The Harvest

by K. Makansi

  I drag a sleeve across my face as juice dribbles down my chin. “With who?”

  “A snake.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. S¬he giggles. Meera is captivating, her smile contagious, her face open and honest. It’s how she gets around the city as an Outsider. That, and her forged documents. Her wide-eyed innocence is capable of charming everyone she meets—and deceiving anyone who doesn’t know her.

  “Okay, it’s a guy named Snake. But he slithers around the city,” she waggles her hand through the air, “silent and deadly.” She hisses aloud, as childlike as Osprey.

  “I’m picturing a guy with bright green hair and fangs.”

  “Oh, Snake is definitely like that. Not the fangs, though. He hides in plain sight. Knows everyone, has contacts everywhere. I always go to him when I need information.”

  “Can he help me find Vale?”

  “If anyone can, it’s him. Tonight, thirty minutes after sunset, at The Elysium. Look for the waiter with purple hair—”

  “Purple?”

  “I told you, he hides in plain sight. Anyway, ask him for the green apple indica. It’s off-menu and we use it as our code. It’s also delicious.”

  Soon all that remains of my apple are seeds. I toss them in the box and grab another. This is not the first clandestine meeting Meera has arranged for me, but it’s the first time she’s sounded so hopeful.

  After Vale’s fall, when the drone whisked him away to the gods only know where, I stayed in the apartment Chan-Yu had arranged for us. Damn the risks, I told myself then. Corine’s promise to execute me most likely meant she’d be looking for me out in the Wilds, or at the Resistance bases. As far as I could tell, no drones or Watchmen were able to ID me, even when Chan-Yu and I were chasing Jeremiah through the city streets. In a way, staying here is safer for me than heading back out with the Resistance. Like Meera’s mysterious purple-haired Snake, I am hiding in plain sight.

  I know it’s dangerous to stay, but my instinct screams: I can’t leave Vale. I have to find out what happened to him. Is he alive? Is he with his parents? What have they done to him? And by all that grows, what was he doing on that roof?

  Chan-Yu, it turned out, had only paid for the shortest possible lease: two weeks. I spent three nights in the sewers after the rental term was up. That’s when I met Meera. I’d taken to spending much of my time in the smoke dens—places I never knew existed—because it was so easy to blend in. Like everything else in Okaria, the dens are heavily regulated, but they’ve all taken on the personalities of their neighborhoods. With black walls, heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains, dirty velour booths, and small, blood red biolights at every table, Le Mouton Noir quickly became my favorite. It was close to the apartment we’d used, everything seemed to be covered in a thin film of grime, and most of the regulars worked in delivery, water recycling, composting, or bioluminescence, so I knew I was unlikely to run into any of my old friends. The smoke came cheap and plentiful, and escape was just a few puffs away. And the place was open twenty-four seven.

  I thought I had changed my appearance enough to go unnoticed, but Meera recognized me right away. She’d been looking for me, she said.

  She slid into my booth and offered me a pull from her water pipe. I rarely smoke, finding the atmosphere calming enough on its own. Plus, I was running out of seeds.

  “My name’s Meera,” she said. “We should be friends.”

  I hesitated, trying not to look suspicious. “What makes you say that?”

  Ignoring the question, she held her pipe out to me. “This is my favorite flavor. Tastes like black caps. I think you’ll like it.”

  Black caps. That’s how I knew. It’s what Outsiders call wild blackberries and raspberries. They grow in great brambly bushes in parts of Outsider territory, and every tiny corpuscle tastes like a burst of heaven. Rhinehouse says the Sector’s version, the ones they use in Mealpaks, have been so hybridized they hardly have any taste at all. I don’t even remember eating them when I was younger.

  “Black caps. Never heard of such a thing.” I took a long drag, feeling the calm sink in, remembering how I used to love smoking with Eli, Jahnu, and Kenzie at Thermopylae. Meera leaned in, elbows on the table.

  “Word on the street is we have friends in common,” she said, looking me up and down. “You hungry?”

  “Starving.” Meera flashed her siren smile, and in the haze of the blackberry smoke, I couldn’t help it. I smiled back.

