Chapter 3: Queen of Hearts

Moralez marched through the winding service tunnels that made up the guts of the station, feeling the chill of the metal grates beneath his prosthetic foot, protruding pipes and exposed wiring snaking along the walls and ceiling. It was a dingy maze, sparsely lit by the yellow glow of the dirty lightbulbs that were spaced out at irregular intervals, a far cry from the carefully tended habitat that existed just a few meters beyond. It was like walking through the veins of a giant, mechanical creature, the plumbing and wiring carrying the lifeblood that the facility required to operate. Behind the sculpted facades were miles of these passages, interconnected like an ant farm, granting access to all of the station’s myriad systems. Even Moralez didn’t travel these tunnels very often, they were mostly used by the engineers who kept the Pinwheel spinning, and they were off-limits to the general population. One needed a key code to access the maintenance areas at all, and woe betide anyone who came in here without a map.

Behind him was a procession of six Marines in their black body armor, PDW variants of the XMR clasped in their hands. Moralez was wearing one of the ceramic chest pieces too, the material blending with the black polymer of his prosthetics, his handgun on his hip. He wasn’t going to take any chances with the Jarilo ambassador. Regardless of whether its intentions were friendly or not, it was still a Bug.

Harry and Blackjack were taking up the rear. Harry was clad in the same black combat armor as the other Marines, but he had kept his helmet’s opaque visor open, while Blackjack was wearing an armored poncho that was lined with Kevlar and ceramic plates. The Krell barely fit in the tunnel. He was tall enough, and his shoulders were broad enough, that he very nearly filled the passage like a cork in a bottle.

The Admiral had closed off one of the smaller hangars where the transfer would be taking place, and had ordered Moralez and his security detail to make their way there and back unseen. They were to keep the ambassador out of view of the public as much as possible, which meant no leisurely walks along the torus. Moralez felt more like he was transporting a prisoner than guarding a diplomat. Were they going to put a bag over its head too?

“Remember, this assignment is classified,” Moralez said as they arrived at the access door to the hangar. “If any of you are here, it’s because I know you, and I trust you to do your duty. This is a matter of Coalition security, if word of this gets out prematurely, then it could really fuck things up. I don’t think the other ambassadors even know what’s going on.”

He brought up the wrist-mounted computer that was strapped about his forearm, usually a component of Marine body armor, and pulled up his list of access codes on the holographic display. He tapped the correct sequence into a numeric keypad, and the door slid open with a whoosh, harsh light flooding in from the other side.

He stepped out into a hangar that was much like the others, albeit a little smaller in scale, more suited to shuttles and gunships than frigates. He was surprised to see that the shutter had closed over the force field like a garage door, sealing the bay off from space. The Admiral wasn’t messing around, nobody was getting in or out of here without permission. There were no engineers on the catwalks, no vessels refueling, no cargo being carted to and fro. There was only a single dropship resting on the deck, flanked by two figures.

One of them was a Polar, her portly body crammed into a nondescript jumpsuit commonly worn by civilian spaceship crews, the long hair that he was accustomed to seeing on her kind tied up in a convenient bob. The second was a dark-haired human wearing civilian clothes. He had a long, grey coat that reached down past his knees, and he was wearing some kind of wrap-around visor that obscured his eyes from view. His outfit was not unusual, but there was something off about him. Moralez could tell at a glance that he was no civilian. These might be contractors of some kind.

The man didn’t stand to attention as they approached, he merely leaned against the hull of the dropship with his hands stowed in the pockets of his coat. The Polar’s blue eyes tracked them, but it was hard to tell where her companion was looking. The Marines fanned out into a line behind Moralez, Harry and Blackjack stepping forward.

“The boys in blue have arrived,” the stranger said, his lips curling into a smile. “You must be the Security Chief that we’ve been waiting for. You didn’t need to bring a whole platoon, y’know. She’s quite cooperative.”

“And ... you are?” Moralez asked suspiciously.

“No concern of yours,” he replied cryptically. He stood up straight and began to walk around the side of the idle dropship, passing beneath its wing, gesturing for Moralez to follow with a tilt of his head. Moralez glanced at Harry, who shrugged, then made his way over to the ship.

