The Bees: A Novel (12 page)

Twenty

F
LORA STEPPED OUT ON THE LOWEST STORY OF THE HIVE
to freezing-cold air blowing in from the landing board, and the battering of hail against the wooden hive. Thistle guards ran to push back the boulders of ice rolling in, and Flora joined the sisters running to help them. She felt completely disoriented, as if she had slept for a long time and missed the news of the hive, for judging by the rush of house bees toward the Dance Hall, a meeting had been called.

The smell of Sage priestesses came from within, and Flora pressed herself against other sanitation workers in the crush to share their kin-scent and mask any smell of her egg. In the center of the Dance Hall the massed choir of Sage priestesses hummed the Holy Chord until the vast harmonic drowned out the sound of the hail. Then they sent their silent will through the comb, in the voice of the Hive Mind.

In obedience, the bees formed themselves into concentric circles as if this were the Fanning Hall. Then the priestesses were lifted up by their own kin so that all could see them. Their wings were unlatched, their scent shimmered stronger, and their eyes were luminous. They spoke in their beautiful, low choral voice so that every sister heard them above the hail.

“We are the holy Melissae, born of the Queen’s kin, and guardians of the Hive Mind. The season is dark, the flowers have turned against us, and the air to flood and ice. Spores of evil growth enter on the damp wind and blight our chalices of nectar, and our Treasury shrinks faster than we can fill it. Holy Mother’s sacred work is halted, and the sins of Apathy, Despair, and Inertia settle on us like flies.”

The scent of the Sage rose stronger and the foragers stirred uneasily, for beneath it crept the heavy masking odor of the fertility police. Flora immediately sealed her antennae and drew her spiracles tight to withstand its domineering influence. Her instinct was to run, but that would be fatal, and if she died so would her—

She forced the secret thought back down and looked around her. Every sister’s antennae stood in fear, even the foragers’. They could not all be guilty—she must remain calm.

The priestesses scanned the chamber. Extending their elegant antennae to their full length, they absorbed information flaring from every fear-struck sister. Frightened little buzzes came from different areas of the crowd as the thick scent of the fertility police crept low and tight around their legs and feet to hold them fast. Flora did not resist it, even as waves of panic ran through the chamber from thousands of sisters. If they found her, then it was Holy Mother’s will she must die.

Holy Mother . . .
To even think of the Queen was painful. Her kindness, her beauty, the way her loving touch had taken away Flora’s shame at her kin—

“We, the hive, are guilty of Sacrilege and Waste,” resumed the choral voice of the Sage priestesses. “Nectar in Fanning has been drunk without permission, foragers lost on the wing, and even mistakes made in the Nursery”—there was a gasp of shock at this—“because of errors in this very chamber.” The priestesses shimmered their wings to spread their scent.

“The Queen’s Love is carried by the Rule of Law, and we show our loyalty to Holy Mother through our trust in her priestesses, the Melissae. The season has grown hostile and bloom after bloom we have called it aberration, and waited for change. And now it comes in this rain of ice, and the meaning is clear: it is a judgment on our hive and a call to penance!”

The dark bees wove in from the edges, driving the crowd tighter.

“We have consulted the ancient codes in our Holy Mother’s Library,” continued the priestesses in their several voices, harsher now but still beautiful. “The Queen has reassured us of her Love, and we are permitted to celebrate our sisterhood with the Rite of Expiation.”

The silent bees stared back.

Expiation . . .
Flora tried to think where she had heard that word before. Then it came to her—the fourth panel of the Queen’s Library. She wanted fresh air, she wanted to leave this chamber, but the choral voice of the Sage continued.

“The sacred act calls upon the sacrifice of love, one bee for her sisters, her Mother, her hive. Who here is old and near the end of her use? Who hides a weakness that may be illness, or has in any way sinned? To save your sisters and free our hive from this suffering, give yourselves now.”

No bee moved or spoke but kin-scents streaked with terror spiraled in the air. Flora saw the serene blind face of Sister Cyclamen, who had been so kind to her in the Chapel of Wax.
Expiation.
The old sister began to lift her hand.

“I will do it!” Flora called out loudly. “I will atone!”

T
HE CROWD TURNED
and the focus of every Sage priestess locked onto her as she walked forward. Sisters shrank back, awed and frightened. Flora unlocked her antennae and felt a rush of relief.
Only the Queen may breed—
that was the truth, and to acknowledge it reunited her soul with her sisters. Gladly would she give her life for them, and win back honor with her death.

“I am Flora 717 and I—”

“And I will too!” called out another voice in the crowd.

“And I,” shouted another.

“I will die for Holy Mother—”

“I am of the spring, my time draws near, take me—”

One after another they called out.

