The Harvest

by K. Makansi

  The crowd roars as The Wolf and The Grizzly circle each other in the pit. I pull my scarf tighter around my face, watching the crowd. This is the last night of the 25th annual Okarian Gymnasia Competition. More people attend this event than any other in the city, with the single exception of the chancellor’s annual Okarian Address. The crowd is comprised of more than thirty thousand Sector citizens from all ranks and walks of life. Those of us in the cheap seats—no more than a few hundred seeds—watch the opening match on a series of huge holographic displays in the center of the stadium. Tonight’s event, the wrestling matches, will decide who takes home the OAC’s sunflower crest. The winner will also take home money, glory, and—best of all—a scholarship for themselves or a family member for a single year at the Okarian Academy. The Gymnasia is open to all citizens and is sponsored by the Okarian Agricultural Consortium as a way to publicize and advance the athletic-enhancing abilities of the MealPaks and drug cocktails.

  I take a moment to admire the arena, one of Okaria’s most magnificent buildings. The stadium ceiling is built upon a complex exostructure designed with a combination of glass and swooping, curvaceous steel, with indoor hanging gardens to provide cooling during the summer and insulation during the winter. The gardens are rooted in a geodesic frame, arcing up and around the whole of the stadium in an elegant egg-shaped dome. In addition to insulation, the gardens provide electricity and produce a small amount of biolight, bathing the whole stadium in a delicate golden glow. With six giant vidscreens dotted around the arena, it would be impossible to miss the excitement of the contests.

  “The Wolf has her opponent in what appears to be an illegal throathold—but no, citizens, the referee has called it a pressure point attack and therefore non-deadly by gymnasia rules, her attack stands, and in five, four, three, two—” the whole stadium begins to count down along with the announcer as The Grizzly thrashes helplessly—“one—and, The Wolf has clinched the match!” The crowd erupts in a deafening roar as The Wolf leaps up and throws her hands triumphantly into the air. “Even with The Grizzly’s point lead, The Wolf will advance and face the victor of the next match …”

  The announcer’s voice fades. The sounds collapse and condense into a single dull hum of energy around me. The stadium swirls and melts into greyscale. I practice patience. I lose myself. I become a machine. Now, I am just waiting on Meera’s signal. I am waiting for someone to flip my switch and turn me on.

  Spearhead and Windrush compete: Windrush, a broad-shouldered man with long hair, the fastest wrestler I’ve seen thus far, knocks Spearhead out in under a minute. Jason of the Argonauts takes two rounds to pin the Squid, and a character who just calls herself Siberia, with blonde hair and a physique reminiscent of the now-extinct polar bears, takes out her opponent Mastodon in the longest and most torturous round I’ve ever watched. When it comes down to Siberia and Windrush and the crowd breaks for a moment, I tense. My eyes wander away from the vidscreen, focusing instead across the stadium where Meera is supposed to be waiting. Around me, spectators get up to refresh their cocktails. Some open their plasmas to adjust their final bets. In section A4, I see it. The flash. Meera’s bioflare, glancing briefly across the stadium. Once. Twice. Three times it passes me.

  I move.

  I follow my memory of the map Shia drew for me and Meera, heading directly for the unused staircase that was locked off when the stadium was expanded ten years ago.

  “Only the workers know where the old staircases are,” Shia said. “Servers will use it as a shortcut, sometimes. There’s one that leads directly up to the broadcast studio. It’s locked, but you can unlock it with employee biomarkers.” So Meera began the painstaking process of replicating Shia’s fingerprints and superimposing them onto microfibers designed to replicate human flesh.

  “Normally these are used for medical purposes,” Meera said, as she copied Shia’s fingerprints over and over again at a hundred different angles on a tiny handheld scanner. “For burn victims, for instance. Or people with scar tissue that won’t heal properly. But years ago Soo-Sun figured out how to use them to make fake fingerprints. She was able to help Outsiders forge identities in the Personhood database.”

  Meera meets me at the staircase. With her characteristic raised eyebrows and cheeky expression, she palms the scanner at the door jamb. It slides open without a hitch. She cocks an eyebrow at me and I smile. So far, so good. The stadium is settling into a comfortable hush before the final round. We race up the stairs together, taking them two at a time as we follow the staircase up to the center of it all, where the filmography for the gymnasia is coordinated and the event is broadcast to the ten million citizens of the Okarian Sector.

