The Sting of the Bee

by K E Lanning

  Gingerly, John slipped on his jacket and sauntered to the beer keg to refill his cup. Someone had placed a makeshift memorial next to the drink stand. With a sigh, he perused the images of the dead, wishing peace to all those who had not survived the ordeal. Memorials had been held earlier that afternoon, marking this day one of sadness as well as joy.

  Five people had perished during the Rush. A couple and their two-year-old boy had been lost in a deep permafrost sinkhole. Eyewitnesses said they simply disappeared from sight, dropping into a yawning cavern under their vehicle. When rescuers reached them, they found the broken bodies of the man, woman, and the little boy, still in his mother’s arms. The husband and wife were only in their twenties. One rescuer had broken down sobbing at the sight of the traces the husband had left in the dust, crawling to his wife. And the women who had been roasted alive—John shuddered at the memory of the woman’s face melting on the window.

  A cool breeze slithered through the valley and he draped a blanket over Ginnie’s shoulders, and with a groan, sat on the ground. John gazed at the scarlet tinted ridges above them, and breathed in the fresh, crisp air. He raised his cup in a toast to the rising moon and took a sip. John Barrous: now a homesteader on the continent of Antarctica. Despite his pain or perhaps because of it, he felt truly alive. All his adult life, he had been a corporate stooge, trapped in an office without clean air to breath or the touch of the sun on his face.

  John turned as Nick’s voice called him to the front of the crowd. With a wave to Nick, he staggered up and threaded his way through the celebratory bonfires built from discarded shipping crates. John looked for Lowry, but she was nowhere to be seen. Understandable with the grief of losing her favorite horse.

  Nick glanced at the bandages on his hands, grabbed John in a wristlock and pulled him up onto one of the open jeeps. He clapped him on the back. “Thanks, my boy, for saving Lowry today. I’ll never forget it.”

  Shrugging, John looked away with a smile. “I did what anyone would have done.”

  With a grimace, Nick snorted. “You must have a higher opinion of ‘anyone’ than I do.” He squeezed John’s shoulder. “A man’s actions say more than his words.”

  Nick turned to the crowd. “Fellow Antarcticans.” He held his hand up to the raucous group. With aid from the less intoxicated settlers hushing the drunks, he finally silenced the boisterous homesteaders.

  With a raised glass, Nick smiled to the gathering. “Fellow Antarcticans, welcome to the land of milk and honey, where insects abound and only goats can survive.” After the laughter quieted, he continued in a more serious tone, holding his hand out to the crowd. “We also pray for those who lost their lives today—not lost in vain, but in a glorious quest.” Murmurs of condolences sprang from the assembled settlers.

  Nick gazed across the crowd, his arms spread. “The Great Antarctic Land Rush will go down as one of the greatest events in the history of the world—humans once again colonizing a New World.” He pointed a finger into the air and shouted, “In Antarctica, this day will be celebrated every year as the anniversary day of her first immigrants.”

  A roar from the crowd rang out in the night air. Celebrating their triumph, new friends bonded with handshakes and hugs, amid the confetti of hats, plates, and various articles of clothing flying through the air.

  As the melee calmed, Nick turned his glass toward John, and spoke, “Though there were many heroic and some not so heroic acts today”—laughter sprinkled from the group, and Nick grinned—“I want to propose a toast to one of the heroes of the day, John Barrous, who saved my niece, Lowry Walker.”

  Whistles, yells and claps rose from the crowd.

  “Speech, speech!” someone yelled, and the chant started amongst the more inebriated ones.

  Nick gestured for John to address the crowd. John scanned the tired, but relaxed faces—faces that, earlier in the day, had been tense and furtive, but now were alight with hope and joy. Men clapped each other on the back and laughing women danced with their children in their arms. The homesteaders had won the right to be masters of their own fate, with a community forming to colonize this new land.

