Queen of Springtime

by Robert Silverberg

  “I think you should.” Unhesitatingly.

  Thu-Kimnibol nodded. A cloud seemed to have lifted from him. To Hresh he said, “How is it done?”

  “We’ll twine; and then the Barak Dayir will carry us to the Nest of Nests.”

  “Twine? You and I? Hresh, we’ve never done a thing like that!”

  “No, brother. Not ever.”

  Thu-Kimnibol smiled. “How strange that seems, twining with my own brother. But if that’s what we have to do, that’s what we’ll do. Eh, Hresh? So be it.” To Nialli Apuilana he said, “If for some reason I don’t come back—”

  “Don’t even say that, Thu-Kimnibol!”

  “Hresh offers me no guarantees. These possibilities have to be considered. If I don’t come back, love—if my soul doesn’t return to my body after a certain while, two full days, let’s say—take yourself to Salaman and tell him what has happened. Is that clear? Give our army over into his sole command. Let him have the four Great World weapons.”

  “Salaman? But he’s a madman!”

  “A great warrior, all the same. The only one, after myself, who can lead us in this campaign. Will you do that?”

  “If I must,” said Nialli Apuilana in a low voice.

  “Good.” Thu-Kimnibol drew in a deep breath and extended his sensing-organ to Hresh. “Well, brother, I’m ready if you are. Let’s go to visit the Queen.”

  There is complete darkness everywhere, a great sea of dense blackness so complete that it excludes even the possibility of light. And then, suddenly a fierce glow like that of an exploding sun blossoms on the horizon. The blackness shatters into an infinity of fiery points of piercing brightness and Thu-Kimnibol feels those myriad blazing fragments rushing past him on hot streams of wind.

  Within the fiery mystery that lies ahead, he is able now to make out texture and form. He sees something that seems to him to be an immense shining machine, a thing of whirling rods and ceaseless churning pistons, moving flawlessly with never a moment’s slackening of energy or failure of pattern. From it comes a pure beam of dazzling light that rises with scimitar force to cut across the sky.

  The Nest, Thu-Kimnibol thinks. The Nest of Nests.

  And a voice like the sound of worlds colliding says, speaking out of the core of that unthinkable tireless mechanism, “Why do you return to Me so soon?”

  The Queen, that must be.

  The Queen of Queens.

  He feels no fear, only awe and something that he thinks might be humility. The presence of Hresh beside him gives him whatever degree of assurance he’s unable to find within himself. He has never been this close to his brother in all his life: it’s difficult now for him to determine where his own soul leaves off and that of Hresh begins.

  They are descending, or falling, or plummeting. Whether it is by command of that great creature in the brightness before them, or Hresh is still in control of their journey, Thu-Kimnibol has no way of telling. But as they come nearer the Nest he sees it more clearly, and understands that it is no machine at all, but rather a thing of chewed pulp and soil, and what he has taken for a shining machine, rods flailing and pistons pumping in perfect coordination, is simply his perception of the stupendous oneness of the hjjk empire itself, in which not even the smallest of the newly hatched has free volition, but where everything is tightly woven in a predestined pattern with no room for imperfection.

  And at the heart of that pattern lies such a creature as he has never imagined: a world in itself, that huge motionless thing. With the aid of the Wonderstone that his brother holds in the curl of his sensing-organ, somewhere thousands of leagues behind them where they have left their unconscious bodies, Thu-Kimnibol can perceive the vastness of the container of flesh that houses the mind of the Queen, the slow journey of the life-fluids through that gigantic ancient body, the ponderous workings of its incomprehensible organs.

  It has waited through half of time for his coming here, so he feels. And he has passed all his life in a dream, waiting only for this moment of confrontation.

  “There are two of you,” the Queen declares, in that same overwhelming tone. “Who is your other self?”

  Hresh does not respond. Thu-Kimnibol sends a probe in his brother’s direction, to prod him to make some reply. But Hresh seems silent, dazed, as if the effort of the journey itself has exhausted the last of his powers.

