Hive Mind

  too much like those unlike him. He was still a lie.

  A flash revealed an object near the cold wet. A shard of hard

  material. It glinted in the flash.

  Peron grasped it with his weakening hand. His vision was

  blurring. He swayed from side to side. In brief reflections

  illuminated by lightning flashes, he saw from the corner of his eye

  one like him lifting a shard of metal to his face. His vision blurred,

  and he swayed.

  Everything went black.

  ❖

  This cold wet was not bad compared to that night, Peron noted.

  It was calm. It did not pour from the ink-black sky. It lay quietly on

  the soft green below. Peron did not like the cold wet, usually, but

  did not mind this, for some reason. The wet felt pleasant upon his

  feet as he trudged across the field, bearing bruises from the night

  before.

  Peron had failed to wound himself severely. His exhaustion had

  gotten the better of him and he had dropped the shard. When he

  had finally awoken, caked in mud and dirt, he glanced at the shard

  and considered finishing what he started. But he didn’t. He walked

  away.

  This walking took him far away. He didn’t know where. He

  simultaneously feared and desired that he would stumble upon the

  hive. But he was lost. He had no idea where it was. And even then,

  he should never return. They would not accept him. An instinct

  within him told him to obey the Queen, even in this.

  So, he walked. That’s all there was to it. Never had he had a

  destination and that hadn’t changed now. No goal. Only wandering.

  When he felt the pang of hunger, he found grubs and plants to eat.

  He did this mechanically, his hive-wrought brain dominating him

  with instinct. He didn’t feel he wanted to eat. He did it because it

  was the thing to do. Maybe that was something that connected him

  to the hive? That thought made him long for it even more. He

  longed for the routine, those who looked like him, the sense of

  belonging – even if in silence. But above all, he longed for the

  Queen. Even as she had spurned him, cursing him with a

  meaningless name made up on the spot, he loved her as only one

  without a choice could.

  That made him hate her.

  All too often, when we long for something enough, we begin to

  hate it for its spurning us. If we didn’t love it, we wouldn’t hate it

  for keeping us away. Peron experienced this now, as he made his

  way across the green caked in cold-wet.

  This was an alien world. There were no caves and very little hard,

  shiny stuff. It was green. made up of rolling landscapes with sparse

  large plants. Blocking the horizon, only barely, were small hills.

  Peron’s journey to nowhere took him over these hills. It had been

  but a day but it had felt like a lifetime.

  The landscape had not changed. Occasionally, Peron would spot

  an oddity. Sometimes, there was hard material like that he had

  gathered at the hive. It wasn’t in chunks, though. It was in different

  shapes and smooth. Plants grew over some of these oddities. Peron

  ate the plants to sustain his instinctual urges. They were bland. Not

  as good as the grubs he occasionally found.

  As the light in the sky was beginning to fade and Peron felt the

  cold start to set in, he spotted the largest oddity of all. Just past a

  hillock, he saw an expanse of catacombs. No, not catacombs.

  Something else. He proceeded.

  At the outskirts of the oddity, he saw how plant-life had

  entrenched itself into the crevices of the oddities. Cracks suggested

  that this was not meant to be the case. The lush green foliage looked

  alien on the hard rock surfaces. Further to the centre of the expanse

  of oddities, Peron saw the most peculiar thing of all. It was crafted

  of smooth, shining material, dominating the horizon in the shape of

  the eggs where his kind were born. He approached it, in awe.

  The towering oddities were sparser here, leaving a field of lush

  green surrounding the egg. As he reached it, he saw his reflection,

  but was too in awe of the construct to find disgust in himself.

  He touched it. Smooth, cold. But a pleasant cold. The oddity

  showed none of the signs of decay that Peron had become

  accustomed to on this world. It was pristine. For the first time in

  what seemed a long time, his thoughts were not of the hive and the

  Queen. All that he thought of was this colossus, this wondrous

  object that shone in the light.

  He walked across its edge, his hand never leaving it surface. Then

  he felt a dent. He investigated it and heard a click and slide. A hole

  opened where previously there had been none. Peron sniffed. Stale

  air escaped the structure’s empty black innards. Then it was no

  longer black. White light blinded Peron as it blared into life. Pops

  echoed from across the structure as the black subsided to reveal

  clean, white and silver tunnels within.

  Peron held in his breath. Nothing. After the sounds had stopped

  and the lights were lit, there were no more sounds but the wind

  calmly blowing in the background. With curiousity overwhelming

  trepidation, he entered the structure.

  Clang, clang, clang.

