The Sting of the Bee

by K E Lanning

She stroked his face in forgiveness. He had been kind to her, from time to time when she was a little girl. Yet, he could turn into a tyrant on a dime.

  The two men stood in silence, waiting for instructions.

  Lowry staggered up and tilted her head toward Duff’s body. “Take him to the morgue.”

  The two men struggled to get the rigid corpse out the door. Lowry had a grotesque impulse to shout after them, “Why do you think they call them stiffs?” She stumbled from the room to keep from giggling hysterically.

  She didn’t feel the bite of the cold as she left the building. Shell-shocked with the events of the last several days, her mind drained from the emotional roller-coaster ride she’d been on.

  How had all this happened? Hadn’t she been a good girl? Why was it her kismet to have such a vicious family history? Her mind reeled as she stumbled along the street.

  Lowry reached the main street and shook herself, trying to control her emotions. In the square, crowds gathered and dispersed as confusion swept through Amundsen. She pivoted toward a shout on the street behind her and saw people running down the alley. The capital was in chaos. What would happen next with no one to lead Antarctica? The government was in danger of a complete breakdown.

  A special election had to be called immediately, both to stave off the panic and to prevent world agencies from stepping in and taking control. When she’d heard of the news of Duff’s passing, she had called Duff’s lieutenant governor and they had decided that the date for the special elections should be announced at the same time as the news of his death.

  With her family tarnished, Lowry knew she had to stay out of the limelight. She herself was under investigation as an accomplice to Durant’s early demise.

  Gritting her teeth, she hurried toward her destination. She had to stay focused to accomplish some sort of victory from the insanity of these last days. It was a pivotal time for Antarctica and, by god, she was going to pivot it her way.

  CHAPTER 32

  “I nominated you.”

  “Excuse me?” John twisted his head and knocked over his cup of coffee onto the kitchen table. He gazed at Lowry with a bewildered look, then grabbed a towel and wiped up the spill.

  She had stopped by the farm, saying she had something important to discuss. God knows there was plenty to chat about with Nick having assassinated president-elect Durant in the midst of his inaugural event. What a party crasher.

  Grimly, Lowry stared at him from the other side of the table. “I nominated you.”

  John licked his lips and swallowed hard, not sure if he wanted to finish this conversation, or run from the house. He blinked, inhaled a deep breath, and murmured, “Nominated me for what?”

  “For President of Antarctica.”

  He studied her face for signs that this was some stupid joke, but that resolute mien was still in place. He swayed on his feet and sat in his chair. “You must be joking.”

  With a fixed look, she shook her head.

  Blood rushed to his brain with the rage of betrayal. His chair screeched as he leapt up, shoving it backwards. Facing her, he leaned on the table, and shouted, “How could you do that?”

  Lowry stared at him; her face pinched and stalwart. She said nothing.

  John paced back and forth with the table between them. “How many times have I told you that I hate politics!” Shaking a clenched fist, he turned back to her. “I came to Antarctica to escape from all that.”

  She jabbed a finger at him. “Well, mister, you better get a refund on that ticket, because Antarctica is getting ready to have more politics than the world has dreamed of in years!” Leaning forward, her lip curled into a snarl. “You’re a self-acclaimed Old West historian. You should know that one of the most violent periods of history was during the conquering of the land. Did you think the opening of Antarctica was going to be a walk in the park?”

  Lowry leaned over the table and her face softened. She said quietly, “Antarctica is in turmoil. It takes men of courage and resolve to lead a nation in crisis.”

  With pinched lips, John folded his arms, staring at her. “There are others better suited—what about Duff’s lieutenant governor?”

  She shook her head. “He’s only a shade less corrupt than Duff.”

  His stomach churning, John gazed out of the kitchen window to the small garden near the house, slowly collapsing with each subsequent freeze as the season ended. The brown corn stalks shuddered in the breeze and leaves drifted off of the tangled and withered vines of squash.

  Lowry came around the table and touched his arm. With a smile, she said, “You could build a university or plan a city.” She spread her arm toward the view from the window. “You would be the one to write in the first blank pages of a new continent.”

  He turned back to her and gazed into her bright face. It should be her, and not him. Lowry had both the strength of personality and the desire to put up with the bullshit of jumpstarting a wilderness.

  His anger boiled to a head. “Oh, sure! I’ll get to all that right after the toilets work and the damn roads are in!” Shaking his head, he threw his hands up in disgust. “For God’s sake, Lowry, I’ll have to collect taxes!”

  Lowry grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “I’ve thought long and hard, John—there is no one else! No one!”

  He tried to turn away, but she wouldn’t let him. Her eyes flicked from side to side, staring at him. Lowry brought the full force of her personality to bear. “No one else has both the support from the miners—which you do through Nick—and from the immigrants, after foiling the land scandal and standing up to the authorities in the Daniels case. You’re it!”

  John flopped into his chair, refusing to look at her, fuming in silence. She knelt beside him and touched his arm. He twisted away, growling, “But I don’t want it! I gave up everything in my past life for this freedom.”

