“Aww, thank you, bees.” You pluck the blade from the fuzzy bugs. With the release of the burden their sagging legs spring up. Watching the rise and fall of their abdomens, you can imagine the relief.
It’s not a big weapon. The grip is just large enough to wrap the three dactyls of one foreleg around, and the blade is perhaps five times that length?
You turn the blade, eyes caught on the eerie blackness. Just bringing a dactyl near the surface provokes a shivering chill. Other bees fly over now, wrapping the blade in a sort of sheath of woven fibers.
This jars your focus enough you notice the underground chamber empties around you. The advisory gestalt has dispersed; the weapon-bearers march out.
Enna calls for you again, louder. You grab the sheathed dagger and begin the crawl out. Bees carefully clear way for the giant.
Holding onto the weapon, you think about what you’ll say to the bee-keeper. She can’t be happy you ran off — and what if she takes away your sword? This ‘storm’ sounds bad, and you don’t wish to endure it without something, even if you’re no genius swordsmant.
Your mother made you wear a full set of shirts to prevespers, and here it might help. After squeezing out of the tunnel, you slip the dagger between your prothorax-shirt and the mesothorax-shirt — where your thorax curves from upright to not. The bottom of the shirt acts as a sort of hammock for the weapon to rest in.
Each step jars the weight of the blade, but it seems steady enough. Will Enna notice the suspicious crease in the fabric?
She calls out one more time, voice lower as if giving up. It gives you bearing to find her.
The bee-keeper’s wings flex in agitation. A bee has alighted atop her raptorial, and she’s… talking to her?
“Go, show me mantis.”
Though maybe it’s no surprise. People talk to their pets, make them learn commands.
You wave. “I’m here, ma’am.”
“Ah, there you are. Gave me a life’s scare. Where were you?”
You bite a palp, then offer, “I saw the bees doing some kind of dance. I followed after them.”
“That’s dangerous, girl. Haven’t you heard the stories of bees? I’ve seen a centipede try to grasp one and got a whole contingent clustering on it, fluttering their wings. Thing was cooked inside and out when they were done.” She shakes her head. “They are small, but in numbers they get fierce.”
You look at the little bugs walking around. “They seem nice.”
Enna smiles. “Yeah. I’ve taught them well, haven’t I?” She starts to turn. “Come on. This is enough excitement for today. I’ll guide you out and you can run back to your parents.”
You follow her lead.
“I take it you didn’t need to use the spray bottle?”
You shake your head idly as you walk. Though the reminder’s made you curious. You squeeze the bulb, and a mist fires out. You spray a bit of the stuff on your tarsus experimentally. It stings, especially when you extend an antennae to smell it (nasty!). After a moment, you stop feeling it, so you squeeze some more, and get the cool sensation of a wet tarsus.
“Give me that! It’s not a toy.”
Your antennae fold up. “I was wondering what it was.”
“It’s a warning pheromone.”
You nod understanding, and change the subject. “I saw you talking to a bee a moment ago,” you start. You think about how to make your suggestion. “You’ve trained them?” you ask.
“To respond to some commands, yeah. You can teach them more than a varanid, and they’re good about working together.”
“What if you tried telling them more advanced stuff? I saw them with what looked like writing. Maybe you could have a conversation?”
“Oh, you can teach them to draw symbols,” she says, waving a foreleg. “But you can even teach some featherflies how to make what sounds like words. But there’s no meaning to them. They’re just doing what gets them rewarded. Not encouraging imitation is one of the first things you learn as a bee-keeper.”
You frown.
Another step, and you feel the dagger slipping forward, and quickly push it back. Enna isn’t looking, instead launching into an explanation.
“Here’s how my teacher explained it to me. Imagine you were locked in a room full of scrolls and small flaps that let people pass you notes and you to pass them back. Follow me? Now, these scrolls are full of instructions for what to write for each note they pass in. You only get food if the note you send out matches the instructions. The notes are symbols you’ve never seen in your life. Got all that?”
You don’t like how slowly she’s talking, but you follow.
