The young Poppy followed Flora’s stunned gaze.

“I know! Two whole walls of wealth completely stolen, and a third one damaged, but Mother be praised, the other three still intact. And look at the Sage working with us, have you ever seen that? So elegant even as they crawl!”

Flora stared at the priestesses moving along the high vaults.

“I must dance,” she said. “I must go to the Dance Hall—”

“Madam, you did dance, do you not remember? And so well that many have already returned with that new nectar, and it smells most delicious.” The Poppy looked anxious. “Do you think you can stand now? Would you like me to stay longer?”

“What do you mean?”

The Poppy looked around, then lowered her voice.

“Madam—your collapse. The foragers said it was the terrors of your flight upon you. When you ran in and saw the destruction, oh how piteously you took it—striking out as if every sister was a foe, wailing for our lost walls. We cannot bring them back, Sister, but we can rebuild them.”

“The walls. Yes.” Flora stared across the raw new space. “I saw it.”

Those wet, golden walls of wealth disappearing into that white bag. Her egg had drowned in honey. Her egg was gone. She felt the Poppy clutching at her hand, and knew the little thing wept.

“I saw it too, Madam—and how will we forget? How can we? Our home torn apart, so many lost—I can never forget!”

“Hush.” Flora gazed across at where her crib had been. The outer wall of the secret chamber remained, built strong and old of a different-colored wax from the rest of the hive. Numb and cold inside, she comforted the Poppy. “Hush,” she said, again and again, to both of them. “Hush.”

A wave of masking scent rolled into the Fanning Hall at the arrival of a police squad. Every sister working there looked up in disapproval, for despite the vigorous activity it was still a sacred place. Flora recognized the particularly harsh scent of Sister Inspector and watched her speaking quietly with Sister Sage. Very slowly she averted her antennae, lest her notice rouse their attention. The priestess turned.

“Immediately upon completion of repairs,” Sister Sage an-nounced, “the Treasury will be reconsecrated.” She scanned the workers. “But the theft of our wealth has revealed a greater evil. We are no longer in any doubt: a laying worker hides among us. From now on there will be spot checks throughout the hive, day and night. Any sister who resists an officer will be deemed guilty. Is that clear?”

“Accept, Obey, and Serve,” the bees murmured. When the police left, they returned to work, but now in total silence. The Poppy receiver moved on to a new arrival in the hall, and Flora bent her head and pumped the last of her crop of echium nectar into the chalice. Sisters joined her and began to fan their wings to cure it. Gradually the water from the nectar evaporated as silver mist and the Holy Chord began to rise. All over the broken, desecrated Fanning Hall, the working bees joined in it, a hymn of courage for their labors. The sound filled the emptiness in Flora’s heart. She would not weep; she would work. As her nectar cured, brave and industrious Flora 717 stood amid her sisters, her mind’s eye gazing deep into the dark sky of her body, searching for a new star.

Twenty-Five

THE HIVE RESUMED ITS NORMAL LIFE. FLORA DID NOT. Since the loss of her second egg she kept her antennae sealed, making loneliness her constant inner state. Her sensual pleasure in food vanished, the busy gossipy canteens alienated her, and though she still attended Devotion, it was more a way to kill the time between flight and sleep, and had little effect.

The challenge of the forage was the only thing that kept Flora’s grief at bay, and efficiency on the wing her only satisfaction. She flew harder and longer missions than any other bee, and felt herself becoming grim and intent as she returned to the landing board. It was as if she observed herself in the body of some strange sister who neither spoke nor smiled, intimidating to the nervous young receivers who unloaded her panniers and took her nectar. Though she felt kindly toward them she did not show it, for to give or receive a loving touch might break her open.

Summer waned. The flowers pulled on their last strength to shine and breathe their sweetness on the air and Flora skimmed the roadside to harvest one final flush of purple-black pollen from the dusty orange poppies even as their tired petals fell. The cornflowers finished, then the lady’s-mantle, the rosebay willowherb, and the scant cow parsley that was Flora’s favorite flower.

Careful of the rank, unkempt ponds where frogs and dragonflies lurked, she made the long trip to the town gardens. All the echium had been cut down, and the remaining flowers were time-wasting potted ornamentals. There was still some comfort in the thin, wild borders of the fields, where the flowering weeds clung together and raised their scent, until one day the harvesting machines tore the fields edge to edge and the birds screeched above.

She had just that morning danced exact directions and confirmed them safe—but now crows endangered any foraging bee who used them. Far more important than filling her own panniers was the need to protect her sisters, and Flora sped back to give warning. Running into the Dance Hall she stopped short at the sight of the fertility police moving through the foragers, forcing them into their long-discarded kin-groups.

“Keep dancing,” one of the police rasped to the Calluna who stumbled in her steps. “Continue as normal.”

“Sister Officer,” Flora called out. “I must dance at once, for the crows are now on the field and my sisters must not go.”

The officer looked up at her, then beckoned. Flora walked to the center, where the Calluna very gratefully gave up her place.

The officer stood too close while Flora danced her news, including her new signature choreography, details of the air currents she had used. These subtle steps helped any who followed to save on fuel, but the presence of the police inhibited the audience and few danced behind her. As Flora continued she saw the young and tender sisters standing at the edge. They had come to watch and learn, but the fertility police bore down on them with questions and they stood dazed and stupid with fear.

“This is a place of freedom!” Flora called out as she danced, not caring that all eyes fixed on her. She repeated her steps to warn of the birds in the field, then looked directly at the officers. “How can anyone dance freely or give of her best if the air smells of terror? Respect this place or leave!”

“You dare direct the police?” An officer grabbed at Flora, but her reflexes were faster and she whirled her abdomen around to buzz the location of the last flowers she had found, a stand of dog roses climbing up a metal fence, south-facing and still in bloom. Emboldened, other foragers fell in behind her and picked up the steps. Ignoring the rising scent of the fertility police and remembering her own youthful joy in Lily 500’s dance, Flora took her steps nearer to the young and frightened bees by the walls.

She danced the falling poppies and the naked fields, she ran figure eights to teach them direction and azimuth, and as she turned she felt the answering rhythm in the comb floor as more bees joined in and danced behind her.

She danced the ivy that crawled along the town fences, and its buds that would soon bloom; she danced the empty dahlias, and the last dragonflies hiding in the ponds. And then she danced of her hunger for weeds.

“Enough!” Sister Sage stepped forward and Flora stopped. “Are you falling prey to the madness of the field? Or is it pride?” The priestess signaled an officer. “Measure her.”