The Hive Read online

  “You are out of line, sir,” said a second voice in the back.

  Lem was shocked to see that it was Sokolov, standing at his table, actually coming to the Hegemon’s defense.

  “You will forgive my outburst,” said the junior minister. “But I cannot sit here and listen to an obvious scheme to benefit one corporation at the expense of all the others. Especially not from a Formic sympathizer.”

  There were audible gasps from the crowd.

  “How dare you, sir!” Again, it was Sokolov who spoke up, challenging his own subordinate.

  The junior minister was on his feet now, unfazed, pointing a finger straight at Wila. “This woman prays to the Hive Queen!”

  More gasps, and all eyes turned to Wila. She opened her mouth to speak, but the junior minister beat her to it.

  “The Fleet has outlawed any discussion of the Hive Queen, and this woman not only mocks our commanders by ignoring their directive, but she also has the audacity to treat the enemy like it’s our god!”

  “Sir—” Wila began.

  But the junior minister shouted over her. “She calls for the preservation of the Formic species. She reveres the very creatures who slaughter our sons and daughters. She prays to the monsters who burned millions in China and who would have burned us all if we hadn’t stopped them. There are no sides in this war, ladies and gentlemen. There is one side. And this woman before us, speaking on behalf of Juke Limited, is not on it.”

  “Now wait a minute—” Lem tried again, but the junior minister had pulled a piece of paper from his coat and was reading it aloud. “‘Prayer for the Hive Queen,’ by Wilasanee Saowaluk. It’s on the nets. Do you deny it?”

  “I have put nothing on the nets,” said Wila, desperate.

  “But you did write it,” said the junior minister. “And you still practice it. While the world teeters on annihilation, you side with the enemy.”

  “It’s true,” said a new voice. Lem turned. The CEO of Minetek was holding up his wrist pad. “Someone sent it to me earlier. It’s all about her.”

  “This can’t be true,” said Sokolov. “This is a mistake.”

  Lem held up his hands. “Everyone just calm down.”

  Sokolov continued as if Lem hadn’t spoken, directing his words to the junior minister. “I would bet my reputation on the integrity of Lem Jukes. He would not fraternize with a Formic sympathizer.”

  Lem blinked. Suddenly this was about him?

  He realized then what was happening. It was all theater. Sabotage. Sokolov and his minister had orchestrated the whole thing to discredit Lem, and they were using Wila and twisting her beliefs to do it.

  “I regret to be the one to inform you otherwise,” said the junior minister, handing the paper to Sokolov, who made a great show of pulling out his glasses to read it.

  “This is a misunderstanding, Alexei,” said Lem.

  “And her submitted doctoral thesis,” said the junior minister, shooting another pointed finger at Wila, “called for us to protect the Formics. To protect them! The very creatures who want to destroy us!”

  Sokolov removed his glasses and regarded Wila with what looked like genuine heartbreak. “Tell me this isn’t true.”

  “Sir, you must understand the doctrine of Theravada Buddhism—” said Wila.

  “What I understand,” said Sokolov, now with more volume, “is that we are at war, that our very species is at risk, and that I have neither the patience nor the stomach for what amounts to treason.” He regarded Lem with a cold stare. “Shame on you, Lem. Shame.”

  Lem shook his head. “Everyone here sees what you’re doing, Sokolov. Let’s cut the charade.”

  “I’m leaving,” said Sokolov. “And I will question the patriotism of anyone who remains.” He grabbed his things and moved for the exit.

  There was a momentary pause of confusion among the other guests as they looked at one another, surprised, unsure what to do.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Lem. “This is obviously sabotage. Everyone, please. He’s trying to discredit me so that he can build alliances against my father.”

  But they weren’t listening. The junior minister had grabbed his things. And the CEO of Minetek and his date were already halfway to the door.

  “Treason!” the junior minister shouted as he moved for the exit. “A room of traitors!”

