The End of Everything

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me?  They are the villagers—
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
. . .
Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.

The Bee Meeting
Sylvia Plath

1.

Three years ago, we would have said this:

What do you make of Candle Flame Winslow? Then again what does anyone make of her? I mean there's the obvious stuff: that name—Candle Flame (What parent would do that to a child? Didn't they know the torture they were sentencing their kid to?)—and the fact she's barely 5 feet tall, round as a berry, with clearly bleached blond hair in volumes of unkempt curls, nearly blind despite attempts at corneal revision (eyes hidden behind voluminous rhinestone framed glasses), painfully shy, continually nervous. Any one can pick those details out.

But what I'm talking about is more psychological. On the one hand, she appeared to have the greatest difficulty making the simplest decisions—eating at one of the Base restaurants or shopping for an article of clothing was maddening, pure and simple. Maddening.

Yet her brother Feldon—as well as her dominatrix mother and spinster aunt—relied on her to handle their substantial finances. After all, she'd worked her way from being a teller to an assistant bank manager in a relatively short time. They knew—as anyone would—that the world of numbers was her place of safety. She might not be able to decide on a pair of shoes on Main Street, but she could advise anyone about their money. In just a few moments, she'd be able to untangle the most jumbled—or synthesize the most complex—portfolio into an organized accounting. She knew how to make people's money secure; she knew how to make it grow. That's all Feldon and the family needed to know.

Like the rest of us, they laughed at her. She was truly ridiculous.

But when it came to money, no one laughed.

People listened.

Three years later, we still listen.

Now, we even applaud.

2.

So let's get the setting.

We're in deep space—on the spine-chillingly cold, perpetually star-lit Pluto, briefly considered a full-fledged planet, demoted a century ago to dwarf planet status (or minor planet or scattered disc object or—my favorite—trans-Neptunian object: take your pick). Yet this chunk of frigid desert orbiting elliptically 4 to 7 billion miles from the Sun—a mere pin-prick in Pluto's perpetually night sky—is one of the most happening places in the solar system thanks to the Folding Stations that allow near-light speed transport to the resource-rich comets, asteroids, and planetoids of the Oort Cloud reaching billions of miles beyond.

There are five Stations on Pluto, each centered in a domed city of rather significant size—three to four thousand inhabitants each. Scientists used to make up a large percentage of the population, but by the turn of the 22nd century, most of the locals were the folks who just wanted to get away for one reason or another. Some were so-called misfits who hated the Earth's overcrowded, polluted mess; a few, the spiritual who saw Pluto as the ultimate in monastic detachment; and folks like the Winslows who sought to take their wealth off-world and horde it far away from the eyes of snooping government types.

And when they came, they built their living quarters (some looking like Earthside houses), constructed Main Streets with shops and eateries, and created loosely structured governments that worked efficiently and effectively from time to time. There were a hundred reasons to move out here—and stay out here. It was the new Alaska or Antarctica. It was sometimes the lawless Old West. But lots of times it was Gothic heaven, a place for a Poe nightmare or a soupcon of Lovecraft or King.

It was the place Candle Flame had her revenge.

3.

Some nights (when was it ever day?), Candle Flame would lay her ample backside up against a tree trunk and look up and out through the transparent dome of New Cardiff, hoping to spy one of the three moons: Charon, Hydra, or—her pet choice because she liked the name—Nix. It was a moment of peace after a shift at the United Planet Bank, a respite from the nagging messages left on her Scan by Feldon, her hellish mother, Cynthia, or the ever-noxious Aunt Lucille.

She once inquired about having her Scan removed, but the scarring on her left temple would have been too severe. Besides, at 25—when she first looked into the possibility—the Tendrils were already too embedded in her cerebral cortex. She might end up half-witted the doctors said, though she seriously wondered whether a life of dementia might not be better than a life shared with her family.

And going back to Earth was impossible. After two decades on Pluto—even with its enhanced gravity—returning to the home world or the high orbiting Space Habitat would be potentially fatal—her limbs, her lungs, her heart simply wouldn't be able to take the full one gee gravity.

Of course, there was always Mars or the Moon with their low gravities. That was always a possibility, wasn't it? But why move? She'd been on Pluto for years and was established there.

