Strange Harvest

Part VII: Hive

I woke, still in the sickly dream state, both seeing and feeling the queen's experiences as she, too, came out of a deep sleep. Her bloated grub body had grown to fill nearly the whole cramped area, but I couldn't tell how much time that meant had passed. We could see, barely—just the awareness of faint light ahead. Then, hunger returned with sudden urgency, a deep, sharp pang that spurred me to action.

Gyrating my head, I scraped my hard mandibles against the wall—a cry for help. I repeated the call, worming forward to the edge of the cell. Outside, several blurry forms scurried across the opening until one of the worker wasps noticed my desperate thrashings. Obediently, the worker leaned over me and opened its jaws, regurgitating some of its last meal into my mouth. The sweet taste of lotus overpowered my senses as I guzzled the life-giving nectar.

Sated again, I needed to rest. But there was work to be done first—instinct guided my motions. From a pinhole gland beneath my jaw, I secreted a single silk thread and secured it against the edge of the cell, then spun the silk along to a second point, and on, and on. I continued without rest, without lotus, without aid, until finally the silk dome had sealed me inside. Exhausted, I retreated farther back into the cell and collapsed into sleep.

Light and shadow shifted in patterns through the silky white cap to the cell. I could feel legs beneath me now, and wings on my back. In front of me, through the thin covering, the world called to me. I sensed the other grubs around me, too, wriggling in their own separate cocoons. But it was not their time.

The hive queen, my mother, my life, my world, called only for me. Her thoughts whispered in mine, bringing brief, snapshot visions in quick succession: out, free, fly. I saw myself eat through the cell's cap in front of me. I saw myself crawling free, preening my new body, my glorious crimson-scale armor.

Then, I saw myself in flight. Hunting. Killing.

I felt it. I needed it.

Testing my fully-formed pincer mandibles with a few awkward clicks, I leaned forward and pierced through the domed silk cap on the cell, chewing a hole to escape. Out, my queen cooed as my head emerged, filling me with a wave of pleasure at obeying her. It felt intoxicating, overpowering, as though my life had no other meaning.

Free, she repeated, urging me on, showing me how I could wiggle out and crawl onto the hive itself, standing above my hivemates. I did as she demonstrated, and felt the queen's vision become reality, stretching new limbs, fluttering delicate wings, using my forelegs to wipe clean my antennae and the tiny interlocking scales covering my flexible body. Again, a rush of intense euphoria from fulfilling my hive queen's commands.

Only then was I truly born, strong and fresh, ready to hunt and kill for the hive, flexing my wings for my first flight—when the vision suddenly flickered and faded, smoke in the wind. Just as quickly, I found myself back in the root tunnels, barely conscious, straining to even keep my sight focused. Mueller and Chavos crouched over me, spinning crazily, both of them looking at my stomach and talking to each other.

"—suit's the only thing keeping him together. We lock it in place, use it like a stretcher. If we can get him to the Packhound at the entrance, Goldwater's got Biofoam in her medical supplies." Mueller spoke rapidly, with a strain in his voice, and I knew if he was shaken it must have meant things looked really bad for me. "We need to find her, or he's not gonna make it."

I weakly mumbled to them, "Can't feel... a thing."

"Fuck, he's conscious?" Chavos leaned over my helmet, reminding me of the worker wasp feeding me lotus.

"If you're still numb, that means the paralysis hasn't worn off yet, but it will," Mueller explained. "And when it does, it's going to hurt. I'm locking your suit so you can't move. Chavos, we need to get him up there. The fabricant will finish the harvest."

"Saw a dream," I whispered, finding it hard to project my voice. I tried to hang on to the memories, but they kept slipping from my thoughts. It felt urgent, like I needed to get the words out, or something would be lost. "Being born. I was... her, she—she—"

Mueller cut me off. "Stop fucking talking, Jackson. You've got an abdominal wound and you're making it worse. Which is unfortunate for you, because either Goldwater fucked off somewhere against orders and left the Packhound, or dusters got her. But if we can get you up there, you might live. Chavos, grab his feet. Let's go."

They picked me up between them and we moved through the tunnels as quickly as we could with me lying flat on my back. I tried watching Mueller's camera feed as we went, but I kept seeing a shifting double image and decided it wasn't worth the risk of vomiting inside my helmet. I closed my eyes and relaxed, remembering fragments of the dream, finding that the details came trickling back more when I let go than when I tried to hold on.

I let go.

Again, the sinking sensation, but this time like falling into warm black velvet, with reality as just a pinprick of light in the distance. Still, I sank further.

In the dream, I didn't need to act, or decide, or choose. I lived through her actions. Faster, I dropped into darkness. Falling. Spinning. I plummeted, terrified, frantically searching for that single drop of sunlight above me.

*** 

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