The Bees: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

trying to stand.
    “Then maybe Holy Mother lays bad eggs.”
    The priestesses hissed and rasped their wings like knives. Sister Sage raised the Clover off the ground with one hand. “You blaspheme, at the moment of your death?”
    The Clover raised her antennae to high shivering points. “ From Death comes Life Eternal. Holy Mother, take me back.”
    The priestesses surrounded her and flexed their abdomens high. Flora saw the tips of their bodies draw in to a hard point, and as they sung the Holy Chord together, their delicate, barbed daggers slid out. The chamber filled with the scent of venom, the Holy Chord rose louder until the air reverberated—then the priestesses stung the Clover from all sides. She cried out once—and then the sweet scent of her kin burst bright upon the foul air and was gone.
    The priestesses turned to Flora. She felt their probing attention work its way down her sore antennae, deep into her head. She curled herself up as small as she could, to brace for the searing chemical pain they would drive into her brain—but it did not come. Abruptly, the intimate invasion withdrew. The priestesses talked together in low voices, and, despite her fear, Flora listened.
    “Cornflower yield is low. Even the buttercups are short—”
    “The foragers speak of more green deserts—”
    “When they fly at all, in this rain.”
    “We cannot fight the season.” By the particular rich timbre of the voice, Flora could tell the speaker was the same Sister Sage she knew. “We cannot fight the rain, we can only provision ourselves as best we may. So unless she be heretic or deformed, in such a troubling season, every single worker is an asset—and I am loath to lose another.”
    “Hardly an asset,” said another voice. “She defied you over the baby. I vote to give her the Kindness—I would not waste my venom on her.”
    Flora lay very still.
    “I will kill her myself when her use is over,” said Sister Sage. “But the first fault was mine. I acted independently.”
    The air in the chamber contracted as the priestesses twined and flexed their scents together in consultation. Then one fragrance formed, no longer dominated by the harsh astringent top note, but smooth, warm, and powerfully calming.
    “Only the Queen is perfect. Amen.”
    Even in her pain, Flora heard the choral beauty of their voices when they spoke together, and she breathed more deeply. When a foot nudged her she did not resist.
    “It is true. Such size and strength make her useful,” one of them said.
    “Provided she is docile,” said another. “To have a rebel in that kin—and one who could have learned of feeding—”
    “That will never happen.” Sister Sage knelt down beside Flora and looked up at her fellow priestesses. “More than one of us should do this, to be sure.”
    “Of course,” said another. “Dirt and fear will be her only guides.”
    Three more priestesses knelt by Flora’s head, so there were two at each antenna.
    Then they all touched their own antennae to hers.
    The sensation was very strange. As the chemicals jolted into her brain her body shook, but she did not feel pain, only waves of numbness, stronger and stronger until her consciousness shrank to calm and blackness.
     
    “G ET UP, 717.” The voice came from a great distance.
    The massive limbs beneath Flora lurched into life and she stood. Dimly she felt the energy of other beings around her, then the comforting, dull rhythm thudding through the comb beneath her feet. It went up into her body and her brain. Without conscious thought, Flora lifted the body of the dead Clover into her mouth. As she did so the rhythm in the ground grew stronger, pulsing with each forward step she took to lead her onto the coded tiles. Pulled by the frequency, Flora carried the dead Clover out of the detention chamber, into the huge traffic of bees.
    To shield her antennae from the many bruising signals in the air, she walked with her head low. Air currents and