The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  “An asteroid? No,” said Hoebeck. “But we’ve been told that the Formics have built convincing camouflage. We received word from the Polemarch that Formics attacked F1 and routed their fleet after emerging from behind huge blinds that resembled the black of space, complete with twinkling stars.”

  “Those would have to be enormous blinds,” said Victor.

  “Impossibly large,” said Hoebeck, “which is why I’m skeptical.”

  “You question the intelligence?” said Victor.

  “I believe our boys were ambushed, but I have a hard time believing the Formics could create such a massive plane of camouflage. It would be the largest structure ever conceived. Bigger than the scout ship of the First Invasion. And there were six of them. Allegedly.”

  Victor’s mind was racing. “It’s not that farfetched of an idea, really. When the Formics seize a rocky asteroid, they completely cover it with a self-healing membranous material. Some formicologists believe this membrane is organic. If the Formics can engineer an anaerobic animal or plant that can withstand the cold vacuum of space, then they can theoretically engineer the membrane to be completely nonreflective. More even than a charcoal rock. I’m talking no albedo whatsoever. It reflects zero light. Maybe the filament could even absorb light. We have materials that can do it, and if we can make them, why can’t the Formics?”

  “Even if that’s possible,” said Hoebeck, “this structure would only be invisible to our light scopes. There’s always infrared. I’ll entertain the prospect that this membranous nonreflective cocoon thing could absorb light, but it’s still going to be on the electromagnetic spectrum. We’d see it with infrared scopes.”

  “Maybe not,” said Victor. “What if the Formics could somehow hide or dampen the asteroid’s electromagnetic radiation? Not just infrared, but gamma rays, X-rays, ultraviolet, the full spectrum. Everything normally detected by our scopes and scanners. What if the Formics know that radiation is a method of detection and they’ve designed a membrane to mask radiation from the sun and keep the surface of the membrane near absolute zero?”

  “That would be impossible,” said Hoebeck.

  “Everything about the Formics is impossible, sir. Building a worm that can chew rock and poop out a pellet of silicon is impossible. Building an indestructible hull is impossible. Communicating mind to mind across the solar system is impossible. But that hasn’t stopped the Formics from doing it. The Hive Queen is a master of deception, sir. She’s bringing these asteroids together, and she doesn’t want us to know about them. And remember, some of these asteroids are big. If the Formics can make them invisible, perhaps they can make this superstructure invisible as well. And what better place for Formic leadership to hide than in something we can’t even see?”

  “This isn’t hard evidence,” said Captain Hoebeck. “This is eighty percent guesswork and conspiracy theory. Just because a contractor dumps a load of bricks in a field doesn’t mean there’s a library there now. Or a house of congress. Or a mud hut. As I suspected, you’ve got bits of interesting data that you’ve molded into a flimsy narrative.” He shook his head and leaned forward. “This is what I see. You saw something before the First Invasion, and all the world got into a fuss, and that gave you a taste of fame. You were suddenly the guy who saw something, the big shot, as we say in America. So now you’re seeing something else because you realize that you’re nobody now, and that hurts your little rock-digger ego. Worse still, you’ve apparently fooled one of my own crew.” He turned to Rivera. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Lieutenant Maria Rivera, sir. Nursing Corps.”

  Hoebeck chuckled. “A nurse. Well, Victor Delgado must be quite the charmer to convince you to abandon your duty of tending to the sick. I’ll be speaking with your direct supervisor, Lieutenant. You’ve let this man manipulate you, and you made a mockery of my heroic act to save him.” Hoebeck rose from his chair and turned to Al-Baradouni. “Lieutenant, escort these people off the deck and instruct the guard on duty not to allow them reentry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Hoebeck got to his feet and adjusted his jacket. “I’ll take that data cube now,” he said to Victor, holding out his hand. “I’d like to amuse myself later as I review the contents.”

  Surprised, Victor handed it to him.

  Hoebeck tucked the cube in his jacket pocket and exited.

