majority of the Hive race is the workers: infertile females whose physiological development is arrested at puberty. They are the wenches because they are the commoners. The nobility are the ladies and the knights. The ladies are fully grown but infertile females: the Queen of the Hive is the only fertile female. The ladies are much bigger than the wenches. The knights are the males and all males of the Hive are knights. Males of the Hive are bigger and much stronger than ladies but the Hive is a matriarchy. Ladies are the commanding officers of the Hive Army.”
“Interesting.”
A procession of Hiver soldiers crossed our path: hundreds of swarmers followed by a trio of armored and heavily armed knights (on foot, for Hive chivalry is elite foot soldiers). A lady was with the knights. She wore no armor and carried no gun but wore jewelry I discerned were magical artifices and held a baton. A six-legged beast followed after the infantry: a purple and gray, hairless brute with a gyroscope set with crystals fastened to its back. A wench sat on the neck of the thing and drove it onward. “The gyroscope set with blue, green and red crystals is an enervation device,” Cleo explained to us. “It can be modified into a shield, scanning, lighting or fire device by setting it with different crystals.”
“Modular artifice,” I noted.
“Yes. Every artifice fashioned by the Hive is modular.”
The architecture of this Hive city was similar to that of Golgoth in that fewer but larger buildings were favored. Whereas ours were made of fitted stone, however, the Hive used a grainy concrete. The buildings were fronted with open archways rather than doors. The “windows” were holes and slots without glass. Nothing was at right angles. Everything was round or triangular. Every shop and the one restaurant were together in a mall in the center of the city.
The reverberating voice of a Hiver is a queer thing to hear spoken but a lovely thing to hear sang. I did wonder, however, why they did not use musical instruments. They clapped, slapped their bellies or flanks and snapped their fingers to accompany their songs. Hive culture is minimalist indeed.
I enjoyed my tour of a Hive city. Other than fruit and bread, the food was bugs and what looked like fungi and various innards yet it all proved surprisingly and exquisitely delicious. The music, though simple, was strangely ambient. Our hosts were friendly and curious.
The Hive is the united Great Race of a Galactic Power yet I saw little in the way of anything I deemed modern. “We should never judge an alien culture as if it is human,” my sister Sigourney Blue scolded me. “We may be technologically advanced but we are magically primitive. What would a Hiver think of us if the only thing she considered was our magic?”
“We are clearly far more sophisticated than they,” I insisted.
“What of it? Maybe we are gaudy.”
I rolled my eyes. My sister huffed. She accused, “We humans think industrial-technological development sets the standard but our ‘sophistication’ has oft been bested.”
I was not contemptuous of the Hive or of any other alien society. I simply acknowledged the evident superiority of our own culture. I am honest, not bigoted.
All of us remember the lonely days of our template. She had family and many friends but there were things she could never tell them. We tell each other everything. Yes, we often disagree, but no more than a sound mind pondering. Our thoughts and feelings differ but they never drive us apart. We share them that they may belong to all of us. We are the Many of One.
Every Concubine of the Great Seen Unseen remembers when she was Persis Mulberry. We remember her lustrous dark hair and lovely brown eyes. We are embarrassed at being bald and our eyes faded ghostly white. We cover our baldness and spooky eyes for we are ashamed. We do uncover our shame in the presence of each other, however. In the exclusive company of our sisters we may pull back our goggles and elastic hoods. We may affectionately caress the smooth scalp of a sister or gaze into her eyes.
We are the Many of One. Honestly, we do all look and sound pathetically alike. The Unheard Whisper blessed us with a name to be spoken but also with a name to be felt. We cannot know the spoken name of an unfamiliar sister unless it is told to us. We can feel her silent name, however, and it is more real to us than any name uttered. “Who are you?” I asked a sister whom I did not recognize.
“Tamara Blue the Particular of the Twenty-sixth Harvest.”
“May I help you?”
“Yes. Where is Zendanna Purple the Erudite?”
“She is in a meeting. Would you like me to deliver a message?”
“Yes. Please ask her to contact regional command as soon as possible.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Thank you.” With that, Tamara Blue the Particular departed.
