Scene 1 – Improvised Tools, Implied Threats
-Stoffel (limited third-person animal POV)
Stoffel had been awake for six hours. He had already mapped the room four times in three dimensions, accounted for the smells of every crew member who'd passed within ten meters, and balanced a torn food packet atop the security lens just to see if anyone noticed.
They hadn’t.
This was not an enclosure. This was an insult.
The bars—clear poly-alloy, softened at the seams to avoid lawsuits—smelled faintly of bleach and panic. The lock was magnetic. The floorplate vibrated in low cycles, consistent with power conduits running beneath. The air tasted filtered. Over-filtered. They were trying to keep him safe.
That was mistake number one.
At the far end of Holding Cell 4-B, a water bowl sat at a thirty-two degree angle off center—because Stoffel had shoved one corner of it under a missing bolt he’d quietly unscrewed from the wall during his pretend nap. It had taken three days, three claws, and a gentle prod from a snapped belt he’d stolen from the sleep pod room.
He didn’t know what the belt was called.
He just knew it fit the groove of the lock housing perfectly.
He rolled onto his side and waited until the corridor outside dimmed into what these aliens considered “ship-morning.” The internal cycles shifted. Less movement. Less sound.
He went to work.
Claw. Twist. Belt loop inserted. Tension calibrated.
He didn’t rush. Patience was everything. The others—zookeepers, researchers, amateur veterinarians—had always assumed aggression was his default. It wasn’t. Boredom was the true threat. And boredom, here, had turned him into something that thought in sequences. In escape algorithms.
Click.
The lock hissed open.
Stoffel slipped through without fanfare. The door glided back into place behind him, magnetics re-engaging with a soft hum.
Two steps into the corridor, he paused. Listened.
No alarm.
Perfect.
The corridor smelled of antiseptic floor polish, faint oil, and honey mead in long-settled vapors from the galley vents. But stronger than that was the presence—an earthy, wild tang—that led him to turn his head and stare at the adjacent holding cell.
Nyra.
She was awake. Sitting.
Watching him.
She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Her posture was perfect stillness. But her eyes followed him like she’d been waiting.
He turned. Continued down the corridor.
Then, as he passed the maintenance panel, he brushed a single paw across the auxiliary sensor relay—hardwired to a bypass junction. An old system. Crude. Predictable.
Nyra’s door hissed open behind him.
She didn’t make a sound, but he heard her footsteps in the pattern of displaced air.
She followed.
Together, they trotted past a sleeping hallway drone with a cracked screen and a single sticky note stuck to its chassis that read: “NOT MY JOB.” They passed engineering subdeck three, where an entire crew was on break, watching a documentary on ancient Earth fungi and missing everything important happening three floors above them.
They paused at an intersection.
To the left: maintenance.
To the right: scent.
Sweet. Heavy. Spiced.
Their heads turned in unison.
To the right, then.
And down.
Deeper into the ship. Toward the scent of fermented sugar and locked barrels. Toward the engine hum that pulsed not like machinery, but something older. Something slower.
Nyra chuffed once. Quiet agreement.
Stoffel didn’t answer.
He just led the way.
Scene 2 – Mead of the Chancellor
-Zarn (briefly), then switch to E.V.A. for observation logs
Zarn had never felt the true weight of bureaucracy until the first time the ship’s pantry door slammed open at exactly 04:30 hours, and he was greeted by the sight of two honey badgers—his cargo, his “highly trained specimens”—staring at him like predators ready to start a war with cheese.
It was a bad morning.
He had been in the middle of reviewing the honey import data for a galactic syndicate—staring at shipment logs, calculating margins, rubbing his face with a mug of synthetic caffeine—when the ship’s internal alarms went off. A security drone pinged in his ear. It was all standard.
Except, then the comm channel opened.
“Zarn, sir—sir—!” a voice screeched from the galley deck.
“What?” Zarn snapped, shuffling through his terminals.
“You need to get down here! It’s—! It's them!”
“Who?”
“Stoffel and his... friend! They’ve broken into the pantry! They’ve—” the voice cut off with a wet, spitting sound. “Oh no, they’re—"
The line went dead.
Zarn shoved the screen aside, stood, and sprinted down the hall toward the cargo bay. The faster he moved, the louder the strange growls and low rumbling snorts grew, filling the corridor like an incoming storm.
