by Jon McGoran
We had stopped the bee-pocalypse. Hooray.
It was a victory in a lot of ways. But not in every way.
Sumner took the blame, posthumously, for everything that happened. Stoma said he had falsified documents and misled them, which was true. Archibald Pearce and Stoma Corporation effectively distanced themselves from the entire thing. They were victims just like everyone else, if not more so, defrauded of millions of dollars by a dishonest business partner who preyed on their desire to help America’s farmers and save the world’s food supply. Luckily, they were able to salvage enough of Sumner’s research that they could continue their efforts to do something about the terrible scourge of colony collapse disorder. By something, of course, they didn’t mean stopping it, they meant cashing in on it. Stoma Corporation: Technology to feed the world today, and tomorrow.
The unintended aggression of the bees was a footnote to the story, part of what Sumner had been irresponsibly trying to hide until he could fix it. But while Sumner did try to hide it from Stoma, Pearce knew. And if playing dumb and letting Sumner try to work things out was the price of cornering the pollination services of a third of the world’s agricultural sector, Pearce was willing to go along, as long as things remained under control. But where Sumner only saw a setback, Pearce recognized an opportunity, as well. And his high-placed friends in Washington were only too happy to fund research into a new class of bio-weapons.
BeeWatch got funding to hire a few more people to make sure the Bee-Plus mites were eradicated before the beekeepers brought their bees back. Moose stayed on the island to help them, and to keep us posted on other developments. Chief Wilks stepped down to spend more time with his family, and Jimmy stepped in as acting chief. According to Moose, the conventional wisdom was that the job was Jimmy’s to lose, and most people thought that’s what would happen. But Moose said Jimmy was doing good, drinking less, taking care of himself. A new girlfriend will do that to you.
I was happy when I heard he and Annalisa were an item, but I’d felt a pang of something else, too. Jimmy was a lucky guy.
Darren Renfrew wasn’t quite as lucky. He tried to take on the big guys, gambling everything on a political maneuver to take Stoma’s place in the ASSP program. He’d gone into hock to buy the political favors to do it, then leveraged himself even further, consolidating as much Thompson Company stock as he could get his hands on to maximize his profits when the windfall came. When the bid failed, the stock tanked. He lost everything.
Hell, I even thought about giving him his money back. But then I thought about not giving it back, and decided that was the way to go.
After all, he still had family he could stay with. Teddy got out of jail after a few more days, with probation and community service. I liked the idea of Renfrew sleeping in one of Teddy’s cabins, his feet sticking out of the bed. Who knows, maybe they could bond over the experience. If they didn’t kill each other first.
Things on the island weren’t all that had changed. Nola had changed, too. We drove to see her specialists in South Carolina almost as soon as we got back.
We told them about her exposure to massive amounts of pesticides. “That’s not very smart,” the doctor said. “You shouldn’t do that even if you don’t suffer from chemical sensitivity.”
I told him we were quite aware of that fact. I didn’t tell him she had done it to save the world, including his sorry ass, that despite her history of chemical sensitivity she had exposed herself to a torrent of chemicals that very well could have condemned her to a life of sickness and isolation. But I did tell him it was the single bravest act I had ever witnessed.
Nola shushed me. She can be quite modest.
They ran a battery of tests over the course of several days, and at the end of it, they said she seemed fine. Still a good idea to be careful around chemicals, and no one would say the word “cured,” because maybe she wasn’t. But she was better.
We moved anyway, but not because we had to.
“No, Doyle, I don’t want to live in a place that’s regularly doused with poison,” Nola had said, “but I also don’t want to live in the kind of dump where the landlord feels he needs to.”
Hard to argue with that.
I told her about the money I had put away, enough for a down payment on our dream house. She gave me a big wet kiss, then cupped my face in her hands and said, “I love you, Doyle Carrick. But maybe we should rent for a while first.” Then, as she led me into the bedroom, she added, “Besides, I could learn to enjoy city living.”
She took that job at Greensgrow Farms after all—farming in the city, a ten-minute walk from our new house. Her new boss had friends who were renovating a place, and they had gutted it but not finished it. They liked the idea of a nontoxic house, so we signed a lease and helped them finish the place, virtually chemical-free.
Nola said it was the first time since she left Dunston that she felt at home. A week after we moved in, her friend Cheryl came to visit. The one with the severe chemical sensitivities.
The two of them cried for the first half hour. But after that she seemed really nice.
* * *
I flipped the burgers and walked to the edge of the garden to wait, pausing as another bee buzzed past, drawn by the row of big yellow squash blossoms. It hopped from one to the other. Then apparently it had enough, because it flew in a straight line—a beeline—to the roof across the street. Don Shump, the neighborhood beekeeper, was over there tending his rooftop hives. No veil, no gloves, just him and his bees.
Nola had talked about getting some hives. I cupped her face and told her I loved her. “Maybe some day,” I said. “But not just yet.”
It was ten after five, which meant Nola would soon be home. I liked to watch her walking home. I like to watch her most of the time, but something about watching her walking up the street—tired after a full day of work but with a spring in her step because she is happy—makes me love her a little bit more each time. I looked over the edge of the roof, and there she was, right on schedule, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, her arms and legs strong and browned by the sun.
She gave me a big wave and that smile. And I thought, yeah, Jimmy Frank is a lucky guy. But I’m luckier.
FORGE BOOKS BY JON MCGORAN
Drift
Deadout
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JON McGORAN has written about food and sustainability for twenty years, as communication director at Weavers Way Co-op in Philadelphia and as editor at Grid magazine. During that time he has also been an advocate for urban agriculture, cooperative development, and the labeling of genetically engineered foods. He is a founding member of the Philadelphia Liars Club, a group of published authors dedicated to promotion, networking, and service work. Visit him on the Web at www.jmcgoran.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DEADOUT
Copyright © 2014 by Jon McGoran
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Daniel Cullen
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3471-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-1525-4 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466815254
First Edition: August 2014
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