The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  “Bingwen, what do you know?”

  “The ship attacking us is one of ours. It just obliterated the Antietam, a transport, several million klicks out. We don’t yet know if there are any survivors on the Antietam. Colonel Dietrich is ordering all pilots to their fighters.”

  “You said it’s one of ours?” said Mazer. “A ship of the Fleet?”

  “That’s what the helm is saying. D-class battleship. Jianjun has a direct link to the helm. He’s feeding me intel.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Mazer. “Are we certain this ship fired on the Antietam? There are no other ships in the vicinity?”

  “None. We don’t know what weaponry was used, but this ship caught the Antietam completely by surprise.”

  “Who’s the captain?” said Mazer. “Do we have a hull number? Why would one of ours attack the Antietam?”

  “No one knows who the captain is because we don’t yet know which D-class battleship it is. We can’t identify it at this distance, and neither could the Antietam. We only know its shape, and it’s definitely one of ours.”

  “What’s the distance? How much time do we have?”

  Bingwen relayed the question to Jianjun via the radio in his helmet and waited for a response. “Considering the ship’s velocity, Jianjun says it will reach GravCamp in ninety-three minutes.”

  “That’s not a lot of time,” said Mazer. “Have Jianjun find out which ship it is and who the captain is. Get a manifest of the crew. Check flight and traffic reports in and around Jupiter. It couldn’t have popped out of nowhere. It belongs to a squad. My guess is escort or recon. If it’s one of ours, there will be a record of its movements. A paper trail. Shipping reports, fuel stops, something.”

  “How is Jianjun supposed to figure that out?” said Bingwen. “Where does he begin? This ship could be from anywhere.”

  “Look at its current trajectory and go backwards,” said Mazer. “It came from somewhere. Draw a line from its stern and put the starcharts in reverse. The instant that ship in reverse collides with something in the past, we’ll know its origins. Tell him to call us the instant he has an answer.”

  Bingwen relayed Mazer’s message.

  By then they had reached Mazer’s quarters. Mazer tried the door and found it locked.

  “Bingwen, you got in any tools in that pouch?”

  Bingwen extracted his pocket laser and made quick work of the lock. Mazer was inside an instant later and pulling his pressure suit down from the closet.

  “Have you got a theory on this?” said Bingwen as Mazer climbed into his suit. “Why would a D-class battleship take out one of our transports? And why is it coming for GravCamp? Was it hijacked? Pirates?”

  “I’ve heard stories of pirate crews bold enough to attack and steal an IF vessel,” said Mazer. “But what pirate crew would be foolish enough to hijack an IF ship and then use it to brazenly attack a well-defended IF facility? What would that accomplish? That’s strategically pointless.”

  “Maybe we have supplies here that pirates want.”

  “This is a training facility,” said Mazer, “not a weapons cache or a supply depot. There’s nothing here of value for pirates to seize and cash in on.”

  “We have the soldiers’ individual battle suits and the training tech used here.”

  “That’s hardly the motherlode,” said Mazer. “No, this isn’t pirates. Pirates might be bold, but they aren’t stupid. They survive by avoiding risks and hitting easy targets full of valuable goods. GravCamp is the opposite: high risk, minimal spoils.”

  “Unless the pirates know something we don’t,” said Bingwen. “Maybe there are valuable supplies at GravCamp that Colonel Dietrich has kept hidden from us? Advanced weaponry? Or navigational data? Something that would allow pirates to raid supply ships elsewhere, information on their vulnerabilities?”

  “Even if that were true,” said Mazer, “attacking GravCamp is asking to be destroyed.”

  “Then who?” said Bingwen. “Terrorists?”

  That seemed the likeliest explanation. Had an IF crewman or team plotted mutiny? Had they seized control of the helm of that ship and killed the principal crew, with the intent of taking out an IF training facility? If so, who would have such a grievance against the Fleet? There were nations on Earth vying for control of the Hegemony and vilifying Ukko Jukes at every turn. It was all over the press and Mazer’s forum. Russia was the most outspoken. But Turkey and Pakistan and others were equally combative. Had they staged this? Was this a coup within the IF? Was this part of a larger, coordinated mutiny happening simultaneously throughout the system? Was this an isolated incident or civil war?

