The Sting of the Bee

  The Sting of the Bee

  K.E. Lanning

  Copyright © 2018 K.E.Lanning

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0-9991210-2-2

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9991210-2-3

  DEDICATION

  This novel is dedicated to all the souls who strive for a better life, and to my father, who always believed in me—no matter what.

  Part I

  Humans must have the vision of a New World in front of them—the necessity of a great quest is in our bones.

  CHAPTER 1

  John Barrous opened his eyes in the dim light of the hotel room. A pleasant voice said, “John, wake up, it’s time to rise and shine.”

  With a yawn, he turned to his phone. “I’m awake. Thanks, P.”

  “I hope you slept well?”

  He stared at the ceiling above the bed. “Not really.” John threw the covers back and sat on the side of the bed, looking dully at the band of pale morning light framing the top of the curtained window.

  “John, I thought you might be interested in today’s news story on the Antarctic Land Rush.”

  Scratching his head, he mumbled, “I guess.”

  A smiling virtual newscaster appeared on the screen. “In our top story of the day, the stage is set for the Great Antarctic Land Rush. The final conference will be held today at the United Nations headquarters.” From the corner of the screen popped a 3-D video running on a continuous loop, showing the melting ice cap of Antarctica, the huge glaciers flowing to the ocean, breaking off into the sea until the continent was bare. “People from around the world will be signing up for the adventure of a lifetime—”

  A dull pain pulsed in his head. “I’d like some quiet now,” he said, and the screen went blank. His hands trembled as he massaged his temples. He caught a whiff of brewing coffee and rose to grab a cup. Clasping the warm cup in his hands, he gulped the coffee, closing his eyes as the hot liquid stung his throat.

  With a sigh, he walked to the window of the room, edging the curtain open on one side. Blinking against the slanted rays of the sun, he gazed out over the port city of Summit, New Jersey. Across the street, a myriad of flags fluttered in front of the newly completed United Nations building. His nerves tingled at the sight.

  To the east, the sea shimmered in the dawn light, broken only by the tallest skyscrapers still visible above submerged New York City. He sipped his coffee and then shifted his gaze to the vast shanty town near the edge of the water. Tendrils of smoke rose from amidst ramshackle huts cobbled together from the scrap material washed onshore after the Melt.

  The wealthy had fled the rising sea waters and built anew, but in the burgeoning lower classes, survival of the fittest had been their only choice. Massive refugee cities grew from the outcasts of society, abandoned on a shore of hardship. Years of pitiful conditions created an underclass filled with anger and resentment. Like stray dogs, savage gangs had proliferated, snatching crumbs from a world devastated by rising sea levels.

  An emptiness punched him in the gut, and his lips parted like a drowning man trying to draw a breath. A moan escaped from the depths of his pain, and John glanced at his daughter Ginnie, snuggled in the other bed. He had not awakened her with his outburst.

  Swaying, he turned back to the window, clutching the curtain. That underworld had murdered his beloved Helen.

  ***

  John opened the door, blinking against the uproar of the ballroom. He and Ginnie stepped inside, and his nose twitched from a bouquet of scents: new carpet, perfume, and body odor. They threaded their way through a crowd in monotonous western clothes, dotted with purple and red saris, blue Sikh turbans, and white Bedouin robes.

  Faces etched in desperation turned toward them. These were not the meek, waiting to inherit the Earth. These were the ones to seize it.

  Men leered at Ginnie’s fresh face. John wrapped his arm around her shoulders; she was only fifteen. He spotted two seats together and they made a dash for them.

  Young men, couples, and families with children flowed into the overcrowded hall. John shifted on the hard metal chair, focusing on a three-dimensional image of Antarctica projected over the stage. The once-frozen continent, now unveiled by the Melt, was rich with green valleys and lofty mountain ranges.

  “It’s packed in here,” Ginnie whispered. “Are all these people doing the Land Rush? Why doesn’t the UN just hold a lottery?”

  John leaned toward her. “The UN is holding on to Antarctica like the tail of a tiger. They’ve thrown this Land Rush together to ward off a global conflict between Russia, the U.S., China, and India—all wanting to break the international treaties and grab open land.” With a smile, he shrugged. “Or maybe it’s some crazy publicity stunt.”

  John sat back in his chair, trying to relax amidst the milling horde of people. He darted a nervous look sideways. A scruffy man stood next to him, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

  The man put out his hand and introduced himself. “Buck’s the name. Homesteading?”

  John replied with a guarded handshake and a “Yep.”

  Buck squatted next to him, jerking his head toward the hologram of the continent. “You know, it’s going to be mighty rough on Antarctica. You’re not really thinking of taking the young lady, are you?” He leaned closer and said in a hushed voice, “There’s a group recruiting people to make a land claim for them, and then they pay your passage back. Make you a cool twenty grand and a free round trip to Antarctica. Maybe you’d be interested?”

  With a curt shake of his head, John replied, “I’m not interested. We plan on making Antarctica our home.” He narrowed his eyes at Buck. “My understanding is the Land Rush is for principals only—no brokers allowed.” In a nonchalant tone he asked, “Who is this group?”

