Page 20 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

"You're unnatural," Susan says. She pumps the bellows of the smoker. The grey cloud rolls over the open top of the hive.

"I'm efficient."

She pries the wooden lid off the box. "This is Colony A. They're Italian honeybees. Very docile. Good producers."

I look at the mass of writhing golden bodies crawling over the wooden frames. "Alpha Platoon," I state. "Good discipline. Tight formation. Keeping the supply lines secure."

Susan pauses. The metal hive tool in her hand hovers over the wax. She glances sideways at me through the mesh of her veil. "They're insects, Alas. Not soldiers."

"Everything is a soldier if it has a job to do." I point to a large cluster near the entrance. "Perimeter guards. Holding the gate."

She shakes her head, pulling a frame loose. The comb is dripping with golden liquid. "They're just fanning the hive to keep the temperature regulated. It's air conditioning."

"Tactical climate control."

Susan sighs, sliding the frame back in. She moves down the line, her boots crunching in the dry grass. She stops in front of an older, weather-grayed white box sitting at the far edge of the windbreak.

Colony D. The Russian hybrids. The mean ones.

Even from three feet away, the pitch of their buzz is different. Higher. Tighter. Angry. They boil out of the entrance hole the second her shadow hits the landing board. They slam against her veil with sharp, aggressive thuds.

"Rogue unit," I declare. "Mercenaries. Zero loyalty. High kill count."

"They're just highly defensive of their stores," she corrects, pumping the smoker aggressively. The grey cloud seems to just make them madder. "They over-winter better than the Italians. They're survivors."

"Shock troops." I take a step closer. The angry cloud swirls around my shoulders. One lands on my neck. I don't blink. "Delta Force. Put them on the front lines."

Susan uses the metal tool to pry the lid up. The propolis cracks like a gunshot. A carpet of dark, aggressive bees surges upward.

I point a finger at a fat bee lumbering across the top of the wooden frames. It moves slower than the rest, pushing the smaller workers out of the way.

"That's the General," I say. My voice carries military certainty. "Fat. Slow. Sitting in the back giving orders while the grunts do the dying."

Susan stops pumping the smoker. She turns her veiled head toward me. Her shoulders drop.

"That's a drone, Alas."

"Commander."

"No." Her voice shakes slightly. "He doesn't even have a stinger. He doesn't gather pollen. He doesn't guard the hive. He literally just exists to eat the honey the females make, fly out to mate with a queen from another colony, and then immediately die in mid-air."

I nod slowly. I look at the fat drone. "Kamikaze. Ultimate sacrifice. Respect."

Silence stretches over the meadow.

Then it happens.

A sharp, bright sound cuts through the steady hum of the bees. It starts as a small gasp, then builds in her chest, spilling out of her mouth into the cold mountain air.

Susan laughs.

It isn't a polite chuckle. It isn't a small smile. It’s a full, deep, body-shaking laugh. She drops her chin to her chest. Her shoulders shake. The sound is wild and free, echoing against the tree line.

The armor she’s worn for two years fractures right in front of me. The exhausted, isolated beekeeper vanishes. The ghost of her dead grandfather releases his grip on her spine. For five solid seconds, she’s unburdened.

The sound hits me harder than a bullet.

My jaw locks. The muscles in my neck pull tight. The blood roaring in my ears drowns out the hive.