How to Outsmart a Billion Robot Bees

by Paul Tobin

  Behind us, I could see the men from the Red Death Tea Society swatting at something, grunting in pain, running in circles, yelling curses, screaming out “Grgargh!” (which meant Melville had stung somebody’s left arm), and “Flargrah!” (which meant my bee had stung somebody’s right leg), and other noises like “Waghhrr!” and “Guhguhrr!” and “Yagghh!” . . . the meaning of which I did not know, but of course I could reasonably guess.

  I tossed the tube of bee sting ointment out the window, and we sped off, leaving everything behind.

  Let’s talk about bees,” Nate said. We were in his living room. Nate’s parents, Algie and Maryrose, weren’t home, so we could talk about anything without fear of them discovering how smart he is. Nate keeps it secret from them. Parents always want their children to be exceptional, but it makes them nervous when they are.

  I was holding two invitations in my hands. One was from the League of Ostracized Fellows and the other was from the Red Death Tea Society. I looked up to Nate when he made a throat-clearing noise, trying to get my attention. He was serving refreshments. To be honest, it’s not one of his higher-level skills. Because he’s somewhat of a loner, he doesn’t have much experience with having friends over, and doesn’t have any idea of what to serve. This time, he was holding a cereal bowl full of olives, and he’d hollowed out three apples and filled them with chocolate. He also had tree juice. Yes. Tree juice. He said it was like orange juice, but from a tree. I drank enough of it to be polite and then asked him for some water and began picking out the chocolate from the apples.

  “Bees?” I said.

  “Yeah. Bees. Oh, I see you found my invitations.”

  “This one’s really weird,” I said. It was the one from the League of Ostracized Fellows. It was on stiff yellow paper, precisely folded, and had a letterhead illustration of two men standing back-to-back, but still holding out their hands as if to shake hands, just . . . in the wrong direction. The letter read . . .

  League of Ostracized Fellows

  PO Box 83 101 99 114 101 116

  Norumbega

  Dear Nathan Bannister

  We would like you to . . . Oh. That was rude. I didn’t even say “hello.” Hello, Nathan. My name is Reggie Barnstorm. I’m the head of the League of Ostracized Fellows, though I should point out that I only won the election by three votes, so please don’t consider my authority to be absolute. Still, a majority is a majority, and on behalf of our league I’m pleased to offer you a membership in our society. Your duties would include an annual processing fee of $50.00 (fifty) US dollars, a “substantial-benefit-to-mankind” scientific presentation of your invention at our spring and fall conventions, and a pledge to dedicate your life to battling the Red Death Tea Society, which has been responsible for an unfortunate percentage of the world’s ills, and which has reduced our own membership by 72.58 percent during the last decade, owing to its plague of kidnapping, brainwashing, and outright “disappearances.”

  We hope that you’ll agree to join our league, and I should point out that you would be entered into the rotation to provide snacks at our monthly meetings, and that three of our members have severe peanut allergies, so those are right out.

  Lastly . . . there will be unfortunate consequences should you refuse. Did that sound rude? My apologies. It was a threat, though. And somewhat vague. We’re still voting on any possible consequences. It’s just a mess here. Sorry about that.

  Sincerely,

  Reginald “Reggie” Barnstorm

  27th President, League of Ostracized Fellows

  “Hmmm,” I said, putting the letter down and then picking some more chocolate out from inside an apple. I was sharing the snack with Melville. She’d come flying into Nate’s house about a half hour after we arrived. Betsy had sensed her arrival, so Nate was able to open a cupboard door and deactivate the house’s automatic defenses, allowing my bee to fly in through the door. I was so proud of Melville that I wanted her to have some chocolate, but she was far more interested in the apple. That worked out okay.

  “Hmmm?” Nate asked. He was asking what my own “hmmm” had been about.

  I tapped on the letter and said, “The League seems a bit . . . scattered.”

  “They’re not used to interacting with others,” Nate said. “It makes things weird for them.” He was crumbling crackers over the bowl of olives, I guess to make it more appetizing? He shoved the bowl closer to me, and I pretended not to notice.