  His chitinous feet rang out on the hard floors. The air was cold,

  but Peron didn’t mind. He was too entranced with the novelty of

  everything around him. Nothing was this smooth in the hive. He

  stroked his hand across the wall, taking in the texture.

  A beep.

  The wall opened. On the other side of the hole, Peron saw even

  more oddities. Blinking lights of various colours, many he had never

  seen before. A large square dominated the space, made of a smooth

  material that he had never seen before. He reached to stroke it, but

  as he touched it, it sprang to life.

  Peron jumped back, but only a little.

  The square went from black to a light blue, with white symbols

  scattered across it. Next to a set of symbols was something he did

  recognise, however. It was one like him. But what was it doing inside

  the square?

  Peron reached to touch it. And then the square changed. In it,

  those like him moved around working. Peron didn’t try to

  communicate with them. But what were they doing here?

  A bodiless voice started speaking, but Peron didn’t understand

  the words. He listened intently, presuming that the

  incomprehensible narrator was describing something about those

  like him. He could not help but want to know more. He felt a

  crushing oppression at not being able to understand the voice. It

  was as bad as not being able to communicate with those like him.

  Without any possibility of doing that, he now desperately wanted to

  at least learn about himself and those like him who he could never

  connect with.

  But the voice was meaningless, and as Peron watched those like

  him move on the square, he could not help but stand completely

  frozen, as he wept without tears.

  ❖

  Language is a tool to be used. To be learnt. Comparable to how

  Peron had
learnt to use the drill that had been his tool at the hive,

  he began to learn the language of the voice. As he learnt the

  language of the voice, he was then able to connect it to symbols on

  the square – what he learnt was called a screen. Learning these

  symbols, he was then able to enable more of his education. He

  found symbols that led him to educational videos. With these, he

  was able to learn more and more.

  He did not count the days. His only measurement was the

  immeasurable level of competence he was gaining in this language.

  Sitting or standing, his eyes darted across the screen – absorbing

  everything.

  Through this screen, he learnt what he was. The narrators, who

  he learnt were not like him, but much softer and varied looking,

  called his kind Gleran. Peron could not help but note the irony that

  he had to learn about what he was from someone unlike him. But

  he was thankful to these beings. They had left this trove of

  knowledge for him. While seemingly gone from this world, their

  memory enabled him to learn. It gave him a purpose. While he was

  unable to truly be like his kind and communicate with the hive, his

  mind was able to be put to other things.

  With no preoccupation with the whims of the Queen, he was

  able to absorb information faster, better… A Gleran brain, when

  not dealing with the innumerable orders of the hive, was more than

  capable of learning the complex ideas of other races. What a waste

  that they could not think…usually.

  As ashamed as he was of the insult the Queen had levelled at

  him, thinker, it was all he did now. He thought about the world. The

  oddities – which he came to learn were called buildings, contained

  in a town. His place in all of this. The hive…

  The last always saddened him, and it was at times like these that

  he envied the humans’ – the beings from the screen – ability to cry.

  When they were sad, they changed expression so dramatically, as

  warm-wet fell from their eyes. Glerans couldn’t do that. Initially,

  Peron thought this for the best. But then realised that Glerans

  couldn’t cry because they didn’t feel the need to do so. They didn’t

  feel anything. But Peron did. And he wanted to cry.

  The more he learnt from the videos, the wider the world looked,

  and the sadder he became. But it was better than before. The

  sadness wasn’t crushing anymore. It was informed. This made it

  seem better. It seemed justified.

  He longed for more as he learnt about more. He longed for the

  world on the screen, a vibrant world of people who talked to each

  other. He longed to be human, to have others like him who could

  communicate without being considered freaks. But above all else,

  he still longed for the hive.

  Logically, he knew that the hive was not attainable nor desirable.

  It had spurned him. He was not like them. He just shared a similar

  looking shell. But something deeper drew him to his birth place. His

  thoughts told him to stop longing for a void that hated him, but his

  gut told him to love the Queen, to get back to work.

  He only ventured out of the server facility, what he found the

  egg-shaped building to be called, when he was hungry. It was not

  difficult to find sustenance. As he had learnt from videos, Glerans

  were hardy and could eat almost anything organic to sustain

  themselves. The humans seemed to admire his kind. Glerans were

  tougher, sturdier. They could move faster. Withstand more pain and

  torment. Peron didn’t feel any pride from this.

  He admired the humans. He envied them. He loved them.

  Without even speaking to or being near any of human, he felt a close

  bond to them. They taught him. They spoke to him, even if

  indirectly. They entertained him. The humans on the screen gave his

  overly developed insect mind meaning.

