The Bees: A Novel (11 page)

“Queenspeed to your desire.”

“In fact, the next time you go out—”

“Spurge is not in season.” Flora found his smell comforting.

“Pah—nothing is in its proper season anymore—I believe this is supposed to be summer and the time of plenty, but you are confined by rain and I am starving.” He sniffed at her. “But no wonder you’re sagging there like you’re waiting for the Kindness—not a molecule of Devotion in your scent. Here.”

Without warning Sir Linden touched his antennae to Flora’s, and despite the lock she had put on them, he pushed the Queen’s Love straight into her brain. The divine fragrance had changed—or she had—for it no longer provoked ecstasy, but gradually it numbed the clawing feeling inside her. She shuddered in relief.

“Better?” Sir Linden smelled her again. “Must be something to it, though I don’t know a single chap who rates it. We’re Mother’s favorites so we don’t need it—but the way you girls go in for it: life or death business! Must be hard for you.”

Flora’s despair lifted. Holy Mother still loved her—she felt it in her heart.

“Thank you,” she said to him. “The rain eases; I must go.”

She ran to join the eager foragers crowding for the board. From this moment on she would be the hardest-working, most devout, dutiful, and self-sacrificing daughter of the hive.
It was good her crime had died—it was good—danger would purge her—

The sun broke the clouds, the foragers’ engines roared, and Flora leaped into the air, in flight from her own desires.

Eighteen

T
HE BREAK IN THE WEATHER DID NOT LAST
. A
SHARP
east wind drove heavy rains over the hills and down across the valley, and many sisters were lost that day. Heeding the early warning from Lily 500’s barometric data, Flora made it back with a scant last load of willowherb pollen and, because there were no ready receivers, took it herself to Pollen and Patisserie. The desperate gratitude of the yellow-dusted sisters baking there made her determined to go out again, but on her return to the board the Thistle guards stood barring all further flights.

“You are too valuable to lose,” one said, with her kin’s awkward jocularity. Flora forced a smile and watched the air as the last few returning foragers managed to land in the rain. All were bedraggled with badly torn wings, some had broken antennae, and they crowded into the corridor to let the receivers salvage what they could from their sodden pollen panniers.

Then exhausted sisters went not to the Dance Hall, but to find a berth for their final sleep. Other foragers touched them as they passed and murmured the salute
Praise end your days, Sister.
The pain eased from the wounded sisters’ faces and their beauty shone, for to die like this in honor and safety was every forager’s hope.

Flora joined one of the many fanning details set about the hive due to the cold, damp air. First she used her great wing-power in the lobbies, moving when the shift changed to let exhausted house bees rest their weaker bodies, and then when the emergency message flashed through the floor tiles, she went up to the Fanning Hall. A leak in the roof was letting in moisture and sisters rushed to make a chain of their bodies and pass beads of presoftened propolis to seal it. Mold spores had been found on some of the highest honey vaults and every kin but the sanitation workers were called to the fanning rotas, even the Thistles. They came in from the landing board, for no predators attacked a wet hive, and they fanned hard and fast as if heating a wasp to death. Even drones came in to watch, admiring the sisters’ agile antics and calling at frequent intervals for refreshments to be brought to them, as it was a tiring sight to behold.

By the end of the day the rain was still strong, and the spirits of the sisters—the foragers especially—had grown weak. The smell of damp fur and high kin odors filled the hive and every sister’s wings were limp and crumpled from the ceaseless running to and fro to fan or carry. All were desperate for a long, ecstatic service of Devotion. When it came, the comb shivered and the fragrance poured forth, but the beating of the rain or the pressure of the sky had affected the transmission, and the bees struggled to find their natural state of Oneness and Love.

By the second morning the foragers were irritable as they turned back from the drenched landing board; the sanitation workers smelled even stronger as they carried the night’s dead to the morgue; and in the cold damp canteens the food had lost much savor. Devotions came and went, crowded, humid, and silent as each sister concentrated on restoring her own spiritual harmony.

By the third day, the streaming bars of rain locked the hive into cabin fever. Bales of waste accumulated in the freight depot, and some frustrated foragers refused to accept the law and flew out to their deaths. The Thistle reinforced their presence in the approach corridor to stop further waste of worker resources.

“Selfish,” other bees said when they heard. “More work for the rest.”

After the fanning and the cleaning there was nothing to do but talk, and gossip bred like mold in the damp confinement. Nothing was off-limits as the sisters struggled to find occupation for their constant restless energy; every kin was discussed by every other, the décor of the hive and its state of repair, the food, the standard of hygiene—even the Queen’s laying.

