this?” said Rena once they were all gathered in Mangold’s office. “I know this Khalid. He’s chased this ship in the past. Before Imala and Victor joined the crew. He would’ve killed us if he had caught us. He had a reputation then, and it’s far worse now. Whatever happened on that mining ship isn’t something we want to witness.”

  “We’re gathering intelligence,” said Imala. “Anything that would assist the Fleet. The weapons Khalid has, the tactics he uses, the number of troops under his command, their weaknesses if they have any, the direction they may have gone, the defenses on their ship, his lieutenants.”

  “Can’t we just forward the vid to the Fleet?” Rena said.

  “We can’t send video via ansible. Only text. Our description of this intelligence is all we can give.”

  “Why even bother with that?” said Owanu. “Let’s be honest with ourselves. No one in the Fleet is going to come looking for this guy. You can give them a report with a full sequence of his DNA and a giant neon arrow pointing to his hideout, and that won’t make any difference. The Fleet is not in any position to pirate-chase out here. The reason the Gagak was commandeered for this mission is because there was no available IF ship even remotely close by. We’re it. Out here, this far from Turris and every other outpost, we are the Fleet. Sending a report to CentCom is a waste of time.”

  “We know his ship moved deeper into the Kuiper Belt,” said Imala. “But at some point, he’ll likely move back toward the Belt, back toward the supply lines. That would be my guess. He’s a grandstander. He wants his name in headlines. He wants to strike fear in the hearts of millions. He’s not going to hide out here forever. He’s going to keep hitting targets until he gets the press he wants, and then he’s going to hit more targets once he gets a taste of fame and feels even more indestructible. The Fleet won’t have to hunt for him. He will go to them. That’s his MO.”

  No one argued the point, so Imala inserted the data cube into Captain Mangold’s terminal and they watched the display.

  A thin Somali man appeared on screen wearing an IF uniform with the sleeves removed. He stood before a nondescript metal background, perhaps an interior wall of his ship, and faced the camera. “A message to the Hegemon of Earth, the rapist of nations, the puppet of the West, he who robs from my people with his taxes and soldiers, he who rules but who was not elected, he who commands but who holds no authority, he who enslaves all people from atop his false throne with his policies of control. I am Khalid. The face of fear. The messenger of God, who sent the Formics to rid the world of you and your fellow oppressors. I take from you IF thieves because you have taken from my people. I kill your builders and miners and suppliers, the dogs of your tyranny. Blood for blood. Life for life.”

  The screen went momentarily black, and then the vid returned, but now the camera was elsewhere and moving quickly through darkness, the image whipping one way and then another. Imala couldn’t make out what she was seeing.

  “The man’s a nutcase,” said Owanu.

  “He’s a terrorist,” said Mangold.

  On screen a hatch opened and chaos ensued. The two ships had docked, Imala realized: Khalid’s and the mining vessel. Khalid and his crew were gathered at the hatch and trying to force their way inside. Fired bolts flew up toward the camera, shot from miners anchored behind crates. Most of the bolts were wide and poorly aimed, but one shot through the open hatch and struck the pirate next to whoever was holding the camera. The pirate screamed in agony at the bolt in his shoulder, but then rough hands grabbed him and pulled him away so that another man could take his place.

  For a moment Imala thought the miners might hold them off, but then the pirates had rifles firing steady beams of lasers through the hatch into the mining ship like a column of searing wires. The pirates kept the lasers concentrated on their targets, burning into the crates shielding the miners and sending up tendrils of smoke that obstructed Imala’s view. She feared for a moment that the lasers might punch straight through the ship and out the other side, breaching the hull and exposing the ship to the vacuum of space. But the lasers were not that powerful, and the pirates, like surgeons, turned off the beams as soon as the lasers had penetrated the crates and found the miners hiding behind them. Three dead bodies and then a fourth rose up from behind crates, each pierced with a scorched hole or line. One man spewed a steady stream of blood globules.