  It was a calculated thing to say, because of course now everyone was getting to their feet, fearful of being labeled treasonous by association.

  “This is political theater,” said Lem. “Everyone, please. This was a setup. Surely you can see that.”

  But no one was stopping. The room filled with the commotion of a crowd hurrying for the exit.

  Lem made a move to shout over them, but a gentle hand took his own. He turned to see that Benyawe had come up behind him.

  “Let them go,” she said.

  Lem grimaced, his face a flurry of confusion and emotion. “That bastard.”

  “There’s no good time to tell you this,” said Benyawe, “but someone was filming the entire exchange on their wrist pad.”

  “Of course they were,” said Lem.

  “One of Sokolov’s staff,” said Benyawe. She pointed. “Seated at that table, to get the best angle on you and Wila. It’s probably on the nets already and popping up in the press’s inboxes.”

  “They’ll no doubt edit out that part of me calling this whole display a carefully orchestrated work of political theater,” said Lem.

  “You should warn your father,” said Benyawe. “He’s going to be assaulted by the press, and he needs a heads up. Second, call legal and PR and prepare a statement. Get ahead of this. Silence the story before it becomes one.”

  “No statement from me is going to prevent this from becoming a story,” said Lem. His head was swimming.

  “Regarding Wila,” said Benyawe. “You need a response to Wila.”

  “A response? You mean fire her? This was a sabotage, Benyawe. I’m not playing to their narrative.”

  “You may not have a choice, not unless you want to flush our stock down the toilet. I’m not speaking as an engineer, Lem. I’m speaking as a member of the board. I like Wila as much as you do, but I like the human race more.”

  He looked at her, not understanding.

  She spoke calmly. “If the company falters, the war falters. We are the largest defense contractor in the world. Weapons, ships, software, intelligence. We keep the Fleet operational. If we go south, people die. Maybe everyone dies.”

  Lem turned around to face Wila, to find meaning, to seek clarity, to say something.

  But the platform was empty.

  Wila was gone.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wila

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Arming marines with NanoCloud

  * * *

  Dear Bingwen,

  We did not know about the hullmat tunnel blocks in the asteroids. The International Fleet is not always forthcoming with this type of information. Or with any information, to be honest. You would think that we would be privy to intelligence regarding our tech’s usefulness in the field and new applications of that tech should it ever be needed. But no. Individual admirals and commanders are needlessly protective of information. These people refuse to speak to each other.

  But I digress. You need answers, not the rants of an angry old woman. I have assembled a team of engineers to consider your problem. But you should know that this is not the normal way of doing things. Normally, the Fleet identifies a need. Like you have done. Hullmat blocks in the tunnels. Contractors like Juke Limited learn of this need and then issue formal proposals to the Fleet’s acquisition department, which routes them through a series of committees, which then authorize further development and the eventual construction of a prototype. That prototype is then tested repeatedly at WAMRED, the results of which are shown to a different series of committees, largely made up of peop
le who shoot holes in such proposals simply to justify their jobs. Assuming the proposal has not yet been squashed, it is then greenlit for production and placed in a long line of other tech awaiting production. Once all the delays of production are weathered and manufacturing is finally completed, the tech is then distributed via zipship or other spacecraft to whatever far corner of the universe needs it. Meanwhile, the marines patiently awaiting these tools were killed eleven months ago because they didn’t have the equipment when they needed it.

  That’s the normal course of action. But since I hate the normal course of action and despise the bureaucracy that I see obstructing common sense at every turn, we’re going to do this your way and tradition be damned.

  We will begin immediately on our end. Our challenge at the moment is this: We don’t design the suits that tunnel marines wear. So we don’t know if these suits contain any silicon. They may not, but if they do, putting NanoCloud in those marines’ hands would obviously be disastrous. We are in contact with the German company who makes the suits and will hopefully get answers soon. Expect rough ideas in a few days.