  “I’d better find me a chair,” Buck mumbled, and lost himself in the crowd.

  A short man with jet-black hair walked to the center of the stage, gesturing at the audience. “Everybody find a seat. We’ve got a lot of material to cover today.”

  He waited until the crowd quieted. “I’m Paulo Rodriguez, the UN coordinator for the Antarctic Land Rush—welcome!” He pointed in the direction of the harbor. “I hope everyone has had a chance to admire the beautiful ocean liner, Destiny, docked in our new facilities. She’s ready to carry you to the adventure of a lifetime.”

  “I’d like to show you a brief overview of Antarctica.” He dimmed the lights.

  The stunning video transported the audience over the barren terrain of the continent, peppered with shallow lakes and rocks, and mountains ranges covered in snow.

  A narrator’s melodious voice filled the hall. “Scientists who predicted the warming of the planet were right. A tipping point altered the oceanic currents and warm waters flowed past the Antarctic coastline, accelerating the melting of the southern ice cap. In the span of a century, Mother Nature revealed a rich, virgin continent for the human race to spill into.”

  John muttered under his breath, “More likely to screw up.”

  The video brought them to a small mining town perched on the coast. “After the melting of the ice cap, everything changed. Before, it wasn’t economic to mine Antarctica, but now it’s become feasible. Once the ice had retreated, a mining consortium set up facilities, extracting major quantities of iron, copper, and gold.”

  Rodriguez paused the video and grinned at the crowd. “That’s the good news.” He switched to a photo of a massive sinkhole. “The bad news is, we’re having a nasty little problem with sinkholes as the permafrost melts—but not too many people have been lost so far!”

  Sporadic laughter dribbled from the crowd.

  He restarted the video and the audience cruised over a broad river valley. Honking geese skimm
ed over a meandering river while caribou grazed along the banks. “This is the Concordia Wildlife Refuge. Many fowl species already inhabit the continent, but naturalists are now introducing Arctic land animals.”

  Rodriguez brought up a map that detailed the Land Rush area. “Many of the regions of Antarctica are named for an explorer or ruler. We will dock in Prydz Bay in East Antarctica, and the Land Rush itself is on the foothills of the Napler Mountains.”

  He zoomed to the area everyone was anxious to see. The foothills came into view, and the camera glided over a series of valleys separated by low mountain ridges. Like a pearl necklace, streams meandered between shallow lakes along the valley floors, but the vegetation was limited to lichen, short grasses, and anemic, windswept trees.

  The room was quiet gazing at the lovely yet stark landscape.

  “The weather is still nippy, but livable. In Fahrenheit, the average temperatures range from the sixties in the summer to lows of minus twenty degrees in the winter. But nothing like the minus ninety-four degrees Fahrenheit when the ice cap was in place.” He smiled. “I’ve heard rumors that some of the miners wear t-shirts in the summer.”

  He pointed to the coastline. “Since the Melt, the sea has encroached on the lowlands, but only temporarily as these areas are rising in elevation with the weight of the ice gone. The Land Rush will take place in the area on the continent with the best soil and most available water. As with all farmers, water will be one of your main concerns.”

  Rodriguez advanced to the next slide, with a grid of brilliant diamond shapes against a black sky over Antarctica. “The UN engaged SpaceX to develop a mesh network of satellites, suspended one thousand kilometers over the continent, to provide free internet and also a source of light during the dark months.” He moved to the next photo taken on the beach at Prydz Bay, children playing in the water, the idyllic scene lit by reflected sunlight. “It’s not as strong as the rays of the sun, but it is brighter than moonlight. When it is ‘nighttime,’ the panels flip, to maintain a dark sky while everyone sleeps.”

  “Every Land Rush participant has been given a computer locking key.” Rodriguez held up a small metallic object. “This will send a signal to the UN organizers of the winner of the parcel, and once in the stake, it cannot be removed by another homesteader.”

  Rodriguez clicked to a photo of a farm near the mining station. “The UN wants to settle the region in a peaceable fashion and prepare for immigrants following in your footsteps. As the first settlers, you will have to raise meat-producing animals and/or plant crops. We will provide subsidies and technologies for you to succeed. However, you have to show progress! For example, if you choose to plant crops, you will have three years to plant all of your land, but you must plant at least one third the first year.”

  John raised an eyebrow at Ginnie. “I just hope something will grow down there.”

  Rodriguez pointed to the hushed crowd. “The UN has designated Antarctica an organic continent, and therefore, no artificial pesticides or chemicals will be allowed. There will be community farm equipment available for your shared use, which will include teams of agribots to assist during all phases of your agricultural needs, so sign up for those in advance.”

  Someone from the audience called out in an Urdu accent, “What is an agribot, please?”

  Rodriguez nodded. “They are specially designed agricultural robots programmed to aid in planting, weeding, and harvesting crops.”

  Ginnie mimicked pulling weeds like a robot and whispered, “Yippee for agribots!”