“So you follow the instructions and get to eat, and say you do this for weeks. When you come out, you learn that those symbols were the alphabet of old imperial, and people remark that you’re fluent in a language only knowledge-hunters know. But do you speak the language? Or were you just pushing symbols around as directed?”
“I think, after weeks, I would get good at the instructions, and not even need to look at them. I’d remember it all. Isn’t that having learned the language?”
Enna crocks her head at you. “Even if you could do that, even if you realized it was a language you were writing, you aren’t speaking it. You have no idea what you’re writing about. It could be the weather, or traditional roach recipes, or alate supremacist screeds that’d bring the syndic judges down on you.”
“I guess. But you could just… tell the bees what words mean?” You see a bee depositing a rock into one comb. You point at it. “Point at a rock and say ‘rock’?”
(It’s not just one bee, the two of you have reached a more active part of the hive on your way out. Bees are all around.)
“It’s a bit presumptuous for you to walk in and tell me how to do work I’ve spent most of my life doing. Grown imagos have thought everything you’re thinking, nymph, and they’ve done experiments. You sit a bee down to take a sapience test, and they just start crawling around looking for their hive. When people try to claim they’ve found intelligence in bees, so often they’re feeding them responses, or picking out the most flattering results. Naïve mantids want to see themselves in every other kind — but that’s just what they see: themselves, and not the other.”
“But that’s not—” you start. You’re in a busier part of the hive, with many bees walking around. One is in your path, and you stop short of kicking her, but catch yourself so suddenly, the dagger flies out of your shirt.
The blade falls without clatter — thankfully imparted with enough momentum it sails clear of the bee in front of you.
“What in the blue is that?”
Just what you wanted to avoid.
You scramble over to pick it up, mind flying through reasoning.
(Would she think a weapon too dangerous for a nymph like you? But the bees want you to have it. …Would they side with you over her? But there’s no way that could go well. Mantids in the village wouldn’t feel safe near a hive that turned on its keeper.)
You pick it up and turn to the imago, eyes flushing, antennae falling back deferentially. “I, um. Some vesperbanes came to the prevesper house today! I got to talk to one of them personally, and she wanted to help me.” You lift the blade and pull back the sheathing. “This was a gift. Something to protect me.” Unsheathing it slightly is a gamble — would the fear of strange enervate magic discourage her, distract from any protecting impulse?
“Ah… huh.” The antennae are unfurling toward you, and she’s giving you a hard look. As if she doesn’t quite believe you, but there’s nothing else to believe. “Far be it from me to overrule one of those fiends.” She gestures, frowning, and starts walking again. “Be careful, alright girl? You should stay away from banes. Don’t want their… influence rubbing off on you.”
You recognize how close you are to the entrance, and you’re anxious to get away.
Outside the hive, you say, “I think I can make my way back now.”
“Hm? Okay then. Hope you learned something. So long now.”
Then you hear, “Hey wait, give me back my hat!”
A cloud-masked sun shines down on you, the apiary further behind with every step.
What doesn’t go away is thoughts of Enna, or her arguments. You can formulate no counter to it, but it feels off, something cheating in the logic.
You’d read what the bees wrote. It was clumsy and confusing, but not at all symbol-drawing without any understanding. People have to know bees could communicate. Maybe Enna was too stubborn to see it, but don’t bees want people to know? Doesn’t someone care?
So you head where you always head when you need to know more. The scriptorium.
Shatalek is too small to have a library — many imagos seemingly couldn’t even read! A scriptorium is no a library. Scriptoria were where sages of welkin would copy scrolls laboriously by tarsus, and once, all scrolls came from them. But Tlista says there are machines that can ink entire pages of text at once. Sages still prefer to copy scrolls the old way. “What better way to know a book’s contents than to write it?” was their response to your asking. This way they seek complete understanding.
You spend enough time there they had gotten you to try it. You remembered well the text you’ve copied (even the unimportant parts). But it takes so long! It’s so boring!
“It’s meditative,” they said.
In prevespers, the mentors have you do meditation. And there’s a reason meditation is assigned during recess as punishment.
The building itself sits a ways out of the village. The sages didn’t mind visitors, but liked solitude. The expansive wooden facade always thrills a little awe when you see it. All the more impressive when you can watch it grow; you’ve seen the sages building expansions with their own legs.
