Chrome and Marrow by Maudie Bryant

The metallic aftertaste of recycled oxygen lingered in my throat, each breath a sweltering struggle to survive. I tracked the merciless white sun as dust devils spun in the distance. Their swirling forms juxtaposed against the still figures before me.

Elder Willow, her bronzed face etched by countless cruel summers, stood her ground. Witness to the land’s decline and the rise of the oppressive regime, her eyes were still determined. She held memories of lush fields and thriving hives, a stark contrast to the desolation before us. She was a stone against a sandstorm. Her tattered robes, faded like sunbaked clay, fluttered in the absence of any breeze.

Opposed to her, encased in a polished chrome exosuit, stood a representative of the government. With features hidden behind a mirrored visor, his expression reflected the desolate landscape. The only sound to break the oppressive silence was the steady hum from his armor.

“One last chance, Acolyte.” His voice, amplified and distorted by the suit’s speakers, boomed across the valley. “Surrender the hives, and we will guarantee the survival of your… community.”

“We cannot survive without balance,” Willow’s voice, though aged, carried the weight of history. “The honey sustains us and the bees. It is more than sustenance; it is the lifeblood of the land.”

“Lifeblood?” A metallic sneer escaped the envoy’s helmet, “How quaint, considering your archaic ways. We have mastered synth pollination, a marvel of modern efficiency. Honey is a relic, a nostalgic indulgence that your people cling to in vain. Think of what we offer: not bare survival, but stability. Your traditions have value, but they cannot feed a future.”

A cough escaped my lips, rasping like wind against dry earth. His words itched my insides, a truth as undeniable as bleached bones scattered across the desert. A truth robbing our world of life. Although synthetic food kept humanity from starving, it offered nothing for the soul. I didn’t know how many more visits we could handle.

“Stability? Or control? What you offer lacks the spirit that makes life worth living. Honey is the promise of renewal in a world that your machines can never replicate.” I said, repeating the teachings in hope of reasoning with the stranger.

Willow lifted a gnarled hand to silence me. Her eyes flickered to the weathered huts huddled behind us. Home. A refuge for the last survivors of the Apiarist Order, the sect I swore to serve upon completing my training. We followed the sacred covenant of the bees, a bond forged generations ago, promising mutual survival and the balance of the land. This covenant was not just a tradition, but a living testament to our faith in nature’s wisdom. A pledge to maintain the harmony that once allowed our planet to thrive.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Ezra, not yet ten summers old, burst from the sheltering huts. His wide eyes betrayed the honeycomb he’d clearly snuck moments before. A collective gasp escaped the onlookers as all eyes darted towards the boy, his diminutive figure a small speck in the open atmosphere. My heart pounded as I realized he ran to danger, clutching the honeycomb like a beacon of innocence. The small respirator clipped to his septum glinted in the harsh sunlight. A distant hum permeated the air, a low tremor that spread shivers through my flesh.

The envoy’s visor flashed as it swiveled at the boy. “Ah, so this is where you store the product.”

A flicker of anger ignited in Willow’s eyes, momentarily chasing away the weariness etched into her face. With a swiftness that belied her age, she snatched the honeycomb from Ezra’s grasp. My attention followed the golden surface catching the sun as she held it aloft like a sacred chalice.

“This,” Willow’s voice rang out, clear and unwavering, “is not a product. It is life. It is the promise of a renewed world.”

“Is it worth risking everything for a tradition? Think of the children, of their future.” The envoy motioned at Ezra, hiding behind Willow’s robes.

“I am. A future without roots is no future at all. The children need the bees, just as the bees need us.” Willow replied.

The air crackled with a tension as true as dust. When the envoy’s metal hand twitched towards a concealed weapon at his hip, the onlookers sucked in a synchronized breath. Then, a dark cloud materialized on the horizon, swelling with an ominous speed. The wasteland suddenly vibrated with an intense thrum that sang in my marrow. It wasn’t a mere dust devil, but a living, breathing storm— a seething mass of bees, their unified roar shaking the ground.

The envoy staggered back, his chromed form dwarfed by the approaching tempest. Even from this range, I could feel the primal energy pulsing from the amassed fury, awakened. The envoy turned to run, but the die had been cast. The swarm engulfed him, a buzzing shroud of fluttering wings and stinging wrath. Their unrelenting drone drowned his anguished cries.

When the dust settled, the envoy was gone, leaving behind only bones in the shell of his armor. The earth turned crimson where it welcomed each drop missed by the bees. Willow lowered the honeycomb with trembling hands. She met my gaze, a silent understanding passing between us.

Ezra, tears glistening on his cheeks, clutched at Willow’s robes. “Grandmother, the bees… are they angry?”

Willow passed the honeycomb back to the boy, then faced the horizon where the swarm faded into the distance. “They’re our guardians, Ezra. They remind us of what we’ve lost, of the sacred pact between all things.”

Listening to the final echoes of the throng, I dragged the remains of the suit towards the makeshift forge. As the clang of metal resounded against the scorched earth, its hollow finality served a grim reminder. This battle was not only for our immediate survival but for the enduring struggle to carve out a sweet place on a dying planet.

Maudie Bryant

Image – Extreme close up of a bee. Just his eyes and a hint of bee yellow against a black background. pixabay.com