  The bodies were like a green flag waved before revving engines. The camera-carrier and the men huddled around him at the hatch surged forward, pouring through the opening and bursting into the mining ship in a roaring mass of fury. These were not disciplined soldiers, but a scrambling, raving mob, launching forward without any order or cohesion, jacked up on adrenaline.

  The camera-carrier landed in the cargo bay, and his magnetic greaves anchored him to the metal-grated floor. Then he was off again, lumbering forward in big magnetized steps. A dead body floated into his path, but the corpse whipped by so quickly that Imala couldn’t see if it was man or woman, miner or pirate. The mob reached the opposite end of the cargo bay, where several passages branched away in multiple directions. Without consulting with each other, the pirates divided to rush through all the passages at once.

  The camera-carrier took the passage on the far left and pulled himself through a hatch and into a dark corridor. The beam of light from his helmet found a screaming woman. She fled before him, terrified, launching into a side room and slamming the door behind her. The camera-carrier pushed on, ignoring her, passing another corpse left drifting and unanchored. The passage turned left, then right. More rooms, all ignored. The camera was on a rig on the man’s head. Wherever he looked, the camera followed. A miner popped out from a side room in front of him and raised a crossbow. The camera-carrier shot him without slowing down, then shouldered the corpse aside.

  Imala reached into the holofield and sped up the video so it was four times its normal speed. They didn’t need to watch every single kill. Plus the sight of it all made Imala want to vomit.

  “I’m guessing fifty men,” said Rena. “Hard to get an exact number in the chaos, but fifty at least. All armed with IF slasers.”

  “Robbed from a supply ship, no doubt,” said Mangold.

  “Fifty psychopaths, is more like it,” said Owanu. “All of them on phencyclidine or some other crazy chem. That’s obvious. That’s not adrenaline fueling those people. Khalid has them lit up like Roman candles. We saw this all the time in the ER during my residency. Drugs that made you think you were indestructible. People punching through glass windows and not even feeling all the broken bones in their hand. They call it monster juice.”

  “Butchers,” said Rena.

  “How helpful is this?” said Owanu. “What are we learning exactly? They’re killers. We knew that already. And we knew from the damage done to the mining ship that Khalid has his hands on Fleet tech. If we’re hoping for some clue on his location, I think we’re setting ourselves up for a disappointment. Khalid isn’t going to step in front of the camera and announce his address.”

  “She’s right,” said Mangold. “The only thing this video is giving us is sleeple
ss nights and images best forgotten.”

  Then, on screen, the camera-carrier reached the helm of the mining ship, where a few miners were gathered with their hands raised in surrender. Imala slowed the vid to normal speed and let it play. A large group of pirates was gathering around one man anchored at the center of the room, his back to the camera, his slaser rifle raised high above his head. The pirates cheered and raised their own weapons in reply, like spectators in some gladiatorial arena roaring for their champion. It was Khalid, of course. He turned toward the camera-carrier, his face lighting up at the sight of it. Then he turned back to his men, knowing the camera was on him now, ready to immortalize the moment. “They say that the Hegemon of Earth, the thief of the world, fears no man,” shouted Khalid. “That he cowers from no man. That he bends to no man.” Khalid paused for effect and then opened his body to the camera before continuing. “But now the Hegemon will know this man.” He slapped himself in the chest repeatedly, and the men roared. “He will fear this man. He will bend to this man.”

  “Khalid!” the men shouted. “Khalid!”

  Khalid raised his rifle repeatedly in the air, egging them on.

  “Khalid! Khalid!”

  Imala froze the image and examined it.

  “Thank you,” said Mangold. “I think we’re heard enough psychotic ramblings for one day. Can we agree this is a dead end?”

  Imala gestured at the display. “These uniforms. The yellow ones that some of his men are wearing. What are those?”

  Mangold shrugged. “I don’t know. Yellow uniforms. What are you asking?”

  “Look at Khalid,” said Imala. “He’s wearing the jacket of an IF officer.”