  All is in his own hands, then. He says, “I am Thu-Kimnibol, son of Harruel and Minbain, brother on the mother’s side to Hresh the chronicler, whom you already know.”

  “Ah. You have an Egg-maker in common but you come from different Life-kindlers.” There is a long pause. “And you are the one who would destroy us. Why is that, that you feel such hatred for us?”

  “The gods guide my hand,” Thu-Kimnibol says simply.

  “The gods?”

  “They who shape our lives and control our destinies. They tell me that I must lead my people forward against those who stand in the way of our achieving what we must.”

  There comes a sound of great pealing laughter now, rising and spreading outward like the floodwaters of some mighty river, so that Thu-Kimnibol has to fight with all his strength to keep from being engulfed in that tremendous outpouring of mockery.

  The words he has just spoken echo and re-echo in his ears, amplified and distorted by the tide of the Queen’s laughter so that they become pathetic comic shards of foolishness—destinies … lead … achieving … must … His staunch declaration of purpose seems only like empty nonsense to him now. Angrily he strives to reclaim some shred of his lost dignity.

  “Do you mock the gods, then?” he cries.

  Again that great flood of laughter. “The gods, you say? The gods?”

  “The gods, indeed. Who have brought me here today, and who will strengthen my hand until the last of your kind has been sent from the world.”

  Thu-Kimnibol is aware now of Hresh, distant and vague, fluttering against him like a bird against a sealed window, as if trying to warn him against the course he has chosen. But he ignores his brother’s agitation.

  “Tell me this, Queen: do you so much as believe in the gods? Or is your arrogance so great that you deny them?”

  “Your gods?” She says. “Yes. No.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your gods are symbols of the great forces: comfort, protection, nourishment, healing, death.”

  “You know that much?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you have no belief in those gods?”

  “We believe in comfort, protection, nourishment, healing, death. But they are not gods.”

  “You worship no one and nothing, then?”

  “Not as you understand worship,” the Queen replies.

  “Not even your creator?”

  “The humans created us,” she says, in a strange offhanded way. “But does that make them worthy of our worship? We think not.” Once more the Queen’s laughter engulfs him. “Let us not discuss the gods. Let us discuss the injuries you do us. How can you carry on such war against us, when you have no true understanding of what we are? Your other self has already seen our Nest. Now it is your turn. Prepare yourself to behold us.”

  But there is no time to prepare himself, nor does he know how, or for what. Before the Queen’s voice has died away the Nest in its totality sweeps like a rushing torrent into his soul.

  He sees it all: the great shining machine, the flawless world within the world, Militaries and Workers, Egg-makers and Life-kindlers, Nest-thinkers and Nourishment-givers and Queen-attendants and all the rest, every one woven together in an inextricable way in the service of the Queen, which is to say in the service of the totality. He understands how the creation of Nest-plenty and Nest-strength fosters the furtherance of Egg-plan, by which Queen-love will ultimately be extended to all the cosmos. He sees the smaller Nests here and there and there across the face of the planet, each of them tied to all the rest, and to the great central Nest, by the powerful force of Nest-tr
uth that radiates from the immensity that is the Queen of Queens.

  How puny his own armies seem, against the colossal confident single force that is the hjjks! How ragged and confused, how crippled by division and vainglory! There’s no hope of prevailing in this struggle, Thu-Kimnibol sees. Egg-plan is in direct conflict with the ambitions of the People, and Egg-plan must triumph through sheer will and force of numbers. He might win a battle now and then, he might deal one band of hjjks or another a grievous blow, but always the underlying force of hjjk unity will remain, always the power of the Nest will bring forth horde after horde, until in the end the upstarts out of the cocoon must inevitably be defeated.

  Must—inevitably—

  —be—

  —defeated—

  Or perhaps have been already. Despair presses against him with crushing weight. All strength seems to be leaving his limbs, and he sees that that strength was only an illusion, that he had thought of himself as a giant but had always in reality been nothing more than a flea: a bold flea and foolish flea who has dared to challenge an immortal monarch.

