My next stints in White Tier were all as bees. Honey bees, to be precise. I devoted my lives to making honey for human beekeepers and pollinating orchards for human farmers, earning the final karma that I needed to move up. After one long, full life as a queen, I was balled and killed by my workers to make way for my successor, and when I woke, my drawer was glowing with bluish-green light.

I’d done it. I’d made it to Green Tier. And it had only taken two hundred years to get here.

Even the clerk celebrated my achievement to the extent of droning, “Congratulations on your advancement to Green Tier. Starting with your next life, you will be reincarnated as various types of sea creatures, reptiles, and amphibians.”

To be honest, none of those options sounded particularly appealing, but hey, frog was better than worm…right? So what am I going to be this time?

He gave me a prissy look, reminding me of all the times he’d told me that protocol prohibited him from divulging such details beforehand. “It is not customary – ” But before he could finish the formula, the door banged open and a man – no, a god now – strode in.

Scrambling out of his chair, the clerk dropped to the floor and prostrated himself. I buzzed, rotating slowly as I considered whether and how Heavenly etiquette applied to squishy balls of light.

“My lord. Forgive me. I was not aware that we had an appointment.” Despite the clerk’s posture, his tone conveyed definite disapproval, warning Heaven’s newest appointee that even gods were expected to follow proper bureaucratic procedure and schedule meetings in advance.

“We don’t have an appointment.”

Cassius brushed past me to take the room’s lone chair. Leaving the clerk groveling at his feet, he rifled through the tidy stacks of documents on the desk, then tossed the papers aside. A couple whooshed onto the floor.

“We happened to be inspecting this subdivision and heard it was Piri’s turn for reincarnation, so of course we had to come see her.”

He leveled a smile at me across the desk, that warm, broad smile I remembered so well. It was the one he always faked when he opened palace banquets. Including the one where he poisoned four dukes. (Which hadn’t even been my idea, although I’d been plotting to remove them anyway.)

“Of course, my lord,” murmured the clerk, his forehead still pressed to the floor. It might have been my imagination, but I thought he was gritting his teeth.

Cassius ignored him. “Piri, you remember us, right? Here and now, in this place?”

Seriously – did he really think there was more than one correct answer? Of course I do, Imperial Majesty, I chimed, sounding like the peal of bells on New Year’s Eve. How could I possibly forget you? In any time or place?

Ugh. A terrible line. Stale. Trite. Just another uninspired variant on all the terrible, stale, trite lines I’d used on him in the past. He chuckled, as he always had, to warn, I know what you’re doing. You can’t fool me, Piri.

But his eyes, as they always had, betrayed his pleasure. He’d always been too easy to handle.

“We could never forget you either, Piri. In any time or place.” His hands clenched on the armrests until the wood creaked (the clerk winced), and his voice went hard. “Including the throne room as it went up in flames around us.”

Flames he’d ordered himself, set by the last manservant still loyal to him, as the dukes and their army surrounded the great hall. (I hadn’t been there, of course. I’d fled as soon as they closed in on the palace, knowing that my job was done.)

Here Cassius paused for dramatic effect, leaving me an opening to murmur something seductive, to charm him into believing that my betrayal had somehow been for his own good. Two hundred years ago, I could have done it – but now nothing came to mind. I’d spent far too long as simple creatures with no capacity for social manipulation. Just another reason to accumulate positive karma as fast as possible.

As the silence dragged on, Cassius rummaged through the documents (the clerk was definitely grinding his teeth now) in a show of examining my curriculum vitae. His gaze hesitated over the stamp that read “Green,” then roved down to the record of my deeds as a bee. His expression turned regretful. “Piri, we are sorry to inform you that there has been an accounting error.”

An accounting error? I cast a glance at the clerk, whose shoulders had gone stiff, either from guilt or anger, I couldn’t tell.

“Yes. One of the apprentice accountants made an arithmetic mistake.” Cassius quirked his lips, as if to shrug, Apprentices and their abacuses – what can you do? “Once she corrected her calculation, she discovered that you are one point shy of Green Tier.”

One point? I want to see the math. As Cassius knew, I was actually pretty experienced at interpreting account books. Generally to my own advantage.

He fixed me with a stern scowl. “Piri, you of all…people should understand that government records are classified.”

As if he’d ever cared what I did with government records! But fighting over the past wasn’t going to get me any results, at least, not the ones I wanted. Instead, I floated forward to caress his arm with my soft, glow-y, and definitely-blue-green edges. But it’s just one point, Majesty…, I wheedled. Surely, as the Star of Heavenly Joy – I injected awe into my tone, and was pleased at how realistic it sounded – you possess the authority to let the original calculation stand….

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He let me snuggle into the crook of his arm and even petted me a couple times. Then he yanked away so I tumbled to the floor. From inside his wide sleeve, he produced a bronze seal and slammed it down on my curriculum vitae, right over the rune for “Green.” The original seal stamp evaporated into nothingness, leaving only a sloppy, smudged “White.”

Hey! Wait!

Cassius tossed the seal back into his oversized sleeve, rose, and strode towards the door. “See to it,” he ordered over his shoulder.

Still crouched on the floor, the clerk asked, “What shall she be reincarnated as, my lord?”

Cassius hesitated. “What was her last life again – ah yes, a honey bee. Make her a bee again. In a pear orchard.” His lips twitched.

How…poetic? My name did mean “pear blossom.” I supposed I should feel grateful that Casisus hadn’t tried to reincarnate me as a pear tree, although I’d bet that if plants weren’t on some bureaucratically-approved list, not even the Jade Emperor Himself could turn me into one.