Then again, moving to one of the other Plutonian towns wouldn't help either—they're all within Scan range. Cynthia, Feldon, or Aunt Lucille could still leave their messages or send their endless, ridiculous pictures: Honey, here's Lucille at the Church picnic. And look, here's Mommy at the Mayor's party. And who gives a flying fuck?—which she never said aloud because she was biding her time.

4.

The time came one weekend when Feldon invited Candle Flame to the family manse on the outskirts of the Dome. Yes, manse. Feldon was not only "old money", he was a (self-proclaimed) ordained minister in the New Bible Church of The Outer Worlds, and, as such, he claimed their home to be a parsonage, making it tax-exempt. Giving a few sermons in the town square over the course of a year was all he needed to do; the ponderously large 8 room sprawl became "The Manse", the term Feldon adopted because he'd read the word once in Hawthorne. Pretentious old prig, she'd think.

Early settlers had decided to keep Earth's 24-hour day and 12-month calendar as their method of time-keeping both for convenience and—more significantly—for psychological security. There was something reassuring about a place, no matter how remote, that still had a morning and evening, a breakfast and dinner, a six hour work day, a Spring and Fall.

And that still had weekends when Candle Flame could visit the family she loved to loathe.

5.

They even had a door bell, which Candle Flame pushed.

Aunt Lucille answered with an uncharacteristically hyperglycemic smile: "Ah, yes. We were expecting you."

Candle merely smirked and walked in.

Feldon bounded into the foyer, "Sis, how's it going?" And planted a kiss on her cheek, at which she wanted to gag, but restrained herself.

Last of the toxic trinity entered: "Darling; it's so good of you to come." Cynthia feigned an air kiss.

Candle Flame went for the direct approach: "To what do I owe this torture?"

"Why, can't a family want to spend a weekend together from time to time?"

"Give me a break," she rolled her eyes. "Not this family, Mother."

"How can you think that, Candle Flame?" Cynthia put on her best little girl hurt face.

"Anyway," Feldon broke in, "we're glad you could make it." After a second of awkward silence during which Candle glowered at him, he said, "Well, why don't I take you to your room? I don't think you've been here since we've remodeled. The guest room's in the back."

"Actually, I've never been here."

"Really? I could have sworn you spent time at the manse a couple of summers back."

"No, Feldon," she said very matter-of-factly, "no one has ever invited me to the—what do you call it again? Ah yes, the manse."

Lucille piped in: "Don't get nasty, Candle Flame."

"Me, Aunt Lucille? Nasty? You cut me to the quick."

Cynthia dripped virtual venom: "There isn't a knife that could reach in that deep, darling."

At any other time, Candle Flame would have just turned right around and walked out without a word. Instead, she said laughingly: "Yes, I've turned into two tons of fun lately, haven't I?"

"More like three," Feldon led them down the hallway, acting as if he'd made a harmless little joke, "but we'll let it pass."

At the end of a narrow, insulated corridor—all dwellings in New Cardiff, no matter how much they mimed buildings on Earth, were constructed with dome breaches, gamma bursts, and meteor showers in mind—Feldon pressed the wall pad and the door to the guest room slid open.

"Here you go. Your home away from home till Monday."

Candle Flame went in and dropped her small valise on the bed. "Oh goodie."

Feldon, Cynthia, and Lucille stood at the doorway.

"There's no reason to be so sarcastic, Candle Flame," Cynthia said. "We're just trying to be nice to you."

"Exactly." Lucille went on. "We just want to thank you for what you've done for us."

"Done?"

"Of course," Feldon answered, "for handling the portfolio. It's finally in order."

Candle Flame smiled—whether genuinely or not was uncertain to the trio crowded at the door—"Yes, everything was pretty messy, but now it's all in order. You're completely taken care of."

"You're too good, Candle Flame."

She wasn't going to lie: "Yes, I am. That's my problem, isn't it? I always pull through for you despite it all."

Cynthia stepped into the room: "Actually, I was a bit surprised you did it."

"And why's that, Mother?"

"Well, our history hasn't been the most pleasant one, has it?"

