The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  “Did you come to me because I have money or because you think I’m the kind of person who would condone such atrocities?”

  “Both, honestly. You have money. And you fit the profile. We know what we’re doing when we profile someone. I wouldn’t have revealed myself to you, Lem, if my people weren’t absolutely certain that you would come along. I wouldn’t have revealed myself to Wila, either. But she fit the profile, too.”

  “A different profile from my own, I wager,” said Lem.

  “Starkly,” said Crowe. “But keep in mind, Lem, that these are not the only two characteristics that we pursued in seeking our benefactor. There are plenty of men in the world who have a lot of money and would condone extreme measures. But many of them are people we wouldn’t want to associate with. Criminals. Warlords. Heads of underground and unseemly organizations.”

  “But they wouldn’t help you,” said Lem. “Because they don’t care about your cause. They adore their wealth and power. They don’t give it away to shady intelligence officers. They keep it for themselves. In fact, I’m willing to bet that I’m not the first person you approached. I’m likely the fourth or fifth, the guy you came to after you approached the wealthiest scum of the Earth.”

  “I’m disappointed you would think so,” said Crowe. “As I told you, we were searching for a very specific profile. Criminals may have some of the attributes, but they don’t have the one we needed the most.”

  “Naiveté?” said Lem.

  “Compassion,” said Crowe.

  Lem laughed quietly. “Yes, all the assassins I know have such big effulgent hearts. They’re such tenderhearted honeypots.”

  Crowe grew serious. “Toxic command is rampant in the Fleet, Lem. Some of these commanders are bad because they’re incompetent and idiots and get people killed. But some of them are bad because they put marines through hell. Not because war is hell, but because these bastards delight in cruelty. They humiliate their marines. Publicly and privately. They shame them. Degrade them. Mock them. Scorn them. Laugh at them. We have marines who have taken their own lives because they can no longer endure the command of a monster. If you think no such commanders exist in the Fleet, then you are painfully naive. Sometimes, commanders are both amoral and imbecilic. Those are the especially dangerous ones. To remove them, to put a stop to their abusive power, is an act of compassion, Lem. Every marine deserves to be led honorably, to be treated with dignity, to be given a commander that keeps them alive as they complete their objectives.”

  “So that’s your goal?” said Lem. “For every marine to have a good experience with their commander.”

  Crowe’s expression soured, and he waved the comment away. “Don’t be snide, Lem. You and I both know that the survival of our species is what’s at stake here. Right now, as we speak, Formic warships disguised as our warships are laying waste to squadrons all over the solar system, the repercussions of which will shatter this Fleet to its core. The Formics have been planning this for the better part of a year, at least. They made warships to look like ours so they could prance right up to our ships without causing alarm and blow our marines to dust. That’s what we’re up against, Lem. Brilliant military minds who seem to have no end of resources and capabilities. And who do we send to lead and protect us? Clowns. Idiots. Savages.”

  Lem stared at him, horrified. His network of contacts within the IF and the company had informed him of rumors of a Formic offensive, but Lem hadn’t realized the scope and magnitude.

  “You picked a hell of a day to meet, Lem,” said Crowe. “Because tomorrow everything changes. Tomorrow the world panics. The casualties of today, the loss of life, the loss of ships, of equipment, of personnel, this will be the greatest war disaster in the history of war. The Formics have been cutting us and bleeding us for a year. Today they severed an arm. Maybe more than that. Most of the world woke up this morning, still clinging to the hope that we could bounce back and turn this war. By this time tomorrow, the world will think differently.”

  “You’re saying we don’t have a chance?” said Lem.

  “I’m saying this is rock bottom. We need to weed out toxic and incompetent command now more than ever. I’m saying we can’t afford to lose anymore.”

  “This assault would have happened with or without bad commanders,” said Lem.