You step past the door. As your eyes adjust, you swear the interior looks blue for a moment.
Inside, you’re saying “Hi Ranel,” before you notice the sage-mother isn’t perched by the entrance to welcome you.
Disappointing, but it’s happened before. Ranel is one of the few sages you can talk to. You see others as you venture further in, but they wear masks over their mandibles, covering their files. They said there is enlightenment to find in silence. You like the quiet when reading, but you don’t like not being able to discuss the scrolls they’ve copied.
In a central chamber, shelves tight with scrolls abound. Inscription alcoves line the surrounding walls.
You’ve learned the sorting well enough to hunt your quarry, and slip into an alcove with a few scrolls about bees or other kinds in general.
(Before beginning, you check the sun; you should have hours till evening, and this is a favored way to pass the time.)
The first scroll looks thick and historical.
Bees, you find, are a vinculated kind. ‘Vinculated’ being a technical term analogous to ‘domesticated’. A vinculated kind is a sapient or semisapient species dependent on another. The arch-example is the noble roaches, who rely on mantis-designed shelters and your martial prowess to defend them from threats, while benefitting from your advanced, efficient organization. A domesticated nonsapient pet or stock, like hoppers or blue beetles, would struggle in the wild. Similarly, you read, vinculated kinds rely on tools and infrastructure they cannot create themselves, or must be taught.
You glance at the window, and the row of other scrolls you have to get through. Tentatively, you skim further.
Bees are unique in apparently being naturally dependent on weevils, as evidenced by the properties of their flower cultivars. But around the rise of the disenthralled rebellion, one finds evidence of mantis/bee association. Some translated tablets are interpreted as bee-keepering instruction.
You sigh and put away that scroll. Maybe if you weren’t short on time, you’d power through, but this doesn’t seem like what you need.
You flip through some scrolls, and eventually give try to the odd one out, titled Any Kind’s Guide to Words. You weren’t sure what it was about. Maybe it was a tutorial on interspecies comunication.
It’s a hope that withers as you start the introduction — it really does seem to be about words, albeit rambling and discursive, but one passage jumps out at you.
Sidenote: some, I’m sure, think I’m exaggerating or syndic-pandering21 when I say ‘any kind’, but I believe14 it.
It’s untenable, these days, to come right out and say23 you think mantids are superior or think other kinds aren’t people. But there’s a bias3, even when people concede personhood to other kinds. Therids are, of course. Maybe even roaches. Dragons too, if they’re being historical. No one ever says ‘bee’, and why is that?24
Asking ‘are bees intelligent’ gets a muddled response25 that averages out to ‘sort of, not really’.15
It’s odd. There are uncharitable9 readings — roaches are cuddly, a familiar household kind. Therids are fellow hunters, and any one of them could kill you if you give them reason. Bees, on the other hand, are tiny, furry mutes. But would you dismiss the possibility on flimsy, superficial grounds like that? Is it just a coincidence, and their true reason26 is based in fact?
No. Bees had gunpowder before mantids ever broke the bats’ spell or climbed down from the mountains.27 Bees can make salves that work better than what most modern haemotechnics can manage.27 They had independent nests the size of entire cities that got torched by the third dominion.28,29
If you told someone a kind like that existed, they’d immediately guess they were sapient. Tell them it’s bees, and they think it’s a joke.
What about the sapience tests? There, they excel.30 Given a complex tool, bees can recreate it. Given a series of abstract patterns, bees can continue them. Given iterated cooperation dilemmas and other decision problems, bees approximate optimal strategies.31,32
How have I never heard of this? You may ask.
Well, I did a bit of verbal chicanery there12. Most knowledge-hunters don’t find these results. You see, bees can do all these things. Individuals, which sapience tests are traditionally conducted on, by and large struggle with the basic battery.33
Some of you are frowning now. That’s the trick! They’re cheating, as much as any student that copies another’s answers.
But question your assumptions2. Why do you think intelligence has to reside in one individual?
