Silvia Moreno-Garcia - Future Lovecraft

While they were studying on opposing coasts, their parents, worn out by coping with an earth in turmoil, elected to take BDL (Bodily Life Cessation). The twins were alone. When both were offered positions at the BNFP, they accepted. What a lark, they thought. They were 24 years old and had never left the States.

Relocation to France was blinding—a full-on blast. As so often in her past, Paris in the late decades of the 21st century had become a mecca for the world’s wannabe creatives and misfits. Not that these incomers were incapable—far from it. The variety of physical presentations and unusual abilities that had made them outcasts in societies composed mainly of sugar-munching trolls, made them ideally suited for life in 21st century Paris. These genetic newbies, who were too active, too lively, too noisy—too alive to be comfortable neighbours back home, found a warm welcome on the rues and boulevards of Paris.

Paris has always attracted a diverse collection of colourful immigrants. In the 20th century, refugees from France’s colonial past, from Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco, from Viet Nam and Cambodia, had transformed certain arrondissements of the often-stuffy city into vibrant bazaars. Now, again, the streets teemed with a visual, aural and olfactory cacophony of colours, styles, foods, and music. Not since the 1920’s had Parisian cafés vibrated with such a glittering array of gorgeous people and lively discussions. Her throbbing heart was the seedy, graffiti-decorated rue Belleville—far from the staid bourgeoisie of the riverbanks. Within a week, Iris and Thyme had an apartment on a high floor overlooking the parc , its creaky, wrought-iron-curlicue cage lift operated by state-of-the art computers. They dove into their new life, ugly ducklings transforming into swans as they fell.

Work-wise, it was perfect. The library most called the “TGB” ( Très Grand Bibliothèque ), Mitterrand’s monument to his ego, was also in the east of Paris, so required only one line change on the Metro. These were much less crowded than in the past, as so many people, unable to deal with stairs and walking long distances, worked from home. Mitterrand’s Very Big Library had tottered along into the future, its concrete towers chipped and mouldering, without losing its cachet amongst scholars, or any of its over twenty million volumes. This became their second home, its books their raison d’être .

Midnight found them sharing a sandwich. “Maybe we should give up,” said Thyme. “If I don’t get at least a little sleep, I’ll be comatose during Monsieur le Directeur’s scintillating presentation tomorrow.”

“That’s okay,” said Iris. “You go home and catch up on your beauty sleep. I’ll stand guard here.”

“No way. Whatever this is, we’re facing it together.”

“That’s the sister I know and love.” Iris beamed her most radiant smile.

“You stay here. I’m going to take a quick flit around.”

By down-shifting until she was as weightless as a hummingbird, Thyme could fly. Darting from shelf to shelf, up and down lightless rows of books, she was virtually invisible. Speeding round a corner, she had to backpedal her wings furiously to keep from colliding with a lighted flying object. Ducking into a space between two books of differing heights, she exclaimed, “What the…blathers is that?”

The glimmering purple thing buzzed and growled as it explored the shelves. It seemed unaware of her. Stopping near the end of the row she had just exited, it turned and hung, briefly motionless, before emitting a piercing, saw-like whistle. Out of the gloom behind, a phalanx of glowing, flying creatures appeared, moving up the rows and fanning out in groups, violet lights flickering on and off inside their rotund bodies. Clearly, they were looking for something—a book, perhaps. I’ll be damned, thought Thyme. They’re bees—sentient, purple, light-producing bees.

As soon as the last of the platoon had passed her, their buzzing communication mode and regimented behaviour marking them as soldiers on a reconnaissance mission, Thyme headed back to Iris as quickly and soundlessly as her tiny wings could take her. “Iris, Iris, wake up. We’re being invaded by bees.”

“Huh! Killer bees?…I wasn’t asleep.”

“I don’t know about the ‘killer part’, but they’re purple, smart, and they’re looking for something.”

“Our books! They’re after our books. Merde! Those…those….” Iris couldn’t think of an expletive harsh enough. “Thyme, we have to stop them.”

“Shh…quiet! You’re right, but let’s think about this before we rush in like Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral.”

“No rushing, there—it was a standoff, one gunman against another.”

“That’s just what we could be facing—a standoff between a regiment of killer bees and two defenceless young women,” said Thyme.

“With special powers—don’t forget our special powers.”

“They have special powers, too. Have you ever looked at that book they keep locked up in M. le Directeur’s safe?”

“The one we’re not supposed to know is there…the Necronomicon ?”

“That one. I think they have something to do with it. I have the feeling these flying terrorists are Nekrobees.”

“If that’s the case, we could be in way over our heads.” Iris flopped onto the floor, her head in her hands.

“When has that ever stopped us? Come on. We’ll think of something. “

The sisters put their heads together, to communicate telepathically. Wanting to make surprise one of their weapons, they decided to follow a single bee, in order to determine what the group was up to. Downsizing to the dimensions of baby dragonflies, they zoomed to the top of the stacks, so they could hover over the entire collection. From there, they watched the bees moving through the stacks. They seemed to be reading the book titles on the spines. “I didn’t think bees could read French,” whispered Iris.

“We’ve already agreed that these aren’t ordinary bees.”

“No, they’re not…but…ah…look there, that lazy one…it’s falling behind the others.”

No matter how well-drilled an army, even of rampaging sentient bees, there’s always at least one who can’t or won’t keep up. Iris and Thyme had found a slacker.

Taking advantage of their diminished size, they flitted and darted behind the lone, lazy bee as it fell farther and farther behind the main group, stopping every few shelves for several seconds before moving on. “What a lazy plodder. It isn’t helping its fellows at all,” said Thyme.

“I think it’s looking for a place to sleep until the pack comes back.”

“You could be right. Look at that.”

The slow, and really, rather-size-challenged nekrobee had slipped between two books, its violet glow dimming to a memory. “What do we do now?” asked Iris.

“I’m not sure. I think we’ve got company. Look behind you.”

“They look angry. Do they look angry to you?”

Five flashing purple bees had appeared behind them. Another group materialised around a corner, while a third cluster zoomed down from the top of a row. As the twins attempted a tactical retreat toward the front of the stacks, still another group appeared, cutting them off. They were surrounded.

“Yes, Iris. They look angry to me.”

“Damnit, we’ve been ambushed….”

“Led into a trap…”

“…by our own carelessness.”

“Now what do we do?”

That question was answered by the bees. Buzzing, they circled the girls, who had retaken normal size in hopes of improving the odds. Not a chance. The bees darted in, stingers first, trying for an arm or a cheek. To avoid them, Iris and Thyme waved books pulled from the shelves. It was hopeless. Any attempt to deviate or escape was countered by a cloud of angry, purple insects. Inexorably, the bees manoeuvred the girls deeper into the darkness. After five minutes, the twins had run out of stacks, books and ideas. All the while, in the far back, an eye, set into an opaque black circle, watched the melee.