The Bees: A Novel

by Laline Paull

  Like the rest of her kin-sisters, Flora worked in a dull haze, interspersed with pauses for Devotion. When the fragrance of the Queen’s Love rose through the vibrating comb, the sanitation workers stopped wherever they were and cried out in slurred reverence, and Flora felt a moment of blissful relief from the constant pain in her head. Then they all went back to work, and her consciousness shrank back down to whatever task was at hand.

  SISTERS OF ALL KIN were born and died by the hundreds every day, so collecting the dead was a common occupation for sanitation workers. As she carried body after body, Flora grew familiar with the routes down from the top and midlevel of the hive to the morgue and waste depot on the third and lowest level. Certain routes were blocked by kin-sensitive scent-gates, which stopped the floras from unauthorized visits to holy areas of the hive, like the Nursery on the midlevel or the Fanning Hall and Treasury on the top level. After being buffeted back by the powerful scents once or twice, even the slowest sanitation worker like Flora learned not to try that way again. But sometimes on the midlevel of the hive, drifting scents of the Nursery tugged at her brain. The longer she stood there, the more they distressed her, until she blundered away groaning.

  Despite their status as lowest of the low, even in the kin of Sanitation there was a hierarchy of ability. Certain floras could leave the dull thudding foot-tracks and collect waste from difficult areas, and these sisters were also used to make short waste-disposal flights with corpses or particularly foul-smelling loads, dropping them a hygienic distance from the hive. The second group, to which Flora belonged, experienced such agony in their antennae if they diverged but one step from their ordained track that the outer limit of their roaming was down to the morgue or the freight holding area, both on the lowest level of the hive and near the landing board. Sometimes Flora would pause there, where the vast, foreign scent of air swirled so strong about her body that her wing joints trembled with a strange sensation—but to dwell on it was to invite pain, and to return to her duties, relief.

  Each sanitation detail had a supervisor from a higher kin, for they were not to be trusted on their own. Today, Flora’s supervisor was a Sister Bindweed, a long, narrow bee with sparse fur and a brusque, absent manner. She had them working in a vacant area of the Drones’ Arrival Hall, cleaning out recently used incubation chambers in preparation for repair with consecrated wax.

  Each bee had her own set of chambers to work on. Though none of them could speak, they grunted and scraped away with the same rhythm, apparently enjoying their work. Some scrutinized their neighbors’ labor, mutely pointing out the smallest particle of remaining dirt, while others checked that the soiled wax was efficiently compacted for removal. There were no guiding foot-tracks between the drone chambers, so to block painful confusion Flora clenched down with her scarred antennae to focus on the smallest possible area. It made her obsessive, but her work was immaculate, and Sister Bindweed had to shout and throw a piece of wax at her when it was time for Devotion.

  From their place in the Drones’ Arrival Hall, all the sanitation workers could hear the massed choirs of the hive singing through the carved walls. As the vocal vibrations sent the fragrance of the Queen’s Love shimmering through the membrane of the honeycomb and deep into their bodies, some of the floras made incoherent sounds of happiness, while others made rhythmic movements as if trying to dance. Flora was one of the many who stood transfixed by the blissful sense of being loved—until the divine surge began to ebb away.

  A strange sensation rose inside her, strong as hunger but not for food or water. It was as if her abdomen dragged heavy behind her, and her rigid, twisted tongue swelled in her mouth. As her detail returned to work, the sensations grew more insistent. Trying to rid herself of them, Flora shook herself from side to side.

  “Stop that, you stupid creature!” Sister Bindweed waved the thin rod of propolis resin that she used to poke the sanitation workers without incurring dirty contact. “Get into that cell and clean it, unless you want me to send you for the Kindness.”

  Obediently, Flora climbed into the next vacated drone cell. The air was fetid, the walls and floor crusted with fecal waste. Even through Flora’s deadened senses, her brain thundered with the chemical onslaught from the waste of this drone. As the foul smell destroyed the last fragrant vestige of the Queen’s Love, a sudden rage rose up inside Flora. She attacked the wall with her jaws, furious at the sexual smell of the filth. The tightness in her mouth ignited in two points of pain on either side of her face, but she worked on in a frenzy, tearing out soiled chunks of wax and hurling them into the corridor. Then all sound and vision cut out and she was left in a chaos of odors.

