Authors: Laline Paull
T
HE MOUSE’S EMBALMED BODY ALMOST BLOCKED THE
space, but there was a gap between its jagged propolis tomb and the wooden wall of the hive. As Flora squeezed through, her baby squealed in excitement at her smell and wriggled toward her. He had grown since she left him, his distinctive scent had developed, and he was ravenous again. Flora lifted him into her arms and he opened his mouth. Her cheeks pulsed in relief as the shining Flow poured out.
Her baby drank and drank, until his whole body glowed. She kissed him and cleaned his face, then held him up to the propolis wall of his crib, so that the ancient tree sap glowed amber and bronze with his light.
“One would almost say you loved the maggot.” Sister Sage crouched on top of the sarcophagus.
Flora clutched her baby to her and raised a claw.
“Extraordinary that you should still be able to make Flow.” Sister Sage climbed down the side of the mouse’s tomb, the better to watch. “Bold and resourceful beyond our wildest imaginings, Flora 717.” The priestess raised her antennae and pulsed her kin-scent. “Tell me, how many times have you laid?”
Flora’s heart slammed in her body and her sting slid ready for use, but her child nestled against her and she spoke calmly for his sake. “This is the third,” she answered. “It came upon my body without my will.”
“You know there is no mercy for you.” Sister Sage smiled. “But one must admire your brazen spirit—to stand there in the lobby, reeking of Flow, while a Teasel was torn apart for the same crime? Strong nerves, 717. The only reason I let you go was to find your foul issue myself. One of the Thistle guards had reported the smell of freshly worked propolis near the board, and I did wonder why—but I must say I did not expect to find a crib! That is indeed a marvel—and the police are on their way to admire it, as we speak.”
Flora looked toward the mouse hole.
“Flee if you wish,” said Sister Sage. “Death is certain either way.”
“I will not.” Flora held her baby close one last time. “But I beg you, Sister, now the males have deserted us, let him go to the Nursery. I will recant before the whole hive, you may tear me wing from limb, devise any death—but let him live.”
“Him?”
Sister Sage walked down to the comb floor. “Do you try to fool a priestess? Your evil spawn is female.”
“Female?”
Flora looked into her child’s little face. Only now did the chemical mosaic reveal its truth to her. “A daughter?”
“A monster.” Sister Sage raised her antennae. “And your crime, the death sentence for every one of your kin. In any case your time is near, 717, if you cannot smell the sex of your own child. Bring the foul thing into the passageway—it is impossible to signal through its stench.” She flicked her antennae again and again. “A wasp or ant has more honor than you—after your first crime, why did you not offer yourself for death?”
“When I was with Holy Mother in her chamber, she gave me her Love. And then when I laid—I felt it for my own eggs. And I changed.”
“Changed, 717? From an ugly, monstrous deviant that should have been killed on emergence? What, pray, do you think you changed into?”
“A loving mother.”
Sister Sage burst out laughing.
“
Love?
Love is something only the Queen can feel for a child.”
“No, Sister, I promise you—it is the most wonderful thing, and stronger even than Devotion!”
“Can that really be true?” Sister Sage studied Flora. “It is the highest sacrament, more precious than any wealth we can make—yet
you
claim to feel it?”
Flora held her child close, and nodded.
“When you look at your—child—can you feel it now?”
Flora gazed down into her baby girl’s face, and the air shimmered with her joy. Too late she realized what was happening. Her antennae were wide open and in an instant Sister Sage had driven her own force deep into Flora’s mind.
“You thought yourself Queen,” she hissed. “The spiders warned you—oh yes, I know all about that. Did you think they would keep your secret? How many lives did it cost me to find
that
out, but I did—”
Flora tried to move, but the priestess drove her own will deeper, paralyzing her. Flora’s baby began to wail, and she felt her being pulled from her helpless arms.
“Love?”
Sister Sage had the little girl in her claws, and held her up in front of her mother’s face. “That is what the flowers are for—foragers may lust to their heart and body’s content for them—but the sacrament of birth is beyond you!” Flora’s baby screamed and writhed in the priestess’s grip, and the Sage struck her across the face.
No lock or bonds could hold back Flora’s rage. She tore her child from the priestess’s grasp, and before Sister Sage could utter another word, with a mighty blow Flora knocked her off her feet. The priestess twisted her long abdomen up in all directions, stabbing at Flora so that the air filled with a cloud of venom—but Flora had fought a wasp. She tore off the priestess’s pounding antennae, then she slid her dagger between the glossy bands, waiting until she felt the pulse of Sister Sage’s beating heart. Only then did she pump her venom, strong and steady, until the priestess lay still.
