The Harvest

by K. Makansi

  Shia stops mid-sentence, throwing his hands up, and Fen lets out a startled yelp. The Watchman has pulled his Bolt from its holster and is waving it dangerously in the air.

  “If you knew what was good for you, you’d have listened to me the first time. Go home. This is none of your business.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jeong says, grabbing Shia’s arm and pulling him away, down the street, giving the Watchman and his prey a wide berth. I duck back into the shadows, wishing I had my heat-cloaking gear, hoping this Watchman isn’t actually on duty and doesn’t have his mission contacts in. “We’re leaving. Happy?”

  “I work in Personhood,” Fen says smartly over her shoulder as they walk away. “You can bet I’ll be looking you up in the database and reporting you for misconduct first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Good for you, I think, but tomorrow morning isn’t going to help this kid tonight.

  I wait until the sounds of their footsteps have faded, and check to see that the coast is clear. The Watchman, his Bolt pointed at the boy’s head, grabs his wrists and twists them behind his back, pushing him into the pillar at the base of the bridge. The boy lets out a little mew of pain.

  “Shut up,” the Watchman mutters. “Filthy Outsider.” He starts to pull him away from the bridge, toward a darkened alley. His movements are jerky, though, and I know he’s rattled.

  I step from the shadows.

  “Let him go,” I say evenly, announcing my presence. My feet are spread in a fighting stance; my knife hangs lightly from my fingertips. The knife is for show, though. I don’t think I can get in a good throw before the officer fires, if he decides to fire.

  The Watchman jumps and spins around, turns toward me, his Bolt pointed my direction. But his hand is shaking. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

  I make eye contact with the boy.

  “You’re hurting him,” I say.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I don’t like bullies.”

  “I don’t care what you like. You best be on your way like those other three.”

  “Those other three weren’t armed. Let him go.”

  “Since Sector citizens aren’t allowed to own weapons, you must be an Outsider, too.” He waves the Bolt at me. “So why don’t you come along? Only problem is you’re not as pretty as he is.”

  I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.

  I take a step forward, betting heavily on scaring the shit out of him before he panics and pulls the trigger. If he fires his Bolt, his weapon will immediately call for backup drones and signal other nearby Watchmen.

  “Ah, but I am a Sector citizen, and I am armed. And I will report you for attempting to violate an underage courtesan, Outsider or not, and for pointing your Bolt and threatening other citizens. You’ll be looking at suspension and a pay cut at the very least.”

  He looks me up and down. “You’re going to report me? Who do you think you are?”

  “Rank and file Watchmen like you”—I say it with a haughty sneer—“are not privy to all the SDF operations happening around the Sector.”

  “What are you talking about?” Doubt creeps into his voice.

  I give him the most disgusted look I can manage. It’s not hard. “Your disregard for the law compromised my operations and put citizens at risk. Leave the boy to me.”

  He tightens his grip on his Bolt. “What organization are you with?”

  Thinking fast, I reply, “Sector Guardians.”

  “Prove it,” he pulls a retinal scanner from his belt and holds it in front of me, dropping the boy’s arm.

  The boy acts like he’s going to run and then, in a flurry of motion, he pivots, plows one foot into the officer’s groin, bends and rips the Bolt from the man’s hand. As the officer keels over into a fetal position, the boy thwacks him on the side of the neck with the butt of the weapon. The man goes still.

  “Follow me,” the boy says with an unnerving calm. We run down the same alley where the Watchman was about to drag him. Together we make it about a kilometer, before he stops.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I need to get home now.” He turns away, heading down a side street.

  “Wait!” I reach out to keep him from darting off. “How did you learn to do that?”

  “To fight like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One of my moms taught me, before I came to the Sector. Groin shot. Pressure point. Disarm. Incapacitate. If necessary dim mak. Death touch.”

  “Your moms?”

  “When my mom died, all of the Outsiders became my parents. The mom who taught me to fight is Soo-Sun.” He stares at me. “You know her.”

