The Bees: A Novel (16 page)

Drones screamed as they were ripped apart or bitten to death, and the sisters’ feet slid on the bloodied, pulsing comb. Filled with consecrated anger at every insult and humiliation, every wasted forage and sullied passageway, they avenged themselves on the wastrel favorites, the sacred sons who did nothing for their keep but brag and eat and show their sex to those who must only labor for them and never be loved.

Flora and her sisters dragged one drone after another out into the corridor, and all throughout the hive was screaming and pleading and the high thick smell of blood as every single sister took active part and every drone fled for his life toward the landing board. Males who fell were dragged struggling out into the dazing sun, and there they were dispatched, down into the grass where the Myriad crawled to eat them alive, or tossed out upon the air they once ruled, flying toward death on torn and bloody wings.

Twenty-Eight

T
HE PULSING IN THE COMB SUBSIDED AND THE THROBBING
air fell still. Throughout the hive every sister paused in her action as her senses returned to normal.

Crouched in the receiving area between the Dance Hall and the landing board, Flora heard the loud rasping of her own breath. Something large, warm, and motionless was beneath her, gripped between her legs. The drone’s head was pressed into the wax and her abdomen was curved hard and tight against him, her sting buried deep between his bands. He did not move as she pulled her dagger out. She backed away in horror. It was not possible—yet blood soaked her fur black.

All around her the comb showed dark wet swaths where bloody bodies had been dragged to the landing board. Other sisters rose to their feet, surrounded by shattered, torn, and decapitated drones. They stood panting and ashamed, not daring to meet each other’s eyes.

A dense, unnatural silence emanated from the Dance Hall, reaching out to touch the bees and compel them to return.

There a sickening spectacle met them. Amber and brown slicks of blood, yellow intestine spilling half-digested pollen and honey, segments of antennae, shattered eye-lenses, clawed and bitten plates of armor, and gore-clogged plumes littered the comb. The greatest concentrations were in the favored places where foragers danced, and every sister wailed in shame.

Bloodstained sisters from other parts of the hive came staggering in, called by the same signal. Some were having convulsions, and one knocked into Flora and held on to her. She was a receiver, and the sight of her open, gasping mouth triggered a reflex in Flora’s body. Suddenly her crop felt distended and heavy, as if she had just returned from a long forage—but it was not nectar that was rising. Flora choked in horror as blood gushed from her mouth and splashed across the comb.

Other foragers yelped and screamed as they too voided the terrible contents of their crops, and some almost tore their pollen baskets apart trying to empty them of any foul matter. The Dance Hall echoed with the wails and sobs of their shame, but many more sisters were locked mute with terror and could only stare.

T
HE FRAGRANCE OF
D
EVOTION
mingled with the smell of the drones’ blood. As it grew stronger, those who were sobbing ceased, and those who were stricken felt released. A physical surge swept through the chaos of the Dance Hall, bringing every sister to her feet, then a great cry of joy rang out, for the Queen herself stood in their midst.

“Rest, my weary daughters,” said the Queen, and her voice was soft as petals. “Lie down and let me heal you with your Mother’s Love.”

The Queen let her mantle open so that the scent of Devotion flowed stronger, and the bees sank to their knees in gratitude. A soft vibration rose up through the comb, a smooth rhythmic wave traveling back and forth across the Dance Hall, lifting and rocking them as if Holy Mother carried them all in her arms. She walked among them with her wings spread wide, and each sister felt the blanket of forgiveness settle upon her as she breathed in her Mother’s Love. As each sister began to weep, the bitter essence of vengeance drained from her body in her tears.

Flora lay on the smooth worn comb where so many times she had danced. The blood-scent of the drones rose up into the Queen’s Love and strengthened its fragrance. She could see the great gold-and-brown carpet of her sisters lying wing to wing, and the pale shimmer of movement as the soothing frequency rolled through the comb beneath them. She wanted to sit up and look upon the beauty of the Queen, but as the wave came toward her and she inhaled the divine fragrance, she entered its rhythm and joined the shared trance.