"No, it hasn't, but I decided not to sink to your level. I took the high road."

"There you go again," Feldon jabbed. "Always with the self-righteousness."

"Not self-righteous. I'm just telling the truth. You've always treated me like crap, but I figured if I did this for you, you might leave me alone for a while. In fact, my hope is that it's the last thing I ever have to do for you."

At which Cynthia started to laugh—almost cackle—and walked back into the hall.

"And what's so funny, Mother?"

It was Lucille who said: "You're about to get your wish."

The door slid shut with a gentle, pneumatic thud.

6.

Of course, she wouldn't think to check the door. Why would she?

Frankly she was just glad to have the three of them out of her sight for a while.

Besides . . .

A Cheshire grin emerged as she plunked herself next to her bag. "Soon," she whispered and fell back on the bed, the proverbial bag of stones dropping from her shoulders.

Of course, the moment was slightly spoiled when her memory kicked in: What was Mother laughing about? But she shook her head and refocused on happier thoughts.

That's when she noticed it.

At first it was just a whiff. Perhaps her imagination?

But no, it was there all right.

"Cigarettes?"

Since when did anyone in her family smoke?

The scent grew stronger.

She got up and was going to go out to the hallway to investigate.

But the door wouldn't slide. She tapped the wall pad several times.

"For God's sake. They can afford a manse"—she imitated her brother's ridiculous nouveau riche accent—"but they can't keep simple household equipment operational." She tried a few more times—then accessed her Scan with a touch to her left temple.

Her system was working—she could sense that through her implants—but no one responded.

"Feldon?"

Finally his Scan image appeared in her Corneal Screen.

"Yes, Sis?" (He hadn't called her Sis in years.)

"Apparently the wall pad in the guest room is malfunctioning. I can't get out."

"Oh?"

"And I'm smelling cigarettes—you know I'm allergic."

"What a shame."

"That's it?"

"What more can I say?"

With a thought, Candle Flame accessed the manse Lenses and saw him sitting with Cynthia and Lucille around the kitchen table.

"What do you mean? I said the door's broken and the room's filling with smoke."

Aware that she was now watching over her Scan system, Cynthia looked up at the kitchen Lens. "We heard you the first time, dear." She tapped her temple and the Lens shut off, leaving Candle Flame with nothing but a blank Screen.

This was the equivalent of slamming the door in someone's face. Lack of Scan etiquette at its worst.

The smoky smell was getting denser and she started to cough.

"What the fuck are they up to?"

Then it hit her and she said, "Of course."

7.

I've done what they wanted; now they're going to play games. Not the first time.

She vividly recalled Feldon locking her in the cargo hold of the ship that brought them to Pluto when she was little. Or the time her mother tossed her into a closet for a week when Candle Flame had refused to vote for her as Classroom Mother. Or . . . dozens of other tales flitted through and dissolved as her annoyance slowly turned to panic.

She was short of breath and the more she thought about it, the harder it became to breathe.

She looked up at the vent: Maybe if I stuff the vent with something. She went for a pillow from the bed and was going to stand on a chair when she saw the smoke stop.

As quickly as it had started, the smoke stopped pouring through.

Of course, the damage was done. The room was still filled with the dense odor and she gagged several times.

That's when she saw the first one.

And the second.

She adjusted her glasses.

No, she wasn't imagining things.

Third, fourth, fifth.

There on the louvers of the vent, one by one, slowly at first, then more and more profusely—bees. Hydroponic Bees.

Dozens of them.

Gathered in a horde around the vent, their buzzing filling the room.

Candle Flame blanched and felt her heart skipping.

She couldn't help herself: She let out a scream if pure rage.

8.

She loved to visit her father in the Hydroponic Garden. It was a highlight of her day. It was an hour away from her mother and aunt. An hour respite from Feldon's abuse. An hour when she could simply be a 13 year-old girl.

She stood in front of the door: NEW CARDIFF HYDRO GARDEN. And underneath: Dr. Herbert Winslow, Director.

She smiled.

The door slid open to reveal a lush forest of plants, trees, shrubs, flowers, vegetables all tended to by Winslow and his attentive team of loving gardeners.

