“Stillness.” Her attendants sung and danced. “Scouring moss absent. Must improvise.”

“Utilize layered cleanse. Hair first. Tongue next. Apply layer of scent, then pored sealant.”

“Received, but impossible.”

“Clarify.”

“Queen must be stilled to clean.” The floor rung out as the echo of the Queen’s scythes crashing downward vibrated through the cargo hold, through the ship entire. Even the drones frantically assembling clay, humanite trash and sealant into chairs up on the observation deck shuddered, feeling the impact in their cores. “Queen is very unstilled.”

“Imposing this upon us without warning! Queens ordered about like herd beasts! Mark the passages, withdraw all perimeter drones, do not allow contact with unknown colonies, additional drones to observation area, segment in preparation for fresh interaction!” Every caste of the colony had been dedicated to her stability, to her presentation, upon meeting Ghllencheechlak. So it had not been until their new tasking was delivered, Skthveraachk tucked at the edge of the bay’s bivouac, that the fullness of the situation struck her. Struck her as hard as her own scythes now slammed, over and over, into the deck. “And designate deck three officer resting-grounds as forbidden to sight and sound to all! We will not hear another note of the Dame before necessary!” The Captain stood near the entrance, his distance respectable as much as it was hesitant, a hand upon his communicator.

Miroslava must have communicated a question along with the acceptance, as the Captain quickly added to the chord. Profanities intensified as hundreds of voices were diverted from their music of harmony, and each attempt the nearest drones made to scale up the Queen’s body was rebuked by bucking force. Scattering them across the deck or into the masses of black bodies.

“Queen must be stilled.”

“Refutation!”

“Received. Enforce stillness.” Ghllencheechlak was glistening, glorious, upon his entry. The smell sung of his nests, twelve in number! Arranged along the coast, bordered by rivers. Skthveraachk’s quick preparations had been adequate, nothing more. Reeking of old fire, of death and war. Who she was, yes, but not who she needed to be now. She knew it. The colony knew it. So it was not frenzy when soldiers lunged out of the masses, clamping down to hold her thrashing legs steady, to weigh down her body so that the defter menials could begin to rapidly rake their rigid hairs over her shell, furiously scrubbing away. Her ire kept her struggling, but it was not an anger directed upon her children. Her Band hummed with volume.

“It will be seen as informality and offence if you are not present to welcome each aboard, Hathan-Captain. I will not tolerate them to see us weak.”

The armor needed to come off. The first few attendants had already signed it, but now others were repeating the request. Whereas the Pod’s throne construct was imposing, impressive and large, this thinner plating was designed much like the humanite’s own garbs of war. To bounce the searing beams from their lances, to disperse and reflect the light. It did almost nothing against scythe or stone. Here, it was worthless. Cut it off. Cast it aside, plate after plate.

“You refuse? Received. If you wish to remain, then you will make your presence of use. The Second House.” That eased her legs. When she was focused on her primary role, processing information, there was less ability to seethe and shake. Her head lowered to the Captain, his own eyes moving up from the peeling of her artificial shell to meet hers. “What is this, and how does it pertain to my world?”

One of the youngest menders tried to go for her vents, adhering to the listing of responsibilities rigidly. The Hathan paused as a snap of her leg sent it flying, its hiss of apology and confusion warbling as it cartwheeled into the ocean of bodies around them.

“What purpose would a role dedicated to the condemnation of failed humanites have amongst my kind?” Gather the most treasured notes of home. The majesty of Hollowcore may have been stolen from her, but it was Skthveraachk-Colony who had carved it. Filled its tunnels with their history. Mark the stories of its power upon her shell. “Construction. Military force. Environment. I can only presume the First of these houses deals with matters spiritual, meaning all others would be better suited to a presence here.”

“I will not.”

A tenthbreath of fury, but it was clearly meant to be humor. The strikes of her scythes on the deck had barely sagged the metal, and her freshly molted scythes were uncracked, the strongest they’d be for a cycle.