“Let me—”

“I cling to life but I am old—”

“I am greedy—”

“I am weak—”

Sister after sister walked forward after Flora. The priestesses directed them all to stand in a group in the center. One walked around dividing them.

“Young, old. Old. Old. Old.” She stopped at Flora. “But you are very young.” She raked a claw through Flora’s fur. “Barely risen.”

Flora looked down at herself and saw it was true—her fur was thick and lustrous as if she were still just a young nurse. The priestess drew a slow claw under Flora’s abdomen and brought it out. A curled filament of wax hung from it. She smelled it. Flora waited for the blow, for though she had gained access to the chapel as a forager, none of her kin was permitted to work with this sacred substance.

“You still make wax—of course we cannot spare you. A noble gesture, but stand aside.” The priestess passed on, inspecting the volunteer bees.

Flora could not believe it—surely the priestess had smelled her guilt. Then she felt her antennae sealed tight again. She had done it unconsciously, and she knew why. Deep in her mind, her tiny egg shone pure and bright. It did not want to die, it did not want its mother to die—and they were still connected. Joy rushed through Flora’s body and she looked down at herself. It was true, she did look young again. Her fur rose thick and lustrous, her cuticle gleamed, her joints were supple. Very quietly she opened her wing-latches and sent her consciousness running down the four membranes. Each one was strong and supple and whole, with no trace of damage. The deep tear she knew had been there had healed.

Holy Mother’s youth restored with every egg.
And she, a flora from Sanitation, was stealing the gift of life and youth and power from Holy Mother herself, bringing destruction and death on her hive.

“Do not spare me!” Flora shouted. “Let me die, destroy my sins!”

“Religious mania, 717.” In the group of the old selected volunteers, Sister Teasel stood watching her. “But I know you spoke first, and it was brave.” She plucked at her bald thorax as if the fur still grew. “It should have been me; it is up to the higher kin to set the standard.” She twisted her hands. “But I shall do it in death. Now hush, and let us pray in peace.”

The Sage priestesses bowed and addressed the ragged old group.

“Daughters of our Holy Mother, servants of our hive: do you willingly give your bodies and souls in the Rite of Expiation?”

The old bees nodded and held each other.

“We do,” some managed to say.

“Thank you, noble sisters. Then
Accept, Obey, and Serve.
”

“Accept, Obey, and Serve,”
the old bees whispered.

The Sage priestesses brought the younger bees who had volunteered themselves to surround the older group.

“You shall lead the rite,” one of the Sage priestesses said to them, and then the Holy Chord rose up again. From the back of the Dance Hall the dark-slicked bees from the fertility police began driving the others forward. Then the chant began.

Blessed be the sister

Who takes away my sin.

Blessed be the sister—

The kin of Sage began it, but each kin group took it up in a round until the whole chamber resonated with the words and the words blurred into a low surging sound as the crowd pushed forward.

Flora felt the weight of a thousand sisters against her back. All around them were gasps and cries as old sisters went down under the force of the crowd and the chant grew louder.

Blessed be the sister—
Her antennae roared with the overlapping words as her feet were forced forward.
Fertility is Life itself.
The thought made her stumble but she dug her hooks into the wax and felt the strength powering down her six legs.
I am fertile.
Blood rushed into her wing-veins and she longed to spread them on the air. She must get back within three days to watch her egg hatch—

Her body slammed hard against one of the old bees—and she looked straight into the terrified face of Sister Teasel.

Blessed be the sister—

Who takes away my sin—

“
Holy Mother forgive my fear!” Sister Teasel clung to Flora and pressed her antennae tight against hers. Flora cried out in shock but it was too late. The scent and the feel and the love she felt for her beautiful egg rushed into Sister Teasel’s mind. The old sister recoiled.

“
You!
You are the laying worker!” Sister Teasel struggled for footing in the hardening crush. “Here!” she screamed out. “Here is the heretic—”

Flora kicked her legs out from under her but Sister Teasel only staggered. She clawed at Flora’s face and pumped her alarm glands wildly.

“She sins again! Kill her egg!”

The waves of the chant rolled louder above them as Flora pushed Sister Teasel down onto the throbbing comb and broke her neck.

Blessed be the sister

Who takes away our sins . . .

Flora stood up, her kin-scent pumping hard. All around the Dance Hall the sisters pushed forward, moving the dead into a pile of frail old bodies in the center. Sister Teasel’s body disappeared under others.

Blessed be the sisters—
sang the beautiful chorus of the Sage.

Who take away our sin.

Our Mother, who art in labor . . .

“Hallowed be Thy womb,”
joined in all the other bees. As they spoke the ancient words of the Queen’s Prayer together, the vibration in the comb changed, and the fragrance of Devotion began to flow.

