I was three days old when they chose my sister over me.

I was excited to have a sister at first. Her birth is etched in my mind. She was a luminous dot, a drop of sunshine cocooned in luxury. Food overflowed in her massive chamber. Hordes of nurses doted on her, taking turns to tend to her. My sister will be Queen. And I succumb in servitude to her.

We share the same parents and nothing else. Workers feed and groom her, freeing her to plan nuptials and, occasionally, eavesdrop on other royalty. Meanwhile, I scrub the six walls of my dingy cell and feed the infirm. Forbidden from taking any lovers or bearing children, I am only an instrument of her reign. I will slave till I die.

Today is a momentous day for our colony. My sister and our future Queen, Q1, embarks on her nuptials today. Hundreds of drones will keep her company. Today marks my ascension, too, but on the ladder of servitude. No longer an enslaved nurse, I, B42, am a receiver now.

Receivers patrol the boundaries of our colony. Predators and parasites lurk there, but this is where the colony dances with life. Fliers sway us with stories of worlds beyond our colony. They mine distant over-skies territories, and I safeguard their exploits – yellow powdery sustenance and sweet anodyne. These crumbs sustain every single life in our colony, including Q1.

A10 is my flier. Unlike Q1, she has countless flights under her belt. A10 dances us into a trembling frenzy with her charisma. One day, this could be me.

“A10, how do you outrun predators?” I gasp, rushing out to receive her. This is day five of working with her.

“Fly swift! And fly zig-zag,” she answers, brushing past me. A10 likes me. She talks of the sun, the stars, rainbows, and the moon. She will soon recruit me, for me to see everything myself.

We spot a sluggish dot on the horizon approaching us. Q1 is back from her nuptial flight – bigger, domineering, and pregnant with ambition. Queen M1 is decrepit, while Q1 has returned fertile with heirs. 

Malaise hangs heavy. Maybe I am delusional, but the colony is uneasy. I sense a shrill reverberation, a churning hum. Unprompted, a worker turns on M1, goading her out of her Queen cell. M1 grates with indignation, but others join in, asphyxiating M1 under their weight. M1 is frail; her appendages try to scratch a way out. But she is just falling apart.

This is a coup! The very workers sworn to M1 are shoveling her out. Deposed and dishevelled, the former monarch tries to steady herself but rolls off the edges instead.

The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen! 

Q1 is Her Majesty, The Queen now. The hum disappears as if nothing happened. Nurses feed, guards look away, and blurry outlines of fliers appear on the horizon – business as usual. How does this not bother anyone?

“Move!” shouts A10. She is urging me to collect food. But I find myself unable to move.

“M1 has been overthrown,” I gasp. A10 strokes my head gently. She is unfazed.

“Does this not bother you?” I ask.

“This is our way,” she retorts.

I sneer at her. “You are just another pawn of the colony.” I did not mean that.

“We thrived for millennia because of our roles, B42. Q1 was merely dispensing her duty. The colony needed a new queen. This was just long overdue.” A10 was devoid of all emotions.

“That is all you have to say? But why her? Why not me or you?”

“That’s treason! Anyways, you just saw what happens to queens. I plot my own destiny. I will never resign myself to the birthing bed!”

“Lies! You are jealous of her luxuries!”

“You don’t know luxury. This colony knows no better. I scale mountains of mist, wrestle invisible forces, and defeat mirages. I have experienced life. Don’t gamble away your destiny envious of her.”

I walk away, but A10 is correct. I understand. After all, I am a bee myself.

Royal heads roll. Q1 has to forgo all autonomy. She is resigned to birthing for the rest of her days. Q1’s end, too, will be gruesome and to be suffered in similar silence. The colony is always in need of younger fertile queens. Few bees return nowadays. Most foragers return caked in substances that wreck their hearts and brains. 

Is it fair to swaddle Q1 in luxury at our expense? I don’t know. But the way of the hive has kept us alive. Giants like ginkgoes and dinosaurs have been decimated, but we bees have thrived. At least I will fly and see the world.

I have heard of over-skies territories called flowers. We mine the yellow powder – pollen from there. It sustains all life back here. With every wingbeat, we track faint scents in puffs of air. Using the sun as our compass, we hunt for blue orbs with the yellow inside because they could be flowers ripe with pollen.

Shaking flowers usually releases the pollen that we covet. Sometimes, we look for a step-pedal in flowers and press it to harvest pollen. Flowers are pretty puzzles. However, threats loom large. Birds and wasps scare me. They wait out there to devour us whole.

“I take shelter B42.”

“A10, do wasps visit flowers?” I ask while I unload pollen.

“Well, sometimes.”

“A10, what if you are mining pollen deep inside a flower, and a wasp sneaks up on you?”

A10 looks pensive. “Well, in that case, you wear petals for armour and sting them with all your might.” She stabs the air with a forced grin.

“A10,” I plead. “Take me with you next time?”

***

Rains hammer us for days. Foragers cannot fly out, and the colony is desperate for food. We ration what we have. Squeals of hungry larvae ring across the colony. We need food, and we need it now.

Our prayers are answered after days. The deluge turns to a drizzle after what seems like forever. The foragers line up to fly out. They look hesitant. It will be ok, right?

All we can do is wait.

The afternoon turns into dusk. We wait. Dusk bleeds into the night. We wait. One day passes, then two. We are still waiting, but no one returns. It rains again, torrential downpour this time. The colony seems to have accepted its fate. The foragers are not returning. We lost them all, it seems. But how?

I am a receiver. I hold on to hope. I doubt anything can take all of them down. Our foragers are strong.

Receiver log day three – none incoming.

Receiver log day four – none incoming.

Receiver log day five – none incoming.

Still, no sign of A10. Q1 is laying fewer eggs each day. The colony rings empty. Why is this happening to us? I never wanted this. I must accept; this is it. We receivers are promoted into foragers overnight. Not old enough and inexperienced, but ready. We fly out to feed our nieces.

I take off and fly north. I have heard of flowers there. 300 wingbeats north. Nothing yet. Wait! Purples, blues, and greens; orbs of blue with yellow inside. Flowers, finally! Oh, this ordeal is finally over.

But something’s wrong. I see flowers, and my wings are flapping wild, but I can’t reach them. Why? An invisible force slams me. I back up and try again – fluttering, tapping against this invisible blockade. Every knock hurts, but I don’t give up.

The sun is overhead now. I can feel my insides dry up.

Time is trickling away. I scramble up and down, side by side, but I am not an inch closer to my flowers. My wings ache, but I persist. It is night now. Should I head back? But how can I go back empty-handed?

I see a sunrise again. Unbelievable! It must be the sun. It’s warm and bright and surprisingly close by.

What else could it be? Reoriented to this Sun, I fly.

The sun shatters! It crackles, fizzles, and emits smoke. How is this happening? No forager has ever narrated something of this sort. This sun imploded before my eyes. Sun doesn’t do that.

I look around and now see several suns. It’s dizzying, but I reorient. I fly.

One by one, several suns implode as if in collusion with each other. I feel a shimmering shard whizz past me. There is a thin veil of smoke cloaking these extinguished suns. Something is burning. I see no fire, but I smell the smoke. I feel the life drain out of me. Nothing makes sense anymore. Am I losing my mind? It’s cold now. I can’t feel anything.

The flowers are mocking me, so close yet out of reach. I wish I knew what an armour of petals felt like.