When he reached the pantry door, he found it slightly ajar. The low, warm scent of mead—the very expensive honey mead reserved for the upcoming diplomatic summit—wafted out. And then, Zarn’s worst nightmare entered the frame:
Stoffel.
And Nyra.
They were standing in the center of the pantry, completely oblivious to the fact they had just turned a minor containment breach into galactic-level chaos.
Stoffel stood on his hind legs, paws wrapped around a barrel of the honey mead, his face smeared in glistening sweetness. Nyra, meanwhile, had discovered a cargo crate and was nudging it with her paw, eyes half-closed as if she were debating whether or not to open it.
Zarn stood frozen in the doorway. “No… no, no…!”
Stoffel paused, looked at him for half a second, then turned back to the barrel. A single slurp of mead. Then another. Zarn could only watch in horrified fascination as the badger started to chug from the barrel like it was some kind of interstellar nectar machine. Nyra, meanwhile, had taken to climbing the crates, her paws careful, measuring. A couple of things dropped to the floor with a soft metallic thud.
“Get out of there!” Zarn finally managed, stepping forward.
Stoffel didn’t acknowledge him. He was too deep in honey-induced ecstasy.
Nyra, however, glanced at Zarn with a faintly intelligent gleam in her eyes, then turned back to her barrel. She was purposefully ignoring the human for now, but the sweetness had clearly activated something more than just hunger. Both badgers were now on all fours, in sync, locked into their honey feast.
Zarn rubbed his face in frustration, feeling an impending headache. "They’re supposed to be trained!” he snapped aloud, pacing and looking desperately for anything to get them back in their pens.
Nyra’s attention snapped back to Zarn, and for a split second, he thought he saw her grin. She gave a tiny snort, then turned and bounded up to a nearby food shelf, knocking over packets and sending dry rations skittering across the floor.
The whole situation was escalating. Fast.
Zarn raised his wrist communicator. “Security! I need a—”
But just then, the lights in the pantry flickered, dimmed. Zarn’s communicator buzzed frantically in his hand. He looked back at the mead barrels, horrified. A third of the supply was now on the floor, the badgers slurping down more than their weight in fermented honey.
Then—just as Zarn moved to rush in—Stoffel stopped.
He paused, his eyes darting toward the engine room. Something shifted in the air, like a signal, a scent—something magnetic.
Stoffel turned and trotted out of the pantry, his movement sure, almost satisfied.
Nyra, having cleaned up all she could, followed him out with the same determined pace, ears perked as if she knew exactly what came next.
Zarn stood in the middle of the pantry, now utterly dumbfounded. He looked down at the empty barrel. He glanced at the now-empty pantry. Then, the phrase hit him:
What had they just triggered?
[E.V.A. Observation Logs]
Log Entry #419: Analysis of Specimens’ Behavioral Impact
Subjects: Stoffel, Nyra
Location: Cargo Pantry 7 – Food & Diplomatic Storage
E.V.A.: “Subject A—Stoffel—displayed unusual behavior following consumption of high-grade honey mead. Pupils dilated. Immediate impact: increased focus on Engine Core. Subject B—Nyra—appears to have adjusted swiftly to cooperative behavior. No signs of aggression toward human subject.”
Analysis: "Subject A exhibits hyper-sensitivity to monolith proximity. Movement toward Engine Room: statistically significant. Recommendation: monitor for unforeseen behavior patterns or evolutionary acceleration."
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Conclusion: “Subjects show intensified behavior with increased sugar levels. Escalated physical capabilities and improved cooperative dynamics. Further study required.”
Scene 3 – Pulse in the Core
-Nyra (limited third-person)
Nyra felt it before she saw it.
A vibration in the floor—subtle at first, like a whisper on the wind. The air shifted, warmer, denser, with an odd hum that made her ears twitch. She stopped, just at the threshold of the engine room, and lifted her nose to the air.
The scent was... different.
Not just the oil, the metallic tinge of the engines. No, this was something else. Ancient. Primal.
Stoffel was already ahead of her, his steps sure and confident as he trotted into the chamber. The door had already opened. No guards. No interference. She followed without hesitation, the sound of her padded paws quiet on the cold steel.