The Queen spread her wings and every bee sighed in bliss.

“Give me your shame and your sins, my daughters,” she said, “and I will wash them away with my Love. Give me all your grief, your guilt, your secrets, and I will tell you a story to lift your wings and fill your heart with joy.” The great chamber filled with a soft, low hum, and the Hive Mind joined every sister with the Queen. Held in sound and scent, the bees lay perfectly still as their minds traveled.

In the Time before Time in this very hive, a young princess paced in her chambers. She had slain all her rivals and cleaned her crown of blood, yet her triumph felt empty and her soul hungered for adventure. But each time she tried to leave her chambers her ladies blocked her with curtsies and sweet words until the princess grew to hate her rich robes, her food lost its savor, and she was vexed beyond imagining.

One day her strength rose. When her ladies came with nectar and ointments the princess burst past them and ran through the hive toward the wild air she yearned for. Down and down the hive she fled—but instead of trying to stop her, her ladies ran behind cheering in excitement, for the day had come.

The princess reached the landing board and stopped in shock, for no one had warned her of the sky and the sun. She wanted to run back in to safety and return another day, but now her ladies blocked her way, forcing her on toward the edge.

At this behavior the princess grew so angry she spread her wings, and a great humming roar filled her chest. In an instant she was high in the air, her home far beneath her and her body made of light and air. Her ladies sped behind her on their own, cheering and singing in praise.

The princess did not know where she went, but a strange new scent called her on. She was fearless and a joyous power filled her body. Her ladies could not keep up, and she heard their cries as birds dived at them but she did not stop. The huge tossing green heads of the trees were close ahead and at that place the smell was strong and rich and thick.

And then the princess saw them, the host of handsome gallants that thronged the air, calling her praise and showing their strength and valor. Some begged for her choice and those she ignored, but others came rushing to claim her. She tested their speed against her own, whirling above them in pride and freedom until the fleetest sprang upon her from above, where she had not seen him. At his clasp, the princess knew this was the sport she had hungered for.

Together they rode the wind until she felt his essence in her body. Keeping his dronewood tight within her she cried out and released him, and the gallant’s body tumbled down toward the earth. But her sport was not over. Again and again she chose a noble drone to capture her on the wing, and again and again she sent his body spinning down to earth, empty of dronesong and missing that part she kept.

At last her body was filled by the finest males in the air and her hunger sated. Then she turned her wings for home, and never had her palace smelled so sweet. Her ladies licked every trace of dronesong from her body and fought to share the last male organ lodged within her, that prize she took from each of them. And all the bees in the hive rejoiced in triumph, for with her marriage flight their princess was crowned Queen, and mother of generations to come.

In her trance, Flora felt the presence of the Queen close beside her, and she wanted to reach out and touch her but her body was not hers to move. The Queen spread her wings again, and the beautiful scent renewed itself across her sleeping daughters.

“And as you slew my sons, your brothers, in sacrifice to winter, so did I slay your several fathers, in sacrifice to spring. Each one’s life I took for love, and each year I tell this tale. When you wake you will forget every word of it. By my Love, you shall be cleansed of sin and made whole again.”

Flora sighed as the Queen touched her with a wing-tip, then walked among all her daughters, covering them with the mantle of her scent.

“Wake, beloved daughters,” she said. “Attend your sister and wash her, every one of you healed and reborn in your Mother’s Love.”

The sisters roused themselves and obeyed. The air was pure and sweet again and Flora washed every sister near her, combing and grooming clotted fur until it was smooth as thistle silk. Not since she had been taken into the Queen’s private chambers by the ladies-in-waiting had she felt any kind and gentle hands on her, and her heart filled with love and gratitude to all her sisters. Only when she felt the delightful feathering touch of her antennae being groomed did she understand the wonderful feeling. They were wide open, and she could not close them.

