The Journal of BubbleLand Studies

In Last Week's Report:

The goodwill archaeological expedition to the ButterSnow Mountains proceeded without incident toward its next stop, at SeaPort Downs, High Queen zzzzz'Drom's Hive manufacturing center. An urgent message from zzzzz'Drom came, ordering the Bee and Wolf contingents to abandon the slower humans, and to proceed at once to SeaPort Downs. Rumors had reached zzzzz'Drom that Meadows 15911, the High Queen's new Urban Hive prototype, had fatal flaws. Evidence of RoseMoth infestation was found along the way.

In the meantime, the Humans fell into a Medical Emergency. A mysterious Bee stranger came to heal a child of a foot infection, then brazenly lit in her ear(a symbolically treasonous act), and sang songs to her in the night.

zzzzz'ZOE, For The Queen

All the trappings of glory waved above Meadows 15911. Its
tri-cell flag unfurled proudly in the wind, showing Bee, Wolf, and Human Crests upon the foundation of the yellow honeycomb which united them all. But this glittering miracle of Bee manufacturing was as dirty as an old ruin in some spots. Whatever My Queen's advisors had said to us at Hive Home, whatever glowing reports they had concocted, of which I was audience many times in my own chamber, were now worthless as rank pollen in the presence of the humiliated colossus before us, infested with a cloud of RoseMoths, in a high state of arousal.

A flight of microbees rose to meet us, in hurried disarray.

"Sirs," they said. "Are you the Queen's archaeological Bees?"

I sensed that they hoped the answer was no. "We are they," I replied.

"You were not due for several days. We had hoped the de-mothing would be complete by then . . . every new Urban Hive has to be demothed, you understand."

"Through the deaths of thousands of waxware engineers?" The tiny bees looked nervously at each other. I continued. "Yes, you guessed right. We found the trench, and the mass graves. Your secret is budding. Will you please pollenate it?"

There was a quick huddle of microbees, followed by an invitation. "Please, Sirs, if you will follow us to our home, we can give you the public relations you so greatly deserve."

I agreed to follow him.

---

ScentHive 15906 felt like home. It had the same symmetrical lines as the Queen's own Hive at Hive Home, and that was no accident. It had been the prototype for the current generation of Urban Hives, including Hive Home, which differed from it only in size, being much larger.

As we approached, however, I could see its agedness, a fate which would soon befall all of the 15906 Hives. Around the circumference of the big hive was a ring of rusty-colored RoseMoth debris, bodies, wing parts and the like. The stale smell of rain-soaked and decaying moth wings puckered our antennae.

Fresh, thick scabs of beewax mottled the surface of the whole dome. I stopped one of the microbees and inquired about the scabs.

"Demothing," he said. "RookWeed Pollen mixed with the wax gives Urban Hives their scent storage capacity, and its scent-computing capacity. After about six years, the outer beewax shell breaks down in the sun, and RookWeed scent diffuses out. We have to patch it with fresh beewax."

"Don't RoseMoths mate on RookWeed blossoms?" I asked.

"Exactly," he said. "They mate wherever they find RookWeed scent."

"Even on new Urban Hives?"

He smelled hurt. "All new hives have to be demothed . . . the designs are a black art. Fissures are bound to occur . . . anyway, the RoseMoths are doing us a favor . . . helping us find the fissures. Making it perfect." He spoke as if he were reading a litany.

The two of us gazed back at Meadows 15911, glistening gold in the sunset, its fresh, sharp, hexcell corners as yet unmelted and unsmoothed by age, showing in dark relief. "It's such a beauty," I said, caught for a moment in the young waxware engineer's joy, before being distracted by what looked like a herd of strange animals, not far from Meadows 15911. Black or gray fro most part, all had a huge golden-tan hump on their backs, which looked shaven. "Those beasts, what are they?"

"A fool's errand," said the little engineer. "Bee Motive Wolves, with Browser Hives mounted on their backs. Many microbee engineers hope to escape their duty to the Queen . . . thinking they can store *.sml files on the Internet . . . eliminate the need for colossal Urban Hives. Work wherever their B.M.W.'s carry them."

"Is that possible?"

