by Laline Paull
You will not hurt my egg!
Anger shining in her beautiful eyes, the priestess came round to face Flora.
“What strange sister is this, who can hide her thoughts?”
Another priestess joined the first, and Flora felt their combined will focusing on breaking into her mind. They probed her antennae with their powerful scent, trying to force their chemicals into her brain—but despite the burning pain, Flora maintained her lock. She concentrated on speaking calmly.
“Forgive me, sisters,” she said. “When I knew I had drunk poison, I locked my channels lest I signal falsely and draw others into danger. Now I cannot open them.”
“Very . . . prudent,” said one. “And how did you know to do such a thing?”
“Lily 500 gave me her knowledge.” Flora did not react as they released her, but she could feel the glands in her mouth moistening. She longed to hold her egg again, and the smell of the Sage made her want to flee.
“Very agitated, Flora 717.” A third priestess came to study her. “Good communication is even more vital in these difficult times—let us help you open your channels again.” Her scent was far more powerful than the others’, and Flora knew this was the priestess who had chosen her in the Arrivals Hall.
“Accept, Obey, and Serve,” she said loudly, to cover her fear. “Forgive me, Sister Sage, but I saw much harm, and I must dance without delay to spare our hive.” She ran onto the dance floor where the tiles were scuffed by the feet of a thousand foragers past. The scent of flowers rose up from the wax, and Flora began to dance.
To begin, she copied the style of Lily 500 as her steps told of the huge full fields she had traveled, bare of forage but stained by the low dank vapor of the road that cut between them. Then she danced the scanty hedgerows and then the great golden field of poison, with all the creatures dead upon the earth and the ants that ate them. There were murmurs of horror and cries of disappointment at the great waste of pollen and nectar when Flora danced its vastness, but all the Sage watched in silence. Then she danced the field of corn and the crows, and the sunken hedgerow at its edge giving sanctuary against the avian Myriad—though at the price of other lives. At this, some foragers gave solemn applause.
“The hive comes first,” called out one, “else how could we return?”
“You did what any of us would,” called another, and the applause grew.
“Silence!” Sister Sage signaled to stop her dancing. Flora stood with her sides heaving and the electrifying choreography still running through her body as the priestess addressed the assembled sisters.
“The true passage of bud to bloom to fruit to seed is coded in the walls of Her Majesty’s Library—but this new season of flood is not inscribed. Every sister knows our forager losses, but coarse wings may endure more than those of highborn kin—and so for reason of these extraordinary times we announce an exception to the ancient order of our hive. Flora 717 is permitted to forage.”
At first there was total silence. Then one forager began to clap. Then another, and another, until every sister in the Dance Hall was applauding and humming her approval. Joy and gratitude ran through Flora’s body as she felt their blessing and saw their shining faces—and also a thread of fear at the sight of every priestess staring at her.
FLORA’S LONGING TO BE CLOSE to her egg was now a physical ache, but she stood in the lobby accepting congratulations from sisters who had never before spoken to her. It would now be much harder to visit the Nursery, for though Sanitation was regularly called in to clean, foragers famously had no interest in eggs or children—whereas the kin of Teasel lived for nothing else. As Flora smiled and thanked the passing sisters, a daring thought occurred to her. She would publicly visit Sister Teasel for old times’ sake, and take a nostalgic and admiring tour of the Nursery.
But that plan would have to wait, for the next cadre of foragers due to depart came out of the Dance Hall and smelled her low fuel supplies. Now that she was one of them, they insisted on taking her with them to the canteen, even the most taciturn of them stressing the importance of proper energy supplies before a mission. All the other bees gave them precedence, and then after they received their food—one tongue of honey on a thick slab of pollen bread—they ate without speaking, for every atom of fuel was precious, and gossip squandered strength.
