The Sting of the Bee

by K E Lanning

  John cleared his throat. His fingers tapped the rail, then he blurted out, “My wife was killed in a carjacking last year.”

  Lowry’s mouth dropped open. “My god!”

  His throat tightened, choking his words. “After the Melt, the crime rate in Pittsburgh skyrocketed. One night, on her drive home from work, a fake detour in the road led her to a trap. Then the gang pulled her from the car and shot her. They drove away, leaving her to die in the street.” Dizzy, he closed his eyes, struggling to regain his composure. “My wife and I had planned to buy a farm in the country and take Ginnie away from the violence. But we waited too long—and now it’s just my daughter and I.”

  Lowry’s hand slid over his. “I’m so very sorry, John.” Her fingers trembled as she squeezed his hand. “The human beast can be cruel.” Her voice became taut. “But I don’t understand how violence seems to have become a way of life.”

  John sighed, murmuring, “It’s been especially hard on Ginnie.”

  Lowry squeezed his hand. “Yes”—exhaling—“like your heart was ripped out of you.”

  Turning his hand under hers, they held hands silently, two humans bonding at a juxtaposition of losses. What heartbreak was Lowry remembering?

  His breath slowed and for the first time since Helen’s death, he felt the lifting of his sorrow. Odd that this stranger could have such an effect on him.

  The shushing sound of the vessel cutting through the water filled the quiet between them, and his heart calmed with the warmth of her hand.

  Then Lowry flinched, her eyes directed at the deck below.

  “What is it?” he asked, turning toward her.

  “Please, lower your voice,” she whispered from the side of her mouth. “See those three men down there?”

  He squinted in the darkness below, discerning three figures huddled in a circle on the main deck below. As a door opened beside them, the light cast over the group. One of them resembled Buck, the miscreant who tried to hustle him at the Land Rush conference, and the other looked like his partner, the lean man with the trimmed beard.

  With a jerk, she withdrew her hand and glanced at John. “Sorry, I can’t explain now. I’d better go.”

  His hand felt cold as she turned to leave, and he touched her arm, saying softly, “Why don’t you stop by our cabin for a nightcap?”

  With pinched eyebrows, she looked at him, and then smiled. “All right, but not for long.”

  They walked in silence to his cabin. John opened the door and waved her in.

  Lowry navigated around the boxes on the floor.

  John clapped his hands together. “What can I get you to drink? I have beer and a bottle of wine.”

  “I’ll take some wine, if it’s open.”

  “Please, make yourself at home.” John knelt, opened the tiny fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine.

  Lowry squeezed into the sliver of space on the couch between suitcases.

  He handed her a glass of wine. “I guess it would help if I moved this junk.” He lifted the suitcases off the couch and cleared a spot. “Now, you can be comfortable.”

  She peeked into an open box near the sofa. “You collect art?”

  John shrugged. “Uh, yes, I do.”

  Leaning over, Lowry perused the small sculptures in the box, and then glanced up at him, tilting her head with a smile. “Tell me about them.”

  He picked up one of the sculptures and held the carved form up to the light, caressing it with his hand. “The color and form of an abstract piece can evoke emotion or an idea.”

  Lowry asked, “What is that material? In the light, it almost glows.”

  “It was carved from a book of mica, and fairly fragile, which is why I’ve kept it with us and not packed in our crate in the hold.” He set the mica sculpture back into the box and picked up a jade Buddha encased in a cage. His voice softened as he rotating the sculpture in the light. “Some art is a call for justice or truth.”

  “These are wonderful, John. I’m quite impressed!” She prodded an open trunk beside her with her shoe. “You’re shipping bound books?”

  He nodded. “Yes, a few of the old classics; they’re like gold to me. The rest of my library is there.” He pointed to a small tablet on the desk.

  “Someone who surrounds themselves with interesting things is usually an interesting person.”

  “I like things around me which provoke thought.” He carefully placed the sculptures back into the box and sat in the chair facing her. John cleared his throat and asked the question on the tip of his tongue. “What was going on with those men on the deck?”

