The Legendary Beekeeper-Chapter 42: It’s a Beeg World

The Hive.

And endless silk fabric wrapped around the exposed grace of Her cosmic form. A conductor of expanse, culling all those children who wish to travel past Her embrace and unto lands uncharted.

The Hive.

A void of golden light, engulfing the mind of a mortal boy. No. A breaker of mortality, a baptism pit so that the boy may surpass man... the river Styx in all its golden glory, maker of immortals.

The Hive... an abyss.

An endless network of subservient minds, defiled and corrupted so that they may serve The Greater Purpose. A vast, and unknowable super-consciousness... that is what Han gazes upon.

He could not be sure how long he had been exposed to this golden abyss, for concepts such as time did not exist here. A second, the same as a minute... different lenses and perspectives, all bombarded into a single instant within his consciousness.

Thought was an exercise deemed too great... even for one such as him. However, before his thinking had ceased, he became certain of one thing:

Nothing was to be revealed to him here; he was the one being revealed.

For it is said, "if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you..." And a gaze was all but enough for his watcher to corrupt his mind... defile it so that it felt the same... but was different.

Carved into the same silhouette, but made of an alien material. Stronger, quicker... darker. Forged in such a way that the Greater Purpose would be satisfied with their new tool.

A true baptism. So that he may be reborn with a golden mind.

So that he may become Goldborne.

***

When Beelathorn awoke, it was not welcomed with the dignity of a god.

Instead, it was blindfolded and chained to a metal post with a gag shoved halfway down its throat: a prisoner in every sense of the word.

"It’s awake," a voice said. Beelathorn’s mind twitched, instantly recognising the voice: ’The Shadow Woman.’

"Good, then let’s get this done with," another voice added; its hoarseness betraying its owner’s old age.

Footsteps followed, and Beelathorn’s head was jerked upward.

"You’re going to answer a few questions," the voice continued. "And don’t bother lying. We have a truthsayer in the room."

’Annoying,’ was the first thought to cross Beelathorn’s mind. It was but a newborn of a godling, but to have its person so blatantly disrespected by creatures of such low standing was embarrassing to say the least.

Especially since it knew that the Hive was watching.

"I thought we agreed we’d treat him with basic human decency," another voice said; this one softer, but still male... perhaps a pre-adolescent boy.

"We don’t even know if it is a he," the old voice replied.

"His name is Han, and as I said, he’s from Earth." This time, it was the Shadow Woman who replied.

The older voice scoffed. "Well, we’ll know whether it was telling the truth soon enough. Now won’t we?"

’Then this is an interrogation,’ Beelathorn thought. ’But why? Of what use was Han the human to these people? What information could he have provided?’

Beelathorn’s mind paused at the thought. ’Han the human? That is I. But why did I speak of him in that manner-’

"You nod your head if you understand, got it", the older voice cut in, derailing Beelathorn’s train of thought.

Beelathorn’s mind fractured into two distinct fragments. One fragment took control of the main body, responding with a nod, whilst the other continued its ponderings.

This act itself caused even more confusion within the creature’s mind. How could a mind be more than one yet still one at the same time? How could mere fragments of thought be capable of such isolated proceedings?

Memories seeped into Beelathorn’s mind, memories that didn’t belong to it... but did at the same time.

’The boy named Han’s memories...’ Beelathorn realised.

’So then... Who am I?’

The question echoed in the vastness of Beelathorn’s mind.

In this place, thoughts happened and concluded in instants: not mere fractions of a second, but a true null time duration. So it bothered it that it could not answer such a simple question.

So strong was its mind built, that the weakness of not-knowing felt like doom-bringing.

Whilst a fragment of its mind warred against existential crisis in the mental realm, the other was dealing with what transpired in the physical world.

’If this is an interrogation, then I need to figure out several things. One; the likelihood of violence. Two; their reasoning for interrogation. And three; our maximum win criteria.’

However, the fragment would not get its answers immediately. Just like the sentinel, it seemed these interrogaters had a fetish for silence. Perhaps they thought it might impose fear upon Beelathorn.

But that was a useless endeavour.

’These creatures think they have robbed me of my senses. But they have merely stolen my eyesight,’ the fragment thought in disdain. ’A Goldborne’s strength lies in its smell. And many smells reveal themselves to me here.’

Beelathorn took in a deep breath, inhaling the mix of sweat, breath and skin volatiles that the interrogaters bled into the air.

Beelathorn’s mind fractured once again, its newest part decanting these scents, and extracting from them information otherwise untraceable by normal means. Fatty acids, androstenol traces, Isoprene; each revealing to it the ages, gender, and stress levels of its captors.

’Four men. Two women. Three of them adolescents, two adults, and one above 60. An odd group. High stress levels, and thus a higher likelihood of aggression.’

Using force to escape was out of the question. It didn’t have the strength nor the information to overpower these creatures... and the sentinel was yet to be born.

"You said you were from Earth. Is that true?" It was the older man again.

Beelathorn nodded, not seeing any benefit in keeping that truth hidden.

A moment passed, and there were whisperings among the interrogators. It seemed it was not the truth they were looking for.

Beelathorn’s mind twitched in excitement. When humans were unhappy with a truth, it usually meant there was a lie that they were selling to themselves... a coping mechanism designed to give false logic to fear.