  “I can help you with that. Let’s go to my apartment. I’ve got food to spare. We can catch up on how our mutual friends are doing.”

  I was hesitant at first, reluctant to trust anyone. But after weeks with no news of Vale, no word from Chan-Yu, Soren, Osprey, Miah, or anyone else in the Resistance, I’d finally found someone to talk to. Or rather, someone had found me. My mind foggy with hunger, loneliness, and desperation, I figured if Meera was a spy for the Sector, she’d lead me right to Corine. I was willing to take the risk.

  My trust was well-founded. Meera fed me, gave me extra clothes, replenished my disguise makeup, and now she’s going to let me move into her apartment.

  “Everything is mostly cleaned out,” Meera says, pulling a shirt up over her head to change clothes for work. “I won’t be far, and I’ll be by every few days with food.”

  “I hate to kick you out of your own place,” I say, protesting for the thousandth time and trying not to stare at the scarred lines on her back. One time, I asked how she got her scar, but she just gave me a sly smile and said nothing.

  “Remy, you’re not kicking me out. This place is hardly big enough for two and besides, I’ll be staying with a very close friend.” She winks.

  I think of Vale, the idea of staying with him someday in a warm house, with a proper kitchen, and a real bed. If we live long enough.

  “If the meeting with Snake goes well, you’ll have a better idea of where Vale is and how you can see him. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. For everything.”

  “If you ever need to run, there’s a safe house on the outskirts of Okaria the Outsiders stay at sometimes. You might know about it.” Her eyes twinkle. “It’s your grandfather’s house.”

  “Kanaan’s?” I ask, wide-eyed. “Outsiders stay there?”

  “On occasion. It’s big, empty, comfortable. What more could we ask for?” She squeezes my hand and whispers, “We’ll talk soon. Good luck.”

  It’s still dark—the first hint of dawn is edging the horizon—when Meera leaves. I consider a nap, or a few minutes of quiet meditation, but opt for some of the smoked elk instead. It’s early, and I haven’t slept much tonight, but I’m antsy. Time is running out. How much longer can I stay in Okaria, pawning food from the Outsiders, hanging out in smoke dens, listening, watching, waiting? I am not safe here. One wrong move and I’m done for. Phillip’s goodwill was waning when Soren and I were captured, and I’m sure it’s nonexistent now. If I’m caught again, the Sector will have no mercy, not after Round Barn, not after what I did to Evander.

  I pull out my plasma and begin sketching. Where are my friends? Are they safe? How are Jahnu and Kenzie? Has Rhinehouse found an antivirus for Eli? Will I ever be able to see him again?

  The sketch morphs into something grotesque. A disembodied mouth, open in a scream, bits of tongue flaking away like burnt paper.

  Thirty minutes after sunset, I walk into The Elysium smoke den. Located deep in fashionable South Okaria, far away from the city center, The Elysium couldn’t be more different from Le Mouton Noir. The lights are dim but luminous. Hundreds of tiny green biolights flicker along the walls. The glassware here is polished and fine, the smoke clean, the hookahs as elegant as the patrons. It’s like I’ve entered a different dimension, as if I’m floating in the ocean amidst a sea of glowing plankton. There is an air of intense sensuality. Bodies lean into each other, lovers kiss in the corners, beautiful people sip colorful cocktails, and stained lips pull long drags of smoke from
glass pipes. Low, throbbing music plays in the background and conversation is hushed and secretive.

  As I pass, one woman gives me a long, inviting look, with a raised brow and full, red lips. She is captivating, to be sure, with long hair curling around her shoulders, wide hips and a small waist. For a moment, I envy her figure, her glamour, her confidence. She is a woman who knows who she is and what she wants.

  I shake my head no and raise my hand to the back of my neck, a nervous gesture that has only gotten worse over the weeks. To avoid recognition, I cut my hair with one of Chan-Yu’s knives, left in the apartment after we fled. No more thick, dark curls. Now, just an even tuft of close-cropped fuzz. When I went with Meera to her apartment that first time, she giggled and pulled out an electric razor, offering to shear my hair more evenly than the butcher’s job I’d done with the knife. It looks better, but I’m still not used to it. I want my curls back. When I catch my reflection, my eyes seem too big, my neck too long, all my shapes slightly wrong.

