Fic: Star Trek
Title: The Hive
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: T because of owies and a little language
Characters: James T. Kirk, Spock, Leonard McCoy, Christine Chapel, Montgomery Scott, probably others I've forgotten to mention...
Warnings: Very awkward reading due to outsider POV, a bit of blood, a bit of language, a bit of redundancy
Words: 8,800 (yeah, pretty dang long)
Author's Note: Written for the Star Trek h/c meme at trek_hc in response to the lovely kcscribbler 's request for a rewrite of "Operation-- Annihilate!" where Jim ends up stung, not Spock. I have to admit, it ended up a whole new level of ridiculous but :) she seemed to like it so it must work...
Summary: Worker seeks a host. And Worker finds one.
They must travel because they have no other choice but to seek new hosts. Queen insists that one day, the traveling will stop, and the perfect hosts will be found; Queen calls it completion but their recent hosts have another word that echoes through the hive; symbiosis, the workers whisper, as they travel from world to world. They seek that sort of relationship without doubt or concern or question; they never leave an opportunity untouched. Their match exists, again, somewhere; it is just a matter of overturning every stone, every place.
They have not always been like this, will not always be like this, cannot always dwell like nomads; time is limited, after all, not as limited as it is with most of their hosts but, eventually, Queen will need a permanent home. Eventually, they will either find their match or perish along with their last conquest with only the group impression of what they’d once been. Once, so long ago, they lived peacefully on the backs of their hosts; no convulsing, screaming, fighting, crying but peace and cooperation. They helped their hosts with impossible tasks, blocking hurts, suggesting group activities, making actions smoother, more direct and, in turn, their hosts cared for them, provided nutrients, protected Queen.
Long ago, they did not have potential candidates running and sobbing at their appearance; long ago, they’d been respected and loved. They miss it, sometimes, mostly when Queen lets out great pulses of imprinted memories. Together, as a host, they mourn the loss of their partners; as a host, they project a possible future where the emptiness will be filled.
Not so on Deneva, where yet another attempt fails. They lie in wait as the last of the occupants fade, as the ones they still possess slowly dissolve into hysterics and whimpers; they wait for the ships to be built so that they might try somewhere else. In the depths, Queen sits on the most docile of the planet’s creatures, slowly taking in the knowledge of the surrounding worlds and dictating the construction of their ships. Apparently, their best chance lies very far in the distance and their hosts, so fragile, will need special care to survive the travel. So, they wait as she works, they give her more hands when she needs them, and they watch as their hope fades.
The first ship fails, their hands piloting it into the sun where they all feel the hot burst of agony as part of their hive departs from their number. On the planet, some of their hosts die, some of their connections rot, some of their knowledge fades. They retract themselves from the light, working more furiously to their ends. The impulse, the knowledge that Queen needs better accommodations and soon, has them almost risking the harshness of this galaxy’s sun to find the right form of transport; yes, it is in vain, yes, their hope lies with these people, with their limbs, with their knowledge, but they seek other opportunities anyway. It is the workers’ way, to watch, to wait, to waylay resources.
And Worker, just Worker, as they have no self, only group, finds that chance. They all do when strange movements about the planet reveal a new group of bipeds, same as the majority dwelling on this planet. They appear instantly, a shifting in the world bringing them forth, and every worker focuses on them. Queen knows, watches, pauses only momentarily in her actions to approve their instincts so they may pursue these beings. First, they send their hosts forward, yelling, screaming, sending waves of discomfort over links into delicate connections and watch them fail.
Worker watches, Worker waits with other Workers as these new ones slowly move about. They stop in a quiet, dark dwelling and part of them remove in the shifting of the world. The others stay, explore, investigate and Worker-workers-follows in the shadows, keeping away the harsh yellow light, encouraging workers’ hosts to go along. Worker-the singular, the one, not the individual but part of the whole-has no host here, has already lost him in that dark place where these new ones took two of their number away. So, Worker merely watches and listens to the feelings and impressions of the missing number elsewhere.
Worker knows much, has seen much, has been with Queen as long as Queen has been Queen. What reports stream from their two missing number hearten; they are on a ship, well-equipped, large, teaming with candidates for symbiosis. Queen vaguely acknowledges this as positive but Queen has much more to do than to listen to half-hearted reports. So, Worker approves quietly and Worker makes this ship an important goal for all workers. Perhaps, this ship will provide more knowledge, provide more skills, provide a home.
The world shifts and there stands a strong one, alone, a perfect target. Worker senses it, they all sense it, but Worker knows that this man feels similar to the old host. This creature can be touched more readily, a second chance at the same physiological make up, a second chance to not lose, but to win, the game. Worker skulks in the shadows, creeping about to follow this creature as its blinding coloring, so sun-like, travel to meet the rest of the group. Low to the ground, Worker moves, vibrations of encouragement seeping about until Worker has the entire Hive’s support.
The host stops with the others, several of his sameness and one of a difference. Worker hesitates here, in the shadows, as they study and watch, similarly feeling the options. The original, so like the first host, has much potential even if the first host managed to thwart the Hive through death. The new one, in comparison, has more strength, more endurance, more ability to survive the hybrid; but with this is a strength Worker cannot defeat and does not dare take on. Survival, imperative; this other will not allow it. This solves Worker’s dilemma far more easily than anything else and Queen gives a flutter of approval.
So, after the shocking and numbing caused by the implements the hosts carry, Worker reacts. They turn from him and Worker spins forth, away from the sun but at it in coloring until the softness comes in contact. Injection occurs rapidly, easily, like everything else and Worker maneuvers with ease through this creature’s defenses, sensing similarities in his makeup; rapidly, ignoring the growing senses of the host that attempt to overwhelm the Hive’s, Worker takes control. And, Worker gains some semblance of singularity, some semblance of uniqueness in the Hive of one.
Worker has a name, now, as he slowly bends the host to his will; Worker is James T. Kirk.
-*-*-*
This is what it looks like.
It looks like one million people, slowly, but surely, screaming in agony as a disease spreads and takes them. It looks like darkened skies and hazy meadows and stilled machines; it looks like every horror movie you’ve ever seen where the world’s left deserted by sanity, only remnants of wailing, broken people remaining. Every street corner that once appeared familiar, now lies barren, the wind whispering through it. Hundreds of years ago, in the desert, tumbleweeds and dust would’ve accompanied it and a heavily accented voice would’ve rumbled down from a horse’s back, “What we’ve got here, folks, is a ghost town.”
It looks like, from the inside, convulsions, madness and suffering. When people yet unaffected step into the dimly lit rooms, they see mask faces, warped by pain. Those masks change, fluctuate, try to control something and then fail. The bodies attached to them flail and mouths move in a silent mantra of “No” or “Don’t” or “Run” or, sometimes, ever so weakly, “I’m sorry.” Eventually, all motion ceases and the bodies go still, nothing more than empty dress up toys, waiting for someone to put them on. And they don’t seem peaceful, even then, because of the slightest twisting of their lips.
This is what the Hive looks like.
To things that don’t know them.
-*-*-
Let me tell you a story, my child.
Many, many turns of sun and moon, back in the Great Rhestran when our people still built teha from the ground and swam like gwahu in the lake, they came.
They came from the great night lights and poured upon the ground like our ancestor’s tears. As the rivers flow, so did they from their holes in the ground, and as the lakes gather, so did they outside our homes.
And we, with no wisdom, feared them.
-*-*-
Worker does not understand James T. Kirk because Worker has, since the death of the first host, long before this planet in the times of goodness, always had to fight hosts. And, for a moment or two, Worker does fight James T. Kirk’s cries and suppresses his struggles and attempts to prevent him from flailing against the strange one’s body but to no avail. Worker senses the pain, senses the suffering, senses a strong personality beneath the Hive, trying to break free, and then, suddenly that strength is gone. At first, Worker thinks James T. Kirk has died but careful probing reveals that James T. Kirk still breathes, still twitches when Worker commands it, still whimpers dully as Worker makes James T. Kirk’s neural pathways a part of the Hive.
Worker expected stronger especially as Worker moves through the memories and reveals that the decision was good; James T. Kirk is the ruler of the ship and will best control it if Worker can get Kirk to obey. Queen sends soothing pleasure to everyone and all attention turns to Worker as Worker probes Kirk’s mind.
What are you?
Worker pauses and listens.
What are you?
Worker knows words as Worker learned them in past hosts but cannot use them without using the hosts mind. Helplessly, Worker turns to Queen, who in turn sends a suggestion, a brief explanation of imagery and interest. Under Worker, James T. Kirk thrashes and shouts.
Let me go. Please.
Worker tries to explain, tries to send other images that Queen transmits, but James T. Kirk is lost to agony and cannot be reached or reasoned with. So, Worker turns helplessly to the Queen and asks what to do. Queen sends sadness, tries to bathe the weakening host in comfort as Queen often does for workers and prompts complete takeover. These new hosts, these humans, cannot stand against the Hive as equals; their thoughts too primitive, their nature too hostile, they cannot be symbiotic, only individual. Queen wishes it different, wishes it better, for together they could do much. But lamentation only depresses morale and Queen encourages Worker to do whatever it takes.
Worker obeys.
What else can Worker do?
-*-*-*-
This is what it sounds like.
It sounds like kicked puppies and crying children and spilling milk and shattering glass. It sounds like every broken call of every desperate parent who ever watched a baby about to blunder into a terrible situation. It sounds like nails on a chalk board, silverware on good china, a bandage tearing from skin, flesh hitting the ground, tires screeching on tar and bones snapping under pressure. It sounds like all of these at once, which in turn sounds like nothing but raucous hollow screeches. Like a tornado, it overcomes the senses until the listener cowers helplessly in a ditch waiting for the worst to be over. He or she creeps out and hears the hollow creaking of a destroyed home.
It sounds like the last Christmas present opening at the end of Christmas day where the tape and the paper signal the end of the season and the beginning of paying the bills. It creeps into the canals of the ears until the listener feels as though his or her body produces it and nothing, nothing at all, can stop it. Even after it fades, it still lingers in the inner ear’s memory, a forever echo unto eternity. It wakes the listener years later so whoever shares his or her bed will jerk awake, too, and lightly draw hands up and down that listener’s arms and back and whisper, over the horrible racket, “It’s just me. You’re fine. Go back to sleep.”
That’s what the Hive sounds like.
To Leonard McCoy who cannot relieve his best friend’s pain.
-*-*-*-
Listen, my child, to what happened next.
Our ancestors cowered in their teha and wept for mercy from Eiri who stood guardian that moon and begged Meiri for intervention as the sun came about. They hovered in the shadows outside and our ancestors walked only in the light and built large fires for safety. But They waited patiently and They do not need food or teha or majesk or even sleep and when our ancestors strength finally failed, They fell upon them.
