The Swarm: The Second Formic War

by Orson Scott Card

  It was strong, unnaturally strong for its size, pounding him like a gorilla.

  Victor’s alarm continued to wail. Oxygen was leaking. Another blow to his head. Another. He reached out with his other arm and wrapped it around the Formic, pulling it close to his chest in a bear hug. Then he swung the gauntlet blade out and down and buried it in the Formic’s back.

  The Formic went limp instantly, releasing its grip. Dead.

  Victor yanked the crampon free and pushed the creature away. He was still spinning, disoriented.

  His feet struck rock, and then the rest of his body followed, hitting the surface of the asteroid. He grabbed blind, scrambling for purchase. His hands gripped stone, the lip of a tunnel. It was enough to stop him. He couldn’t see. His oxygen was gone. He had to anchor himself, think. He twisted his body. The tunnel was narrow. He shoved his foot into the hole just far enough to anchor himself down. The alarm in his helmet screamed in his ear.

  “Cancel alarm.”

  The helmet went silent. The no-oxygen warning continued to flash. “Imala, are you there? Can you read me? Over?”

  There was no response.

  “Imala can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  The Formic wasn’t wearing a spacesuit. It had breathed the oxygen in the air, yes, but the levels of hydrogen were dangerous. Victor didn’t need explosive hydrogen in his lungs. Plus hydrogen could diffuse into the bloodstream and cause hydrogenation of fats and other organic molecules. Not good. He reached down and unzipped the emergency kit at his hip and pulled out the oxygen mask. The line snaked out from the kit and connected to the O2 reserve in his suit. Only twenty minutes worth.

  “Imala, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I can’t come outside. My helmet is damaged. It won’t seal. I’m going to try to repair it, but I don’t know if I can. Do not come for me. If I can’t fix it, I’ll go to the Formic ship. I’ll seal myself inside. I’ll wait there. Again, do not come for me.”

  Had she heard him? Was he getting through? Probably not. Imala would be frantic.

  He pulled his helmet off, and a wave of heat and dust and smells assaulted him. Organic smells. Faint, but unpleasant, like food left out of the freezer for a few days. He put the small oxygen mask on over his head and tightened the feeble rubber straps. The oxygen regulator was a manual knob inside the kit. He gave it a quarter turn and oxygen came into the mask. It was such a small and flimsy thing, just big enough to cover his mouth and nose. His head was totally exposed, and it left him feeling vulnerable. He shined his light upward and found the dead Formic drifting through the air twenty meters away, globules of blood trailing in the air behind it.

  The hive mind. What one of them sees, they all see, he reminded himself. If there were more Formics here, they would come for him. They would know he was here. He needed to move. He should have listened to Imala. He never should have come inside. And yet the IF needed to know.

  The helmet. He turned it over in his hands, examining it. It had taken a beating, but it had held. Except at the bottom. The metal was creased inward from a blow right at the edge. The crease was small, but it was enough. He’d never get a true seal with the suit. He tried bending the metal back, but it was useless. The metal wouldn’t budge. He had worked so hard to make the alloy strong, and now that very strength was working against him.

  The ship was the only option. And even that wasn’t much of an option. He wasn’t even certain if he could get inside it. Or if it was oxygenated once he did. And even if he could get in the ship, there was no way for Imala to extract him. The quickship had no docking tube, no means of sealing itself to the Formic ship. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t ride in the quickship. It wasn’t oxygenated, and he didn’t have a functioning suit. He had no way of returning to the Gagak. He was a dead man.

  And yet, he had to try. What exactly, he wasn’t sure. But something.

  He took a moment to orient himself. Where was he in relation to where he had entered? He looked above him at the resin, trying to see if he could find the scar of his cut.

  His heart sank. There was a light on the other side of the resin.

  Imala. She hadn’t heard him. She was coming for him.

  No, Imala. Don’t even try.

  The light had a wide beam. That was good. It meant Imala was still in the quickship and had brought it in close. She hadn’t tried leaving the quickship, which would be suicide. But she might try a spacewalk if he didn’t present himself.