“Or perhaps,” She ignored the suggestion, already ignoring similar requests from her own children. Their tongues were covering her gaster, trunk, abdomen and head, the pile of metal armoring almost completed. “As there are others forthcoming, she is but the representative of the Second, while others have been managed by the rest. We ourselves have been given a ‘brigade’. I have heard this term, but the Coalition’s referred to it as a division. Color it so that I may understand.” The humanite did not wish to comply. It took eight breaths for him to consent.

“Twenty-five thousand, with an additional three and more from the Solovyova. That is enough relative firepower, assuming a degree of fleet support, to flatten a continent. I will not believe this number is exclusive to us, and that Ghllencheechlak and others will have been allotted similar. They are expecting, perhaps encouraging, combat.” They had finished with her upper crust. Sacs tapped against her, dotting her body with marking droplets from gasters. It was out of order; it was proper to fully cleanse underside and innards before applying any final coating. Again, they asked. Again, she denied. Audibility to the alien lost as she shook and danced for the link. “Reprioritize. Colony wide. Lower all non-military tasking by eight layers. Majority of thinkers to adopting strategies of facing formites with new weapons. State expectation of engagement with fellow colonies.”

“Received. Retasking.”

“That is your advice in this matter? You would maintain composure, wait, plan, act only when it is safest and best suitable.”

Her antennae twitched as his face grew more stoic.

“Which is why when the accursed Jacobson ordered fire rain on my nests and burn the lands of my world, you acted only after he had failed thoroughly enough to assure you would not be punished for your actions.” It was unkind, and she regretted the sloped pitch of condemnation which turned their symphony of cooperation into a coarse and ridged noise of discontent the moment she uttered it. Under the sudden pain in the Hathan’s eyes, she quietly directed the menders to commence their soothing beats, and accepted the offerings of dulling smells from scentcrafters’ arms. “I promised only forgiveness, not forgetfulness. You are right. In your world, there must be care, caution, delicacy in each step and stroke. But this is my world now, Hathan-Captain. These are my people. The cost of discretion to you may be individual pain and death. The risk of reticence to me is the eradication of millions. I cannot just wait. I must act.”

“Queen must be stilled.” Skthveraachk had become still.

“Queen must be calmed.” Skthveraachk felt the churning begin to slow.

“Queen must allow cleansing.” The Captain had let his eyes drift down, his features bearing in silence the hurt he sung inward. She muttered patience, a temporary refusal, while he gathered the fragments of his music back together.

“You do not.” He was not lying, but it was a misconception of cause. “I have a promise to you, Hathan-Captain.” Claws, uncurled, ground themselves upon her legs as her scythes remained planted firmly against the deck. “I have promised to do no harm to the Sovereignty, or those aboard the vessel. Thus, I either throw myself entirely into preparations for the arrival, or I follow the scent of that woman to the third deck and tear her head off. Which is your preference?”

“You test my resolve in this.”

He was firm. Not the sort of hardness the Dame had exerted over the other Queen, but sure. Steady. The still broiling in her core, by necessity, slowed even more.

“I formulate multitudinous plans for such eventualities, Captain. Be it stealing this Dame-pot’s firewood or killing her with the borrowed knife.” The stratagems were with her, always. Eager to be used. Beckoning her attention. But with each thump of the drones’ blows to her thorax, gentle reciting prayers and hymns in equal measure, more of her fury fled through viscous vents. And the humanite did not balk, even letting some of his smile return.

Hairs softened. Barbs retracted. He was unhappy. The colony was unhappy. Commonality. One leg at a time. Problems insurmountable tackled with the first hauling, the greatest nest coming of the first carried stone. The drones within the observation deck were finishing the chairs and furniture amidst humanite tables and placements. One issue, solved. Her presentation of self to the rest must be flawless, decisive, perfect. That required the cleaning be concluded. The Queen felt her mandibles snap, and the Band reactivated at a lowered volume despite efforts to speak firm and clear.

“Then, what I need at this moment is for you to avert your gaze.”