  At the top floor, we pause before opening the door, both of us panting lightly. She swings her backpack around to the front of her body and opens it. She pulls out a small bottle of champagne and two glass flutes, carefully wrapped in waxed leaves, and hands one to me.

  “Cheers, darling,” she says, holding her glass out in a fake toast. I wonder if there’s an alternate universe somewhere where Vale never came to the Resistance and Meera and I are lovers. I can’t deny my attraction to her as she puts on her best impression of a sloppy drunk, falling against the door and giggling as she presses her fingertips to the heat sensor and almost collapses when the door opens. We link arms and lean into each other as the door closes silently behind us.

  “By the harvest,” Meera says loudly, as bubbly as the champagne in our glasses, as we walk down the hall. “Did you see the clothes Windrush was wearing?”

  “Or lack thereof,” I respond, slurring my words, even as my body tenses, ready for a fight. Meera looks at me and winks. Then she opens her hand and drops her glass. It shatters, the noise ringing out through the halls. Around the corner, I can hear voices, too low to make out. Will they both come? Or just one? Will this be easy, or hard?

  “Oh, no,” I say as two Watchmen round the corner, approaching us cautiously. A man and a woman. I sigh, resigning myself to the challenge. At least neither of them has pulled a weapon. “I’m so sorry,” I say, to no one in particular. I fall into the wall.

  “What are you two doing here?” the male Watchman asks.

  “There used to be a bathroom here, I swear,” Meera says, sounding mildly disappointed. She stares around for a moment, as if looking for a door. Then she bends, teetering and unsteady, to try to pick up the shards of glass. I see what the two Watchmen don’t—as she stoops, she drops a small flower, still wrapped in leaves, not yet bloomed. As soon as the flower hits the ground, its petals start to unfold, and within seconds a foul-smelling, noxious gas will start seeping from its anthers. Meera and I both took a heavy dose of the antidote right before we walked into the stadium, but the two Watchmen will be very much incapacitated after just a few seconds of inhaling the toxin.

  The female Watchman darts toward Meera, unaware of the flower, trying to stop her before she falls on the glass and slices open her hands. I tense in preparation. Meera lets the woman catch her. For a frozen moment the two look almost like dancers, Meera dipping down in an elegant twist, the Watchman counterbalancing her before they pull back up for a dramatic spin.

  Then Meera’s fingers encircle the other woman’s wrist. She clamps down. She twists the woman’s arm across her body, spinning her a hundred and eighty degrees, and grabs her free hand as it goes out wide in a desperate attempt to steady herself. Swiftly she pulls both of her hands behind her back. The woman yelps in pain, and Meera pulls the Watchman’s body in front of her own, a human shield in defense against deadly fire from the other officer.

  The whole thing takes about a second and a half. The other Watchman jerks his Bolt out, but his instinct is to aim for Meera. Distracted, he barely notices me. But the fumes are already starting to take a toll. His weapon is unsteady and his legs are as wobbly as mine looked just a moment ago.

  In the same instant as Meera grabs the woman’s wrist, I launch, using the wall to propel myself forward. In a
move that might have finally scored me a goal in our old games of football at Thermopylae, I slide-tackle the other Watchman’s shins, and he collapses in an awkward heap on top of me.

  He’s small for a man, but his weight might still have pinned me if I hadn’t rolled out of the way at the last second. He’s managed to hold onto his Bolt, but I scramble to my knees to pull it from him. By this point, he’s hardly putting up a fight. I pull the gun out of his limp hands. He stares at me for a moment, his jaw slack. Then his eyes roll back and his head falls uselessly to the floor.

  Meera’s Watchman has also collapsed. She’s lying on her side, at Meera’s feet, her arms tied behind her back with a strip of bioplastic.

  “Concentrated, aerosolized valerian root,” she whispers. Vale would be proud. “Your own James Rhinehouse came up with that, you know. It’s not an Outsider concoction.”