Many bees wept at the sight of the old dead sisters, and kin comforted kin, but all kept breathing deeply of the Queen’s Love, calming themselves with its purity and strength. Flora spoke the words and closed her antennae tight. They were bruised from Sister Teasel’s attack, but she was alive, and so was her secret.

“Amen,”
she said, with all her sisters.

They stood in silence, the pressure eased. The only sound was a blackbird’s song, far out in the orchard. The hail had stopped.

The Sage priestesses raised their arms in triumph and the bees cheered and wept in joy, their terror forgotten. With a fine fierce sound the foragers unlatched their wings and the house bees cheered them on as they ran for the landing board, bright and steaming as the clouds released the sun.

Twenty-One

S
HOCKED AT HER OWN ACT
, F
LORA WAS AMONG THE FIRST
out. A rising front from the south wiped the last shred of gray from the sky and below her spread the great plain of different greens, pushed together in crude four-sided shapes as if by some primitive insect ignorant of the beauty of the hexagon. In the distance where once had shone the field of golden rapeseed, two great machines toiled away at the soil. Flora flexed a wing-tip and veered away from the smell.

She had offered herself up, but she had not been taken. She was fertile, yet still alive. For whatever reason, it had not been Holy Mother’s will that she die—otherwise her confession would have been heard. Instead, a Sage priestess had passed her to the side of the living, and Sister Teasel to the dying.

Flora tucked her antennae sleek down her back as she increased her speed. Never again would she leave her channels open in the hive for any bee to grab and read. Sister Teasel was old and could no longer work efficiently—but Flora’s wings beat with a new strength. She felt she could fly a hundred leagues to serve her hive, and the sky streamed with all the scents rising from the wet earth—including mesmerizingly delicious nectar. Flora locked onto it.

Fresh nectar, after days of stale, damp food in the hive—how her sisters would cheer and what a balm to her conscience, to see them feasting on her forage. Flora was ravenous, and she increased her wingbeats. With luck she might even be first to stand on the velvet lip of a petal as the day’s nectar rose.

She sped along the stinking dark line of the road, toward the red- and gray-roofed town and the tiny green gardens that pried the houses apart. The asphalt veins multiplied and the dank monoxide wind billowed higher, but Flora rose above it, glorying in her extraordinary new power. Perhaps Holy Mother had spared her for this very purpose: to bring the finest forage for the hive, and fill its Treasury with wealth. By her efforts foraging and the value she brought to the hive, she would offset the crimes of her body.

Flora steadied herself on the high, warm current and checked her position, logging all the visual markers into her antennae. The town was straight ahead, but if she veered to follow the rising land on one side, she could approach its tiny gardens from the back—and those flowers whose sweet mouths she could smell. She felt for the thermal flowing toward the slope of the land and rose up to catch it. But instead of the warm curl of air she expected to ride with ease, it spiraled and spun her into a big, fast current streaming through the valley.

Get down!
Lily 500’s voice burned through her antennae.
Descend!

So the old forager had traveled this way herself, then. Flora struggled lower to clear her antennae from the strange sound in the wind that kept snagging her attention. The interference got worse. With a rattling snap, all but her visual data completely vanished.

Alarmed that this might be the result of particles of that gray film of sickness, Flora flew toward a clump of trees on the hilltop. Her body felt strong and well, but a pressure was building in her head, and the trees came in and out of focus.

One was larger than the rest and its dark green branches barely moved. It was some sort of massive conifer, its leaves stiff and gleaming, its trunk covered in a strangely uniform-colored brown bark. Some of its branches appeared to be made completely of metal, and a dismal emanation transmitted from its core, like a prayer mumbled backward. It had no smell and its energy was neither living nor dead.

The wind scattered on the hilltop and once again Flora tried to descend, but an alien force pumped at her brain and blocked out her senses. She found herself flying around the tree’s dead, shiny branches, on which no insects crawled and no birds rested. Far below were four shining metal roots, ugly and symmetrical, dug deep into a stone platform on which were scattered many black dots. Their shape was familiar, for they were bees. Revolted, Flora tried to use her strength to break out of the prison circle in which she flew, but each effort merely increased her speed. A hideous power pulsed from the metal tree, sapping her strength.

A sharp pain shot through her head as a burst of Lily’s data broke in again.

Do not look down— Follow—

Flora strained to draw more out but her antennae sagged like dead things. Follow what? She tried to focus on one spot beyond the tree and hurl herself out toward it, but her whirling momentum blurred everything to writhing green lines.

—the Myriad—the Myriad—the Myriad—

Now the old forager’s data looped over and over, mixing with the dull moan of the tree’s core until Flora wanted to tear her own antennae from her head to stop it. A high hissing sound cut in and as she was dragged around again she caught a lurid flash of black-and-yellow livery.