“I have grown comfortable by necessity under the observation of your species regardless of action, but there are some intrusions which should not be indulged. I am unsure the custom for such among your kind, but am led to believe privacy does extend to undertakings such as defecation, prayer, sexual gratification, and…bathing.” It was not a perfectly accurate word. But from the immediate comprehension replacing the still stinging bite of her comments previous, it seemed adequate enough. Even moreso, when the Captain abruptly turned from the cargo space, taking steps through the door which sealed to impermeable barrier immediately after. A small sigh escaped her, and consent was given for the attendants to begin their scouring of her head’s underside while small limbs were thrust into her vents. Dislodging building and pulling forth the gelatinous masses which had accumulated. Their tongues washing over the areas, inside and out.

Alarm signals shot out from around her as her flared vents snapped shut at the Hathan’s voice, only recognizing after she had trapped the many legs of her attendants within her that it was coming not from a body, but from the Band. Apologies were shamefacedly offered, the injured entities released to tend to their cracked chitin.

“I consent to this agreement, as I have tolerated and consented to a great many infractions of ettiquite perpetrated by your kind. In the lands of your people, I was the anomaly, the outsider. It is you who come to our celestial shores as visitors, now. Minds like yours, Hathan-Captain, will be welcomed, in time. Minds like the Dame’s, less so.” Clumps of stickiness was yanked from her, and pleased exhales through now vacant ribbing joined the sounds of steadying focus throughout the spatial nest. “And in accordance, I sing relief to misconception; Ghllencheechlak-Colony is not an obstruction. They are an ally.”

“I have heard brief mention of their music amidst the arrangements of others. I offered to unite our colonies until the end of song, an offer which was accepted.”

“An appropriate humanite comparison would be concept of a defensive pact. Though it will require a mixing of our thinkers to properly determine obligations, such agreement would invariably involve a combining of offensive capabilities, pledges to defend one another’s territory when available, sharing in the hunting of biomass reserves, and exchanges of breeding stock for mutual improvement.” The Captain was struggling, she could tell. The Queen, too, found herself cleared of another task. She would meet these other Queens cleared of the debris of a foreign world, lacking in regal splendor of excess but hardened by the trials of combat. How best to accentuate this, then? To greet these which would be cooperators, like Ghllencheechlak, sacrificing the colony self to safeguard collective species?

Not struggling after all. Miscomprehending. Growing restless and unsettled. The Captain believed a mistake had been made, and her already unrolled claws rapped in brief displeasure.

“Founder Gh’a was the creator of the reserves, of the rule of one-sixth, and was the third to leave the Silent City.” Nothing. The silence was space without understanding. “The colony I have allied myself with is named as Ghllencheechlak.”

“I have lamented your names ever since learning of the custom for this precise reason.” Tradition. It slipped easily from her lungs, sounded out across the ship even amidst those tasked elsewhere. “The first sounds, syllable, are to the colony’s lineage. Descendant and adherent of the Founders, or those who faded before the war’s end.” It had started as something of a soliloquy, a lone assembly of data from disparate sources. As the song continued, though, Skthveraachk found her voice coopted. Guided, carefully, by one more knowledgeable. She recited information without passion; another in the colony sung from the deepest of knowledges. From experience. “To bear the name of Gh’a is to dedicate all voices to preservation of sense and community. Fairness. To be of a sound which transcends conflict and seeks communal benefit. Of all the Founders, Gh’a knew best how to slip the threads of struggle, serving as balance when Sh’e and Vh’a once more went at eachother like frustrated dynastites who hadn’t rutted for seasons.” The Queen chirped surprise at the crude analogy, and though the Hathan did not notice, sent an chastising chitter to the scout who had taken the lead role in the delivery of the refrain. The former Ghescktyeelh drone clapped his antennae merrily, even as he quickly signalled understanding and apology.

For once, it was the Hathan on the end of an incomprehensibility. And despite the still churning emotions, such realization tickled her insides.

“It is a dedication. If they ceased in their belief, they would cease to be of Gh’a.” “But it is not the only reason. The next syllable is of purpose, and Ghllencheechlak bears both the sound and scents of trade. Their Queen is a male, as the twinned vowel proclaims, and males are preferential to diplomacy when available. And by the crisp rattle of final syllable, the colony declares itself intending to enact only guarding and defensive conflicts. They hold only the territory they first occupied and have cultivated it to a point of self-sufficiency. Isolationists, if not for the more dominant chording and arrangement to show they are instead secluded in the goal of bartering their excess with the world beyond. There are sights, smells, to reinforce all of this. Things you would not grasp.”

