Bee-swarm darkly clumped on a branch against the empty sky. A mobile brain of a disembodied and autonomous nation... the supposed final shape, at the end of Gaia's days, of Cain's descendents (won't happen, though, don't worry, since noone will ever mate with Cain, he won't have children, and this intergenerational shape-shift just won't happen).     The hives were filled with their clear honey. James Hive-Maker had never harvested so early as that year. The colonies were so crowded that everyday there was a new swarming.