They took every man, every woman, every child.
They took every meimei, every ghati, every truam.
And They heard us.
-*-*-*-
Worker does not worry, cannot worry but Worker stops pressing James T. Kirk and listens to what happens about them. The light on this ship burns, but not the devastating ache of the suns, just the minor glare of artificially produced waves. Looking through James T. Kirk’s eyes helps, and Worker nudges them back and forth, listens to groans and whimpers, and Queen says that this ship will do nicely, if Worker can find a way aboard. At the moment, though, Worker fears the host will not survive a walk about, much less a full plan, so Worker lies in wait.
Above Worker hovers a different host, a man with a lined face and brilliant blue eyes. Worker does not view host emotions well-and Queen has never judged emotions at all-but Worker feels the radiation of sadness pouring waves over James T. Kirk and himself. This man pets at James T. Kirk’s arm and looks above him at the screen and monitors-that mean nothing to Worker but something to Queen who explains in the briefest flicker of knowledge-his hand tightening against James T. Kirk’s sleeve. This man’s face looks like the valleys of the old world, like the pathways in the woods Worker used to run with Worker’s old host, and his voice, as it rumbles over James T. Kirk’s ears into Worker’s consciousness, reminds Worker of the voices of the Ancestors-his host called it that but Worker knows it as thunder-when the sky turned black before night.
“Easy, Jim,” this man soothes.
Bones.
Bones, Worker identifies the man. This is Bones.
Help.
And that issues from James T. Kirk’s and Worker’s lips, cracked from strain and starting to bleed. The weakest mewling of the word breaks something in Bones, Queen informs Worker, as Worker watches Bones drag his free hand about his craggy features in a desperate scrubbing. Then he calls to another host-female, Worker decides- who approaches with quiet quickness that Worker appreciates. The residual effect of the world being too loud for Worker’s host causes Worker what can only be considered “sensitivity.”
“Doctor McCoy?” the woman whispers, softly.
“Bring me another hypo,” Bones murmurs. “Double dosage.”
“But, Doctor,” the woman begins.
“Just do it,” Bones snaps, and the grooves change in shape and his mouth turns down. Worker senses a struggle. “And if you can’t, find someone who will.”
Bones.
“We’ll figure this out, Jim, I promise.”
Help.
“I,” Bones starts and he makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “I’m trying, Jim. We’re all trying.”
The woman returns with a cylindrical object in hand. From Kirk’s mind, too fast, too harsh, Worker draws forth the word hypo and James T. Kirk screams both internally and externally, causing a sharp descent of the weapon. A pinch of skin, a hiss click and the vision and hearing depart.
Worker waits in darkness, knowing that failure is only inches away.
Worker no longer has the luxury of peaceful action.
-*-*-*-
This is what it feels like.
It feels like the unpleasant chill creeping up your spine for no reason that clenches every muscle and has you shudder even though the room is warm. It feels like the slightest brush of nails over exposed skin, the biting breeze on a cool day, and the unpleasant dampness of sweat as the sun broils the air. It feels like the bite of a paper cut, the scrape of concrete over a knee, the puncture of a knife on tender limbs. It feels like the shock as you stare down at your filleted palm, the flesh irreversibly split in two to reveal white bones and flexing muscles and blood, so much blood, that your stomach and brain and eyes and nose cannot comprehend it; it feels like that moment before the intense agony, where the pain already waits, but the worst is yet to come.
It feels like that moment when you lose someone not to war, or sickness, or someone else but your own hubris, or stubbornness, or blindness. It’s that moment when that person whispers, “Sorry, it just can’t work in any format” and creeps away into darkness; or, even worse, when that person says nothing but you realize that the silence or the lack of endearing camaraderie assures the end is near. It’s that moment when the hollow of your gut feels like the never ending depths of space, empty, expansive and cold; and you know that you’ve lost something special and even with all the searching in the world, you’ll never, ever get it back.
It’s what the Hive feels like.
To Commander Spock as he tentatively touches his Captain’s mind and composes himself not to show it.
-*-*-*-
We did not, my child, have anything to fear.
Upon the dawn of Khunash, our eyes parted and we felt the gentle pulse of Them upon us, the gentle guidance of Queen in our ears. They sat deep in our bodies and guided our actions so we might not cause harm, but, instead cause good. They showed us what happened before to other places and They carefully listened to what we, as the Praus, believed in.
And then They promised to live by the Hash in the Great Rhestran.
And then They promised to build our teha with us from the ground.
And then They promised to swim like the gwahu in the lake.
And we promised them peace.
-*-*-*-
Worker pulls apart James T. Kirk’s eyelids once Worker knows the action will not kill the host. The lights have dimmed and no one, not even the prying other mind that jabbed viciously at Worker and Queen, sits in the area. James T. Kirk moans and twitches as Worker tests limbs and senses and functions. With whimpers and groans, Worker forces Kirk to his feet and flexes fingers and toes. Worker twists wrists and ankles and rotates Kirk’s neck, finding this body pleasantly strong, if recalcitrant. Whatever Worker observed about its longevity fades as Worker forces two steps, then two more, and finds that the body does not crumple under the strain. However, as each movement occurs, James T. Kirk attempts to speak louder.
What the hell are you doing?
Worker presses James T. Kirk’s mouth into a tight line so that these words do not flow out. Then Worker provides imagery with Queen’s help of the Praus and gwahus and teha. This does not mean anything to the host but Worker still cannot comprehend words, cannot present the past because Worker needs Kw’ee’nah, long departed Kw’ee’nah, to use those. Kw’ee’nah spoke like a ghach, in long, fluid words, that would soothe even the angriest of souls and bring quiet to the loudest of individuals. For a group mentality, Worker almost has a moment of personal nostalgia and agony as Worker’s mind caresses the remnants of Kw’ee’nah’s thoughts, so very, very far away. The mourning decreases Worker’s control and James T. Kirk rears against Worker.
I won’t let you take my ship or my crew or anyone else.
Worker tries to calm as Queen does to the Hive, as Kw’ee’nah did to the Praus, but cannot. The struggle grows fierce and James T. Kirk wails and the lights flare up to reveal the one who reached out and clawed at the Queen. Worker slams down hard, fast and without forgiveness against this probing individual who does not stand like the others. The initial instinct to take the stronger psyche has faded; Worker knows that only Queen could conquer this individual, if this individual could be conquered at all. This individual’s brain, as it pries at the walls Worker erects, carefully balances so that mental stimuli can always be controlled. It uses this to reach out towards James T. Kirk, to call to him.
James T. Kirk collapses slowly, folding first at the ankles, then at the knees, hips, waist, neck and Worker finds that only the eyes move properly. This other being clings to Kirk, lowering him slowly, so his body rests partially against the person and partially on the floor. A hand like a claw touches James T. Kirk’s face and pulls at his brain, tries to tug it away from Worker’s grasp.
Spock.
The being cannot hear James T. Kirk because it’s not close enough. But Worker can, recognizes, identifies and titles the being a spock.
Help me.
This the spock hears both mentally and physically. Queen takes minor interest, reaching out and carefully correcting Worker. This is not a Spock; this is a Vulcan which, Queen warns, is much worse.
Please, Spock, it’s trying to make me take the ship.
“You must stay strong, Captain,” the Vulcan, the Spock, commands aloud and against, if not in, James T. Kirk’s mind. “We have almost found a solution.”
Hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, itsgoingtobreakmesoongottastopitSpockplease…
Worker’s limited grasp of language cannot decipher the end but that does not matter. The beginning, the quiet chanting, awakens something that has long lay dormant. It pushes Worker to the farthest reaches of James T. Kirk’s mind, relinquishing the tiny grasp Worker still had, and leaving Worker as a mere ghost. James T. Kirk falls limp against the Spock and the Spock quickly breaks through to him. Worker does not listen in on their conversation, cannot, too wrapped up in a similar conversation Worker once had before words meant nothing.
-*-*-*-
This is what it tastes like.
It tastes like unexpectedly curdled milk, an overly sour lemon, a sip of burnt coffee, scalded gravy. It tastes like that first drop of blood in your mouth when you accidentally bite your lip, that mucus you hack up when the cold starts to end, that bile in your throat when you’re ready to gag. It tastes like the deepest depths of that morning hangover, when you’re certain you’re going to die, if not from the alcohol trying to escape your system, then from the shame of drinking that much again when you swore upon every deity you’ve ever heard of (if not believed in) that you would never, ever indulge like that as long as you lived. It’s that lingering taste of disappointment-it tastes like bitter almonds and overripe cherries and a sex on the beach-that you can’t do anything right, no matter how hard you try.
It tastes like defeat, which is dry, stale, underlying with energy drinks and too many candy bars; it tastes like the defeat brought on from failing yet another test even though you studied for the past two weeks. Stumbling from the classroom, with two more classes to go, and the knowledge that if you don’t make the grade next time, you’ll need to take the class, again, that nasty taste haunts you and doubles your suffering because, last night, in your fervor to get to the school library so you could study a straight eight hours, you forgot your toothbrush on the counter. It’s that horrible, soulless feeling that someone, somewhere, has decided you will lose no matter what choices you make.
This is what the Hive tastes like.
To James T. Kirk as he struggles to protect his ship and crew.
-*-*-*-
Worker grieves.
Not the workers grieving, or Queen grieving, but Worker-not an individual and, yet, showing a moment of solitary sadness-alone grieves. The images of Kw’ee’nah have overwhelmed Worker, now, and Worker remembers better times, better places, better things; with Kw’ee’nah Worker had simplicity and the Hive had happiness and Queen was safe and-sometimes Worker can’t remember it properly, even with Queen’s guidance. Sometimes when Queen calls for quiet, Worker stands still with the rest but can no longer sense that image of Kw’ee’nah, or the feel of the hands putting Worker safely in a ham, or the sound of a powerful voice shouting tales. Sometimes, Worker thinks Kw’ee’nah is a memory that never really happened at all.
Who is this?
Worker looks at Kw’ee’nah on the edge of the lake, sees the wobbling image of Kw’ee’nah on the water. No explanation because words fled Worker with that face so Worker tries to compare it to another image that James T. Kirk might understand. Queen provides one-the image of a human woman with a human child-but it does not fit for Worker. Because Queen demands it-suddenly, Queen is more interested-he shoves that picture towards James T. Kirk who whimpers in physical response. No more words come for a long time.
She’s beautiful.
Beautiful? Worker takes information from James T. Kirk and understands beautiful. Women aboard this very ship fit James T. Kirk’s definition of “beautiful” but none of them resemble Kw’ee’nah. Humans and the Praus share no heritage except the barest minimum of features. Two legs, two arms, one head, two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth; but otherwise, they seem strangely different. The way Kw’ee’nah stood, the way she perceived, the way she felt; all of it is different than anyone else Worker has ever shared. And yet, James T. Kirk is genuine when he says that she is beautiful. She, Worker sends about, she is beautiful. Worker never thought of Kw’ee’nah as a she.
