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  Origon cocked his head at the pronoun use, his crest rising in anticipation. He stepped forward into the room.

  Inside was a brightly lit mess. There were piles of papers as tall as him, a highly detailed miniature of the hive—including its many layers below ground—a pile of scrolls, and a collection of various drinking vases stacked haphazardly on a table. There were also surgical implements in a glass-fronted cabinet.

  The occupant of the room was—not quite a Pixie, or at least not one Origon was familiar with. Where most Pixies had interlocking sections of carapace on their skin, this individual was completely smooth-skinned, and where Pixie coloring was in the light blue and green range, this person was beet red and lacked Pixie wings. He was hunched over an unrolled scroll, scribbling a line of characters.

  “Up, Lauka,” Kratitha called, slapping her wings together to get the individual’s attention. “Mother needs you. Whole hive needs you.”

  Lauka ducked his head farther into the scroll, as if by not looking at them, they couldn’t see him.

  “Warriors coming,” Kratitha said. “Dangerous time. We must all move to save Mother.”

  Lauka continued to write as Kratitha spoke, not even glancing up. Origon’s crest flattened and curved outward. There was something else different about this Pixie. Not only that he was a male.

  “Must finish calculation. Then save Mother,” Lauka mumbled.

  Kratitha took a step into the chamber, but Lauka scooted backwards, curling around the scroll, still writing. Kratitha huffed, her wings buzzing in annoyance though she stood on the floor.

  “Males cannot be indoctrinated to another Mother,” she explained to Origon. “Unfortunately, also means he’s useless to warriors. With lack of connection to larger consciousness, means males are harder to deal with. Mystery to all but hive mothers. Often killed when hives taken over.”

  Origon was watching Lauka while Kratitha spoke. He was writing furiously, but now he began to beat one hand rhythmically against the wall. Nothing about the gesture showed on his face.

  “Have to finish last calculation. Not right yet. Can’t leave.” He continued to pound his fist into the wall, even as the other hand wrote.

  “If I may help?” Origon asked. Kratitha waved a hand for him to continue, as Lauka made no indication he’d heard.

  There was a growing spot of brownish blood on the wall where the Pixie beat his fist into it. There was no emotion shown, but that did not mean there was a lack of emotion. The Pixie was likely distressed by them asking him to leave before he finished his work. Origon dug into the Symphony of Communication, rearranging notes to remove the rests, and make the air thicker. Lauka’s hand still thudded against the wall and he would still receive the satisfaction of the pressure against his hand, but it was harder for him to get up speed. He could still express his concern, but without so much damage.

  Origon moved quietly into the room, ducking so he was closer in height to the male Pixie. Lauka was even shorter than the female Pixies, and with the lack of solid chitinous plates, Origon guessed he would be more vulnerable to the warriors.

  When they were little more than hatchlings, Origon’s younger brother Delphorus had a friend similar in some respects to Lauka, though Kirians differed in presentation.

  “Can hear sounds from above,” Kratitha said. “Must leave quickly.”

  Origon raised a hand to hush her, though she was a senior majus. Kratitha was trying reason, but Lauka had his own priorities. Delphorus learned to work with his friend. It was part of the motivation for Origon’s brother to enter the police academy on Kiria, though their grandmother nearly disowned him in response. Origon only talked her down by virtue of being trained as an apprentice majus, though even that did not carry the weight he though it should have with a lauded public speaker like his grandmother. Spiteful old turtle.

  “Are you to be familiar with the trader’s tongue?” Origon asked the Pixie, keeping his voice level and calm.

  Lauka’s hand paused for a moment. He nodded, still writing.

  “Lauka speaks at least one tongue from every homeworld,” Kratitha put in. So Origon might have even been able to speak his native Kirian dialect. He stayed with the more common trader’s tongue.

  Origon bent down near Lauka, trying to see the scroll crumpled in his hands, though he wouldn’t understand the Pixie script. “Can you be completing this while we walk?”