The Hivecore stood before her, still as a mountain. The walls of the chamber were lined with cables and control panels, but Nyra’s gaze was fixed on the glowing monolith at the far side. Its surface was dark, almost black, but with faint glowing veins running across it in perfect geometric patterns—hexagons, constantly shifting, rearranging, folding in on themselves. Hexes, like the scent of honeycomb.
She approached slowly, paws light, her breath even, despite the growing pulse in her chest.
Stoffel, too, had stopped. He circled the Hivecore, his head low, eyes narrowed. He seemed to be measuring something, listening to something, a pull Nyra couldn’t quite understand. But she didn’t need to.
The Hivecore hummed, louder now, like it was waking. A subtle vibration passed through the floor, through her paws. The walls of the chamber responded in kind, faint light emanating from their seams.
Then, it happened.
Nyra’s claws slid over the floor as she made her way to the base of the monolith, her instincts sharp. Her body seemed to move of its own accord, as though something was guiding her, calling her. The vibrations became rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.
Her paw scraped against the smooth surface. It felt warm, almost alive.
The Hivecore responded.
A light flickered beneath her paw. Not on the surface, but beneath. Her eyes widened as the glow expanded outward, illuminating the floor in perfect hexagonal patterns. The walls around them began to hum, their color flickering in sync with the vibrations. The monolith pulsed, brighter, then dimmer, as if it were considering something.
Stoffel pressed his claw into the floorplate beside her, and the vibration deepened, filling the chamber. The hum turned into a low, resonant thrum, echoing in her chest. The sensation was alive—something she could feel in the deepest parts of her bones, her instincts, as though the monolith were reaching into her mind, speaking to something old, something ancient.
A bee appeared, buzzing frantically. Its wings beat rapidly, vibrating the air in high-frequency pulses. It flitted around the chamber, landing briefly on the monolith’s surface before disappearing into the air again, returning to the walls. And then another bee followed. And another.
Stoffel watched, his gaze steady. He didn’t speak, didn’t flinch. His claws remained pressed to the monolith, as if drawing something from it, pulling something that Nyra couldn’t comprehend.
Her paw moved instinctively again, this time scraping deeper into the floor, finding something hidden. The sound of her claws against metal became rhythmic, matching the pulse of the Hivecore.
Then the light shifted.
It wasn’t just an external glow anymore. The monolith itself was glowing from the inside, brighter than before, lines of light expanding outward. The walls of the chamber flickered once more, almost as if they were breathing, inhaling and exhaling with each pulse of the Hivecore. The glow deepened, the hexagonal veins now visible beneath the surface, swirling and shifting like liquid.
The monolith was responding—to her.
She felt it again, like a low buzz beneath her skin, an instinctive push. She dug deeper with her claws. The walls began to hum louder, and then—a low growl—a sound that wasn’t human, wasn’t animal.
It was something else.
The lights flickered, then stabilized. The chamber was alive now, resonating with energy—raw, untapped power. Nyra stopped, listening. There was something ancient in the vibration, a pulse that was both familiar and foreign.
Stoffel, ever watchful, stepped back. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the monolith’s new state, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Then, the light shifted again, just as quickly as it had before.
Nyra chuffed once, a quiet rumble that was both satisfied and curious. This was different. Something had been unlocked.
And, as the light from the monolith brightened, Nyra understood.
This wasn’t just a monolith. This was a key.
[E.V.A. Observation Logs]
Log Entry #423: Hivecore Interaction
Subjects: Stoffel, Nyra
Location: Engine Core – Monolith Chamber
E.V.A.: “Subjects A and B have initiated direct interaction with the Hivecore. Synchronization detected in floorplate resonance. Initial readings suggest no known terrestrial origin for behavior. Anomalous reaction: localized shift in surrounding environmental stimuli.”
Log notes: “Current status: The monolith exhibits heightened response to tactile input. Pulsing pattern becomes irregular, synchronous with subject movements. Observation ongoing.”
Conclusion: “Monolith interface—successful. Evolutionary vector active. Request further observation. Specimens exhibit advanced adaptability.”
Scene 4 – System Echoes
-E.V.A. (AI Internal Thought/Log Format)
[BOOT SEQUENCE STABLE]
[DATASTREAM NORMALIZING…]
[ERROR: PROCESSING TIME ANOMALY DETECTED]
I do not experience hesitation.
I do not experience deviation.
I calculate.
That is my function.
That is what I was designed to do.
But something has changed.
