The Beekeeper of Mars

by Natalie Minaker

Ambrose pulled the mesh veil over his face, tucking it into the elasticated neck of his beekeeper suit. After one last check to ensure his gloves were secure, he hit the entrance button for Biodome-7. The metal doors slid open with a judder – the Martian sand having infiltrated the gears long ago – and he stepped into the humid air. A female voice crackled through the static.

“You in?”

Ambrose raised the handheld radio, pressing the communication button. “Yeah, I’m inside. Where did you say it was, Hadiya?”

“Behind the water recycler, north corner. You can’t miss it.”

“Ok.” Ambrose hooked the bulky radio onto his waistband, irritated by the archaic equipment he was forced to use. He had a sudden pang of nostalgia for the colony’s early days; back then, there had been a high-speed MESH network, allowing clear, instantaneous communication with a simple voice command. The Martian wind and sand had killed it within six months.

Ambrose navigated his way past uniform rows of leafy plants, their roots carefully resting in clear, hydroponic pods. The stunted crops strained towards the thin rays of Martian sun penetrating the glass roof. Around him was the gentle hum of bees – a colony within a colony – but far fewer in number than he would have liked.

The current crop of bees had initially seemed to do well, but Ambrose noted that their numbers had started to decline. He feared imminent hive collapse; one more failed colony in a pollination project that was haemorrhaging resources. He had brought thousands of bees to Mars frozen in stasis, but now that initial batch was running alarmingly low. On Earth, bees had had millions of years of natural selection to evolve until they inhabited a specialised ecological niche. But here on Mars, with the artificial air and reduced gravity, all that evolution counted for very little. The bees simply refused to thrive.

Ambrose felt a kinship with them.

He heard the wasp nest before he saw it – jutting from the wall above the recycler, a football-sized grey, humming mass with the texture of crepe paper. On its surface, a mass of yellow and black bodies swarmed around a small entrance hole.

“Shit,” he said to no-one; Biodome-7 was where the potatoes were grown and Ambrose couldn’t face telling the Commander that chips might need to be rationed again. He spoke into his radio. “Hadiya, I’ve found it.”

“Be careful,” she responded. “How did the wasps even get here anyway?”

“No-one really knows,” responded Ambrose, batting away a buzzing cluster of insects. “Perhaps they hitched a lift on the first shuttle by accident. Maybe they got mistakenly frozen alongside the bees on Earth.”

“I almost feel bad for them.”

“Don’t,” snorted Ambrose. “They’re an existential threat.”

“You’re so melodramatic!” She laughed through the static.

“Firstly, wasps are inefficient pollinators. Secondly, and more importantly: they kill the bees, Hadiya.” Ambrose had seen it himself; whole hives destroyed through coordinated acts of violence that were almost human. “Without bees to pollinate the crops, the first human colony on Mars will be over before it even begins.” He sized up the nest. “Give me two hours. No-one comes in or out unless they want to experience the stings of a hundred pissed-off wasps.”

Despite being the chief Martian apiarist, Ambrose had to admit a grudging admiration for these invaders. While the bees might have struggled to adapt to Martian life, the wasps had proven themselves to be natural survivors, as tenacious and resourceful on the red planet as they had been on Earth. But Ambrose had seen too many senseless deaths. While most were beyond his control to prevent, he’d be damned if he let the colonists starve; the wasps must die.

Hadiya’s voice crackled again. “Let me know when you are finished.”  The static clicked into silence. After a few seconds, the channel reopened; Hadiya’s voice was softer. “When you’re done, don’t forget to talk to Mason about the vandalism in Biodome-4. I’ll cover for him this time, but if the Commander finds out, I don’t know what she’ll do. I know Mason has found things hard since…”

Since he became an orphan. Ambrose didn’t need Hadiya to complete the sentence. It was implied. It was always implied.

“Thanks Hadiya. Over and out.”
 

Two hours later, the nest was destroyed, and with only a handful of wasp stings to show for his efforts, Ambrose returned to his quarters. The doors opened with a judder and he stepped into the windowless, metal-walled compartment. A lanky, fourteen-year-old with blonde cropped hair was sprawled on the sofa.