  Terror-stricken, Flora threw herself out of the drone’s chamber and onto the ground. Somewhere nearby the thinnest filament of the Queen’s Love lingered on the ground where it had come through the comb, and she threw her body down against it, breathing it in to counter the flashing black pain in her head.

  “717! You are behaving like a demented bluebottle—stop that!”

  Sister Bindweed tried to kick Flora back to her feet, but with her massive strength Flora clung to the wax until she drew the last molecules of the Queen’s Love into her body. Sister Bindweed’s puny kicks did not hurt, because something far more powerful was taking place in her mind and body.

  Her tongue, so long hard and twisted, was warming and softening, and the disgusting taste of the drone waste was fading. Strength was coursing through her body, and her antennae throbbed as their inner channels opened up, restoring her vision and hearing. Most amazing of all was her sense of smell. She could discern all the different waxes used to make the floor tiles on which she lay, and the propolis inlay of the drone cells, and the warm, dirty smell of the sanitation workers’ bodies toiling around her—

  “Enough!” Too angry to use her propolis rod, Sister Bindweed grabbed Flora by the edge of a wing and started pulling her toward the doors. To resist would be to tear the membrane, and Flora was forced to hurry with her.

  “If you cannot perform the simplest task”—Sister Bindweed pushed Flora out into the busy corridor—“then good for nothing is what you are, and no more use to this hive!” Sister Bindweed shouted so vehemently that Flora smelled the half-digested pollen bread on her breath and the slow taint of old age moving in her belly.

  “You stand there until the police patrol comes by—they’ll know what to do with you, make no mistake.” Sister Bindweed shuddered at the smell of her own hands where she had grabbed Flora and went back inside.

  THE DRONES’ ARRIVAL HALL opened onto a main lobby filled with thousands of bees moving in all directions, never colliding. For a few moments Flora stood motionless, absorbing the tides of scent information that surged in the air and the vibrations in the coded tiles.

  Rose Teasel Malus Clover came the rapid knowledge as different sisters passed by Flora. Clover Plantain Burdock SAGE—

  At that last and fast-approaching kin-scent, a jolt of fear propelled Flora into the great moving mass of bees in the lobby. Instinctively she wanted to hide, and though a thousand floor codes pulsed their messages at her, one overrode them all, and it came from her heart: Beware the Sage.

  Seven

  THE SCENT OF THE PRIESTESSES FADED AS FLORA WENT deeper into the warm, aromatic crisscrossing of her sisters, their body heat blending their kin-scents together in fragrance and gossip. To listen to their bright voices and understand all they said was a wonderful thing, and she was soon caught up in the major news of the moment, coming through the floor codes and the excited antennae all around her: the rain had stopped, the clouds had parted, the foragers were returning.

  “Nectar comes!” shouted some bees. “The flowers love us!”

  The comb shimmered, and every bee felt joy running through her feet at the sweet smell coming up from the lower level. The bees pushed back to make a passageway through their numbers, and Flora found herself crammed wing to wing at the front of one cheering group, making space for those
who were to come.

  The bees redoubled their cheers as a forager ran between their cordon, her throat distended with the precious burden of nectar she carried. Filaments of golden scent drifted on the air behind her, telling of the flower that had yielded its sweetness. Flora stared, enraptured, as more and more of them came through—sisters of all ages and kin, some with ragged wings, some young and perfect, all with the golden fragrance of nectar streaming behind them.

  As the molecular structure of the flowers went into Flora’s brain, a strange, loud sound startled her. Sisters on either side of her looked at her with compassion—and Flora realized it was her own voice, moaning incoherently as she tried to join in the cheering. The last forager ran past, the golden filaments of nectar scent trailing behind her, calling for Flora to follow.

