successfully prised all the information out of you that I could, we had better deal with the big problem. One might be inclined to wonder, where even to start?”
“You’ve been paying close attention to this aspect of the crisis, I presume?”
“Of course, as a professor of entomology, biochemistry, and biodiversity, it has become the most important thing in my field, the most tremendous of all tragedies.”
“So, tell me, and without any bullshit - we’ll save that for the politicians, how bad is it, Jason?”
“No bullshit, Rosa?”
“No bullshit, friend.”
“It’s the end of the world.”
*****
8 a.m. California
Robert Copenhaver, who owned California Mobile Apiary, walked out of his house into the driveway to the tall stacks of bee colonies being prepared for transport. The many colonies had been loaded onto several pallets the day before. What the hell? He stood dumbstruck, in awe, in shock. He did not know what reaction he was about to have, whether he would explode in a fit of rage, or fall to his knees in tears.
Copenhaver had eight thousand colonies of bees, each containing an average of forty-five thousand New World Carniolan honey bees. His bees were used to pollinate hundreds of thousands of fruit trees as far away as Florida. In California, his hardworking insects were a big part of the massive pollination effort to sustain the state’s huge almond tree industry, which exported hundreds of millions of dollars in almonds every season and was a vital part of California's economy. He was also the main producer of the NWC queens, and had been trying to increase diversity amongst beekeepers in the southwest.
Currently, the bees were at the end of a two week rest period before making a run to another orchard. They were supposed to be resting, that is. What he saw this morning was like running into a brick wall. His stacks of colonies, all four thousand that were staged here waiting for tomorrow's truck run, were silent. Silence in the apiary meant death, but he didn't need his ears to see that. Surrounding the many stacks of bright white bee colonies, was swath of brown ten feet wide; Copenhaver’s ninth circle of hell. On wobbling legs, he stumbled up to the brown swath and knelt down.
“My bees,” he whispered. He brushed a hand over the bodies. Some were still moving, barely, most were not. “My god. Oh my god.” He walked over the wide path of honey bee carcasses and reached his hives. Silence. He removed the top of a low stack and pulled up a single file of comb. It was perfect. Perfectly formed crisp, symmetrical, wax combs, dripping with golden yellow honey. But empty. Empty of bees. The honey was delicious but useless for his industry. He turned and leaned back against the stack, then sank down to the ground.
Robert stared at the band of dead bees circling the palletized hives like a withered ring of Saturn. His eyes were cloudy and blue from long years of life and work, now those eyes brimmed with moisture. If this was every bee from his colonies, and he prayed, oh he prayed to God it wasn't, then there were over 150 million honey bees lying dead on the ground around him. That was half of everything he owned. What happened, what could have happened here? He was always so careful.
His fingers, gnarled and wrinkled from so much manual labor, and now, the pain of arthritis, trembled as he fished his phone out of his pocket. Protocol was to report any substantial losses to the California Apiary Association so that they could inform, alert, and educate other beekeepers on potential outbreaks of bee parasites. His fingers found their number in the contact list. As the phone rang, tears began to fall down his face, tracing imperfect lines down his weathered skin.
Chapter 5
Kala woke with horrific stomach cramps. She was curled up on a cushioned sofa she found in one of the airport’s first class lounges. She had not intended to stay at the airport, in fact, she wanted to
“You’ve been paying close attention to this aspect of the crisis, I presume?”
“Of course, as a professor of entomology, biochemistry, and biodiversity, it has become the most important thing in my field, the most tremendous of all tragedies.”
“So, tell me, and without any bullshit - we’ll save that for the politicians, how bad is it, Jason?”
“No bullshit, Rosa?”
“No bullshit, friend.”
“It’s the end of the world.”
*****
8 a.m. California
Robert Copenhaver, who owned California Mobile Apiary, walked out of his house into the driveway to the tall stacks of bee colonies being prepared for transport. The many colonies had been loaded onto several pallets the day before. What the hell? He stood dumbstruck, in awe, in shock. He did not know what reaction he was about to have, whether he would explode in a fit of rage, or fall to his knees in tears.
Copenhaver had eight thousand colonies of bees, each containing an average of forty-five thousand New World Carniolan honey bees. His bees were used to pollinate hundreds of thousands of fruit trees as far away as Florida. In California, his hardworking insects were a big part of the massive pollination effort to sustain the state’s huge almond tree industry, which exported hundreds of millions of dollars in almonds every season and was a vital part of California's economy. He was also the main producer of the NWC queens, and had been trying to increase diversity amongst beekeepers in the southwest.
Currently, the bees were at the end of a two week rest period before making a run to another orchard. They were supposed to be resting, that is. What he saw this morning was like running into a brick wall. His stacks of colonies, all four thousand that were staged here waiting for tomorrow's truck run, were silent. Silence in the apiary meant death, but he didn't need his ears to see that. Surrounding the many stacks of bright white bee colonies, was swath of brown ten feet wide; Copenhaver’s ninth circle of hell. On wobbling legs, he stumbled up to the brown swath and knelt down.
“My bees,” he whispered. He brushed a hand over the bodies. Some were still moving, barely, most were not. “My god. Oh my god.” He walked over the wide path of honey bee carcasses and reached his hives. Silence. He removed the top of a low stack and pulled up a single file of comb. It was perfect. Perfectly formed crisp, symmetrical, wax combs, dripping with golden yellow honey. But empty. Empty of bees. The honey was delicious but useless for his industry. He turned and leaned back against the stack, then sank down to the ground.
Robert stared at the band of dead bees circling the palletized hives like a withered ring of Saturn. His eyes were cloudy and blue from long years of life and work, now those eyes brimmed with moisture. If this was every bee from his colonies, and he prayed, oh he prayed to God it wasn't, then there were over 150 million honey bees lying dead on the ground around him. That was half of everything he owned. What happened, what could have happened here? He was always so careful.
His fingers, gnarled and wrinkled from so much manual labor, and now, the pain of arthritis, trembled as he fished his phone out of his pocket. Protocol was to report any substantial losses to the California Apiary Association so that they could inform, alert, and educate other beekeepers on potential outbreaks of bee parasites. His fingers found their number in the contact list. As the phone rang, tears began to fall down his face, tracing imperfect lines down his weathered skin.
Chapter 5
Kala woke with horrific stomach cramps. She was curled up on a cushioned sofa she found in one of the airport’s first class lounges. She had not intended to stay at the airport, in fact, she wanted to
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