  Lauka made one more mark. “Efficiency schedule. Not perfect yet. Will come after perfect.” Origon frowned, his crest flaring out. There wasn’t time for that.

  “Males very good at scheduling and regulation tasks,” Kratitha offered. “Important to take burden off Mother. Act as secretaries and planners for hive.”

  “Perhaps if you can be explaining the listed schedule modifications to me we can work on a solution?” Origon said. In the back of his mind, he was counting down the seconds until the warriors would find the most protected part of the hive. “The warriors are close.”

  Lauka finally looked up, pointing his multifaceted eyes over Origon’s shoulder. “Might help. Can explain. Want to know?”

  “Very much,” Origon said. It was an effort to keep his voice level. A Kirian might pick up on increased agitation, though with Kratitha flitting around as she was, perhaps Pixies were not as sensitive.

  “What is the problem with the schedule?” As he spoke, Origon listened to the changes he’d made in the Symphony of Communication, taking notes back and rearranging them to move the blanket of air around Lauka. It would provide the feeling of pressure the Pixie seemed to want. Origon added several more notes to the wafting rhythms of the Symphony of Power, similar to what he discovered in the first attack. He changed the pressure of the air by redirecting the heat, making it thicken into a close blanket. It now covered Lauka’s lower body, gently pressing in. Origon could see Lauka relax as he did so. Behind him, Kratitha had her head cocked, likely listening to the changes he’d made in the House of Power—that aspect of the Grand Symphony they shared.

  “Have not tried that,” she said. “Some others can work with males. Never had time around studies to learn.”

  “Yes. Finish on the way,” Lauka said, and as he didn’t have wings, he pushed to his feet. Origon shuffled a few of the notes so the blanket of air would follow him. He didn’t know how long he would need to hold the change to the Symphony, but he was already feeling fatigued. It would only get worse as they traveled from the origin of the change.

  “Must take all my papers and equipment,” Lauka said, shuffling around the room, gathering scrolls until his arms were overloaded and he tottered on his short legs. “Might have needed equations.”

  “Don’t need all these, surely,” Kratitha said. She was buzzing and flitting from spot to spot. “Only most important ones.”

  Lauka paused, and shook his head, as if trying to clear a thought from it. Origon wondered how often females interacted with male Pixies. Kratitha seemed unprepared at best. The females must truly have little to do with the male of the hive.

  “Are you having a sack to carry your papers in? Maybe then we can be transporting them all with us.” Origon carefully kept his crest neutral, and turned to give Kratitha a knowing look. He’d want to take all his equations with him, too.

  It took far too long, but Origon finally got Lauka out of the chamber, with a satchel on his back, filled with scrolls, blueprints, equipment, and papers. He still held his scroll, and Origon listened with one ear to the explanations of statistical deviations in the modal averages of Pixie work times. Occasionally, he offered a suggestion, and Lauka scribbled it down.

  Kratitha zipped out of the male’s room, leading the way to the hive mother’s chamber. There were distant thumps as they walked, and Origon heard the resonances in both the Symphonies of Communication and Power. All of them twitched at the noises, and he stumbled on the flat surface of the tunnel, far more tired than he should be. He needed to take his notes back, b
ut he also knew how much the comfort of a blanket of warm air could help Lauka. Still, if Origon waited too long, the notes would be lost forever. He hoped he could tell when that was. Rarely in his training in the Nether had he been required to make so many complicated changes so close together. But this was what he had wanted! Although he was tired, this was far more exciting than struggling under what the Council said he could and could not do. This was being a majus.

  Kratitha led them ever deeper, and Lauka followed without looking up except to ask a question here and there of Origon. Lauka was close to saving three seconds on each Pixie’s routine, and Origon would have stopped to delve into the equations deeper himself, if the noises had not been getting closer. Instead, he bled off the notes he’d used to make the blanket of air. His strength grew as he did, and Lauka didn’t seem to notice.

