Flora steadied herself on the high, warm current and checked her position, logging all the visual markers into her antennae. The town was straight ahead, but if she veered to follow the rising land on one side, she could approach its tiny gardens from the back—and those flowers whose sweet mouths she could smell. She felt for the thermal flowing toward the slope of the land and rose up to catch it. But instead of the warm curl of air she expected to ride with ease, it spiraled and spun her into a big, fast current streaming through the valley.

Get down! Lily 500’s voice burned through her antennae. Descend!

So the old forager had traveled this way herself, then. Flora struggled lower to clear her antennae from the strange sound in the wind that kept snagging her attention. The interference got worse. With a rattling snap, all but her visual data completely vanished.

Alarmed that this might be the result of particles of that gray film of sickness, Flora flew toward a clump of trees on the hilltop. Her body felt strong and well, but a pressure was building in her head, and the trees came in and out of focus.

One was larger than the rest and its dark green branches barely moved. It was some sort of massive conifer, its leaves stiff and gleaming, its trunk covered in a strangely uniform-colored brown bark. Some of its branches appeared to be made completely of metal, and a dismal emanation transmitted from its core, like a prayer mumbled backward. It had no smell and its energy was neither living nor dead.

The wind scattered on the hilltop and once again Flora tried to descend, but an alien force pumped at her brain and blocked out her senses. She found herself flying around the tree’s dead, shiny branches, on which no insects crawled and no birds rested. Far below were four shining metal roots, ugly and symmetrical, dug deep into a stone platform on which were scattered many black dots. Their shape was familiar, for they were bees. Revolted, Flora tried to use her strength to break out of the prison circle in which she flew, but each effort merely increased her speed. A hideous power pulsed from the metal tree, sapping her strength.

A sharp pain shot through her head as a burst of Lily’s data broke in again.

Do not look down— Follow—

Flora strained to draw more out but her antennae sagged like dead things. Follow what? She tried to focus on one spot beyond the tree and hurl herself out toward it, but her whirling momentum blurred everything to writhing green lines.

—the Myriad—the Myriad—the Myriad—

Now the old forager’s data looped over and over, mixing with the dull moan of the tree’s core until Flora wanted to tear her own antennae from her head to stop it. A high hissing sound cut in and as she was dragged around again she caught a lurid flash of black-and-yellow livery.

“Greetings, Sister Apis,” called the high, wicked voice of a wasp. It hung in the air watching her, completely unaffected by the shining tree. “Are we outwitted, so far from home?” It flew alongside Flora to show itself.

She was a young female, much smaller than the great Lady Vespa who had tried to raid the hive and been cooked for her pains—but even in her dulled state Flora could see her malicious face and smell her ready sting. The wasp laughed again.

“Oh we do like to see our sisters Apis in trouble. . . . Even the Chosen People must sometimes struggle, no?” She floated closer to Flora. “None of you know this tree, do you? Until it is too late!” She made little backward bounces without moving her wings, showing off. “We are not the Chosen People, but we are still superior, do you see, cousin? We make no honey, but we are more intelligent, more beautiful—” The wasp smirked and pirouetted, and even in her battered state Flora longed to strike her to the ground.

“And, oh yes!” The wasp slid out her little dagger to show the bead of poison glistening at its tip. “And so much better equipped!” She flexed it lasciviously, then flew so close to Flora that her buzzing drowned out the moaning of the tree.

“Admit that we are better, and curtsy to me,” simpered the wasp, “and I might show you how to leave.”

Follow—the Myriad— Lily 500’s voice bit through Flora’s heavy mind—Because they are not affected—

“I admit it!” Flora spread her knees in a clumsy curtsy and tipped in the air. The wasp shrieked with laughter, then whirred her wings in her face.

“Follow me quick and close, stupid cousin, and do it now—”

Flora lunged after the wasp and fell from the tree’s hold. The ground spun toward her but she grabbed on to a dry brown stem. The wasp settled on the dead bush beside her and waited while Flora righted herself.

“So clumsy; how the flowers must hate your touch. Curtsy again.”

“No.” Nauseated and angry, Flora could barely speak.

“La la, then I will leave you,” sang the wasp, “and watch how long you take to die.” She flew off a short distance and hovered. Flora gathered her strength to fly, but her body was weak and her fuel supplies low. As soon as she felt the air between her wingbeats, the moaning tree sucked her back toward it.

“Curtsy,” sang the wasp, “and see your hive again. Up to you!”

Flora clutched the twig again and curtsied to the wasp.

“How the Chosen People grovel, when they must! With all your treasure and your fur, and your superior holy attitude that you make such song and dance about. As if you are the only ones the flowers care for!”

“You are right, cousin. You are better. Now how may I leave here?”

“Ah well, first you should have kept to your side of the road,” said the wasp.

“The air belongs to all. No wasp decrees our flight.”

“Is that the royal We? Well dear cousin, let me tell you: we, the Vespa, think that your royal mother sickens. Indeed we do.”

“You lie.” Flora’s sting flexed at the insult.

“Oh no, for we found a poor sister from your orchard, lost on the wing just like you.” She made her small sizzling laugh. “We know your livery; of course we do. Even when sullied with nasty gray specks. Poor dying Apis, we carried her in to comfort her last moments, and how freely she spoke! How she called for her sisters—oh, we did not take offense, for she was very weak, but it was charming how she shared her news with us, of Lady Vespa’s rude reception, and all about your holy Sage.” The wasp put her head to one side. “And how Mother’s reek grows weaker.”

“Holy Mother! And her Love stays strong.” Flora’s dagger tingled to be used.

“Forgive me, cousin, you are right to mark my manners.” The wasp giggled, then shot her a sly look. “Do you think we are inferior?”

“Yes—but it is not your fault.” Flora did not want to anger the wasp. “You are stronger than me, for you can withstand this tree.”

“Not a tree, stupid cousin!” The wasp hovered and lifted one claw in time to a silent beat. “Can you not hear it? Boom, boom, boom—it never stops! And so loud and boring—but at least it cannot broadcast scent. That would be much harder to ignore.”

Now that the wasp had pointed it out, Flora could feel the heavy magnetic throb dragging on the air. Completely immune to the pulse of the cell phone tower, the wasp wove about in the air in front of Flora, demonstrating different wingbeats.

“Subtler frequencies, you see. We set them to miss that dreary beat—because we are better fliers than you. Better at everything!”

“Indeed,” Flora said sincerely. “You are very wise to understand this tree. And if I can return home, I will gladly tell my sisters of your skill.”

“Of course you can. I will show you the kindness of wasps. How are your aerials?”

Flora’s antennae were raw from the brutal pulsation of the shining tree and she could neither smell nor orient herself in any way, but she raised them to show good spirits.