Is she gone?
Gone, Queen agrees, and sends sorrow over everyone, doubling Worker’s own sadness, and almost overriding James T. Kirk’s senses. The host yells aloud and calls his friends to him, and Worker slouches back into the deepest recesses of his mind, longing for Kw’ee’nah and the safety of Kw’ee’nah’s thoughts. James T. Kirk will never understand what they need, will only ever use words without explanations, and even if Worker manages to bend the host to Worker’s will, James T. Kirk will never fulfill the Hive’s most desperate desire. Queen strokes Worker’s thoughts away with assurances and Worker slowly relaxes back to the task at hand.
W-what happened to her?
Worker creeps forward, holding the question, not knowing but choosing to show a picture of someone else, another twisted, deformed body, marred by explosions and pain. Wide open eyes and mouth and blistered skin; Worker knows this happened to Kw’ee’nah too when the connection snapped suddenly and Worker sat alone in a jar, awaiting commands from Queen. James T. Kirk thrums with sorrow and with anger, neither directed at Worker, and, with all the same motions of the Hive, shows an image. Worker jerks but views the violence with red and blue shirted humans falling.
This? A War?
Worker almost turns to Queen but Queen focuses on the ship so Worker, instead, delves a bit along the lines of war within James T. Kirk’s mind. Finding a better image, Worker reveals a young James T. Kirk dodging in the bushes, dirty, tired and ravaged, spoiling bodies lying around him. The first reaction Worker senses is intense shock and then, intense understanding.
Genocide?
Worker does not know if that’s right but if it’s the word for that image then, it is so. Sending waves of confirmation, Worker waits.
I’m sorry.
And James T. Kirk uses the same technique as Queen, compassion and empathy swooping over Worker in such a rush that Worker almost runs away. But this, this feels right for the first time in forever and so Worker opens up to it. And listens.
Tell me. Tell me everything.
-*-*-*-
This is what it smells like.
It smells like old sweat, like two day old Florida road kill, like that thing that may have taken over the back of your fridge. It smells like something rotting out in your backyard that you cannot seem to find regardless of how hard you look. You turn stones, you dig into the grass, you peer behind trees but you never figure out where that horrible, gut-turning stink stems from. It smells like that moment where you, tired, frustrated, stand on your back porch and grit your teeth in hopes that it won’t test your taste buds, too.
It smells like the inside of a hospital as you tap your foot, or pace the floors, or scratch at your arms, your legs, your shoulders, your face, anything, as you attempt to distract yourself. The antiseptic sameness, which should make you feel sterile, only highlights the oppressive stench until you’re almost in a state of panic. It doesn’t help when the doctor or the nurse comes to collect you and gives you the news, good or bad, especially when it means longer, longer there, until that scent has seeped so far into your pores that the strongest soap in the world can’t alleviate it.
This is what the Hive smells like.
To Nurse Chapel who finds the bed empty.
-*-*-*-
My child, soon this time will fade into others and, with it, will fade our peace.
We tell our tales so you will remember how They came, and remember the gwahu in the lakes, and the teha of the ground, and the great times of Nahee, where we spun our majesk, and prayed to Meiri and Eiri. We tell our tales so others may know of how They taught us and we taught Them. We tell our tales so that others might learn of peace and seek it out.
We do it to preserve us.
We do it to preserve Them.
-*-*-*-
Worker lets James T. Kirk move because it prevents the host from crying out or weakening further. The energy that attracted Worker to James T. Kirk in the first place has faded to the dullest thrum so that Worker must tend it like a dying fire. Once it hits ashes, Worker knows that James T. Kirk will no longer be useful and that Worker will need to return to the planet; all that awaits Worker there is the prayer that Queen will find rescue for them. Worker reached out before James T. Kirk asked the simplest of requests and found that Queen was struggling; now, as he rides with James T. Kirk, Worker has little hope.
James T. Kirk stumbles into a cylindrical shaped container and sinks onto pure tile, trembling, and Worker shows him an image of a dead human, his last dead human, with the vaguest hint of question around it. James T. Kirk goes still and sends a negative in return with the quietest.
Sam?
Worker cannot comprehend Sam, cannot answer a question without pictures and whispers the softest of levels of confusion in reply. What? What is Sam? The words surprise Worker, the workers Worker connects with and Queen who gives him a cursory glance of question.
Sam, my brother? Did you take Sam?
That explains their similar outsides, Queen reasons to Worker who shrugs off Queen’s logic. Sometime since Worker took this new host, Worker has rediscovered a self hidden under the necessities of survival. It twists in him, scarred over with grief, but pleased to see the surface again. Worker informs Queen that Worker understands, has understood, the similar outsides then turns Worker’s attention to the host. Waves of contrition come from it, with the tail end of the already explained story.
James T. Kirk lets out a gasping wheeze and wetness trails down his face. Worker loses control for a moment and steals a hand to touch the dampness.
Sad? Worker asks. Sad?
Yes, very.
There is a word. Sorry?
Silence from James T. Kirk as the host retakes the arm with a grunt and drags himself to the panel on the side of the cylinder. He hits a button and shudders.
I know. I know you are.
Queen taps Worker, not hard, because Queen never harms any of the workers. Too much dependency and too many dead from too much travel; Queen cannot afford to destroy a part of Queen’s self. So Queen prods to get attention, pets Worker in an attempt to gain submission, and sends a question when Worker does not bend. Maybe Kw’ee’nah has finally broken Worker, or maybe, Worker has finally allowed the memory of Kw’ee’nah to truly mean something. Regardless, Worker ignores Queen and kindles strength in James T. Kirk as much as possible.
Through James T. Kirk’s eyes, Worker looks about as the door slides open and James T. Kirk crawls into the hallway. With the help of the wall and Worker’s urging, for Worker no longer dares to bend James T. Kirk to Worker’s will, Kirk gains his feet and staggers drunkenly to the side. Worker soothes, Worker coaxes, Worker paws at Kirk as Queen paws at Worker, and only receives a choking noise.
Gone? Worker asks, not knowing the right word.
Not yet.
Sorry, Worker says.
I know.
James T. Kirk continues and Worker hovers, unable to do anything else. Queen takes this in through Worker, cooing lightly to the workers who listen. Together, as a Hive, they commune with Worker who tries to tell in bright color as Kw’ee’nah used to. The information falls short in splendor but depicts to the Hive what may come. James T. Kirk promises help, Worker shows them, James T. Kirk promises a future. James T. Kirk promises peace.
And in a rising thrum, the Hive answers, like the Praus.
Like the Praus, Worker echoes.
-*-*-*-
This is the truth.
The Hive cannot be sensed in a conventional way. Reaching out with eyes, nose, ears, mouth and hands only leads you to confusion and repulsion. They reveal a small piece of tissue, pulsating in a dark corner, at first, and then, an overload of volatile sensations after. The nose creates a stench, the mouth the foulest taste you ever (unfortunately) partook of, the ears echo hair raising sounds, the body encourages nerves to radiate pain, and the eyes, oh the eyes, replay memories that make you want to run, hide and cry. That’s the animal instinct of self-preservation kicking in and you must, must obey it.
But the Hive, the actual thing underneath the surface, cannot be understood this way. In order to truly comprehend the Hive, you need to open yourself to sharing your most personal secrets, your innermost thoughts, your greatest fears and hopes. To truly comprehend the Hive, you need to completely let go of what makes you, you, and be prepared to be both yourself and someone else.
This is the truth.
And this is why the Hive cannot find hosts.
-*-*-*-
The Hive chitters in the mind of James T. Kirk even with Worker trying to block it out. With James T. Kirk’s senses, Worker can see and smell and taste and touch and listen, and none of those senses reassure Worker. The knowledge that has slowly assimilated from the host into Worker leads Worker to only one logical conclusion. James T. Kirk is dying as he walks slowly towards the transporter room. The red smear that decorates the back of his hand, the taste of metal and salt every time he inhales, the growing disconnection between the movement of his body and the commands his consciousness issues become an incriminating pile of evidence. Queen urges Worker to take over so these last moments can be used to the Hive’s advantage but Worker does not listen.
Dying, Worker tells James T. Kirk as they set foot in the transporter room.
Yes.
Worker falls silent as James T. Kirk confronts the crew member waiting there. The voice sounds strange compared to the voice Worker hears from James T. Kirk.
“Captain, what are ye doing here?” the man asks.
Scotty, I need you to beam me down.
And Worker now knows that this is a Scotty and the Scotty works for James T. Kirk.
“I can’t do that, Captain,” the man says, frowning, “ye put us into quarantine yerself. And, don’t take this offensively, sir, but ye look like Death kicked ye square in the arse!”
Mister Scott, I don’t have time to argue with you. As your Captain, I command you to beam me down. I can’t be contaminated as I’ve already been bitten and I think I know how to solve this situation.
The Scotty-Mister-Scott holds his face strangely, all pursing and crooked and wrong. Worker notices, from the corner of James T. Kirk’s eye, that his hand reaches back to the box behind him to press a button. His gaze does not leave James T. Kirk’s face, but, like when Worker takes control of James T. Kirk, his body does not reflect his features. It keeps moving, keeps searching and Worker alerts James T. Kirk to this despite the pain it causes him.
“Captain, according to m’last update, Mister Spock was Acting Captain until Doctor McCoy cleared you for duty. I know he hasn’t done that, sir.”
Mister Scott-
But then, James T. Kirk sags forward, raising his hand to his head. Worker, startled, attempts to help him keep his feet but a gentle wave of assurance encourages Worker to back away instead. Confused, Worker watches as the Scotty-Mister-Scott leaps forward to prevent James T. Kirk from hitting the floor, pulling James T. Kirk close when the host goes almost completely boneless. Worker nudges James T. Kirk and receives a response then silently raises a question.
Wait.
“Captain? Damn it all, I should’ve taken ya straight back to the sick bay,” the Scotty-Mister-Scott mutters close to James T. Kirk and Worker’s ear. “Captain? Can ya hear me?”
James T. Kirk most definitely can. Like lightning, almost before Worker comprehends it, he strikes the Scotty-Mister-Scott. The two of them fall in a heap on the ground and James T. Kirk manages to slip a small item from Scotty-Mister-Scott’s belt. He rolls away and, in his mind, says Sorry, Mister Scott, I’m sorry as he presses a button. A beam of light shoots forth and hits the Scotty-Mister-Scott who promptly goes still on the ground.
Dead? Worker asks.