Flora was grateful for their silent camaraderie, for in the privacy of her own mind she needed to calculate how long she had to visit before her egg would hatch, grow, and leave the Nursery. Her time in Category One felt very distant, but she remembered the sun bell rang three times before an egg hatched to a larva-baby.
She ate her bread and concentrated. Yes—then three more sun bells while the babies were fed Flow, then they were big and healthy and moved to Category Two. She knew nothing after that, except the children were at some point taken off and sealed for Holy Time, that mysterious interval before a bee was born. Flora could not think where in the hive it happened. Every single bee had passed through that sacred phase, but she had no memory of it, and her own emergence was now a blank.
Flora returned to her immediate concern—the need to visit Category One before six days had passed. If she did not, it might be impossible to find her child amid thousands. The very thought of her egg made her mouth moisten with sweetness.
The closest forager looked up and sniffed her. Flora stood up.
“I am ready.”
When the foragers smiled, their beauty shone past their cracked and weathered faces. They stood and bowed to her, then unlatched their wings all together with the sound that so long had thrilled her. Flora pressed down her secret and let her wings unlatch too, proud and grateful to be one of their elite and honorable number. Before six days passed she would visit Sister Teasel and find a way to see her child. But first, and with all her strength and passion, she would serve her hive.
Seventeen
TO SECRETLY ATONE FOR HER EGG, FLORA GATHERED more pollen and nectar than any other sister. Because of the threatening skies the foragers each made hundreds of flights while they still could, but later in the day when the clouds darkened and the wind gusted, Flora alone stayed out, fighting her way toward the sweet distant flower wealth she could still smell.
Through watching other sisters she quickly learned the pleasantries some blooms demanded before they would release their nectar, but she studied the bumblebees as well, and their cruder ways, until she could also barge at mallow flowers and pump her tongue, forcing them to give up every drop of nectar. Lily 500’s data was immaculate at factoring the imminence of rain, distance to the hive, and fuel remaining, and Flora used it to pack her panniers so full of pollen that only a bee of her strength could carry it. When she landed back on the board just as the first raindrops began to fall, even the Thistle guards cheered at her daring and profit.
When the shower had passed and the sun shone bright, the foragers went out again, and the increased warmth brought new pollen and nectar to the flowers’ lips. This time Flora took pleasure in the delicacy of her approach and studied the ways of the smallest, sweetest blooms she could find, tiny pimpernels and forget-me-nots hiding in the pockets of the fields. The energy of the sun on her body and the joy of foraging filled her soul, and when she thought of her egg, it was as a bright bud she had not yet visited, glowing as it grew. She flew the fields and gathered until the light began to fade and she heard the sound of her forager sisters’ wings turning for home. Then she joined them.
As Flora’s feet touched the sun-warmed wood of the landing board, a great weariness filled her body. She gave her nectar to the ardently admiring receiver, too tired even to register her kin. Then she stood quietly as careful hands unpacked her pollen panniers and voices marveled at the double load she had brought—and then she was free to rest.
It was all Flora could do to latch her wings, then take herself to the canteen and eat whatever was put in front of her. She sat at the foragers’ table and drew comfort from their presence, and now she under
stood why they did not speak, for it was not possible to do any more than eat, drink cool water to rehydrate her burning wings, and find a place to rest. The idea of going to the Nursery, and the energy required for her planned interaction with Sister Teasel, was unthinkable. Flora took herself off to a dormitory and collapsed. It was almost too tiring to seal her antennae, but she did it, lest she dream of her egg—and then her exhausted body took her down into sleep.
MANY FORAGERS DIED OF EXHAUSTION every night and in the morning sanitation workers carried out their bodies. Those surviving stood by their berths until the workers had passed, singing the plainsong chant of farewell and respect:
Praise end your days, Sister, Praise end our days.