  Victor waited for Al-Baradouni to escort them out. Instead, Al-Baradouni faced them, his expression more alert. He had seemed so obsequious when Hoebeck was in the room. Now he spoke with a quick and quiet urgency. “Do you have another copy of that data cube?”

  Victor glanced at Rivera then back to Al-Baradouni. “That was the original. But I have a copy, yes.”

  “Good,” said Al-Baradouni. “Make another copy for me. I’ll come by the medical wing and pick it up. I’ll see that it gets to the Polemarch.”

  “How?” said Rivera. “Laserline?”

  Al-Baradouni shook his head. “By packet. A small rocket no bigger than your arm. We send them back and forth between the ships.”

  “Who’s we?” said Victor.

  “The packet isn’t a secret,” said Al-Baradouni. “Captains and commanders use them all the time. Documents, plans, data. It’s largely how we communicate during radio silence. Orders come from CentCom via the quad to the Polemarch on the Revenor. He then distributes those orders to a few key cooperating ships via packet. The vast majority of the ships don’t hear from him or us at all. They just follow. I’ll include your data cube as well as instructions to my man on the Revenor, who will receive it. He’ll make another copy. The copy I send will go to the Polemarch. The second copy goes to the quad operator, who will send it to our people at the Hegemony.”

  “Your people?” said Victor. “Meaning what exactly? This sounds like an organized group.”

  “Just make a copy as soon as you leave here. I’ll do the rest.”

  “Two minutes ago I thought you were the captain’s stooge,” said Victor.

  “I play a role,” said Al-Baradouni. “My position with the captain gives me crucial access to information, but it’s a position I have to work to maintain. You focus on getting well. The Hegemon wants you infiltrating the mothership when we arrive. We’re to learn what we can and destroy what we find, including the Hive Queen, if she happens to be there. You’ll get your orders soon.”

  “So it was the Hegemon who sent Victor here,” said Rivera.

  “He won’t be the Hegemon for much longer,” said Al-Baradouni. “But yes. The Hegemon is concerned about this mission and the people running it.”

  “Then why doesn’t he make changes?” said Victor.

  Al-Baradouni smiled. “On the eve of a major offensive? That makes him an easy scapegoat if anything goes wrong. Critics will claim we would have won, if not for the Hegemon’s last-minute changes in command.”

  “If he’s leaving the Hegemony,” said Victor, “what does he care what critics will say?”

  “It’s not just him,” said Al-Baradouni. “It’s the whole political structure of the Hegemony that would be under attack. The Hegemon is trying to avoid a civil war within the Fleet and a global war if we win against the Formics.”

  “This organization,” said Victor. “Does it have a name?”

  Al-Baradouni smiled. “You worry about healing. Leave everything else to—”

  A piercing alarm interrupted him.

  Al-Baradouni rushed into the helm, where the officers and technicians were moving and shouting in a sudden flurry of activity. Victor and Rivera stayed against the wall, out of the way, trying to decipher what was happening. An attack was underway. That was clear. Three or four ships of the fleet were already damaged, possibly disabled, maybe even destroyed. It was hard to make out details. The siren continued to wail. Helm officers were yelling orders over each other via the comms lines to other officers and departments throughout the ship. At first, Victor assumed that whatever tactic the Formics had used below
the ecliptic was being implemented here: the giant blinds, the undetectable camouflage, the swarming Formic fleet, waiting to spring forth at the right moment. But he didn’t hear anything to suggest that was the case. Instead, based on what he could hear over all the chaos, the Fleet wasn’t being attacked by the Formics at all.

  “Get those people off my helm!” Captain Hoebeck shouted, pointing at Victor and Rivera.

  Al-Baradouni rushed over and took them both by the arm and pulled them toward the exit. They paused and braced themselves against the wall twice as the ship began to decelerate.

  “What’s happening?” Rivera shouted, when they were out in the corridor.

  “Get to your flight seats and buckle in,” said Al-Baradouni.

  “Why?” said Victor. “What’s going on?”