  “Maybe,” said Crowe. “Or maybe we would have discovered the Formics’ plans if not for the commanders who obstructed information and kept intelligence to themselves. Who disregarded warning signs because they were too stupid to notice them, too cowardly to pursue them, or too incompetent to report them. No, we would have been more prepared, Lem. We may not have prevented it, but we would have a lot fewer dead marines to count.”

  “You’ll have your money,” said Lem. “But I’m giving it as a grant to the agency. What you do with it is none of my business. I’ll not be held responsible for it. I make no demands on its use, other than that it be used legally and ethically for the preservation of the human race. I hope we’re clear on that.”

  Crowe lifted his glass again. “We understand each other perfectly, Lem.”

  “But if I do you a favor, you do me a favor.”

  “If it’s within my capabilities,” said Crowe.

  “One, you drop the hypocrisy,” said Lem. “You stop professing to hold the moral high ground.”

  Crowe frowned. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “Then let me be crystal clear so that your keen intelligence-gathering ears will understand. You gave Wila a job in part to manipulate me. She is no doubt brilliant. She has much to offer any study on the enemy. But you could have offered that job a hundred times before and never did. Her work with the grubs is common knowledge now. Has been for six months. You could have swooped in and made an offer at any time.”

  “We didn’t know we needed her until now,” said Crowe.

  “If you want my money, you don’t lie to me,” said Lem. “I don’t finance liars. I despise liars. I think liars are worse than toxic commanders. You didn’t know you needed Wila until you needed leverage. Until you knew you needed my financing and that I was unlikely to give it.”

  “You think we’re holding Wila hostage? You think we took her as a veiled threat to you? That we would kill her if you didn’t help us?”

  “You’re in the business of killing, Crowe. It’s your expertise. And before you deny anything and lose your benefactor you should know that I have my own contacts as well.”

  Crowe was quiet a moment, then sat back in his chair. “We knew that if Wila was in our custody, so to speak, it might encourage you to lean our way. It was discussed, yes. I won’t lie to you on that. You can call that leverage, I suppose, but we have no intention of killing Wila if you say no. I happen to like Wila. Maybe not as much as you do, but I legitimately believe she has much to offer. Everything I told her about what we need from her is true. I hope she delivers.”

  “She is to be given every protection.”

  “Of course,” said Crowe. “I have my fiercest guard at her side constantly. It’s a woman, by the way, in case you’re wondering. I figured you’d be more comfortable with that.”

  “I’m not comfortable with any of it. You sent Wila into a war zone.”

  “We’re all in a war zone, Lem. Wila will simply be a little closer. You have my word that she will be given every possible protection. Anything else?”

  “Discontinue your association with Sokolov,” said Lem.

  “The Russian Lunar minister?” said Crowe. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re lying again,” said Lem. “Sokolov is an agent of ASH. He doesn’t work for the Russians. Not really. He works for you. You picked him because his connection to the Russians gives him another perceived agenda. Everyone would think he was conniving against my father because of Russia’s hope to gain more influence at the Hegemony. Sokolov probably even believed it himself. He’s too vain to see himself as a puppet. So when you pitched yourself as an ally, you convin
ced Sokolov that you worked for him. You presented him tactics and then convinced him that those ideas were really his own. Humiliating me at the fundraiser, for example. That wasn’t Sokolov’s idea. That was yours. Some ideas were his, but you were all too happy to encourage him. His dirty promises to the Hegemony Congress. His silent coup among the bureaucracy. That was mostly him. But it has your fingerprints all over it.”

  Crowe frowned. “That’s quite a lengthy list of accusations, Mr. Jukes.”

  “Not accusations. Facts, Mr. Crowe. Confirmed and validated by my sources. You’ve taught me a valuable lesson. One that I should probably thank you for. Money can indeed buy you anything. Including information. You have your people, and I have my people, and some of my people are also your people. I know who they are. You don’t. You can try to root them out, but I’ll only buy more. So you will run your little program of ‘command realignment,’ but I will be watching. And in the meantime, your association with men like Sokolov ends here. He’s gone. Don’t kill him. That’s too kind. But you will destroy him all the same and send him back to Russia. You want to root out the worms in the Fleet, I want to root out the worms here, the worms you have infecting your own tower of hypocrisy.”

