in her pockets. Then she followed her kin-sisters out of the morgue towards the sun-warmed wood of the landing board, and the vault of sky beyond.
A great crowd blocked the lobby to the landing board and the sanitation corpse-bearers were forced to wait. Eddies of warm dry wind swirled towards them, then came cheers and applause as bees pressed back to make a corridor of space, and the foragers came rushing through. Awestruck, Flora stared at the dishevelled sisters with their blazing faces and radiant ragged wings, who smelled of no kin but the wild high air. They ran into an imposing atrium that opened off the lobby, from where there was more stamping and cheering, and the crowd poured in behind them.
The sanitation workers moved on towards the landing board, into a cordoned-off area, to prevent contamination of higher kin passing to and fro on hive business. The sun’s warmth created a festive atmosphere, and Flora thrilled at the sound of her sisters’ flight engines humming through their registers. She watched water-gatherers returning with bulging throats, their faces sculpted sleek from their work, then chains of receivers passed in exotic loads of raw pollen, never dropping a single grain. More wind-blown foragers came and went and Flora admired them with all her heart.
‘Corpse-bearers next!’ It was the stentorian voice of a Thistle, traditional guards of the landing board.
Flora walked out of the dark, closed hive into a dazzling world of light and space, and a floor made of wood. It was completely blank of any codes except the bright scent beacons laid along the edge to guide the foragers home, and the only other marker was the sun.
‘It’s busy, so stay low and be quick.’ The Thistle guard spoke loud and slow. ‘You know where to go – don’t linger, and return on the left.’
Flora shook her head.
‘Your cleansing flight – even your kin can remember that one place.’ The Thistle called to the bees jostling behind Flora. ‘Patience, sisters!’
Flora raised her antennae, searching for information. It made her head hurt and she looked down. Below the landing board in the tangle of grass and nettle and dock and trefoil that locked to the dense wet earth, disturbing scents wove strong and strange, telling of other creatures that lived there. The green began to seethe.
‘Stop that – no one looks down.’ The Thistle pulled Flora away. Both of them turned at the huge rumble of thoracic engines. The pungent smell of drones billowed out onto the landing board and led by Sir Quercus the drones marched out. Plumes high, visors down and their massive chests expanded, they turned to the Thistle sentries and showed their best aspects. The Thistle guards dropped nominal curtsies.
‘Worship to Your Malenesses.’ Their tone was respectful, if not fervent.
‘And honour to our hive!’ roared Sir Quercus, and all his brothers cheered as they crowded out onto the landing board. The smell of honey percolated through their thick aroma. As one, the sisters looked down. Their precious golden wealth clogged the drones’ feet, was trodden across the landing board and trailed back into the hive. Shocked faces of other sisters crowded in the doorway behind them and the Thistle guards’ antennae flickered rapidly at each other. No one said a word.
With a mighty bang the drones unlatched their wings, fired their engines for flight and tuned their roars to a rousing thunder. Flora saw Sir Linden at the rear, his fur still sticky as he struggled to stabilise his own slightly higher pitch. Too late she shrank behind a Thistle guard.
‘You there!’ he shouted into the noise. ‘How dare you disobey me? Come and lick my feet clean—’
He jumped back as a forager landed on the board in front of him.
‘Make way, Your Maleness.’ She pushed past to where Flora stood with Sister Thistle. ‘Lily 500 returning.’ Her nectar-scented voice was hoarse, her bright ragged wings told her age, but she radiated energy like a tiny sun.
‘Madam Forager, we know you well.’ Sister Thistle bowed deeply to her.
Lily 500 was about to go into the hive, then turned to the drones.
‘No sister shall lick our sacred honey from your feet. Would you draw the Myriad to watch and mock us?’
‘What Myriad, noble crone?’ Sir Quercus barged forward. ‘There are none today, so wish us Queenspeed and be out of our way!’
The old forager glanced at Flora, but spoke only to the Thistle.
‘You are charged to keep the board clear, yet a corpse-bearer lingers.’
‘Forgive us, Madam Forager, you are right, but they have sent out an ignorant one! What am I supposed to do? I cannot send a corpse back in, and she certainly cannot drop it from the board—’
‘As if I would suggest that. Shortages and incompetence—’ Lily 500 pulled out one of Flora’s wings. ‘Nothing the matter with them!’ She scanned Flora’s antennae with her own. Flora winced, and the forager looked to the guard. ‘They have wrecked her brain so badly it is a wonder she can see or hear.’
‘Good madams!’ interrupted Sir Quercus. ‘Gossip elsewhere: you delay our squadron. We like to leave with a good show, not all raggle-taggle like you ancient independents. So now if you would kindly move.’
Lily 500 held her ground. She flicked an antenna and a young Clover receiver ran out from the hive, knelt before her and opened her mouth. Lily 500 arched her body, triggering a stream of golden nectar from her own crop into the Clover’s mouth. When there was no more, the Clover bobbed a curtsy and ran back inside.
‘Crone vomit?’ Sir Quercus was appalled. ‘Is that what we’re drinking?’
‘Nectar, Sir. How did you think we carried it?’ Lily 500 turned to Flora. ‘Hold your burden tight, and follow.’
She pushed her off the board.
Blades of grass slashed towards Flora’s face, the rough wooden slats of the hive grazed past her antennae and the sun spun as she tumbled through the air. She flailed for balance and then, with a thunderous vibration, her flight engine fired her up in a great jet of speed and she was aloft, mounting the air behind the silver trace of Lily 500’s wings. Behind her came the massive blast of the drone squadron lifting off, and faint cheering from the hive far below, but she did not look down.
They rose up over the orchard, cool wind streaming down Flora’s sides and fluttering the dried edges of the dead sister’s wings, still held tight in her mouth. The sun warmed her wings and a thrilling power surge took her higher so that the world spread wide in all directions, the grid of green and brown below, the dark rise of the hills, the rough odour of the sprawling town—
It seemed to Flora that she heard the Holy Chord, though that was impossible for they were far beyond the hive. Its source was Lily 500, her wings two humming arcs of light around her. Flora sped forward to her side. The old forager veered away and Flora followed through trails and tunnels of scent, sweet and bitter threads of odour, focusing into the strong clear scent of resin and propolis as the conifers came into range. Lily 500 made a tight agile loop around Flora, forcing her down so she saw where to make her drop.
With the release of the burden Flora shot up into the sunshine and flew loops of pure joy and relief. Her vision sharpened so that far below
