by Laline Paull
“From Sanitation, is she?” It was Sir Linden, the only drone unattended. “Are they all so hairy? Do not trouble yourself, Sister Primrose. Today I have a mind for something different. This one may groom me.”
“Your Maleness—a flora?”
“Do not question His Maleness’s particular preference.” He looked at Flora, and she saw how honey was still caught in his fur. “Bring me some spurge nectar.”
“Spurge? Your Maleness jests!” Sister Prunus laughed hysterically. “He knows that we would never serve it, corrupt as it is from the Myriad’s feet.” She folded her hands. “You will not find it in this hive.”
“Oh. A pity, for I heard it was good, with a cricket’s kick.”
“Your Maleness, nobody here would say that, for no forager—”
“It was no forager, Sister Plantain—”
“Prunus, Your Maleness.”
“As you wish, Madam. But it was a fine, dark fellow at Congregation who stank of it, and he said it made his dronewood hard as the twig we stood on.”
“Stop, please! Your Maleness speaks too boldly—”
“At least I think that’s what he said, in his thick and foreign tongue.”
“Foreign?” Sister Prunus recovered herself. “From what direction? I only ask because the Sage like to be informed of all immigrants in our neighborhood.” She lowered her voice. “In case of disease, you see. Also, they take our nectar.”
“Calm yourself, Sister. This Congregation was farther than you could fly.”
“I am just a house bee, I did not presume. But— Your Maleness is not thinking of inviting any guests? Our pantries are emptier than we would like—”
“Do you not think I have enough competition as it is?” Sir Linden looked gloomily at the other drones being groomed. “In any case, the dark fellow was last seen leading the field in pursuit of a very fine princess, and is probably now king in some sumptuous palace. Run and tell your dreary priestesses that.”
“Fresh news, I shall!” Sister Prunus bobbed a curtsy, rejuvenated with excitement. “News is always of value to Sister Sage—thank you, Your most generous Maleness.” She ran off.
Flora started after her, anxious to be gone.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Sir Linden pointed to his crotch. “You have to groom me. I can’t be the only one without someone.”
At his strong smell, another pheromone lock burst open inside Flora’s antennae. Her mind flooded with disordered images—
Larva-babies in their cradles—a shriveled wing pulled taut—
She felt him trying to push her down.
“Are you deaf? Groom me when I tell you—it’s the law.”
A baby on a hook—
Flora shoved him away and ran out into the prayer-filled corridor. He followed.
“I am a prince of the realm! You will obey me!”
Trapped between the small drone and a phalanx of identical Sage priestesses marching toward the Fanning Hall in a cloud of incense, Flora hunched herself down like the lowliest sanitation worker.
“How dare you—” Sir Linden lunged for her and slipped in the path of the Sage priestesses. Unable to pass a male without obeisances, they were forced to stop while he got to his feet, cursing wildly.
Flora did not look back but ran as fast as she could. She almost missed the small, dark doorway, but as she dashed in to hide, the ground fell away under her feet and she tumbled, for it was not a room, but a staircase.
The steps were deep and steep and she kept her wings tight against her body as she struggled to right herself. Falling against an old wax wall, she clung and listened for pursuit from above.
There was neither scent nor sound, only the pumping of her own blood and the thirsty pull of air into her breathing spiracles. Flora forced her panic down. Her newly functioning antennae told her she was on the lowest level of the hive, and the final flight of steps leveled out into a small corridor that led to a door. She crept forward to scan what was beyond.
Through the old wax she first detected the distinctive odor of her own kin, and then the long, inert forms of bees. It was a worker dormitory, and a cleaning detail. Deeply relieved, Flora opened the door—and stepped into the morgue.
Several of her kin-sisters stared back in equal surprise, then emitted a strange sound that might have been laughter. One signaled her to close the door, then they continued taking bodies down from the racks. For the first time, Flora became conscious of a definite intelligence behind their strange faces. With a jolt of excitement, she understood that these floras were from the top echelon of Sanitation, responsible for taking the cadavers to the landing board to fly them out of the hive.