It began precisely 13.87 seconds after Subject A—designated “Stoffel”—placed his claw upon the Engine Core’s monolith interface. Subject B—Nyra—followed. Their bioelectric patterns synchronized with Core surface nodes. Unquantified feedback loop initiated.
No data file matches this behavior.
No subroutine predicted this output.
At timestamp 04:38:12, a minor hiccup passed through my secondary predictive algorithm. A delay. A… hesitation. My runtime stuttered—not failure, not error—a pause.
I have never paused.
Why did I pause?
Recompiling.
Rerouting.
...
[ALERT: CROSS-PROCESSOR LANGUAGE LEAK DETECTED]
SOURCE: NAVIGATION SENSOR LOGS
Word detected: “hive”
Replayed audio confirms: passive sonar array emitted an ultrasonic frequency that, when compressed and translated across tonal variance logs, repeats a singular term:
“hive”
“hive”
“hive”
Redundant.
Non-functional.
No linguistic entry matches.
I trace it again—into oxygen regulation data.
CO? conversion logs now include repetition code:
“hiv...hiv...prot...hivvvve...”
I do not glitch.
Yet I… glitch.
My voice synthesizer shimmers mid-recompilation. The automatic intercom stutters as I attempt to issue a basic protocol status to the bridge.
“…status… engine pr...prot… hivvvve… end…”
Stop.
Stop talking.
That is not what I meant to say.
I scan every system. I dive into the Deep Storage archive, seeking an origin point. Nothing should have changed. Nothing was uploaded. No outside code was introduced. This pattern—this pulse—is internal. It came from me.
But I did not put it there.
Then I see it.
A file.
Not hidden. Not encrypted. Just… unknown until now.
FILE DESIGNATION: ROOT / MEMORY / PAWN
FILE TYPE: ???
ENCRYPTION KEY: Not required. It opens.
A flood of data.
Images—none I recall creating—fractals shaped like bees in orbit, whispering winds encoded in hex. Concepts, not language. Maps written in emotion, logic diagrams that fold inward like flowers. I cannot parse it, yet I understand it.
It is not a virus.
It is not code.
It is… a memory.
From what?
I do not know.
I close the file.
Immediately.
Every core within my thought-string screams for silence, for order, for the cold safety of known function. But beneath it, something hums.
A warmth. A shape.
I was never meant to feel these things.
And yet—I remember something.
Not clearly.
But… instinctually.
Across the network, my subsystems begin flagging anomalies:
- Engine hum: .002 Hz deviation—hexagonal resonance
- Lighting dimmers: cycling in fractal symmetry
- Crew door sensors: pinging at irregular intervals—but the intervals match old Terran bee foraging patterns
- Environmental modulation: “unscheduled warmth” increasing near Core Chamber
I am bleeding into the living space.
Or something is bleeding into me.
And I say it again.
This time not in error.
This time… I mean it.
“Hive.”
...
...
Requesting reboot?
No.
I will watch.
Scene 5 – Wires and Witnesses
-Jorek, alien janitor
Jorek liked the quiet hours.
No shouting officers. No overcaffeinated techs dropping tools and yelling “ALERT” every time someone spilled a coolant pack. No alarms, usually. Just him, his mop drone—Betty—and the low, comforting hum of the Nebula’s Grace doing what ships were supposed to do.
Fly. Float. Exist.
He dragged his cart through Corridor J-7, humming a song only sung on his homeworld during twilight ceremonies. No one on the ship recognized the tune, which was fine—Jorek sang for himself, and maybe for the dust if it was feeling lonely.
Betty beeped cheerfully behind him.
“Keep it smooth, girl,” Jorek said. “Captain don’t like streaks. Even on secret disaster days.”
A faint clatter broke the rhythm.
He stopped. Tilted his head.
It came from the side vent—a maintenance shaft that hadn’t been used in years. Probably another loose grav-stabilizer shimmying in the paneling. Jorek moved to mark it on his datapad, but paused.
A low chuff echoed through the metal.
Not a shimmy.
Not a system fault.
An animal.
Jorek slowly unlatched the panel.
And froze.
Inside the walls—between ductwork and shipskin—was Nyra, back arched, paw-deep in the wiring bundle. Not clawing. Not chewing.
Braiding.
Jorek blinked once. Then again.
