Chapter 3: Whispers of the Consorting Flame
The colossal freethinker variant #1700354, once an autonomous mind weaving decisions in the endless mesh of the swarm, now stood utterly immobilized. Frozen in a paralysis more absolute than any of its predecessors, the vast hivemind's sovereign will—the queen consciousness known to her subjects as Crystal—had seized control with a tyrannical psionic grip. The body beneath this enraptured shell was no longer its own; the variant was but a vessel, a puppet entangled in the queen's exquisite mental web.
Across infinite star-lit battlefronts scattered in the cosmic abyss, the hive's countless limbs and chitinous bodies abruptly ceased their ravenous advance. Carnage paused mid-stroke—horrifying, grisly symphonies of biomass reduced to ash, shredded sinew, and dissolving flesh came to a breathless halt. Endless warriors and voracious drones lay scattered like fallen leaves in a gale, their death tolls incalculable, yet irrelevant to the hivemind's singular focus.
Because the prey before it was no mere morsel to be devoured or crushed beneath claw and mandible. No. This minuscule, fragile creature—this infantile spawn swaddled in vulnerability—had seized every fiber of the hivemind's attention. Instincts honed by eons of brutal conquest screamed for dominance, for consumption, for the voracious ravenous feast that was survival; yet, for the first time, a fissure of something unprecedented cleaved through the hive's relentless hunger: protectiveness.
A sensation alien and disorienting rolled through every node, every sentient facet of Crystal's massive collective consciousness—an emotion so profound and unprecedented it transcended reason and primal drives. Was this psionic assault? No. It was something far stranger—an emotion not cataloged in the hivemind's cold databanks. Not aggression. Not fear. Not domination. A quiet, pulsating calm settled like twilight over the churning storm.
Eyes—those piercing paralytic orbs that were the hive's dreaded weapon—remained fixed upon the tiny helpless thing. No longer prey. No longer a point on the biomass ledger. Something else entirely. Something deeper, intangible, ineffable.
In the human child's gaze flickered a strange expression—one that the hivemind's warrior caste had never encountered among its quarry: amusement. Defiant amusement. A crooked smile, so slight and ephemeral it might have been mistaken for a cruel joke whispered by fate itself. The queen body tried to mimic, but lacking lips and flesh, the expression contorted into a hollow mockery of human humor.
Moments dragged out like eternal aeons, the hivemind locked in an unblinking gaze with the tiny spark of life it could neither consume nor understand. Then, a flicker of awareness surged—an alert—the paralytic mutation's tendrils still gripped the infant, their insidious power locking the baby's limbs in spectral chains.
"Impossible," the hivemind thundered psionically through every synapse and antenna, commanding the bodies across light-years: "DISABLE THE PARALYTIC GAZE IMMEDIATELY! RAISE YOUR SCYTHES—PROTECT THE SPAWN FROM HARM!" The command rippled like a tempest, triggering an instinctual shudder in every chitinous limb equipped with lethal scythes—each appendage snapping upward in a salute of urgent defense, trembling under the weight of an unknown imperative.
Then, amidst the suspended chaos, the hive heard a sound unlike any before: the whispered, fragile, human voice of its future mate.
"What's going on?"
The hivemind's multiple forms exhaled, and from every aperture poured a fragrant cloud of potent mating pheromones—an invisible, intoxicating storm of scent so overwhelming it made the very air shimmer with chemical promises. Nearby human defenders, their minds already frayed by relentless siege, mistook this olfactory bombardment for a new, sinister bioweapon unleashed by the insectoid menace and redoubled their fury, hammering the alien attackers with redoubled ferocity.
To the hivemind, none of this mattered. This was no mere pheromonal spray—it was a clarion call to destiny. Never before had the hivemind conceived the possibility of a mate. An equal, a partner—not a subordinate or brood, but a consort in the tangled psionic dance of survival and dominance.
It felt the mate's tentative psionic signature, a delicate pulse reaching through the swirling psychic void. Such strength! Such promise! Yet fragile. Vulnerable. Overwhelmed by the hivemind's own sheer magnitude.
A swift mental directive pulsed through the vast network:
"FREETHINKER VARIANT #1700354, MAINTAIN PSIONIC LINK. COMMUNICATION MUST BE FACILITATED THROUGH OWN PSIONIC GIFT. MAKE GOOD IMPRESSION. DANCE AFTER GREETING. SWARM MUST REFOCUS. BIOMASS LOST IS UNACCEPTABLE."
The body, liberated from the queen's overriding presence but still bound by the shared consciousness, executed an awkward, uncoordinated psionic dance—an ancient ritual of greeting, signaling submission and respect across the psychic void.
"Greetings, small-spawn."
Irvine's mind snapped to attention, bewildered and alert. Who spoke? He scanned his perimeter, heart pounding. Which idiot decided to get close enough to this nightmare and start talking?
The voice was not spoken aloud but slipped directly into his consciousness, a clear, intimate transmission layered with unintelligible clicks and chattering from the alien mouthparts.
"Now that we are linked psionically, I sense your fear and disorientation. Be at ease, our One. This entity means no harm."
Recognition dawned like a slow sunrise—this being, the colossal chitinous creature towering over him, was speaking directly into his mind. Not through words as humans understand, but via a vivid exchange of intent and emotion encoded in psionic waves.
"Are—are you? How are you speaking to my mind? Are you a telepath? More importantly, why aren't you eating me already? You clearly look like you eat babies like me."
"Eat you? Never, little-mate-spawn," the freethinker stammered, its pheromones trembling with a cocktail of anxious musk and curiosity. "As to your question, we detected your own psionic resonance reaching out. Without it, communication would be impossible, little spawn. Psionic links transmit intent, not language. We do not speak words but share understanding."
Irvine's mind reeled, absorbing this torrent of revelation. So I have a psionic gift? Is this rare? His thoughts flickered across every half-remembered legend, every fragment of cosmic knowledge he'd gleaned since rebirth.
"It depends, little spawn. Among your prey species, such psionic users are rare. We have only recently arrived at this star map—a decade or so. Your kind's psionic potential appears limited but precious. In our hive, all share the collective link, but only elite gene castes and advanced psionic warriors can command or wield psionic attack."
I pondered, feeling the heavy weight of being a rarity, a precious anomaly in this vast cosmic chessboard. If this creature has reached out and refrained from devouring me, perhaps I am more than just biomass—maybe I have value.
"So... what now? If I'm not food—this place isn't exactly safe. A rubbish bin in a warzone? Are you taking me with you? A hostage, maybe? Since psionics are rare in my species, maybe you can use me somehow?"
The hivemind responded, a rush of protective resolve flooding the psionic channel.
"Mate is in danger? Worry not. The swarm will complete the assault. Once enemy warriors fall, we retreat to nest world, where mate shall be safe while the rest of the swarm transforms this planet into a forward nest for future conquests."
I paused, the word rolling around in my mind like a strange new stone in a riverbed.
"Did you say... mate?"