No, stunned. Time to go.
The red drips a quiet pat-pat-pat as James T. Kirk presses the flashing buttons on the control panel and hobbles to the transporter pad. It dribbles onto machinery, onto the floor, onto James T. Kirk himself until Worker knows that-even if James T. Kirk completes his end of the deal and the Hive goes home at long last-James T. Kirk will never see the conclusion of this mission. Even if Worker withdrew now and let James T. Kirk go, the connection has taken its toll and the price has been this man’s life.
-*-*-*-
This is what it is.
It’s Christmas morning at age five when you run out of your room and downstairs to look at your carefully decorated tree. All the ornaments sit on the lower half-you aren’t tall enough to get the whole thing, but, maybe, next year, you’ll manage it-while the tinsel and lights reach towards the ceiling where Dad lifted you up so you could put the star on top. It looks perfect, absolutely perfect, to your eyes, especially now, with all those brightly wrapped presents hiding under the boughs. You rush upstairs and pry Mom and Dad from bed, warning them if they don’t come down soon, you’ll start without them.
It’s Christmas morning at age five when you discover everything, everything, you wanted has been deposited either by Mom and Dad or Santa-he even ate your cookies and left you a note of thanks with reindeer paper and handwriting that looks a lot like Mom’s but you don’t care because he said he liked the one you decorated the best-and even a few things that you had wanted but forgotten to put on your Christmas list. You rip paper and squeal with delight because all your wishes and hopes have come true exactly as you hoped.
It’s Christmas morning at age five as you play with your new toys and games with Mom and Dad, and listen to Charlie Brown Christmas and eat candy canes for breakfast and watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas on TV.
This is what the Hive is.
When it’s at peace.
-*-*-*-
Worker leads James T. Kirk down to the Science Center where Queen maneuvers Queen’s host about. As they travel, workers peer about corners with rigid human bodies whimpering and twisting under the control of the Hive. Under Worker’s minimal efforts, James T. Kirk cringes and gasps but moves with more grace than any one of them manages. Worker cannot see whether or not James T. Kirk’s face makes the same expressions as the others do but thinks-without the rest of the Hive-that it is probably so. Conclusion, the Hive, as James T. Kirk has suggested, cannot live as one with these creatures. Quiet, trying not to give too much to the struggling host, Worker despairs; what can James T. Kirk offer that can solve this?
Queen reaches forth to touch James T. Kirk and Worker blocks Queen with a warning to stay away. Worker cannot do much if Queen does not listen-Queen has control, has always had control, and Worker cannot contest this-but Queen quietly hovers, just a short distance, as always. Questions flow over Worker, quiet, curious, interested and Worker wonders how Queen has not discovered this through Worker’s connection to the Hive. Before, always, only answers existed, never questions.
The answer Queen gives surprises: Worker has found a host while the rest have found bodies. Worker is now separate from the Hive for the first time since the Hive began and Worker must choose to give answers. Before Worker can address this, provide information, James T. Kirk staggers and Worker gently catches his body before it hits the ground. The reaction stuns them both, a wave of acute suffering, and Worker draws back so the ravaged host hits the ground with a soft thud.
Almost there, Worker soothes. Almost there.
Just…need a… minute.
And so, Worker gives a moment before encouraging James T. Kirk to gain his feet and continue. On staggering legs, they reach the center and stare up at the pale white walls. James T. Kirk uses the wall as a crutch while they wait for Queen to come. Worker pets at him, concerned, worried, and Kirk thanks Worker, even as those waves hurt him further. Only a little more, Worker conveys the best Worker can with images and emotions. Only a little further until James T. Kirk can rest.
Forever.
Yes, Worker agrees. Forever.
Queen’s body walks with fewer jerks and paroxysms then any of the others. The face that watches them stays smooth, silky and young-Queen likes young bodies because they last longer-and it stops several feet away, hands at sides, knees locked. The clothing it wears has stains of grease and gore, and James T. Kirk mentally cringes causing Worker to cringe, too. Queen reaches out mentally and the lips of Queen’s host move in long, over enunciated syllables.
You are James T. Kirk?
Yes, James T. Kirk and Worker say, together, one in the mind, one in the body. You are Queen?
We are the Hive, Queen corrects, gentle, as always. Worker says you will help.
I think I know where you come from, James T. Kirk answers. And I think I know how to send you back.
Our home no longer exists, Queen tells him and the Hive and Worker and James T. Kirk feel the sadness. The Hive have nowhere to go.
No longer doesn’t mean unreachable, James T. Kirk tells Queen. Show me your ship. I will tell you what to do.
Queen’s body stares at him, the slightest wrinkle touching its forehead. You will show me what you think. Then, we will leave, as you’ve asked.
And Queen strikes. Worker cannot play guardian against this, cannot stop Queen if Queen must act. Neither Worker nor James T. Kirk can feel any maliciousness as Queen drags the thoughts from James T. Kirk’s mind, absorbing information and data and conclusions, because Queen does not do things out of anger, greed or hatred. Queen works in the best interest of the Hive, the best interests of peace. James T. Kirk folds onto the ground for one last time and Worker helplessly lies there with him as he convulses against the treatment. It does not last long, just long enough to eat away at the last of the body’s strength and stamina, and leave Worker’s host with only enough energy to draw breath.
It can be done, Queen whispers to the whole of the Hive. It can be done. James T. Kirk does not lie.
Gone? Worker whines at James T. Kirk. Gone?
So faint the voice that says, Good luck. And then nothing.
Worker no longer has eyes, or nose, or mouth, or touch, or hearing. Worker once again resides with the Hive and the Hive with Worker and Worker merges with the workers once more. As a whole, they pull away from the hosts, letting the pieces of themselves that reside in the bodies melt away. As a whole, they rise out of their hiding places, crawling towards the Science Center and the ship Queen built there. As a whole, they begin to enter the vast hull where Queen has created cool, lightless safe zones for them. They float, hover, pause only briefly over the body of James T. Kirk, and lament at its stillness. Worker-now, one of the workers-stays the longest, hovers the lowest, almost touches that Host. No longer does Worker have words, only the Hive, but when Worker settles on James T. Kirk’s back, Worker tries communication one last time.
Friend.
And the Hive, under James T. Kirk’s direction, leaves.
-*-*-*-
This is a circle.
Any point becomes both an end and a beginning as the curving line slopes around, about, back into itself and around again. A circle never stops happening, is always occurring on all points in time, history and space, forever, which makes it interesting to explore but impossible to comprehend. It sits in wait with equations and solutions even if those carefully working on them have absolutely no idea what they are really solving. Because a circle is infinite-not infinity, which is quite different-and cannot be condensed into something so simple as circumference, radius and area.
The Hive dwell in a circle.
Their end is their beginning, and their beginning is their end. With the guidance James T. Kirk gives them, they fall back into the past, to a planet long ago, and rain down from the sky into the hands of quiet, scared creatures. With hope, they bond and become one, become a people along with a Hive. Then the genocide happens and they escape on the self-same ship into space, doomed to wander until once again, James T. Kirk finds them, gives them hope and releases them home. Releases them to the Praus and joy as well as suffering and horrors.
This is a time loop.
And this is how the Hive survives.
-*-*-*-
This is a beginning.
And an end.
The beginning for James T. Kirk starts with a kick to his chest where his broken lungs start to wheeze and his overtaxed heart goes from stopped to speeding in under a second. It’s a beginning where someone new invades his precariously delicate mental state, treading around the raw wounds Worker made and trying to heal the damage caused by the Queen. It’s a beginning in which he thrashes weakly under the fingers pressed to his face and the hands clutching his body. It’s a beginning where he’s overwrought, confused and agonized; it’s a beginning where he begins violated and is further violated in order to be saved.
And it is an end.
The end for James T. Kirk starts with the memory of a whispered word, Friend, and the rush of light brought by Spock’s presence. As Spock tries to keep him sane, the Hive fades from him, a dream in the bright morning sunshine. The need to communicate with thought instead of sensation, pictures instead of words, lingers like a bad habit so when he finally calms down enough to understand Spock, his first instinct is to show him a picture of a person writhing in agony. The end for James T. Kirk starts very much like the beginning of the entire situation; it starts with pain, with fear, with confusion and with mental invasion.
And then it all becomes one, like the circle he knows he’s sent the Hive into, and he blinks at Bones who hovers and frets above him. Spock’s forehead touches his own, his eyes closed in deep concentration, as he maneuvers about in their mental connection. It doesn’t feel like Worker, who tried to merge with him, make them one person, one consciousness, connect them to the Hive which already dwelled as a singular; it’s the difference between breathing and a heartbeat. A jolt of pain causes him a headache and he chokes on his own swollen tongue.
“Hang in there, Jim,” McCoy mutters, even if the words invoke strong images. Spock’s brow wrinkles. “Just hang in there. Nurse Chapel, contact the ship and tell them we need a medical team waiting.”
Spock’s stepping right where it hurts the most, right where Worker implanted the beautiful picture of Kw’ee’nah, and he coughs and whimpers and struggles. A soothing caress helps somewhat-and with it, Spock’s minor retreat to the edge of his consciousness-but it feels so odd compared to the constant comfort that Worker gave. Even as the bond has snapped and the more comfortable fit has returned (Spock has never caused him pain before, now, and, now, only because Kirk’s mind is equivalent to a skinned knee and Spock is peroxide), he feels awkward in his own head as though he ought to have someone guiding him through the simplest tasks.
“Spock,” McCoy addresses. “We need to go, now. I have him somewhat stable but I need more than my emergency kit. But… first, we need to know. Is he?”
Spock’s voice sounds far away. “He has not been permanently damaged, Doctor.”
And he’s alone in his own head as Spock opens his eyes but does not remove his hands. He keeps them on either side of Kirk’s head, a delicate web of support even as the panic starts to build in his chest over the emptiness in his own thoughts and the aloneness that singularity creates. His panic registers on McCoy’s tricorder just as they start the beam aboard the Enterprise and his mind starts a tumble about like a stone at the bottom of a river.
This is the end, he decides as the cool concrete under his spine changes to cool metal. This is the end.
“Sir, should I stun it?” Someone says as he’s maneuvered from the floor, onto a stretcher, and a blanket’s pulled about his trembling form.
“I,” McCoy begins but then falls silent. Bones is never speechless, he thinks woozily. “Spock?”
“We’ll see what it does,” Spock says simply and he wonders what it is. “How did it follow us back, Mister Scott?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, sir.”
It feels like a hand except heavier and it sits on his chest like a favorite pet, curled close to the base of his throat. It undulates, pulses, sends warmth and happiness into his aching brain and body. It does not ask for anything or tell him anything or demand anything, just sends pictures and comfort, shows him worlds beyond what he’s ever imagined.