  Crowe said, “Our intention was never for Sokolov to gain the Hegemony. It might seem that way, but Sokolov was a tool, an instrument. We used him to make cuts here and there to shift power where it belonged.”

  “Away from my father?” said Lem.

  “Away from your father, yes. The Hegemony does need new leadership, Lem. Not because your father has done a poor job, but because the Hegemony needs someone with military experience who can calm the rising sense of panic throughout the world. There is a war coming after this one, if we win, Lem. I’m trying to prevent that war.”

  “My father said the same thing.”

  “Your father and I agree on this front. He can’t be the Hegemon when we win.”

  “So you allied with my father in the shifting of power and yet you also orchestrated his removal by creating an enemy in Sokolov.”

  “Nation building is a complicated puzzle, Lem. It takes careful coordination.”

  “You’re not building a nation here,” said Lem.

  “Oh, but we are. Or at least preserving one. The Hegemony itself. It’s not technically a nation, but it functions like one. Keeping the right people in power is part of the puzzle.”

  “And Sharon Solomon. The new Hegemon. Was that your idea or Father’s?”

  “Does it matter? She needs to be there. She’s there.”

  “Does my father know that Sokolov was your creation? Does he realize that he was betrayed by you, someone he considered an ally?”

  Crowe laughed. “Your father doesn’t see me as an ally, Lem. He sees me as a necessity. He and I are like tectonic plates, pushing against each other to move mountains. You’re free to tell him, though I suspect he already knows. I suspect he always knew.”

  “And yet he doesn’t fire you,” said Lem. “He keeps you close.”

  “Tectonic plates,” repeated Crowe, lifting his glass again before taking a drink.

  “Sokolov,” said Lem. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Consider it done,” said Crowe. “He’ll be ruined. Which won’t be difficult. We merely have to publicly reveal what he is. And in the meantime, I will take a more careful look at my—what did you call it?—tower of hypocrisy. But I’m surprised, Lem. You didn’t need me to ruin Sokolov. That’s certainly within your own striking distance. Without anyone knowing it was you.”

  Lem stood and buttoned his jacket. “I have heavier targets than Sokolov, Mr. Crowe. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  “You’re leaving?” said Crowe. “But we haven’t eaten.”

  “Louis will feed you and your guards. I told him to expect at least this many. He’ll bring out some chairs. If what you say about the war today is true, tomorrow is a new and darker day. Best enjoy good food while you can.”

  * * *

  Meeting number three took place in a honky-tonk down in Old Town, where a sweat-soaked live band in cowboy hats from the United States was squeezed onto a platform not big enough to contain them. They all wore matching leather vests and played various stringed instruments, two of which Lem had never seen before. The songs were all ballads about unrequited love and other sad tales of misery, but Lem found himself tapping his foot along with the beat despite himself.

  A heavyset woman holding sealed containers of alcohol on a tray paused at his booth. “Don’t I know you?” she said, eyeing him playfully. “You’re some big shot, aren’t you?”

  “Not anymore,” said Lem.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Privacy,” said Lem. He tipped her fifty credits.

  She looked half annoyed and half elated, but she left him alone as asked.

  Shambhani arrived two minutes early and slid into the booth across from Lem. He offered his hand. “Mr. Jukes. Dalir Shambhani.”

  He was not unlike the photos Lem had seen of him. Pakistani. Mid-twenties. Stout. The bearing of a soldier. Eyes moving steadily, watchful for threats.

  “You were part of Mazer Rackham’s breach team,” said Lem.

  “Until I lost my leg,” said Shambhani. He twisted his body, lifted his knee, and pulled up his pant leg just far enough for Lem to see the prosthetic leg underneath.