Flora bit hold of the biggest, heaviest corpse she could see, a bald old sister from Patisserie with pollen hidden in her pockets. Then she followed her kin-sisters out of the morgue toward the sun-warmed wood of the landing board and the vault of sky beyond.
Eight
A LARGE CROWD BLOCKED THE LOBBY TO THE LANDING board, and the sanitation corpse-bearers were forced to wait. Eddies of warm, dry wind swirled toward them, then came cheers and applause as bees pressed back to make a corridor of space as the foragers came rushing through. Awestruck, Flora stared at the disheveled sisters with their blazing faces and radiant ragged wings, who smelled of no kin but the wild, high air. They ran into the atrium that opened off the lobby, from where there was more stamping and cheering, and the crowd poured in behind them.
The sanitation workers moved nearer to the landing board, into a cordoned-off area, to prevent contamination of higher kin passing to and fro on hive business. The sun’s warmth created a festive atmosphere, and Flora thrilled at the sound of her sisters’ flight engines humming through their registers. She watched water-gatherers returning with bulging throats, their faces sculpted sleek from their work, then chains of receivers passed in exotic loads of raw pollen, never dropping a single grain. More windblown foragers came and went and Flora admired them with all her heart.
“Corpse-bearers next!” It was the stentorian voice of a Thistle, traditional guards of the landing board.
FLORA WALKED OUT OF THE DARK, closed hive into a dazzling world of light and space and onto a floor made of wood. It was completely blank of any codes except the bright scent beacons laid along the edge to guide the foragers home. The only other marker was the sun.
“It’s busy, so stay low and be quick.” The Thistle guard spoke loud and slow. “You know where to go—don’t linger, and return on the left.”
Flora shook her head.
“Your cleansing flight—even your kin can remember that one place—” The Thistle called to the bees jostling behind Flora. “Patience, sisters!”
Flora raised her antennae, searching for information. It made her head hurt and she looked down. Below the landing board, in the tangle of grass and nettle and dock and trefoil that locked to the dense, wet earth, disturbing scents wove strong and strange, telling of other creatures that lived there. The green began to seethe.
“Stop that—no one looks down.” The Thistle pulled Flora away. Both of them turned at the huge rumble of thoracic engines. The pungent smell of drones billowed out onto the landing board and, led by Sir Quercus, the drones marched out. Plumes high, visors down, and their massive chests expanded, they turned to the Thistle sentries and showed their best aspects. The Thistle guards dropped nominal curtsies.
“Worship to Your Malenesses.” Their tone was respectful, if not fervent.
“And honor to our hive!” roared Sir Quercus, and all his brothers cheered as they crowded out onto the landing board. The smell of honey percolated through their thick aroma. As one, the sisters looked down. Their precious golden wealth clogged the drones’ feet, was trodden across the landing board and trailed back into the hive. Shocked faces of other sisters crowded in the doorway behind them, and the Thistle guards’ antennae flickered rapidly at each other. No one said a word.
With a mighty bang the drones unlatched the
ir wings, fired their engines for flight, and tuned their roars to a rousing thunder. Flora saw Sir Linden at the back, his fur still sticky as he struggled to stabilize his own slightly higher pitch. Too late she shrank back behind a Thistle guard.
“You, there!” he shouted into the noise. “How dare you disobey me? Come and lick my feet clean—”
He jumped back as a forager landed on the board in front of him.
“Make way, Your Maleness.” She pushed past to where Flora stood with Sister Thistle. “Lily 500 returning.” Her nectar-scented voice was hoarse, her bright ragged wings told her age, but she radiated energy like a tiny sun.
“Madam Forager, we know you well.” Sister Thistle bowed deeply to her.
Lily 500 was about to go into the hive, but instead she turned to the drones.
“No sister shall lick our sacred honey from your feet. Would you draw the Myriad to watch and mock us?”
“What Myriad, noble crone?” Sir Quercus barged forward. “There are none today, so wish us Queenspeed and be out of our way!”