  Lowry looked at him, with a raised eyebrow. “Next question.”

  Evasive answer. Maybe she’s a spy? Then with a shrug, he asked, “Okay, onto question two.” John leaned forward. “You lived on Antarctica; you may know a great deal about the area to be opened for homesteading. Can you give me the inside scoop?”

  A smile darted over her face. “You know that info is worth gold. Only certain tracts have surface water.”

  “I do know. If you have information, perhaps I could work out something to make it worth your while.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Let me think about it,” she said with an enigmatic smile.

  “Hey, Dad.” Ginnie stuck her head out from behind the partition between her bed and the main cabin area.

  John stood. “What are you doing up? I thought you were asleep. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

  “No, I was listening to music.” She strolled into the room and smiled at Lowry. “Hi.”

  John put his arm around her and introduced her to Lowry. “This is my daughter, Ginnie. Ginnie, this is Lowry Walker—she lived on Antarctica as a kid. Now she’s doing the Land Rush.”

  Lowry shook her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ginnie. Are you excited at the prospect of settling on Antarctica?”

  Ginnie nodded. “There’s a lot I’ll miss in the States, but what other kid could say they homesteaded on Antarctica?”

  Lowry laughed. “You remind me of me.” She wagged a finger at Ginnie. “Say, I need to check the horses before I turn in. How would you two like to see the mares?”

  Ginnie’s eyes lit up. “I’d love to!”

  John raised his eyebrows. “Horses?”

  “The UN sponsors different breeding programs for animals to inhabit the new continent. Arabian horses from the desert adapt very well to the climate of Antarctica, and over the last several months, I’ve been buying broodmares.”

  They left the cabin and started down the narrow corridor.

  With a puzzled look, Ginnie asked, “What about the stallions?”

  Lowry said, “Stallions are a lot easier to transport since all we need is their sperm.”

  John cocked his head toward Lowry, and with a twinkle in his eye, whispered, “If I’d known that, I would have mailed myself to Antarctica.”

  Lowry smirked. “Perhaps I failed to mention we want only superior bloodlines.”

  Flinching, he grabbed his heart dramatically. “Ouch—that hurt.”

  ***

  The thrum of the engines met them as they walked down the steps to the lower deck. Lowry led the way through the crates and vehicles tightly packed into the cargo area. A dog barked as they approached the stalls.

  “It’s okay, Sparky, it’s me, boy,” Lowry called out.

  Ginnie knelt, smiling at the furry face. “Can I pet him?”

  “Sure. He gets lonely down here. Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I sneak him into my cabin for the night.”

  John knelt and stroked the dog’s thick fur. “What breed is he?”

  “He’s mostly Norwegian Elkhound and some other distinguished breed apparently known for jumping fences.” Lowry patted his shaggy head. “He was born on Antarctica. I got him after graduate school. He’s a good boy.”

  The mares nickered as Lowry reached into a box and pulled out several dried horse treats. She gave a few to Ginnie and gestured to a white mare looking expectan
tly toward them. “This mare’s name is Hadeel. Hold the treat on the flat of your hand, so they don’t accidentally catch your finger with their teeth.”

  Ginnie smiled as the mare nibbled the treat from her palm. “She’s so sweet!” She pointed to the mare in the stall next to Hadeel. “Isn’t that mare kind of fat?”

  With a smile, Lowry shook her head. “No, she’s pregnant. She’s the only one we purchased who was, but I really liked the stallion she was bred to, so it was an opportunity to bring those lines to Antarctica.” With eyebrows raised, Lowry tilted her head toward John. “As I mentioned to your dad, we only choose animals with good bloodlines and dispositions.”

  Chuckling, John snapped his fingers. “Damn. My mother always said that my Danish and Puerto Rican ancestry meant that I was a product of hybrid vigor.”

  Ginnie grinned. “A mutt by any other name . . . ”

  He stuck his tongue out at her. “Back ’atcha, daughter.”