  The sun was setting on this unknown day as he re-entered the

  facility, chewing on a root. He was excited. He had a new set of

  videos to watch.

  He did as he had done many times before, sitting cross legged

  with his bottom pair of arms crossed as he used the controls to

  select which video he wanted to view.

  He picked the new video. While his understanding of the

  symbols was still crude, he was able to make out the title to be:

  “Hostilities Rise”.

  Sounded exciting. He hoped it was an entertainment video, like

  some he had watched before. Those were the best nights – gnawing

  on a root while humans from long ago performed for him.

  The video started but was not an entertainment vid. It had the

  format of what Peron recognised to be news footage. The symbols

  of a news channel appeared, red and blue with a few words that

  Peron still didn’t understand. He was a little disappointed, but didn’t

  let that get him down. News footage could also be exciting. It had

  been his best way of learning about the humans that had lived here

  before.

  A human with long-dark hair appeared. It was a usual figure in

  the news footage. It was normally prim and neat. Peron dared think

  it looked pretty. But its calm and immaculate façade was gone now.

  It looked worried, terrified even. Condensation collected on its

  brow. Its outfit was dishevelled. Flames in the background.

  “This is an emergency report for Colony Vulzthan Prime. Gleran

  drones, recently peaceful, have attacked the settlement. Previously

  primitive, they are now armed with energy weapons. Militia forces

  are keeping them at bay, but can’t forever. We need to evacuate…”

  She was crying now. She had never done that before.

  “Vulzthan is lost. Protect your families. Go!”

  Screams. Those like him, Glerans, charging onto the screen.

  Flashes. Black.

  Peron sat still as the interface asked if he was ready for the next

  video. He just stared, as the light of the room dimmed to save energy

  – with only the silent screen to illuminate him in the darkness that

  ensued.

  ❖

  The Queen had taken everything from him. But she had given

  him life. But he was an accident. But she had spared him. But out

  of mockery, not mercy.

  She was his Queen.

  She was his enslaver.

  She hated him.

  He loved her.

  He hated that he loved her.

  He loved the humans. She had killed the humans.

  His kind had killed the only people he had ever felt a connection

  with. The brown and green horde had fell upon those who had

  taught him everything, without him ever even needing to ask them

  to do so. As he scoured the archives, he could find nothing in the

  servers past the date of that news footage. He hoped that they had

  somehow escaped, but he knew better. His hive was strong. The

  Queen was perfect. Glerans like him, she might spare. But human

  interlopers? They would be crushed – utterly.

  But his kind didn’t do this. They couldn’t be blamed. They didn’t

  act. They served, completely. Could someone without choice be

  blamed for their actions? Could a tool be bla
med for the actions of

  its user?

  Peron did not hate the Glerans. He did not hate the hive. The

  hive was his. The Glerans were his kin.

  Peron hated the Queen.

  She was the reason behind everything. She was his mother. The

  voice in his head. The reason he wanted to work. The reason why

  he was a Gleran. The reason he was not like the rest of his kind. He

  was a freak by no fault of his own. It was all her fault. She controlled

  his kin. Kept them slaves to pheromones.

  She had killed his love.

  He would kill her.

  Without the hive mind, his people could be free. Without the

  pheromone network, they could be like him. He would no longer

  be a freak. He would no longer be the only thinker. This is what

  Peron had learned in his fevered studying of the human files on his

  species.

  As his knowledge of the human symbols grew, he was able to

  move from videos to writings. He consumed dossiers on the Gleran

  hive, learning everything he could about himself and his kind. The

  humans knew a lot about Glerans, and he could fill in the blanks.

  What he had learnt was that Glerans were controlled using

  pheromones emitted by the Queen. The Queen would spread these

  pheromones through a network of drones, infecting each other with

  her will. Gleran brains were large and developed, perfectly able to

  process countless signals and pheromone orders at once. Peron

  wanted to ensure that his kin’s brains could be put to better use.

  From the human archives, he learnt more than just about the

  lives of his kin and humans themselves, he learnt about death and

  violence. He had had the intuitive sense of death before. The

  cocoon in which he had grown up had instilled such primitive basics

  in him already.

  But the human archives on history, war and weapons had taught

  him how to cause death. Now, he fell asleep and dreamt of stabbing

  the Queen that he still could not help but love and hate. He

  imagined the golden slime that would ooze out of her hulking husk.

  The glow would cease. That mesmerising, irresistible golden glow.

  He would cry. He would want to die. But it had to be done. He

  loved her, and hated her for it.

  In the human archives, he found an explanation for why the

  Glerans refused to work in the cold-wet, the rain. He also realised

  why he instinctively hated water. It interfered with the pheromones.