  Lowry was silent for a moment, then whispered, “Freedom comes at a price.” She stood, gripped his shoulder, and made him face her. “Durant’s crew is readying a new candidate. Can you imagine what it will be like if Durant’s forces get in power? Your ‘civilization’ back in the States would look mighty good then.”

  John turned away, staring at the table. He felt her contemplating her next move, but he hoped she would just go away.

  She retreated back to the other side of the table and sat facing him. He glanced up at her eyes, focused on him like an animal ready to attack. Lowry said in a quiet voice, “What about Ginnie? What will her future be if they get ahold of Antarctica?”

  He grimaced, closing his eyes for a second against the blow. Then inhaling deeply, he looked at her. The desperation on her face was obvious. She knew the most precious thing in his life was his daughter.

  The blood pulsed in John’s head, katooshing in time with his thumping heart. He touched his chest to see whether he was still breathing or not. He had no idea if it had been ten seconds or ten minutes since she had spoken. His Achilles’ heel was his daughter.

  He glanced at Lowry, waiting for his answer, then dropped his head into his hands, and murmured, “All right.”

  A bright smile sprung onto her face. She wrapped her arm around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, John.”

  Blinking, he sat still, staring vacantly at the wall, numb to her sudden affection.

  With a sweet smile, she added, “Cheer up, you’ll probably lose.” She bounced up from her chair, now in high spirits, wagging her finger at him. “We’ve got to get cracking on all the arrangements. The special election is in a month and we’ve got to move!” She started to leave, then stopped, and turned back. “I’ll stay in the background. They’re still investigating me as a possible accomplice to Nick.” With a smile, she waved goodbye, and strolled from the room. “But, I’ll take care of everything, don’t worry.”

  With a thunk, the door closed.

  John’s lip curled, and he said hoarsely to the now-absent Lowry, “All I’ve ever said to you meant nothing.”
<
br />   In the silence of the house, he stared at the wall, surrounded by the demons who came to mock his capitulation.

  ***

  That night, John sat across from Ginnie. “Lowry has put my name on the ballot for president of Antarctica,” he said quietly, then waited for a response. There was none. “She says I’m the only choice—the only one who can win against the candidate that Durant’s group will nominate.”

  Ginnie shrugged. “She’s probably right.” With a grin, she continued. “I will say—President Barrous has a nice ring to it.”

  He turned away with a grimace. “I don’t need you to butter me up.”

  Ginnie looked at him. “I know you’re not happy that Lowry nominated you.”

  “I’m not.” With a sigh, he shoved his hair back. “I’m not cut out to be a bureaucrat.” He shook his head. “I’ve spent my adult life trying to escape from the stranglehold of the Old World political mess. If I’m elected president, I’ll be smack in the middle of it.”

  “Dad, if Durant’s people have control, what will our future be? Nick should have been president, but there’s nothing we can do about it.” Ginnie reached across the table and touched his hand. “You’ve always told me there are times we’re called to serve.”

  John stared at his sixteen-year-old daughter. “You’re supposed to be on my side, not Lowry’s.” His shoulders sagged. “It won’t be easy, Ginnie. The election is a month away, and I know Lowry will want me to campaign.” He gazed at her. “If, by some bizarre chance, I win, it means leaving the farm and moving into Amundsen.” He hesitated. “Would you prefer to go to your grandparents, at least during the campaign?”

  Ginnie shook her head. “I’ll stay here and help any way I can.”

  ***

  Over the next grueling weeks, John campaigned as Lowry wished, but determined to be himself whether anybody on his team liked it or not.

  As he traveled the continent, he discovered a land that he was unaware of. He hadn’t realized how deeply his head had been buried on his farm. Several cult factions had set up their own territories, barely allowing anyone to enter their domain. Minority religious sects had come from across the world, escaping the persecution of the majority. The oppressed of the world once again had a chance to find freedom. Or was it just their chance to oppress others?

  John studied the closed faces in the crowds. They were distant and hard to read. Most of them didn’t care who was in charge; they were too busy trying to survive on a daily basis. Instability in the government was no surprise to the people from the third-world countries, and there was a distinct undercurrent of anger expressed by the expatriates from the so-called more “civilized” countries. Who could blame them, after the cold shock of the assassination?

  Campaign events were opportunities for political rivals in each area to parade their positions and taunt their adversaries. Several clashes had resulted in near-riots, and in several key regions, “accidental” deaths had been reported, none of which the local law enforcement had bothered to solve. No one was taking a chance of being on the wrong side in this political fight.

  Today’s speech was in one of the areas where riots had been a way of life for weeks. The crowd was ominously quiet, but the chanting of “Durant” began when John stepped up to the microphone. As he started to speak, the chanting became so loud, that others in the crowd shouted for quiet. At the back of the gathering, two fellows from opposing factions began swinging their signs at each other.

  John struggled to keep everyone calm, raising his hand. “Please, let’s try to—”

  The pop-pop of a gun blasted into the air. The two men fought over a pistol as the crowd scattered across the field, some crawling, others racing away to safety.