  Proudly, these new landowners held their heads high, gazing up at John with mutual respect as they waited for him to speak. He bit the inside of his lip; it had been a long time since he had felt like a man. Energy surged into his exhausted body—as if all the trials in his life had meaning—a gauntlet to push him toward this destiny.

  John breathed in the pure air, exhaling with a smile, and the tension in his throat fell away like the collar of his past. His words rolled from his lips. “We have won our land and this new life, denying the chains of the modern world, not out of fear, but out of choice. For many of us, our ancestors were the ones who opened the American West. They broke the land and sometimes the land broke them, but they kept coming, counting the graves as they went by, driven by that which drives us all—freedom.”

  Amid the sounds of the crackling fires, he spread out his arms as the rapt crowd edged forward. The faces before him were lit as brightly by the fires of passion as by the lanterns and bonfires.

  “As we work the earth, we will begin to move with the rhythm of this place, and she will fold us into her breast. We will become one with this new land. We will become Antarcticans. Our children, our grandchildren, will know this continent as their home. Let’s treat her with respect and care, for we are the shepherds of this New World.”

  As the crowd cheered, Nick placed his hand on John’s shoulder, and whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Great job, son.”

  Then, with a broad smile, Nick raised his glass to the crowd. “Let the adventure begin!”

  < >

  Part II

  O’ Antarctica in a post-Melt world—a new beginning for the children of Man—or the final act of treachery?

  CHAPTER 13

  Flickering rays of sunlight streamed through the clear dome of the tent, teasing John awake. Half-sleep, he squinted at the pale sky, trying to remember where he was. With a yawn, he opened his eyes wide and grinned; he was a bona-fide homesteader on Antarctica.

  John pushed himself into a sitting position with a groan. He massaged his head, now protesting last night’s celebration. Every inch of his body ached from the grueling Land Rush. Gingerly moving from top to bottom, he stretched his neck, and then rolled his shoulders, wondering if they would ever function quite the same way again. He gazed at his bruised and scabbed knuckles, hoping that his opponents woke up in at least as much pain.

  He shoved his hair back from his face, opened the medicine kit, and found a couple of ibuprofen. He popped them into his mouth, grabbed the water bottle and downed them. He flipped open the flap of the tent and waited for the medicine to kick in.

  The valley lay before him, dressed in sporadic Tussock grass and scrub pine. With a sigh, the wind roiled over the hills, caressing the native grasses along its way. John relaxed in the nothingness of the moment. He didn’t know why, but he connected more with the quiet sincerity of nature over the incessant noise of his own species.

  Ginnie mumbled in her sleep behind him. Turning with a grin, John watched her twist in the depths of the sleeping bag like a cat—perhaps dreaming of her victory over Buck—but she quieted into a deep sleep, and he didn’t want to wake her. She had busted ass yesterday, moving their containers from the warehouse and setting up the tent in the dark. Last night, the two of them had sat around the campfire, staring up at the heavens bright with stars.

  John crawled to the back of the tent and started the coffee brewing, dialing in “Extra Strong”—good for energy level, and perhaps a balm for his hangover. He pulled on a jacket and crawled through the flap. He stretched his arms to the blue crystalline sky, breathing in the fresh air of Antarctica.

  Last night, it had been too dark to truly appreciate their surroundings. This morning, John hiked down to the gurgling brook, lined with low brush, at the bottom of the valley. He shielded his eyes from the sun a
nd pivoted around imagining his land with trees and crops. He laughed in sheer delight. His land! Energized, he strode back to the tent to grab coffee.

  In the tent, John sat cross-legged, sipping the hot brew. He picked up the tablet and checked the building plans for the next day. Tomorrow, the house crew would arrive, and everything had to be ready. The homesteaders of this sector had drawn straws to see whose house would be raised first, and by the luck of the draw, he and Ginnie would be the first to get theirs built. All the neighbors helped raise each house, getting it weathered in and functional. Like the farmhouses of the Old West, they could weather the harsh climate of the land and were independent of any power or communication grid.