  “Mutts are preferred in dogs—and men.”

  Lowry picked up a couple of grooming brushes, handed one to Ginnie, and then showed her how to brush the horse. “Have you ever been around horses?”

  Ginnie brushed Hadeel’s white coat. “No, we lived in the city, but Mom had promised we’d buy a horse if we moved to a farm.”

  John felt Lowry glance at him, but he concentrated on scratching Hadeel’s back.

  Lowry combed the mare’s mane. “When I moved to Antarctica as a kid, we bought a farm and the horses from an old man. He told us that when the mine was first opened, he trained the horses to search for victims in permafrost areas. Horses can sense the footing under them and get rescuers in and out safely. And in many rough areas, horses are the only means of travel.”

  Lowry gave Hadeel a final pat and they moved to the other stalls. She untangled the mares’ forelocks while Ginnie fed them treats. One of the mares lay down, and Lowry smiled. “They’re telling us it’s time for bed.” She threw a bone to Sparky.

  John said, “While we’re in the cargo hold, I’m going to check on our buggy. I heard someone’s tires got slashed last night.”

  With a nod, Lowry said, “I’m afraid the UN hadn’t counted on the fierceness of the competition. People are calling it the ‘Mad Max’ Land Rush.”

  When they returned to the cabin, John hugged Ginnie. “You’d better get to bed, Sweetie.”

  She turned to Lowry. “Code for ‘go away.’ It was nice meeting you.”

  Lowry grinned. “Likewise.”

  Ginnie pointed to an old brass mantel clock sitting on the bar. “Don’t forget to wind the clock, Dad.”

  “Yeah, I forgot earlier.”

  With a yawn, Ginnie walked behind the screened-off section and went to bed.

  John passed Lowry in the small confines of the cabin and caught a whiff of her scent. He motioned toward the small couch. “Please sit.” With a smile, he wound the clock. “It’s an old Danish clock passed down through my mother’s side.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  The clock tick-tocked behind him as he sat facing Lowry. He cleared his parched throat and made a grab for his unfinished glass of wine sitting on a box.

  Lowry turned toward him. “You mentioned some kind of trade for information. I do need help with something, but you must promise to keep it confidential, whether you decide to help me or not.”

  John blinked at her serious look, wondering what bomb was getting ready to drop. They’d only known each other a few hours, yet she seemed to trust him. “Of course, you have my word on it.” He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass as she studied him without expression.

  She exhaled, then said quietly, “My Uncle Nick, who’s been working as a geologist on Antarctica since the Melt, discovered a scam connected to the Land Rush. He asked me to try and find out who was involved.”

  Lowry leaned in, her perfume and proximity making it hard for him to think clearly. “He believes they may be on this ship. With the Land Rush coming up, it appears there’s a group recruiting sham homesteaders to make claims on key parcels, then sell the land back to them, for a nominal amount. Every lead winds up a dead end. But those three men on the deck? We think they’re involved.”

  She sat back, drumming her fingers on the arm of the couch. “John, this is serious business. We believe they are funded by a multinational corporation, perhaps a shell—for Russian interests.”

  Staring at Lowry, John sat back and crossed his arms, swallowing hard as warning sirens screamed in his head. All I wanted was to go on a date, not be thrown overboard by thugs . . . or the Russian mafia.

  Lowry pressed her point. “Less-than-savory persons in Russia were not pleased when the UN set up the Land Rush. The publicity of the race effectively blocked their plans to sneak into Antarctica behind the world’s back. Rumor has it that they staged the fights on the dock as a poke in the UN’s eye. But even if that’s true, no one could have anticipated the resulting stampede. It was pure luck no one was killed.”

  She shook her head. “We’re talking a mega-Monopoly game here. If this group controls the best land and transportation routes, it will skew the entire future of Antarctica in their favor and lay down a welcome mat for the oligarchy in Russia. We’re trying to gather evidence to expose this group and break their influence. We know there’s an Antarctic connection, because someone is giving them insider information on the best tracts and where the critical routes will be.”