“Names are but an extension of our role, Hathan-Captain. A declaration of purpose, of creed. A hauler is not just a hauler by action, but by smell, and by sound and by title. You cannot be one without the rest. A humanite may call themselves leader, or warrior. Yet when they do not stink of the battlefield, sting of the scars of loss and heave dry the sounds of resilient struggle, it is a name without meaning.” Queen. Queen. War Queen. The Hathan doubted, but her mind took her away from the bay. Away from the ritualized cleansing of body and voice, by the thinker she had just then ordered to this very consideration. The plates of metal sat alongside her still, but there was no meaning to them. She knew their function, true, but what other formite could appreciate their representation, their purpose? Yet the smell of her journey clung to them, sung in ways not even her scentcrafters could easily replicate. Peacemaker here, but a peace enforced by power if necessary, it was as much a part of her as the pieces of the throne still imbedded inside her. As the humanite technology seared atop her ridged head. To discard them would be wrong. They only required better context. Context she knew how to provide. “Hathan-Captain, I have identified another need.”

“I do not need your presence, only your authorization. The stores aboard this ship. The material gathered from my world. My armor, Hathan-Captain.” If this was to be a meeting of Queens, one to be sung in the memories for generations and cycles, they would see her as she was. As she had been taken from Kayyhaitch, and now, returned to it. “I require access to the remnants of my armor.”

The fourth shuttle was beats from landing by the time the requisite permissions had been granted. It had been a fair guess by the minds of colony which could remember their time spent in confinement, in the thass containment chambers she had thought magic aboard the living beast of hardstone she believed to be burrowed in the soil of her own world. For if the ship had not returned to Earth, had not unloaded meaningful cargo at Dracan, then when could have the gathered parts, samples and objects been offloaded? The Hathan had sung many of their collections had been requested, but with outposts placed upon Kayyhaitch before the Queen had ever departed the system, the humanites had access to all the matieral they could ever want. And so, what was upon the Palamedes was left to sit. Vaulted, and in silence. Waiting.

The cleansing needed to continue, and the Queen found no desire to walk those walkways again herself, but no shortage of drones had volunteered for the role. Crawling now, unguarded and unbarred, those same quiet halls their lone Queen had fought in obscurity for lives believing her dead on the surface of a world far below. Twelve menials, one to each piece of the organic shell, and a single Banded thinker for communication sent their confirmation of arrival to the site. One, an injured scout now relegated to hauling, was chosen to be Skthveraachk’s eyes. Uncountable requests for sight flowed in behind the Queen, a grotesque misuse of time under normal circumstances. Then, when were circumstances these rises ever sane and normal? A pair of soldiers, the only guardians the articles of the Sovereignty mandated were present, led the way to the sealed bulkhead. Positioned as they did for their own individuals of rank, to either side of the thinker’s individual body. It adapted, despite the meaningless gesture.

“This defeats our purpose.”

One of the menials, listening, froze midway to reaching for the projected image of an arrow above the door. ‘Sample Storage & Specimen Containment’. Specimen. There was an odd sense of importance in what their people had been labeled. Better than being called livestock, subject or slave at the least.

“The items we seek were taken from our Queen’s frame. If hair fell from my leg, would it be deemed confidential, and require your assistance to reclaim?” A soft caution was sent out from the center of the colony, and the thinker received and bowed to the humanite before it even had chance to respond. “Forgiveness. This was not the sarcasm your species utilizes. An honest inquiry.” Pleased thrum sounded from the thinkers. They had improved at recognizing facial expression and errors which had plagued the colony for tenmeasures. The humanite had begun to frown, but apology brought hurried wave of dismissal from its empty hand.

“Your assistance brings great warmth of purpose to me. We sing thankfulness in appropriate ration.”

