The Harvest

by K. Makansi

  “Hey.” I shake my hands off and face Moriana Nair. Drinking in the sight of her, one of the best friends I’ve ever known, I wonder what’s going through her mind. She’s cut her hair shorter now, and her bangs almost shroud her eyes. In tall boots and a simple white tunic she’s every bit as beautiful as I remember. If only Miah could see her now. Wearing a little frown and furrowed brows, she doesn’t look happy to see me. “It’s been a while.”

  “What happened, Vale?” Her voice is low, accusatory.

  I can’t help but look around, wondering if some miniscule drone is nearby, recording our conversation. How much is safe for me to say?

  She takes a step forward. The trellis above us casts her figure in a shimmery interplay of sunlight and shadow. Moriana crosses her arms and keeps her distance. I know from one hard look that she doesn’t trust me. Even though I want to, I can’t trust her either. And I can’t ask the question burning on my tongue: Where does your loyalty lie?

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  She takes a step closer, her expression full of recrimination.

  “It’s not true, is it? What they said about Jeremiah.”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t kidnap you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Vale.” I’m surprised by the fury in her voice. In the light, she takes on a mythic quality: fierce and powerful. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, belying her anger. “Everybody has a different story. Seems like the truth is buried beneath a landslide of lies, and I don’t even know where to start digging.” She looks around the garden as if she’s unable—or unwilling—to look at me directly. “Even you. I thought you and Miah were my best friends. But then you just disappeared, ghosted. Without so much as a note.”

  “We didn’t want to put you in danger. We had to leave.”

  “And kick your best friend to the curb?” For a second she looks down, defeated, before lifting her chin again and glaring at me. Her words slice through me in a place I hadn’t expected. I had never thought about our leaving as a betrayal. We believed we were protecting her, not hurting her.

  “Miah and I discovered things about the Sector that made us question everything. I had to find those who disappeared. I learned the truth about the SRI massacre, and it wasn’t pretty. If you want the truth, you have to dig, deeper than most are willing.”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  “Because my mother asked you to come.”

  She shrugs, her fingers fluttering over the petals of a purple flower. I know I’m right by the way she shifts her glance away, a hint of embarrassment darkening her features.

  “She did ask me, but—”

  “You wouldn’t be allowed here if she didn’t trust you.”

  “I’ve been asking to see you for weeks.”

  That’s something. “What has she told you?”

  “The same thing she’s told everyone. That Jeremiah kidnapped you, that he and his father took you to the Resistance and coerced you into working with them. That you managed to escape and make your way back to the Sector, but when they found you, you were sick and injured and it took you weeks to recover.”

  I hadn’t heard that last bit. “And what part of that do you believe?”

  She shakes her head. “None of it. Miah and his dad?” She sounds exasperated. “They were barely on speaking terms, and I’m supposed to believe they were long-time collaborators?”

  “What do you want to know?” I ask, and motion for us to sit on the bench near the fountain. She sits beside me but keeps a healthy distance.

  “Everything. Tell me what really happened.”

  I nod. That much, I can do. After all, my enemies know the real story. Why shouldn’t Moriana? What do I have to lose? So I tell her everything.

  “It started during a mission with the Seed Bank Protection Project. We were looking for Eli, but he got away. Instead, I came home with Remy and Soren Skaarsgard as prisoners.” Her eyes widen. She sits on her hands and listens to the rest of the story without interruption.

  It’s not easy reliving the tale. The memory of Aulion slapping Remy across the face, her head snapping back against the pole, of him leaning over Soren’s already battered body …

  My voice is thick: “Once I started asking these questions, I couldn’t stop until I had all the answers. I had to tell someone, but you were too close to Corine. You wouldn’t have believed me. So I told Miah, and he agreed we had to leave.”

  I can tell she still isn’t satisfied.

  “Moriana, the Sector is murdering people. By my own mother’s command. Once I told Miah what I’d discovered, his life was in danger. We couldn’t risk putting you in danger, too.”