It says, Peace.
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: T because of owies and a little language
Characters: James T. Kirk, Spock, Leonard McCoy, Christine Chapel, Montgomery Scott, probably others I've forgotten to mention...
Warnings: Very awkward reading due to outsider POV, a bit of blood, a bit of language, a bit of redundancy
Words: 8,800 (yeah, pretty dang long)
Author's Note: Written for the Star Trek h/c meme at trek_hc in response to the lovely kcscribbler 's request for a rewrite of "Operation-- Annihilate!" where Jim ends up stung, not Spock. I have to admit, it ended up a whole new level of ridiculous but :) she seemed to like it so it must work...
Summary: Worker seeks a host. And Worker finds one.
They must travel because they have no other choice but to seek new hosts. Queen insists that one day, the traveling will stop, and the perfect hosts will be found; Queen calls it completion but their recent hosts have another word that echoes through the hive; symbiosis, the workers whisper, as they travel from world to world. They seek that sort of relationship without doubt or concern or question; they never leave an opportunity untouched. Their match exists, again, somewhere; it is just a matter of overturning every stone, every place.
They have not always been like this, will not always be like this, cannot always dwell like nomads; time is limited, after all, not as limited as it is with most of their hosts but, eventually, Queen will need a permanent home. Eventually, they will either find their match or perish along with their last conquest with only the group impression of what they’d once been. Once, so long ago, they lived peacefully on the backs of their hosts; no convulsing, screaming, fighting, crying but peace and cooperation. They helped their hosts with impossible tasks, blocking hurts, suggesting group activities, making actions smoother, more direct and, in turn, their hosts cared for them, provided nutrients, protected Queen.
Long ago, they did not have potential candidates running and sobbing at their appearance; long ago, they’d been respected and loved. They miss it, sometimes, mostly when Queen lets out great pulses of imprinted memories. Together, as a host, they mourn the loss of their partners; as a host, they project a possible future where the emptiness will be filled.
Not so on Deneva, where yet another attempt fails. They lie in wait as the last of the occupants fade, as the ones they still possess slowly dissolve into hysterics and whimpers; they wait for the ships to be built so that they might try somewhere else. In the depths, Queen sits on the most docile of the planet’s creatures, slowly taking in the knowledge of the surrounding worlds and dictating the construction of their ships. Apparently, their best chance lies very far in the distance and their hosts, so fragile, will need special care to survive the travel. So, they wait as she works, they give her more hands when she needs them, and they watch as their hope fades.
The first ship fails, their hands piloting it into the sun where they all feel the hot burst of agony as part of their hive departs from their number. On the planet, some of their hosts die, some of their connections rot, some of their knowledge fades. They retract themselves from the light, working more furiously to their ends. The impulse, the knowledge that Queen needs better accommodations and soon, has them almost risking the harshness of this galaxy’s sun to find the right form of transport; yes, it is in vain, yes, their hope lies with these people, with their limbs, with their knowledge, but they seek other opportunities anyway. It is the workers’ way, to watch, to wait, to waylay resources.
And Worker, just Worker, as they have no self, only group, finds that chance. They all do when strange movements about the planet reveal a new group of bipeds, same as the majority dwelling on this planet. They appear instantly, a shifting in the world bringing them forth, and every worker focuses on them. Queen knows, watches, pauses only momentarily in her actions to approve their instincts so they may pursue these beings. First, they send their hosts forward, yelling, screaming, sending waves of discomfort over links into delicate connections and watch them fail.
Worker watches, Worker waits with other Workers as these new ones slowly move about. They stop in a quiet, dark dwelling and part of them remove in the shifting of the world. The others stay, explore, investigate and Worker-workers-follows in the shadows, keeping away the harsh yellow light, encouraging workers’ hosts to go along. Worker-the singular, the one, not the individual but part of the whole-has no host here, has already lost him in that dark place where these new ones took two of their number away. So, Worker merely watches and listens to the feelings and impressions of the missing number elsewhere.
Worker knows much, has seen much, has been with Queen as long as Queen has been Queen. What reports stream from their two missing number hearten; they are on a ship, well-equipped, large, teaming with candidates for symbiosis. Queen vaguely acknowledges this as positive but Queen has much more to do than to listen to half-hearted reports. So, Worker approves quietly and Worker makes this ship an important goal for all workers. Perhaps, this ship will provide more knowledge, provide more skills, provide a home.
The world shifts and there stands a strong one, alone, a perfect target. Worker senses it, they all sense it, but Worker knows that this man feels similar to the old host. This creature can be touched more readily, a second chance at the same physiological make up, a second chance to not lose, but to win, the game. Worker skulks in the shadows, creeping about to follow this creature as its blinding coloring, so sun-like, travel to meet the rest of the group. Low to the ground, Worker moves, vibrations of encouragement seeping about until Worker has the entire Hive’s support.
The host stops with the others, several of his sameness and one of a difference. Worker hesitates here, in the shadows, as they study and watch, similarly feeling the options. The original, so like the first host, has much potential even if the first host managed to thwart the Hive through death. The new one, in comparison, has more strength, more endurance, more ability to survive the hybrid; but with this is a strength Worker cannot defeat and does not dare take on. Survival, imperative; this other will not allow it. This solves Worker’s dilemma far more easily than anything else and Queen gives a flutter of approval.
So, after the shocking and numbing caused by the implements the hosts carry, Worker reacts. They turn from him and Worker spins forth, away from the sun but at it in coloring until the softness comes in contact. Injection occurs rapidly, easily, like everything else and Worker maneuvers with ease through this creature’s defenses, sensing similarities in his makeup; rapidly, ignoring the growing senses of the host that attempt to overwhelm the Hive’s, Worker takes control. And, Worker gains some semblance of singularity, some semblance of uniqueness in the Hive of one.
Worker has a name, now, as he slowly bends the host to his will; Worker is James T. Kirk.
-*-*-*
This is what it looks like.
It looks like one million people, slowly, but surely, screaming in agony as a disease spreads and takes them. It looks like darkened skies and hazy meadows and stilled machines; it looks like every horror movie you’ve ever seen where the world’s left deserted by sanity, only remnants of wailing, broken people remaining. Every street corner that once appeared familiar, now lies barren, the wind whispering through it. Hundreds of years ago, in the desert, tumbleweeds and dust would’ve accompanied it and a heavily accented voice would’ve rumbled down from a horse’s back, “What we’ve got here, folks, is a ghost town.”
It looks like, from the inside, convulsions, madness and suffering. When people yet unaffected step into the dimly lit rooms, they see mask faces, warped by pain. Those masks change, fluctuate, try to control something and then fail. The bodies attached to them flail and mouths move in a silent mantra of “No” or “Don’t” or “Run” or, sometimes, ever so weakly, “I’m sorry.” Eventually, all motion ceases and the bodies go still, nothing more than empty dress up toys, waiting for someone to put them on. And they don’t seem peaceful, even then, because of the slightest twisting of their lips.
This is what the Hive looks like.
To things that don’t know them.
-*-*-
Let me tell you a story, my child.
Many, many turns of sun and moon, back in the Great Rhestran when our people still built teha from the ground and swam like gwahu in the lake, they came.
They came from the great night lights and poured upon the ground like our ancestor’s tears. As the rivers flow, so did they from their holes in the ground, and as the lakes gather, so did they outside our homes.
And we, with no wisdom, feared them.
-*-*-
Worker does not understand James T. Kirk because Worker has, since the death of the first host, long before this planet in the times of goodness, always had to fight hosts. And, for a moment or two, Worker does fight James T. Kirk’s cries and suppresses his struggles and attempts to prevent him from flailing against the strange one’s body but to no avail. Worker senses the pain, senses the suffering, senses a strong personality beneath the Hive, trying to break free, and then, suddenly that strength is gone. At first, Worker thinks James T. Kirk has died but careful probing reveals that James T. Kirk still breathes, still twitches when Worker commands it, still whimpers dully as Worker makes James T. Kirk’s neural pathways a part of the Hive.
Worker expected stronger especially as Worker moves through the memories and reveals that the decision was good; James T. Kirk is the ruler of the ship and will best control it if Worker can get Kirk to obey. Queen sends soothing pleasure to everyone and all attention turns to Worker as Worker probes Kirk’s mind.
What are you?
Worker pauses and listens.
What are you?
Worker knows words as Worker learned them in past hosts but cannot use them without using the hosts mind. Helplessly, Worker turns to Queen, who in turn sends a suggestion, a brief explanation of imagery and interest. Under Worker, James T. Kirk thrashes and shouts.
Let me go. Please.
Worker tries to explain, tries to send other images that Queen transmits, but James T. Kirk is lost to agony and cannot be reached or reasoned with. So, Worker turns helplessly to the Queen and asks what to do. Queen sends sadness, tries to bathe the weakening host in comfort as Queen often does for workers and prompts complete takeover. These new hosts, these humans, cannot stand against the Hive as equals; their thoughts too primitive, their nature too hostile, they cannot be symbiotic, only individual. Queen wishes it different, wishes it better, for together they could do much. But lamentation only depresses morale and Queen encourages Worker to do whatever it takes.
Worker obeys.
What else can Worker do?
-*-*-*-
This is what it sounds like.
It sounds like kicked puppies and crying children and spilling milk and shattering glass. It sounds like every broken call of every desperate parent who ever watched a baby about to blunder into a terrible situation. It sounds like nails on a chalk board, silverware on good china, a bandage tearing from skin, flesh hitting the ground, tires screeching on tar and bones snapping under pressure. It sounds like all of these at once, which in turn sounds like nothing but raucous hollow screeches. Like a tornado, it overcomes the senses until the listener cowers helplessly in a ditch waiting for the worst to be over. He or she creeps out and hears the hollow creaking of a destroyed home.
It sounds like the last Christmas present opening at the end of Christmas day where the tape and the paper signal the end of the season and the beginning of paying the bills. It creeps into the canals of the ears until the listener feels as though his or her body produces it and nothing, nothing at all, can stop it. Even after it fades, it still lingers in the inner ear’s memory, a forever echo unto eternity. It wakes the listener years later so whoever shares his or her bed will jerk awake, too, and lightly draw hands up and down that listener’s arms and back and whisper, over the horrible racket, “It’s just me. You’re fine. Go back to sleep.”
That’s what the Hive sounds like.
To Leonard McCoy who cannot relieve his best friend’s pain.
-*-*-*-
Listen, my child, to what happened next.
Our ancestors cowered in their teha and wept for mercy from Eiri who stood guardian that moon and begged Meiri for intervention as the sun came about. They hovered in the shadows outside and our ancestors walked only in the light and built large fires for safety. But They waited patiently and They do not need food or teha or majesk or even sleep and when our ancestors strength finally failed, They fell upon them.