“It will be done,” murmured the clerk.

After the door banged shut, he hauled himself to his feet with a long sigh, clutching the edge of his desk for support. His joints creaked.

Getting stiff there? I wasn’t in a sympathetic mood.

Neither was he. He scowled. “Let’s get this over with. I have a whole waiting room of other souls to process.”

Not my fault, not my problem. Plopping down on my curriculum vitae, I flattened myself across the “White” stamp. You do realize Cassius was lying, right?

The clerk’s scowl deepened until he resembled a minor demon. “That’s the Star of Heavenly Joy, soul.”

Are you really going to do this? You don’t have to obey him, you know. Maybe a star god outranks a star sprite, but it’s not like he works here. As far as I could tell, reincarnation had nothing to do with heavenly joy. Or joy in any form whatsoever.

“As a matter of fact,” grated the clerk, “he was recently reassigned to this Bureau from his original position at the Ministry of Fate.”

The Ministry of Fate? That sounded like an appointment I’d have made – because I had a twisted sense of humor. What was he doing there?

“He was overseeing the happiness of human marriages.”

Wow. Given what Cassius had done to his own empress, the Heavenly bureaucracy had an even more twisted sense of humor than I did. Huh. That’s clever.

At the admiration in my voice, the clerk’s mouth turned upside down, but he refrained from commenting on his superiors’ decisions. “Please dip yourself in the Tea of Forgetfulness.”

I didn’t budge. No. I refuse to let Cassius mess with me.

“Piri,” he warned, tapping his index finger on the desk and then aiming the tip at me, “I don’t have time for this.”

Okay, okay, fine, fine! But we’re going to talk about this next time!

The last thing I saw before the tea sucked me in was his face. It was filled with deep disgust.

----------------------------------------

Buzz buzz buzz.

Flower flower flower.

Hive. Family. Queen.

Honey.

----------------------------------------

I glowed blue-green again when I woke in my drawer, but this time I felt no excitement. What was the point of achieving anything if a god could annul it on a whim?

“Congratulations on achieving Green Tier,” intoned the clerk.

I pulsed resentfully. “Only until Cassius drops by.”

The clerk’s fingers drummed on the desk. Without meeting my eyes, he confessed, “I filed a formal complaint about the irregularity last time. However, as the Director of Reincarnation is away, it will be some time before it is processed.”

Ah, bureaucracy at its inefficient best. I was surprised that the clerk had cared enough to file a complaint – although, on a second thought, he’d probably done it less out of concern for my personal welfare and more to prevent future “irregularities” that would result in work pileups for him.

When do you expect the Director to return?

“In half a year. On the twenty-third day of the Bitter Moon.”

In half a – year? Your Director leaves for half a year at a time?

“The Director of Reincarnation is the Kitchen God,” the clerk snapped, as if I should have known already. Which was semi-fair (by Heavenly standards) – I probably could have guessed as soon as I heard the date. “As such, he dwells in human homes and observes human lives for all but the final week of the year, when he returns to compile his observations and report to the Jade Emperor on the state of affairs on Earth.”

That I had known. Cassius’ palace, like every household in Serica down to the meanest hovel, sent off the Kitchen God with great fanfare every year. The ceremony typically included the offering of bribes – er, desserts – to sweeten his mood and hence his reports, and commoners who could afford to keep a statuette of him above their stoves smeared honey across his lips to seal them shut. (Cassius hadn’t, since all actions of the Son of Heaven were supposedly sanctified by Heaven anyway.)

Isn’t there an Assistant Director or something to handle departmental affairs for the rest of the year?

“Yes. The Goddess of Life. But she submitted an application to create a department of her own, which is on the verge of approval, so she’s been extremely busy.”

So who’s actually in charge, then? Cassius?

“No!” answered the clerk at once. “No. We have a well-defined set of regulations for conducting reincarnations. As long as all the clerks are properly trained and issued a copy of the manual to consult in the trickier cases, the system functions without much need for oversight.”

Functioned, you mean, I needled him, stressing the past tense. If Cassius isn’t in charge, how did he get the White seal?

The clerk’s lips pressed into a thin, straight line. “I am sure the Director will launch an inquiry when he returns.”

In half a year. By which point, Cassius would probably have installed himself as Director. Isn’t there someone who oversees all the departments and who’s actually here? Can’t you go talk to them?

“That’s the Evening Star, Director of Heavenly Affairs. His office is in the Hall of Purple Mists itself.” From his tone, I gathered that all the most important gods and goddesses worked there. “As you can imagine, obtaining an appointment with him is impossible.”

Unless you were Cassius and just breezed right in. But this mousy little clerk would never dare. Well, does this Evening Star have an Assistant Director?

“Two, in fact. She Who Hears the Cries of the World and She Who Sees the Suffering of the World. But they, too, travel frequently between Heaven and Earth. And before you ask, no, their subordinates are not authorized to issue judgments on their behalf.”

Wow. Even my efforts to “modernize” the bureaucracy on Earth hadn’t produced such a labyrinth. I felt frankly jealous.

“Look,” counseled the clerk. “Be patient. Go live your next life. The Kitchen God will return soon.”

And process all complaints in the order in which they were received? I asked, sarcastically.

“Of course,” replied the clerk with all seriousness. “Now, please dip yourself in the Tea of Forgetfulness. Enjoy your next life.”

Yeah, yeah, sure.