He stared at me. "Of course not. Queen zzz'Chmorrah is paying our team a lot of honey to say, 'Of course not.' We are the highest paid of waxware engineers, and you know what that means . . . that we'll succeed." He looked determined, the very embodiment of the future.

"Succeed in what? Buying Bee Motive Wolves with Honey? Come on, you're a scientist. The High Queen sent me to investigate. Should she stinger her hopes on fixing this Urban Hive, or on another . . . "

He stared away again. "All Urban Hives need to be demothed . . . No need to re-design. We'll have it de-mothed in time. Please tell the Queen . . . "

"Your promise will be kept?"

Bill'zz'Bom's memory fluttered the wings of my thought. Was the waxware engineer's promise really so different from the one Bill'zz'Bom had made earlier? Could adrenalin that anesthetized itself to dying, just as easily numb itself to untruths, to bold overconfidences? Especially when mixed with easy honey?

"No, Bee! Your promise will not be kept! What of our Wolves, chased from SeaPort by yours so the truth wouldn't get back."

"We wished to spare the Queen . . . ."

"Information to base her wisdom on?"

"The pain of uninformed worry."

"The thousands dying in the RoseMoth trench are Her children! Would you keep even her grief from her? Meadows 15911 can never be built, in any form, can it?"

He stared at me, eyes and wings gleaming. "Please tell the Queen, the promise will be kept. Meadows 15911 can be built . . . if the moths can be lived with . . . if birds can be trained to eat them . . . "

"You expect the Queen to murder a whole species of her subjects, just so you can meet your schedule?"

"We prefer to think of it as a downsizing of the eco-system."

---

We descended, at last, into ScentHive 15906, and flew into one of the ports. It was practically deserted, I could tell, from the lack of noise and scents, but a fine welcoming chamber opened to us, with many nectars already poured out into fresh honeysuckle blossom cups, set into wells in the faintly pink walls. The waxware engineer departed, in a hurry, but we were not alone for long.

An old Bee, his wings frazzled with age, but much larger than his mocrobee employers, approached from a ceiling passage. I recognized him as one of our sports stars, a hero in the honey races. I rose in deference to his age, but he motioned me down. Charm like his was compelling.

"Just call me Twil'zzzIp. Public relations . . . helps them to have a regular sized bee like my self . . . microbees think they get treated like larvae because they are so small. They like to surround themselves with a little athleticism, buy honey racing teams, you know."

"Let's cut to the chase, Twil'zzzIp, why has Meadows 15911 failed?"

"Oh, I wouldn't tell that to the Queen," he said, in a tone that some may have taken as threatening, had we not seen his obvious charm. "It will be delivered, on schedule. I would have heard anything to the contrary." He smiled broadly.

"But what of the thousands sacrificed for its de-mothing? The cloud of moths around the crown of the prototype?"

"Young man, the RoseMoth problem is a tragedy unrelated to Meadows 15911 in any way. In fact, we at SeaPort Downs have dedicated our lives to finding the true . . . "

"Enough!" A tiny microbee appeared. "I'm tired of this dance. The truth will come out sooner or later!"

The bee strode to the center of the chamber. "My name is zz'Bic, that's right, just two z's. Here in SeaPort, you don't have to be old, or even a Queen, to be important. The genius in your head is zzzzz's enough!"

I chuckled, and drew out a magnifying glass to examine this bold newcomer. He wore round artificial scent magnifiers on his antenna, and his eyes had the waxware engineer's tired, bleary stupor, from too-long looks at their work, and too few sightings of friends. Like tiny globes his eyes displayed the waxware engineer's vision of the future, with its love-dry desert of endless work, fed only sparsely by bloody rivers of fatigue.

Genius? Who told you that? Your words might work fine for a handful of idealist bees," I said. "But not for a whole world. Love of a Queen is the only power that can hold a nation together."

zz'Bic skittered nervously across the chamber floor. "Bees loving a Queen, yes, that is powerful . . . but all are not Bees in KinterSylvania. And there are injustices . . . "

"It has always been my Cousin's intent, to bring every one of the species into full Beeship . . . to make them Bees in every respect, all equal in universal love for her majesty! All functionally interchangeable!"