  I stare at the two Watchmen, lying limp as if dead, and I remember Rhinehouse telling us about the bioweapons he’d spent so many years creating.

  “Botanical guard dogs,” I’d said, walking through his hidden lab. “That’s terrifying.”

  “Yes,” he said, a shadow clouding his face. “Now, I spend my time developing effective antidotes.” I could hear the guilt in his voice, the regret that he’d spent so much of his life turning these beautiful plants into deadly weapons.

  “Come on,” Meera whispers. “Let’s get the drone!”

  We spare a few seconds to tie up the other Watchman and gag both of them. We leave them with the flower, which will continue blooming for at least another fifteen minutes, and the effects of the gas won’t start to wear off for another hour after that. I follow Meera down the hall, pulling the knife out of my boot as we creep up to the corner, waiting. She risks a glance around the edge of the wall, and pulls back immediately.

  “Security drone. Level five, by my guess. Dual-capacitor Bolt and both sonar and vidcam capabilities.”

  “The drone must be making up for the incompetence of the Watchmen.”

  She nods in agreement. Her usual buoyancy is gone, replaced by a look of determination. We prepared for this.

  The challenge in both of these fights is not taking out the opponent. The challenge is doing so unnoticed, without firing our weapons. Both of us have contraband Bolts, ones that won’t immediately call for aid from nearby Watchmen, drones, and SDF forces upon discharge. But Shia warned us that given the tense air around the Sector after Round Barn and Linnea’s broadcast, there are probably electrical discharge sensors mapping the whole arena. They’re looking for you, he'd said. If we fire our weapons, we could bring the security detail for the whole stadium down on top of us. And given what we have planned, that’s the last thing we want.

  “You first,” Meera says. She’s stronger than I am, but I’ve got better aim with a knife. So I back up and set my feet.

  As I release the tension in my body, I break into a sprint. I hit my right foot, banking into a hard left around the corner. I dive and roll, keeping my face hidden from view for as long as possible. When I roll up, it’s already focusing on me, zooming in, trying to fit me into its algorithms: is this characteristic of threatening human activity? While it thinks, I take another two steps forward and square up. I rear back and throw the knife as hard as I can at the drone’s lone unblinking eye.

  The glass lens shatters. The drone freezes temporarily, switching from primary digital navigation to sonar. Meera careens past me a second later, taking advantage of the downtime. She takes a flying leap and catches it by the semi-spherical rotor and drags it to the ground. The drone can’t support her weight, so it starts to sink, tilting sideways. A drone’s sonar sensors aren’t nearly as detailed as the cameras, but it has the advantage of being able to see and process information in every direction at once. But its weapons systems don’t have the same range of motion. It can’t lock onto her from this angle, not unless it gets free from her grip. The drone’s dual-capacitor Bolt swivels down as far as it can go—but it’s not far enough. Unable to lock onto the target, it won’t fire, and Meera is able to jam her knife into its rotor, crippling it. When it stops flying and collapses to the ground, she quickly opens the top to access the nanocircuitry, and with a few deft motions on the glass panel, disables the whole thing.

  “We’re in,” she says quietly.

  Because drones aren’t remotely controlled—their AI is sufficient to get them through almost all human interactions—the footage from the camera and sonar recordings probably won’t be seen for several hours, once the Sector starts trying to piece together what happened here.

  With nothing standing between us and the projection room, I’m almost more nervous than before the fight. Now I tear off the mask concealing the true face of Okaria.

  Together we walk to the door and pull out our Bolts. I tie my scarf over my face, and Meera follows suit. She presses her palm to the palm reader. It flashes green, and the door swings open.

  We walk in.

  The projection room isn’t the same as the control room, Shia told us. This is where all the recordings are stored from every camera drone around the stadium. All the raw material comes here first for storage. Then, in a much higher-security room in the basement of the stadium, all that footage is edited live and on the fly, the best shots and angles are selected, the colors are brightened, the athletes are made glossier and sharper, and then the final product is sent back up here to be broadcast out to Okaria via a series of giant antennae on top of the stadium.