  Mazer snapped on his helmet, sealed his suit tight, and initiated life support. “Jianjun, it’s Mazer. Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.”

  “Has the helm sent a message via laserline to Daveroon? Do they know we’re under attack?”

  Daveroon was the closest IF outpost, positioned at the outer rim of the Belt.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Mazer switched his commlink and radioed the helm. “Helm, this is Captain Mazer Rackham. Connect me to the laserline operator.”

  The voice said, “One moment, sir.”

  There was a click and another voice answered.

  “Laserline. Tech Assistant Gomez.”

  “This is Captain Mazer Rackham. I’m here at the facility. Have we sent a message to Daveroon? Do they know we’re under attack? Or have we heard if they’re under attack?”

  “Why would they be under attack?” the tech asked.

  “Just find out,” said Mazer. “Call me back on this channel the instant you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mazer switched channels and tried for Colonel Li but got no response. If Li did have an ansible, now was the time to use it.

  The number of soldiers hurrying past Mazer’s quarters toward the pods was thinning now.

  “Now what?” said Bingwen. “If we go to our pods, we’re not helping. We’re just sitting there, waiting for the order to eject. We’re nothing but targets.”

  “Jianjun,” said Mazer into the radio. “Where are the fighters docked?”

  “Hangar D3.”

  Mazer turned to Bingwen. “You know how to get to Hangar D3 from here?”

  “All the fighters are likely spoken for,” said Bingwen.

  “Let’s find out,” said Mazer.

  Bingwen launched down the corridor and Mazer followed. They reached the deck shaft and dove downward several decks, with Bingwen landing and launching and moving like a jackrabbit. Mazer noticed how Bingwen’s small size gave him the advantage in these narrow spaces, where he could twist and maneuver and land far easier than Mazer, who was struggling to keep up.

  “Where are the other boys?” said Mazer.

  “Jianjun’s in the barracks. The others are at the pods.”

  “You abandoned your army?”

  “My pretend army. To bust you out of prison. Which is probably where we’re both headed after this is over. Especially if we steal a fighter. Incidentally, are we planning on stealing a fighter? Or is this another one of those instances in which we merely surreptitiously borrow?”

  “Neither,” said Mazer. “We need to assist a squadron, if we can, not disrupt them.”

  They reached the control room outside Hangar D3 moments later. Flight coordinators and assistants were gathered around a cluster of terminals.

  “Who’s the CO here?” Mazer asked.

  A captain with the flag of Senegal on his country-designation patch stepped forward. His nameplate read Sarr. “Who are you?”

  “A pilot, if you need one,” said Mazer.

  Captain Sarr appraised Mazer suspiciously. “A pilot of what exactly? Our squadron flies Tikari fighters.”

  The Tikari—Finnish for dagger, or Tik as it was commonly known—was a squat, two-seater Juke design that had proven especially nimble in the war, dodging in and out of combat like a pesk
y housefly. Mazer had test-flown it at WAMRED—the Fleet’s testing grounds for all combat equipment and vessels—and given the Tik good marks for maneuverability and speed. Designed to hold nine guided breach missiles and two slasers, the Tik could pack a quick wallop.

  “I test-flew Tiks at WAMRED,” said Mazer. “I’ve got five hundred flight hours in them easy.”

  Captain Sarr gestured to Bingwen. “And who’s this?”

  “Co-pilot and gunner,” said Bingwen. “I have zero hours in a real Tik, but about two hundred hours in the sim. The same sim pilots train with. We had them on the transports on the way out here.”

  Captain Sarr shook his head. “I can’t put a stranger and a kid in with my squad. I don’t know either of you. You don’t know our maneuvers, our formations. You’ll only get in the way.”

  “So you have a Tik available,” said Mazer. “Maybe a couple. Otherwise that would have been your first excuse to get rid of us.”

  Captain Sarr considered. He read the nameplate on Mazer’s suit. “Captain Rackham, huh? I’ll have to clear this with Colonel Dietrich.”