This last topic, which could have been the death warrant of any who spoke of it disparagingly, was always discussed in fulsome terms. Every bee knew a Nursery worker or had recently been one herself, and every bee had her own most personal relationship with Holy Mother. They compared their feelings during and after Devotion, and there was more than a little competition over who felt her Love most strongly, for ecstasy was piety. The conversations always concluded with the acknowledgment that Her Majesty continued to lay at magnificent speed and volume and was more beautiful than ever, and as she was the mightiest force in the universe, this rain must be a sign of her displeasure, and so they must all work harder.
Accept, Obey, and Serve.

Flora said the words too, half devout and half ashamed. Her body surged with unused energy and, despite the deepening tear in one wing membrane, she longed to fly to escape the terrible tension of confinement, not only with her sisters but with her own thoughts. Keeping her antennae shut at all times was a terrible strain, for it meant she could hardly rest at night lest she dream in scent of her egg. It was pointless to lie there in guilt, unable to sleep and occupying a premium rest chamber some more worthy sister might take, so like many other forager sisters who could not sleep because of their confinement, she got up and wandered the corridors.

On her way to the landing board to check conditions, Flora paused to peer into the Drones’ Hall. It was a squalid sight. The long days of inactivity had made many drones corpulent, the floor was filthy, and the sisters tending them did so with a disconsolate air, more interested in the falling crumbs than on praising Their Malenesses. The curling, pungent pheromones of the males cut through the stifling smell of ten thousand damp sisters and Flora went in to breathe more. To her surprise many other sisters were also there and she saw from their faces that they too breathed the drones’ scent as some relief from the unventilated female fug of the dormitories.

A strange atmosphere hung in the large chamber. In their boredom and hunger some sisters took liberties with the drones’ food and drink, and in return the drones took liberties with the sisters’ bodies, touching them idly while speaking to each other of princesses they would seize when the rain ceased.

Flora withdrew, a strange feeling stirring in her body. Without realizing it, her antennae channels had spread wide open and she drew great, deep breaths through all her spiracles. When she tried to draw them shut she found they were stuck, and a spasm shot through her whole body. Her belly swelled warm and tight and a tiny vibration flickered deep within her abdomen.

Flora hurried away from the Drones’ Hall renewed in terror and in joy that her crime would come again. In the empty lobby outside the Dance Hall she paused to scent the air from the landing board. The orchard was sweet and cool in the rising dawn, and the rain had almost stopped. The comb began to thrum as the hive awoke and the multitude of sisters began moving. Once desperate to be out on the wing, Flora no longer wanted to forage, only to be still and breathe sweet wax.

The egg in her belly glowed brighter inside her like a tiny sun. As the first foragers came down the main staircase Flora ran up a smaller one, to the midlevel. Soon she would lay, and in secret. In order to survive, her egg must have a pure wax crib—but she could not risk going to the Nursery.

Flora hesitated in the midlevel lobby, pretending to pore over the mosaic codes with the other sisters checking which area first required their services. She could smell the Nursery cribs from where she stood, only ever made of the purest new wax that came from the hallowed and restricted chapel. To prevent the risk of accidental contamination, the entrance was always veiled from full public scent and impossible to find with the naked eye.

Checking to make sure that there were no Sage priestesses or police in the vicinity, Flora unlocked her antennae to locate the Chapel of Wax. Immediately, her love for her egg rushed upon her and she felt her kin-scent rising warm and strong. Someone must smell her, would seize her—but all she felt were the pulsing prayer tiles beneath her feet, for she was already on the path. A purifying scent shimmered across the plain wax doors ahead, and parted at her approach. The doors swung open.

Nineteen

W
E ARE HONORED
, M
ADAM
F
ORAGER
.” A
N AGED SISTER
from Cyclamen held out her hands in greeting. Not since Lily 500 had Flora seen such a wise, beautiful sister. “What gift can we give you?”

“I—I come to learn the skill of wax.”

When Sister Cyclamen smiled Flora saw that she was completely blind.

“Not a skill, but a prayer of the body,” she said. “Come.” The doors closed behind them and Flora felt a great sense of peace and safety. The whole chapel was made of new wax, pure white and sweetly scented.

“It is like being inside a crib.” Flora breathed in the wonderful perfume.

“All are children while they pray. What was the flower of your emergence, my child? You smell young, yet I feel your risen fur.”

“I have no flower. I—I am a flora.”

“Do not be ashamed,” said Sister Cyclamen. “When you pray, the wax will come or it will not. Only you will know, and you may leave at any time.” She took Flora’s hands and joined her into a circle of young bees standing a wing apart.

“It may take some time. Breathe, and be still.”