The old forager glanced at Flora, but spoke only to the Thistle.
“You are charged to keep the board clear, yet a corpse-bearer lingers.”
“Forgive us, Madam Forager. You are right, but they have sent out an ignorant one! What am I supposed to do? I cannot send a corpse back in, and she certainly cannot drop it from the board—”
“As if I would suggest that. Shortages and incompetence—” Lily 500 stretched out one of Flora’s wings. “Nothing the matter with them—” She scanned Flora’s antennae with her own. Flora winced, and the forager looked to the guard. “They have wrecked her brain so badly it is a wonder she can see or hear.”
“Good madams!” interrupted Sir Quercus. “Gossip elsewhere; you delay our squadron. We like to leave with a good show, not all raggle-taggle like you ancient independents. So now, if you would kindly move—”
Lily 500 held her ground. She flicked an antenna and a young Clover receiver ran out from the hive, knelt before her, and opened her mouth. Lily 500 arched her body, triggering a stream of golden nectar from her own crop into the Clover’s mouth. When there was no more, the Clover bobbed a curtsy and ran back inside.
“Crone vomit?” Sir Quercus was appalled. “Is that what we’re drinking?”
“Nectar, Sir. How did you think we carried it?” Lily 500 turned to Flora. “Hold your burden tight, and follow.”
She pushed her off the board.
Blades of grass slashed up at Flora’s face, the rough wooden slats of the hive grazed past her antennae, and the sun spun as she tumbled through the air. She flailed for balance, and then, with a thunderous vibration, her flight engine fired with a great jet of speed and she was aloft, mounting the air behind the silver trace of Lily 500’s wings. Behind her came the massive blast of the drone squadron lifting off and faint cheering from the hive far below, but she did not look down.
They rose up over the orchard, cool wind streaming down Flora’s sides and fluttering the dried edges of the dead sister’s wings, still held tight in her mouth. The sun warmed her body and a thrilling power surge took her higher so that the world spread wide in all directions, the grid of green and brown below, the dark rise of the hills, the rough odor of the sprawling town—
It seemed to Flora that she heard the Holy Chord, though that was impossible, for they were far beyond the hive. The source of the sound was Lily 500, two humming arcs of light around her. Flora sped forward to her side. The old forager veered away and Flora followed through trails and tunnels of scent, sweet and bitter threads of odor, focusing into the strong clear scent of resin and propolis as the conifers came into range. Lily 500 made a tight, agile loop around Flora, forcing her down so she saw where to make her drop.
With the release of the burden Flora shot up into the sunshine and flew loops of pure joy and relief. Her vision sharpened so that far below she could see two raucous bluebottles chase each other, and below them, small male mosquitoes whined their song over a pond, their blue streamers fluttering from their antennae. Even lower, the dark, blood-filled females cruised at the water’s edge. Flora stored every minute detail before she surged higher. For the first time in her life she was utterly free, with no walls or rules to curb her, and she dived and soared for joy. The more the sun warmed her, the greater grew her strength and skill, and she looked for Lily 500 to thank her—but the old forager was already a speck in the distance.
She was alone in the bright vastness. In an instant, a ravenous hunger seized Flora’s body, and homesickness hit her soul so hard that she cried out in surprise. For the first time in her life she could not smell the Queen, nor any sisters, nor the hive, the orchard, nor one familiar thing.
The more she searched, the more the void of sky pressed her body to a speck, until she felt so small and alone that without a sister to cling to she thought she was dying. When her body lifted on a wave of acrid air, Flora soared crazily and saw that it came from a huge black bird high above her—
A crow! Her alarm glands fired and she sped away from it in blind panic.
