The Other Hive

The weathered wood of the roadside stand spoke of summer heat and sweltering desperation. "Wasp Honey," read the sign, in neat black letters. The honey was in jam-jars and old bottles, all clearly scrounged from someone's kitchen. It was black as coffee.

"Some sort of regional concoction?" asked Dan. "Like vegemite?"

"Nope," said the freckled woman behind the stand. "Them wasps made it."

"And it's not... It's okay to eat?"

The woman shrugged. "I ain't died yet."

Shannon dipped a finger in a jar and tasted it. "Oh, God!" she cried, retching.

"Hey!" said the woman. "At least they're trying."

Overlooked Details

He nearly stepped on the dead wasp on the stoop. He glanced around; the bots were supposed to sweep up stuff like this anywhere on the synth.

There were two wasps the next day. He tried an experiment: he swatted a fly and dropped it to the ground. The bot bustled out of its charging nook and vacuumed up the offending corpse. But it left the wasps, swerving around the black, alien bodies.

The next day there were three. Then four.

On the thirteenth day, the twelve accumulated wasps disappeared overnight.

"Have to get that bot looked at," he muttered.