After the buoyant vault of space, these tunnels and cramped corridors weighed heavily on her, their air clotted and musky. Around her surged the endless parade of working podia, bound on their relentless missions, clattering and banging against one another in their haste. Lesser beings of russet scabrous shells scampered underfoot, bound on their menial tasks. They had been hatched in the bodies of native animals, to save the Hive’s resources. Genetically programmed, they worked with fanatic purpose, as though they knew their own short lifespans. Quath, though, went slowly. The presence inside her throbbed. The Nought kicked and fought, its puny jabs an irritant impossible to ignore. Her ceramic sensors saw it as a burning tangle of infrared deep in her guts. But it was not this small nettling that bothered Quath. She knew what lay ahead of her, and so dawdled, picking at her cilia as though grooming herself. Some tiny hatchlings approached and Quath let them police her carapace.
