The Hive

by Orson Scott Card

  “Owanu apologizes for the scar. It was her first go at it, and she wasn’t too happy with her own work. But everything is back where it is supposed to be. You’ll heal fine. You just need time.”

  “Why a C-section?”

  “There was a true knot in the umbilical cord,” said Rena. “We caught it in time, before the delivery. Had the baby come vaginally, she would’ve died. I’ve seen it before. You have Owanu to thank.”

  Imala closed her eyes. Owanu. Thank God.

  The door opened. Lieutenant Owanu stepped in, wearing her magnetic greaves, a small bundle of blankets in her arms. She smiled and placed the bundle into Imala’s arms. The baby was sleeping. Someone had cut a sock in half and placed it on the baby’s head like a knit cap. Imala could see the black hairs poking out in the back. She was so small. Smaller than any baby Imala had ever seen.

  “She’s six pounds, two ounces,” said Owanu. “Two point eight kilograms. Big for being as early as she is. If she had gone full term, she would have been enormous. Better still, her lungs check out. She’s doing amazingly well.”

  The words caused a burst of relief inside of Imala, as if the dam holding back eight months of doubt and anxiety had given way and burst in an instant. Her eyes became thick with tears.

  Cradling the baby, Imala reached out a weak hand and squeezed Owanu’s own. “Thank you.”

  Owanu smiled.

  Imala stared at the bundle in her arms. A living thing. A person. A tiny, breathing person, one part her and one part Victor. A girl. A daughter. She had made this. She and Victor together. This perfect creation. This new center of everything. This beginning of everything. No, this baby would not die. She had already beaten death once. She had already defiantly rejected that threat. She was a fighter like her father. Like her mother. Nothing would harm her. Imala wouldn’t let it.

  “Do you have a name?” Owanu asked.

  “It feels wrong to name her without Victor,” said Imala.

  “You can’t wait that long,” said Rena. “You may not see him for years. A baby needs a name.”

  “Captain Mangold wants to see you, Imala,” said Lieutenant Owanu.

  “Give her five minutes with the child,” said Rena. It came out harshly, and Imala realized that a debate had been raging while she was out. Something was wrong.

  “I’m under orders,” said Owanu.

  Rena looked like she might object, but Imala spoke first.

  “It’s all right. I’ll speak with him.”

  Rena sighed but said nothing more. Owanu stepped outside, and a moment later Captain Mangold entered. He was an American; young, clean-cut, and a little more self-confident than Imala thought he should be. She had learned to tolerate him, but Imala wasn’t sure the feeling was mutual. He wasn’t unintelligent or incapable, but Imala suspected that he had ties elsewhere, likely in the highest levels of the IF. A father perhaps. Or a powerful uncle. Someone who had helped maneuver him into this position. Their mission might very well be the most critical in all the Fleet, and yet it had been trusted to a relatively inexperienced young man.

  Mangold nodded at the wrapped bundle in Imala’s arms. “Lieutenant Bootstamp, allow me to congratulate you. I am delighted to hear that you and baby are doing well.”

  “I have you and Owanu and Rena to thank for that,” said Imala. “Forgive me for the inconvenience. But let’s move past the small talk. We have a situation.”

  Mangold nodded. “One that requires your attention, I’m afraid. You’re the communications officer. We need to counsel with CentCom.”

  Imala could tell he was annoyed. He hated not having access to the ansible. But operating the anisble required biosecurity checks only Imala could meet.

  “It’s not a collision threat, is it?” said Imala.

  “A distress signal,” said Captain Mangold. “Outside our trajectory. A free-miner ship was attacked by pirates. There are eight survivors, three of them children. They have enough food and oxygen to last them seven more days. We could reach them within that time, but just barely. We’d have to divert and change course within the next few hours to intercept them. There are no other ships within a two-month flight vicinity. If we don’t go to their aid, no one else will.”

  “We shouldn’t go,” said Rena sharply.

  Mangold tensed immediately. They had obviously already had this argument while Imala was out.