  He clicked on the architectural plan he had chosen and a 3D image of a utilitarian house formed above the tablet. Square in shape, it had exterior walls constructed of mega-insulating material to reduce heating needs in the brutal winters. The roof shimmered as he spun the image of the building with his finger. Environmentally, the design and function of the house was stunning. The architects and engineers had designed a self-sustaining building that didn’t mar the land but created a balance between humans and the terrain.

  The glass solar roof and windows provided all the power they needed during the sunlit part of the year, and also gathered power from raindrops during storms. With a voice command, sections of the roof became transparent, flooding the home with natural sunlight. Encased wind propellers built into the ridge lines provided for electricity needs during the dark time, and batteries maintained a constant power supply in between sources of renewable energy. The plumbing and septic system recycled their water, and the composting toilet created an inexhaustible supply of fertilizer.

  Maybe, at least on Antarctica, humans finally had the technology—and the will—to develop a symbiotic relationship with the Earth? A great experiment might be unfolding with the colonization of this virgin land.

  He sipped his coffee. Unless someone like Durant skewed the outcome.

  Tilting the image, he gazed at the interior courtyard designed for a garden area. He sliced through the interior views of the house. The only extravagance was the tongue-and-groove wooden plank flooring he had ordered. It had cost him an arm and a leg to have it shipped, but he wanted something to connect him to home.

  John knew by the holomaps approximately where the house would sit, tucked into the side of a hill, well-protected from the brunt of the storms, but he needed to mark out the exact location so they’d be ready for the house-raising crew tomorrow morning. He finished his coffee, put the tablet into his pocket and scooted out of the tent. In the brightening day, he walked to the site he and Ginnie had chosen and staked the four corners of the house with a GPS, and then sent the coordinates to the excavation crew scheduled to arrive this afternoon.

  John pulled a pair of binoculars from his jacket pocket and scanned the valley from the house site. Years ago, naturalists had begun a release program to develop a balanced ecosystem on the continent, but today, no land creatures were in sight. In the tussock grass near the stream, John heard the seet, seet, seet call of Blackpoll warblers hunting insects. As the sun warmed, he caught the scent of lichen and moss. The sound of honking drew his eyes upward to a flock of geese flying in a V-shape over the heart of the valley.

  He returned to the tent with a happy sigh. Ginnie sat on the sleeping bag, stretching her arms as he crawled in.

  He rustled through the food bag, scooped a handful of nuts, and shoveled them into his mouth. He fixed himself another cup of coffee while Ginnie gazed vacantly at him. With a raised eyebrow, he shot a glance at her. “Ready to go to Amundsen?”

  She murmured, “Breakfast first?”

  With a smile, he ruffled her hair. “You look like you need a bucket of coffee, too.” He filled a mug with a blend of coffee, hot cocoa, and powdered milk, and handed it to her. To energize her, John started a mock drum-roll on his knees.

  Ginnie narrowed her eyes at him, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “You’re way too chipper this morning—especially for someone who looks like they’d been run over by a train.” She dug a small mirror out of her backpack and handed it to him.

  He held up the mirror, staring at his face marred by scrapes and contusions, sporting a swollen left eye, now turning a lovely shade of blue. Chuckling, John shrugged. “War wounds—and don’t forget that I won.” Patting her leg, he said softly, “You’re the one who put the key in the stake. You’re my hero.”

  She stared at him over her mug of coffee and cocoa. “Dad, I love you very much.”

  He studied her face, now drawn and serious. Was she regretting her decision to come with him? Even he had not anticipated the level of violence of this venture, complicated by their involvement with Durant. He clenched his fist. Why did Lowry seem to be at the heart of his troubles?

  He said softly, “Ginnie, just say the word if you ever wish to return to the States and live with your grandparents.”