Neuroprojectors examining bee brains find vast populations of mirror neurons, and huge regions dedicated to empathy.34
And indeed, just watch bees work. Their coordination is inspiring. How is testing one bee any fairer6 than cutting out a chunk of your brain and testing it in isolation?
“But personhood by definition applies to individuals,” you might counter.
Well, let’s talk about definitions.
It continues, but veers into being more about words than bees. The writing style of this author — you check, one sir Yukli Elanu — is studded with footnotes references. Many of them seem to be his own writings, but a few look to be syndic reports or stewartry documents, substantiating his claims. You can’t imagine, in Shatalek, you’ll have access to copies of all of them. You get up though, to stretch your legs if nothing else.
As expected, few of the citations are things that interested the sages enough to have copies ordered. You do find one, a paper detailing a large scale experiment done decades ago. Specifically, they “tested a procedure of enculturation with the aim of promoting unity and integration between the Pantheca and mellihive bees.” Toward the end of the abstract, they write, “The results, however, caution us against promoting this policy. Immersion in mantis culture resulted in increased stress response and greater incidence of total colony collapse, an effect we term memetic destablization. At present, it seems safest to minimize bees’ contact with certain ideas.”
Before you can read any further, you’re jarred from focus by a laugh, sounding quite out of place in the scriptorium. You peer out from behind a shelf.
It’s Ranel! The sage’s bright-yellow chitin is unmistakable, even though the robes (identical to any other sage’s) hide much of it. She’s walking alongside a mantis with fine robes and a pointy hat.
You wave, and this catches her eye. She brings her guest with her, coming to you.
“Hello hello, Eifre. Here, this is Evom, I believe I’ve mentioned him? Responsible for many of the texts you love so much.”
You look at Ev. “You bring the books from the city?”
He stridulates a little laugh. “Oh no, I just have the contacts in Wentalel. They’ve special access to the library there, and we reap the benefits.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Ah, my pleasure.” He smiles. “So, I’m to understand you’re a reader? What do you have there?”
“I was looking for scrolls about bees, so I could learn more.”
“Oh, wonderful. And you’re Tlista’s daughter? The vesperbane?” You nod, it’s no secret. “Wonderful indeed. I wouldn’t expect it — they don’t say it in polite company, but I think many vesperbanes haven’t shaken the idea that mantids are special, that the vespers prefer them and only them for some superior quality. But you, you’re willing to learn about other kinds of your own drive. Pure soul, you are.”
You smile. Though you wonder… “Do you think bees are intelligent?”
“I think all kinds were created with our own strengths and weaknesses. The best thing is for all to treat all with respect and dignity. These lives are too short for baseless prejudice.”
It… isn’t a terrible answer. But it sems like they won’t give a direct one. Should you change the subject?
You don’t know who this mantis is, or how they know Ranel, so that’s a start.
You look around the room, gesturing at the books. “Is this what you do as a job? Get people to bring things from the city?”
“Ah, ancestors no. I’m a hierophant. Do you never attend the sermons?”
Your parents aren’t religious.
“But you should! It’s good for the spirit. We all need guidance in this world.”
You glance away.
“I don’t mean to nag you dear. But please remember if you ever need help, or advice. I offer the ancestors’ wisdom, and more. I can more greater help than you’d expect.” She regards you with a small, expectant smile.
“I’ll remember it,” you say.
“Until we meet again, child.”
You return to your alcove, but your research has already brought you near the long-awaited evening.
You wonder if you look suspicious, walking the fringes of Shatalek. It can’t look any different from your wandering most days, but you’re hyper-aware, wondering if anything might give onlookers the slightest suspicion. You wonder if this worry itself could be the tell.
The sun’s not yet at the horizon — did you leave too early, in your eagerness? — but it’s casting a long, warm shadow ahead of you.
You don’t see many mantids, although you spot some early-rising roaches.
Maune wanted to meet you at a certain copse of ferns. Luckily, with how far out the scriptorium sits, a little circling around the edge of town takes you near it, and minimizes close contact with inquiring imagos. They could probably see you in the distance, but not identify you. Plus, anything suspicious should be safely obscured by the ferns.