They took every man, every woman, every child.
They took every meimei, every ghati, every truam.
And They heard us.
-*-*-*-
Worker does not worry, cannot worry but Worker stops pressing James T. Kirk and listens to what happens about them. The light on this ship burns, but not the devastating ache of the suns, just the minor glare of artificially produced waves. Looking through James T. Kirk’s eyes helps, and Worker nudges them back and forth, listens to groans and whimpers, and Queen says that this ship will do nicely, if Worker can find a way aboard. At the moment, though, Worker fears the host will not survive a walk about, much less a full plan, so Worker lies in wait.
Above Worker hovers a different host, a man with a lined face and brilliant blue eyes. Worker does not view host emotions well-and Queen has never judged emotions at all-but Worker feels the radiation of sadness pouring waves over James T. Kirk and himself. This man pets at James T. Kirk’s arm and looks above him at the screen and monitors-that mean nothing to Worker but something to Queen who explains in the briefest flicker of knowledge-his hand tightening against James T. Kirk’s sleeve. This man’s face looks like the valleys of the old world, like the pathways in the woods Worker used to run with Worker’s old host, and his voice, as it rumbles over James T. Kirk’s ears into Worker’s consciousness, reminds Worker of the voices of the Ancestors-his host called it that but Worker knows it as thunder-when the sky turned black before night.
“Easy, Jim,” this man soothes.
Bones.
Bones, Worker identifies the man. This is Bones.
Help.
And that issues from James T. Kirk’s and Worker’s lips, cracked from strain and starting to bleed. The weakest mewling of the word breaks something in Bones, Queen informs Worker, as Worker watches Bones drag his free hand about his craggy features in a desperate scrubbing. Then he calls to another host-female, Worker decides- who approaches with quiet quickness that Worker appreciates. The residual effect of the world being too loud for Worker’s host causes Worker what can only be considered “sensitivity.”
“Doctor McCoy?” the woman whispers, softly.
“Bring me another hypo,” Bones murmurs. “Double dosage.”
“But, Doctor,” the woman begins.
“Just do it,” Bones snaps, and the grooves change in shape and his mouth turns down. Worker senses a struggle. “And if you can’t, find someone who will.”
Bones.
“We’ll figure this out, Jim, I promise.”
Help.
“I,” Bones starts and he makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “I’m trying, Jim. We’re all trying.”
The woman returns with a cylindrical object in hand. From Kirk’s mind, too fast, too harsh, Worker draws forth the word hypo and James T. Kirk screams both internally and externally, causing a sharp descent of the weapon. A pinch of skin, a hiss click and the vision and hearing depart.
Worker waits in darkness, knowing that failure is only inches away.
Worker no longer has the luxury of peaceful action.
-*-*-*-
This is what it feels like.
It feels like the unpleasant chill creeping up your spine for no reason that clenches every muscle and has you shudder even though the room is warm. It feels like the slightest brush of nails over exposed skin, the biting breeze on a cool day, and the unpleasant dampness of sweat as the sun broils the air. It feels like the bite of a paper cut, the scrape of concrete over a knee, the puncture of a knife on tender limbs. It feels like the shock as you stare down at your filleted palm, the flesh irreversibly split in two to reveal white bones and flexing muscles and blood, so much blood, that your stomach and brain and eyes and nose cannot comprehend it; it feels like that moment before the intense agony, where the pain already waits, but the worst is yet to come.
It feels like that moment when you lose someone not to war, or sickness, or someone else but your own hubris, or stubbornness, or blindness. It’s that moment when that person whispers, “Sorry, it just can’t work in any format” and creeps away into darkness; or, even worse, when that person says nothing but you realize that the silence or the lack of endearing camaraderie assures the end is near. It’s that moment when the hollow of your gut feels like the never ending depths of space, empty, expansive and cold; and you know that you’ve lost something special and even with all the searching in the world, you’ll never, ever get it back.
It’s what the Hive feels like.
To Commander Spock as he tentatively touches his Captain’s mind and composes himself not to show it.
-*-*-*-
We did not, my child, have anything to fear.
Upon the dawn of Khunash, our eyes parted and we felt the gentle pulse of Them upon us, the gentle guidance of Queen in our ears. They sat deep in our bodies and guided our actions so we might not cause harm, but, instead cause good. They showed us what happened before to other places and They carefully listened to what we, as the Praus, believed in.
And then They promised to live by the Hash in the Great Rhestran.
And then They promised to build our teha with us from the ground.
And then They promised to swim like the gwahu in the lake.
And we promised them peace.
-*-*-*-
Worker pulls apart James T. Kirk’s eyelids once Worker knows the action will not kill the host. The lights have dimmed and no one, not even the prying other mind that jabbed viciously at Worker and Queen, sits in the area. James T. Kirk moans and twitches as Worker tests limbs and senses and functions. With whimpers and groans, Worker forces Kirk to his feet and flexes fingers and toes. Worker twists wrists and ankles and rotates Kirk’s neck, finding this body pleasantly strong, if recalcitrant. Whatever Worker observed about its longevity fades as Worker forces two steps, then two more, and finds that the body does not crumple under the strain. However, as each movement occurs, James T. Kirk attempts to speak louder.
What the hell are you doing?
Worker presses James T. Kirk’s mouth into a tight line so that these words do not flow out. Then Worker provides imagery with Queen’s help of the Praus and gwahus and teha. This does not mean anything to the host but Worker still cannot comprehend words, cannot present the past because Worker needs Kw’ee’nah, long departed Kw’ee’nah, to use those. Kw’ee’nah spoke like a ghach, in long, fluid words, that would soothe even the angriest of souls and bring quiet to the loudest of individuals. For a group mentality, Worker almost has a moment of personal nostalgia and agony as Worker’s mind caresses the remnants of Kw’ee’nah’s thoughts, so very, very far away. The mourning decreases Worker’s control and James T. Kirk rears against Worker.
I won’t let you take my ship or my crew or anyone else.
Worker tries to calm as Queen does to the Hive, as Kw’ee’nah did to the Praus, but cannot. The struggle grows fierce and James T. Kirk wails and the lights flare up to reveal the one who reached out and clawed at the Queen. Worker slams down hard, fast and without forgiveness against this probing individual who does not stand like the others. The initial instinct to take the stronger psyche has faded; Worker knows that only Queen could conquer this individual, if this individual could be conquered at all. This individual’s brain, as it pries at the walls Worker erects, carefully balances so that mental stimuli can always be controlled. It uses this to reach out towards James T. Kirk, to call to him.
James T. Kirk collapses slowly, folding first at the ankles, then at the knees, hips, waist, neck and Worker finds that only the eyes move properly. This other being clings to Kirk, lowering him slowly, so his body rests partially against the person and partially on the floor. A hand like a claw touches James T. Kirk’s face and pulls at his brain, tries to tug it away from Worker’s grasp.
Spock.
The being cannot hear James T. Kirk because it’s not close enough. But Worker can, recognizes, identifies and titles the being a spock.
Help me.
This the spock hears both mentally and physically. Queen takes minor interest, reaching out and carefully correcting Worker. This is not a Spock; this is a Vulcan which, Queen warns, is much worse.
Please, Spock, it’s trying to make me take the ship.
“You must stay strong, Captain,” the Vulcan, the Spock, commands aloud and against, if not in, James T. Kirk’s mind. “We have almost found a solution.”
Hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, itsgoingtobreakmesoongottastopitSpockplease…
Worker’s limited grasp of language cannot decipher the end but that does not matter. The beginning, the quiet chanting, awakens something that has long lay dormant. It pushes Worker to the farthest reaches of James T. Kirk’s mind, relinquishing the tiny grasp Worker still had, and leaving Worker as a mere ghost. James T. Kirk falls limp against the Spock and the Spock quickly breaks through to him. Worker does not listen in on their conversation, cannot, too wrapped up in a similar conversation Worker once had before words meant nothing.
-*-*-*-
This is what it tastes like.
It tastes like unexpectedly curdled milk, an overly sour lemon, a sip of burnt coffee, scalded gravy. It tastes like that first drop of blood in your mouth when you accidentally bite your lip, that mucus you hack up when the cold starts to end, that bile in your throat when you’re ready to gag. It tastes like the deepest depths of that morning hangover, when you’re certain you’re going to die, if not from the alcohol trying to escape your system, then from the shame of drinking that much again when you swore upon every deity you’ve ever heard of (if not believed in) that you would never, ever indulge like that as long as you lived. It’s that lingering taste of disappointment-it tastes like bitter almonds and overripe cherries and a sex on the beach-that you can’t do anything right, no matter how hard you try.
It tastes like defeat, which is dry, stale, underlying with energy drinks and too many candy bars; it tastes like the defeat brought on from failing yet another test even though you studied for the past two weeks. Stumbling from the classroom, with two more classes to go, and the knowledge that if you don’t make the grade next time, you’ll need to take the class, again, that nasty taste haunts you and doubles your suffering because, last night, in your fervor to get to the school library so you could study a straight eight hours, you forgot your toothbrush on the counter. It’s that horrible, soulless feeling that someone, somewhere, has decided you will lose no matter what choices you make.
This is what the Hive tastes like.
To James T. Kirk as he struggles to protect his ship and crew.
-*-*-*-
Worker grieves.
Not the workers grieving, or Queen grieving, but Worker-not an individual and, yet, showing a moment of solitary sadness-alone grieves. The images of Kw’ee’nah have overwhelmed Worker, now, and Worker remembers better times, better places, better things; with Kw’ee’nah Worker had simplicity and the Hive had happiness and Queen was safe and-sometimes Worker can’t remember it properly, even with Queen’s guidance. Sometimes when Queen calls for quiet, Worker stands still with the rest but can no longer sense that image of Kw’ee’nah, or the feel of the hands putting Worker safely in a ham, or the sound of a powerful voice shouting tales. Sometimes, Worker thinks Kw’ee’nah is a memory that never really happened at all.
Who is this?
Worker looks at Kw’ee’nah on the edge of the lake, sees the wobbling image of Kw’ee’nah on the water. No explanation because words fled Worker with that face so Worker tries to compare it to another image that James T. Kirk might understand. Queen provides one-the image of a human woman with a human child-but it does not fit for Worker. Because Queen demands it-suddenly, Queen is more interested-he shoves that picture towards James T. Kirk who whimpers in physical response. No more words come for a long time.
She’s beautiful.
Beautiful? Worker takes information from James T. Kirk and understands beautiful. Women aboard this very ship fit James T. Kirk’s definition of “beautiful” but none of them resemble Kw’ee’nah. Humans and the Praus share no heritage except the barest minimum of features. Two legs, two arms, one head, two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth; but otherwise, they seem strangely different. The way Kw’ee’nah stood, the way she perceived, the way she felt; all of it is different than anyone else Worker has ever shared. And yet, James T. Kirk is genuine when he says that she is beautiful. She, Worker sends about, she is beautiful. Worker never thought of Kw’ee’nah as a she.