“Thank you, Sister.” Flora pulled away. She scanned about her. Every bee’s antennae were the same—wide open to absorb every molecule of the Queen’s Love and enraptured by the story trance. The relief was exquisite, and with it came the beauty of the hive, rushing upon her after being held so long at bay by her narrowed senses. Now she saw it all again—the curved, vaulted ceiling of the Dance Hall with its frescoes of flowers and leaves carved into the ancient wax panels, and her sisters—her beautiful, beloved sisters, with their warm, clean smell.

Flora tried again to close her antennae. All it would take was for one bee to grasp them, as Sister Teasel had done, and her secrets would pour out. She did not know when the spider’s prophecy would come true, but her egg might be forming at this exact moment, and any bee might scent it.
One more egg—

At this thought, Flora’s antennae opened to their full extent. To her joy and terror, the radiant scent memory of her last egg began to form in her mind, then in her body. She began to smell it and feel it as if she cradled it in her arms, and its fragrance seemed to drift around her, mingling with the Queen’s Love.

Possessed by the ghosting memory, Flora could not move one step, though all around her the different kin-scents began to rise as the sisters returned to work. As she smelled the distinctive tang of the fertility police, Flora felt someone watching her. Fear released her and she spun around, expecting to be confronted by a masked sister. But the beam of attention came from a huddle of sanitation workers. Realizing she had seen them, they dropped their eyes and antennae and busied themselves with grooming each other. Flora went to them.

“Honor to you, sisters,” she said. “You work for the police now?”

The first worker shook her head in horror, and the others bobbed their antennae to emphasize that they did not. They gazed at her with bright, intelligent black eyes.

Flora could not look away—and the image of her last egg returned bright and clear in her mind’s eye, the memory of its fragrance pouring strong from her antennae.

My beloved egg, my lost child—

She waited for them to screech the alarm, but instead they shuffled closer to her. Then they lifted their kin-scent stronger and joined it around her. With a shock of gratitude, Flora knew they used it to shield her from discovery. They knew she was the laying worker, and they did not reveal it. The wall of scent thickened as strong steps approached. At the astringent scent of this particular Sister Sage, Flora’s antennae sprang shut, and their roots throbbed in warning.

“Overwhelmed with love for your kin, I see. You no longer shun them?”

Flora curtsied. “No, Sister.
Accept, Obey, and Serve
.” She felt Sister Sage’s penetrating attention examining her antennae, taking particular note of the fine line of the seal.

“Always diligent, 717. In all you do.” The priestess studied her. “Now that you have found your way back to Sanitation, you will remain until further notice—is that clear?”

“Yes, Sister.”

Sister Sage indicated the Dance Hall. The Queen had gone.

“You and your kin will restore this chamber to its immaculate state.” With an elegant foot, the priestess pushed aside a drone’s broken torso. “You will transfer all debris to the morgue, which you will then clean from top to bottom, and in all corners. You will completely empty that chamber, and permit nothing to interrupt this task. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sister.” As the great calmed crowd of sisters filed out of the Dance Hall, Flora signaled to the sanitation workers to wait for her.

“I see they recognize your authority.” Sister Sage scanned Flora again. “Do not close your mind to us, 717. Soon it will be time for the Winter Cluster. Do you know what that means?”

“No, Sister.”

“Life, for those who join it.” Sister Sage looked at the sanitation workers, who were already sweeping and scrubbing the Dance Hall clean. “But not all sisters can. When the last task is completed, send that detail to the spiders.”

“The
spiders
? Sister, why? They are fit and strong—”

“Silence! Winter is merciless, your kin is legion, and their few lives traded will help the hive.” Sister Sage paused. “The Melissae care for every kin, 717, even yours. I assure you their sacrifice has value, and their end will be quick.” The priestess walked away.

Flora stared at her kin-sisters as they swept and cleaned. She picked up a broom and went to join them. Feeling her sadness, they touched her in concern. This time, their kindness hurt.

