The Harvest

by K. Makansi

  22 - VALE

  Summer 4, Sector Annum 106, 19h48

  Gregorian Calendar: June 24

  With hardly a breath or a wink Remy kisses my cheek and is gone, melted into the fog, a phantom spirit of dusk. She and the others are headed in their own direction, on their own mission, and I will reunite with them later. Hopefully.

  My heartbeats are as loud as kettle drums.

  Are you sure about this? I ask myself. Doubt creeps into my bones. But all I can do is move forward, one foot in front of the other, until quickly and quietly I arrive at my destination.

  Moriana and I were the last ones out of Kanaan’s house tonight, which is now as silent as a grave. We spent hours yesterday scrubbing the place down, removing all evidence, returning it to its original state of disuse, and carefully sealing up the greenhouse so it would remain hidden. I don’t doubt that the drones will be able to trace our steps back to the house. But they won’t stop there. Chan-Yu and Osprey laid a careful trail beyond the house and into the Wilds, to a cliffside shelter where they left food, clothes, signs of habitation.

  Moriana is silent at my side, her footfalls soft in the encroaching dark. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink, stares straight ahead. With her hair tied back and her back erect, she looks almost military. I wonder what changed in her, what hardened in her. She’s different, now, from the confident and carefree woman I remember from classes, social outings, the Solstice ball. I can’t help but feel responsible for destroying that part of her. She reminds me too much of Corine.

  Demeter, too, is quiet.

  “Is this what fear feels like?” she asked me last night as I slipped off to sleep. “I’m afraid for you, Vale.” I spent a tortured night dreaming of Persephone, Demeter’s daughter from the myth, eating pomegranate seeds from the underworld and condemned to stay there for half the year as punishment.

  Am I Persephone, descending into the underworld?

  But when I woke up with a start, sweating and cold, Remy leaned into me and whispered in my ear, shushing me like a child, and I believed again.

  It’s going to work. It’s going to work. It’s going to work.

  These are the words I tell myself as I press my palm into the reader at the gate to the chancellor’s mansion.

  It blinks red, identifying me. But the gate still slides open. Within a few seconds Moriana and I are surrounded by soldiers, at least ten of them, all with their weapons out and trained on us. I put my hands up in a gesture of surrender, and Moriana does the same. For a long moment, no one moves.

  Then, one of the soldiers pushes the black visor on his helmet up, and I meet his eyes. It takes a moment, but I recognize him.

  “Hey, Ren.” The captain of the Guardians assigned to the chancellor’s mansion, I’ve known Ren since my father was elected almost four years ago.

  “Vale?” he says, squinting at me. He looks confused, unsure whether to aim at me or not, whether I am a threat or not. After a moment’s deliberation, he opts for caution, and steadies his Bolt, once again leveled at my chest. “Moriana? What are you doing with him?”

  Ren and Moriana are on a first-name basis?

  “We are requesting an audience with the chancellor and Madam Orleán.”

  He glances back and forth between the two of us and then looks at the other guard, who nods. Ren lowers his weapon and speaks into his earpiece.

  “Alert the chancellor. Valerian Orleán and Moriana Nair palmed in. They claim to be requesting an audience.” We wait another few moments, the air hot and humid, so thick with tension I feel like I’m suffocating. Then, Ren nods at something over his earpiece, waves his hand in little circle, and addresses us. “Come with me.”

  They lead us to the grand, wood-carved doors at the front of the house. In step with Moriana, I walk through the doors, feeling like I am being led into the mouth of the underworld.

  “If anyone offers you a pomegranate,” Demeter says in my ear, “don’t take it.”

  Inside, two of the soldiers holster their weapons and start to pat us down. Moriana looks unhappy at the prospect of being treated like a common criminal, but she doesn’t protest. I watch her frown, glare at the soldiers, and wonder what she’s thinking. Can I trust her?

  Whether I can or not, I need her. Without her, my parents will never believe my plea, will never believe that I came here in good faith.

  I didn’t, of course. But they don’t need to know that.

  Blood pounds in my ears as we are searched. Our jackets are taken off, and they ask us to remove our boots. One of the men runs his fingers through my hair. He finds the pendant around my neck, and glances at Ren, who shrugs. How could they know to worry about a simple piece of jewelry, a trinket?

  Finally, Ren nods, satisfied, and waves us in. I walk through the foyer and down the hall, feeling strange and alien in this place I once called home.

  Philip comes around the corner first, his movements quick and excited. In a navy sweater and house slippers, he looks relaxed and casual. Quite the opposite of how I feel. There’s almost a smile on his face when he sees us.

