The Harvest

by K. Makansi

  But at least people are talking. Vale’s name has been spoken aloud countless times today, and everyone is fascinated with his story. Even better, there are those who wonder aloud about Jeremiah’s role in Vale’s “kidnapping,” and others who have speculated darkly that there’s more to the story than the Orleáns are letting on. A few have even commented that Evander Sun-Zi seemed unbalanced during his press conference right after the demise of Round Barn.

  As the girls pass, I notice both are wearing the black pants and crisp green jackets that comprise the Academy uniform. They walk arm in arm, each with a fruit tart in hand. The warm smell wafts toward me, and I start to salivate. Meera’s food is delicious—and safer than anything from a Dietician’s hand—but there’s never enough of it.

  “I would never forgive you.” They must be about fifteen or sixteen, the same age I was when Tai died.

  The second girl throws back her head and laughs. “Are you kidding? I would never forgive myself.” They lean into each other, giggling, and change the subject. Schoolgirl troubles take precedence as their voices fade into the distance.

  Although few here in the heart of the Sector seem inclined to doubt the Orleáns’ story, I can’t help but think that all this chatter is a good sign. Before Vale left, the Sector was hell-bent on keeping its citizens in the dark. He told us the Resistance was a top-secret word, requiring an officer-level security clearance. This ensured peaceful, ignorant silence. But when Vale abdicated, and Corine and Philip declared open war on the Resistance, they tossed around words like terrorism and betrayal and treason. That got the people talking. The citizens of Okaria aren’t like those on the Farms. They’re not being dumbed down. Quite the opposite: here, the Dieticians create cocktails to enhance neural connectivity, snacks to boost creativity, and you can order juice blends with shots of memory retention, spatial imaging, or emotional awareness. In the capital, the people are truly awake.

  I hear laughter behind me and turn to see a group of friends unloading their netball gear on the edge of a sand court. I wish I could count the number of times I played netball on that very court, laughing and joking with my own friends. They look to be around my age, and given how close the park is to the Academy and the Sector Research Institute, there’s a good chance I might recognize one of them. When I was at the Academy, there were relatively few places the students would frequent, and we often ran into the same people over and over again. So it is everywhere, I assume: people find their favorite hangouts and then rarely explore outside their comfort zones. I’ve seen more of the city in the last few weeks than I ever saw when it was my home.

  I move my pack and swivel around so I can watch while pretending to be absorbed with my plasma. As the game begins, I watch the ball pop up and down, back and forth over the net, and hear the grunts of the players as they dive to save a point. I keep sketching, glancing up every once in a while as the players rotate, until I realize one of the girls does look familiar. She started on the opposite side of the court, but now she’s on my side, and when she stops to pull her dark, straight hair back into a ponytail, I recognize her. Moriana Nair. Jahnu’s cousin, and Jeremiah’s girlfriend. Without thinking, I pull my hood down to shade my face, as if she might suddenly recognize me.

  I think back to the last time I saw her. On television, in the dark halls of Normandy, after Thermopylae was destroyed. Pleading with Linnea Heilmann, then the primary announcer for the Okarian News Network, insisting that Jeremiah was surely innocent, that he would never have kidnapped his best friend and dragged him to the Resistance as a hostage. But more recently, I remember her terrified voice on the mic the night Vale was shot and plummeted off the roof of that building. I remember her panicked words to Jeremiah: Please come out, they know you’re hiding and that you’re with Remy, if you don’t come out now they’re going to find you and kill you …

  Right now, Moriana looks as though she’s never been afraid a day in her life. Cheerful and exuberant, she shouts wildly with her friends, leaps high up over the net to slam a ball down, and crows whenever her team scores. It looks like the last thing on her mind is politics, terrorism, or revolution.