  But if I don’t recognize myself, neither will anyone else.

  I find a booth and cozy up to the corner, sitting with my back to the wall, scanning the space for a purple-haired man. I don’t have to look hard. I notice him behind the bar, shaking a cocktail mixer. A few minutes later he appears at my table. I don’t know what I expected: someone striking, maybe, someone really tall, or very good looking. But Snake is unassuming except for the hair, which sticks up every which way, with deep purple roots that taper into lavender. He has dark eyes, slightly upturned at the outer edges and shaded by long lashes, but there is nothing truly distinctive about them. His face, though not especially handsome, is trustworthy. Is it just because I want to trust him?

  “Hello, mademoiselle. I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like a drink, a smoke, or both?”

  Does he know who I am? I look at him closely, scan the rest of the area quickly to make sure I’m dealing with the right purple-haired man. “I’ve heard good things about the green apple indica. That and a tonic, please.”

  Snake nods. “Good choice.” There’s a smile on his lips. He backs away, and my heart is pounding. Can I trust this person? I have to believe Meera, but I can’t still the fearful thoughts running circles in my brain. A few moments later, he returns with my tonic and complimentary sugar squares.

  “I’m off in five minutes,” he says. “Thankfully, I make the schedules here. I’ll bring the indica with me and we’ll get to know one another.”

  When he slides into the booth beside me, it occurs to me that we must look like lovers. He sets the water pipe on the table, hands me the tonic water, and wraps an arm around my shoulders. For a moment I feel uncomfortable, but his gesture is reassuring, not sexual. He nods at the glass in front of me. I take a drink. Then he leans in and whispers in my ear.

  “He’s being held at the chancellor’s estate. He’s been there the whole time.” Of course. It was the most likely place. I’d thought about trying to get near, to scope it out—I’d even daydreamed about mounting a rescue, all by myself, as stealthy as Chan-Yu and as deadly as Soren—but there was no safe way, no way to do it without risking more than I dared. “The chancellor’s staff is carefully vetted,” Snake continues. “Cooks, cleaners, butlers, plumbers. They’re all interrogated, tracked, and monitored. You know the drill. Even then, very few were told of Vale’s presence. One or two maids, the chancellor’s Dietician, and a security guard.”

  “I’m not surprised—I suspected as much—but how did you find out?”

  “One of the guards is a frequent patron of The Elysium. After several well-packed pipes and a few flirtatious gestures I got it out of him that security around the building had been tripled. After that, it was just a matter of asking the right people the right questions.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “He’s being treated as a hostage. Locked in his room day and night. Guards at all points of entry around the house. No one except his parents, the chancellor’s personal doctor, and a single chambermaid have been allowed to make contact with him. Far as we know, he hasn’t been allowed outside at all.”

  I am crestfallen. How am I supposed to tell him I’m safe, I’m waiting for him, if he’s being treated like a prisoner in his own home? I expected this, even feared worse. But it doesn’t make it any easier.

  Snake cocks his head at me.

  “Why do you look so sad?”

  “I need to get a message to him.”

  “Why does that make you sad?”

  “Because it seems impossible.”

  “Says who, little lady? I was just getting to the part where I gallantly offer to take a message to your dearest Valerian, in exchange only for a simple favor.”

  I lean into him.

  “Let’s talk about the favor in a minute. How are you going to get a message to him?”

  “I have friends in high places, Remy Alexander.”

  “Shhh!” I hiss, glancing around urgently as if Watchmen were about to materialize out of the walls and arrest me, and take me back to face General Aulion or Philip’s electric shocks. “Don’t say that out loud.” Snake smirks at me. I glare at him. “Can you do it without putting anyone at risk?”

  “Risk?” He raises his eyebrows, and I notice that they, too, are dyed a brilliant purple. “Life is risk. We risk our lives every day. Do you want me to get a message to him, or not?”

  I take a deep breath. “Yes. What’s your favor?”

  “You haven’t touched the indica. It’s an Outsider specialty, I promise. Of course,” he waves his hand at the crowd of luminous patrons, “they don’t know that.”