Flora’s baby lay crying against her crib, trying to find a way to escape the terrifying odors. Flora lifted her daughter off the venom-slicked floor and held her, wrapping her in her kin-scent. Flora rocked her until she stopped her sobs, then placed her back in her crib. She listened for the pounding feet of the police, her antennae in agony from the priestess’s lock.
The air was thick with the Sage’s blood, strong enough to permeate the smell of propolis and give them away. Flora had to get rid of the body—but it was already stiff and swollen from the poison of her sting, too big to drag down the narrow space to the mouse hole.
She seized the head of the priestess in her own great jaws and, with a swift flicking motion, broke it from her thorax. The little girl watched her mother’s work in silence.
Revolted by what she had to do and glad of her thick powerful tongue, Flora bit down on the joined thorax and abdomen of Sister Sage and dragged it through its own spilled venom, so that it soaked into the fur. Then she pulled it out of the mouse hole and tossed it into the long grass.
Getting rid of the head was harder. Though the antennae were gone, the dead lenses of Sister Sage’s eyes were still potent with data, and Flora could feel it streaming into her tongue as she carried it out toward the mouse hole. As she shifted the shell of the head for better purchase, the wet, heavy brain dislodged and dropped into Flora’s mouth. Spasms of prayer code and images of violence pulsed in her mind at the contact, and she hurled the head as far as she could. She spat out the remains of the brain, then stared in horror. Sister Sage’s head had caught on a spike of grass.
She flew down and tried to pull it free but every movement released more of the scent of Sage blood. Any forager would raise the alarm, any wasp would know the hive was stricken—Flora felt someone watching her and looked around in terror.
“Our priestess appears unwell.”
Sir Linden sat shivering on the hive roof, no longer dapper and groomed, but disheveled and travel-soiled. Thoracic engine sputtering, he flew down beside her.
The sight of him flooded Flora with relief—and every nerve in her body streaked with pain. She could not speak, only point down at the grass.
“Sister prefers the discretion of the dock leaves?”
Flora managed to nod. Sir Linden clasped Sister Sage’s head from above as if he were mounting it. His engine sputtered dangerously as he struggled—and then he pulled the head from the stalk and dropped it down into the leaves.
“What a terrible accident befell her. How careless they can be.” He settled beside Flora. She could not speak. He raised his drooping antennae. “And what dismal air hangs over our old home—the chaps did hope for more.”
Flora looked up and saw more drones clinging to the hive roof, all bravado gone. Sir Linden pulled at his ruff and she saw how he had aged.
“Would no other hive admit you?” The Sage lock still seared her tongue, so that it hurt to speak.
“Oh, we found too many. Some dead or abandoned, some with such moaning and foul smell within as makes this one fragrant as spurge—to me at any rate.” Sir Linden looked at her. “Strange to say, I missed my family.”
“We have missed you too—all of you.” Flora gazed beyond the orchard, where bright machines moved across the nearest field and the crows wheeled above. She shook out her wings. “I—have more work to do.”
“May I help?” Linden held her eyes. Flora nodded.
“If you would raise good cheer, and strong scent—for a short while . . .”
“Madam, I am at your service.” He started his engine and flew up to his ragged cohort. “As I promised, brothers, they have missed us! Let us grace them with Our Maleness once more, let us be fed and warm and wanted again!”
Cheering, he led the drones down to the landing board. Flora heard the high excited voices of sisters running out to meet them. She listened a moment, then slipped back inside to her daughter.
I
N THE TIME IT HAD TAKEN TO DISPOSE OF
S
ISTER
S
AGE’S
body, Flora’s baby daughter had grown again, and she was now pressing against the sides of her propolis crib. Shifting her to try to make her more comfortable, Flora felt the new weight in her child’s body and saw the change in her beautiful pearly skin. It had a new iridescence, and felt less fragile. She could not help herself—she lifted her up into her arms and gazed in awe at the beauty of her sleeping face—and at the way her features grew more adult and feminine even as she watched.
Flora froze at the vibration of footsteps running past the mouth of the corridor and the loud voices—and then she heard the shouts and guffaws of the drones coming in from the landing board, and the cheers and welcoming cries of the sisters. A great crowd of them were gathering in the lobby, and their laughter had a hysterical edge. Flora stood with her daughter in her arms, listening carefully.