  “All you have to do is swap some of the circuitry around and plug in the footage you have via UMIT,” Shia told us, just this morning, as we went over our final plans. “The guys in the control room won’t even know they’re not broadcasting the games until someone tells them that what’s displaying on the vidscreens across the Sector is different than what they’re sending out.”

  I'd nodded. “We’re cutting out the middleman.”

  “Exactly,” Shia responded.

  “They’ll know you did it,” Meera said softly, concerned for our newfound ally. Shia shrugged, looking uncomfortable, trying to put on a tough face. “As soon as we palm in with your fingerprints and plug in Remy’s footage, they’ll come after you. They’ll come after you long before they find us.”

  “Can you get him out of the city?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she said, turning to Shia. “But you have to leave tonight, or not at all.” Shia went white. He pulled back from the table where we sat in Meera’s apartment, his knuckles taut and his eyes wide. “There’s an outbound truck headed to Belleron tonight. I can get you in. They’ll drop you off near an Outsider waystation and you can take it from there.”

  “I’m not ready to leave,” Shia said, panic in his voice.

  “Are you ready to die?” Meera asked, matter-of-factly. “Because our plans are made. There’s never been a better time. If you want to help expose the truth, we have to do this. And the second we do, you’ll be in the crosshairs.”

  So Shia left, with a survival pack for the Wilds, detailed instructions on how to get to the nearest Resistance base, and my reassurances that I would call him back as soon as it ever became safe for him to return.

  “I hope I see you again one day,” he said to me, his tall frame stooped as he hugged me goodbye. “I’m glad I met you, Remy Alexander.”

  “I’m glad I met you, too, Shia,” I said. “And don’t forget to have the base director contact Eli at headquarters as soon as you make it to safety. The Wilds are nothing like how the Sector portrays them. You don’t need to pack a hazmat suit. The most dangerous thing you could encounter is a mother badger. Or maybe a grizzly.” I punched him playfully in the shoulder.

  He put his hands over his face. “You’re not really helping, Remy. A grizzly sounds terrifying.”

  “Oh, no,” I reassured him, “grizzlies are nothing compared to angry badgers. You’ll be fine,” I said more seriously. “I’ve spent a lot of time in the Wilds, now. It’s beautiful. Follow our di
rections, and you’ll make it to the Resistance safely.”

  Now I look around the projection room. It's a tiny, cramped space, no bigger than some of the bunk rooms back at Normandy. I pull out the tiny magnetic drive I’ve been carrying with me for months now, wondering when, if ever, I would have use for it. This is the footage I hope will start the revolution.

  The fire has been lit, Vale, I told him, before the battle at Round Barn, when we all learned how Evander Sun-Zi earned his nickname. Now we just have to carry the torch.

  I thought long and hard about whether to edit Vale out of the footage. I almost asked Shia to take him out completely. After all, I don’t want to put him into any more danger than he’s already in. But I ultimately decided he had to stay in. It would sow more doubt about the veracity of the Orleáns’ story.

  While Meera works with the nanocircuitry, following Shia’s instructions, I watch the file directory pull up on the tiny plasma screen provided for data transfer. There’s only one file. It’s called The Dragon.

  “It’s all ready,” Meera says.

  I hesitate, afraid to touch the screen, afraid of what will happen when I do. They’ll know I’m here. They’ll know I’m in Okaria. They’ll find me, and they’ll kill me.

  I select the file, and a dialog box comes up.

  Upload?

  I hit yes.

  If I'm caught—if I die—it’ll be worth it. The mask has been pulled away. Now, no one in Okaria will be able to hide from the truth.

  9 - VALE

  Spring 76, Sector Annum 106, 06h45

  Gregorian Calendar: June 3

  Philip paces. I’ve been listening to his footfalls back and forth across the airship cabin for the better part of ten minutes. He hasn’t said a word, but the tension is so tangible it rolls over his shoulders like a morning fog over Lake Okaria. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday. He’s barely uttered a word since we boarded. Two nights ago, at the Pan-Okarian Gymnasia Championship, Remy somehow hijacked the media control center and broadcast the footage from the farms to every screen in the Sector. It must have been her, because she kept that footage in case it came in handy—and it did. Ironically, although it was the first night my parents allowed me to access the vidscreen, I almost missed the broadcast.