  “You’ll abandon your own people?” said Mangold.

  “My people?” said Rena, eyeing him with disdain. “Do you think free miners are some different species from you?”

  “They need our help,” said Mangold.

  “This is a classic pirate tactic,” said Rena. “They’ve been doing it since before you were born. They raid a ship, release a distress signal, and then lie in wait for help to come. And when it arrives, they attack the rescue ship. I’ve seen it more times than I can count. This isn’t safe.”

  “I went back through the scans,” said Mangold. “Whoever attacked them went deeper into the Kuiper Belt. You can see the heat signatures yourself if you don’t believe me. There’s no other ship near them.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s safe,” said Rena. “The first ship leaves and some of the pirate crew stays behind on the scuttled ship. Or it’s not scuttled at all and it’s only pretending to be scuttled. It actually functions fine. Help arrives, with the pirates left behind posing as the helpless survivors. I think you can figure out what happens next. They seize the rescue ship and jettison the rescue party into space. The end.”

  “I’ve drilled them with questions via laserline,” said Mangold. “I’ve run their answers through the charts and trade directories we have on file. Everything checks out. I don’t think this is a trick.”

  “You don’t think?” said Rena. “Well, I’m relieved that you’ve reached that conclusion after your brilliant detective work. Did it occur to you that they might be answering under duress, that someone is holding a gun to their head?”

  Mangold’s eyes darkened, and his voice began to rise. “I will remind you that you are an ensign in this fleet and under my command. I will not tolerate insubordination from anyone, including you.”

  “Please,” said Imala.

  But Rena ignored her. “And I will remind you that we have a mission, one that we are not to deviate from. Those orders trump your own.”

  “You’re only objecting because of what it might do to the baby,” said Mangold.

  Rena opened her mouth, but Imala was quicker. “Stop it, both of you. I am holding an infant in my arms, and the first conversation she hears in this life will not be the two of you squabbling.”

  Rena exhaled and turned away from Mangold. The captain ground his teeth and straightened his jacket.

  “Will the baby survive?” Imala asked. “If we decelerate and change course? We all know what kind of stress that puts on the body. Can the baby safely endure that?”

  Mangold sighed. “We wouldn’t just decelerate. We’d have to accelerate again once we had a new course. And then decelerate again once we got there. It wouldn’t be an easy ride for anyone.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” said Imala. “Rena, there were babies in your mining ship all the time. Victor was born in space. Did you ever accelerate with an infant? How could you not? A baby couldn’t stop the work of the family.”

  “We avoided it,” said Rena. “We gave the mother and child a few weeks, at a minimum. Or we planned our runs to be sure we were anchored at a rock and mining when we knew a baby was coming. We certainly wouldn’t accelerate at the rates we’ll need to to reach this ship.”

  “I see,” said Imala.

  “Then there’s you,” said Mangold. “Your C-section wound is new and wide. It’s fine for the moment, but Owanu doesn’t think it wise to put pressure on it. Changing course would be, at the very least, painful. At worst, fatal.”

  “I see,” said Imala again.

  “We need to talk to CentCom,” said Mangold.
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br />   “What do we know about this ship?” said Imala. “I’m assuming it’s in the database?”

  “It’s registered as a mining vessel, but its registration expired years ago,” said Mangold.

  “Another sign of alarm,” said Rena.

  “Maybe,” said Imala. “Or maybe not. Rena, how many families kept up with their registrations before the war? I assume some of them did, but I also assume a lot of them didn’t, especially those this far out and away from regulators. Or am I wrong?”

  “You’re not wrong,” said Rena. “Registering is expensive, and the mining regulators don’t offer that much protection anyway.”

  “Did El Cavador stay registered? Your own ship, did your crew stay up to date with that sort of thing before the war?”

  Rena looked uncomfortable. “Not always.”

  “Meaning what?” said Imala. “How often?”

  “Almost never,” said Rena. “It wasn’t worth it for how we operated. There are all kinds of taxes and fees involved.”