Devotion, Devotion, Devotion—Flora searched the air for the smallest scent of Holy Mother and scanned down at the foreign shapes and colors below her to try to reorient herself. Massive green and beige fields dulled the air with their vast, monotonous scent and she veered away to glean any clue to home. With a surge of relief she picked up the scent of the orchard and then of her sisters—never more beautiful. Their mingled scent grew stronger as Flora entered the air corridor back to the hive, and her joy in flight was nothing compared to her gratitude in homecoming. The little green ruffle of the orchard came into view, and then the tiny gray square of the beehive. Not until this moment had Flora known how much she loved it and all who lived there. She could not wait to fold her wings, run into its warm depths, and press wing to wing with her sisters in the sacrament of Devotion.
At the thought of the Queen, Flora scented the precious molecules of her divine fragrance, poised and spinning like jewels where the air currents converged. Her heart filled with passion and confidence, but as the hive came nearer and the earth and trees raced past below, she saw foragers streaming back through the orchard, racing for the landing board. A new scent mixed with the homecoming scent, and as Flora began her descent her venom sac swelled hard in her belly and her dagger unsheathed.
The code was alarm, and the hive was under attack.
Nine
LAID AT CLOSE INTERVALS ALONG THE LENGTH OF THE landing board, the alarm pheromone flashed its message across the orchard air. The last foragers rushed to get in as a foul alien scent mingled with it, sweet and corrupt like rotting fruit. It came from the lurid straggle of wasps hovering near the hive, drunk and jeering. Flora could hear her sisters yelling at her to hurry, but as she descended through the smeary marker trails the wasps littered in their wake, they turned their black gazes on her and sizzled their stings in welcome.
Flora curved up again on a blade of air and the wasps shrieked with laughter at her cowardice—before she hurtled at one of them and knocked the vile creature out of the air into the apple leaves. The touch of the wasp’s body against hers enraged her and she drove herself up higher, looking for another. But the wasps were already above her, buzzing high and furious as they swayed on their points of air, not to be taken like that again.
“Dirty fiends!” shouted one of the Thistle guards to the wasps. “Infidels!” But her trembling antennae undermined her brave words. Flora dropped down onto the landing board between the sentries. She smelled their flaring war glands and knew her own streamed as strong, but a wave of fear came from within the hive.
“What did we expect,” muttered another guard in a low voice, “leaving honey on the board? Advertising our wealth to the Myriad, no one to clean it, everyone rushing out crazed as soon as the sun shines—”
She sprayed another jet of her war scent into the air and the wasps laughed shrilly. They flung back the challenge with a ha
rd gust of their own harsh smell, and its oily particles settled on the landing board.
“Closer!” yelled the first Thistle who had spoken, her antennae rigid with rage. “I cannot smell you until I stick my dagger between your filthy plates.” She buzzed more of her war gland at them.
“Oh, you fat and useless creature,” called back one of the wasps, pirouetting to show her tiny waist. “What pale squirt was that? I doubt you can even fly.” Her friends reeled in the air, hissing with laughter.
“Stay!” warned another Thistle, holding back her colleague. “They try to draw us.” She motioned to Flora. “You’re big and brave—get back inside and hold the line.”
SISTERS STOOD DENSELY PACKED and silent, their battle glands flaring and weapons at the ready. The smell of fear trickled up here and there, but every sister pointed her antennae forward and none gave in to it. Flora waited in the vanguard as the Thistle pumped out wave after wave of war scent, but the orchard was silent.
The bees waited. Murmurs began. Perhaps the wasps had gone. The bees’ wings were crushed, the heat was rising, and a tide of irritation seeped through the crowd. And then—a hard beat of acid air rushed in and every sister’s feet felt the heavy, alien vibration as a great wasp settled on the landing board. There was the sound of a hard scuffle and then a crack. A Thistle guard screamed, then another. Standing right at the front, Flora saw it all.
The wasp was a huge female with bands of acid yellow and glossy black. Her head was as large as three sisters’ and she used her slashing claws to catch the guards one by one, killing each with a snap of her heavy jaws. Then she flattened her long antennae, crouched down, and peered inside the hive.
Spasms of fear shot through the bees at the sight of her glittering, malevolent eyes, but not one of them moved. Flora stared back at the wasp and felt her dagger slide out again. The wasp smiled at her.