The more silent of the alien pair swiped small device across the door’s front, and lights augmented their color as a hiss of acceptance brough the barrier sliding wide. The drones crowded to see within, crawling atop one another rather than risk bumping into the humanite soldiers.

“If positions of power are as venerated in your society as ours, a vessel hosting such myriad figures should be a cause for great celebration.”

“Then you are fortunate, for each unforeseen challenge is opportunity to demonstrate the strength of one’s song.” The soldier laughed, a sound the drones still found struggle in accepting. Choking on air, but deliberately so. Their focus, though, was all but entirely upon the great ovoid glass within the next room. Hurrying in behind the thinker and aliens, past the first set of doors and to the second. From the containment cell, the Queen had seen this before, though not smelled the chemicals or felt the coolness upon shell as the room sealed and filled with moisture. Dousing those within, and only then opening the inner access. “What purpose does this water serve?”

“You feared growing ill from us?”

The silent humanite spoke, just the once, and the term of rank was wielded as a warning. One which the junior alien took into its voice immediately.

“That there are subjects you are forbidden from teaching us, yes. It is accepted. If generalities are all you may utter, such would yet be thanked.” The rocky outcroppings, terminals. The pain stone, console. High ceiling upon which could be stood and peered down from, mirrored on this side but visible from the other. The drones crawled through the room’s exterior, now quiet with screens unlit, but Skthveraachk felt still as though she looked from within. Marveling at their clothes, confused by their skin, and repulsed by the writhing, wiggling tongues which even now flapped as the alien, seeing no protest from his superior, nodded covered head.

“Is it not within your great power to render yourselves immune to such? To change your bodies, to utilize your technologies…no, I sing apologies once more. You are capable, but not permitted. This would be heretical.” The seaman had started to look sick, and made a quick sign before his face with twisted fingers.

“As ever a species of contradictions. Imprisoned, but kept hale and fed. Injured, but repaired and mended. Bracktat.” The Band made uncertain clicking noises in conjunction with the humanite’s confused look. As easily as they had entered, and with graspers kept firmly crossed so as not to touch despite the desire to stroke the spot which Queen remembered slamming with her scythes as she fought briefly to escape, the troop moved past the recording equipment to the next cavern. Room. Rooms, not caves. “The infectious corruption of smell and unheard sound which rises from corpses, or feces, or many types of plants. We call it bracktat, and ensure to cleanse it with smeared and inhaled bactum after exposure, while isolating drones who have come into contact. For the health of the colony, lest it color one’s music and pass when one sings to another, until all are despoiled.”

Lights flickered into existence by proximity and motion, sensors within the walls receiving somehow their presence like unliving eyes. Shelves lined with containers illuminated. Breaths were sucked in, and music faltered.

The alien groaned. The formites barely registered healing. Sample storage, they had labeled it. To them, it was a tomb like within the temples of the Remembering. Burnt legs. Meat, as fresh as it had been the day the star-sent came, sealed tight in their malleable clear fabrics. Lances melted by acid, armor punctured by stingers, the outer shell of scythe keratin and heads deprived of chitin or skull. Perhaps the humanites could register how her drones froze, both enthralled and disgusted, desire to bury or consume conflicting with commands to remain stalwart. For it was the senior, not lesser, who spoke with softer tone.

“Yes.” Few were of Skthveraachk, many more of Ktcvahnaah, more still of those she could not identify from mere charred remains. She had looked down on this all with the Hathan, but it was a memory relegated to the thinkers she did not like to question. To draw on. Information best accessed as little as possible. “If anything remains of it.”

Instant interest. The humanite superior visibly leant head back as forty-eight eyes simultaneously swiveled to join the thinker’s upon her.

“Resilience has become what your people call our watchword. Thrice have the weapons of your kind punctured our Queen’s armor and shell. Thrice has she lived. We are formite.” The pride was palpable. Unnerving as it were to be surrounded by the dead, they were dead who had each and all fallen to the first wave of star-sent to be fought since the Founders. Honor to them all. “We are hinderingly difficult to kill.”

