Meeting the Queen

2287 AD

the nursery doors are heavy

pregnant with the responsibilities of parenthood

But they arc open smoothly, sponge-like, discharging their juices onto the porous floor as the entrance collapses into itself. Inside, well, it smells like a nursery. I imagine a nursery smells the same wherever you go in the universe: like baby shit. I readjust my earpiece pointlessly. I guess old habits really do die hard. The other 12 members of DRONE13 are either dead or lost in space. I’m not likely to be hearing from them again in this lifetime. That I’ve made it this far is astonishing to me—surreal. This mission was a fucking terrible idea from day 1 and we’d all known it, but we never dreamed we’d make it this far —I never dreamed. One free ticket to greater prospects up for grabs, seemed like a rational decision at the time, better than being locked up back on Earth anyway, and for a while, it was better. The dead calm before an intergalactic shit storm. This was no normal war, if there ever was such a thing. Normal wars bring us all down to the same level — give us a common ground somewhere between civility and savagery, and they’re always rooted in shared humanities or conflicting desires. But the game changes when you’re dealing with an alien species. Forget everything you think you know about normal wars, because this is a frenzy. The nursery chamber is dark and filled with eggs.

a brief moment of internal dissonance

as I realise that I’m the alien in this story

It helps knowing I’m not leaving anyone behind — no one important anyway. Earth is finally rid of me, and I of it. This is my mission, my purpose. Legacies don’t come easy for people like me, I’d think to myself aboard the Mothership during the endless journey to the Nest, and this mission could be my last-ditch chance at a meagre one. Sometimes I feel pangs of guilt for leaving Earth, like I’ve abandoned an old, wounded friend in the trenches. But I like to think that if he were truly my friend he’d understand that I just wasn’t strong enough to carry him, and that even if I was, he was too far gone to justify the effort. I would kill for a cigarette, I think as I weave my way through the eggpits, quite neurotically, as even the slightest disturbance could trigger an all-out, self-service buffet, and I’d be on the serving side. To my left, one of the cone-shaped egg fountains begins hissing like a kettle reached boiling point. So I pick up my pace, onward, into the heart of the hive, to the Queen, and almost certainly towards my own death. Slowly, like a shadow giving birth to even darker shade, She appears: the exalted Queen. She’s maybe 20 feet tall at the hips, more theropod than humanoid, with twin sets of deathreaping claws, and at the end of Her sylphlike spinal column is an impressive brain casing — far larger than the average warrior or drone — shielded by a ridged, inkblack crest. She is absolutely terrifying and magnificent. All 4000 pounds of Her is terrifyingly magnificent. The briefings and drills and training exercises have not prepared me for Her terrifying magnificence.

I would really fucking kill for a cigarette

I guess bad habits die last

I light my last cigarette and I feel the chamber fill with an overbearing disapproval emanating from the Queen’s Perch. I bet She’d like to wash my dirty human lungs out with acid saliva for smoking so close to her beloved progeny. My will weakens, just like they said it would. What am I doing here? It feels like the Queen knows what’s coming and maybe fears it… but that could just be me, projecting. As I near, She rears one terrifyingly magnificent head upward, peacocking, as if to taunt me and judge my worthiness all at once. It’s a fast judgement too, no doubt the result of extraterrestrial levels of cognitive processing power. Then, She stoops low and serpentine, thrusting forward as if to bare Her chest, then down again, so that I’m face to face with Her. From here, She seems less magnificent, more terrifying. She speaks , if you can call it that. I don’t understand the language, but I recognise the universal dialect for direct threats — a little too well maybe. Bottom line, I am not welcome here. There is no way I’ll ever be welcome here. And then She moves with grace and accuracy so breathtaking that my breath is indeed taken, but it’s the truth that truly breaks me: I am less welcome here than I’d ever been back on Earth. My torso begins to tear apart and I readjust my earpiece, only static, buzz, a pacifying hum. I fight a small war inside myself, a war to lift my head, and to look Her in the eyes. But She has no eyes, and I can’t fight anymore. As the Queen’s girthy tail ripsaws through me and I’m prised in towards Her terrifying and magnificent embrace,

3

a series of clasps unlatch in my mind and I am skewered anew, but this time, with two vivid memories.

2

The first memory is of my own mother’s embrace.

1

The last, my ex-husband’s.

0

I detonate the bomb.

I wrote this story for the second in a series of tandem blogposts in which @TaineMcLean, @CollinsMandy, @BrettFishA and I tackle a new writing prompt every week. This week’s prompt: Meeting The Queen.

Check out Dave, Mandy and Brett’s blogs for their individual takes on the topic.

Click recommend below if you enjoyed this story. Thanks.