  “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

  I can’t bring myself to say aloud what Moriana already knows.

  After a few seconds of silence, she turns away. “Is it because you didn’t trust me? Neither of you trusted me.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It is that simple. You should have told me.” There’s no forgiveness in her voice.

  “We wanted to tell you, but it was more important to keep you safe.”

  “Keep me safe?” she spits. “You think I was safe after you left without a word? You think the Watchmen left me alone? Believed I didn’t know anything? Believed my boyfriend and my best friend wouldn’t trust me enough to tell me something?”

  “We were trying—”

  “Don’t tell me what you were trying to do, Vale. Let me tell you what you did do. You left me alone. To face the consequences of your actions.”

  Silence.

  “Did you fight with the Resistance?” she asks, her voice hard-edged. “For them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Images dart like minnows through my mind. Remy’s cold, confused face the last time I saw her before she left Okaria. Soren and Remy tied to a pole, abused and broken. Blue lightning crashing through Brinn’s body, Gabriel kneeling over her. Fire raining down on starving Farm workers as they scattered, screaming, trying to escape the Dragon’s flames. Destroyed fields, hollowed-out mountains, and poisoned water.

  I reach out and take Moriana’s hand, twine her long, slender fingers with mine. I make eye contact and refuse to look away. “I believe there is a moment of reckoning, when we each come to our own understanding of the truth.”

  “You don’t understand what a threat the Resistance poses.”

  I squeeze her hands. “I’ve come to realize that it is just the opposite.”

  She curls her lip in disbelief. “There has to be some kind of misunderstanding. You told me earlier that your mom killed Tai and Brinn, but that can’t be true. Your mom has been nothing but great to me. She made sure the Watchmen didn’t get rough when they questioned me. She kept the media from hounding me. She was there for me over and over again when you and Jeremiah weren’t. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  I stand abruptly, and run my fingers through my hair. Made sure no one got rough? Wasn’t it Moriana’s voice in the microphone the night I was captured? They’ll kill me, too, they’re going to destroy everyone …

  “Moriana, when was the last time you spoke to Jeremiah?” If you believed Corine would never do anything to hurt you, why did you say they were going to kill you?

  She looks up at me, blank-faced. “The Solstice, of course. That was the last time I saw him.”

  “I didn’t ask when you saw him,” I say, too sharply, and she narrows her eyes. “When did you last speak to him?”

  “Don’t play word games with me, Vale. I haven’t heard his voice since the Solstice.”

  “Where were you the night I supposedly escaped and made my way back home?”

  She is silent for a moment as she thinks.

  “I was at the lab. Corine had me working on a project late that night. I heard about everything on the Sector broadcast the next morning.”

  “You
weren’t at your apartment that night? Think carefully.”

  “No, I’m sure of it. Why? Is it important?”

  The whole thing comes together in my mind, like a blurry picture coming into clear focus. Moriana wasn’t at home, and she certainly wasn’t being tortured by my mother and father, who wouldn’t want to hurt a potential ally. She was never on the line with us that night at all. Moriana’s life was never in danger. Someone must have scanned her vocal patterns and used them to create a perfect imitation of a terrified Moriana Nair. What better way to bait me and Jeremiah, after all? Corine would’ve protected her; she wants Moriana on her side. But that wouldn’t stop her from using Moriana to get to us.

  I shake my head. “Maybe it’s not.”

  She stands, wringing her hands. “I have to go. I’ve stayed too long already. I’m expected back at the lab.”

  “Will you be back?” I dread the answer.

  “I don’t know.” She turns and disappears through the garden, casting a long shadow in the late afternoon sun.

  The silent housekeeper must have been in my room while I was gone because everything is spotless, except for a short stack of old books on my bedside table. They must have given into my pleas for some kind of entertainment. I rub my temple, the conversation I just had with Moriana ringing in my ears. I take a long breath, quelling the surging headache, and pick up a book.