  “No, you won’t,” said a new voice.

  They all turned as Colonel Li landed beside them and anchored his feet to the floor. “Colonel Dietrich is no longer the commanding officer of this station. I am. Captain Rackham and Bingwen are to be given access to whatever equipment or vessel they require. Those are my orders.”

  Captain Sarr looked at each of them in turn and hesitated, as if unsure what to believe.

  “I recognize this all comes as a shock, Captain Sarr,” said Colonel Li as he typed at his wrist pad, “but none of us have time for your dithering. I am sending you a copy of my authorization of command. You can review it at your leisure, but not now. We’re wasting time.”

  Captain Sarr’s wrist pad dinged with a new message as Colonel Li pushed past him and into the control room.

  “Bring up the fighters’ visuals on this screen here,” said Li. “I want to see what every pilot sees. Captain Rackham, Bingwen, you have your orders.”

  Captain Sarr moved to obey as Mazer pushed off toward the airlock on the far wall, with Bingwen right behind him.

  Once Mazer and Bingwen were inside the airlock and Mazer had set the hatch seal and made sure the automatic locking mechanism worked, he asked, “Did you really do two hundred hours in a Tik simulator?”

  “It was more like forty hours,” said Bingwen. “But I was very good. Better than Nak, anyway. I only crashed three times while docking.”

  “How reassuring,” said Mazer.

  Bingwen smiled. “You’ll be doing that anyway. I target and give nav support. Piece of cake.”

  “Kim would kill me if she knew I was I taking you with me,” said Mazer.

  “Kim would kill you if she knew you had volunteered for this,” said Bingwen. “We’ll tell her after the war and have a good laugh.”

  Mazer opened the airlock.

  Hangar D3 was empty save for two Tik fighters in their docking harnesses.

  They decided on the nearest fighter and launched toward it, into the vacuum of the hangar, soaring across the open space, rotating once as they went to get their feet under them as they had practiced so many times in the Battle Room.

  As he flew, Mazer brought up his knees and engaged the NanoGoo on his boot soles. He landed on the roof of the fighter, and his feet locked down and held him firm. Bingwen landed beside him. The hatch was already unscrewed and open. Mazer drifted into the weapons bay and activated power and lights and got everything humming. He did a quick count of the breach weapons and did a cursory sweep of the gear. By then, Bingwen had sealed the hatch and moved into the co-pilot’s seat in the cockpit.

  Mazer pulled himself into the pilot’s seat, buckled up, flipped on targeting and navigation, and initiated the docking arm to move the Tik to the launch tube. “We’ll hit nearly six Gs on launch. The simulator doesn’t prepare you for that. Considering your size—”

  “If I pass out, you’ll poke me until I wake up,” said Bingwen.

  The Tik snapped into place in the launch tube, and the gate before them opened, revealing a circle of black space and stars at the end of a long tube. Mazer hesitated. “Here we go. Try not to throw up.”

  Mazer flipped the switch, and the slingshot mechanism threw the fighter down the launch tube. The sudden G-force slammed Mazer hard against his seat and he clung to the flight stick with a white-knuckled grip, the tunnel walls blurring past them like a streak of light. A heartbeat later the fighter shot from the launch tube and was free of the space station, rocketing out toward a black canvas of stars.

  Mazer put some distance between them and GravCamp before he engaged the thrusters, banked to the left, and dove downward, spinning in the direction of the approaching battleship. Mazer’s body shifted in the restraints, pushed one way and then another, as he maneuvered the fighter into position and set a course to intercept. Several blips on his HUD indicated the other fighters ahead, already in formation. Mazer accelerated and again felt pressed against the seat.

  “This definitely wasn’t in the simulation,” said Bingwen as he clung to the handholds on the side of his seat. “Or are you intentionally making this a violent ride to teach me a lesson?”

  “Close your eyes if you feel nauseous,” said Mazer. “The spinning stars outside make it worse.”

  “I’m fine,” said Bingwen. “Just disoriented.”