  She replied, “Thanks, but I’m in, at least for now.” She wagged her finger at him. “Just don’t go get yourself killed, do you hear me?”

  John nodded. “I’ll try.” Exhaling, he gazed at her. It was not regret that she’s come with him but worry about my safety. He dug into the food pack and handed her a granola bar.

  She examined the granola bar with disdain. “Since we’re heroes, how about pancakes?”

  Laughing, John said, “We’ll catch lunch in town. We have a date with the UN folks to officially register our claim. Then we need to buy groceries to feed our new neighbors during the house-raising.”

  Ginnie dressed, grabbed her backpack, and they crawled out of the tent. John secured the flap as best he could. “Better bring any valuables you have with you.”

  Nodding, she said, “I’m bringing everything in my backpack.” She patted her hip, and John saw a bulge, and the outline of the pistol hidden under her shirt.

  “Good. It will be up to us to protect ourselves and our farm. I’m afraid it will be awhile before the cops start a beat.”

  They floated in the hovercar over open grassland, dotted with rocks and shallow ponds. In the distance, a plume of smoke rose from a campfire, and John and Ginnie waved toward the small figures standing outside of a tent.

  Rounding a hillside, they passed a small valley filled with wildflowers, a flamboyant spectacle in the drab landscape around them.

  Ginnie pointed excitedly. “Dad, can we please stop and look?”

  John turned the hover and parked beside a small sign designating the valley as a bee and bird habitat. The sweet smell of the blooms drifted to them. Flowers of a dozen colors bent to the whim of the breeze, while birds and honey bees darted through the delicate stalks.

  She leapt out of the hover and bolted into the field. Laughing, John rushed after her. They ran like fools through the flowers—drunk on color, perfume and joy.

  Ginnie screamed with laughter when he tackled her. As his breath calmed, he rolled onto his back and she lay on his shoulder. Birds and bees flitted above them as they gazed at the luscious blossoms, inhaling a cacophony of scents.

  John pointed to a small drab gray and brown bird perched on a nearby branch. “I think that’s a Patagonian Tyrant.”

  “What a funny name.”

  “Yeah, but they eat whatever’s available, so can survive the harsh climate—and disperse seeds.”

  With a grimace, Ginnie replied, “Thanks for that visual.”

  “You’re welcome.” John sat up. “I think you should be in charge of our bee and bird sanctuary.” He glanced at the time. “We’d better get going.”

  On the way to the hover, John threw Ginnie over his shoulder, mimicking the Wicked Witch of the North’s voice. “I’ve got you, my pretty!” and carried his squealing daughter to the hover.

  Around the next hillside, sounds of the ocean drifted toward them. The new city of Amundsen came into view, with its sparkling modular buildings set in rows, like a giant’s Lego set. Humans crawled o
ver the town like ants on a sugar cube, streaming through the dusty streets, while hover pallets roamed the back alleys, stocking the stores from the rear as fast as the settlers bought goods out of the front.

  When they reached the city center, a traffic jam on Main Street welcomed them with honks and shouts. They crept along through the menagerie of people and vehicles, all scurrying for scarce supplies.

  In the chaos, they found the UN claim office, with a line stretching around the building. A savvy street vendor wandered along the line, hawking food to the captured audience. John bought a couple of empanadas from him, and they inched forward, eating and chatting with the other settlers. Two hours later, they were official homesteaders, and moved into the next queue to stock up on groceries.

  At the end of the day, they started back home, the hover now pulling a brand-new trailer, brimming with a barbeque pit, groceries, and supplies. The foreman from the claims office waved to them as they pulled up to their tent. He had driven out while they were in town, and had drilled the water well with a small crane and drilling unit, while the excavation crew had dug the giant cavity for the foundation that had been a field of grass just that morning.

  John and Ginnie peered into the hole, marveling at the exposed layers of clay and dirt. John thanked the excavation crew, handing out the now-lukewarm cans of beer that he had purchased in town.