The seaman remained sullen, but the tight and sincere smile from the superior directed them to the rear of the vault. Compositions were already being written of the sight, and even though their eyes were inferior, all of the menials present found themselves directed to look in every direction, to capture the scene for memory immemorial. The Queen’s own obeyed his duty, following the thinker, seeing already the fragments of the finest garb her colony had ever produced. Broken, sundered, but still, still! The thinker repeated the humanites’ insistence nothing be touched, and rightfully so, for the former scout would have rushed under the weight of Skthveraachk’s emotions and seized the treasure then and there. It skid to a halt just before the display of numbered boxes, staring through the translucent material, while the rest hurried to catch up. She could have been insulted. Instead, even as her body underwent the final phases of its cleaning, the scentcrafters and their dew slowly rubbed from neck to sacs, she let flow a reminiscence through the ship. Let it be breathed from those within her once prison chambers. Let it gently fill the halls, and stream back into her core. And then, the Bands all blinking uncertainty, translated it.

“Imagine a field, the grass reaching past your eyes so all you know is the smell of the season’s soil. The sagging of dampest dirt beneath you, the stillness of a windless rise. They are there,” A leg extended, pointing to a wall. A passage. A sibling. Thousands of legs, all pointing forward. “Sanguine and currant, the horns upon them angled so high you can see it even where you squat. One of the males dwarfs all the rest, the sounds of its grinding jaws on the toohrihck trees like the grounding of shell. Sharp enough to pierce even you, larger than all your children, larger than the soldiers surrounding you. And you are afraid, so very afraid.” The first hunt she had ever partaken in with her own body. Feeling not through the link, but in her own lungs, the emptiness of the reserve devoid of scent markers or guidance of any kind. The allomyrites had emerged early, and in but a few short cycles, would be dead. As grubs, they were but biomass to be consumed. Matured, coated in their thick hides and bearing claws and horns which shamed even the largest formite, they were to be avoided. For they were a foe only the strongest could challenge, for no benefit but a costly meal. “Each movement brings wet squelching which threatens to alert the herd as your troops tell you to retreat. Each soldier insists they are ready to die to give you the time to return to the center of the column. It is expected to flee this fight. Accepted. There is no shame in it.”

“And yet you are the first to break from the grass. The first to scream out your challenge. Your children are behind you, and will grab and pull you back if they catch you. The allomyrites are before you, and they will gore and trample you if you let them. The largest seeks the largest, the behemothic male knows you are the greatest threat. You must catch his horn in your forelegs, his claws in your second pair, and you will have only your rear legs to hold you up until it can be pinned down. But it does not matter, for you will die before then, as all who take the role of challenger to an allomyrite charge have died before you. They come from ahead, from behind. And the impact of you and the male is so great, the grasses part and shudder in the shockwave.” The aliens listened, rapt. The music stirred and grew in the retelling, and the eyes turned from the humanites to the remnants of that shell upon the shelves. The horn, even now, unbroken as it raised from sundered and cleaned skull.

“Death all around you, ruptured bodies and fallen children as they are punctured and crushed. The largest soldiers take hold of the horns of the lesser beasts, and still they topple onto their backs, unable to stand. Your own legs are burning, your shell is fracturing, you can see the orange blood oozing out of your joints and feel it pouring down your back. Your troops dare not pull you, for that would be instant silence, and instead throw themselves in a mass upon the monster’s claws. You see its eyes. Deep as the sky, black as the fade. Its stubby jaws snap for you, and you bite and thrash back. Six breaths. Six breaths you hold it in place, and even when the blood begins to leak from your vents, you do not relent. It is a soldier who delivers the stabbing between the ridges of the allomyrite’s plating which finally ends its movement, but none can contest the truth even as you stumble and reel away from the now motionless corpse. Watching as thought and sense fade from those eyes still locked with yours. You. Risking death not for the biomass, for the silenced songs this day outweigh the gain of the meat. Surety. Force. Power. A crown which you wear to every battlefield until the measure of the star-sent. All will contest your sanity, all will demean your choices, but none will deny your name. You are Skthveraachk.” The final notes rang. Legs lowered together, and spread out to either side of each body presented. “You are strength.” The pair of aliens looked on. The seaman, mouth partially gaped. The superior, lips set and sturdier. The former, silent. The latter, speaking.