"By forcing them to build homes from their bodily products as bees do? Measuring their foods that their vomit might be sweet? Sending the bee counters in to scent all remaining privacies into the ledger?"

'Arrogant, this microbee,' I thought. "They would be palaces . . . you speak like the humans . . . as if the homes zzzzz'Drom would build for them from their waste were hovels of disgust. Quite the contrary, the flies living in test homes made from human bodily products are quite happy there, and the honey-izing of human vomit has the flies clicking their legs and dancing in the sun!"

zz'Bic snickered. "Do you, Sir, eat all of the things which flies eat?"

"Queen's no!" I said.

"Then why do you use flies as a ruler to judge human taste?"

I felt uncomfortably warm. "Why do you seem so concerned with human interests?"

"Why?" said zz'Bic, with an air of mystery. "Because zzzzz'Drom will fall with the Urban Hives! KinterSylvania will have a new Queen."

I scoffed. "One more interested in humans?"

"Oh, my, yes!" said the waxware engineer. "A Bee has spoken in the ear of a Child again, and we will soon find no more need of Bee Queens!"

"Treason!" I shouted. "Finding rebel comfort in old legends and lies! The only thing of value from ages past is Royalty!"

"Come!" said the rebel. "I will show you royalty's end!"

I accepted his challenge, and followed him out the passage, leaving my companions in the charm of Twil'zzzIp, the old athlete, where I knew they would, of course, be safe.

---

Seemingly unburdened by the hive on his back, zz'Bic's Bee Motive Wolf streaked out of the herd of hump-backed B.M.W.'s. to meet and take us by back Hive to Meadows 15911. "He runs as smooth as the Royal Wolves," I told him. zz'Bic nodded. "And I understand these small hives have Internet Scent Browser capability? Can I log on after we have stopped?"

"Stopped?" he said, smelling amused. "My provider, Billy-George Sanders' Rib-Barbecue and Internet of Little Rock, is often busy this time of day. His server needs to be re-written." He stared at me, expectant, as if I was supposed to have the slightest idea of what he was talking about.

He continued. "I'd write it for him, in C++, but then, no one's really using that yet . . . you just have to have it on your resume."

A tiny jolt told me that our B.M.W. had arrived at Meadows 15911. I followed zz'Bic out of the cramped passage, and flew with wings folded so that the little bee could keep up. There were not many RoseMoths infesting at the lower levels, and I mentioned it to zz'Bic. "Scents rise with the warmth, gather inside the dome passages at the top. No one goes up there, not even the Queen."

"Yes, what of your Queen, the designer of all this?"

"You're going to meet her . . . just now, in fact."

---

Above us on the long curve of Meadows 15911, I could make out a tiny group of climbers, like ants in triumph on a cantelope skin. It was a pod of working Bees, attaching hex-clusters of balloons, in red, yellow, blue, green, purple, and orange. In the midst of the workers, shouting orders in a damaged, cracking voice, stood the SeaPort Queen, zzz'Chmorrah, her wings twitching continually into intermittent, ineffectual flight, like a venom-drunk wounded soldier. A handful of workers followed her around dutifully.

zz'Bic spoke in hushed tones, not tones of respect, as for a true Queen, but in the whisper of the hospital hive, hiding truth from unwelcome quarters. "She's been like this since we learned Meadows 15911 would never be delivered. For over a year, now."

"Of course it will be ready in time for delivery," said the Queen, her ears sharper, apparently, than her reason. "A balloon here, a balloon there, a de-moth patch here, a de-moth patch there . . . balloons can do a lot!" Her voice tailed off into sing-song.

Her loyal workers were careful to 'Ooh!' and 'Ahh!' everytime Her HoneyNess said, "Look! There's a fissure! And one there!" Their hab-dozen feet pressed creases into the sun-softened surface, and they dutifully troweled on patches of wax, borne in hod-carried masses on their shoulders.

"Tell my Sister the High Queen it will be glorious! It can do everything ScentHive 15906 does, and more! Everything! Come to Meadows 15911 in droves, they will! I will build it, and they will come!"

I looked to my companion, at the mention of droves. "How many are left, by the way?"