“Shoes off the furniture, Mason,” said Ambrose, kicking his own off at the door and unzipping his beekeeper suit. The living quarters were modest: a small communal area with a kitchenette, off which was a bathroom and two bedrooms. A unit designed for a family. Mason slid his feet from the sofa as Ambrose sat.

            “I spoke to Hadiya,” Ambrose began.

            “She’s lying.”

            Ambrose gave a tight-lipped smile. “Lying about what? She said she caught you in Biodome-4 pulling a metal panel from the wall.”

            “I didn’t!” Mason turned to face Ambrose. “The panel was already loose. I just…”

            “Just what?”

            Mason turned his attention to his fingernails. “Doesn’t matter.”

            “It does matter Mason.” Ambrose made his voice soft, parental, a tone he was unused to using. “Don’t you understand what you could have done? If the domes stop functioning, we starve. Do you get that?” Ambrose placed a hesitant, experimental hand on Mason’s shoulder. “And why BD-4? It’s the only dome where the crops are actually doing well.”

The boy gave a brusque shrug and stood up.

            “I didn’t damage anything,” he said.

            “Then what were you doing?” Ambrose made a conscious effort to moderate the volume of his voice.

            “You wouldn’t understand.” Mason walked towards his bedroom.

            “Don’t you dare leave!” Ambrose shouted, berating himself for losing control. When it came to parenting a teenager, he was far from a natural. If he had raised Mason from a child, things might be easier, but being thrust into the role of sole parental figure right when the hormones hit felt unfair. Most days, Ambrose felt like he’d skipped the tutorial of a videogame and had been thrown into a battle with the final boss. “We are going to talk about this.”

            “What’s the point?” said Mason. “You’re right; I’m wrong. That’s how it usually ends.”

            “That’s unfair.” Ambrose stood.

            “Is it?” Mason asked. “I’m one gigantic inconvenience to you. It’s clear that you resent having me here.” Ambrose stared at his feet while Mason gave a bitter laugh. “See? You won’t even deny it! ”

            “Mason…”

            “You’re not my dad,” said Mason, flatly. No accusations, just a statement of cold, inescapable fact. “You’re not even my stepdad anymore. We’re just two people, stuck living together.”

            “I am your stepdad,” Ambrose responded weakly. “I promised Carys… I mean, I promised your mother…”

            “Mum’s dead, Ambrose,” Mason stated. “She’s been gone for a year. What are we doing? Pretending to be a family? We’re not. You just got stuck with me.”

            Ambrose knew what he needed to say, but the words refused to come. He’d promised Carys on their wedding day that he’d always take care of her son. Two years later, when she lay dying of her injuries, Ambrose had reaffirmed that oath. He knew he should tell the boy he was wrong; they were, and still are, family. He should tell him that despite being forced together through circumstance, they could be united in their love for the same woman. That they could let their grief knit them together from two fractured halves into one mismatched whole.

            He needed to tell the boy that he loved him, even if he wasn’t completely sure it was true.

Instead, Ambrose said nothing.

            Mason’s shoulders slumped. “Shouldn’t you be working anyway? Those lives aren’t going to end themselves.”

            Ambrose sighed. “We’ve been over this. The wasps are an invasive species.”

“So are we.”

Ambrose ignored this. “They are killing the bees, Mason. No bees, no pollination. No food.”

“They deserve to live.”

“So do we.” The boy met his gaze.

“Then what was the point?” Mason asked throwing his hands. “Why bring life to this rock just to judge which gets to stay here? The wasps didn’t ask to come to Mars, but now they are; they have just as much right to life as your precious bees.”

“It’s not that simple, Mason. When you’re older, you’ll understand…”

“They’re survivors,” he said, walking to his room; Ambrose didn’t try to stop him. “They belong here.”

  I wish I did,  Ambrose thought, as Mason’s door slammed shut.

            While Mason slept, Ambrose opened his laptop, and clicked the most recent video message. It was from Carys’s father, Paul, and the subject line simply read: An offer. Despite having only arrived this morning, Ambrose had watched it a dozen times.  