  Mazer read the flight data on his HUD and opened a channel. “Green Squad, this is Captain Mazer Rackham and co-pilot Lieutenant Bingwen, come to give you another pair of guns should you need them.”

  Bingwen muted his comm and sent a direct link to Mazer. “I’m not a lieutenant.”

  “They don’t need to know that,” said Mazer.

  A woman’s voice crackled over the radio. “Colonel Li just informed us you were coming, Captain. Good to have you along.”

  It was the squad leader. A South African lieutenant named Opperman.

  The squad spent a quick moment introducing themselves. There were a total of seven fighters, including Mazer. Far fewer than Mazer had hoped.

  “You want to tell us what’s going on, Captain?” said Opperman. “Helm is saying this battleship coming in is one of ours.”

  “That’s the story,” said Mazer. “Any change in its approach?”

  “Negative. Coming in like a barn sparrow, hot and heavy. Did this thing really take out one of our own transports?”

  “And the few hundred marines who were on it,” said Mazer. “The transport is the Antietam. Lieutenant, with your permission I’d like my co-pilot to check every frequency and see if he can get anyone from the Antietam on radio. Maybe there are survivors.”

  “I’m looking at the debris field right now on my HUD,” said Opperman. “If there are survivors, it would be a miracle. It looks like a few larger pieces were thrown from the attack site, but chances are slim that anyone’s alive inside them. But you don’t need my permission to do anything, Captain Rackham. Colonel Li has given you this op. We’re awaiting your orders.”

  Li opened a private channel with Mazer. “Don’t object to this, Mazer. I know precisely what you’re going to say. These pilots don’t know you. They haven’t trained with you. Putting you in charge will only disrupt whatever rhythm they have. I understand. But I know you, not them. And right now, my only concern is every marine on this space station. If you don’t stop that battleship, we all might die. That’s a scenario I am taking every precaution to avoid. This isn’t ideal, but this is the situation we find ourselves in. Your orders are to intercept that battleship and destroy it.”

  Mazer didn’t argue. Li had voiced all of Mazer’s objections and dismissed them. There was nothing left to say, only work to be done.

  “Sir,” said Mazer. “There is a possibility, maybe even a likelihood, that some of the crew members on that ship are hostages. Control of the battleship has obviously been seized by terrorist mutineers, rogue members of the crew, or possi
bly even a single deranged member of the Fleet. There might be hundreds of innocent people on board who can’t reach the helm. If we annihilate that battleship, we kill them all.”

  “I have already consulted with CentCom on this, Mazer,” said Colonel Li. “Your orders are to fire and destroy. That battleship killed some of our own people. Now it’s accelerating toward our position. The consensus is that they intend to ram us.”

  “Ramming the space station would be suicide,” said Mazer. “The battleship would disintegrate on impact.”

  “This isn’t an isolated incident, Mazer. I’ve been informed that it’s happening elsewhere in the Fleet. The ships of Operation Sky Siege are under attack as we speak, not by the Formics, but by ships of their own fleet. The battleship on approach is a threat to this facility. I am aware that innocent lives on that ship may be lost, but I’ll take that over all of us dying. Now do your job.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mazer.

  He clicked off the channel and began entering data into the ship’s flight computer preparing for acceleration and intercept.

  “We’re going through with this?” said Bingwen. “We’re vaporizing one of our own ships?”

  “If that proves necessary,” said Mazer.

  Bingwen frowned. “If? That sounds like you’re considering ignoring a lawful order.”

  “Is it lawful?” said Mazer. “I could probably argue that at my court-martial.”

  “So you are disobeying the order,” said Bingwen.

  “The colonel told us to destroy the ship,” said Mazer. “He didn’t tell us how.”

  “And how, pray tell, do you intend to destroy it?”

  “We breach the ship,” said Mazer. “We infiltrate it at the helm and take out whoever staged this mutiny. We take back control of the battleship and then we stop it or veer it away from GravCamp.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?” said Bingwen.

  “We annihilate it.” Mazer clicked back to the squadron. “Green Squad. We are ordered to destroy that battleship. Lieutenant Opperman, how willing are you to go with me inside and try a less destructive method first?”