Twenty-Nine

F
LORA DIVIDED THE SANITATION WORKERS INTO TWO
details. One ferried drone remains directly from the Dance Hall to the landing board while the other started from the morgue. It was full since Flora’s last visit, the storage racks near the front tight with compacted dry bodies of old sisters, crushed together for maximum storage. The older dead were stored farther back in the long chamber, from where came a strong odor of propolis disinfectant. To Flora’s surprise, all her workers crowded away from it, little jabs of fear bursting from them.

Heartsick at her imminent betrayal, Flora did not force them deeper but went herself. It was usual to treat the storage racks with propolis, and the large number of dead sisters was unsurprising, for all were old and from the early summer—but as she walked farther between the racks, she felt the difference in the air. A stillness . . . a secret. Beneath the bright antiseptic top note of the propolis, there were clots of decay. The bustling sounds of the workers faded and the blackness thickened.

Flora stopped. Stored bodies in the morgue were always dry—but here the comb underfoot was wet. The seepage came from a soft and shapeless pile in the corner. Forcing back her instinctive revulsion, Flora extended her antennae to decipher the material. She stepped back in horror.

The pile was made of brood of all ages, from collapsed eggs to decomposing larvae to perfect, fully formed young sisters, their limbs compressed as if their emergence chambers still held them safe.

Sister Sage could not possibly know about this, for no bee would tolerate this decay and concealment, and Flora’s time in the Nursery had taught her that dead brood were always promptly removed. Tightening her spiracles against the polluting smell, she touched her antennae to the freshest-looking corpse. It could not be—she moved her antennae to scan the kin-scent of other heads protruding from the pile. All were Sage.

“Do not tarry, 717.” The priestess’s voice came toward her down the corridor. “Simply arrange a rota to carry the debris a safe distance from the hive. Then clean every cell of this place.” Sister Sage appeared at the doorway.

“Sister, something terrible—”

The priestess examined the detailing of the morgue doorway. “This needs attention too. And when every last hexagon is cleaned, complete your orders. You alone will remain behind. Your strength will be needed.”

“But, Sister—the dead Sage brood—”

The priestess stared at her. “You are mistaken.”

“No, Sister—” Flora staggered as the Hive Mind roared in her brain.

Do not question the Melissae! Accept, Obey, and Serve!

“Accept, Obey, and Serve—”
Flora managed to repeat, over and over, until the pain subsided. When she could focus again, the priestess had gone, and the corps of sanitation workers stood in silence in the corridor, waiting for more orders. Their eyes were bright and steady, an urgent question in their gaze.

Flora could not bear to trick them.

“Winter comes, and to help the hive survive the Sage have bought knowledge from the spiders. The price . . . is the life of every flora who steps into this chamber to work.” She looked into their trusting eyes. “If I could spare you— If I could go in your place—”

The floras came closer to her and touched their heads against her abdomen. Even though her antennae were sealed, the image of her egg shone bright in her mind. They knew. The floras stepped back and waited for her to speak, but she could not. The Holy Chord for Devotion began to vibrate through the comb floor.

“Go,” Flora whispered. “Those who would spare themselves, find another task and do not return. I will finish the work and go in your place.”

The sanitation workers bobbed their strange curtsy to her, then ran to receive the sacrament. Flora watched them go, stunned at their knowledge. It must have happened during the Queen’s Dream, when all antennae were opened. That was why they had shielded her with their kin-scent.

She sat down. She had been ordered to send them to their deaths, but she could not do it. She betrayed her hive in every way. The vibration of Devotion rose around her and she knew she had only to walk down the passageway to receive more, but she craved stillness.

The memory of her egg rose again, perfect beauty in a raw wax crib. Flora clutched her empty belly and wept for her lost motherhood, richer than any Queen’s blessing. A thought hit her.