  John’s bodyguards rushed in to hustle him from the podium to the waiting car. In a rage, he shook them off and pushed his way through the panicked crowd. He stood in front of the two men, who froze in mid-fight astonished to see the candidate standing in front of them.

  “Put that gun down!” John yelled.

  The man who had been wrestling with the gunman backed up. The gunman didn’t move. John’s fury drove away any fear he had, and he ripped the gun from the man’s grasp, opened the chamber and emptied the bullets onto the ground. Security guards rushed in, taking the miscreant who had fired the pistol into custody.

  John turned and made his way back up to the podium. Angrily, he hit the podium with his fist, holding up the weapon. “Is this the face we want to show the world? Do we want an outside government to control us because we cannot govern ourselves?”

  The crowd surged toward him, shouting, “No!”

  He threw the gun onto the ground and scanned the crowd that began to reassemble before him.

  When the crowd quieted, John began to speak, “We are humans. We love, hate, and hunger, just as we did thousands of years ago. We may try to separate ourselves from the dirt of the past, but it remains there, beneath our fingernails.”

  He pounded the podium again. “The savvy politicians know how to sway the human emotions that drive us. We must not let them control us like a school of fish. We must solve our problems with talk, not bullets, and help our neighbors as if helping ourselves and our families. For that’s what we are, my friends. We are a family.”

  A hush came over the crowd.

  John gestured with his arm. “The world is watching us. Who are we going to elect? A gang of hooligans or the people who won their tracts fair and square, alongside you—the friends who planted with you and the friends who built your homes with you?

  “We are at a crossroads. We can allow the mud of corruption to follow us or we can start fresh and clean. We are the generation who will build a country for our children and beyond.”

  He pointed to the crowd. “And we are the ones who are going to make the choice for who will lead us in building this nation.”

  The crowd cheered. He left the podium, his prepared speech still in his coat pocket.

  ***

  The day came that everyone, except him, had been waiting for—Election Day. John refused all interviews. He went to the polls early, writing in a vote for Mickey Mouse. People waved at him, but he just nodded and hurried back to the farm. For him, it was Harvest Day. With the campaign schedule, he was the last one in his sector to harvest his crop of wheat.

  His mind was numb from the effort of the campaign and, he hated to admit, the fear of winning. Well-wishers had descended upon the farm to watch the election results, but John refused to play the emotional roller-coaster with the rest of them as the vote counts trickled in.

  John stepped out of the house, zipped up his jacket against the chill in the air, and walked toward the barn, knowing it might be his first and last year as a farmer. His harvest crew was waiting at the barn. They were silent as he approached. He could tell they wanted to say something, but his closed face shut off any discourse. What was left to say?

  Without a word, he motioned to them to start the harvesters. He climbed onto his hover and followed the great robotic harvesters as they cruised toward the ocean of yellow wheat. Four of them drove into the field closest to the house and began the harvest.

  Chaff filled the air. The birds circled and feasted on the insects flushed out of their homes. His once-rippling fields were reduced to stubble. The harvesters worked through the morning, finishing one field and starting the next. The hum of the machines numbed John’s ears. The tireless robots mowed down the wheat, but the humans stopped for lunch.

  The day warmed, and he took off his jacket as he walked to one of the trailers, now full of grain. He thrust his hands into the wheat and let the grains trickle through his fingers. He had grown this wheat—planted, cared for, and harvested it.

  He turned at shouts in the distance. Lowry rode her horse at a full gallop into the barren field. Behind her were the others, running like madmen.

  She had a huge smile on her face. “We won!” she yelled.

  The tension broke. Cheering,
the farmers threw their hats up into the air. They ran over and pounded him on the back.

  One of the farmers silenced the relentless harvesters as the crowd surrounded him. Someone pushed him up onto one of the hovers. “Speech, Speech!”

  He stood on the hover and saw the shining faces, full of hope. He was lost as to what to say. He raised his hand. The group became quiet and he began to speak, “Many of you know of my hesitation in putting my name forth and it’s with very mixed emotions that I hear this news.” He spread his arm out at the fields surrounding them. “This farm was something I had fought for all my life, but it was not to be.” He smiled sadly. “But I have had a year of grace”—he clenched his fists against the rising emotions—“a year of grace, full of good friends who have become a family.”

  He gazed out at the land. “The sun breathed life into Antarctica and gave her to us. And we must try our best to take care of this gift—the last unspoiled land on the Earth.”

  He smiled at the gathering. “We have grown our crops and our families together over this year. I will need my good friends in the next years to help us grow a nation.”

  They roared in unison. He stepped back to the earth—the leader of a new continent.

  CHAPTER 33

  Lowry hesitated at John’s door. The sun hadn’t yet risen above the ridge, and in the pale light, she pressed her face to the side window. John sat on the couch, and she could see by the tilt of his head that all was not well. John hadn’t spoken to her since the election results.

  She rang the doorbell and watched him jump at the sound. She shuffled her feet, shivering against the chill breeze, and wishing she’d worn a heavier coat than her black wool.