Author: Hillary Lyon

Looking through the illuminated magnifier, Herbert soldered the finishing touches to the miniature mechanical bee. He carried it to the garden where his young son, Drew, waited.

“It looks too little to accomplish anything,” his son commented.

His father sighed. “Once we had organic bees. Real bees to pollinate flowers. Thanks to—well, we’re not sure if it was over-use of pesticides, or herbicides, or the vagaries of climate change here on Earth, or a combination of factors—the little creatures died off.”

Herbert opened his palm and raised his hand up towards the sun. “I created this little worker,” he continued, “for pollinating.”

“I thought people pollinated flowers by hand,” Drew countered. “I’ve seen old pictures of farmers with paint-brushes, and—”

“My bees,” his father interrupted, “are also self-replicating. This single bee in my hand will make four to six more before the season is over. So in our little garden, we only need to use one. They’re quite the labor-saving drones.”

“If they work as well as I think they will,” Herbert continued, “then we’ll use them in the last phase of terraforming a new world. Something you’ll see in your lifetime.” Herbert then added to himself, but not in mine.

Now warmed and solar-powered, the bee stirred and quickly flew away towards the squash blossoms in the family garden.

“Goes to work right away,” Herbert laughed softly. “Unlike my son.” He affectionately slapped Drew on the shoulder. “Now get in the house and start your chores.”

* * *

One Martian sunrise decades later, an adult Drew zipped up his jumpsuit and strolled outside. The air was thinner than Earth’s, but serviceable and getting better. The terraforming project was coming along as well as hoped, and had now entered the final stage.

He made his way up the ridge on the edge of the colony to look over the vast field before him. An explosion of color greeted him: various shades of blue, yellow, and pink, dappled with spots of white.

As Drew walked into the field of wild flowers dozens of tiny humming mechanical bees swarmed about him. He laughed and waved them away. They went back to work as he picked enough flowers to build two bouquets. One he would leave beneath the engraved brass plaque naming the field after his father. The other for his pregnant wife.