  “Three ships of the Fleet just went rogue,” said Al-Baradouni. “They’re firing on every other ship near them.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Fighters

  To: littlesoldier13@freebeltmail.net

  From: gregory.samuelson%corporal@ifcom.gov/fleetcom

  Subject: Works like a charm

  * * *

  Bingwen,

  All the boys in the squad had a good laugh when I told them about the paint with NanoCloud. They thought I was bananas, said it couldn’t be that easy. But then I showed them the app and how the nanobots ate the paint, and the next thing I know we’re all mixing up buckets of it in the barracks, and the captain is telling us to suit up and get down in that asteroid.

  So we did, and the paint worked. We applied it to the hullmat roadblocks, fired up the app, and the nanobots ate through the hullmat like it was soft butter.

  Turns out, there were multiple blocks, too. We’d get through one block, go twenty meters, and find another. One tunnel had five in a row. But the bots and the paint were like liquid magic, and we got through all the way to the Formic ship in the core. And since we had some paint left, we figured, hey, might as well keep going. So we painted up the ship, burned a hole through, and stormed inside. And lo and behold, I’ll bet you never guess why the Formics had put up so many obstacles. Inside we found a daughter of the Hive Queen. I mean, excuse me, I can’t say Hive Queen anymore. We’ll call her a High-Priority Target Formic. Or an HPTF. Well, that little target is up in Formic heaven now, or more likely, down in Formic hell.

  Who knew paint could be so powerful? Keep those ideas coming.

  Regards,

  Corporal Gregory Samuelson

  Third Fleet, 45th IF Expeditionary Combat Unit

  Tiger Tails Red, Tactical Asteroid Guerrilla Assault Team (TAGAT)

  Greenville, South Carolina

  God Bless America

  Semper primus, semper paratus.

  “Always first, always prepared.”

  * * *

  The wail of the alarm inside Mazer’s cell in the brig was so loud and piercing and incessant that he pressed his hands against his ears to muffle the noise. The speaker broadcasting the alarm was positioned directly above him in the ceiling and was clearly intended for an open area on a ship instead of a tiny confined box where sound reverberated off walls to the point of being painful. Mazer was tempted to reach up, rip off the speaker cover, and yank the wires loose.

  He moved to the front of the cell, a solid piece of thick glass. From here he could see the processing table in the other room, where the MPs on duty were normally anchored and passing the time. The table was empty. The MPs were nowhere in sight. Mazer banged on the glass with the palm of his hand, but he doubted anyone in the other room could hear over the alarm.

  The fact that no one came for him made him wonder if this was a drill. New trainees arrived at GravCamp every few weeks, making it necessary to conduct frequent trainings on what to do should the station ever come under attack. Mazer had not yet experienced such a drill, but he knew they happened periodically, and he figured the station was due one.

  It struck him as odd, though, that none of the MPs had come in to reassure him that all was well. The alarm had been going for over a minute now, and Mazer was an officer. He might be locked in a cell; Colonel Dietrich might be trying to degrade and humiliate him; but MPs generally took their duties seriously and treated prisoners with dignity. Especially officers.

  So why didn’t anyone come?

  Perhaps they thought not coming was the greater courtesy. Maybe they thought it would be humiliating for an incarcerated officer to have to engage in such a drill, for it would require him to leave his cell in cuffs and be frog marched by two MPs through corridors filled with marines. Maybe they thought Mazer would appreciate sitting this one out.

  But the more likely explanation was that this wasn’t a drill and that the MPs hadn’t come because they had all been urgently pulled away. If the space station was breached or damaged, MPs would need to be placed in strategic locations throughout the station to direct people to escape pods and keep everyone calm.

  Mazer’s suspicions were confirmed a moment later when the alarm stopped and an officer from the helm got on the speaker and ordered all pilots to their fighters and all marines into their pressure suits and then to their assigned escape pods. Everyone needed to be ready for a breach and to abandon the space station if necessary.