  “Many pathways down to Mother,” Kratitha said as they walked. These corridors were cooler than the hot dry air outside, as they were deep within the base of the Five Hive Plateau. The thumps echoing down from above were less common this deep in the corridors, but they still caused the three of them to hunch in at each sound.

  There were no other Pixies in these passages, whether because they were all higher in the hive, fighting the warriors, or down near the mother, Origon didn’t know. In any case, they weren’t here.

  The distance from Lauka’s chamber to the hive mother’s was not great, and Origon tried to picture the little wingless Pixie scurrying along these passageways to report a discrepancy in this month’s work schedule to the mother.

  The booming and thumping grew louder again as the corridors of the hive grew increasingly extravagant. Origon drew one thumbnail along a plate of what he thought was pure gold, bolted to the wall.

  Kratitha put out a hand and the three of them slowed. “Hush. Close now. Possible that warriors found quicker way down, while we were diverted.”

  “Will the mother fight?” Origon asked. He tried to imagine a single Pixie holding her own. Certainly there would be guards with her.

  But Kratitha shook her head. “Mother is concerned only with governing and creating new Pixies. No time for combat, and…would not be easy anyway. Mother is constantly gestating new grubs. Fortunate she is between litters, but means she is gravid.”

  Origon could see a doorway a few paces down the hallway, outlined in precious metals and stones. He could only spare a moment to appreciate it as Kratitha pulled him toward and then through. He saw with whom they shared the room.

  Close to the door were a pile of engineer-type Pixies, their wings broken. They lay still in death, and puddles of brown blood pooled under them.

  “Would have resisted switching allegiance,” Kratitha explained. “Too close to Mother.” Lauka hunched along behind them, a low groan coming from him at the carnage.

  This chamber, in contrast to Lauka’s room, was gigantic—easily the biggest in the hive. It was big enough to warrant pillars to keep the ceiling from collapsing.

  They crept forward, listening to sound of metal on metal.

  Then a group of Pixies burst from the columns to the left. Origon saw the same differences from the battle above ground. The engineer Pixies were badly outnumbered, outclassed, and outarmed. Before Origon could do anything more than listen to the Symphony, the warrior Pixies cut down the last few guards. He and Kratitha might still have an element of surprise if—

  The warriors turned to them, and Lauka shrieked in surprise.

  “Hide!” Origon told him. The male Pixie wouldn’t be able to stand up to those weapons. Origon wasn’t sure he could, either.

  Lauka bolted for the cover of the nearest columns as the warriors closed in. They were heavily armored with segmented leather and metal scales over top of their chitin. As they approached, Origon looked at Kratitha. Her large multifaceted eyes showed little emotion in the way a Kirian’s would, but Origon knew she was ready for this fight. Her hands spread, as if feeling the air.

  They changed the Symphony at the same time. Origon could hear Kratitha modifying the Symphony of Power, but what she was doing was deeper in the music than he was used to adjusting, the notes passing by too fast. She charged at the soldiers, the blue of the House of Grace around her feet, hands, and wings, and the orange of the House of Power around her body. She was tweaking connections of some sort between the warriors, and they fell out of formation as she barreled through them, slashing out with one hand to knock a cutlass from one warrior’s grip.

  But she hadn’t attracted the attention of all the attackers, and a group turned toward him. Origon raised his hands, though he had never been formally trained in any of the martial arts some beings favored, like the Fading Hands or Dancing Step schools. Instead he groped through the music of Communication.

  These Pixies were organized, and embellished musical phrases showed the coordination in their small hand and wing signals to each other.

  Origon backed up, staying a constant distance from the warriors and gauging the notes available to him. He had an idea. It was something he’d first thought of in his university physics class. Most of the species in the Assembly—except maybe the Benish, as their flesh was of a different makeup than the other species—were vulnerable to rapid changes in air pressure. Especially these Pixies, who depended on the air for movement and respiration.