It was Sunday morning, so Winslow was alone. Many of the residents—they didn't like the word colonists because it implied a connection to the home world that not all of them were sure they wanted to keep—were religious and went to worship services. Others just saw Sunday as a kind of traditional time off. Even the non-Christians and atheists saw the observation as something beneficial. A time to relax. A time to socialize. A time away from the often exhausting work needed to keep a city on an icy world up and running.

Her father was standing over a work table, using tweezers to insert something into a flower, but he stopped when he sensed her approach.

He put down what he was doing, lifted his goggles. "Hey, Flicker, how's my girl today?"

"Fine, Daddy."

And they hugged. His lab coat always smelled of flowers, a wonderful scent that stayed with her long after she went back out into reality.

"Whatcha up to today?"

"Nothing much. I've got homework later, but I wanted to be with you for a while."

"Just like I want to be with you." He had the most beautiful smile.

She always remembered that moment, the moment he affirmed how much he loved her, the moment he smiled that incandescent smile of his, the smile that lit her day, the smile that remained with her to the present day.

He was about to turn back to the table—she imagined that it was to give her one of the hybrid flowers lying there—when he slapped his hand against the back of his neck. "Damn."

"What, Daddy?"

"I was just stung." He looked at his hand where the stunned bee wriggled on its backside. "Must have gotten out of the Hive Room."

"Bees?"

"Hydroponic bees. We've developed them for our Garden as well as for those in some of the other cities. It's a little bit of Earth and it beats artificial pollination any day." But then he let out another yelp. "God dammit."

He dropped the bee in his hand and swatted at another.

And another.

Candle Flame was suddenly scared, watching her father swinging his arms.

She could hear them, too. The bees. Flying from the Hive Center—about fifteen feet from the work bench.

"Shit. Someone's left the hatches open." There was an inner as well as an outer hatch to the Hive to prevent escape.

"How?" He shouted—then "Who?"—finally: "What fucking idiot forgot to shut both hatches?"

He ran to the outer one to slam it shut.

It was jammed.

"Who did this?" He yelled again.

But the bees kept pouring out.

Dozens swarming around him.

He tore off his coat, thinking its floral scent was the reason for their frenzied attack.

Candle Flame surmounted her terror and ran over, thinking to help him escape the hatchway, but the bees started diving at her as well, so she had to back off.

They both started to race towards the Garden entrance, but her father tripped and fell.

In moments, the bees were roaring around him, Candle screaming, trying to grab his arm to help get him off the floor—but she was unable even to reach him, the bees attempting to sting her every time she got close.

"Get out, Flicker. Get out."

His last words.

9.

They could never prove anything at the time.

It was called a tragic accident—Dr. Winslow had died of anaphylactic shock from over thirty bee stings.

Some argued to have the Hive Center shut down; others begged restraint and the use of more safety precautions. That camp—headed by her mother—won: "It would be what my dear husband wanted." The Hive stayed—with new air-lock style entrances that could be accessed only with special passwords and retinal scans, passwords that remained only the hands of a few.

Like my mother, Candle Flame thought as she watched the bees now teeming around the air vent entrance.

Any second they might make their move and start attacking.

Stay still, Flicker, or they'll attack.

She could barely breathe.

The cigarette smell—That's what's keeping them at bay—was nearly gone, replaced by the rich scent of hydrangeas.

What was more horrifying? The bees? Or the realization of her worst fear—that it was her own mother, a technician in the Garden to this day, who had murdered her father and was now . . .

Trying to murder me?

10.

The things you recall at these moments.

A conversation.

Her mother standing in the examination room.

Candle Flame's pediatrician making a point: "She's a very lucky girl. Like her father, it appears she's quite allergic to bee stings. She got bit five times, but somehow survived. I don't know how, but she did."

"Thank God," Cynthia said.

But Candle Flame knew she was lying.

Somehow Cynthia sensed Candle Flame knew it, too.

12.

They had also argued to alter the bees' genes so that they wouldn't produce venom. Mrs. Winslow and her team of beekeepers tried, but somehow those bees never survived. Only the venomous ones seemed to make it.