  She fell silent. He stared at the floor, struggling to digest her words.

  John looked at her with a furrowed brow. “Why is Russia the only player? What about the States and China in the great domination of Antarctica?”

  “China is wrapped in territorial disputes with Japan and India because of human migrations away from the flooded lowlands.” Lowry shrugged. “And Amerada? They’re busy ‘managing’ the merger between the America and Canada—homesteading the northern regions and screwing the indigenous populations.

  “Russia has a huge stake in Antarctica—it would give them a foothold in the southern hemisphere. The Russian mafia is their tool to get their fingers into Antarctica, and if they win, we are doomed.”

  She pointed at him with her finger. “We must stop the scam and the Russian interference. And we can make the case that the time is right for us to vote in our own government. The provisional, appointed government is corrupt—we have to clean house, and set Antarctica on a path to democracy.”

  John exhaled, sweeping his hand through his hair. Lowry seems like a modern Joan of Arc and that didn’t end well. “Dare I ask how I can be of help to you?”

  “We need someone to pose as one of the speculators to get the names of the principal people involved. We believe they’re coaching the groups on board this ship. We need a video of one of their meetings—with the kingpins—to prove who the backers are. With that, we should have enough evidence to start an investigation. The UN can’t help us if there’s no concrete evidence against these ‘buddies’ of the Kremlin.”

  John shifted in his chair. Another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, he thought, referring to a part of his anatomy that rarely got out these days.

  “Why me?” he said, more irritated with himself than with her.

  “Because they don’t know you, and I’ve tried to find someone who could do this for weeks!”

  He clenched his jaw. And now she had a sucker on the line.

  “I can get you all the information I have on the homesteading parcels. Uncle Nick and I have been working with the UN mapping Antarctic geology and aquifers. I know the best areas; the ones with water and good soil.”

  With his mouth pinched, John glared at the caged Buddha mocking him from the open trunk.

  Lowry stood and walked toward the door, pausing with a glance back at John. “This is a lot to dump on you. But time is tight—let me know by the end of tomorrow.”

  After Lowry left, John got up and wandered around the room, thinking on what she’d offered. He stopped in front of his
tablet and saw Ginnie’s lesson for the day still on the screen.

  “Must the citizen ever for a moment, or in the least degree, resign his conscience to the legislator? Why has every man a conscience, then? I think that we should be men first, and subjects afterward. Let your life be a counter-friction to stop the machine. What I have to do is to see, at any rate, that I do not lend myself to the wrong which I condemn.”

  John pondered Thoreau’s words as he prepared for bed. He thought about conscience, that moral issue of right or wrong. Should he sacrifice his life, and possibly the life of his daughter, for the future of Antarctica? For the greater good of humanity?

  In his preparation for this trip, he’d read many of the reports written in the 1800s, which had warned of the tragedies of overpopulation and lack of fair water-rights legislation that became a problem in the American West.

  The land promoters and railroad barons during the opening of the West had distorted the entire history of the States, and history might repeat itself on Antarctica. The same catalysts were in place and, if the authorities allowed it to happen, the land speculators and transporters would control Antarctica for decades, perhaps even centuries to come.

  Stir into the mix the Russian mafia and a corrupt government. Without a counterforce, a disaster could unfold before their eyes. John was a private man, but he believed in public service; that brand of community aid where those who could help others, should. With a sigh, he crawled onto the couch. He was the type of person who stood by his beliefs. Now he was being called to serve, with no choice but to try and stop the speculators from corrupting Antarctica.

  He jerked the blanket over him and gazed at the ceiling. Unable to sleep, his mind whirled. What if Lowry was wrong and all this was just a con-artist swindle that would ultimately fall apart? Or worse: if she was right, they could all be shark bait before they reached Antarctica.

  He flipped onto his side and punched the pillow into a ball. In the dim light of the cabin, he saw Lowry’s wine glass sitting in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he glared at the impression of her lips on the rim. If only I hadn’t met Lowry.