Flora’s first thought on waking had been to go to the Nursery to pay her visit to Sister Teasel, but despite her intention, her feet took her to the canteen for fuel, then the landing board with all the other foragers. Her secret love for her egg glowed deep inside her, but once again, as soon as she stepped out into the dazzling warmth and unlatched her wings, the physical desire for flowers took over, and all she wanted to do was fly. The sun was bright and strong that day, and the more Flora gathered, the more she wanted. Each time she touched down on the landing board she remembered her egg, but her missions were already celebrated and the Dance Hall crowded to watch her dance, and there was no possible opportunity until the day was over.
Each successful mission improved Flora’s skills and added to her knowledge, and on each one she went farther and visited hundreds more flowers. She brought back dandelion nectar and the soft purple-black pollen from poppies. She knew the right time to visit the mallows when their nectar was just rising, and she stormed through a bank of ultraviolet oxeye daisies, tasting which were tainted with road wind and which were fresh to gather from. Her sense of smell strengthened so that the air vector back to the hive was easy and fast to locate, and when she returned and disgorged her loads, her choreography became more detailed and roused more cheers.
She flew so many missions on her second day foraging that her sense of the hive stretched far and wide, for she saw and smelled her sisters at vast distances, and each of their bodies was a point of beloved, familiar scent. She was near one over a great swath of pink rosebay willowherb when she heard a strange rattling sound. Before Flora knew it a beauty of dragonflies was upon them, mesmerizing and terrible in their iridescent armor. Moving with astonishing speed and agility, the sublime monsters cut through the field, taking bees out of the air—and then they were gone, high and distant before any could cry alarm.
On her return to the Dance Hall Flora left no detail undanced. In graceful steps she told of the dragonflies and all the flowers that were safe to forage—and then her rhythm changed as she danced of the lost sisters from another hive. She had passed them on her return, their blind and dizzy flight striking pity in her heart as they cried out for their mother and home, the wet gray film weighting their wings and burning their minds. The bees stopped following as they recognized the stark message, and each one looked down at herself and her neighbor, to check that she was clean. When Flora stopped there were no cheers, but slow applause for the valuable warning.
It was night again, and Flora still had not visited her egg. Her mind was filled with flowers and pollen and the stream and the hedge and all the sights and sounds of her forage, but she forced them back. Her egg. She felt its need for her. She wanted to get up and go to it, but her exhausted body would not move. Tomorrow.
THE BEES WOKE TO RAIN, battering the hive wet and chilling the air. The floras came to take the dead to the morgue because the air was shut to flight, and despite the wear and tear in the field, many foragers groaned at the prospect of a day of enforced rest. Flora waited until the bodies were carried out, then dipped her antennae and followed her kin-sisters out, eager to put her plan into action.
She clamped her antennae shut, folded her wings respectfully, and went into the Category One ward. Sister Teasel sat sobbing with her nurses at the station. They all looked up as Flora walked in, and she saw their tearstained, frightened faces.
“What has happened?” Flora ran to them. Sister Teasel could barely speak.
“A most terrible calamity.” She burst out crying again. “It must have been a novitiate, her mind addled because she cannot get enough to eat!” She stared at Flora through her tears. “What are you doing here? I knew when I heard a flora had been promoted, that it must be a bold thing like 717, I said so— Oh, my poor babies, my poor, poor innocent nurses—now I must train these girls from scratch and no one for them to follow and learn from—” She reached out her hands to the young nannies clustered around her, and Flora saw their fur was flat and damp and fresh from Arrivals. “If we do not get enough to eat ourselves, we cannot concentrate properly, and mistakes will be made! It is not my fault if the food supply runs short—it is yours, it is you foragers not bringing enough—and now look what has happened—” Sister Teasel burst out weeping again.
“Sister Teasel, please. What has happened?”
“Why are you even here? Have we not had enough grief and terror for one day without everyone coming to stare at us?”
“I came to see you!” Flora fought down the impulse to run through the ward to search for her egg. “It is raining, we cannot fly so I thought—” She stopped, smelling the fertility police.