They aren’t just ferns. Surrounding them like cage-bars or supports are lianas. Crawling, woody vines, these lianas are why nymphs don’t play here. Their red bark has a crumbly outer layer that burns chitin and soft flesh, and makes it blister and bleed. All the nymphs got warned and still learned the hard way, and you were no exception.
The dusty red bark doesn’t bother you now, though. Maybe the other nymphs were too scared to try again?
Approaching the liana-constricted ferns, you hear a soft caw. A familiar (no pun intended) black bird lands with a flap and one eye turned at you.
His beak opens and some approximation of a mantid’s voice says: “Tell her I’m coming as soon as you let me know she’s here. Wait a few minutes.”
“I understand.”
He replies with a caw. Then he flies up over your head and opens a talon. A crystal-flecked rock tumbles out, onto your head.
“Ow.”
“Nice rock,” the crow says.
You pick it up, and it is a nice rock, the light glimmering through the crystals. It’s unrefined, natural — but with no dirt covering, like it’d been washed. Was it a gift? “Thanks.”
Reva nods and flies off, presumably to get Maune.
You take a deep breath, and step toward the lianas. The gentlest squeeze still dusts you with red. It’s a cough in your tracheae, but harmless on flesh.
The secluded bubble of space within is dotted with rocks and snakeholes. It’s just a spot hidden behind ferns.
You lay down your abdomen, and wait.
It starts as an indistinct rumbling, a snapping as of many cracking roots.
You see the ground centermost in the clearing rise and fall. Like a beating, breathing abdomen. Or a larva pressing at an egg. The risings rise higher.
In prevespers, you learned about mushrooms, got to grow mycelium and watch fruiting bodies sprout from the soil.
These fruiting bodies are massive. And quick, everting from the soil in the span of several moments, long fungal fingers.
Not just mushrooms — thick roots too.
And a mantis.
“Maune!”
“Miss me, kid? It’s only been a day.” She takes a step forward, and the mass of roots and fungus sags away like a vital support was removed.
“Yeah.” Then, “I talked with the bees.”
“Making friends with all the kinds, aren’t we? What did they say?”
There’s something… uplifting about how, where other imagos responded with disbelief and condescension, Maune just… believes you, without missing a beat.
“They want the weevil’s help. And they wanted me to send a message to the ‘the ward of the weevils’ — you, I think? — that a black storm is coming. They, uh, divined it.”
Maune frowns. “A mistranslation, probably. There’s no ‘divination’ as such. They mean scrying, or some other polysyllable for remote sensing I’m too long out of practice to remember.” She leans closer. “Did they say what process they used?”
“Tulip-agar? Does that mean anything?”
“Fuck,” Maune replies. “Fuck. Storm indeed.” (There might’ve been a short, distant sound, then. You both pause, listening, but nothing comes.) “Do they know if it has anything to do with the termite mound? Or is our luck just that fucked?”
“I don’t know. Are—are we in danger? What does it mean?”
“It means evacuation isn’t enough. Not sure I like our odds with anything short of an army, and we’ve got what, a retiree and a couple banelings? And me, I guess.”
“And me?” you venture. “The bees gave me this, to defend myself?”
You produce the dagger, lifting it up for Maune to see.
The blue mantis steps forward, toward you, reaching out for it.
That’s when the voice you least want to hear cuts in.
“Don’t touch her, defect.”
A white mantis bursts into the clearing, right where you entered. You know her.
“Shimare? Why—”
“What are you doing here?” Maune’s falling into a defensive position, antennae tightly curled.
There’s a wet ripping sound, and red tentacles emerge behind her — poised to strike, like twin scorpion tails.
Shimare’s reaction is fast it enough it’s just barely not simultaneous. She has a small knife now, pulled back to throw.
“Wait, stop.” You step forward. You still have the dagger.
“Get back,” Shimare hisses, and forces you back hard enough you stumble.
Maune’s staring at her and, as if a fatal line of calculation has concluded, tightens her palps and takes a step forward. Her red tentacles draw in, taut.
A nymph looking up at an imago, this puts the first bit of hesitation in Shimare. She backsteps.
Two things happen at once, or close enough either could have caused the other.
Shimare’s knife flies true.