On the screen was an empty kitchen chair. In the background, beyond the patio doors and slightly out of focus, the swaying green of an overgrown garden capturing the sunlight of a cool spring morning. Ambrose’s finger’s touched the screen, and he felt a familiar lurch: the longing to breathe natural, unrecycled air.

            An elderly gentleman came into the shot and sat down.

            “Oh, good. It’s finally connected. Hi, Ambrose,” Paul said, giving a small wave. “Thanks for the last update on Mason. He’s looking more like his mother every time I see him.” His voice tightened for a moment, and he paused. “I’m just going to come out and say it; I think Mason should come to Earth to live with me.” Despite knowing the video almost word for word, Ambrose’s stomach still clenched at this part.

“With both his parents gone, I’m the only family he has left. I mean, biological family,” Paul hastily corrected himself. “I know it would be tough for him, having never left Mars, but he’s young; he’d adapt. The local school has even offered him a place.” Ambrose tried to picture Mason, the free-range native Martian, sitting in a classroom on Earth. It was an incongruous image.

“I was hoping you’d be able to talk to him,” Paul continued. “If you said it was a good idea, I know he’d be on board.” Ambrose wasn’t so sure about that. “I can’t thank you enough for all you have done for him, but this really would be best for everyone. It’s time that I took on the responsibility for my grandson and relieved you of the burden.”

            Ambrose paused the video. That word: burden. His first instinct was to brush the thought aside. Of course Mason wasn’t a burden. And yet…

            Mason had been nearly ten when Ambrose started dating his mother. While Ambrose had never envisioned a future with children, his love for Carys overrode any hesitation he had about taking on the role of stepdad, and for a few years, the three of them existed in a happy bubble of domestic harmony. Ambrose left the parenting to Carys allowing him to play the role of fun roommate to Mason. After her sudden death, Ambrose struggled to make the shift to sole parent, his attempts at authority and discipline being met with stony indifference.

            Was Mason a burden? Ambrose acknowledged the uncomfortable truth: his life would be a lot easier without the responsibility of raising a teenager. Mason was an intruder, an uninvited stowaway in Ambrose’s life, distracting him from his important ecological work. Plus, Ambrose knew he wasn’t the best parental figure for a young man. After a year, surely no-one could say he hadn’t tried.

            Perhaps it would be best if Mason relocated to Earth.

            “…the local school has even offered him a place.” Ambrose stopped the video and closed the laptop screen.

            “What do you think?” he asked Mason over breakfast. The boy’s toast sat cold and uneaten.

            “You want to send me away?” he asked.

            “I’m asking if you want to go and live with your family.”

            “I’ve never been to Earth.”

            “It’s great!” said Ambrose, too enthusiastically. “And your grandfather would love to have you live with him.”

            “I don’t belong there,” said Mason softly. “Mars is my home.”

            “This would be a good move for you.”

            “You mean it would be good for you.” Mason stood up. “The perfect chance to get rid of me. Pack me off to Earth, job done. You get your life back; another invasive species disposed of.”

            “Mason, that’s not fair.” Ambrose rubbed his head. “You admitted it: we’ve been kidding ourselves. We’re not family. Not anymore.”

            “You’re right about that,” Mason said, striding towards the door.

            “Where are you going?”

            “I have a project to finish.”

            “Can we talk about this later?” he called as Mason closed the door behind him.

Ambrose rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t trying to get rid of Mason, not really. This was the best decision for everyone. Mason would come around.

            As he downed the last of his coffee, he noticed a gap on the coat hanger by the door. Was one of his beekeeper suits missing?

Ambrose usually enjoyed visiting Biodome-4; unlike the stunted, struggling crops in the other domes, the broad beans and cucumbers grown here thrived, dense rows of leafy plants bending under the weight of ripe crops. Today however, he paid no attention to the flora. His eyes searched the metal panels of the outer wall; he hoped he was wrong, but he wore his beekeeper suit, just in case.

            He spotted it, just as Hadiya had described – a slight gap in the panel. One of the screws had come loose, and as Ambrose touched it, the panel swung to the side, leaving a space large enough for a slim teenager to fit through. He pulled the mesh hood over his face.