  “So you turned them down?” I asked.

  “Yes, though I did consider joining. But, really, some of their ideas are beyond ridiculous. Can you believe they’re still working on a system of time travel based upon linked atomic twelve-point vector recontrol?”

  “Ludicrous,” I said.

  “I know, right? It’s like they’re completely ignoring duality of infinite mass combined with zero length.”

  “First grade material,” I said, trying to pretend I knew what we were talking about, but I’d apparently pushed it too far. Nate gave me a look. Then frowned.

  “Sorry, Delphine,” he said. “I forget that most people don’t know this stuff. It’s just . . . it’s just . . . I get carried away whenever you’re around. It’s so exciting to talk with you!” I admit that something lurched in my stomach when he said that. That said, it was probably something to do with that tree juice I drank, not anything to do with Nate acting somewhat romantic, because we’re not girlfriend and boyfriend no matter how much my friends taunt me (Liz is the worst), and it was only coincidence that Nate and I fell into a silence filled only with the sound of me blushing. Yes, I was blushing so hard that it was audible. It was making a bzzzz sound that . . .

  Oh, wait. No. The buzz was Melville, happily devouring her apple. To cover up my embarrassment, I looked at Nate’s invitation from the Red Death Tea Society. Like Nate had earlier mentioned, the letter was on thick parchment, with ragged edges. It looked very official, hand lettered with red ink. I sniffed the ink, worried it was blood, but it smelled more like jasmine. I looked up from the letter and Nate was inches away, holding a spray bottle, staring at me. He pulled the trigger, and a big burst of smelly water splattered all over my face.

  My first impulse was to punch him.

  I went with it.

  “Guhhnk!” Nate said. He fell off the couch and landed on the floor. The spray bottle fell from his hand. Melville was hovering next to Nate, thinking about stinging him, but I waved her off. Bosper, Nate’s Scottish terrier, came bounding into the room and looked to me, then to Nate (on the floor, rubbing his upper arm), and finally to the spray bottle that was rocking back and forth on the floor, slowly coming to a halt.

  Bosper said, “Did Delphine do a punching?” I should mention that Nate “accelerated” Bosper’s brain. He can speak now. And do math like nobody’s business. He’s much better at math than he is at speaking.

  “I did a punching,” I told Bosper.

  “Bosper is going outside for a pooping!” he said, skipping across the floor and going out the doggie door.

  “Why’d you punch me?” Nate asked, standing up, staying well out of range.

  I pointed to my face. It was dripping wet.

  “Oh,” Nate said. He sat on the couch next to me, well within punching range again, but now understanding what had happened. “I should’ve explained why I did that. Whenever they send out letters, the Red Death Tea Society puts mind-control chemicals in the ink. I was worried your brain would be altered when you sniffed the ink, so I sprayed you with an antidote.”

  “Oh,” I said. And then, “Yes. You should have told me.” I settled back on the couch, cracked open another apple for the chocolate, and read Nate’s “invitation” from the Red Death Tea Society.

  It read . . .

  Red Death Tea Society

  PO Box 44 65 61 74 68 0d 0a

  Circle Nine

  Young Boy Nathan Bannister . . .

  Your membership in our society is demanded. Your inventions have sufficient
merit that you will either join us or be eliminated. Refuse us, and, if need be, we will make the earth barren in order to eradicate your existence. Your only recourse is to submit to our society, to kneel before the Supreme Commander, or else the seas will boil, the mountains will fall, those you love will vanish, and you will hear nothing but the wails of sorrow that cover the land like ash. You have three days to comply.

  . . . Jakob Maculte

  PS: If you stop into our recruitment center before Thursday, we’re serving Tieguanyin tea. The oxidation of the oolong teas is particularly wonderful.

  I said, “They seem serious about their tea.” Nate nodded.

  “Also about eradicating you,” I added.

  Nate nodded, again, then said, “They’d rather not, though. Right now, I calculate Maculte doesn’t have the confidence that he could take over the world. He’s brilliant, but his thoughts are all based on math. He doesn’t have the ability to calculate the unexpected.”