The stranger hit the switch that would open the landing ramp with a gloved hand, stepping aside as it began to lower, the whir of the motors and the hiss of escaping gas echoing in the hangar. Moralez had to resist the urge to place a hand on his holster as he peered into the darkness of the troop bay, not knowing what manner of insectoid monstrosity was about to come crawling out.

The first thing that he saw was a glint of white, and then the creature emerged from the shadows, stepping daintily down the ramp.

Even at a glance, he got the impression that the thing was female. It looked like the Bugs that he had fought on the battlefield, basically humanoid in appearance, with four arms and two digitigrade legs. The Betelgeusian Drones that made up the fighting force of the hive fleets were around five feet tall, encased in an armored carapace, sporting a horn resembling an antler or a tree branch that sprouted from their foreheads like that of a beetle. This one was similar, yet different.

The thick, durable shells of the Drones came in a variety of colors. There were reds, oranges, greens, and blues. This one’s carapace looked like it had been made from mother of pearl, its glossy, white surface sparkling with a beautiful iridescence when it caught the light. The vibrant pearlescence brought out subtle hues of pink, blue, and sometimes a hint of ocean-green when she moved.

The most striking difference was the face. The Drones wore helmets that blended seamlessly with their carapace, sporting a pair of glowing visors that gave the impression that they had compound eyes. This caste had no such helmet. Instead, a pair of large, expressive eyes stared back at him. They were almost mammalian in appearance, the sclera a vibrant pink in color, the way that her dark pupils met his gaze conveying an awareness that he was not accustomed to seeing from her kind. Her head was rounded, a pair of small, red lips occupying the space where the grotesque mandibles would have been on a Drone. They looked painted on, and he found himself wondering if they could even move. Her features reminded him of a china doll that had been shattered, then glued back together, her face made up of segments of chitin that were only obvious when one looked closely.

She still retained the horn that was common across all Betelgeusian castes, but as it rose from her forehead, the thick stem branched out into two swooping projections. They were ornate, symmetrical, giving the impression that she was wearing a tiara or a crown. From her head sprouted four feathery antennae, changing in hue from a deep charcoal near their roots, to a snow-white at their tips. Two of them stood erect atop her head, while the latter hung down her back, almost like a pair of long braids.

Around her neck was a large, fluffy ring of fur, like an Elizabethan ruff made from the fuzz that one might find on a moth. It was white in color, the individual hairs sparkling with an odd iridescence at their limits as they reflected the light.

There was more flesh visible here than was common for Bugs. They tended to layer on protective battle armor that was made to be indistinguishable from their natural defenses, leaving a scant few slivers of their underlying tissue visible between the cracks and joints. This one was also armored, albeit far more sparsely. The large joints between the sections of exoskeleton that made up her arms and legs were exposed, as were her three-fingered hands, revealing flesh in a shade of dark pink that bordered on wine. Her round thighs were only armored on the outside, leaving their inner surfaces exposed.

It was impossible to tell where her carapace ended, and where the synthetic armor began, but her torso was concealed beneath what looked like an armored corset made from chitin. It was the same waxy pearl color as the rest of her body, segmented to allow a greater range of motion, pinching her waist to give it a distinct hourglass shape. Two structures that resembled insect wings added to that effect, flaring outwards from her hips like a skirt, the gossamer material that protruded from beneath their protective coverings somewhat translucent. More of the downy fluff was visible beneath them, patches of it clinging to her outer thighs and hips. There were two larger wings that emerged from behind her, hanging low, giving the impression that she was wearing a gossamer gown. There was a vaguely triangular lip that came down between her thighs, almost like a rigid loincloth, preserving whatever modesty she might have.

The upper pair of arms sported shoulder pads that emerged from beneath the ring of thick fur around her neck, and just below it was a pair of fleshy mounds that were being pushed up by her corset. They looked like breasts, the comparison was unavoidable, pressing together to create cleavage.