  Once we have a design, I will be relying on you to get it to the marines who need them. Lem has confidence that you can get it done, and thus so do I. More soon.

  Regards,

  Noloa Benyawe

  * * *

  Wila pushed her way through a series of curtains and exited the ballroom at the rear through the first door she found. To her surprise it led to the kitchen. The chefs and servers all paused in their work and looked up at her curiously. For a moment, Wila stood there frozen, staring back at them, uncertain, face flushed with shame. It horrified her to act so discourteously, to barge into a room so brusquely and uninvited, to invade these people’s workspace so rudely. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, but just in that moment, a male server entered the kitchen briskly through another door, unaware of the awkward scene, and the loud bang of the swinging door striking the sink was like a gunshot at a race. Wila was off again, surging forward, weaving around the servers and stainless-steel countertops, apologizing as she went. Eventually she reached the opposite door and exit. She turned and gave a final bow of apology, but the servers and chefs were already back to work, no longer paying attention.

  Wila exited and found herself in a dark corridor, obviously not being used for the evening’s event. She paused and leaned against a wall, winded, catching her breath. She had ruined it. She had ruined everything. Lem had entrusted her with one simple task, and she had ruined it. And not just the evening, but Lem as well. She had embarrassed him. Embarrassed the company. They had twisted her prayer to the Hive Queen. They had made it something sinister, something evil, rather than what it was: a call for peace, a prayer for compassion, not toward the Hive Queen, not to make her an object of our compassion, but an appeal to the Hive Queen that she show compassion, that she end her assault, that she cease her fight. Isn’t that what every human soul wanted? Peace? Wasn’t that the prayer of every man, woman, and child alive?

  But no, it didn’t matter. Their objections were falsely made. They cared nothing for Wila’s prayer. Their true objective was clear: to humiliate Lem, to invalidate his efforts, to censure him before the world, to paint him as something the world should despise. Not because they saw him as a threat, or perhaps not entirely for that purpose, but because striking Lem was a strike against Lem’s father, the Hegemon. That’s what this was about: delegitimizing Ukko Jukes as Hegemon. It was a political attack. Wasn’t that glaringly obvious to everyone?

  Wila shook her head, ashamed at herself. She was throwing accusations and condemnations at Sokolov and his allies. That was not her way. That was not the path of enlightenment, to see corruption in others where corruption may not exist.

  But Lem. She had humiliated Lem and Benyawe. She had ruined the evening, the fundraiser.

  And then a new thought struck her, one that should have hit her first and shaken her the most. The fundraiser. In one stroke she had tainted the cause of the refugees. She had embraced a noble effort to relieve suffering among helpless people, including children, and spoiled the whole enterprise with her poisoned embrace. No one would donate now. Money would not come. Innocent people in desperate need would suffer without aid. The food they needed, the homes they needed, the jobs they needed now would not come. Because of her. Because of words on a page. Words that men had twisted and smeared and decried.

  Wila closed her eyes, made fists with her hands. It was too much. Unthinkable. The faces of the refugees were suddenly before her. Pleading. Hungry. Abandoned. What a fool she had been. She had believed that she could make a difference here, that her skills and compassion, like stones and mortar, could help build a bridge for those looking to cross troubled waters. What arrogance. It was not a bridge that she had built, but a wall, so high and indestructible that no hungry child would ever climb over it.

  She lifted the hem of her white mae-chee robe and bounded away, her eyes filling with tears. She should not have come, she realized. Not just tonight, but to Luna, to the company, to the job. She should not have left Thailand. That too had been arrogant. To presume that her knowledge, little though it was, would have some impact. Oh, what she would give to enter the teakwood temple now in Ubon Ratchathani and sit in prayer with Master Arjo, to meditate, to breathe in the incense, to bask in the silence, to escape, to forget.