"It's a shame. We tried, but we just couldn't manage. We want to keep the Hive alive and well, so we're going to proceed. The benefits are too great."

"This must be very difficult for you," the News reporter said with the carefully constructed empathy required in such a moment, "considering how your husband died."

"Very difficult"—was that a tear?—"but he loved those bees. I'm doing this for him."

13.

Why hadn't she thought of this before?

Because you're frightened? Be easy on yourself.

And she backed towards the door inch by inch.

If I move very carefully, very slowly . . .

The bees started to wing out into the room, one or two zipping past her brightly colored blouse.

. . . I might have a trick.

She tapped the coin-sized pad on her temple and accessed the Network database.

Circuitry, Winslow house, she inquired.

The schematics appeared on her Corneal Screen.

"Gotcha," she said aloud and gave the over-ride command.

14.

No one was more shocked than Cynthia when her daughter went flying past them in the kitchen and charged towards the front door, a few renegade bees in her wake.

Nor more terrified when Candle Flame shouted over her shoulder. "I've won, Mother. I've won!"

15.

"I've taken five dozen bees from the Hive . . ."

"Why so many? Lucille asked.

"To be absolutely sure." She continued with her scheme, "I'll placed them inside the guest room vent. After they're released . . ."

"How?" (This time it was Feldon.)

Annoyed at the interruption: "Because I can, numbskull, that's how." She gathered herself again. "The vent will be sealed off temporarily to prevent any of them from straying into the house. That's more than enough to scare the little bitch and kill her too."

"Fine," Lucille said, "but what do you do with the bees once she's dead? Someone has to go in and get her body."

"I'll gas them through the vent."

"You're relying a lot on that vent." Feldon was concerned something might foul up, though he didn't have the nerve to challenge Cynthia directly.

"I've done a few test runs, honey. Not to worry. I know what I'm doing. The good Doctor Winslow wasn't the only wizard in this household."

"And then?"

"We'll get her back to the Garden and say she died there."

"Won't toxicology reports show things?"

"What reports? We're the Winslows? Feldon is the Reverend Winslow. Who'd say anything? We're the grieving family. We just want a quick cremation and a memorial service."

"They'll close the Hive for sure," Lucille said.

"Who gives a fuck?" Cynthia laughed.

16.

She wasn't laughing now.

"She can tell everyone if she wants," Feldon slammed his hand against the wall.

"What proof would she give?"

It was Feldon's turn to drip sarcasm: "The Wizard"—he lingered over the word, staring at his mother—"forgot a detail. What if Candle Flame kept on her Scan? She'll have a record she can show. . ." and added dramatically: ". . . An admissible record."

For the first time in a long while, he saw a look of fear flicker across Cynthia's typically imperturbable face.

Which gave him strange satisfaction.

Even Lucille cracked a smile.

17.

Please call.

We need to talk.

We can reach an agreement.

Candle Flame scrolled through the nearly two dozen frantic messages Feldon had left on her Scan—some were just text, some visuals that gave her a certain amount of pleasure: Her brother rarely broke into a sweat. On the Scan, he looked pale and positively oozing anxiety.

A close call, she thought, but I knew I'd win.

She savored the feeling.

I'll hammer in the final nail tonight, and laughed.

Then shivered for a moment; the laugh sounded too much like her mother's, and that is not who she wanted to become.

She looked at herself in her bathroom mirror: Too late for that, I guess.

18.

She easily came up with the 5000 Credits for the 21:00 Fold to Mars. In fact, handing over the chips to the agent was worth another one of the many smiles she'd had today.

She entered the Platform with three others.

"Please stand on your marks and do not attempt to move until you arrive at Mars Station. Failure to comply could result in serious injury." The Fold attendant rattled off a few other precautions while Candle Flame tapped on her Scan.

She gave the thought command: Feldon Winslow.

In a moment she saw him, sitting with her mother and aunt in their living room.

"Candle Flame. Thank God you called."

"I'm not sure God has anything to do with this."

"What do you want?" Cynthia was trying to be defiant, even in her loss.

"Feldon called. I thought I'd say goodbye before I left."

"Left? Where are you going?"

He'd be able to find out from the Folding Station records easily enough, but she didn't want to make anything easy for Feldon at this point.