  Yes, I think. I do. I don’t know how he knows this, but like everything with the Outsiders, I don’t ask too many questions.

  “How did he catch you, if you’re such a good fighter?” I ask.

  The boy just shrugs. “He was bigger and stronger, and he surprised me.”

  I admire his honesty. True strength comes from knowing your weaknesses. Something my grandfather used to say.

  “Thank you for helping me.” He turns to leave.

  “One more thing.” He stops and turns back to me. “What’s your name?”

  “Heron,” he says, and something clicks in my mind. I realize why he looks so familiar.

  “You’re related to Osprey, aren’t you?”

  He smiles faintly, looking almost ghostlike in the ephemeral Okarian night. He turns and slips away. Did I just meet Osprey’s brother?

  As I head home to meet Meera, I think: I need to find Shia.

  The next morning, after I wake from a long, deep sleep, I sip a mug of tea and press my fingers into the leaf for the millionth time.

  Persephone has returned, and with her, Spring.

  It’s code, of course. In the old mythology, Persephone, the daughter of Demeter, ancient goddess of the harvest, was fated to spend six months of each year in the realm of Hades, Lord of Death, as his queen. During this time, her mother Demeter was so sad that she caused all the plants and food crops to wither and die. But for the other six months, Persephone returned to the land of the living, and her mother celebrated, giving life back to the earth, and food back to the mortals who survived only by the grace of the harvest. The message from Bunqu tells me that Demeter and Vale have been successfully reunited.

  I feel my way across the letters on the second leaf, the transcription of the words Vale wrote in response to my message in the book.

  You have renewed my hope. Stay safe. Love always.

  I read it again and again, a wide smile on my face. You have renewed my hope.

  There is hope. I can feel it. I throw on my clothes for the day, paint my disguise on as best I can, and set out to find Shia.

  First I go to the apartment complex Fen pointed to last night when indicating where the three of them lived. I buy a flower from a street vendor and put on my best shy, sweet expression as I approach the doorman.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I met a man named Shia the other day in Reunion Park and he asked for my courriel. I was so nervous I wrote it down wrong. He told me he lives here, but,” I blush and look away, “do you know where he works? I’d like to take him this flower. With my real courriel this time.”

  “Désolé, mademoiselle,” the older man says, with a touch of charm, “I can’t tell you where he works. I can give you his flat number, though, if you want to leave your flower for him. Take it inside to the desk, and they will see that it is put in his box. He will get it when he returns.”

  I nod demurely. “Would you mind?”

  He writes it on a little v-scroll for me, and I thank him with a seedcoin and head inside. At the desk, I unroll the scroll, erase the 7W, and write: If you want to know more about LH and ET, meet me at the Pont du Rue Panet at 20h00. Watchmen aren’t the only ones telling lies. I tie the scroll to the flower and leave it with the woman at the desk who assures me, with an engaging smile, that she will make sure Shia gets it as soon as he walks in
the door.

  The Pont du Rue Panet is the same little bridge where we stumbled on the Watchman assaulting Heron last night. I hope Shia will make the connection.

  I leave the flower and head out the back way, out to one of the city’s suburban parks, away from downtown. Today, after hearing from Vale and Bunqu, and with an engagement to keep later tonight, I have no desire to risk discovery.

  Will Shia be brave enough to meet me?

  The streets are empty, traces of light lingering in the sky as darkness falls later and later each evening. I draw in a deep breath as I watch a leaf swirl on the water’s surface, drifting lazily under the bridge. The air smells like spring time, like moist earth and promise. It’s well past eight and Shia still hasn’t shown, but I can’t bring myself to leave.

  Instead of tapping my feet or anxiously watching the streets, as I might have once done, I try to channel my inner Chan-Yu. I focus my eyes on a point in the distance—a rocky swell where the water gathers and foams before running under the bridge at my feet. I immerse myself in the motion of the stream. The swirls and eddies. The rocks, rough in some places, smooth in others. The way the last light in the sky falls on the stones, giving them an otherworldly glow. I lose myself in the delicate sound, the endless energy, the rush and flow of the water carried forever downstream.