  Rodriguez gazed across the audience. “I’ll be straight with you. This is going to be the hardest work most of you have ever done. You will be required, and I stress the word required, to set up irrigation systems and to plant your homestead with at least three types of crops and a combination of fruit, deciduous, and evergreen trees—all of which have been adapted to thrive on Antarctica.”

  He shook his finger. “Remember, you will be on your own! Anyone who cannot perform will be sent back home immediately and their goods will be confiscated to pay for their passage.”

  Reacting to the news, a buzz of muffled conversations rose, and then sporadic arguments broke out. A scattering of people shuffled toward the doors.

  “Why are people leaving—didn’t they know that?” Ginnie asked.

  “Many people sold everything they had for this chance for land. But perhaps a few folks are getting cold feet.” He shrugged. “Or maybe they just didn’t believe the UN would send them home with their tails between their legs.”

  John saw Buck in an intense discussion with one of the defectors near the exit, arms gesturing to embellish his point. His face brightened as the man nodded and he slapped him on the back—Buck had netted his man. Then Buck turned, nodding to someone across the room. John followed his gaze to a wiry man with a short beard standing in the corner.

  John frowned as unease swam in his stomach. He didn’t like the looks of this—too much was at stake. He grabbed Ginnie by the hand. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s get out of here before we get roped into something shady.”

  CHAPTER 2

  On a clear, warm day in late September, John and Ginnie waited on the dock to board the ship to Antarctica. Future pioneers, well-wishers, tourists, and news crews milled about, while food vendors of every ethnicity offered a final meal for the homesteaders, teasing them with the scents of civilization. They found a spot near one of the dock warehouses and leaned their gear against the metal wall. Seated on their bags, they watched people from across the globe ready themselves to invade a new land.

  John gazed up at the tiny puffs of white clouds sailing across the sky, while Ginnie listened to music and messaged her friends. She giggled and John smiled as she showed him a funny picture her friend had sent.

  He studied her face. She had been devastated by the loss of her mother—a role he could never fill. They had discussed her remaining with her grandparents, but she had insisted on coming with him. Was it a true desire for a new beginning, or just to keep what was left of the family together? He shook his head with a sigh. As her father, he alone was responsible; what would become of her on Antarctica?

  The voice on the loudspeaker broke his reverie, calling them to board. John and Ginnie looked at each other and then silently gathered their items. This was it. Commitment time.

  John stood and slung his pack over his shoulder. He glanced at Ginnie. “It’s not too late to run.”

  Ginnie adjusted her backpack, shaking her head with a grin. “And miss seeing you stub your toe on Antarctica?”

  The Antarctica Land Rush hucksters with their T-shirts, postcards, and souvenirs slapped Half Price! signs onto their booths to squeeze the last dollars from the crowd.

  John waved Ginnie toward the dock and swallowed hard at the volume of people gathering on the wharf. Guards herded the crowd between plastic poles topped with small, fluttering UN flags. The incessant beeping of robo-lifts echoed across the wharf as they shifted the homesteaders’ worldly possessions onto conveyor belts streaming into the hold.

  John bit his lip. God help this horde of humanity, descending into the wilderness.

  The crowd drifted like cattle toward the ship, murmuring quietly, until angry voices erupted.

  A thin man with a crooked nose screamed in broken English at a large man next to him. “There’s no place on board the ship for an asshole!”

  Scowling, the big guy shoved him through the poles lining the entryway to the ship, and several of the UN flags fluttered to the ground. One landed on the thin man’s head as he lay on the dock.

  His eyes bright with anger, he brushed the flag off of his hair, and glared at his adversary. He sprang to his feet like a cat, edging toward the larger man. They circled each other, until the smaller man feinted toward the other, and then twisted away, dodging a deadly punch. Other men gathered and began to shout, tightening the knot around the fighters.

  A myriad of voices rose from the crowd behind them.
<
br />   John cocked his head toward the man next to him. “Now what’s going on?”

  The man shrugged. “Someone is yelling that there aren’t enough spaces for everyone on the ship.”

  John snorted. “That’s nuts. That ship is huge—it will hold all of us and our crap.”

  With a shake of his head, John looked behind them, and then turned to Ginnie. “Let’s just hope the crowd settles down.” With his hand, he shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the disorderly groups of settlers behind them. The meager security force had moved nearer to the ramp of the ship, leaving the tail of the line unguarded.

  A group of young men pressed forward to gain position in the line. A scuffle broke out, and a bulge formed around the men, stopping their advancement. Then the thugs shoved through the blockade and edged closer to the ship.

  John turned toward the closest security guard and waved. “Sir—” Shouts behind him drew his attention back to the rear of the line. Another group momentarily stopped the band from moving up the queue, angrily tearing at their clothes and packs.

  John felt a chill go up his spine as an ominous growl resonated across the wharf. He glanced at Ginnie, listening to music and oblivious to the growing volatility of the crowd. “Ginnie! Something is going on.”

  A ripple of panic tore through the mass. The crowd pulsed forward, and like the muscles of a striking snake, surged toward the ship. John reached out for Ginnie, but an Asian family shoved between them. He watched in horror as his daughter got swept away as if caught in a flash flood.