There was more of the fluffy fur around her ankle joints, her powerfully built legs tapering into a pair of dainty, two-toed feet. They almost looked like the hooves of a deer, seeming too small to support her, giving her a graceful and measured gait.

She was uncanny, reminding Moralez of stick insects, and the predatory mantises that had evolved to mimic the appearance of orchids. If a praying mantis had been tasked with masquerading as a human, it might have looked something like this. Still, those sympathetic eyes burned through his apprehension, drawing him in.

“Am I to be handed off to this gentleman?” she asked, glancing at the man in the long coat. Her lips did indeed move, though not quite enough to match her speech. Her voice was somehow soothing, feminine, her grasp of English impeccable. Moralez swore that he heard a hint of a British accent. Her lower pair of arms rested about her hips, her fingers interlocking, while the upper pair hung idle at her sides. He had never seen a Bug’s arms at rest before, they had always been swinging daggers or aiming plasma rifles.

“Yeah,” the visored man replied, nodding to Moralez. “This is the Security Chief, he’s going to be responsible for you from now on.”

She turned those strange eyes back to him, the two feathery antennae that protruded upwards from her head seeming to wave in a breeze that only she could feel. Much like her furry ruff, they reminded him of a moth.

“There is no need for concern, Security Chief,” she said. “My mission here is a peaceful one.”

Moralez still couldn’t get over that voice, it was so out of place coming from her. He wasn’t sure how to address the thing, should he treat her like he would any other ambassador? There was nothing to be gained by being rude, in any case. Better to err on the side of protocol.

“This way, please,” he said as he gestured to the line of soldiers. She made her way over to them without complaint, her hoof-like toes tapping on the deck, the transparent wings trailing behind her. She kept her lower pair of hands clasped in front of her, the upper pair swinging in a very human manner as she walked. She paused briefly to look up at Blackjack, then the formation of Marines closed ranks around her, her five-foot frame obscured from view.

“Will you be staying on the station?” Moralez asked, directing his question towards the stranger.

“We’ll stick around a little while, make sure everything goes smoothly,” he replied. He slipped his hands back into his pockets and leaned against the shuttle’s hull again, seeming more bored by their interaction than anything.

“I’d like for you and your companion to identify yourselves,” Moralez continued. “Part of my job is knowing who comes and goes on my facility. If you’re UNN, then you should be able to provide your service numbers upon request.”

“I never said that we were UNN,” the man replied with a smirk, “and we’re not required to identify ourselves. If you have a problem with that, then speak to the Admiral. You don’t have jurisdiction over us.”

His tone wasn’t confrontational, he had the air of someone who recognized that arguing was a waste of his time. If he wasn’t in the Navy, and he was under no suspicion of any crime, then Moralez couldn’t compel him to do much of anything. The man knew that all too well, judging by his aloofness.

“It sounds to me like you’ve had similar conversations before,” Moralez muttered. “I’d bet that you could quote the regs if you needed to, couldn’t you?”

“Security Chief,” the Polar began, making her way around the nose of the parked vessel. She had a Russian accent, more pronounced than most. Her tone was warm and diplomatic, but Moralez lived with a Polar, he had learned to recognize when they were laying on the charm. “We have our instructions, and you have yours. Let us not butt heads, we are all working towards the same goal here.”

Moralez met her gaze for a moment, then turned back towards his men.

“I don’t get on well with people who keep secrets,” he said, leading the procession towards the access door from which they had entered. “You’ll find that a difficult proposition on the Pinwheel.”

They marched through the service tunnels in silence, keeping the Bug under guard, the passageways just wide enough that two Marines could flank it. Harry took up the rear, wanting to keep an eye on the thing, and the Chief seemed to have the same idea.

“What do you make of her?” Moralez asked, the sound of his footsteps alternating between the polymer of his prosthetic and the rubber of his boot. He kept his voice low, not wanting to be overheard by their guest.

“Her?” Harry repeated, confused.

“Yeah, look at her,” Moralez added with a gesture of his hand.