  The chancellor’s mansion has about four hundred books in the library collected over the years from abandoned schools, homes, and universities. The book in hand turns out to be Les Misérables by Victor Hugo, a book I’d read while at the Academy. I decide that brushing up on my Old French will be a good distraction.

  I thumb through the pages and come to one of the parts where Marius and Enroljas are rallying their friends to join the student revolution. I can’t help but think about when Remy and I did the same with the Farm workers only two months ago, dreaming of something better, just like these students in ancient Paris.

  I read a few pages and then close the book, relishing the simple feeling of holding it in my hands. Hardbound but scratched, dirty, and with rough edges, it’s certainly showing its age. I open it again and turn to the front, looking for a publication date. Instead, on the first sheaf of paper, I find something strange: a series of lines, some short, some long, scrawled diagonally across the page in no apparent order. Handwritten, in faint carbon pencil, my first thought is that it’s a strange bit of doodling. But then something clicks: It’s not a doodle. It’s a code. A language used in the Old World I recognize as Morse. I studied telegraphy in my classes, but we discussed the languages of the Old World briefly and none of my professors taught us to decipher Morse.

  I stare at the lines. What other books did that girl bring me? I feel my heart rate spike, and force myself to stay still. I lean my head back and concentrate on my breathing. For all I know, my parents are monitoring my heart rate or have implanted me with a medical chip. After a moment, I toss the book on the bed as if the very sight of it bores me. I stand and move over to my dresser where the rest of the books are stacked. I go through them again, picking each one up, reading the titles. Plants of Northern America: An Encyclopaedia. Not helpful. Gargantua and Pantagruel. Entertaining, but unhelpful. U.N Millennium Development Goals Report, 2023. Nope. Classic Cocktail Recipes of New Orleans. I spare a second to smile at the irony that New Orleans is now a drowned city, while the Orleáns rule the new world of Okaria.

  Not for long, I think.

  Telecommunications in the 19th Century. Jackpot. I flip it open, skim the table of contents, and my eyes land on Chapter Five: Introduction to Morse Code. This cannot be a coincidence. I have little doubt that my every move is being monitored by someone very high up on the chain of command, but it seems like a million-to-one shot that I find a coded note in a centuries-old book that just happens to be in the same pile as one that will allow me to decipher that code.

  I stare at the door for a moment, wondering about the stony-faced servant. Was she responsible for this? Or was she just a carrier? And then the following moment: Am I getting paranoid? Am I going crazy? Am I seeing signs where there are none?

  I shake my head. I can’t start doubting myself. Not now. Not before I know for sure. I turn to the page where the chapter on Morse code begins.

  Morse, it turns out, is not a simple language, but it’s easy enough to understand. It’s based on a standardized sequence of short and long signals, called dots and dashes, the same kind of system Eli uses when encoding his messages between Resistance bases.

  It’s not long before I’m mapping the symbols out in my head, for lack of a pen or pencil. Classic prisoner treatment, I think. Denial of tools with which to write. For the first time, I’m conscious of the intellectual improvements my mother imbued in me without my permission. I stare at the dots and dashes on the page in front of me, the symbols shifting and rearranging into something altogether different. I force my heart to maintain a steady beat as the words consume me.

  I’m here. I’m waiting for you. Do not lose hope. Little Bird.

  5 - REMY

  Spring 65, Sector Annum 106, 18h30

  Gregorian Calendar: May 23

  The leaf comes with the food drop. It’s not Meera this time, all dark hair and red cheeks, enthusiastic as she pokes her head through the door to her old apartment. Fear gnaws at me as I wonder where she is. I thank the messenger, a boy with intense blue eyes and hair that looks as soft as goose down. He can’t be more than twelve, and he looks vaguely familiar as he smiles and scuffles off. I pick through the produce, eating handful after handful of gooseberries until they’re almost all gone, then unwrap the meat and put it in the refrigerator. I rinse the leaves that had been used to wrap the meat under the sink, and that’s how I find the message. The dots. I cut the water and run my fingertips across the bumps, feeling for the patterns, proud of myself when I can interpret the symbols without holding the leaf up to the light.

