Alvarez nodded. “I’ve got two hives–one at each end. They stay out of each other’s way, more or less. I keep different crops at different ends so they don’t get confused and try to pollinate the same stuff. The pot’s in the middle, near the door.” A small vortex of sand that thought it was a tiny tornado swirled around the entrance as she pulled open the door.

“You have a current work contract with both hives?” I asked.

She scowled. I think I’d insulted her. “Of course. I wrote it up myself off a model I found on the PlanNet. I’m no slave worker. You ask them; they’re fine with it. I give them a good deal.”

As soon I stepped inside, I noticed that something was wrong. The bees’ hum was discordant and high. When I looked up, I saw a cloud of blue, buzzing dust across the ceiling. The sight completely messed with the remains of my high. I nudged my client–hard. She looked up. “Oh, shit!”

We scrambled to get out of there, slamming the door as the cloud shot down the walls at us. I backed along the cliff, nearly tripping and falling over it while she secured the door. I didn’t want to get any of that stuff on me. We couldn’t see it from the outside, except for the rippling of the greenhouse walls. Inside, the bees sounded pretty angry.

“I think I’ve got your problem sussed out, now, Mrs. Alvarez,” I said. “You’ve got some kind of xenobugs. And they just issued you an ultimatum.”

“Ah, goddamnit,” she sighed. “Don’t tell me that, young man. I’ve got crops for thirty different people in there. They’ll skin me alive and use me for a tent if there’s a hostile takeover. Bad enough we gotta play nice with all the domestic species now. Don’t tell me I’ve got some xeno squatter in there, too. Please.”

I stood up and clicked on my toolkit. I scanned the greenhouse wall on our side. Red lights lit up all over my view screen. “Yup. They’ve already got 33% territorialization and consolidation. If we don’t get in there and negotiate, they’ll take over the whole thing. And there goes your crop. Do you have anything in there that needs harvesting in the next week or so?”

“Shit,” she sighed, more out of habit this time, I thought, than angry exclamation. “Yeah, the oranges. And about half the pot. We always have something ready to pop, so I guess there never would be a good time. I wonder why they targeted us?”

I shrugged. “Difficult to tell. Could be they wanted to do a hostile takeover on one of your hives. Could be they just like your oranges.” She looked disgusted. “Can’t we smoke them out?”

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