She did indeed have several choice female qualities that set her apart from the other Bugs that Harry had seen. He had a good view of her rear from this angle, which was completely unarmored beneath her skirt-like wings, the two ample globes of flesh rolling as she walked on her dainty feet. The flesh was a deep pink in color that bordered on red, but it wasn’t raw. There was some kind of skin over it, smooth and shiny, catching the light as she moved.

“Yeah, I guess it does look like a female,” Harry muttered.

“Too much like a female,” Moralez grumbled. “You and me, we’ve done our share of fighting, we’ve probably killed enough Bugs between us to make a hive. You ever seen anything remotely like this before?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Harry replied. “Drones are pretty uniform, and while there are some more unusual castes, they all share the same basic features. I mean, this one does too. It has the legs, the four arms, the horn. But ... I get what you’re saying, Chief. Something about it looks too ... human.”

“How are you feeling about your assignment?” Moralez added. “Are you and Blackjack still up to the task?”

“You can count on us, Chief.”

“Good, because there’s something else that I want you to do for me,” he whispered. “Keep an eye on the thing, and report back to me. I want to know everything that she does, everything that she says, make a note of anything out of the ordinary. I want to find out as much about this thing as possible.”

“Got it, Chief. Where are we keeping her?”

“These tunnels run throughout the entire station,” Moralez said, waving a prosthetic hand at the mess of pipes and wires that cluttered the ceiling. “It’s a long walk, but we can get to the residential quarter from here and come out directly into one of the apartments. We’ll stick her in there, keep her under guard. I’ll have guys that I trust on rotation at the door, and I want you and BJ sticking to her like glue at all times. Don’t let her out of your sight, even for a moment.”

“Roger.”

The maintenance panel came away from the wall, opening a doorway into one of the upscale apartments. The exposed metal and wiring gave way to matte white walls and faux-wood flooring, the naked bulbs of the tunnels replaced by soft, interior lighting. Harry followed a couple of the Marines through, checking the open-plan space, ensuring that it was safe to bring in the Bug. When he gave the all-clear, she stepped cautiously into the room, the warm glow of the lamps that were built into the ceiling reflecting off her pearl-like carapace.

Moralez came through after her, brushing himself off, Blackjack squeezing through the narrow opening with considerable difficulty. He had to turn sideways and crouch down, popping out into the apartment like a cork from a champagne bottle. After a few moments, the apartment was packed with Marines, they looked so out of place in this domestic environment.

Harry hadn’t ever had a reason to visit this part of the station before, and he’d never seen the interior of one of these residences. It looked like an apartment that one might find on Earth or one of the more developed colony planets, tastefully decorated. There was a properly furnished kitchen in the open-plan space, complete with cupboards, counters, and a dining table. The living area had a couch and a coffee table, and there was a large monitor mounted on the far wall. He couldn’t see the bedroom or the bathroom, they were walled off, but they were probably just as fancy. It sure beat the barracks, where all you got was a cot and a locker. Or in Blackjack’s case, a locker and a bowl-shaped hole in the ground. The Krell preferred to sleep in recesses that were lined with cushions.

For the first time since her arrival, Moralez turned to address the Bug directly. She was standing in the middle of the laminated wood floor beside the kitchen, looking nonplussed as she kept her hands neatly clasped in front of her corset-like torso armor.

“These will be your accommodations during your stay on the station,” he said, the alien’s antennae twitching as she listened. “You are not to leave this area alone under any circumstances. All exits will be locked and guarded at all times, there is no way in or out. This is Sergeant Hayes,” he added, gesturing to Harry. “He will remain here, along with a Krell guard. They will be responsible for your safety. If you have any questions or concerns, if you need anything that has not been provided to you, you are to go through the Sergeant. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Security Chief,” she replied. Her voice was feminine, almost girlish, and she had what sounded to Harry like an English accent. The Bugs that he was familiar with didn’t even have vocal cords, so he couldn’t begin to guess how she was producing the sounds. Her small, red lips moved, but not enough to match her speech.

“Good,” Moralez said, looking a little lost for words. He was probably still trying to decide how to address her, and what level of respect to afford her. She might be a Bug, but she was also a dignitary. The only certainty was that she wasn’t what anyone had been expecting.