“Yes, they came.” Sister Teasel shuddered. “How many more nurses must I lose to them? And even Lady Speedwell dragged out of the Queen’s Chambers—oh, it was unspeakable!” She looked at Flora. “You know how they are. And one girl lost her mind in fear and said it was Her Majesty’s doing—well they tore her apart on the spot, right there where they found the egg.” She pointed to the end of the ward. “There, in that last crib. I don’t know how we will clean it, the blood went everywhere, and the child screamed and screamed for so long I will never forget—”
Flora’s whole body went cold. “What child.”
“A new-hatched drone. Oh the most beautiful little boy he would have been, such a handsome face—but in the wrong crib! A new nurse must have put his egg into a worker cell, and of course the boys must always get more, so no wonder he was starving by the time we found him—I said he was not yet stunted, I said there was still time to feed him up and move him, but the Sage hear everything, for next thing the police are here—and then—” Sister Teasel gathered the new nurses to her and sobbed against their fur.
Flora stared at the crib where she had placed her egg. Sanitation workers scrubbed the floor around it, and a bee from Propolis repaired the broken edge.
“You said something about Lady Speedwell.”
Sister Teasel wiped her eyes.
“Well I had to tell the truth. She came into the ward late one night, so I thought I should mention it. I never intended them to—do what they did. In public, even while she screamed on Holy Mother’s life she was innocent.” Sister Teasel got up and waved the young nurses away. “But the police must do their job, else where would we be? Overrun with monsters and cripples. Accept, Obey, and Serve, even when it hurts.”
“Yes.” Flora turned away, sick and heartbroken.
“Look around if you want, the trouble is over, and this is still the holiest place in the hive.” Sister Teasel shook her shabby old wings straight. “Holy Mother will make it right at Devotion. I don’t mind telling you I shall be first to breathe it today.” Her smile was weak. “How well you’ve turned out, 717. I’d never have believed it. Is something wrong? Your antennae tremble so.”
Flora clamped down on them so hard she gasped.
“Quite well, Sister. It is just—very sad news.”
Sister Teasel groomed her own antennae straight and combed down her chest fur.
“One egg is nothing. Holy Mother will lay a thousand more this sun bell, and a thousand more every day. It is the nurses I grieve for. All that training wasted.” Sister Teasel laid a light claw on Flora’s arm and pulled her close. “I’ll tell you what I rea
lly fear, 717. That it was not one of my poor nurses, but a vain and evil laying worker.” She stared at her. “We must all be vigilant.”
Flora wanted to strike Sister Teasel, or scream, or shout that it was her child, that they should tear her apart to save her from her grief. Instead she bowed very gracefully.
“Yes,” she said. “We must.”
FLORA WALKED OUT OF Category One not knowing where she went, numb to the pulsing floor codes. She bumped into sisters and did not hear their words; she passed by others carrying food whose scent meant nothing. While she had obsessively gloried in her forage and fallen exhausted into sleep, her baby son—her son—had hatched and starved and died in agony. No flower on earth could heal her pain, but her steps still took her to the landing board.
Other foragers had the same idea, crowding the corridor until they could move forward and look out into the streaming gray. The close comfort of her sisters about her drew Flora’s grief from her in a ragged gasp of anguish. A gentle hand touched her, and she turned to see an old and battered forager beside her, Madam Rosebay.
“Tell me,” she said to Flora, “is it the headaches? We are all suffering them; no one will betray you. Do you feel it when you come in from the field and lie down? Because I feel your spirit so dull and sad within you.”
Her kindness made Flora long to weep and tell her everything, but she forced her antennae tighter closed.
“I—I long to fly.” That was all she could say.
Another forager, overhearing, smiled. Even in her grief, Flora could still see her beauty through her age and the wounds to her face and shell. She was so old every trace of her kin had faded, and she reminded Flora of Lily 500, though it could not be.
“We will have our flowers again,” the old forager said. “Have faith.”
