TWO

Quath’jutt’kkal’thon surged with pride.

Powerful acceleration pressed her into the rough webbing. She sang to herself of the adventure to come, the first fruit of her new status in the Hive.

Beq’qdahl called, <See the thermweb!>

Quath could have tapped into the general ship’s electroaura, but she chose to lean forward and watch through the optical port. They were well above the smooth blue curve of this world. The Cosmic Circle hung still in the distance, gray and serene. Soon it would begin winding up again. More core metal would be needed for…She searched the starry dark. There!

The thermweb was a slate-dark lattice, hard to see. Some strands of it were nearly complete, knotted at the intersections by pearly bonding dollops larger than mountains. The total span showed a distinct arc and its far edge lay beyond the horizon.

Quath narrowed her vision. She could see podia working on the immense girders and vaults—forming, shaping, cutting, polishing. Soon the thermweave would be ready to harness the outpouring solar energy of the nearby star, and the mission of Quath’s race could carry on with its inexorable momentum.

But first there were minor details to clear up. Quath and Beq’qdahl had been sent up in this shuttlecraft to take care of a nuisance which had infested the former mech orbital station.

For Quath this was a great honor. She had distinguished herself in the battle with the Noughts. The Hive’s supreme arbiter, the Tukar’ramin, had witnessed Beq’qdahl’s cowardly flight. So Quath had been decorated with gaudy new additions to her body parts, including two fresh legs. In the corridors she was spoken of as Quath-the-Terror and She-Who-Fights.

And now this: a mission to squash an infestation in orbit. Honor! Opportunity!

A vicious pest had occupied the station, killing a minor functionary. The orbital laborers were too busy to tend to the task, and so had delegated it to the lower-rank ground podia. Still, this was surely more than Quath had dreamed she could achieve, a strand far higher in the social web.

<I have extracted the mech shuttle ship and am speeding it to rendezvous with us,> Beq’qdahl said.

Quath gibed at her, <I favor striking directly at the station.>

<No doubt you would. Barge in without thinking, without knowing what you face.>

<Courage shall carry us through!>

<I prefer assessing risk.> Beq’qdahl was still sensitive about the embarrassing encounter with the Noughts.

Quath said slyly, <Reports from our mech slaves imply these are mere Noughts infesting the station. Surely caution is unnecessary when stamping out mere—>

<I shall decide what is necessary here.>

Quath saw Beq’qdahl’s design. She wished to recoup her repute. A quick engagement could indeed restore her good name. Perhaps the Tukar’ramin had allowed the two of them alone to come on this mission for just that reason.

Quath fretted. She had assumed that she was being honored here. Now she saw that perhaps the Tukar’ramin was simply guarding Beq’qdahl’s stature, with Quath along as a safeguard. In case Beq’qdahl bungled matters, Quath-the-Nought-Slayer could save the day.

<Suffice to say that I wish to take a sure and steady course,> Beq’qdahl said.

Quath hesitated. After all, action in orbit was a great privilege. She scintillated her pore hairs to show agreement. <What can I do?>

<We shall soon meet the mech ship. I commanded it to withdraw from the station and meet us here, for inspection. Internal signals show it contains some Noughts. We shall take their measure.>

<Ah!> The Tukar’ramin placed a high value on stamping out the Noughts, ever since they had damaged the magnetic flux stations. The very death of Nimfur’thon might have arisen from Nought vandalism, causing the Syphon to snarl. Quath relished the opportunity to squash more of these dwarf enemies.

They swooped around the bowl of the planet. Below them the Cosmic Circle tilted on the far horizon and began with gravid grace to spin again. Its length shimmered brilliantly as it converted a small fraction of the mass at the core into self-energy.

Quath watched this with humble awe. She saw they would intersect the shuttle ship near the pole, where they could well witness the working of the Cosmic Circle.

She hoped to approach it, sense its cyclic power. There was a legend among the podia that the Circle, their most potent tool and weapon, radiated an enhancing aura. Podia who ventured near were ensured of longer life.

Quath thought this was probably worthless legend, but she was not absolutely sure. Why not test it? After all, she was a Philosoph.

Her conversion to an inner certainty of her own immortality, which had come as a blinding insight on the battlefield, had now echoed down through her life. She no longer questioned the ultimate rightness and central position of the podia, and of her place in the scheme of the galaxy. The calming reassurance of her conversion was an ever-present joy.

Yet, oddly, when she had related this to the Tukar’ramin, that great entity had seemed unmoved.

Quath watched as they approached the shuttle ship. She tensed with excitement as Beq’qdahl commanded, <You may inspect the Noughts. I am releasing them now. Meanwhile, I shall ready our assault guns.>

Quath clanked and rasped as she made her way through the lock. She was fully charged in all reservoirs and capacitances. Her body prickled with the desire to vanquish.

She launched herself through the lock into the cool embrace of high vacuum. Pleasurable waves swept across her tough self-skin, the original organic hide she had been born with. She had thought of covering it with body armor or some useful appliance, but the charm of true flesh outweighed utility. She was nostalgic for her earlier, purely organic self. To erase all dependence on flesh would be too great a breaching with her past, too soon. Time enough for that later, when she had climbed on up to greater strands in life. Only the Illuminates, it was said, were totally augmented. Those vast, wise beings had attained the ultimate synthesis of flesh and mechanism.

The shuttle ship hung nearby. Quath saw immediately that a cloud of junk spun lazily away from the small aft lock. Amid the twirling stuff was a silvery Nought.

She shot toward it. Yes, it was the same boring bipedal sort that she had slaughtered in plenty on the battlefield. The mirror finish to its skin spoke of a high-quality technology, an insulating texture. Perhaps the Nought had stolen this material from the podia’s stores in the orbiting station. This suspicion flared hotly in Quath. She sped to intersect the pitifully slow passage of the Nought.

She caught it easily. Its struggles were comically weak.

<What form is it?> Beq’qdahl asked.

<One you ran from, remember?>

<Do not aggravate me, I warn you. Report!>

<Negligible tech evident, though its suit is of high level. It is moving its limbs as though it walks on two, works with the others. No augmentation that I can see. Probably a raw animal form, really.>

<They should be simple to eradicate.>

<Yes. Shall I peel back the suit, to check it in detail?>

<I do not like to witness the disgusting raw form of animals, Quath.> Beq’qdahl sniffed. <That is beneath my dignity.>

<Oh, most sorry.> Quath suppressed her jangling mirth.

<Finish up, then. Enough inspection.>

<Could we not watch the Syphon, Beq’qdahl? See, it brims nearby.>

<I perceive no purpose—>

Quath felt an idea percolate up from one of her subminds. <Wait! This Nought has caused us trouble, yes?>