  The golden fragrance drew Flora on, until to her shock she realized she had passed unscathed through the scent-gates on the staircase to the highest level of the hive. There was no time to wonder at that, for now the party of nectar bearers was passing down a long corridor whose immaculate pale tiles were inlaid with details of flowers. They were prayer tiles, preparing those who walked on them for the sacred mysteries beyond, and each step triggered the unscrolling of chemical verses.

  At the back of the procession, Flora waited for an alarm to sound at her profane presence on this highest and restricted level of the hive—but a cloud of incense rose up beneath her feet just as from those ahead and joined her to the procession. And then, as the two tall double doors in the middle of the passageway swung open to admit them, her soul filled with joy. Waves of raw floral fragrance billowed out on warm air. Flora entered the sacred refinery of the Fanning Hall and beheld the genius of her people.

  A GOLDEN MIST and a soft, harmonic chord shimmered from the center of the atrium. The six towering walls were made of interlocking chalices of honey, capped and consecrated with the Queen’s seal and curved in to make a domed ceiling. Far below stood hundreds of sisters in concentric circles, all fanning their silver wings. Their faces were joyous and blank, and before each was a large chalice of raw nectar. From these vessels the mist and music spiraled into the air as the water evaporated from the nectar, thickening it to honey.

  Every forager and receiver in the procession was busy decanting her precious load into an open wax chalice—Flora alone had no function here. She knew she should leave—the unauthorized presence of a sanitation worker in this holy place must surely warrant punishment—yet it was so wondrous that she could not bear to. From the scented shadows she watched the foragers and their attendants emptying the last of their loads, then straightening their wings and walking out. One of the last young bees was clumsy and spilled some nectar down the side of a wax chalice, but in her hurry to remain in the procession she just glanced down guiltily, then ran to leave with the others.

  The tall doors swung closed and the rings of sisters resumed their silver shimmer. The Holy Chord rose up and their wingbeats stirred fragrance through the warm air. To hide in the shadows felt disrespectful, so Flora stepped out. Some instinct impelled her bow to the center of the atrium, but no sooner had she touched her antennae to the wax floor than her wing-latches clicked open, her virgin wings trembled as her engine fired, and she was lifted off her feet.

  Some sisters looked up, searching for the source of the sound. Flora clamped her thoracic muscles together and dropped back down to the wax before they could locate her. She latched her wings tight against her back and looked around in alarm. Bad enough for a sanitation worker to be trespassing here, but to have used her wings—

  The extraordinary sensation faded back within her body. To calm her racing brain, Flora looked for some dirt to clean, but the Fanning Hall was immaculate. The only minute element of disorder was where the young receiver had spilled some nectar, which was now drying down the side of the wax chalice and onto the tiles on which it stood.

  At the scent, Flora’s belly clutched in hunger.

  Desire is sin, Greed is sin—

  But surely cleaning it would not be sin.

  Careful not to let her profane body touch the chalice, Flora knelt down beside the spill and was overcome with the fragrance of honeysuckle. The living spirit of the crimson-gold blooms warmed her body with energy, and she was licking up the last molecules from the tiles when she heard the commotion outside.

  The massed vibration of many agitated sisters came closer down the passageway, voices raised in protest.

  “Honey,” boomed a deep male voice, “now!”

  “Please, Your Malenesses,” cried a female voice. “Stop!”

  FLORA LEAPED BACK in alarm as a party of drones barged in and swaggered down the center aisle toward her. They were huge and pungent with big handsome faces, sun visors over their eyes, and thick fur styled with pomade. The shimmering circles of sisters slowed their wings and turned their faces to the intruders. No one noticed Flora.

  “Sir Poplar, Sir Rowan, Sir Linden, all noble sirs,” cried another sister running after them. “Let us send to Patisserie or—”

  “We said we want honey!” shouted another drone.

  “A proper deep suck of it,” called one more. “None of your dainty little sips.”

  They began stamping their armored feet on the comb, chanting for honey and nectar. The mist from the chalices evaporated, revealing the sisters’ distressed faces.

