THE ROOF OF THE HIVE LAY UPSIDE DOWN ON THE GRASS so that the top story was totally exposed to the air. The smoke came from a spouted canister, held by an old man in a red dressing gown and bare feet. He crooned to the bees as he waved it, sending them higher into a smoke-dazed gyre. Slow and stiff, he lifted out an entire wall of the Treasury, dripping golden wealth from its broken vaults, and slid it into a white plastic bag.
Unable to come down through the powerful smoke, sisters glimpsed the atrocity and roared in disbelief. The air was filled with the rich, golden fragrance of their stolen wealth, and smoke, and their helpless panic.
“The Visitation!” they cried out to each other. “It is all true—the Visitation!”
At this word Flora reeled back in the air. The Visitation—the third panel in the Queen’s Library. Now the smells and symbols fitted together in a fearful shape—the ugly gaping hole in the top story, brutal damage to the beautiful labor of generations of sisters. The honey and the smoke.
The old man bent to pick up the angled wooden roof. It was heavy and he staggered as if he would fall—then with a great effort he replaced it over the exposed hive. He stooped for his smoker and the white plastic bag, and shuffled barefoot back through the orchard.
THE SAGE TOOK CHARGE. Many sisters were set to lay homecoming markers on the landing board and scouts were sent to bring in house bees still whirling in fear at the farthest reaches of the orchard. More Thistle guards were stationed in full public view, to repel any of the Myriad that might be drawn by the uproar and smell of honey. Inside the hive all scent-gates were canceled to allow sanitation workers full access to the desecrated top floor and bring down the dead and wounded, crushed as the Treasury walls reared into the open sky.
Her crop still distended with her full load of nectar and her panniers with pollen, Flora waited for a receiver. None came, for the smoke had provoked a deep atavistic urge for the bees to gorge on whatever food they could find, and now their crops were full. Returning drones thumped down onto the board and barged past their sisters, appalled at the disorder and eager to be safely inside.
No peace was to be found there either, for somewhere during the trauma of the Visitation the Queen had disappeared, and now every sister ran through the hive searching for her and craving Devotion. The comb echoed with their piteous cries of Mother, Mother—and the exhausted Flora dragged herself into her ravaged home to join the search.
She could not smell a single molecule, and judging by the rising wail in the air, nor could any other sister, for the raw ugly void on the top story had affected the entire scent balance of the hive. Everything was in disorder, from the coded floor tiles to the air itself, which screeched a maelstrom of signals. Then the comb shook.
Find the Queen!
The voice of the Hive Mind stopped each sister’s wailing and united them in a systematic search to find Holy Mother. Flora moved up to the midlevel, where a strong fragrance of new wax floated on the air. It was so pure and beautiful that, despite their mission, soul-hungry sisters paused together in the lobby to breathe it like Devotion.
It was exactly that, for the veil of scent parted to reveal the doors to the Chapel of Wax, from whence the Queen herself walked out, her ladies behind her. She was clothed in a mantle of pure white waxen lace, so light it flowed like air around her. Her divine fragrance was now blended with the wild air that had blown through the broken and ravaged hive, and when she smiled on her daughters, bright and steady waves of love and reassurance flowed through the air.
All over the hive the bees cheered and cheered, their fear turned to triumph. Here was Holy Mother, and what was wealth without her? They could make more honey—they would make more! The Queen was never more radiant, and all the sisters marveled at the fresh mantilla of wax lace she wore and sighed in admiration at the new royal style.
Holy Mother stood in the midlevel lobby for a long time, allowing every sister of the hive to pass through and draw on her scent, a once-in-a-lifetime privilege for the thousands who had never seen her or ever dreamed of such holy proximity. As the massive pilgrimage of sisters continued through the lobby, the chemical atmosphere of the hive stabilized and the vibration of the Holy Chord restored power to the Hive Mind.
Flora stood at the back of the lobby watching the endless procession of sisters pass through, their faces glowing and exalted from contact with the Queen. Feeling the intensity of Flora’s attention, the Queen looked across and called with her eyes. Flora ran and knelt, her heart surging.
“We missed our storytelling child. We sent word to bring her back. But she did not come.”
The Queen’s scent filled Flora’s soul.
“Mother, I have sinned—forgive me—” She could not go on.
“We do, beloved. And we always will, because you are our child.”
“I do not deserve it—” At the Queen’s soft touch, Flora began to weep.
“Enough. Holy Mother must conserve her strength.” Ladies-in-waiting ushered Her Majesty away, and the crowd dispersed from the lobby.