The crib, in the shadow of those three huge cocoons, each one with its unborn Sage priestess. Half-formed, like the largest in that pile behind her.

She got up to look at them again—and screamed in horror, for the mound of dead was moving. A foul odor rose and Flora readied her claws to start killing a tide of parasites—and then with a great retching sound the center of the pile rose up high, and from it appeared the slimed body of Sir Linden.

“Kill me,” he gasped, “for I would rather die than hide in here another moment.” He scraped at the repulsive matter that covered him. “A coward to the end. I should have stood by my brothers and died with them.” He fell on his knees in front of Flora and bared the joint of his head and thorax. “I heard all that passed today.”

“Your name was called.” Flora could not look at him. “You were presumed missing in passion.”

“Passion to eliminate—I could not wait. When I returned I heard the screaming—at first I thought the wasps came—then when I saw I could not believe it—I still cannot—”

“Nor I.”

They were silent. The vibrations of Devotion began to fade. Linden reached up with stiff arms and tried to pull his sodden ruff right, then abandoned the effort.

“It is not strange to me, really, that you should turn on us at last. I know how vast we lived, with what ease, at every sister’s expense. Not one grain of pollen or drop of water, let alone nectar, did we ever bring in. Nor one stroke of work did we do—but we were very quick with our demands.
Clean my hooks, lick my groin. Admire me, attend me, and you may eat my crumbs.
And all the food we wasted . . . Forgive me.”

He knelt forward and bared his joint again.

“There is nowhere left for me, I understand. I ask but one thing: spare me the police and kill me yourself.”

Flora turned away. “Ask some other sister. I am weary of death.”

He looked up. “You are merciful?”

Flora could not speak, for the image of the egg shone again in her mind. She curled her abdomen in and held herself, searching for the feeling. The emptiness was pain.

“You wept,” he said. “I heard you. Are you sick?”

“For love,” Flora said.

“Ah, all you sisters fall in love with flowers, it is your only release. That, and your adoration of the Queen—”

“Not with a flower, not with the Queen.”

Sir Linden wiped gore from his face and puffed his thorax a little. “Anyone I might know?

“No. And lost some time ago.”

The comb rattled with the returning steps of the sanitation workers and Flora shook her memories away. Linden looked at her in alarm.

“I have not seen you.” She went to the door to meet her workforce. Every one of them glowed strong and beautiful from Devotion, and all stood tall.

“Work fast, my sisters,” Flora said to them. “Save it for the end.”

The sanitation workers nodded. Fearless now, they went to work on every section of the morgue, cleaning and scrubbing and carrying out bodies until the floor was spotless, every mortal remnant was gone, and the whole chamber was empty.

Sir Linden was nowhere to be seen.

Then the sanitation workers bowed to Flora and drew their kin-scent strong about them to hold in the last of the Devotion in their bodies. Six by six, they walked in silent procession out to the landing board, Flora with them.

They shivered as they stepped out into the light. Then they opened their spiracles to release one last saved breath of the Queen’s Love and drew in the divine healing scent.

“Praise end your days
,
sisters,”
Flora said to them. They twisted their little faces into their grimacing smiles, then one by one they set their engines. When all were ready they leaped the board together.

Their aim was good and their force strong as they hit the webs, and the orchard chimed with the Holy Chord. Flora forced herself to watch as the spiders ran to meet the bees, and she cried out as her own sisters’ kin-scent burst bright on the air. The priestess had told the truth: their end was quick.

But she had also lied, for Flora knew that decomposing pile of bodies at the back of the morgue held no other kin than Sage—yet the priestess had flatly denied it.

Nothing made sense. The sanitation workers were strong and healthy and seemed only ever to die of old age—yet they were frequently sacrificed in great numbers. Exhausted and empty, Flora walked back inside. She tried to remember which scripture ordained the Sage the power of life and death. It was not in the Catechism, nor the prayer tiles, nor could she recall it from the Queen’s Library—but it must surely exist, for their rule was law.