  “So an expired vessel registration doesn’t tell us much,” said Imala.

  “It certainly doesn’t tell us anything good,” said Rena. “It doesn’t put my mind at ease.”

  “Nor mine,” said Imala. “But it sounds as if this could be a family no different from your own.”

  “Or it could be a band of pirates lying in wait for a naive crew of do-gooders to come along,” said Rena. “We know pirates are out here. Even if this is legit we have evidence of attacks.”

  “So you’re admitting this could be a legitimate distress signal?” said Imala. “You admit that possibility.”

  “You’re turning my words against me,” said Rena. “I’m trying to protect you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Imala. “You’re making your assessment based on how it could affect me and the baby.”

  “Of course I’m making my assessment based on that. That’s two lives I’m not willing to risk.”

  “We lose eight lives if we do nothing,” said Captain Mangold.

  “Wrong,” said Rena. “Those eight lives aren’t on us. That’s not our doing. And anyway, this isn’t a matter of simple mathematics. We have to weigh all the risks. Not just to us, but to the mission as well. If we don’t reach our target, if we fail to take it out, what does that do to the war effort? To my son? To every other mother and wife waiting for loved ones to come home? Are we willing to risk all of that for eight lives?”

  The question hung in the air.

  “Rena, you know mining ships better than anyone,” said Imala. “What kind of weaponry would this ship have?”

  “That’s my point,” said Rena. “We don’t know. It could have militarized itself, retrofitted all kinds of weapons.”

  “Let’s assume it hasn’t,” said Imala. “If it’s nothing more than a mining ship, how would it defend itself?”

  “It would almost certainly have a mining laser or two,” said Rena. “Plus a few pebble killers for collision threats.”

  “Which wouldn’t do us much damage,” said Mangold. “Not with our shielding. And we could take out their lasers the instant we arrive.”

  “Disable their weaponry?” Imala asked.

  “Easily,” said Mangold.

  “Is that true?” Imala asked Rena.

  “That doesn’t remove all risk,” said Rena. “If they’re pirates, they’ll have small arms inside their ship. They could attack us as soon as we board them.”

  “Then we won’t board their ship,” said Imala. “They’ll board ours, coming through the hatch one at a time, but only after they’ve stripped naked so we can be certain that none of them are concealing a weapon. Our weapons will be on them the whole time, then we can interview them one by one until we’ve erased all doubt and are certain they are who they say they are.”

  “I don’t particularly like that approach,” said Rena.

  “Nor do I,” said Imala. “It’s cruel and humiliating. But they use that tactic in prisons to ensure that no weapons get inside, and it works well.”

  “It will terrify the children,” said Rena.

  “Dying is far more terrifying to a child,” said Imala, “and it gives us the assurance we need. And anyway, the children need not strip. They’ll come through first. We’ll scan them, move them elsewhere, and then bring in the adults. Captain Mangold, do you object?”

  “No objections.”

  Imala turned to Rena. “I’m assuming you’ve seen the questions the captain asked these miners and the answers they gave.”

  “I’ve seen them,” said Rena.

  “Does it sound bogus?” said Imala. “Don’t answer as a grandmother or a mother-in-law. Answer as a woman who’s been out here longer than all of us combined and who knows what true desperation sounds like.”

  Rena sighed and considered a moment. “It might be legitimate, yes.”

  Imala turned back to Captain Mangold. “I will inform CentCom that we are diverting. They may of course object, and if they do, we’ll reconvene. Otherwise, we’ll make plans to safeguard the baby as much as we can.”

  Rena began to object, “Imala—”

  “My child and I will not be responsible for the death of eight innocent people. We’ll put me and the baby in an impact bubble, and we’ll divert.”

  “This is not a good idea,” said Rena.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Imala. “But it’s the idea where the fewest people die.”

  “Why an impact bubble?” said Mangold.