  “Well, it can’t be calculated, right? That’s why it’s unexpected.”

  “Exactly, but he thinks I could do it. He believes that I think so far out of the box that the box doesn’t exist, for me, and Maculte wants that kind of wild card in his corner. That way, the Red Death Tea Society itself would become too hard to predict. Too hard to stop.”

  “Hmm,” I said, thinking of how Maculte might not be so happy with Nate joining the Red Death Tea Society if Nate then provided tree juice and cracker-covered-olive snacks in the break room. I was considering going into the kitchen and checking for anything more normal to munch on (Nate’s dad, Algie, is actually a good cook, and often has leftovers) when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Liz, containing an image of her with Ventura, Stine, and Wendy. They were trying to look serious, but lack talent in that area.

  The text read, Are you okay? Do we need to beat up any bees? (Please say that we don’t. Bees are scary.)

  I took an image of my melon-face and sent it along in reply, adding, Modeling career on temporary hold, but otherwise okay.

  Liz texted back, Where are you? That’s not your house.

  I sent, Nate’s place.

  My phone immediately lit up with multiple texts.

  Wendy wrote, Nate’s? You guys . . . together?

  Nate is a boy, Ventura wrote.

  Hearts, Liz wrote.

  Stine wrote, Gossip. Tell us everything.

  Nate knows a lot about bees and bee stings, I wrote back to all of them. That’s all there is to it. We’re not dating. Where are you guys?

  Changing the subject, are you? Liz wrote back. We’re at the mall. You sure you’re okay?

  Fine, I wrote. See you tomorrow? Liz and I often get together on the day after our Cake vs. Pie meetings in order to decide if we’ve learned anything, to see if we feel any progress has been made, and mostly to apologize for all the really horrible things we’ve inevitably said to each other during the debate.

  Tomorrow for sure, Liz wrote. Have fun with not-boyfriend. I thought about writing something in return, but Melville interrupted me, buzzing past my phone to land on my shoulder. She was making a sound like zowwwrrr, which I’m pretty sure meant she’d eaten too much of the apple and was flying a bit heavy.

  “Oh good,” Nate said. “Your bee. Would you mind if I took a look at her?” I narrowed my eyes, moved a bit back, and put my hand in front of Melville.

  “What all would that entail?” I asked. “You’re not going to try to . . . dissect her, are you?”

  “No. I just—”

  “And you’d better not be thinking about bombarding her with any radioactive materials, or mutating her into a giant bee, or—”

  “Why would I mutate her into a giant bee? That wouldn’t be very smart.” I could have answered with actual words, but sometimes that’s just not necessary. Instead, I used the same expression that Mom uses on Dad when she’s mad at him, and I slowly pointed to Proton, Nate’s cat, sunning himself in the window, staring out at the world. Noticing the attention, Proton did nothing at all, because that’s just how cats are.

  “Oh,” Nate said, properly chastened.

  “Indeed,” I said, pressing my point. Soon after I’d first met Nate, I discovered that he’d recently transformed his cat, Proton, into a giant. An absolute giant. Taller than buildings, crushing cars when he walked, stalking me during a rampage . . . that sort of thing. It was all part of Nate’s “do three dumb things every Friday the thirteenth” initiative.

  Nate said, “I won’t need to hurt Melville at all. Wouldn’t think of it. She’d probably sting me, anyway.”

  “She does sting,” I admitted. “That’s actually how I met her.” I turned to look at Melville, and she had the good grace to be embarrassed. She turned away, buzzing anxiously.

  “Here,” Nate said. “Can you have her crawl onto my finger?” He held out his finger. I looked to my bee and said, “Melville, land here, please.” I tapped on Nate’s finger with my own and then added, “And don’t sting him.”

  Nate smiled.

  I said, “Unless he tries something. Then get him good.”

  Nate frowned.

  Melville buzzed away from my shoulder, making the zowwwrrr sound again. She really did need to cut down on the apple intake. She buzzed a bit hesitantly in the air, hovering an inch or so away from Nate’s outstretched finger, then pivoted back to look at me. I nodded. She turned back around and landed.