  The sudden urgency of the message alarmed Mazer. GravCamp was in a stable orbit around Jupiter. There were plenty of Trojan asteroids in the sector to provide the enemy some cover, but they were all a great distance away from the space station. Formic warships couldn’t sneak up on GravCamp undetected—we would see them coming. And yet Colonel Dietrich was scrambling fighters, which meant Formics must be relatively close. Mazer’s mind went to the Kandahar. A ship investigating a vanishing asteroid. A ship attacked without warning. A ship that should have seen the enemy approach but didn’t. Then there were the blinds used in the ambush of Operation Deep Dive. Had the Formics built blinds here? Had they used a blind to approach GravCamp without being seen? Were they right outside already?

  Mazer banged on the glass, but no one came. The other two cells were empty. No one else was in the brig. He needed to get out and into a pressure suit. He moved around the room, looking for any structural weakness that he might exploit, but of course he didn’t find any. The room was designed to incarcerate, to contain, to hold. The walls were metal. The front was thick glass, likely unbreakable. If he could’ve anchored himself to the floor or furniture, he might’ve been able to kick the glass forcefully. But the room was devoid of any furniture and the MPs had taken his magnetic greaves. In zero G there was no need for a bed or desk or anything. Even the toilet was a mere hole in the wall with a vacuum setting. Mazer didn’t even have his wrist pad, so he couldn’t contact anyone or call for help.

  He was stuck in here until someone came for him.

  And five minutes later, someone did.

  Bingwen, already dressed in a pressure suit and helmet, flew into the brig and anchored his feet to the floor in front of the glass. A small bucket and brush were in his hand, and he started painting the glass with white glossy paint. The paint was speckled with dots of black, as if Bingwen had doused it with pepper. He slapped the paint on quickly in wide, long strokes that crudely resembled the shape of a door. Then he holstered the brush and tapped at his wrist pad. At once, the paint began to vibrate almost imperceptibly. Then small wafts of dust began to drift away from the paint as it disintegrated.

  In seconds, the paint was gone, and for a brief moment Mazer thought that this would be the end of it, that the NanoCloud bots had unzipped all the paint but couldn’t penetrate the glass. Or perhaps the glass wasn’t glass at all but rather a petroleum-based nonsilicon material or composed of other elements the nanobots couldn’t recognize.

  But then the glass began to disappear in a flurry of activity, as if the nanobots had struggled through the bog of paint in slow motion but now sprinted as they found true glass. Silicate dust puffed away in all directions, making a cloud as the entire glass wall, end to end, disappeared.
Bingwen quickly tapped at his wrist pad again, and the process suddenly halted. Mazer shielded his eyes from the dust and launched through the space where the glass had been, sending the dust swirling in every direction. He landed on the opposite wall and then pushed off again toward the exit.

  “That worked better than expected,” said Bingwen as they hurried from the brig, keeping their eyes half-closed and shielded from the dust. “When you didn’t show up at your pod, I figured the MPs forgot about you.”

  “I’m sure you realize that helping someone escape from military custody is a serious crime,” said Mazer. “As is destroying IF property.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Bingwen. His voice was broadcast from the external speakers in his helmet. “We need to get you in a suit.”

  They hurried up the corridor, back toward Mazer’s quarters where his pressure suit was stored, passing crowds of marines as they went, some in their pressure suits, others frantically still dressing. One blond-haired kid was holding his helmet and blinking stupidly as if paralyzed by the panic.

  Mazer grabbed him. “Marine, what’s your name?”

  The marine looked at him blankly. “Frandsen, sir. Ensign Frandsen.”

  He was Dutch. He’d probably lied about his age. He didn’t look a day over sixteen.

  Mazer grabbed one of the marines rushing past him, moving for the pods.

  “Your oxygen,” said Mazer, shaking the man’s shoulder. “Your life support isn’t on. Wake up.”

  Comprehension registered on the man’s face, and he tapped at his wrist pad. The lights in his helmet winked to life. “Sorry, sir.”

  “This is Ensign Frandsen,” said Mazer, gesturing to the young marine. “You’re going to help him get into his suit, and then you’re going to make sure it’s all powered up, and then you’re going to help him get to the pods. Grab five marines to help you look for stragglers along the way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The marine sprang into action and focused on Frandsen, and Mazer and Bingwen moved on, maneuvering through the tide of bodies hustling in the opposite direction.