  “Because you can’t strap an infant into a flight chair,” said Imala. “Diverting will take a few days. I will have to feed her. I can’t do that if I’m strapped in somewhere else, and she can’t be fed intravenously, at least not the way the ship feeds us. That equipment is designed for adults.”

  “I’m not sure that will work, Imala,” said Rena.

  “Nor am I,” said Imala. “But if you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it.”

  They inflated the impact balloon in the helm and installed additional foam packs and concussion bags. Then came blankets and life support. A storage box became a bassinette.

  Conferring with CentCom was a far more complicated matter. They refused. Flatly. Nothing should deter Imala and the others from the mission. Period. End of discussion. They should answer zero distress signals. Not even from desperate, abandoned asteroid miners with small helpless children. Do not divert. The Formic ship out in deep space was the only concern. The world could burn around them, but the Gagak should press on to the Formic ship.

  An admiral at CentCom then began lecturing Imala on the importance of full and absolute devotion to the mission. It was clear from his tone that he hated that Imala was the communications officer and in control of the ansible. He didn’t even try to hide his contempt. His slights weren’t even subtle. He thought her an imbecile.

  Imala dutifully recorded his rant. Her job was to relay every word verbatim to Captain Mangold, who would then relay the orders to the crew. Imala didn’t try to argue with the admiral. It wasn’t her place. And it would only infuriate him. Instead, she patiently waited for him to finish and didn’t interrupt.

  When the lecture finally concluded, another admiral thought it necessary to give the Gagak a similar lecture. Stick to the mission, do not divert. Apparently the admirals at CentCom couldn’t stand the idea of one of them speaking for the group. They each had to assert their authority and have a say in the matter. Imala could almost imagine them sitting around a table, with chests puffed out, each one pretending to be the most wise and senior among them.

  After the third mini lecture, Imala’s eyes were glazing over. She had long since stopped taking notes. When the stream of text finally stopped, she sighed in relief and refocused her eyes, only to discover that the lecture wasn’t over. The text had merely stopped mid-word, mid-sentence, as if the thread to CentCom had suddenly been cut.

  This had never happened before. The ansible never paused. Something had gone wrong. Was the ans
ible broken? She could see no visible damage to it. Had the ansible broken on the other end? Had the person typing at CentCom merely become distracted? Or—and this thought frightened her—had something happened in that room that had killed the thread? An attack? An explosion? Or was it something less dramatic? Were Imala and the ship simply too far away now? Would there be a time delay from here on out, getting longer and longer?

  No. The ansible’s reach was enormous. Maybe infinite.

  But if so, what had happened?

  Words appeared before her. But on a new thread, meaning it was within the same ansible network, but coming from a different ansible device. The text read:

  Imala,

  Ignore them. Do the right thing, whatever you think that is. Humanity must win too.

  Regards, Ukko.

  The text stopped.

  Imala stared at the words. The only Ukko she knew was the same Ukko the whole world knew: Ukko Jukes, the Hegemon of Earth. He had interrupted the admirals at CentCom with his own, apparently superior, ansible device to send her a direct message. Go help these people in need, if that’s what you think is necessary. He was giving Imala permission to disregard direct orders. Ignore CentCom. Do what you think is best.

  Imala read the message again. Was this legit? Was Ukko Jukes literally speaking directly to her? Had the actual Hegemon of Earth listened in on the lectures from CentCom and then somehow severed that connection to address Imala directly? Why would the Hegemon concern himself with such a trifling matter?

  And then there was the last sentence. Humanity must win too. Imala understood at once. The human race had to win the war, yes, no question, but if we lose our humanity in the process, we haven’t really won. We can’t lose who we are and what defines us as a species: our care for each other, our goodness. Because the instant we stop caring and turn a blind eye to those in distress, we stop being the thing that should be saved.

  Was this the mind-set of Ukko Jukes? Imala had known him only to be selfish, cruel even. Had the weight of his office, or the horror of war, softened him? Had he experienced some change of heart? Some moral clarity? Was he really concerned with preserving humanity?