  A part of me seethes, watching as she tosses the ball up to serve it across the net. How can she be so carefree after what Corine put her through? How can she still be here in the Sector after hearing Jeremiah and Vale on the mic with her, knowing what Miah risked to see her? Why isn’t she afraid? This is a bad idea, I realize. I have to get out of here. I grab my pack and jam my plasma in it just as a bad hit sends the ball sailing my direction. I look up to see Moriana running straight toward me.

  Great. What do I do now? Out of instinct, I reach for the ball as it rolls toward the bench.

  “Thanks so much!” she says to me, jogging the final few meters. I look at her. Straight at her. Will she recognize me? My muscles tense. Fight or flight. But I don’t move.

  Nothing. No recognition.

  I almost wish she would see through my disguise. That she would say, astonished, “Remy? Is that you?” I wish I could tell her that Jahnu was hurt. I wish I could tell her that Tai’s death was no accident. I wish she would ask me about the night Vale fell, about what happened, if I knew anything, if I was there. Did they capture Jeremiah? she might ask. What happened to Vale? And I would tell her. And then my turn for questions: Are you okay? Are you afraid? What did Corine do to you that night?

  She waits as I hold the ball in my hands.

  “You look familiar,” I say. What am I doing?

  She cocks her head, examining me closer. “So do you. Were you at the Academy?”

  My heart skips a beat. This is suicide. I should leave right now.

  “Oh, no. I’m just in Okaria visiting my cousins. I think I’ve seen you somewhere, though.” I pause, as if trying to remember. “I know! I watch all the OAC research vids. You’re part of Corine Orleán’s epigenetics team, aren’t you?”

  Stop it, Remy, stop it, stop it, stop it.

  Moriana beams. “Yes. I’m Moriana Nair, her lead assistant.”

  “That’s it!” I can’t stop myself. I tuck the ball under one arm and stick my hand out in greeting. Reflexively, she takes it as I force a wide smile and turn on my charm. “Wow, it must be something to work so closely with Corine Orleán.”

  “Yeah, she’s brilliant. She’s really taken me under her wing. I’m pretty lucky.” She looks down at the ball, still clutched in my hands, and glances back at the court. Behind us, one of her friends waves, beckoning her back to the game.

  Blood pounds in my ears, and I’m starting to sweat, but I can’t stop. “Look, I know you need to get back to your game, but,” I glance around as if someone might be listening, “aren’t you the one who was friends with Valerian and …” I drop my voice. “… Jeremiah Sayyid?”

  She stiffens and frowns, as if she’d just stuck her head in a compost bin.

  “Yeah, I knew him.” She holds her hand out for the ball. I grip it harder, my knuckles ashen and tense. “We dated for a little while. That’s it.”

  I stare blankly. That’s it? That’s all you have to say about Jeremiah, the man who weaseled his way into a top-secret mission to infiltrate the heart of Okaria and risked his life to come see you? The man you pleaded to turn himself into the Sector so he wouldn’t get hurt? I can’t believe it. Something’s not right.

  I hand her the ball and look down, trying to look embarrassed. “Okay. Sorry. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your game.”

  She nods silently, turns, and walks off, the spring in her step gone.

  I duck my head and turn away, walking as quickly as I can without seeming obvious. I grab my bag from the bench where I left it and sling it over my shoulder, booking it for the nearest exit. What the hell was that all about? I ask myself. I replay our brief conversation over and over in my head, comparing it against that night when her desperate voice played through our mic system, pleading with us to turn ourselves in or be shot on sight. It doesn’t match up. There’s no
way the Moriana I met today was the same Moriana from six weeks ago, crying, begging Jeremiah to save himself.

  Meera holds out a large, waxy leaf. “Just a leaf, right?” I take it and turn it over in my hands. There are bumps on the pale underside that make me wonder if some sort of disease has gotten to it, some mutation or virus that has disrupted the surface. “Feel those dots? That’s our code.”

  I hold the leaf up to the window. The dots are much more visible in the light, and now that I can see them, they do look organized. The day is bright and sunny and Meera is giving me my first lesson in the Outsider’s way of passing information.