Is she gone?
Gone, Queen agrees, and sends sorrow over everyone, doubling Worker’s own sadness, and almost overriding James T. Kirk’s senses. The host yells aloud and calls his friends to him, and Worker slouches back into the deepest recesses of his mind, longing for Kw’ee’nah and the safety of Kw’ee’nah’s thoughts. James T. Kirk will never understand what they need, will only ever use words without explanations, and even if Worker manages to bend the host to Worker’s will, James T. Kirk will never fulfill the Hive’s most desperate desire. Queen strokes Worker’s thoughts away with assurances and Worker slowly relaxes back to the task at hand.
W-what happened to her?
Worker creeps forward, holding the question, not knowing but choosing to show a picture of someone else, another twisted, deformed body, marred by explosions and pain. Wide open eyes and mouth and blistered skin; Worker knows this happened to Kw’ee’nah too when the connection snapped suddenly and Worker sat alone in a jar, awaiting commands from Queen. James T. Kirk thrums with sorrow and with anger, neither directed at Worker, and, with all the same motions of the Hive, shows an image. Worker jerks but views the violence with red and blue shirted humans falling.
This? A War?
Worker almost turns to Queen but Queen focuses on the ship so Worker, instead, delves a bit along the lines of war within James T. Kirk’s mind. Finding a better image, Worker reveals a young James T. Kirk dodging in the bushes, dirty, tired and ravaged, spoiling bodies lying around him. The first reaction Worker senses is intense shock and then, intense understanding.
Genocide?
Worker does not know if that’s right but if it’s the word for that image then, it is so. Sending waves of confirmation, Worker waits.
I’m sorry.
And James T. Kirk uses the same technique as Queen, compassion and empathy swooping over Worker in such a rush that Worker almost runs away. But this, this feels right for the first time in forever and so Worker opens up to it. And listens.
Tell me. Tell me everything.
-*-*-*-
This is what it smells like.
It smells like old sweat, like two day old Florida road kill, like that thing that may have taken over the back of your fridge. It smells like something rotting out in your backyard that you cannot seem to find regardless of how hard you look. You turn stones, you dig into the grass, you peer behind trees but you never figure out where that horrible, gut-turning stink stems from. It smells like that moment where you, tired, frustrated, stand on your back porch and grit your teeth in hopes that it won’t test your taste buds, too.
It smells like the inside of a hospital as you tap your foot, or pace the floors, or scratch at your arms, your legs, your shoulders, your face, anything, as you attempt to distract yourself. The antiseptic sameness, which should make you feel sterile, only highlights the oppressive stench until you’re almost in a state of panic. It doesn’t help when the doctor or the nurse comes to collect you and gives you the news, good or bad, especially when it means longer, longer there, until that scent has seeped so far into your pores that the strongest soap in the world can’t alleviate it.
This is what the Hive smells like.
To Nurse Chapel who finds the bed empty.
-*-*-*-
My child, soon this time will fade into others and, with it, will fade our peace.
We tell our tales so you will remember how They came, and remember the gwahu in the lakes, and the teha of the ground, and the great times of Nahee, where we spun our majesk, and prayed to Meiri and Eiri. We tell our tales so others may know of how They taught us and we taught Them. We tell our tales so that others might learn of peace and seek it out.
We do it to preserve us.
We do it to preserve Them.
-*-*-*-
Worker lets James T. Kirk move because it prevents the host from crying out or weakening further. The energy that attracted Worker to James T. Kirk in the first place has faded to the dullest thrum so that Worker must tend it like a dying fire. Once it hits ashes, Worker knows that James T. Kirk will no longer be useful and that Worker will need to return to the planet; all that awaits Worker there is the prayer that Queen will find rescue for them. Worker reached out before James T. Kirk asked the simplest of requests and found that Queen was struggling; now, as he rides with James T. Kirk, Worker has little hope.
James T. Kirk stumbles into a cylindrical shaped container and sinks onto pure tile, trembling, and Worker shows him an image of a dead human, his last dead human, with the vaguest hint of question around it. James T. Kirk goes still and sends a negative in return with the quietest.
Sam?
Worker cannot comprehend Sam, cannot answer a question without pictures and whispers the softest of levels of confusion in reply. What? What is Sam? The words surprise Worker, the workers Worker connects with and Queen who gives him a cursory glance of question.
Sam, my brother? Did you take Sam?
That explains their similar outsides, Queen reasons to Worker who shrugs off Queen’s logic. Sometime since Worker took this new host, Worker has rediscovered a self hidden under the necessities of survival. It twists in him, scarred over with grief, but pleased to see the surface again. Worker informs Queen that Worker understands, has understood, the similar outsides then turns Worker’s attention to the host. Waves of contrition come from it, with the tail end of the already explained story.
James T. Kirk lets out a gasping wheeze and wetness trails down his face. Worker loses control for a moment and steals a hand to touch the dampness.
Sad? Worker asks. Sad?
Yes, very.
There is a word. Sorry?
Silence from James T. Kirk as the host retakes the arm with a grunt and drags himself to the panel on the side of the cylinder. He hits a button and shudders.
I know. I know you are.
Queen taps Worker, not hard, because Queen never harms any of the workers. Too much dependency and too many dead from too much travel; Queen cannot afford to destroy a part of Queen’s self. So Queen prods to get attention, pets Worker in an attempt to gain submission, and sends a question when Worker does not bend. Maybe Kw’ee’nah has finally broken Worker, or maybe, Worker has finally allowed the memory of Kw’ee’nah to truly mean something. Regardless, Worker ignores Queen and kindles strength in James T. Kirk as much as possible.
Through James T. Kirk’s eyes, Worker looks about as the door slides open and James T. Kirk crawls into the hallway. With the help of the wall and Worker’s urging, for Worker no longer dares to bend James T. Kirk to Worker’s will, Kirk gains his feet and staggers drunkenly to the side. Worker soothes, Worker coaxes, Worker paws at Kirk as Queen paws at Worker, and only receives a choking noise.
Gone? Worker asks, not knowing the right word.
Not yet.
Sorry, Worker says.
I know.
James T. Kirk continues and Worker hovers, unable to do anything else. Queen takes this in through Worker, cooing lightly to the workers who listen. Together, as a Hive, they commune with Worker who tries to tell in bright color as Kw’ee’nah used to. The information falls short in splendor but depicts to the Hive what may come. James T. Kirk promises help, Worker shows them, James T. Kirk promises a future. James T. Kirk promises peace.
And in a rising thrum, the Hive answers, like the Praus.
Like the Praus, Worker echoes.
-*-*-*-
This is the truth.
The Hive cannot be sensed in a conventional way. Reaching out with eyes, nose, ears, mouth and hands only leads you to confusion and repulsion. They reveal a small piece of tissue, pulsating in a dark corner, at first, and then, an overload of volatile sensations after. The nose creates a stench, the mouth the foulest taste you ever (unfortunately) partook of, the ears echo hair raising sounds, the body encourages nerves to radiate pain, and the eyes, oh the eyes, replay memories that make you want to run, hide and cry. That’s the animal instinct of self-preservation kicking in and you must, must obey it.
But the Hive, the actual thing underneath the surface, cannot be understood this way. In order to truly comprehend the Hive, you need to open yourself to sharing your most personal secrets, your innermost thoughts, your greatest fears and hopes. To truly comprehend the Hive, you need to completely let go of what makes you, you, and be prepared to be both yourself and someone else.
This is the truth.
And this is why the Hive cannot find hosts.
-*-*-*-
The Hive chitters in the mind of James T. Kirk even with Worker trying to block it out. With James T. Kirk’s senses, Worker can see and smell and taste and touch and listen, and none of those senses reassure Worker. The knowledge that has slowly assimilated from the host into Worker leads Worker to only one logical conclusion. James T. Kirk is dying as he walks slowly towards the transporter room. The red smear that decorates the back of his hand, the taste of metal and salt every time he inhales, the growing disconnection between the movement of his body and the commands his consciousness issues become an incriminating pile of evidence. Queen urges Worker to take over so these last moments can be used to the Hive’s advantage but Worker does not listen.
Dying, Worker tells James T. Kirk as they set foot in the transporter room.
Yes.
Worker falls silent as James T. Kirk confronts the crew member waiting there. The voice sounds strange compared to the voice Worker hears from James T. Kirk.
“Captain, what are ye doing here?” the man asks.
Scotty, I need you to beam me down.
And Worker now knows that this is a Scotty and the Scotty works for James T. Kirk.
“I can’t do that, Captain,” the man says, frowning, “ye put us into quarantine yerself. And, don’t take this offensively, sir, but ye look like Death kicked ye square in the arse!”
Mister Scott, I don’t have time to argue with you. As your Captain, I command you to beam me down. I can’t be contaminated as I’ve already been bitten and I think I know how to solve this situation.
The Scotty-Mister-Scott holds his face strangely, all pursing and crooked and wrong. Worker notices, from the corner of James T. Kirk’s eye, that his hand reaches back to the box behind him to press a button. His gaze does not leave James T. Kirk’s face, but, like when Worker takes control of James T. Kirk, his body does not reflect his features. It keeps moving, keeps searching and Worker alerts James T. Kirk to this despite the pain it causes him.
“Captain, according to m’last update, Mister Spock was Acting Captain until Doctor McCoy cleared you for duty. I know he hasn’t done that, sir.”
Mister Scott-
But then, James T. Kirk sags forward, raising his hand to his head. Worker, startled, attempts to help him keep his feet but a gentle wave of assurance encourages Worker to back away instead. Confused, Worker watches as the Scotty-Mister-Scott leaps forward to prevent James T. Kirk from hitting the floor, pulling James T. Kirk close when the host goes almost completely boneless. Worker nudges James T. Kirk and receives a response then silently raises a question.
Wait.
“Captain? Damn it all, I should’ve taken ya straight back to the sick bay,” the Scotty-Mister-Scott mutters close to James T. Kirk and Worker’s ear. “Captain? Can ya hear me?”
James T. Kirk most definitely can. Like lightning, almost before Worker comprehends it, he strikes the Scotty-Mister-Scott. The two of them fall in a heap on the ground and James T. Kirk manages to slip a small item from Scotty-Mister-Scott’s belt. He rolls away and, in his mind, says Sorry, Mister Scott, I’m sorry as he presses a button. A beam of light shoots forth and hits the Scotty-Mister-Scott who promptly goes still on the ground.
Dead? Worker asks.
No, stunned. Time to go.