  “Keep fanning, pretty sisters,” called one of the drones. “We do not linger, we are on a mission of love! And you, old girl by the door with the long face—good cheer from you too, for we fly for the honor of our hive!”

  “Worship to Your Malenesses.” A senior Sister Prunus dropped him a deep curtsy. Flora joined in as all around the other sisters copied the obeisance. As she went low she stared at the drones’ armored feet, their powerful tendons and thighs, and the underside of their huge thoraxes. Their smell was high but not unpleasant, and her spiracles dilated to breathe it more deeply.

  “Might we most respectfully suggest, Your Malenesses”—and Sister Prunus rose to her feet—“that because of the constant rains, and this time of austerity, you might confine yourselves to our recently gathered nectars? For instance—”

  “Honey is our want, so honey we must have.” The drone threw a big, muscular arm around Sister Prunus and his scent drifted across her face. “Think now of those foreign princesses waiting for us. How fatigued, how impatient for love must they be? Would you bind them in chastity a single moment longer? Or shall we fill our bellies with the strength of this hive, then free them with our swords?”

  Sister Prunus gasped at his lewd gesture, her antennae waving wildly. The big drone laughed and released her, and all the sisters laughed too, avid for more of his scent. Sister Prunus quickly groomed herself to hide her shining face. Then she stepped forward and clapped all her hands.

  “Their Malenesses will take their Right of Access.”

  TRAPPED BETWEEN THE DISAPPROVING SISTERS at the doors and the gluttonous drones, Flora remained where she was. The drones made very free in the Fanning Hall, and like every other sister, Flora watched in astonishment as they tasted different honeys, slurped from effervescing pails of raw nectar, and whirled fanning sisters out from their sacred circles to dance with them. The one who pawed Sister Prunus was boldest, and his kin was Quercus.

  “Linden!” His shout echoed around the holy chamber. “Come here, you fine little runt, and taste your namesake—lime blossom is good eating!”

  “Only the best for me.” A small drone straightened his neck ruff and crossed to where Sir Quercus stood gorging. When he bent to taste it, the other pushed his face in it, then grabbed him by the fur and pulled him out, laughing at his jest.

  “A king’s share, to console you for your certain failure.”

  Sir Linden wiped his face of honey and forced a grim smile. “You are too sure, my brother. For I hear of queens who will favor wit over strength.” He pulled his ruff straight. “Such a one will be mine.”

 
“Ha!” Sir Quercus patted him so hard he staggered. “My wit is all pent in my prick, so I shall triumph with her as well.”

  “Unless a crow choose you first and snap you in its great blue beak!”

  The sisters gasped at the mention of the bird.

  “More likely take you,” said Sir Quercus, “who can barely keep up with a butterfly. Though you’d not make much of a feast.”

  Sir Linden continued his grooming. “Unlike you, so large and magnificent.”

  “You speak truly.” Sir Quercus turned to the sisters. “Fortune favors me, does she not, ladies?” And he swelled his sturdy thorax, raised his fur in three tall crests on his head, and pumped his male aroma so it rose up around him in a cloud. Some sisters swooned, and some, like Sister Prunus, spontaneously applauded.

  “Who will groom me?”

  Several sisters rushed forward and other drones unlatched their wings in invitation, and they too were attended. Flora began edging to the doors.

  “You there—wait.” Sister Prunus came toward her. “We have not called for Sanitation—what in the air is a dirty flora doing here? Did housekeeping leave the scent-gate down again?”

  Flora was about to answer, then held her tongue. She nodded and grunted.

  “Oh, these shortages are becoming abominable. The wrong kin everywhere—and yours so stupid and slow you cannot follow the simplest track—” Sister Prunus looked at Flora suspiciously. “Unless you were stealing!”

  Flora urgently shook her head and put her antennae low. Her kin behaved cravenly, she had seen and hated it so many times—but now she did the same, backing away as if in terror. She bumped into someone behind her, and Sister Prunus smacked her on the head between the antennae.

  “Your Maleness, allow me to apologize.” Sister Prunus smiled sweetly. “Please forgive the soiling contact. I will call a higher kin to groom you.”