  “It was called Braille in the Old World,” Meera says. “Used as a way for the blind to read. You feel it. It’s a dead language, since blindness is a curable condition in the Sector. We use it sometimes in the Wilds, but have found it much more useful here, and those who aren’t Outsiders are none the wiser.”

  “So how do I read it?”

  “You have to train yourself. Run your fingers across the dots and feel them, learn to ‘see’ with your fingertips. Once you know the symbols, you can read it just by looking at it. But it’s much more discreet to read with your fingers. Sometimes we code messages in public places, and you wouldn’t want to be seen staring at a brick wall, or under a park bench. That would be too suspicious.”

  “Is this the only way you communicate?”

  “Hardly,” she says, with a twinkle in her eye. “I can’t reveal all my secrets, can I? For passing messages, we use Braille or Morse Code. Braille is better, since most people don’t know to look for it. Some odd historians and quaint collectors still know Morse, so it’s not as safe. But we use it when we have to, or when we’re not sure our intended recipient knows where to look.” On my plasma, she works through the circles with me, drawing the dots in various patterns that form words, phrases, sentences, meaning.

  “No such luck,” she says smiling, when I plead with her that I need a nap. After four hours of studying, I am exhausted. “This is your first test. It’s from Snake.” She hands me a corn husk, and I stare at it blankly for a moment.

  “Seriously? You pass messages on food scraps?”

  “We pass messages on everything.”

  After another hour, and some serious hints from Meera, I’ve interpreted Snake’s message.

  Same place, same table, two days from today, when the first star shows her face.

  Dusk falls fast as I set out from Meera’s apartment. Shadows creep along the edges of the buildings, street lamps clicking on one by one as they sense sundown. I devoured the last bites of food in Meera’s ration, but my stomach still grumbles. I put a hand to my belly, as if to quiet it, but to no avail. Meera’s rations have done wonders to strengthen my body and renew my spirit, but I still have to make them stretch between deliveries.

  Pushing past The Elysium patrons is more difficult on citizen payday. The den is crowded, loud, and so smoky I feel the effects of the drug just by breathing. I look for the same corner booth, which is thankfully empty, and settle in.

  “Rose water, please,” I say, when the waitress comes by. I tip her an extra seedcoin to leave me alone. Requests like that are not uncommon here, and the waitress doesn’t even bat an eye. She nods, returns a few minutes later with the rose infusion, and disappears.

  Snake is late. Paranoia seeps in, creeping, suffocating. Where is he? Did something go wrong? It’s evident in the crack of my knuckles, my fingers drumming on the table, the hairs standing at attention on the back of my neck. I look around, panic bleeding into my thoughts. Did the message go through? Was the messenger caught? Was Snake caught?

  Just when my thoughts begin to spiral out of control and I’m considering making a fast exit, he slides in next to me.

  “Accept my apology. There was a little mishap.” I breathe in the woody, tobacco-heavy scent of him as he wraps his arm around my shoulder, pretending we are just another pair of lovers in a corner together.

  “Something bad?”

  Snake shakes his head and my shoulders relax. “Being a seeker of secrets is no easy job sometimes. My task tonight took longer than it should have.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine. But I am sorry. I’m rarely late. It doesn’t inspire confidence. Now, you must be wondering …” I nod, encouraging him to continue, but he grabs my rosewater and tips back his head to drain the glass. He smiles, cocky and lighthearted, but I sense he’s more unsettled than he’s letting on.

  “The message was delivered. I can’t guarantee he’s found it, or that he will be able to interpret it when he does. But the clues are in place.”

  “How?”

  “Even I don’t know the details. All I can tell you is that it seems the chancellor has a very nice library.”