  He is floating downward toward the colossus that was the Queen like a cinder drifting on the air. In another moment he will land on the great surface of Her and be swallowed up. When he looks toward Hresh for help his brother seems more distant even than before, a mere speck far away, already caught beyond hope of escape in the Queen’s compelling force, already sinking irretrievably within the layers of her flesh.

  He is next. They both are doomed.

  The Queen is like some great cosmic force, a deadly elemental thing that holds the power of ending his life with a single contemptuous flicker of Her will.

  Does She mean to kill him, Thu-Kimnibol wonders, or merely to swallow him up? He considers the vastness of her and the probable power of the Wonderstone hidden somewhere within the incalculable volumes of Her flesh; and he decides that probably She doesn’t intend to kill him, but that if She tries it he’ll send such a flare of defiant fury into her, by way of Hresh with whom he lies entwined and the Wonderstone which Hresh possesses, that she will sizzle in unthinkable pain.

  More likely, though, he decides, She means to absorb and neutralize to transform him from Her foe into Her slave. That he will not allow either.

  Her strength is immense. And yet—and yet—

  He thinks suddenly that he can see Her limits. How She could be brought to a standstill, if not defeated altogether.

  The perfection of the hjjk empire hums and whirrs and gleams about him, and the power of the Queen holds him fast, and none the less in the midst of all that oppressive force Thu-Kimnibol knows what Hresh meant when he had said that he must try to comprehend the vulnerability of the hjjks.

  Their very perfection is their weak spot. The greatness of the self-contained civilization that they have built and sustained for so many hundreds of thousands of years contains the seed of its own destruction. Hresh has seen that already; and now Hresh, wherever he may be, is helping him to see it. The hjjks are a supreme achievement of the gods, Thu-Kimnibol thinks; but they will not allow themselves to understand that the essence of the gods’ way is unceasing change. Time has brought change to everything else that ever lived; and it will come also to the hjjks, or they will perish.

  They are too rigid. They can be broken. If they won’t bend to the law of the gods, Thu-Kimnibol tells himself, then ultimately they’ll suffer the fate of all that can’t or won’t bend. In time they will be struck by a force too strong for them to withstand; and they will shatter in an instant. Yes.

  “Come, brother,” he calls. “We’ve stayed here long enough. I’ve learned what you wanted me to learn.”

  “Thu-Kimnibol?” Hresh says dimly. “Is that you? Where are you, brother?”

  “Here. Here. Take my hand.”

  “I am for the Queen, now, brother.”

  “No. No, never. She can’t hold you. Come: here.”

  Vast peals of laughter resound all about him. She thinks that She has them both. But Thu-Kimnibol is undismayed. His initial awe of the Queen had placed him at Her advantage; but that awe is gone now, overcome by anger and contempt, and there is no other way that She could hold him.

  He understands that next to Her he is nothing more than a flea. But fleas can go about their business unseen by greater creatures. That’s the great advantage fleas have, Thu-Kimnibol thinks. The Queen can’t hold us if She can’t find us. And She’s so confident of her own omnipotence that She isn’t even trying very hard.

  He begins to slip away from her, taking Hresh with him.

  Ascending from Her lair is like climbing a mountain that reaches halfway to the roof of the sky. But any journey, no matter how great, is done a single step at a time. Thu-Kimnibol draws himself upward, and upward again, holding Hresh in his arms. The Queen does not appear to be restraining him. Perhaps She thinks he’ll fall back to Her of his own accord.

  Upward, Upward. Streams of light come from behind him, but they grow indistinct as he continues. Now the blackness lies before him, deep and intense.

  “Brother?” Thu-Kimnibol says. “Brother, we’re free. We’re safe now.”

  He blinked and opened his eyes. Nialli Apuilana, standing above him, made a soft little cry of joy.

  “At last you’re back!”

  Thu-Kimnibol nodded. He looked over at Hresh. His eyes had opened slit-wide, but he seemed stunned and dazed. Reaching across, Thu-Kimnibol touched his brother’s arm. Hresh seemed very cool; his arm twitched faintly as Thu-Kimnibol’s fingers grazed it.