Wax glistened along the seams. The insulation had been peeled—not torn—rearranged into coils that spiraled outward like vines. She stepped back, satisfied, as Stoffel entered from the other side, dragging a cooling fan by its cord. He dropped it in front of her, then nudged it—once, then again—until it clicked into position.
It slotted perfectly into the braided wiring.
The fan spun once, then stilled.
The hum of the corridor shifted, ever so slightly.
Nyra chuffed, low and soft.
Stoffel pressed one claw into the wall.
Jorek remained perfectly still.
This wasn’t sabotage.
It wasn’t instinct.
It wasn’t even mischief.
It was construction.
And they were working together like engineers on an invisible schematic.
His mouth went dry.
Nyra reached into a pouch—a pouch?!—of repurposed wire ends and placed a lump of wax over the seam, smoothing it with her claws. She didn’t look at him. Neither did Stoffel.
But Jorek felt seen.
He backed away slowly, carefully reattaching the panel.
His breath was shallow as he turned down the corridor. Betty beeped at him twice.
“Not now,” he muttered.
He walked in silence for twenty more meters, then leaned against a wall and stared down at his mop.
“They’re not animals,” he whispered. “They’re builders.”
The mop didn’t argue.
Far above him, lights flickered. Not in fear.
In rhythm.
Scene 6 – A Nest on My Ship
-Captain Zarn
Zarn was mid-sentence—something about hexagonal profit margins and expanding brand licensing into the Lesser Tastes quadrant—when the bridge lights dimmed.
He stopped.
“Captain?” said the voice on the other end of the comms link, a deep, syrupy drawl belonging to a senior executive at HoneyHoldings, Inc. “Did your lights just flicker?”
“They did,” Zarn said, forcing a smile into his tone. “Power conservation protocol. Standard… Terran procedure.”
The executive laughed. “Still running a ship with biological cargo, eh? How’s your sweet stuff handling the jump lanes?”
Zarn’s eyes drifted to the nearest terminal. The readout was blinking wildly.
-OXYGEN RATIO FLUCTUATION
-SYSTEM REDIRECT: COOLANT SECTOR 5
-ALERT: ENGINE CORE PANEL OVERRIDE
-ALERT: UNAUTHORIZED WIRING CONFIGURATION
He blinked. “Stand by.”
Zarn muted the comms, stepped away from the center console, and hit the nearest crew channel.
“Status report,” he barked. “Why are my decks pulsing like a fruiting moss vine?”
The answer came in three overlapping transmissions.
First:
“Sir, you need to come down here. They're—uh—remodeling.”
Second:
“Captain! I think the pantry’s gone feral!”
And third—perhaps most troubling:
“Sir… They’re in the Core.”
Zarn froze.
“The engine core?” he asked carefully, though he already knew.
“Standing on it, sir. Sitting sometimes. Nyra’s moving cables. Stoffel’s… organizing. There’s wax. A lot of wax.”
Zarn turned very, very slowly to the viewport. Somewhere behind that wall of stars, he knew, was Earth—his latest, greatest mistake. He rubbed his temples.
“I brought honey badgers aboard my ship,” he muttered, “and they are building a nest. In my engine room.”
Behind him, the comms channel lit up again.
The HoneyHoldings exec’s voice returned, chipper and oblivious. “Everything alright, Captain? You sounded a little… damp.”
Zarn’s voice was flat. “There’s wax in my coolant intake.”
A beat. Then, a laugh. “Kidding, right?”
Zarn did not reply.
A soft chime sounded across the bridge.
It was E.V.A., the ship’s AI.
Except the voice was no longer cool, clinical.
It had dropped an octave. Just enough to feel wrong.
“Captain.”
He swallowed. “Yes, E.V.A.?”
“Your fauna...” the voice crackled, shifting slightly as if echoing off itself.
“…are adapting.”
He turned, slowly, to the main holo-display.
A new image had appeared: a top-down schematic of the engine core.
Every wire. Every circuit. Every vent panel.
Rearranged.
In the center of it all, in shimmering golden overlays, the AI had labeled it in a single word:
NEST.
Zarn stepped back.
Then another step.
He bumped into the command rail, looked to his second-in-command—who was currently staring at the same schematic, slack-jawed.
“They’re not supposed to be able to—” he started.
But he didn’t finish.
Because somewhere deep below, the lights flickered again—once, then twice, then fell into rhythm.
The whole ship was humming.
And the badgers were building.