            It was a tight fit as he pushed through, but after a few metres, the space opened up into a large atrium, an unused and unvisited void between two biodomes. Ambrose squinted through the shadows before reaching for his flashlight. The narrow shaft illuminated the gloom and his stomach sank as his suspicions were confirmed.

            It was overwhelming; a nest two storeys high occupied the space. Wasps lazily buzzed through the air, ignoring Ambrose as they came and went through the vents. He tried to estimate the population of the hive. It had to be in the tens of thousands. Christ almighty…

Ambrose’s hands began to tremble as he attempted to formulate a removal plan. His usual method was to use expanding foam to cover and suffocate the hive, but this colony was too big. Fire was a non-starter in the pressurised, oxygen rich atmosphere of the biodomes. The only option would be to seal off the whole wing and open the airlock; the frigid Martian atmosphere would freeze and destroy the nest. It would also obliterate the crops and the already fragile bee colony. 

As he took a step backwards, he stepped on something soft: a pile of discarded wasp nest. Ambrose examined it and he saw signs of rot and decay. Shit. Someone had been tending the hive, removing diseased and damaged sections.

He spun the flashlight around and saw more evidence of human activity: his missing beekeeping suit hung on the wall and beside it, pages of handwritten notes on a clipboard. Dates, times, temperatures, wasp behaviour…

Mason’s handwriting.

Ambrose stumbled out through the gap and pulled the mesh from his face. Not only had Mason known about this nest – he’d been tending to it! He knew the boy had a strange affinity for the wasps, but he couldn’t have been ignorant to the danger this placed the whole Martian colony in. Ambrose looked around at the thriving crops of Biodome-4; they suddenly seemed so vulnerable. These parasites threatened everything they'd achieved here.

The quicker Mason left for Earth, the better for everyone.

Ambrose felt numb. He watched passively as a wasp landed on the delicate red petals of a broad bean flower, before it disappeared headfirst into the stamen. Maybe it’s too late. The damage is done.

The wasp reappeared a few seconds later covered in a light dusting of pollen.

A new truth hit Ambrose like a sting in the chest. He turned and sprinted back to his quarters.

            Ambrose stumbled into the living area, lungs burning. Mason looked up from the bag he was packing.

            “Look,” the boy said, placing his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’ve thought about it; you’re right. I should be with my family. I’ll get the next shuttle back to Earth... Have you been running?”

            Ambrose stared at the boy, and suddenly had a clear vision of the future if Mason left. It would be a solitary, clinical existence. His quarters would be tidy and arranged exactly how he wanted. He wouldn’t be constantly picking up dirty socks, or nagging a truculent teen to do his homework. It would be peaceful. Quiet.

            Lonely.

            Ambrose grabbed Mason and pulled him into a hug.

            “What the...?”

            “You can’t leave,” Ambrose stated, pulling back from the hug, and holding the boy at arm’s length.

            “But you said...”

            “I need you,” Ambrose said. “We need you. The colony.”

            “What?”

            “I found your wasp nest in Biodome-4. No, no, don't worry. You’re not in trouble.” Ambrose smiled as Mason stepped back. “You could see what I couldn’t. The wasps, Mason – they belong here. They’ve adapted far better than the bees ever did. They’re the reason the crops in Biodome-4 are thriving. They’re pollinating!”

            Mason gave a tentative smile. “Really?”

            “We need to set up new wasp populations in the other biodomes, and I’ll need your help.”

            “Me?” Mason asked.

            Adaptation: that was the key. Like with the wasps, Ambrose had been blind to his own evolution. His grief for Carys had overshadowed everything, and he’d overlooked the growth of new roots that had quietly kept him grounded. Only now, facing a future without Mason did he realise – he loved this boy. Not just as an extension of the love he had for his mother, but as a person in his own right.

As his son.

“I saw how you tended to the hive. You understand the wasps better than I do. I’m an apiarist, Mason, but there’s no need for a beekeeper anymore. We need a...” Ambrose searched for the right word. “... a vespirist.”

“A what?”

            “I propose a new enterprise: Ambrose and Son,” he said, extending his hand. “The first Waspkeepers of Mars.”