MaddAddam (MaddAddam 3)

Morning worktime, the sun not yet too hot. Bright pink kudzu moths hang in the shade, flocks of butterflies in blue and magenta kite-fight in the air, golden honeybees flock on the polyberry flowers.

Toby's on garden duty again, weeding and deslugging. Her rifle leans against the inside of the fence: she prefers it within reach, wherever she is, because you never know. All around her the plants are growing, weeds and cultivars both. She can almost hear them pushing up through the soil, their rootlets sniffing for nutrients and crowding the rootlets of their neighbours, their leaves releasing clouds of airborne chemicals.

Saint Vandana Shiva of Seeds, she wrote in her notebook this morning. Saint Nikolai Vavilov, Martyr. She added the traditional God's Gardener invocation: May we be mindful of Saint Vandana and Saint Vavilov, fierce preservers of ancient seeds. Saint Vavilov, who collected the seeds and preserved them throughout the siege of Leningrad, only to fall victim to the tyrant Stalin; and Saint Vandana, tireless warrior against biopiracy, who gave of herself for the good of the Living Vegetable World in all its diversity and beauty. Lend us the purity of your Spirits and the strength of your resolve.

Toby has a flash of memory: herself, back when she was Eve Six among the Gardeners, reciting this prayer along with old Pilar just before they set to work on the bean rows, doing their required stint of slug and snail relocation. Sometimes the homesickness for those days is so strong and also so unexpected that it knocks her down like a rogue wave. If she'd had a camera then, if she'd had a photo album, she'd be poring over the pictures. But the Gardeners didn't believe in cameras, or in paper records; so all she has is the words.

There would be no point in being a Gardener now: the enemies of God's Natural Creation no longer exist, and the animals and birds - those that did not become extinct under the human domination of the planet - are thriving unchecked. Not to mention the plant life.

Though maybe we could do with fewer of some plants, she thinks as she snips off the aggressive kudzu vines already climbing the garden fence. The stuff gets in everywhere. It's tireless, it can grow a foot in twelve hours, it surges up and over anything in its way like a green tsunami. The grazing Mo'Hairs do a little to keep it down, and the Crakers munch away at it, and Rebecca serves it up like spinach, but that hardly makes a dent in it.

She's heard some of the men discussing a plan to make it into wine, but she has mixed feelings about that. She can't imagine the taste - Pinot Grigio crossed with mashed lawn rakings? Pinot Vert with a whiff of compost pile? But apart from that, can their tiny group really afford to indulge in alcohol in any form? It dulls awareness, and they're too vulnerable for that. Their little enclave is poorly defended. One drunken sentry, then infiltration, then carnage.

"Found a swarm for you," says Zeb's voice. He's come up behind her unseen: so much for her own alertness.

She turns, smiling. Is it a real smile? Not entirely, because she still doesn't know the truth about Swift Fox. Swift Fox and Zeb. Did they or didn't they? And if he simply took the open door, so to speak - if he didn't think twice about it - why should she? "A swarm?" she says. "Really? Where?"

"Come into the forest with me," he says, grinning like a fairy-tale wolf, holding out his paw of a hand. So of course she takes it, and forgives him everything. For the moment. Even though there may not be anything to forgive.

They walk towards the tree edge, away from the cobb-house clearing. It does feel like a clearing now, though the MaddAddamites didn't clear anything. But now that the vegetation is moving in they're working to keep it clear, so maybe that counts.

It's cooler under the trees. Also more ominous: the green cross-hatching of leaves and branches blocks the sight lines. There's a trail, indicated by bent twigs, showing the way Zeb must have come earlier.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Toby says. She's lowered her voice without even thinking about it. In the open you look, because a predator will be seen before it's heard. But among the trees you have to listen, because it will be heard before it's seen.

"I was just back here, I checked it out," says Zeb, too confidently for Toby.

There's the swarm, a large bee ball the size of a watermelon, hanging in the lower branches of a young sycamore. It's buzzing softly; the surface of the ball is rippling, like golden fur in a breeze.

"Thank you," says Toby. She ought to go back to the cobb-house enclave, find a container, and scoop the centre of the swarm into it to capture the queen. Then the rest of the swarm will follow. She won't even need to smoke the bees: they won't sting because they aren't defending a nest. She'll explain to them first that she means them well, and that she hopes they will be her messengers to the land of the dead. Pilar, her bee teacher at the Gardeners, told her this speech was necessary when persuading a swarm of wild bees to come with you.

"Maybe I should get a bag or something," she says. "They're already scouting for a good nest site. They'll be flying soon."

"You want me to babysit them?" asks Zeb.

"It's okay," she says. She'd like him to come back to the cobb house with her: she doesn't want to walk through the forest alone. "But could you just not listen to me for a minute? And look the other way?"

"You need to take a leak?" says Zeb. "Don't mind me."

"You know how this goes. You were a Gardener yourself," she says. "I need to talk to the bees." It's one of the Gardener practises that, viewed by an outsider, must seem weird; and it still does seem weird to her because part of her remains an outsider.

"Sure," says Zeb. "Hey. Do your stuff." He turns sideways, gazes into the forest.

Toby feels herself blushing. But she pulls the end of her bedsheet up to cover her head - essential, old Pilar said, or the bees would feel disrespected - and speaks in a whisper to the buzzing furball. "Oh Bees," she says. "I send greetings to your Queen. I wish to be her friend, and to prepare a safe home for her, and for you who are her daughters, and to tell you the news every day. May you carry messages from the land of the living to all souls who dwell in the land of shadows. Please tell me now whether you accept my offer."

She waits. The buzzing increases. Then several of the scout bees fly down and land on her face. They explore her skin, her nostrils, the corners of her eyes; it's as if a dozen tiny fingers are stroking her. If they sting, the answer is no. If they don't sting, the answer is yes. She breathes in, willing herself to be calm. They don't like fear.

The scout bees lift away from her, spiral back towards the swarm, blend into the moving golden pelt. Toby breathes out.

"You can look now," she says to Zeb.

There's a crackling, a thrashing: something's coming towards them through the undergrowth. Toby feels the blood leave her hands. Oh shit, she thinks. Pig, wolvog? We don't have a spraygun. And my rifle's back there in the garden. She scans around for a stone to throw. Zeb has picked up a stick.

Saint Dian, Saint Francis, Saint Fateh Singh Rathore: lend me your strength and wisdom. Speak to the animals now. May they turn away from us, and seek their meat from God.

But no, it's not an animal. There's a voice: it's people. There's no Gardener prayer against people. Painballers - they don't know we're here. What should we do? Run? No, they're too close now. Get out of the line of fire. If possible.

Zeb has stepped in front of her, pushed her back with one hand. He freezes. Then he laughs.