The red drips a quiet pat-pat-pat as James T. Kirk presses the flashing buttons on the control panel and hobbles to the transporter pad. It dribbles onto machinery, onto the floor, onto James T. Kirk himself until Worker knows that-even if James T. Kirk completes his end of the deal and the Hive goes home at long last-James T. Kirk will never see the conclusion of this mission. Even if Worker withdrew now and let James T. Kirk go, the connection has taken its toll and the price has been this man’s life.
-*-*-*-
This is what it is.
It’s Christmas morning at age five when you run out of your room and downstairs to look at your carefully decorated tree. All the ornaments sit on the lower half-you aren’t tall enough to get the whole thing, but, maybe, next year, you’ll manage it-while the tinsel and lights reach towards the ceiling where Dad lifted you up so you could put the star on top. It looks perfect, absolutely perfect, to your eyes, especially now, with all those brightly wrapped presents hiding under the boughs. You rush upstairs and pry Mom and Dad from bed, warning them if they don’t come down soon, you’ll start without them.
It’s Christmas morning at age five when you discover everything, everything, you wanted has been deposited either by Mom and Dad or Santa-he even ate your cookies and left you a note of thanks with reindeer paper and handwriting that looks a lot like Mom’s but you don’t care because he said he liked the one you decorated the best-and even a few things that you had wanted but forgotten to put on your Christmas list. You rip paper and squeal with delight because all your wishes and hopes have come true exactly as you hoped.
It’s Christmas morning at age five as you play with your new toys and games with Mom and Dad, and listen to Charlie Brown Christmas and eat candy canes for breakfast and watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas on TV.
This is what the Hive is.
When it’s at peace.
-*-*-*-
Worker leads James T. Kirk down to the Science Center where Queen maneuvers Queen’s host about. As they travel, workers peer about corners with rigid human bodies whimpering and twisting under the control of the Hive. Under Worker’s minimal efforts, James T. Kirk cringes and gasps but moves with more grace than any one of them manages. Worker cannot see whether or not James T. Kirk’s face makes the same expressions as the others do but thinks-without the rest of the Hive-that it is probably so. Conclusion, the Hive, as James T. Kirk has suggested, cannot live as one with these creatures. Quiet, trying not to give too much to the struggling host, Worker despairs; what can James T. Kirk offer that can solve this?
Queen reaches forth to touch James T. Kirk and Worker blocks Queen with a warning to stay away. Worker cannot do much if Queen does not listen-Queen has control, has always had control, and Worker cannot contest this-but Queen quietly hovers, just a short distance, as always. Questions flow over Worker, quiet, curious, interested and Worker wonders how Queen has not discovered this through Worker’s connection to the Hive. Before, always, only answers existed, never questions.
The answer Queen gives surprises: Worker has found a host while the rest have found bodies. Worker is now separate from the Hive for the first time since the Hive began and Worker must choose to give answers. Before Worker can address this, provide information, James T. Kirk staggers and Worker gently catches his body before it hits the ground. The reaction stuns them both, a wave of acute suffering, and Worker draws back so the ravaged host hits the ground with a soft thud.
Almost there, Worker soothes. Almost there.
Just…need a… minute.
And so, Worker gives a moment before encouraging James T. Kirk to gain his feet and continue. On staggering legs, they reach the center and stare up at the pale white walls. James T. Kirk uses the wall as a crutch while they wait for Queen to come. Worker pets at him, concerned, worried, and Kirk thanks Worker, even as those waves hurt him further. Only a little more, Worker conveys the best Worker can with images and emotions. Only a little further until James T. Kirk can rest.
Forever.
Yes, Worker agrees. Forever.
Queen’s body walks with fewer jerks and paroxysms then any of the others. The face that watches them stays smooth, silky and young-Queen likes young bodies because they last longer-and it stops several feet away, hands at sides, knees locked. The clothing it wears has stains of grease and gore, and James T. Kirk mentally cringes causing Worker to cringe, too. Queen reaches out mentally and the lips of Queen’s host move in long, over enunciated syllables.
You are James T. Kirk?
Yes, James T. Kirk and Worker say, together, one in the mind, one in the body. You are Queen?
We are the Hive, Queen corrects, gentle, as always. Worker says you will help.
I think I know where you come from, James T. Kirk answers. And I think I know how to send you back.
Our home no longer exists, Queen tells him and the Hive and Worker and James T. Kirk feel the sadness. The Hive have nowhere to go.
No longer doesn’t mean unreachable, James T. Kirk tells Queen. Show me your ship. I will tell you what to do.
Queen’s body stares at him, the slightest wrinkle touching its forehead. You will show me what you think. Then, we will leave, as you’ve asked.
And Queen strikes. Worker cannot play guardian against this, cannot stop Queen if Queen must act. Neither Worker nor James T. Kirk can feel any maliciousness as Queen drags the thoughts from James T. Kirk’s mind, absorbing information and data and conclusions, because Queen does not do things out of anger, greed or hatred. Queen works in the best interest of the Hive, the best interests of peace. James T. Kirk folds onto the ground for one last time and Worker helplessly lies there with him as he convulses against the treatment. It does not last long, just long enough to eat away at the last of the body’s strength and stamina, and leave Worker’s host with only enough energy to draw breath.
It can be done, Queen whispers to the whole of the Hive. It can be done. James T. Kirk does not lie.
Gone? Worker whines at James T. Kirk. Gone?
So faint the voice that says, Good luck. And then nothing.
Worker no longer has eyes, or nose, or mouth, or touch, or hearing. Worker once again resides with the Hive and the Hive with Worker and Worker merges with the workers once more. As a whole, they pull away from the hosts, letting the pieces of themselves that reside in the bodies melt away. As a whole, they rise out of their hiding places, crawling towards the Science Center and the ship Queen built there. As a whole, they begin to enter the vast hull where Queen has created cool, lightless safe zones for them. They float, hover, pause only briefly over the body of James T. Kirk, and lament at its stillness. Worker-now, one of the workers-stays the longest, hovers the lowest, almost touches that Host. No longer does Worker have words, only the Hive, but when Worker settles on James T. Kirk’s back, Worker tries communication one last time.
Friend.
And the Hive, under James T. Kirk’s direction, leaves.
-*-*-*-
This is a circle.
Any point becomes both an end and a beginning as the curving line slopes around, about, back into itself and around again. A circle never stops happening, is always occurring on all points in time, history and space, forever, which makes it interesting to explore but impossible to comprehend. It sits in wait with equations and solutions even if those carefully working on them have absolutely no idea what they are really solving. Because a circle is infinite-not infinity, which is quite different-and cannot be condensed into something so simple as circumference, radius and area.
The Hive dwell in a circle.
Their end is their beginning, and their beginning is their end. With the guidance James T. Kirk gives them, they fall back into the past, to a planet long ago, and rain down from the sky into the hands of quiet, scared creatures. With hope, they bond and become one, become a people along with a Hive. Then the genocide happens and they escape on the self-same ship into space, doomed to wander until once again, James T. Kirk finds them, gives them hope and releases them home. Releases them to the Praus and joy as well as suffering and horrors.
This is a time loop.
And this is how the Hive survives.
-*-*-*-
This is a beginning.
And an end.
The beginning for James T. Kirk starts with a kick to his chest where his broken lungs start to wheeze and his overtaxed heart goes from stopped to speeding in under a second. It’s a beginning where someone new invades his precariously delicate mental state, treading around the raw wounds Worker made and trying to heal the damage caused by the Queen. It’s a beginning in which he thrashes weakly under the fingers pressed to his face and the hands clutching his body. It’s a beginning where he’s overwrought, confused and agonized; it’s a beginning where he begins violated and is further violated in order to be saved.
And it is an end.
The end for James T. Kirk starts with the memory of a whispered word, Friend, and the rush of light brought by Spock’s presence. As Spock tries to keep him sane, the Hive fades from him, a dream in the bright morning sunshine. The need to communicate with thought instead of sensation, pictures instead of words, lingers like a bad habit so when he finally calms down enough to understand Spock, his first instinct is to show him a picture of a person writhing in agony. The end for James T. Kirk starts very much like the beginning of the entire situation; it starts with pain, with fear, with confusion and with mental invasion.
And then it all becomes one, like the circle he knows he’s sent the Hive into, and he blinks at Bones who hovers and frets above him. Spock’s forehead touches his own, his eyes closed in deep concentration, as he maneuvers about in their mental connection. It doesn’t feel like Worker, who tried to merge with him, make them one person, one consciousness, connect them to the Hive which already dwelled as a singular; it’s the difference between breathing and a heartbeat. A jolt of pain causes him a headache and he chokes on his own swollen tongue.
“Hang in there, Jim,” McCoy mutters, even if the words invoke strong images. Spock’s brow wrinkles. “Just hang in there. Nurse Chapel, contact the ship and tell them we need a medical team waiting.”
Spock’s stepping right where it hurts the most, right where Worker implanted the beautiful picture of Kw’ee’nah, and he coughs and whimpers and struggles. A soothing caress helps somewhat-and with it, Spock’s minor retreat to the edge of his consciousness-but it feels so odd compared to the constant comfort that Worker gave. Even as the bond has snapped and the more comfortable fit has returned (Spock has never caused him pain before, now, and, now, only because Kirk’s mind is equivalent to a skinned knee and Spock is peroxide), he feels awkward in his own head as though he ought to have someone guiding him through the simplest tasks.
“Spock,” McCoy addresses. “We need to go, now. I have him somewhat stable but I need more than my emergency kit. But… first, we need to know. Is he?”
Spock’s voice sounds far away. “He has not been permanently damaged, Doctor.”
And he’s alone in his own head as Spock opens his eyes but does not remove his hands. He keeps them on either side of Kirk’s head, a delicate web of support even as the panic starts to build in his chest over the emptiness in his own thoughts and the aloneness that singularity creates. His panic registers on McCoy’s tricorder just as they start the beam aboard the Enterprise and his mind starts a tumble about like a stone at the bottom of a river.
This is the end, he decides as the cool concrete under his spine changes to cool metal. This is the end.
“Sir, should I stun it?” Someone says as he’s maneuvered from the floor, onto a stretcher, and a blanket’s pulled about his trembling form.
“I,” McCoy begins but then falls silent. Bones is never speechless, he thinks woozily. “Spock?”
“We’ll see what it does,” Spock says simply and he wonders what it is. “How did it follow us back, Mister Scott?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, sir.”
It feels like a hand except heavier and it sits on his chest like a favorite pet, curled close to the base of his throat. It undulates, pulses, sends warmth and happiness into his aching brain and body. It does not ask for anything or tell him anything or demand anything, just sends pictures and comfort, shows him worlds beyond what he’s ever imagined.
It says, Peace.