  He had to stop her, communicate somehow what he was going to try. He bent his legs slightly and leaped upward toward the light. The resin would hold, but he worried about bouncing off. The inner wall was domed, and there was nothing to hold on to. He drew back his arm and sunk the crampon from his gauntlet into the resin as soon as he hit it. His body bounced against the resin wall, but the gauntlet held.

  Imala’s light had shifted while he was flying, however, so by the time he landed, the light had moved on. It hadn’t seen him.

  He took his own wrist light and stuck it against the resin. Did Imala know Morse code? Every free miner did, for there were moments on a ship when it was useful. So even if Imala didn’t know Morse, she was broadcasting what she saw back to the Gagak, and they could translate. He began flashing with his light.

  H-E-L-M-E-T-B-R-O-K-E-N. G-O-I-N-G-T-O-F-O-R-M-I-C-S-H-I-P.

  He repeated it two times. Helmet broken. Going to Formic ship. Imala’s wandering spotlight turned off during his first repeat. A good sign. It meant Imala had noticed his light and was paying attention. Either that or she had moved on and seen nothing.

  He did the sequence once more and waited. One minute passed. No response.

  Then the resin wall in front of him lit up as Imala’s spotlight flashed a brief two-letter prosign sequence that meant: Understood.

  Victor felt a rush of relief. She had received his message. If nothing else, she knew now not to attempt a rescue. His mistake wouldn’t kill her as well.

  Now he had to move. His oxygen was already a quarter gone. And the Formic ship was on the opposite side of the asteroid. He killed his lights. Formics could see in the dark, but he’d be even more conspicuous with his lights on. He tapped his propulsion trigger and moved to the right, staying flush with the resin wall as he went. He tried to slow his breathing and make his oxygen last, but he knew it probably wasn’t making much difference.

  The way before him was completely dark. His eyes must have adjusted by now, but he still couldn’t see anything. He knew the resin wall was beside him because he ran his hand along it as he went, maintaining contact. And if his fingers began to slip away, he course-corrected quickly, tapping a burst of air to put himself back against the resin.

  But he had no idea if he was going in the right direction. Generally this was the way to the ship, but sooner or later he would have to turn on his lights to find its exact position. He continued this way for a few minutes, wondering if he should turn his lights on now. Was he close? Had he passed it already? He listened for movement down on the rock, but heard nothing. The brief spurts of air from his propulsion pack seemed enormously loud to his ears. Like a trumpet declaring his position and asking to be attacked.

  But maybe the Formic ship had not had a crew of five. Maybe it had only had a crew of one. Maybe he didn’t have to worry about attack.

  He thought he heard a soft sound below him. A rustling or scrape of rock. He paused before he tapped the trigger again, listening. Was it one of those slugs? Or something else?

  A Formic collided with him and knocked him against the resin, their bodies tangled together. They didn’t bounce off like they should have. Something held them against the resin. Victor lashed out with his arms, protecting his head. One strike with a rock, and it would be over. The Formic clung to him but didn’t hit. It was holding him with its hind legs and reaching for the resin. Victor turned on his lights and saw to his horror that the anchor holding them to the cocoon was a sharp instrument or a knife in the Formic’s han
d. The creature was going to cut a hole. It was going to sacrifice itself and pull Victor out into space.

  The knife pierced the resin. There was a great rushing of air. Victor threw his gauntlet crampon to the side and sunk it into the resin, anchoring himself. His body shifted, feet pulled toward the hole. It was going to suck him out, he realized. His crampon anchor wouldn’t hold. He could already feel it slipping. The resin would seal shut in a moment, but the Formic would only cut it open again. He was going to die. He was going to be pulled into space without a helmet, with a Formic clinging to him, beating him, stabbing him.