Flora rose to her feet again. Her soul longed to be with her egg and see how it had grown—but her panniers and crop were still full, and all around were her starving, traumatized sisters. A forager’s first duty was to the hive, and to share her news would not take long.
Normal etiquette of the Dance Hall was suspended following the Visitation, so foragers took the floor wherever there was a space, keeping their choreography rapid and brief. Thistle guards were in attendance to keep the crowd moving.
“Everyone up to the Treasury,” they kept calling out. “No tasting down here, everyone up to the Treasury to mend the vaults.”
Flora stumbled in her dance. The Treasury, its broken walls streaming gold. And hidden behind them, her egg. Knocking sisters aside, she ran.
THE MOVEMENTS SHE COULD FEEL were a receiver’s hands, unpacking bundles of pollen from her panniers, and the smell was the kin of Poppy. The strange acoustics were the many voices and sounds of building work, taking place in a large, high space. Dazed, Flora came to her senses standing in front of a half-full chalice of echium nectar in the Fanning Hall, now a construction site.
She looked around. The broken Treasury walls above still bled honey, while hundreds of bees worked to save it and re-cap the cells. Hundreds more worked in living chains, passing blocks and panels and shards of wax in from the doors and up to more sisters hanging high on the walls, hooked foot to arm to foot so they could reach the roof. They were rebuilding the vaults with whatever wax they could summon—fragments from the Arrivals Hall, piles of fresh white discs commandeered from the chapel, and even bundles of yellow scraps reclaimed from the freight depot. On the ground, hundreds more sisters sent freshly chewed propolis to seal the gaps.
The young Poppy followed Flora’s stunned gaze.
“I know! Two whole walls of wealth completely stolen, and a third one damaged, but Mother be praised, the other three still intact. And look at the Sage working with us, have you ever seen that? So elegant even as they crawl!”
Flora stared at the priestesses moving along the high vaults.
“I must dance,” she said. “I must go to the Dance Hall—”
“Madam, you did dance, do you not remember? And so well that many have already returned with that new nectar, and it smells most delicious.” The Poppy looked anxious. “Do you think you can stand now? Would you like me to stay longer?”
“What do you mean?”
The Poppy looked around, then lowered her voice.
“Madam—your collapse. The foragers said it was the terrors of your flight upon you. When you ran in and saw the destruction, oh how piteously you took it—striking out as if every sister was a foe, wailing for our lost walls. We cannot bring them back, Sister, but we can rebuild them.”
“The walls. Yes.” Flora stared across the raw new space. “I saw it.”
Those wet, golden walls of wealth disappearing into that white bag. Her egg had drowned in honey. Her egg was gone. She felt the Poppy clutching at her hand, and knew the little thing wept.
“I saw it too, Madam—and how will we forget? How can we? Our home torn apart, so many lost—I can never forget!”
“Hush.” Flora gazed across at where her crib had been. The outer wall of the secret chamber remained, built strong and old of a different-colored wax from the rest of the hive. Numb and cold inside, she comforted the Poppy. “Hush,” she said, again and again, to both of them. “Hush.”
A wave of masking scent rolled into the Fanning Hall at the arrival of a police squad. Every sister working there looked up in disapproval, for despite the vigorous activity it was still a sacred place. Flora recognized the particularly harsh scent of Sister Inspector and watched her speaking quietly with Sister Sage. Very slowly she averted her antennae, lest her notice rouse their attention. The priestess turned.
“Immediately upon completion of repairs,” Sister Sage an-nounced, “the Treasury will be reconsecrated.” She scanned the workers. “But the theft of our wealth has revealed a greater evil. We are no longer in any doubt: a laying worker hides among us. From now on there will be spot checks throughout the hive, day and night. Any sister who resists an officer will be deemed guilty. Is that clear?”
“Accept, Obey, and Serve,” the bees murmured. When the police left, they returned to work, but now in total silence. The Poppy receiver moved on to a new arrival in the hall, and Flora bent her head and pumped the last of her crop of echium nectar into the chalice. Sisters joined her and began to fan their wings to cure it. Gradually the water from the nectar evaporated as silver mist and the Holy Chord began to rise. All over the broken, desecrated Fanning Hall, the working bees joined in it, a hymn of courage for their labors. The sound filled the emptiness in Flora’s heart. She would not weep; she would work. As her nectar cured, brave and industrious Flora 717 stood amid her sisters, her mind’s eye gazing deep into the dark sky of her body, searching for a new star.