  “The message was put in a book?” He shrugs. “So how is he? Is he hurt? Is he afraid? Where are they—”

  Snake puts his hand on top of mine, halting my string of questions. He looks at me with concern. His palms are rougher and more calloused than I would have expected for someone like him, a server in an a premiere smokeroom like The Elysium.

  “Sparrow,” he says, “I know you’re worried. I know how much you’ve risked to stay here for him, and how much danger you put yourself in every day for the chance to help him. But you can’t help him from here. All I can tell you is that he is alive and your message has been delivered. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  I stare off into the distance, losing my thoughts in a haze of smoke and the starlight energy that brings people here, night after night, to enjoy each other’s company. But something doesn’t feel right. Even though I am a wanted criminal, and every step I take is fraught with danger, I know I can do more. With the Outsider network at my fingertips, and the people of Okaria asking questions—asking the right questions—the time has never been better to spread the Resistance’s message.

  Maybe it’s time to revisit my footage from Round Barn.

  Maybe it’s time to take down the Dragon.

  4 - VALE

  Spring 64, Sector Annum 106, 16h11

  Gregorian Calendar: May 22

  It’s been years since I called this place home. Alone in my old room I pace back and forth for what seems like hours. I stop and stare at the floor. Resume pacing. Stop and stare at the wall. Resume pacing. Examine the few belongings I left behind when I moved to my flat: some childhood toys and a pair of beat-up cleats are really all that’s left of my old life. Everything else is decoration. Even when I lived here for that short time after my father was elected chancellor, it never felt like mine. As soon as I was accepted to the SRI, I moved into my own flat and never looked back.

  I give up and lie down, closing my eyes. I open them again a moment later, memorize the patterns on the ceiling, count the leaves I can see through the window, trace the grain of wood on my dresser. Once again I turn my focus inward, but my thoughts are as repetitive as the wallpaper. I wish they hadn’t taken Demeter from me, that I had someone to talk to, anyone. Hell, I’d even take Soren as a roommate just for some conversation.

  It’s only been three days since I was permitted to regain full consciousness, and since then I’ve barely spoken to anyone. My parents have dropped by a few times to check in, but other than the two of them, a daily visit from the doctor, and a stone-faced servant who won’t so much as open her mouth, I’ve been in isolation. Locked in my room like a misbehaving child. Not even Aulion has come by to torture me, though in his case I’d take a year of solitude over a day with him.

  My efforts to find out what happened to my teammates have gotten me nowhere. My mother answered my questions about my genetic alterations with all the enthusiasm of a scientist on the brink of a discovery. But when I ask about the raid on the Resistance base, my teammates who came to Okaria with me, or Remy, both she and my father have refused to talk.

  “Vale,” my father had said, patting my shoulder with an awkwardness I’d never seen before. “We’re glad
to have you back. But after everything, we can’t trust you with that information anymore.”

  I managed to contain my frustration. Of course you can’t trust me, Dad. That’s why you won’t let me venture even into the kitchen. That’s why my bedroom window is bolted from the outside. That’s why you’re monitoring my every move.

  I get up, trying to find something else to do beyond thinking the same thoughts, asking the same questions, running into the same dead ends. Yesterday, I requested a plasma to read on, searching for anything to stave off the boredom. My request was denied—plasmas are far too versatile, I suppose.

  “You have a visitor.” I look up and see the silent housekeeper in the doorway. It’s the first time in twelve hours my bedroom door has been opened. “In the gardens. Follow me.”

  I slip a t-shirt over my head and follow her down the hall, too surprised to respond. She leads me toward the fountain under the trellis, blooming with honeysuckle and wisteria, and turns back to the house. I glance around. A guard stands not far off, just out of earshot, and I wonder on whose account I’ve been allowed such freedom.

  “Vale.”

  I remember the last time I heard that voice, scared and confused, as she pleaded for us to turn ourselves in. It’s not what I want to remember. I dip my hands in the cool water of the fountain, resisting the urge to lean over and dunk my whole face underwater.