If Beelathorn could find out what that fear was, it could create a lie... and thus carve a path towards freedom.

"Are you scared?" a voice asked playfully... the Shadow Woman.

Someone grunted. "Fuck are you wasting questions for?" another voice shot back; this was the second woman in the group, an adolescent from the scent of her fatty acids. "You think my trait activations are free?"

’So this woman is the truth-sayer.’ Beelathorn took special care to track where her voice was coming from, and already her scent was being examined for more information.

"Well, is it?" the older man asked.

Beelathorn shook its head. Fear had no place in a tool of the Hive.

The truth-sayer let out a soft grunt. "Fucker isn’t lying."

Silence descended upon the group once more, and Beelathorn could hear the faintest of whispers coming from those furthest away from it.

"I knew this was a bad idea..." one of them said.

"...what if he’s... Heron...." someone else said, though Beelathorn could not hear all of it.

After a minute of silence, the old man cleared his throat before asking: "Are you a founding member?"

Beelathorn tilted its head at the question. "Founding member of what?" it would’ve asked if it was allowed speech.

"Delis, we can only ask yes or no questions," the truth-sayer spat, condescension oozing from her tone.

"Were you here when the first humans arrived?" she asked.

’First humans? Does she mean the first settlers of this place?’

So what if he was? Would they let him go?

They’d mentioned Heron. Would they take him to her if he lied that he was?

Whilst this fragment played with the idea of lying, Beelathorn’s other fragment was reaching a conclusion to its ponderings.

’We were not built for philosophy. Why does it matter who we are?’ it asked itself.

’Then what were we built for? Are we a tool for anything other than ourselves?’ it replied.

A moment of silence passed. Beelathorn knew itself to be a tool of something... some grand concept within the Hive. But a part of it rejected the idea, spat on the mere thought that it could be used by someone else.

And it was in that fragment that the answers lay.

Beelathorn was a tool. And something... no, someone —forgotten to it— was its will. Whatever part of it that was, refused to be used by anyone or anything other than itself. God or godling.

’If we are to remain independent. A tool for ourselves, then we must come to a satisfactory conclusion,’ it told itself.

’Agreed. You’re the supposed super mind, aren’t you? So think of something. Tell me. Who are we?’ This time, it replied to itself in a separate voice... a voice that Beelathorn only knew through borrowed memories.

’Agreed. I am the super-mind. The tool... that part of our mind which accomplishes mental generation. I am the "Me". And you, another part which we shall call the "I" witnesses this mental generation and examines the thoughts and ideas crafted by the "Me.’

There was silence...

And then, there was laughter.

’A long-winded explanation, which sounds like nothing. So does that mean you’ll give me my body back?’ that borrowed voice within Beelathorn’s mind asked.

’There is nothing to give back. For it was never taken. We are one. He who projects his will unto "It".’

Beelathorn’s mind twitched once again, and there was a shift in its structure. A new, larger fragment was created, morphed and moulded using the borrowed memories it had received, until finally, the false image of a boy was created at the helm of Beelathorn’s mind.

Not separate, but a part of this new super consciousness. A corruption of pride and greed upon its creator’s perfect tool.

’Fuck. I thought they had me,’ Beelathorn laughed internally. ’It’s good to be back.’

****

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Central Regional Administration— Head Office

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"Are these all of them?" Her voice was like an old woman’s, hoarse from decades of smoking.

She stood in a large office; walls cushioned with crimson velvet and an obsidian black chandelier hanging from the ceiling— which cast a soft light down upon the group of schoolkids assembled in front of her.

"The raid parties are still searching, Lord Heron," a man dressed in black hunting gear replied. He stood in front of the group of kids, bowed as they were, to the girl with snow-white skin in front of them.

The girl, Heron, held out a piece of paper... a wanted poster of a boy wearing the same school uniform as the children assembled. Anyone could tell that it was a sketch based on the rough edges around his face, but his features were clear enough.

"And none of you have seen this boy?" Heron whispered, pointing at the paper. How anyone could make a whisper so bone-chilling was beyond the group of kids. Many of them were still shaking and crying from the horrors they had just seen.

But one in particular was calm. Despite half her face bloodied and her left eye missing, she raised her hand to converse with the demon in front of them. "The boy you’re looking for," she called out.

"His name is Han. Han Kim," she said, spite tainting her voice.

Heron’s gaze fell upon the girl, and a smile flashed across her doll-like face. She waltzed down the steps of her raised platform to get a better view of the girl.

"Look at me," Heron whispered, caressing the bloodied side of the girl’s face. "What happened to your pretty face?" she asked.

"A goblin," the girl replied blankly.

Heron tilted her head. "Must’ve been a strong goblin."

"Not strong enough."

Heron smiled at that, grabbing the girl by the chin and kissing her.

With that, the girl’s face slowly began to heal. Though it seemed her eye was beyond saving.

"There. I hate seeing broken dolls," Heron whispered, gazing at the girl with a chilling greed. "What’s your name?

The girl straightened her school uniform—a distinctly darker shade than the others, hinting at some status within the school, perhaps class captain or a student representative.

"Nari, my lord."

"My name is Nari."

*