  “Are you the one who left the flower?”

  The voice catches me by surprise, but I don’t startle. I turn and see the tall man with tight curls and a nervous, piercing gaze. Shia.

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “Someone who can answer your questions.”

  “What questions?

  “I was here last night. I heard you talking to your friends, and I saw what happened with the Watchman.”

  He looks me up and down. In his canvas jacket, polished loafers, and neatly trimmed beard, he looks the part of the Okarian elite. He is, I remind myself. He took classes with Eli. He’s not the kind of person who would normally associate with someone who looks like me—with my dirty brown hoodie, baggy pants, and scuffed boots. He raises a challenging eyebrow.

  “You might not like how I look, but you’re here.”

  “What of it?” He doesn’t look excited to hear what I have to say. I scan the area. There’s hardly anyone nearby. I chose this spot because it’s a quiet place in a busy city, but still, I don’t relish the idea of casually chatting about my treasonous friends and Resistance members on the streets of the capital city.

  “Maybe we can continue this conversation somewhere a bit more secluded?”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to follow you anywhere. You look like a slum rat. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “Because,” I say quietly, pushing the hood away from my face, “I’m Remy Alexander.” I remember Corine’s bloody promise to publicly execute me if I am ever caught, and I wonder why I’m not more afraid.

  He blinks. Leans in. Studies my face like he’s trying to memorize it. I did my makeup so it would only give me the barest of camouflage tonight, counting instead on the shadows and the protection of my hood to keep anyone—human or drone—from recognizing me. I was prepared to tell Shia who I am, to finally reveal myself. I thought I might have to, in order to convince him to listen to me. I’ve disappeared in this city before and I can do it again. I wait for the recoil, the hands out in self-defense, the moment I’ve dreaded and anticipated for almost two months now.

  The moment of recognition.

  “By the harvest,” he says, his mouth slightly open, “you are.” But the recoil never comes. He makes no move to leave. He’s looking at me like I’m a revelation, a magic trick come to life.

  “Are you going to run away, Shia, and report me to the Watchmen?” It comes out sounding half like a threat, and half like a child’s dare. Bet you can’t jump off that swing! “Or are you going to believe what you already know in your gut—that there’s something rotten in Okaria, and that I can lead you to the truth?”

  He stares at me and I hold his gaze. I can see the gears turning frenetically in Shia’s mind, the questions, the doubt, the thirst for answers. I am calm. My mind is clear, like the stream below us.

  “Lead the way,” he says at last.

  8 - REMY

  Spring 74, Sector Annum 106, 19h07

  Gregorian Calendar: June 1

  The lights around me flicker and go out. The hot smell of summer rain and sweaty bodies permeates the air, and I breathe it in, savor it. For a moment the stadium is quiet. From my vantage point behind the upper bleachers, the moonlight casts an eerie glow on the center ring. The announcer’s voice rings out more vibrantly in the dark.

  “Citizens of Okaria, let the games begin! The final night of the 25th Okarian Gymnasia Championship starts now as two of our favorite athletes take the wrestling floor! Throw your hands in the air for The Grizzly!”

  Thousands of voices roar together as a single spotlight illuminates a hulking man who looks like he’d been carved out of a cliffside. The giant vidscreens around the stadium light up, giving us a close-up of the contestant. His hands alone look to be the size of my head. The Grizzly clenches his fists and takes a moment to throw his head back and roar. His fans go wild, echoing his cry around the gymnasia hall.

  “The Grizzly, hailing from Sakari in northwestern Okaria, tore down Oak-Man’s branches and snatched The Falcon out of the air to qualify for the first round of the championship. With nineteen points out of possible twenty-four The Grizzly has a great shot at the victor’s sunflower crest!” The Grizzly gets down on all fours and paws at the ground, playacting his invented character. “With limbs like tree trunks and fists the size of boulders, The Grizzly has outwitted and outwrestled each and every one of his opponents this Gymnasia season. Will he do the same tonight? Will he be able to defeat his challenger and childhood friend: The Wolf?”