And Maune crouches for one instant, and in the next she’s lunging forward, in mantid fashion. The raptorials close around the Brismati’s thorax. Wretched raptorials seize her legs. She holds her for a moment, then Shimare falls limb and bleeding to the ground.
Maune removes the knife thrown at her. The wound closes before it even has time to bleed.
You stare at the mantis you’d talked to just hours before, wordless.
Maune glances up at you.
“I didn’t kill her,” she says, calm.
“Why,” you say. “Why?”
“Why didn’t I kill her?” Her voice remains calm, tone unfitting its contents.
“Why did you attack her!” This didn’t have to go this way.
“Eh, same answer. I did it for your sake. I saw the look on her face. Her next move would have been to run, perhaps dragging you away by force. I had a moment to act, and the odds were better if I didn’t have to aim around a hostage. Unless…” She eyes you critically. “This wasn’t some stupid trap, was it? You didn’t lead her here?”
You… you might have. “I’m as surprised to see her as you are.”
“Heh, don’t think so. I was too tired last night, but now… this was always an implication of a Brismati being here. You know their blood secret? How it works? They emit invisible, penetrating light that reflects off objects but only their eyes can see. It’s hell to counter, and makes true secrecy a pain.”
“But my mom said they can’t use their eyes all the time, and they have range limits. And it seemed like she knew when she was watching.” Was that blue you saw at the scriptorium…
“Yeah, if they’re clumsy. Brismati light reflects off objects. Reflection, in other words, is the selective absorption of light. And when your eyes selectively absorb light, it’s called seeing things.” Maune taps a compound eye. “And sure, it’s limited. But they only need to see the wrong thing once. The rest can be ordinary deduction and investigation. She wouldn’t need magic eyes to watch you walk over here, would she?” She pauses at that, looking to where Shimare walked in. “But Reva was supposed to be circling and watching…” Her antennae straighten and she starts rifling through the vesperbane’s bags. A feathered form was stowed in one pocket.
“Reva,” you say with a start. “Is he…”
Maune feels him, then, “No. Alive, for now, just sedated.” A dactyl runs along his breasts, then stops, and pulls free a needle. “Girl’s got aim, I’ll give her that.” She stands up. “As I was saying, this became a possibility as soon as Brismatis were in the picture. But I already told you I’d meet you here. The other options were sending Reva — but how inconspicuous is that? The banes know about him. Or I could leave you a message. But that introduces so many complications. What if they find it first? Do I make you leave a reply, and what if they find that? Do I make up some convoluted series of dead drops, pray you understand perfectly and cooperate, for unclear benefit? It’s enough to drive you to paranoia.” She shakes her head, antennae bouncing. “I thought this would be safe enough. It… wasn’t. Sorry about that. I don’t lose anything, but this is pretty bad for you.”
Maune crouches lower, regarding the vesperbane.
“We have three options, and since this affects you most, I’ll let you pick. Be warned though, none of them are pretty.” A pause, a breath. “We can kill her, removing a complication and perhaps… the rest of them can suspect it’s me, I’m already wanted, but whether you’ll be implicated depends on what she’s told her team. This might just be her private hunch or random chance — seems like it, with no one else pouring in on me. Even if not, they can’t know that much, since, I hope, so much of your treason is just the little desires in your head. But I digress. That’s option one, kill her. And I’ll be honest, I’m losing patience. This is the second time these anklebiters tried to — could have — killed me. That knife was aimed for the throat. Not keen to give them a third chance.” She flexes her palps. “But option two: just leave her here. She wakes up, tells her team what she saw, which is damning, but you could make up a story. And option three is we decide later. Tie her up, carry her with us, and figure something out.”
Maune smiles, but gives up partway through. “Yeah… I hope this hasn’t stung you on the plan to come back with me. If so… I’ll let you walk away. But I still do intend to make you a vesperbane tonight. Your mom won’t kill you if you’re out late again, will she?”
What will it be? None of these options are nice… but is one less bad?
(What gave you away? How did Shimare suspect you? The talk she gave earlier was a test, but why did she have suspicions she wanted to test?)
Snuggly Serials 