If I were a Concubine Sentinel I would have relayed the message with no thought about it. I am a Concubine Keeper, however, and my mind always curious. I found it odd that my Priestess was asked to make contact when contact with her could be instantly established via her communicator. Something highly classified was to be discussed and only the most secure channel would suffice.
One morning my sister Cleo was sitting on the floor reading a book. I rubbed her bald head, startling her. She looked up at me. I giggled. She rolled her eyes and smiled. Though Cleo is a Sentinel she proves a gracious victim of mischief. Though as uptight in her duties as any Girl in Red she is relaxed and casual on her own time. That said I know better than to wax philosophical with her. Even the most amiable Concubine Sentinel can be cold and fierce should I utter anything she finds questionable. The Girls in Red presume to police our thoughts as severely as they do their own.
I am a Concubine Keeper. My duty is to ponder. Yes, I follow my orders but ever mindful of the intention of the orders. A Concubine Sentinel obeys without question. Her actions are dictated entirely by command. She never wonders why. Alas, we who are alike can be so very different.
My sister Meredith Blue remarked, “Our stay in this alien city has been very enlightening.”
“How so?” I wondered.
“We naturally assume our own culture is the natural way of doing things. Contact with an alien culture dispels our assumption.”
Meredith is a silly girl who sees wonders in mediocrity. I told her, “We are the thriving culture of an advanced civilization. These aliens are primitive and their society functions like that of an ant colony.”
“Fairuza!” my sister was aghast.
I rambled on, “The only reason the Hive is esteemed a Galactic Power is because of their vast numbers and raw military power. Their weapons are barely modern and their automation is nonexistent.”
“Automation is exclusively human!”
I reminded, “The Delvers make machines.”
“Their ‘machines’ are synthetic muscles within metal exoskeletons,” Meredith stated as if somehow disproving my point. “A driver must seal himself within a cockpit filled with embryonic fluid to operate a vehicle.”
“Interesting.”
Meredith huffed. She noted, “The ‘vast numbers’ of the Hive are less than three quarters that of our own population.”
“Yes, as clones we are cheap and easy to mass-produce. The Hive must wait for eggs to hatch and for hatchlings to grow.” Honestly, I was having cruel and unexpected fun riling my sister.
Meredith claimed, “Our ancestors were arrogant and exploitative, believing themselves superior to all other races, human or otherwise. Their empire crumbled because they were not the gods they believed themselves to be. Be wary, my sister, that you did not inherit their failing.”
I did not argue. Though I knew our ancestors were not as bad as my sister claimed them to be I understood that they were not virtuous enough to defend. That said the atrocities of the Golgothite Empire cannot compare to the merciless cruelty of its inhuman rivals.
We, the Concubines of the Great Seen Unseen, are made from the blood and memories of a Golgothite. We are Golgothites. Our empire is the empire of old born anew.
The modern day is the Age of the
Six Empires. Thirteen billion people divided among thirty-nine known races inhabit the one hundred and ninety-eight known biospheres. Most of these living worlds are barely habitable deserts. Others are frozen wastes. The twenty-one verdant and semi-verdant worlds are the precious gems of the galaxy. My homeworld, Golgoth, is the most precious of them all.
Golgoth is the fourth planet of a yellow star. Its year and day are virtually that of the legendary planet Earth. Though Golgoth is only half Earth’s volume Golgoth’s high-density core gives it half the mass and equal gravity. Golgoth’s moon Selena and its moon’s moon Selena Minor provide the surface of the planet with as much light as the Luna of Earth. A world without oceans or plate tectonics, the plentiful subterranean water of Golgoth is vented as mist. The surface of Golgoth is lush in regions of venting and semiarid elsewhere. The planet does not tilt and enjoys the endless equivalent of spring. Alas, my wondrous world may be the cradle of humanity’s greatest civilization but it is not the cradle of humanity itself.
Seven billion of the thirteen billion people of the thirty-nine races are human. How and why humanity spans the galaxy is lost to prehistory. We are the race found on most worlds. We are divided among countless breeds and cultures of disparate prosperity and development. Our legends are as diverse and unequal as we are but there are universal themes among them. We hear tell within