  Origon found the melody of the air around the nearest warrior, a turbulent measure, and stripped the notes from it, moving them to a register three octaves higher by dint of a few well-placed notes from his core. It was a rapid change—almost too quick for him to handle, but his notes snapped into place.

  There was an instant where the Symphony rang almost painfully inside Origon’s head.

  By the ancestors, what have I done?

  The warrior exploded in a burst of freezing blue flesh, and Origon fell back.

  The two nearest to her remains wobbled in the air, as brown blood leaked from their ear-holes and eyes. Both fell to the floor with a crash and didn’t move.

  Origon sucked in a deep breath. The cold that chilled him had little to do with the sudden change in the air. He tried and failed to push his crest down, then reached up with a shaking hand and flicked a freezing chunk of…something…from his cheek.

  I will not be throwing up.

  He hadn’t meant to make such a large difference in pressure. He hadn’t meant to kill them, just to disorient and maybe knock them out.

  If you had not been killing them, they would have killed you.

  He knew what went wrong. He only had to lessen the difference in the notes’ frequency, and there would not be so much pressure difference, especially inside a person. If he ever tried that again, he’d be prepared. He wouldn’t kill anyone else.

  Origon contemplated fainting for a moment, then straightened. Kratitha and Lauka were still in danger. He should have thought of the possibility of death before coming here, but that feather was already plucked. His crest fanned out wildly as his breathing sped up.

  He held his breath, then blew it out, turning away from the remains on the floor. This scene would haunt his dreams, but he couldn’t dwell on it now. He’d suffer through those nightmares later.

  Origon watched Kratitha, who was halfway down the immense hall, a trail of bodies behind her. She was certainly no stranger to death. He had to move. Origon lifted one boot and half walked, half leaped forward in the homeworld’s weak pull. It got easier the farther he got from the death.

  The Mother’s throne was a hulk at the other end of a long hall. As he watched, Kratitha spun in the air, wings buzzing, as a pike thrust through the space where she’d been. She landed in an aura of blue, caught the weapon, and spun it toward a second attacker. The pike glowed an orange visible only to a majus, and Kratitha jammed it through the smallest crack in the warrior’s scale armor. It opened the way as it went in, plunging through her body and exiting out the other side. Origon swallowed at her violence.

  Kratitha dropped
the handle of the pike as she spun back to the first attacker, jamming one hand tensed like a knife through one of the warrior’s compound eyes. The warrior shrieked and fell back.

  Origon glanced around. Out of the original nine warriors, none were left near him. He had beaten—killed—three, and Kratitha took another five in the same time period.

  Which meant there was one more. Kratitha jerked and sped forward. He followed. She must have reached the same conclusion.

  As they got closer, Origon realized what he thought was the mother’s throne was the hive mother herself, sitting on an ornamented stool. She was nearly as large as Origon—twice as big as the Pixies he was familiar with. Behind her she had another appendage, like a stubby tail, but it throbbed under the blade of a sharp-looking cutlass, held by the last warrior, standing behind the mother on her throne. From the extra tassels and silver highlights on her armor, she must be the leader of this invasion. The mother had not called out, as the warrior also had a short knife pressed under her chin.

  “Drop weapons. Will render her sterile,” the warrior leader threatened, tightening her grip on the hilts of both blades. That explained what the appendage was. Origon wondered why the threat was to her egg-producing section, and not about the knife under her throat, but Kratitha dropped the dagger she’d picked up. This fierce majus was capitulating so easily?

  “Can grow it back,” Kratitha whispered to him, perhaps seeing his confusion. “But new Pixies she makes will be based on attitude at time of growth. Will no longer be the hive of engineers.”

  Well that would never work. Origon pushed away thoughts of the bodies lying in the hall on the way here. He had to do something.

  He addressed the warrior in the trader’s tongue. “Will the official censure of the Council of the Maji not be dissuading you from taking over this hive? Both of us are maji.” He gestured between himself and Kratitha. She spared him a look, but he had not said he represented the Council. Let the warrior draw her own conclusions.