  “That must have been difficult,” said Lem.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Shambhani. “Shall we excuse ourselves to more private quarters? We’ll end up shouting ourselves hoarse to be heard in here.”

  “Please,” said Lem.

  They squeezed past the stage as one of the performers was tearing into a fiddle solo and made their way toward the back of the building. Once the stage door closed behind them, the deafening roar of the band disappeared. “I’m not a country music fan myself,” said Shambhani. “We don’t have that in Pakistan. But there’s a market for it here, for whatever reason.”

  They weaved their way through a kitchen, where a half dozen people were cooking, and stepped into a back office so cluttered with boxes of booze and supplies that Lem didn’t know where to sit. Shambhani moved to a chair and freed it of the boxes stacked there, then gestured for Lem to make himself comfortable. On the wall hung a flag of the International Fleet and another of the Pakistani Special Service Group, the primary special-ops force of the Pakistan Army. Other remnants of a brief military career dotted the walls and desktops elsewhere. A beret, patches, pins, photos of comrades.

  “You were with the SSG,” said Lem.

  “Before the Fleet,” said Shambhani.

  “Hard men,” said Lem.

  “They’re men like me and you, Mr. Jukes. But they can be hard. Have to be sometimes. What can I do for you?”

  “I was told you run more than a business here,” said Lem. “I was told you run several businesses.”

  “I pay my bills,” said Shambhani. “What kind of business are you looking for exactly?”

  “I need an army,” said Lem. “And you’re the kind of man who can assemble one.”

  Shambhani scratched at his beard as if considering. “That depends. What kind of army do you need? They come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “A platoon. Highly trained. I’m guessing fifty men. Special ops. Zero G trained. Maneuvers. Formic combat a plus.”

  Shambhani whistled. “That’s quite a list, Mr. Jukes. An army like that isn’t easy to come by. Men who are zero G trained and have experience popping Formics are usually members of a little club called the International Fleet. They don’t hang around in the mercenary aisle waiting for a shopper to come along.”

  “But they are out there,” said Lem.

  “You’ve set some very narrow parameters,” said Shambhani. “If they have to be special ops, you dramatically lessen your options. Special ops are the best of the best. The Fleet doesn’t easily part with those guys.”

  “They parted with you,” said Lem.

 
Shambhani scratched at his beard again. “Parameters like the ones you’re setting are also expensive. As in extremely.”

  “How expensive?” said Lem.

  Shambhani shrugged. “Depends on what you want this army to do. If they need zero G training, I’m assuming this is a space op. Maybe security for a group of people you know. Some bigwig corporate executives, maybe. Or military contractors. You need escorts through the Belt or something? I’m guessing here. What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to find and kill the Hive Queen,” said Lem.

  Shambhani laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m quite serious,” said Lem. “I need a platoon of highly trained soldiers to board a private military craft that I personally own and help me hunt down the Hive Queen.”

  “The Hive Queen doesn’t exist, Mr. Jukes. That’s the official Fleet position.”

  “And do you believe that position?” said Lem. “Because that will end our conversation.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe,” said Shambhani. “This is a question of logistics. We don’t know where the Hive Queen is. You can’t pack fifty men into a ship and go off looking for her like Captain Ahab. The solar system is wide, Mr. Jukes. You’re a corporate miner. You know that as well as anyone. We need a destination. A place to target. You have to plan ops like this. We need to know how much food to bring, fuel to load. If we’re heading out to the K Belt, that’s a year of travel time. Mercs don’t jump at those jobs, sir. That’s a year of floating in an iron box and doing nothing but riding along and occasionally trimming your fingernails. Not the kind of work that gets the best men to sign up.”

  “I have a target,” said Lem. “It’s not far.”

  “How far is not far?”

  “A near-Earth asteroid,” said Lem.

  “You think the Hive Queen is parked at an NEA? You better hope the hell not.”

  “I don’t know definitively. But I think it’s possible. Maybe likely.”

  “What’s this asteroid called?”

  “Eros,” said Lem.

  CHAPTER 20