  “Will he be all right?” Nialli Apuilana asked.

  “He’s very tired. So am I. How long were we gone, Nialli?”

  “Just short of a day and a half.” She was staring at him as though he had undergone some great metamorphosis. “I was beginning to think that you—that—”

  “A day and a half,” he said, in a musing tone. “It felt like years. What’s been happening here?”

  “Nothing. Not even Salaman. He marched around our camp without even stopping, and is heading on north without us.”

  “A madman, he is. Well, let him go.”

  “And you?” Nialli Apuilana was still staring. “What was it like? Did you see the Nest? Did you make contact with the Queen?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “I never understood the half of it. How awesome She is—how mighty the Nest is—how intricate their life is—”

  “I tried to tell you all, that day at the Presidium. But no one would listen, not even you.”

  “Especially not me, Nialli.” he smiled. “They’re a frightening enemy. They seem so much wiser than we are. So much more powerful. Superior beings in every way. I get the feeling that I almost want to bow down before them.”

  “Yes.”

  “At least before their Queen,” he said. A note of discouragement came into his voice. The triumph of his escape seemed far behind him now. “She’s almost like some sort of god. That ancient immense creature, reaching out everywhere, running everything. To resist Her seems, well, blasphemous.”

  “Yes,” Nialli Apuilana said. “I know what you mean.”

  He shook his head wearily. “We have to resist, though. There’s no way we can arrive at any kind of accommodation with them. If we don’t keep on fighting them, they’ll crush us. They’ll swallow us up. But if we go on with the war, if we should win it, won’t we be going against the will of the gods? The gods brought them through the Long Winter, after all. The gods may have intended them to inherit the world.” He looked at her in perplexity. “I’m speaking in contradictions. Does any of this make sense?”

  “The gods brought us through the Long Winter also, Thu-Kimnibol. Maybe they realize that the hjjks were a mistake, that they were an experiment that failed. And so we’ve been brought on to finish them off and take their place.”

  He looked at her, startled. “Do you think so? Could it be possible?”

  “You call them superior beings. But you saw for yourself how limited t
hey really are, how inflexible, how narrow. Didn’t you? Didn’t you? That was what Hresh wanted you to see: that they don’t really want to create anything, that they aren’t even capable of it. All they want to do is keep on multiplying and building new Nests. But there’s no purpose to it beyond that. They aren’t trying to learn. They aren’t trying to grow.” She laughed. “Can you imagine? I stood up in the Presidium and said we ought to think of them as humans. But they aren’t. I was wrong and you were all right, even Husathirn Mueri. Bugs is what they are. Horrible oversized bugs. Everything I believed about them is something that they put into my head themselves.”

  “Don’t underrate them, Nialli,” Thu-Kimnibol said. “You may be going too far in the other direction now.” Hresh made a soft sighing sound. He turned and looked at him. But Hresh seemed asleep, breathing gently and calmly. Thu-Kimnibol turned back to Nialli Apuilana. “There’s one more thing, something the Queen told me that seemed even stranger than all the rest. Were you ever taught, when you lived among them, that the hjjks believe they were created by the humans?”

  Now it was her turn to look startled. “No. No, never!”

  “Can it be true, do you think?”

  “Why not. The humans were almost like gods. The humans may have been the gods.”

  “Then if the hjjks are their chosen people—”

  “No,” she said. “The hjjks were a chosen people. Chosen to survive, to endure the Long Winter, to take over the world afterward. But they didn’t work out, somehow. So the gods created us. Or the humans did, one or the other. As replacements for them.” Her eyes were bright with a fervor he had rarely seen in them before. “Some day the humans are going to come back to Earth,” she said. “I’m certain of it. They’ll want to see what’s been happening here since they left. And they won’t want to find the whole place one gigantic Nest, Thu-Kimnibol. They put us in those cocoons for a purpose, and they’ll want to know whether that purpose has been fulfilled. So we have to keep on fighting, don’t you see? We have to hold our own against the Queen. Call them gods, call them humans, whatever they are, they’re the ones who made us. And they expect that of us.”