  She reached the building’s exit and stopped, her hand on the bar to push it open. Her reflection in the glass of the door startled her. She looked a mess. Her face was streaked with tears, her robe bunched and wrinkled, her expression addled and desperate. She had lost herself, she realized. Everything she believed and embraced and stood for had been momentarily abandoned. Emotions were to be quelled and checked. They should not overtake her. How could she transform herself, liberate herself, and turn her attention outward toward others, if she allowed hysteria to consume her?

  That was not the path to enlightenment.

  She felt a new shame now. She had broken her control.

  Her next thought struck her as odd: relief. Like a cool shower all over her. Relief that Lem had not seen her this way, that she had fled before she had lost control and experienced … what exactly? A panic attack? A burst of anxiety?

  She focused on her face in the glass and took a few deep breaths until her visage began to soften and her posture began to change. She stood erect again and shook out an unwelcomed crease in her robe. She dried her cheeks, wiped at her eyes, and licked her lips. After two more calming breaths she was herself again. Not at peace, not settled. Sadness and shame still roiled inside her. But she could contain it now. It no longer controlled her.

  She would find a place to pray and meditate. Peace would be her center. Calm would be her soul. Then she would apologize to Lem. And not with words alone. She would accompany them with actions that would attempt to restore what she had broken, if such a thing could be mended.

  She left the building. The south side of the convention center was thankfully the least trafficked. People were all around her: couples moving arm and arm, men and women in suits, a mother pushing a stroller, all of them moving up or down the metal sidewalk with their magnetic greaves on their shins, like a scene from any bustling city on Earth. To Wila’s relief none were formally dressed, as the guests at the fundraiser had been. No one here recognized her. If they looked in her direction, there was nothing more in their eyes than the mild curiosity most people showed when they saw a woman with a shaved head in a white mae-chee robe. Which meant they knew nothing of the firestorm she had just caused, the one that was likely already playing on the nets: the fall of Lem Jukes. The hypocrisy of Lem Jukes. The ignorance and arrogance and folly of Lem Jukes. Come, world, look and laugh and point and sneer at a man made to look like a clown.

  Of course the truth of it would be printed as well, the harmless substance of the prayer, the true meaning. It was there and plain to see for anyone who cared to read it. Some people would come to W
ila’s defense. But not everyone would hear them, and more importantly, most people wouldn’t care. News that embarrassed and shamed was the most quickly and delightfully consumed.

  She tapped at her wrist pad and called for a car. She had no idea where she might go. She only knew she couldn’t stay here. Her apartment was on the Rings, the manmade ringed structures that rotated around the Formic scout ship held in geosynchronous orbit above Earth, but the shuttle wasn’t scheduled to return to the Rings until tomorrow. She had a hotel room that the company had provided her here on Luna, but should she go there? What if there was press?

  A man beside her was checking his wrist pad. He looked up at Wila with a curious expression, as if she were the final piece of an unsolved puzzle. He glanced at his wrist pad and then back up at Wila.

  Was the news already covering the event? Wila wondered. Had the press already pulled her photo and plastered it on the nets? Surely not. It had only just occurred.

  Wila felt suddenly conspicuous. A female Buddhist on any street corner was an anomaly, even in a place as diverse as Luna, but now Wila felt as if a spotlight from the city’s domed ceiling high above was shining directly on her.

  An autonomous taxi arrived, and Wila hurriedly climbed inside. The monitor before her asked for her destination, and Wila hesitated. Where should she go? She had no relatives on Luna. No friends outside of work. No acquaintances.

  Out the window she saw the man with the puzzled expression still watching her. Now he twisted his wrist pad in her direction as if preparing to take her photo.

  “Docks,” Wila said.

  The taxi pulled into traffic, and Wila slumped down in her seat, grateful for the darkness of night. The dome lights of Imbrium were off now, projecting instead a beautiful swath of twinkling stars, which meant no one would likely see her inside the taxi or pay her any mind. Wila reached up and tapped at the glass to raise the tint to black and completely block out the world. Just in case.