  “What’s your favor?” I ask again.

  “I hear that Meera has some delightful strawberries this time of year. Bring me a dozen, and I’ll make sure Vale gets your message.”

  I almost laugh out loud. “How about you send Vale the message, and I’ll repay you with strawberries.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, and says in a lighthearted voice, “You drive a hard bargain, Sparrow.” I had suggested Little Bird as my Outsider code, but Meera dubbed me Sparrow, and it stuck. Now, it’s the only way I dare refer to myself in the city. “But I will accept your terms. Tell me, what message would you like to send?”

  I reach for the water pipe in front of me. The pipe is green and blue semi-opaque glass. Meera said this marijuana has been flavored with a concentrated apple resin. The smoke is smooth, crisp, and very, very apple. The indica is heady and deep, sinking into my bones. I relax into the booth and look to the ceiling, illuminated with glowing green biolights. I imagine I’m underwater, drifting, that everything around me is safe and warm and comforting.

  What is my message? What do I need to tell Vale? What am I doing here, hiding out in the dens of the city, surviving on smoke and secrets and the generosity of Outsiders?

  I open my eyes and look at Snake. “Tell him I’m here. I’m waiting. Tell him, do not lose hope.”

  2 - VALE

  Spring 61, Sector Annum 106, 8h00

  Gregorian Calendar: May 19

  A cup. Hands. Lips. Water on my tongue. “Drink.” A soft command.

  Light. Blue, purple, yellow: colors like a bruise. A flower—pain—blooms behind my eyelids.

  Bones. Muscle. Fingers. More hands, not mine.

  “Oh, darling.” The voice angers me. Everything fades to white, and all emotions are forgotten. White on white on white.

  Feathers don’t float because they are weightless; they float because the force of air resistance is almost equivalent to the force of gravity. They are pulled to the ground slowly, drifting, buffeted by invisible currents in the air, pushed this way and that by powers wholly outside their control.

  I am a feather. My whole life, I have been pushed and pulled. I have surrendered to ideas, wishes, and demands not my own. I am falling. I am not weightless. I will die when my body hits the ground. For the first time, I am not afraid.

  “He’ll wake up in a few moments. Brain activit
y is already spiking in the frontal lobe.”

  “Current mental state?”

  “Difficult to read. Guilt is there. Sadness, too. Confusion, but that’s normal in these situations.”

  “Fear?”

  “None. No autonomic or endocrine changes. No spike in glucocorticoids from the adrenal cortex or catecholamines from the adrenal medulla or sympathetic nerves.”

  “Strange.”

  “It’s not uncommon for those who come back from near-death experiences to lose the sense of fear they had before, General.”

  “Does he know I’m here?”

  “Images associated with you have appeared on his dream scans. But we have no indication that he knows you’ve been present.”

  “Where is Madam Orleán?”

  “I expect her any moment. She wants to be here when he wakes up.”

  “Moriana, are you with Corine?” I ask. I don’t recognize my own voice. It sounds different. Stronger. I already know what the answer is, and what I have to do.

  “Vale, is that you?” Her voice comes out as a sob. I wince at the sound. Her pain is harder to bear than my own fear. I key in a set of final instructions to Demeter.

  Relay all information about the virus targeting Elijah Tawfiq to the Resistance base. Instruct headquarters to send a rescue group for the Resistance squad currently in the capital.

  Demeter: Vale.

  Vale: What?

  Demeter: The Resistance base has been destroyed. Corine Orleán’s C-Link just disseminated this information to the entire C-Link network.

  Vale: It’s a lie.

  Demeter: It’s not. They have aerial photographs of the destruction. It was carried out entirely via drone and airship assault.

  Vale: Survivors?

  Demeter: None.

  My heart thuds to a stop. I have only one thought. Only one choice. Find Remy.

  “Vale? Can you hear me?”

  Stiff eyelids bat against dry eyes. Shapes, colors, and sounds crystallize as I begin to wake. My body is parched, like I’ve been asleep in a desert. I look to the side: brown hair, soft hands, and green eyes. So like my own.