THE COMB JUDDERED WITH THE PREDATOR’S POWERFUL bites. It was somewhere below them on the middle floor, near the Nursery. The sisters paused, counting the pattern of its feet—not eight, so not a spider; not six, so not an insect—four! A quadruped, with warm blood and dirty fur. Quick and silent, the party of Thistle guards and the strongest sisters from every kin moved toward the vibrations.
The gnawing stopped, as if the creature also took stock of the bees’ advance. Then the smell of its urine rolled down the corridor toward them and they heard the cracking of wax as it resumed its attack on their precious walls. As the sisters crept forward their venom sacs filled and their daggers slid ready.
In the lobby by the Drones’ Arrival Hall the intruder reared up before them. Its long gray head towered over them and its red eyes stared blindly into the darkness. Hundreds of thick trembling whiskers drew in scent and its hairless clawed feet gouged marks in the floor mosaic as it moved. The air was musty from its fur, and when it opened its mouth and panted, the bees saw the long yellow incisors and smelled its rank breath.
The mouse paused, confused. Its long, scaly tail twitched, spreading traces of its urine across the floor tiles.
One of the Thistle guards at the front buzzed angrily and fired her war glands, and every sister did the same.
Protect the Queen!
The mouse scrabbled around to face their sound, and the bees stepped forward slowly, buzzing low and staccato to drive it out. The mouse backed away and the sisters pressed forward, increasing the warning note in their buzz. With a sharp exclamation of revulsion, the first Thistle guard stepped into the trail of its urine. The mouse screeched too, twisting in panic. Its lashing tail knocked some bees off their feet and the others rushed forward, buzzing in rage and nipping at its flank.
It screeched again and turned to run, crashing down the main staircase to the bottom story and stopping only when it knocked its head on the propolis-carved doorway of the Drones’ Hall. Squealing in pain, it bared its long yellow teeth, so close the bees smelled the wood lice on its breath. It turned and ran for the landing board, but the collision had stunned it and it missed the corridor to the free air. As it changed direction and ran toward the back of the hive, Flora felt a draft of air—it must have gnawed a hole in the wood somewhere else.
As one, the sisters knew they must drive it out. They buzzed and pressed forward in angry feints, but the mouse could not run any longer. It fell on its side and lay staring at them, its breath coming fast and shallow. They bit at it and flashed their daggers, but it was old and weak, and its eyes stopped moving.
HUNDREDS OF SISTERS were mobilized to bring propolis from other parts of the hive. For hours the bees chewed and carried, chewed and carried until their long-unused jaws throbbed in pain, but finally the ice-hard propolis grew soft enough to mold. Little by little under the direction of the Sage, the bees embalmed the dead intruder until not a hair nor whisker could be seen or smelled.
Most of the bees were sent back to the Cluster, but Flora stayed in the last work detail, making sure that not the smallest airspace remained between the mouse and the floor. The pungent smell of propolis masked the approach of a priestess, and Flora jumped when she saw one. The identicality of the Sage unnerved her more than anything, and she feared every one of them. She tried to close her antennae—but could not feel them.
“So diligent in all things, Flora 717.” By her rich voice, it was Sister Sage from the Nursery. She stood near Flora but checked the seal of another bee’s work. “And still so strong and young.”
“I am honored at your notice, Sister.” Flora tried again to close her antennae, but the smell of the propolis slowed her reflexes. The priestess was faster, using her own chemical signal as a lever to pry them open.
“Do not shield your thoughts.” Sister Sage probed more deeply into Flora’s mind. Touching on the memory of the black Minerva spider, she shuddered in horror but pressed her awareness harder into Flora’s consciousness. “We must know, 717, what troubles you. We know you have a secret.”
Flora’s abdomen twisted, and for a second, the image of her egg shone in her mind. In desperation, she thought of the Queen clutching her arm, long ago in her boudoir. She remembered the flicker of pain on Holy Mother’s face.
I promised her my silence!
“Holy Mother was sick in her chamber,” Flora whispered. “That is my secret.”
Sister Sage withdrew her pressure, and when she spoke her voice was gentle. “Her Majesty is sick?”
Flora stared at the resin sarcophagus, then nodded. Her beloved Mother had begged her not to speak of it, and she had promised not to tell another soul. Now she had betrayed the Queen in every conceivable way. But even as she despised herself, Flora felt her control returning—and locked her antennae tight.
“That was long ago,” she said. “But just now in the Cluster, when I gave Her Majesty nectar, she was strong.” Flora stared at the priestess. She had cleared the morgue herself and seen the Sage bodies. She had touched those three strange tombs in the secret chamber behind the Treasury, and knew that they too held Sage. “Is there sickness in our hive?”
“Of course not.” Sister Sage groomed her own antennae, as if from soiling contact. “But the Cluster permits nightmares, as a way of cleansing our minds. And as foragers must withstand more sights than most, you might well have fearsome fantasies.” The priestess let her scent flow smooth. “If Holy Mother has been unwell, it is crucial you tell us. For the good of the colony.”
Light footsteps sounded in the corridor, and five identical priestesses entered. Sister Sage made an almost imperceptible motion to them, and they stood silent.
“Return to the Cluster,” she said to Flora. “The Melissae must confer.”
THE LIVING ORB OF SISTERS still pulsed with gossip of the mouse when Flora got back. To her astonishment, she heard the sanitation workers talking in low voices. She took her place and looked at them. They were smiling.
“In the Dreaming,” one whispered. “We took back our tongues.”
Then the scent of the kin of Sage flowed toward them as the priestesses returned. All the bees stopped talking and parted to let them disappear deep within the Cluster, near the Queen. Then the Holy Chord began to vibrate, and the Hive Mind spoke.
The danger has passed. We now resume our trance.
Accept, Obey, and Serve.
The bees murmured in response and settled their antennae for rest. Threads of the Queen’s Love drifted to the outer layers where her daughters clung in the cold, but the beautiful fragrance gave Flora no comfort.