"Away. That's all you need to know for now."

"Listen, Sis, I just wanted you to know . . ."

"Save it, fucker." (Lucille gasped.) "Oh, like you've never used the word, you shriveled old bitch." (Cynthia got up and walked out of Lens range.) "Anyway, I just thought I'd say goodbye and let you know that I think you should check your portfolio." She paused to watch the quizzical look appear on Feldon's plaster-pale face. "You'll just love it."

And she tapped off her Scan just as the Fold began.

The ten-foot diameter Platform began to shimmer as the atoms of the four passengers began to dematerialize in a blaze of white and blue kaleidoscopic light. In a moment, their bodies would un-Fold on Mars, and another triumph of what was becoming routine space-time travel would be complete.

19.

Feldon was screaming "She didn't" over and over when Cynthia and Lucille entered the Study.

"What's happened?"

"Our money's gone. The little bitch cheated us!"

"What?" Lucille sank into a chair while Cynthia circled round to view the readout. The transparent Network Screen hovering over the desk showed pages of information—account numbers, Credit stats, and three transfer dispatches.

It was all there.

He pointed to the top group of figures. "She transferred all of the money out of every one of our accounts at some point before she came over yesterday."

"Where? Where to?" Lucille was frantic.

"I don't know."

"And before she came over?" She added incredulously.

"So if we'd killed her . . ." Cynthia started.

"If we'd killed her, Mother, we'd be just as screwed as we are now when she's still alive."

"How?" She nearly screeched. "We'll take her to court. We'll prove she's robbed us. We'll ruin her career."

Feldon gave his you've-got-to-be-kidding look: "Mother. Remember? If she had on her Scan, she'll have proof that we tried to murder her. Tit for Tat. Theft versus murder. That ought to make for an interesting case."

"You don't have to get persnickety with me, Junior."

Then Cynthia turned vividly red and sank into the desk chair: "The bitch beat us. She finally beat us."

20.

Candle Flame was surprised at how easy it was.

I guess being an Assistant Bank Manager has its advantages after all.

In a virtual blink, she watched millions of Credits roll from several accounts on Pluto into three new ones—secure, anonymous accounts on Mars, Luna Base, and Space Habitat.

Only she had access.

Winning felt good.

21.

Please—we're sorry—please make things right again.

After three days, the tone was more and more desperate.

She liked seeing her brother cringe so miserably.

22.

Candle Flame sits poolside sipping a drink at the Simply Vegas Resort on Mars. "It's time now," she says aloud as if she'd had a sudden epiphany.

She checks the Memory device in her Scan. There it is—in vivid detail—a complete audiovisual record of the attack. Her Lens (mounted on her frames because she still wore glasses) had captured the smoke and then the bees—even the few bits of conversation with her family. Everything.

So she taps her Scan, connects to the Network, and rings up her old friend Beverly, now an anchor person at CNN.

"Bev."

"Candle. How the hell are you?"

"Better than ever. Listen, hon, I've got something to download to you, something you'll want to see: The Reverend Feldon Winslow and his family in action."

"OK, now you've got my interest."

"Just wait. Check this out—I'll explain later."

23.

The rest was simple enough:

That evening, the Winslows were gathered around their Screen watching Planetary CNN when Candle Flame's story—complete with Scan memory images—was played.

Feldon screeched.

Aunt Lucille passed out.

Cynthia had the first of several strokes that would kill her about two months later.

And without looking at the monitor, Feldon knew that the door chime meant the police had just arrived.

24.

It's three years later.

I'm in the audience, sipping my grenadine-tinted Mars-tini.

A trim, fit Candle Flame Winslow—now simply Candice—walks onto the showroom stage at Simply Vegas where she's been doing stand up comedy for two years. The sold-out house greets her enthusiastically.

"So how many people here hate bees?"

A few shivering groans. Some chatter among themselves, knowing nods, nervous laughter.

"Well," she threw out her arms towards us, "have I got a story for you."

Followed by her trademark giggle and those witty, sparkling eyes shining behind her theatrical glasses—all to the delight of her admiring fans.

Yes, people listen.

And, boy, do we applaud.

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