  The knife came down toward his head, and Victor brought his free arm up across his face just in time to block the blow. A metal shard, not a knife, was inches from his face. The Formic’s wrist was pushing down on Victor’s arm, trying to bury the shard into Victor’s eye. The crampon was slipping. The air around him felt like a hundred hands pulling him toward the hole. The arm with the crampon was screaming for relief; it felt as if it might be pulled out of its socket. The Formic pressed down, getting closer, putting its shoulder into the downward push of the shard. The tip of the shard shifted slightly but eased closer, touching the bulbous oxygen mask, threatening to puncture it. Victor pushed outward with that arm, screaming, straining, exerting every ounce of energy he had. If he let up even slightly, the shard would end him in an instant.

  The oxygen mask began to bend inward as the shard eased its way down.

  Victor couldn’t fight back. He couldn’t knock the creature free. His blocking arm was growing weak, quivering, strained from the exertion. It would give out at any moment. His only hope was the hole and whatever magic sealed it shut.

  And just as he realized this, the pull of the air began to weaken. The hole was repairing itself. The screaming vortex of air rushing around them began to die down.

  The Formic realized it as well. It removed the knife from near Victor’s face and turned its attention back to the wall. It was going to make another cut. The first one had not yet sealed completely, but the Formic was going to cut and widen the hole again. And if that happened, Victor would die. He didn’t have the strength to hold on any longer or to fight anymore. He would be pulled out.

  He was flush against the resin wall, so he couldn’t see how big the hole was. Was it wide enough to pull him out? He had no way of knowing. And yet he couldn’t let the Formic make the cut.

  He yanked the crampon free—which barely took any effort; the blade was ready to slip free already. The pull of the air immediately yanked him toward the hole. The Formic, still clinging to him, shifted, surprised, trying to steady itself.

  Victor rolled, lifting his feet, fearful that he would be sucked out feet first, and turned his back to the hole as he slid across the resin toward it, hoping and praying that the hole was too small to pull him out back first.

  It was. The spear draped across his back was sucked against the hole, and for an instant he feared that the spearhead would tear through the resin.

  The air continued to pull around him, but it was far less than before. His back was covering the small remaining hole like a plug on a drain. The Formic was still on him, disoriented from the movement. Victor didn’t hesitate. He buried the crampon into the creature, and the Formic went still. It focused its eyes on him. The shard slipped from its hand, drifting away. The grip the Formic had on his waist loosened.

  Victor pushed it away. Air continued to rush by him. He tapped his propulsion, but it wasn’t strong enough to push him away from the air that held him in place. Was his back here keeping the resin from sealing? Was the spear pushing the sides apart?

  He tried to roll away but couldn’t. He didn’t have leverage. And then the pull of air around him slowed further. And further. And stopped.

  The hole had sealed beneath him.

  Victor floated there, breathing heavily, heart pounding, exhausted. But alive.

  His oxygen. He must have used up most of his oxygen in the fight. He needed to find the ship immediately. His wrist lights were still on, but he no longer cared. He would need them. And if the lights caused more Formics to come, so be it. He had to see. He tapped his propulsion and pushed himself away from the wall, pulling the spear free of his back. He shined his lights ahead. All he could see was more resin wall, curving around. Below him was the asteroid. He shined a light down and saw hundreds of tunnels below. And unlike before, these tunnels were teeming with grubs. He could see movement in at least ten tunnels. Small creatures moving among the pellet stacks.

  He didn’t stick around to investigate. Reconnaissance was over.

  He continued on, moving in the direction where he thought the ship was located. But he had no way to be certain. His sense of direction was completely off. Was he going around the asteroid or over it?

  He tapped his propulsion trigger, and the last hiss of air escaped from his back in a feeble double sputter. He was out of propellant. He tried the trigger again, and this time nothing. Empty. The Formic ship was nowhere in sight and he had no means of directing his movements or pushing his way forward. He drifted slowly into the curving resin wall, sliding along it, slowing.

  He took a breath, and found the mask empty too. He reached into his hip pouch and gave the regulator another quarter turn. Nothing happened. He opened the regulator all the way. Nothing. He was out of oxygen as well.