My guide sighed, his face bristles fluttering as his breath left him. "We all fought the disaster at first. There were no leaks, no fissures at all, and still the RoseMoths came. Believing in the Hive, a full third of our number gave themselves at the trench you crossed, defending against the RoseMoths."

"And what she said . . . that there really are no fissures?" I glanced at the Queen, still de-mothing the huge hive.

"True enough," he said. "To make the Hive work in the gigasniff range, a new wax was perfected, one which didn't fissure in the sun, one which allowed the barrier walls to be thinner than ever."

He hesitated, a catch in his voice. "And they were so thin . . . scents diffused right through the damn walls. Not enough to be detectible in the laboratory, but in trace amounts, so that with the colossal size of Meadows 15911, enough got out to attract the RoseMoths."

"Did you try to start over?"

"Oh yes, we did. But first, we built the small Browser Hives. Had to. Needed a place to store all the scent information that would have been lost -- can't be kept on ScentHive 15906 much longer."

"You proposed to store Bee cultural history off-world, as *.sml files on the Internet?"

"And we succeeded . . . but then a startling transformation took place among the waxware engineers. Bees realized that with such storage power at their antenna-tips, there really was no need for big Urban Hives like the Queen's."

"But," I said, "the Internet costs money . . . server space isn't free. Only the High Queen Herself has that kind of Honey!"

He shook his head. "Cunning, not Honey, is the real wealth now. Our Bee waxware engineers became programmers in a snap, learned the earth languages, BASIC, Visual Basic, C, and even C++ -- which you have to have on your resume, but no one really uses, yet."

"That's what I've heard, too."

"We bartered programming for server space, became independent . . . abandoned the Urban Hives project altogether. The best and brightest started our own businesses. "

He showed me a waxcake etching of an advertisement.

"Your own businesses? Really?"

"Darn right. It wasn't the RoseMoth tragedy that ended the Urban Hives project, it was the mobile Browser hives, which gave microbees the ability to move from lake to beachfront, to other beautiful spots . . . and do their programming there, always just ahead of the RoseMoths."

"You mean, that there really was hope for Meadows 15911, and the Queen's Urban Hives?"

"Oh yes," he said. "It's basically a good product, but there's just no market anymore . . . why, with a few hunks of BeeWax sunk into a Browser Hive, a Bee waxware engineer is King of the InterNet! Who needs a Queen?"

"But what of the love of Queen and Hive? Loyalty to the old, colossal Hives for scent storage? The excitement of the rollouts! The clowns, the balloons! After market documentation . . . "

"Who needs them? Well, gotta go. I'm late for a class in C++. No one really uses it, yet, but you gotta have it on your resume."

"That's what I've heard, too," I said. "Say, you promised I'd get to try out your Browser Hive. I've got a report to post."

He nodded agreement, and I followed him down to his dutifully waiting Bee Motive Wolf. I stopped before entering the back-hive, and looked up at the clutch of balloons readying Meadows 15911 for delivery. I fixed in my thoughts the picture of Queen zzz'Chmorrah, finding and patching fissures that were not there, preparing for a city of Bees that would never come to fill the big Urban Hive.

I had half expected zz'Bic would refuse me ScentBrowser access, but he and his compatriots in the Browser Hive seemed quite happy to give me access to the Internet, knowing full well that my link with Hive Home would tell the Queen of their treason, of their talk of zzzzz'Drom's fall.

I was led through a tunnel of light, to a different part of the back Hive, and found there a very ordinary looking browser station, upon I scented this report. The wonder of it is that the Bee Motive Wolf is moving beneath the Browser hive even as I Whiff the Web!

If an enemy can browse while his hive is in motion, then Queen zzzzz'Drom has more troubles than mere treason. This weapon could overthrow her, if she has nothing to match it.

My duty, My Queen, is clear. To steal zz'Bic's B.M.W. at the earliest opportunity, to restore the balance of power.

When I sneaked down the passage, however, I found myself waxed in by a layer of freshly deposited hex cells. Apparently, I am hostage, and heading, if the diffused lights in the hive mean anything, toward the NorthWest, toward the ButterSnow Mountains, and a mythical place called, BubbleLand.

15 May, 1996 -- Expedition Report -- 30 Twasmire, 15910