Ignorance. Unintentional hurt. Disregard.

“She did.”

“Yes.” Perhaps the humanite had expected rebuttal. The thinker needed none. “What is life but defiance? To ever seek to do what is believed impossible. A mountain of solid stone, turned into impregnable nest. A foe of solid shell, beaten and turned to unassailable armor. To spread growth across a barren world, to cultivate and make green a planet, fear of the unachievable must be destroyed. The point proven. What is unattainable is attainable.” The thinker pointed to the boxes. The seaman, noting the other’s stillness, touched finger to slide and passed the containers down, one after the other. Formed line of bodies accepted and shuttled the sundered shell of the great hunted adversary down, until each was laden. “This is our story. We are proud to share it.”

The lesser of the pair sought to reach for uncertain politeness.

“Customarily, we believe you respond to compliment with thanks.” That was, actually, a sort of sarcasm. But one deftly applied, from the short laugh the shelled alien uttered. Most of the colony’s crafters were left upon Dracan, but what few the Queen had kept were already clustered around the reflective humanite armor, comparing the pieces to the shapes of the burnt, melted and cracked allomyrite cuirass and helm and wrappings. Initial supposition was mixed. Every effort, nonetheless, would be expended. There was no need to remain in such a place, and careful motions were made to turn each drone so as not to dislodge anything further from the rows. The humanites led, making for the exit. The Queen, herself, about to sever the link and return her eyes to the here and the now. It was only the raise of an alarmed pair of antennae which paused not just her, but Skthveraachk entirely. The procession stalled to a halt, the sight within the rows of scattered objects stopping cold any sense of celebration or joy. Unbidden, necessitated by role, the thinker who did naught but scream sent the memory to her. Reminding of that which had been forgotten by choice, drawing back from recesses of mind truth she had fought to submerge.

Returning to inspect the problem, the junior alien looked to the skull. Preserved, as all else had been, bereft of eyes and removed from the meat of a body.

“There are degrees.” Ridged crest of four, five arches. Larger than any drone, any superior caste, even any soldier. Skthveraachk had offered quiet prayers when she had seen the mandibles when first passing above this room, sworn to offer and lead in farewell hymnal when she was free. There was no such thing as freedom, not anymore. And seeing the crest and head of a Queen, carved from its body, laying amidst the refuse of battle, was not something she could tolerate. It had been forgotten for the sake of coherency, the memory relegated to the screaming thinker so she needed not confront it. It stared at her, now, through shared eyes. Empty female sockets, condemning. Unnamed. Unknown. Never to rest with her mother, and her mother’s mother, within her colony’s temple. Did children yet live? If so, they would never recognize the body, too long unscented and little more than chitin now. A Queen, her voice forever lost to the composer. The only difference, the only reason for her death and Skthveraachk’s life, because the star-sent had chosen to land a few thousand lengths further alto. Sorrow. Immeasurable sorrow. “Some losses are more significant than others.”

No. And she never would. Skthveraachk left the scout’s eyes, and moved into the thinker’s instead. Directing him to crawl across the backs of the laden drones, joining the humanite. Pointing to the crested skull.

“The Captain directed you to permit removal of any item from this storage.”

“Then you will release this to me.” It did not ask why. Nor did its superior protest. It was just shell to them, and they had more than enough here and on the ground to last lifetimes now. As the drones returned through the ship, the drones formed a barrier of bodies around the thinker and its precious cargo, more precious than the armoring each lifted a part of. Precious enough that, when passing otherwise tasked menials in the passageways, entire breaths of inefficiency were permitted to give respect and mourn the cradled crest. It would never lay within the halls of the Remembrance, but she who had given it would not be forgotten again. Together, they would return home. But first, as the final shuttle was felt to rumble into the hanger, they would face the future, silenced and songful together. “Hathan-Captain, I transmit my readiness. I will meet you above. You may inform your people.” Spit and sealant along metal. Shell and horn, angled, and reassembled. “We are ready.”