  A feeling of exhaustion and defeat settled over him like a physical weight. He had tried. He had fought and he had pushed and he had struggled and had persevered, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t prepared for this. He had naively come inside, and now he would die a fool. And for what? What had he gained for the good of the IF? A few samples of metal pellets that would never be analyzed? A minute of vid of a fat slug sliding through mucus. Oh yes, how monumental. How critical that intelligence must be. Congratulations, Victor, you will not have died in vain. Thanks to you the world knows precisely what a Formic slug looks like. Stop counting votes, Nobel Prize committee, we have a late entry in the biology category and the stupidity category as well. A sure winner.

  He shook his head. He had been stupid and zealous and had thrown his life away.

  He reached into another of his small hip pouches and pulled out the igniter. It was a little thing, no bigger than half his thumb. He had made it before coming aboard, knowing that the air might be volatile, knowing that he might be seized by the enemy, knowing that it might be necessary. Better to blow up the whole thing than to let them cut him open and root around inside him.

  It was funny really. The igniter was such a small thing, capable of causing so much destruction. He would just have to flick the switch to create the flame, and that would be it.

  Would he realize what was happening in the instant before the hydrogen in the air ignited? Would he see it, hear it, feel it? Or would the explosion happen so quickly that he would be obliterated before his brain had a chance to process the event?

  And what of Imala? Was she clear? Or did she have the quickship parked right next to the cocoon? If he detonated, would he inadvertently hurt her as well?

  He held the igniter up to his face, examining it, considering. And that’s when he saw a darker shade of black in the distance behind it. He raised his light.

  It was the ship. Maybe sixty meters away, just beyond the horizon of the asteroid. The thrusters were protruding through the resin wall, and the nose of the ship was anchored to the surface via several extended legs, like a spider.

  He could make it. He could get there. He didn’t know if it would do him any good in the end, but he knew he could make it.

  Question was how. He was in a slow drift, inching forward, sliding along the resin wall. Soon the friction would stop his forward momentum completely. Could he push off the resin to launch down to the asteroid? It was pliable, so would it just bow with the force of his launch? And would the resin hold? Or would it break and tear? And even if he could reach the asteroid below him, how would he move on the surface? And for that matter, how coul
d he stay on the surface? He couldn’t anchor his feet. It was solid rock. He had thought there would be ice, but the Formics had melted it all to make the atmosphere. There was nothing to cling to. So once he reached the surface, what would he do? Crawl with his hands?

  He had no choice. He would have to trust the strength of the resin. And he would have to breathe the atmosphere.

  He rotated his body and put his feet against the resin, squatting down. His feet were spread apart to disperse the force of the launch as much as he could, thus minimizing the likelihood of punching through the resin. He made sure he was standing on the tightest cluster of filaments and not solely on the membrane. Then he launched. It felt, for a moment as if he hadn’t launched at all and that he had merely succeeded in pushing the resin away from him.

  But no, there was some forward movement. Not much, but some. A negligible speed. Almost imperceptible. It would take several minutes to reach the asteroid’s surface at this rate, and at any time another Formic could attack. He felt short of breath and pulled the oxygen mask down off his mouth. There was oxygen in the air, but every breath with the hydrogen felt like poison. How could he make himself go faster?

  The armor. It had mass. If he shed it and pushed it away from him, it would exert on him an equal, opposite force. He unsnapped the clasps at his hip, which locked the upper, torso portion of the armor to the bottom half. Then he reached back and did the same at the small of his back. It took some wiggling, and he had to pass the spear from hand to hand, but he finally got the torso of the armor off. He would have to push it away just right, though. He would need to point his body toward the surface and align his spine with the direction of the force. If his angle was off, even by a little, the force would put him into a spin.

  He draped the spear across this back again and brought his knees up close to his chest. Carefully he maneuvered the upper armor so that the chest of the armor was flat against his feet. Then he aligned his body and pushed off.