The sisters were falling over themselves to welcome the drones back. Desperate to keep them, they told them how well they were and how soon the Queen was coming—and the drones were equally eager to be wanted, laughing and joking in their booming bravado, telling tales of adventures in golden palaces, which somehow could not compare to the pleasures of home.
Flora listened to them all thundering up the staircases to the midlevel, laughing and talking and heading for the canteens that would surely be thrown open to welcome them back. The footsteps died away, but still she listened, wary of a trap.
Her daughter felt heavier in her arms—and when Flora looked down she gasped. She had grown larger, and her beautiful face had changed again. A slow and steady frequency traveled in waves through her child’s body, and all at once Flora understood. This was not sleep; it was a trance. Her daughter was entering Holy Time.
Flora could not think what to do. It should not come this quickly—surely there were more days of feeding—but she could not remember. She could not think how many days’ Flow she had given her, or what she should do now. Holy Time was sacred—there were prayers, there was ceremony—she must be covered, and at once. But now she was far too big for the propolis crib, and to seal her against the dead mouse was an abhorrent thought.
The pressure of the silence grew and Flora pulled at her antennae in desperation. Her daughter would die if she was left uncovered, and die if she was discovered. She had lost one egg to the fertility police, one to the Visitation, and now she had killed a priestess to save this child.
Flora’s daughter murmured and shifted as her trance deepened. Her smell was exquisite, and Flora bent her head and breathed it in, watching in wonder as two tiny points of light appeared on the child’s head where her antennae would be. The change was happening before her eyes—and Flora’s every instinct told her she needed to protect her child, to cover her safely for Holy Time.
Where in the hive did it happen? She cursed herself for not finding out before. Surely she must have seen it—perhaps she had not noticed. Trying to keep calm, Flora thought of everywhere she had ever been in the hive, but she had never known of a place for Holy Time. All she knew was that when the babies were ready for it, they were moved from Category Two . . . to some unknown place, and then to Arrivals, where everyone hatched out.
It must be clean.
That was what the old Teasel in the canteen had said.
Flora held her daughter tighter as she thought it through. The sanitation workers spent a large part of their time in the Arrivals Hall, cleaning out the vacated cells. For what?
Preparing them for reuse.
All those long rows of chambers, the near ones busy with hatching, the middle ones being cleaned, and the distant ones, sealed and quiet. As every sanitation worker knew after a few days’ labor, their use was rotated. Now Flora understood what the dying Teasel in the canteen had meant. There
was
no special place for Holy Time; the children simply went into a trance in Category Two, then were moved by their nurses to the Arrivals Hall and sealed into clean chambers. The very place the fertility police would now be ripping apart in search of rogue eggs.
Flora heard the stamping of feet above, and felt the dim vibration of singing from the midlevel lobby. The drones were taking their mission of celebration seriously. Once she had saved Linden’s life, and now perhaps he had saved not only hers, which she held to no account, but also her beloved child’s. She blessed him with all her heart, and the feeling of gratitude brought tears to her eyes. She bent to kiss her sleeping daughter’s face, and to her joy, the words of the Queen’s Prayer came unbidden to her mind.
If there was anything holy left in this world, Flora knew it was this love for her child, and for the Queen, her beautiful mother who had loved her, and told her not to be ashamed. While the drones and the sisters rejoiced on the floor above, Flora said the words of the Queen’s Prayer in her mind, until it took over her soul.
From Death comes Life Eternal . . .
She looked up. The only other place a sister might lie undisturbed was behind this wall. It was not a dormitory, nor the Arrivals Hall. It was the morgue, and only her kin-sisters went there. While the drones still roistered above, there was time.
Flora raised her kin-scent as thick as she could and waited behind the propolis scent-veils until the lobby was quiet. Then, with her daughter still and white in her arms, she hurried out. A few bees looked at her in surprise, but she swung her head wildly and waved them away, making herself stumble.
“Sickness, sickness,” she slurred, and they shrank back in fear and ran.
T
HE MORGUE WAS EMPTY
but for a couple of sanitation workers who nodded at her but did not speak. Flora laid her precious burden down in a shadowed corner and waited until they had gone. Her daughter was growing and changing as she watched—there was no time to lose. With all the strength of her kin and skill of her age, Flora bit through the division between two storage areas to make one large one, then used the broken wax to make a lid to cover her child. As she worked she repeated the Queen’s Prayer silently in her mind until her body was warm with the labor, and her mouth sweet with Flow. Flora leaned over her entranced daughter and let the last drops fall around her face, in a glow of light. No words could hold the love she felt.
Then she sealed her.