  Another half of the crowd goes wild as a second spotlight throws an entirely different figure into relief: a tall and slender woman with strong and unnaturally long limbs. When she crouches, she looks like a coiled spring, ready to leap with a canine’s ferocity. Everyone around me is on their feet, clapping, shouting, and stomping.

  I alone am quiet. Watching.

  “Also from Sakari,” the announcer continues, “The Wolf and The Grizzly grew up together, fought together, and entered their first gymnasia competition the very same year. Now, their rivalry is famous throughout Okaria. The Wolf brought down the undefeated Avalanche last season and won the right to challenge The Grizzly for today’s competition.” The crowd roars, and the woman howls in response, dancing gleefully around her opponent. “Will she continue her ten-match undefeated streak? Or will her old friend and rival send her whimpering like a pup back to Sakari?”

  In the arena, Faisal Bergsland and Susannah Malik morph into new characters. They play on primal aspects of their personalities and bring those characteristics into the spotlight. With their costumes and makeup, they assume personas they’re unable to embody in real life. The Wolf is no longer Susannah Malik, hydroponics coordinator at Sakari. The Grizzly has nothing to do with plasma technologist Faisal Bergsland, who lives in Okaria’s Cacti neighborhood, just married and with his first baby on the way. Here in the gymnasia, their day-to-day personalities fade and a new truth is revealed—a truth normally obscured by the banalities of daily life. Here in the gymnasia, a darker, more violent side of them is revealed.

  Of course, there is no fight to the death, and both will emerge from the contest mostly unharmed. The gymnasia competition, hosted every year in Okaria by the OAC and featuring contestants from all over the Sector, is nothing but fun and games.

  But tonight will be different. Tonight it won’t be all fun and games. A deeper, darker truth will be revealed, not about The Grizzly or The Wolf, but about the streets we walk, the food we eat, the banalities of life that make us all complacent. Tonight I’ll show the citizens of the Sector that Okaria, too, has a violent side
.

  “How could you have known I wasn’t going to turn you in?” Shia had asked, many hours after I pulled down my hood and showed him who I really am. We sat by the bank of the little stream, partially hidden from the main street by a thicket of cattails, talking in hushed voices for hours. Shia had been a friend of Eli’s, it turned out, when they were younger. When Eli came to the Academy on his TREE scholarship, Shia was one of his first friends. They parted ways quickly, though, and were only passing friends later at the Academy. When Shia failed to make it into the SRI, he went on to work in digital communications, and the two fell out of touch. But he could never bring himself to believe the OAC’s cover story—that Eli had gone crazy after the trauma of the massacre.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know,” I said. “But you asked the right questions. You already had doubts about the OAC’s story. I knew you would at least hear me out.”

  “You should tell your story,” Shia said. “Far and wide. There are people like me who would listen. I work in communications, you know. I could help. I don’t work for the Sector. I work for Olympia.”

  Olympia, I thought, trying to remember. It had been so long since I watched regular Okarian programming. What was Olympia? And it came to me: the company that hosts and broadcasts the athletic games. Wrestling, running, jumping, boxing. And the annual OAC-sponsored gymnasia competition, one of the most exciting events of the year.

  “You do broadcasting for the games?” I asked, racking my memories. “The gymnasia? Isn’t there a big one coming up?”

  “Pan-Okaria,” Shia nodded. “The biggest of the year. I’m not directly involved this year, but last year I was the broadcast controller. I know the whole stadium, in and out.” He leaned forward, staring at me. “It’s five days from now. You said earlier you had video footage from the fight at Round Barn. We could play that all across Okaria.”

  I sat looking at him, dumbfounded. The sheer power of it. It was almost blinding, the ferocity of his idea.

  “If the people didn’t believe Linnea before, they will when they learn about Round Barn.” His mouth was set in a grim line.