Does it count as banishment when, although you are far from your kin and hive and were sent there by the command of your very queen, you have a purpose to being so separate and alone? I feel it does, but I have no say in my fate and no chance to voice my opinions. I am a drone, a servant, and though I see more than I should in many matters and situations, there is rarely anything I can do about what I see. Such as, for example, this one.

I have been banished to that place the little mage calls Star City, to stay and watch, explore, and learn. She, my brother, or my queen would be in danger, if they did what I do: they came here before and caused trouble. I, however, am safe, for no one yet knows that I am with them. For a drone, I have been told that I am clever; all I know is that am wise enough to guard my words and actions. Like most creatures, I have no wish to be killed; unlike most of my kind, I have no desire to cause trouble that I must suppress.

::Stay here, Bristaness, my loyal one,:: my queen told me before she, the little mage, and my brother departed in their small ship, racing away from the station before they were caught by local security. ::Watch and wait. Gather allies, if you can. We will return for you!::

It has been months, now. Perhaps a year. I have no way to count the time-- as I have not bothered to learn the time-reckoning system of this place, and there is no sunrise or sunset to count by-- and no great desire to put a hard, cold number on my days, anyway. It is a good thing that I have little desire for food, for there are few places I can steal it without notice or care. It is even a better thing that I am small and hide well: so far, I have only been discovered when I wish it, and only by those I thought might be friendly towards me if I offered them no threat. I have no friends, but a drone needs no friends but his queen, or so I am told. I am working on allies, which is more important, for my queen has told me to do so, but I fear there will not be much I can do. After all, few have any desire to cross the lawmakers of this drifting, star-bound nest of meat, and fewer still are willing to do so for the snippet of a boy the little mage wants, or for the purpose of culling, which my queen desires. To be honest, I do not blame them.

It is perhaps the best thing of all that I am not like most of my kind. Were my brother-- who is valiant, quick-thinking, sharp-voiced, and violent-- left here charged with my task, would not be able to resist bringing death for a feast, or just a bath in blood. He would find any other of our kind and, if he could not win them to the support of our queen, he would kill them, probably noisily and certainly messily. Unless, of course, his victim killed him, first; my brother, though powerful, is hardly invincible.

I, however, have little taste for such sport, and I am quite content with my own small territory beneath the lowest, most open level of the station: the flying deck, I have heard it called. I have caused no trouble, and drawn no attention to myself except when I sought it out. I am not the only one prowling the station, nor am I even the only one of my own kind, but I stay clear of territories marked by others, except to greet and speak with them, if they are inclined to speak, in answer. Some have been; others have not been.

To my own surprise, I have been rebuffed by one or two of my fellows simply for following the orders of a queen, no matter what those orders might be. Apparently living alone has strengthened their independence. I can understand, to a point, but I cannot turn my back on my queen, particularly not now that she is being subverted by that small magic-wielder. The rule of a queen is all I have.

To be honest, though, rule or a queen or no, prowling the station with no purpose or plan is rather dull, and it is very lonely. However, it is not my place to complain. Please, pretend that I did not just do so.

Boredom does lead me to find more places to explore. Today, I climb to the second deck from the top to crawl through the walls of the hatching bays. I have avoided this place often previously, wary of the many protective mothers and fathers-- and, in the case of a couple, uncles or friends-- who stand guard over their eggs. There is no danger from me, no matter what they might think, but I expect they would not think to ask me my intentions before they attack. Not wishing to have to defend myself, then, I have not come here.

Today, however, there are few other places I have not been to a thousand times, and boredom makes me bold. The ventilation system is a tight fit, but I manage to slither around inside without making too much noise, and I can peer down from above to see what is inside.

The bays themselves are massive, with room for several large dragons in addition to the clutch itself. The floor is covered not with whorls of resin, shaped to cup eggs, as it would be in a hatching chamber of my kind, but rather softened with some kind of artificial plant. The loops and twists of fuzzy, fabric-like material echoes through with wiring and tubing: heat ducts, I realize, focusing down on them from above the first bay. It ends at a set of tiers, sculpted and worn into seats of a comfortable size for human hind ends. The walls are thin between the bays, with no room for me to climb down through them; I crawl above them, instead.

I have heard some things about the parents and offspring to come from these bays. The first bay holds a golden dragoness of strange temperament and even stranger companions: one dark, one bright, with the clutch-mother strung between them and irritably brooding over her eleven eggs. These are foreigners, the Blood Court clutch from a place called Vella Crean, and the mother wishes she could be anywhere but here. My sympathies go with her; I wish the same.

The second bay holds a mother and a father, one curled to either side of their ten eggs, nose over tail or tail over nose. They both doze peacefully; perhaps it is this stations equivalent of night, just now, making it even more safe for me to prowl, as the parents are likely to be asleep. Furry, each, and feathered-- ah, this must be the Avengaean clutch, each parent with half their heritage from the strange world of Avengaea, and half from some other place, different each.

The next bay seems more of the same. A furry father, far smaller than his erstwhile mate, and an equally furry mother. She does not seem like an Avengaean; I have, in my time here, learned about more dragons than I thought existed, and Avengaeans are among those. Perhaps she is some other species. She only protects eight eggs, to the previous clutch's ten. I move on again.

The fourth bay gives me pause. The mother is strange to me: she has the strength of mind and quick violence of my own kind, but her thoughts, even in sleep, are disturbingly different. She has, I finally discern, four separate heads. I am reminded forcefully of the two-headed "abomination" my queen tried to cull, but there is nothing cull-worthy in this creature, even if I agreed with the practice itself. She is, I decide, beautiful as well as dangerous. Her clutch is the largest yet: sixteen, all counted. I am impressed.

In the final bay, I sense a waking presence-- and the minds of so many awake, alive infants, still in their shell, who see my mind approaching and scream at me to leave. Never before have I been called such terrible things as those trapped, unhatched children call me, and I make great haste to withdraw, before their wakeful guardian can come chase me away, himself.

So these are the hatching bays. I pass over them again, crawling backwards through the ventilation. Perhaps I shall come here again... particularly that impressive clutch with the even more impressive abomination for a mother. I know how hatchings work, after all my time here, watching and listening. Maybe there, at the hatching of that four-headed creature's clutch, I can find allies who dislike the mixing of our species' blood as much as my queen does. Surely if the youngling's blood has nothing of ours in it, she will not take offense, and such a child would certainly be strong, like its mother. Yes, perhaps there would be an ally for my queen there, one which would not chase me away at the thought or scoff at my loyalty.

Or at least, if such things are possible for a servant such as myself, perhaps I might find a friend.

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