“Greetings, Sister Apis,” called the high, wicked voice of a wasp. It hung in the air watching her, completely unaffected by the shining tree. “Are we outwitted, so far from home?” It flew alongside Flora to show itself.

She was a young female, much smaller than the great Lady Vespa who had tried to raid the hive and been cooked for her pains—but even in her dulled state Flora could see her malicious face and smell her ready sting. The wasp laughed again.

“Oh we do like to see our sisters Apis in trouble. . . . Even the Chosen People must sometimes struggle, no?” She floated closer to Flora. “None of you know this tree, do you? Until it is too late!” She made little backward bounces without moving her wings, showing off. “We are not the Chosen People, but we are still superior, do you see, cousin? We make no honey, but we are more intelligent, more beautiful—” The wasp smirked and pirouetted, and even in her battered state Flora longed to strike her to the ground.

“And, oh yes!” The wasp slid out her little dagger to show the bead of poison glistening at its tip. “And so much better equipped!” She flexed it lasciviously, then flew so close to Flora that her buzzing drowned out the moaning of the tree.

“Admit that we are better, and curtsy to me,” simpered the wasp, “and I might show you how to leave.”

Follow—the Myriad—
Lily 500’s voice bit through Flora’s heavy mind—
Because they are not affected—

“I admit it!” Flora spread her knees in a clumsy curtsy and tipped in the air. The wasp shrieked with laughter, then whirred her wings in her face.

“Follow me quick and close, stupid cousin, and do it now—”

Flora lunged after the wasp and fell from the tree’s hold. The ground spun toward her but she grabbed on to a dry brown stem. The wasp settled on the dead bush beside her and waited while Flora righted herself.

“So clumsy; how the flowers must hate your touch. Curtsy again.”

“No.” Nauseated and angry, Flora could barely speak.

“La la, then I will leave you,” sang the wasp, “and watch how long you take to die.” She flew off a short distance and hovered. Flora gathered her strength to fly, but her body was weak and her fuel supplies low. As soon as she felt the air between her wingbeats, the moaning tree sucked her back toward it.

“Curtsy,” sang the wasp, “and see your hive again. Up to you!”

Flora clutched the twig again and curtsied to the wasp.

“How the Chosen People grovel, when they must! With all your treasure and your fur, and your superior holy attitude that you make such song and dance about. As if you are the only ones the flowers care for!”

“You are right, cousin. You are better. Now how may I leave here?”

“Ah well, first you should have kept to your side of the road,” said the wasp.

“The air belongs to all. No wasp decrees our flight.”

“Is that the royal We? Well dear cousin, let me tell you:
we,
the Vespa, think that your royal mother sickens. Indeed we do.”

“You lie.” Flora’s sting flexed at the insult.

“Oh no, for we found a poor sister from your orchard, lost on the wing just like you.” She made her small sizzling laugh. “We know your livery; of course we do. Even when sullied with nasty gray specks. Poor dying Apis, we carried her in to comfort her last moments, and how freely she spoke! How she called for her sisters—oh, we did not take offense, for she was very weak, but it was charming how she shared her news with us, of Lady Vespa’s rude reception, and all about your holy Sage.” The wasp put her head to one side. “And how Mother’s reek grows weaker.”

“
Holy
Mother! And her Love stays strong.” Flora’s dagger tingled to be used.

“Forgive me, cousin, you are right to mark my manners.” The wasp giggled, then shot her a sly look. “Do you think we are inferior?”

“Yes—but it is not your fault.” Flora did not want to anger the wasp. “You are stronger than me, for you can withstand this tree.”

“Not a tree, stupid cousin!” The wasp hovered and lifted one claw in time to a silent beat. “Can you not hear it? Boom, boom, boom—it never stops! And so loud and boring—but at least it cannot broadcast scent. That would be much harder to ignore.”

Now that the wasp had pointed it out, Flora could feel the heavy magnetic throb dragging on the air. Completely immune to the pulse of the cell phone tower, the wasp wove about in the air in front of Flora, demonstrating different wingbeats.

“Subtler frequencies, you see. We set them to miss that dreary beat—because we are better fliers than you. Better at everything!”

“Indeed,” Flora said sincerely. “You are very wise to understand this tree. And if I can return home, I will gladly tell my sisters of your skill.”

“Of course you can. I will show you the kindness of wasps. How are your aerials?”

Flora’s antennae were raw from the brutal pulsation of the shining tree and she could neither smell nor orient herself in any way, but she raised them to show good spirits.

The wasp smiled.

“Then follow me, and all will be well.”

Senses blunted, Flora set her wingbeats to the wasp’s strange frequency and flew in her slipstream. If her cousin had not left her there to perish, then she could be trusted.