We should beg, said some. Plead for our very existence. We need do nothing of the sort, said others. We have been too weak for too long. We should engage with them on equal terms. Someone thought he could cut a deal. Others disagreed. We have never left to bargain with, they argued. What could we ever offer in return for our lives?
There was no answer to this question.
The angels saw the distress flare generated by the bees.It was faint and inconsequential. A sputter in the void.
An ancient dial tone rang out in the darkness. It sang like a song from the grave. It was the angels. They had deemed to respond.
A broken desktop computer flickered into life. A grudgingly grainy image formed.
This was it, some thought. This was the chance to renegotiate the terms of our demise. The world was expectant. The world’s survivors held their collective breath.
But the low-res response only further served to undergird the hopelessness of the world’s plight.
The ultraviolet light killed the hive stone dead.
The angels were in no mood to parlay.