  “Thanks,” Nate said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to Melville. He stood and walked to the nearest bookcase, grabbing a magnifying glass from a shelf full of Sherlock Holmes books.

  He said, “This might be a little startling.” As he spoke, he was bringing up the magnifying glass to study Melville, and, at the same time, Bosper came back through the doggie door.

  “What’s so startling about a magnifying glass?” I asked, walking over to Nate, seeing if I could peer over his shoulder and have a look at Melville, although I wasn’t sure there’d be much we’d be able to discern. It was only a magnifying glass, after all.

  Click.

  That noise was Nate hitting a button on his magnifying glass.

  And I was suddenly face-to-face with a ten-foot-tall bumblebee.

  Yeah.

  Right in front of me.

  I said, “Gyahhhh!” as loud as I could. Apparently, it was right in Nate’s ear, because he shrieked in pain. Bosper, meanwhile, came bounding to the attack.

  “Dog bites bee!” the Scottish terrier yelled, jumping up onto the back of the couch and then leaping toward the monstrous bee with his teeth bared, chomping down on . . . nothing.

  He fell right through the giant bee.

  I noticed this, and I did think it was odd, but I was quite busy screaming at Nate.

  I yelled, “You promised you wouldn’t mutate her into a giant bee! That is, in fact, something very specific that you promised!”

  Bosper, spinning in confusion on the floor, barked, “Teeth missed bee?”

  “Bzzz,” Melville buzzed. But it wasn’t very loud. Definitely not as loud as it should have been. With a bumblebee that size, she should have been shuddering the walls and bursting the windows, but—

  “Here!” Nate said. He was thrusting his finger in my face. Which was rude, especially in all the excitement and especially since he had a bee on the end of his finger.

  Wait. A bee?

  It was Melville.

  “Bzzz,” she said.

  “Okay, what?” I said, looking to Nate. How could Melville be in two places, one of them regular and one of them giant?

  Nate said, “If I tell you something, will you promise not to punch me?”

  “No. But you still have to tell me.”

  “That’s fair. Well, it’s not, but I do think I owe you another apology. I should’ve told you that my magnifying glass is actually a microsphere nanoscope projector.”

  “Which means?” So far, it didn’t mean anything about Nate not deserving a punch.

  Nate said
, “It means that when I held it up to Melville it captured a three-dimensional image, which it then enlarged to giant size so everyone could see it.” I thought about Nate’s words. They seemed rather scientific, but not so scientific that I couldn’t understand them. I turned to the giant bee. I tried to touch it. My hand simply passed right through the image and the bee didn’t so much as twitch, although Melville, on Nate’s finger, made a bzzz of interest.

  I said, “So . . . this giant bee is just some ultra-high-tech movie hologram thing?”

  “Well, it’s a bit more technical than that. You see, since light travels at—”

  “You are answering yes or no, or you are getting punched.”

  “Yes,” Nate said, rather quickly. “It’s just a high-tech movie hologram thing.”

  All the tension went out of the room. I did punch Nate in the arm, but not anywhere near as hard as I could have. Proton, in the window, had never moved. Bosper started chewing on the edge of a rug, declaring, “Bosper is making attacks on the rug!” Apparently, the danger had passed. Unless the rug counted.

  I looked closer at the giant high-tech movie hologram of Melville, hardly barely at all terrified of it anymore. The mandibles were as long as my arms. The proboscis (that’s the long sticky tongue-thing: I looked up the word) was slurping all around. The antennae looked like saplings twitching in a strong wind. Bees have compound eyes, and also three of what are called “simple eyes,” much smaller ones near the top of their compound eyes. I guess that makes them five-eyed, but it’s still mean to call a bee that. Also, do compound eyes count as more than one eye? If so, Melville was, like, a thousand-eyed, which sounds like some creature from mythology, something that a Greek hero would’ve used a magic sword to vanquish, instead of something that pollinates flowers and occasionally perches on my shoulder, ever since we became friends.

  All in all, friend or not, Melville looked pretty horrifying. Her eyes were reflecting me a thousand times over, and there were even more reflections in the bits of metal that were . . .