Flora stood between two young sisters, their fur barely risen. She clenched her belly to keep the egg from traveling down. Gradually, she became aware of the very soft humming around her. It came from the wax itself, made by the bodies of the bees, themselves made by Holy Mother.

Flora’s egg quickened and she clamped her antennae shut.

“Now touch your antennae to the floor, so that you may truly feel it.” Sister Cyclamen’s voice was beside her, and her kind hands guided Flora’s head down so that the tips of her antennae rested on the comb. Immediately, the image of a beautiful drone baby glowed in her mind.

“This place is holy. I should not be here.”

“You are a child of Our Mother. She makes nothing that is not holy.”

Sister Cyclamen repositioned her, and the two young bees on either side of her moved close enough so their wings just touched. The hum began again. Flora’s body filled with a soothing glow, her head sank in relief, and as she drew in the scent of pure, new wax, all her clenched muscles relaxed. Her abdominal bands parted, and from them slowly seeped warm, liquid wax.

“Bring it forward.” Sister Cyclamen spoke quietly. Flora reached down and stroked the liquid up in her hands. It became translucent and malleable as she touched it, and like the other sisters in the circle, she molded it into a thin disc and laid it in the center, building a light and fragile pile.

“How long may I do this?” Flora laid another disc down. She wanted to go now.

“As long as your spirit and body may unite in prayer.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Flora knelt and laid her antennae at Sister Cyclamen’s feet. The beauty and trust of this old sister made her want to confess the treacherous crime she was about to commit for the second time—but instead, part of her brain was storing up the exact vibration of the Holy Chord, and the timing, and the sacred knowledge, to use to build a crib.

D
EVOTION WAS IN PROGRESS
when Flora emerged, but she did not want it. While the Prayer of Wax was still fresh in her body and she knew she could draw more out, she wanted to find seclusion. This second egg made Flora’s senses as keen as if she were foraging, and she could locate Holy Mother herself, far down on the opposite side of the hive. She was resting. Her scent was calm and steady, but as Flora breathed it in, one thought burned in her mind:
Only the Queen may breed—

And only the most foul and polluting daughter who deserved to be torn head from thorax from abdomen and given to the wasps would ever contemplate this evil act of pride. Every sister she walked past, spoke to, fed or flew with, she betrayed by her selfish crime. What if she carried a maggot, a ball of sin and sickness, a heretic’s abomination?

A screaming bleeding child, pushed into her arms and clinging to her in terror. A baby, devoured alive by the fertility police.

Outside the Chapel of Wax Flora pulled some of the purifying veil of scent from around the doors and wrapped it around herself. She resealed her antennae but she could not draw in her abdomen, for her egg grew larger all the time. She loved the feeling of the life inside her, and she did not care if it was a crime; she wanted this child—and must find a place to hide.

A place of seclusion
. . .
quiet, with three doors—

Sister Sage had taken her to one such place, immediately after her emergence. Flora thought of that small room where she had first met Sister Teasel. It was behind the Nursery, on this floor. To reach it, she would have to cross the lobby now, while Devotion was still in progress. If she waited, she would give birth in public.

While the Holy Chord continued and everyone was preoccupied in prayer and unity was the best time to move—but as soon as the Queen’s Love began to shimmer down from a psychic trance to a fragrance, the sisters would wake and some vigilant bee would find her out.

Flora edged into the transcendent crowd. The signal of Devotion in the comb made it hard to locate the exact route she sought, and the egg pulsed at her harder, demanding she lie down. There was no time to lose. Flora moved to where the scent of different kin was strong and varied, then she opened up her antennae and searched for the exact location.

Following Sister Sage . . . The big central mosaic . . . and then—

The Queen’s Love—

Sister Sage had given her the Queen’s Love. If she took some now, in Devotion—she would find the way.

Flora opened her spiracles, pressed her feet into the comb, and drew in as much of the divine fragrance as she possibly could.

Dull gold tiles, then blank white tiles, not cleaned, just blank—

There it was—underfoot the same pattern led away through the lobby.

“Where do you go, before the service is ended?” Sister Sage stood before Flora, tremors of Devotion still flying up her rigid antennae.

Frantic to hide her thoughts, Flora pulsed out a great chunk of Lily 500’s data.

The azimuth of the sun never lies, unlike the wasps and every creature of the Myriad but the spiders.

Sister Sage recoiled. “You mention such things at Devotion?”

“Forgive me, Sister. It is the long confinement.” Despite the pain it caused her, Flora pulsed another great surge of Lily’s data at Sister Sage.

When confronted with soiled blooms and evidence of bluebottles—

“
Enough! Incontinent, impatient foragers—while the rains last, you will consider your sisters!” Disgusted at the rude interruption to her prayers, Sister Sage pushed her way through the shuddering crowd.