  An ally we call Onion wishes to speak with you. He won’t hurt you. He’s on our side. Sundown today. At the apartment. Meera.

  Glad as I am to have a note from Meera—she must be okay—I can’t make sense of the message. Meera trusts this person. He has an Outsider code name. He wants to talk. So why does she reassure me that he won’t hurt me, that he’s on our side? He must be someone I wouldn’t know to trust unless she told me. Someone who works for the Sector. Someone on the inside.

  My fingertips skitter across the leaf, shameless now as I hold it up to the light to make sure I’ve read it correctly. An ally we call Onion wishes to speak with you. He won’t hurt you.

  I wonder who it could be. Someone like Chan-Yu, maybe, who was once a soldier of the revered OAC Black Ops, so trustworthy Corine Orleán appointed him to be Vale’s personal assistant, who was secretly an Outsider the whole time. But it must be someone I know, or should know, or she wouldn’t have thought to reassure me.

  He’s on our side.

  Every home or flat in Okaria comes outfitted with a special vidscreen for displaying notifications from the government, the OAC, or the Okarian News Network. Once a day, ONN collaborates with the OAC and the Sector to release a thirty-minute news update. When I arrived at the Resistance three years ago, one of the first things the Director did was explain that these broadcasts are entirely propaganda. Full of falsely beautiful images of the Farms, videos of productive, happy workers and engineers in the towns, and snapshots of the so-called No-Go Zones in the Wilds, taken—supposedly—by drones, these videos are deceptive and misleading. They are purposefully designed to direct the citizens’ eyes away from the Sector’s real problems, so that the people in power can deal with them quietly and without public knowledge.

  They’re pushed out every evening at 19h00. If you’re eating dinner with your family, watching a different broadcast, or using the vidscreen for homework, your screen will turn on or switch programming with or without your permission. The only way to miss it is to walk away.

>   Since I returned to the city, I’ve been trying to watch the broadcasts every night. A lot of the bars and smokeshops downtown display them, so it wasn’t hard to sneak in somewhere in the inner suburbs or outer ring of downtown. I’d pretend to be waiting for a friend, watch as much of the broadcast as I dared, and then, with an urgent glance at my plasma, I’d dash.

  Since Meera offered to let me take over her apartment, I’ve been able to watch them in private. Now, I’m sitting on the couch in her old place, legs curled beneath me, waiting for the show to start. It used to be that Linnea Heilmann, with a gilded voice and picture-perfect face, would organize and narrate the various briefings. But since she left to hunt down Eli, the network hired a new public correspondent, Jon Spironov. He’s older than Linnea, with a comforting voice and a reassuring face. He doesn’t have quite the same penchant for attention-grabbing broadcasts that she did, but his calming, even-keeled displays make you feel like nothing could ever go wrong. I’ve gotten used to his voice on the feeds like you get used to music playing in the background.

  The bright, trumpeting intro starts and the screen flares to life. I take a gulping sip of Meera’s green tea. After the intro, Jon’s weathered, handsome face smiles at me from inside the ONN broadcast studio—conveniently located right next to the capitol building.

  “Citizens of Okaria, I’m your Sector Public Correspondent Jon Spironiv. We have some important updates today, so please stay tuned. But first, a brief announcement from Philip Orleán on Valerian’s progress in his recovery.”

  I sit up. This is the first time Vale has been mentioned on the evening broadcasts since the few days after he was captured. This is what I’ve been waiting for—why I’ve gone out of my way to watch the broadcasts every night I’ve been in the city. I have to remind myself not to expect anything but half-truths and deflections, but any information is better than none. The screen cuts away from Jon and to Philip, sitting at his desk in the capitol building. I grit my teeth and look away for a moment, as the painful memory of the last time I saw Philip across a desk rips through me. When you give us what we want, I’ll personally hand you a bucket of fresh figs, just like I used to. Words he said after fitting me with a few charge capacitors and hooking up a power source.