Flora picked up the trail of the golden tiles again. At the service corridor behind Pollen and Patisserie and the Category Two ward they became blank, but she recognized them from her time in Sanitation, because it was here nannies and nurses left their waste for collection. Here was the gutter she had swept and sluiced so many times, and there, at the end of the corridor, a blank wall. If there was no door, she would go into labor in front of thousands of sisters and die with her egg.

The Holy Chord faded, the vibration of sixty thousand feet resumed, and Flora ran down to the end of the passageway to check, her belly swelling with every step.

Invisible until she stood directly before it was a small, carved doorway and a tiny panel marked with a crown. Flora touched it and the door swung open. To her relief, she stood in the small, empty room she recognized, with the three doors.

She closed the door she had entered from. Another one led to the Nursery, and the third . . . was where the worn tiles ended. Flora went to listen at it. All was silent behind, and she opened it. She found herself on the landing of a staircase, tall and steep. From beneath rose the scent of the fresh air of the landing board, and from above, the scent of honey. Immediately, Flora knew where she was. This was the staircase she had used when she fled from Sir Linden, when the greedy drones had invaded the Fanning Hall. The air was still, as if it had been undisturbed for some time. She began to climb.

T
HE STAIRCASE ENDED
at a small landing with one door. Beyond it, Flora could sense the corridor and the vibrations of sisters’ feet. She gasped at the pounding of her belly—the egg was coming. Warm wax began seeping from between her bands and flowed over her hands as she struggled to hold it back—to waste such a precious substance, to strive so hard to protect her egg, to think she could hide it—Flora beat her head against the wall in grief at her failure.

Very slowly, a section of wall swung around and Flora stood facing a dark open space. The egg began pushing its way out of Flora’s body and she managed to get inside and push the wall closed behind her. She sank down onto the ground and breathed the old still air in the chamber. Despite the pain, two scents instantly registered.

The first was the strong smell of honey, carried on vibrations from one of the walls. Flora opened her antennae to read them—and knew they were the movements of sisters, working in the Treasury beyond. The second scent was much fainter, old and dry and undisturbed by any living vibration.

Her egg trembled inside her and halted its passage. Feeling its fear, Flora turned to face whatever threat was there. Her distended abdomen left no space to slide her dagger, but she raised her claws and circled against the strange force in the chamber. The scent clarified into an infinitesimally small signal in the air. It was not trying to repel her—it was calling her.

Clenching her egg tight in her body, Flora followed it to its source. She stopped in shock. There, against the wall, was a sight so extraordinary that for a few seconds she felt no pain. Three tall cocoons stood anchored on a thick wax plinth, each one a long and faceted oval, intricately decorated. All bore small round holes in the lower section, but one also had a jagged rip across the top.

Flora drew in their scent, and screamed as the egg pulsed hard in response. Each cocoon was a coffin, and each held a long-dead Sage.

Flora’s egg began traveling through her again, fast and violent. She fell to the ground before the three sarcophagi, twisting in silence as her abdomen was forced apart. The egg slid from her body and the roaring air calmed. She could feel it, warm and alive and huge, resting against her. She curled around to hold it and her heart filled with love.

This egg glowed golden and smelled sweeter than Devotion. Flora felt her body wet with liquid wax and, quick and grateful, she brought it forth handful by handful, building up the roughest crib of sweet white wax directly in front of the three cocoons. Then she knelt and held her egg close, thrilling to its living vibration. Though slightly larger, it was the same shape as the first. Flora vowed that this time she would feed her little son everything he needed to grow strong—and discover what she must do to seal him for Holy Time.

My beloved egg—my wicked, blessed sin I love—

Never again would she forget herself in the field. She placed the egg tenderly in the rough crib.

“In three days,” she whispered to it, “I will hold you and feed you.”

Fearless from the power of birth, Flora rose to examine the strange cocoons. They reminded her of the grand decorated cells in the Drones’ Arrival Hall—but these were much larger and held no trace of male smell. Each one bore three or four small holes, positioned over where the occupant’s abdomen would be. When she sniffed at them, Flora’s own sting pulsed at the faintest trace of old dry venom—but they were all long dead. She climbed onto the plinth so she could see into the one with the hole at the top.

The barely formed face of a young Sage female stared back, dead before she was born. She would have been as big as the Queen herself, and almost as beautiful. One of her hands was raised, a fragment of wax caught in her juvenile claw. Flora climbed down. It was the living Sage she must worry about. She washed herself very carefully and let the tip of her abdomen fully contract. Then she slipped out the way she came, ready to rejoin the life of the hive.

Inside the chamber, under the sightless gaze of dead priestesses, her egg began to grow.