  “It really is you,” he says, his voice rich with astonishment, as if I’ve returned from the dead. Maybe I have. He comes up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder, standing opposite me, the same way he used to do when he was congratulating me or telling me something important. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Vale.” My mother’s melodic voice rings out from behind my father. Unlike Philip, she doesn’t immediately approach us. “And Moriana. What a relief to see both of you safe and here together.” But she doesn’t sound relieved. She sounds wary. Watchful. As she finally walks toward us and embraces me, I can feel her keep her distance. She is nothing like the Corine Orleán who took my hand as I returned to consciousness. You can’t imagine how I felt when you stepped off that ledge. Then, at least, she still felt like my mother. She still thought there was hope for me.

  Not anymore.

  “Why are you here?” she asks.

  “Corine,” my father says, chastising. “We don’t need to interrogate them.”

  “It’s okay.” I shake my head. “We need to be honest with each other. I’m here because—” I glance over at Moriana, who hasn’t spoken a word since we left Kanaan’s “—Moriana told me everything.” I narrate as though no one else in the Resistance knows yet, as though Moriana only told me and no one else. She shudders as if in pain. Corine shoots her a glance that looks sharp enough to kill, but her gaze softens after a moment as she watches her protégé. “She told me about the parasite, and the cure. She said you’re going to implement genetic changes to every citizen of Okaria. Without their knowledge. Just like you did to me.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “We’re here to ask you not to do this.”

  There’s a heavy silence. Corine glances at Philip, and then at Moriana, before meeting my eyes again. Her expression is neutral, unreadable.

  “Let’s discuss in the meeting room.”

  She reaches out to take my hand, the first gesture of affection I’ve seen from her so far. As our fingers meet I feel a jolt, almost, some kind of energy I don’t recognize, some connection I don’t understand. It’s no longer the connection between mother and child. She meets my eyes.

  I know, she says silently. I know who you are. You are not my son.

  Her boots click against the wood floors as she turns to walk down the hall. She pushes open a door to the right, leading into the small meeting room reserved for the chancellor and his closest advisors. Moriana immediately follows her, but my father turns to me first. He looks at me wide-eyed and opens his mouth as if to say something, but he can’t seem to find the words. After an awkward second, he too follows Corine.

  “Tell us more about your request, Vale,” Corine says, as I sink into one of the plush leather chairs next to Moriana. “Why is it that you don’t want us to move forward with our modifications?”

  I am under no il
lusions that anything I say tonight will convince my mother not to proceed with her plan. But watching my father, his twitching fingers, his eyes jumping around the room, the way his gaze lingers on me, I think I have a chance with him.

  I rub my fingers on the polished wood, tracing invisible patterns into the grain.

  “It’s not right,” I say finally. “I know what the MealPaks do to the Farm workers. I’ve seen how their senses are dulled, how slow they are, like people who are half asleep. I know they’re built for strength, not intelligence—”

  “What need do they have for intelligence?” my mother asks sharply. Instead of retorting, I opt to continue as if she had not spoken.

  “—that you have reduced their neural connectivity, their emotional responsiveness, their critical thinking skills. I know you’ve done all this with their MealPaks. I’ve seen it, Mom,” I say, as she opens her mouth to interrupt me again, “and I know it isn’t right.”

  Philip is glancing back and forth between me and Corine like we’re contestants in a sparring match at the gymnasia, trepidation written all over his face.

  “Vale, the modifications we plan to make to the people aren’t bad.” She looks at Moriana, consternation in her eyes, as though she’s somehow responsible for the negative ideas I’ve gotten of their master plans. “They’ll make people stronger, as you said. Faster. Able to see in the dark and to hear more clearly than any humans have ever heard before.”

  “You gave me all those things, too. I didn’t ask for them, and I still don’t know if I want them.” Corine leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. I meet her gaze. I can’t tell them I have no hope of convincing them not to move forward, that I’m here not because I can sway them to my side but because I have to be with them when everything changes.

  “Unless you’re planning to give everyone the same kind of modifications you gave me, you’re effectively creating slaves. The Farm workers won’t have a choice. Those in the towns won’t ever have a hope of sending their children to the Academy. You’re building a caste system, and no one will be able to escape their genetic destiny.”

  “That’s already true, Vale,” Corine responds gently, as if explaining a lesson to a child. “A Farm worker will never be a researcher at the SRI, and a scientist has no need of the strength and build of a worker. That’s not a choice anyone can make. It’s just how nature works.”

  “You can’t change people’s bodies and minds permanently without telling them why. Without telling them what’s happening to them. Please, Corine,” I plead. “Mom. Don’t do this.”

  Moriana, to my left, still hasn’t said a word. Philip looks agitated. Like me, he’s leaned forward in his chair, sitting at attention. But he can’t bring himself to come to my defense. Not yet.

  Corine turns her head to the side and closes her eyes. Her hand, now resting on the arm of the chair, clenches and unclenches. For a long moment the only sound in the room is our breathing, the only motion my mother’s hand balling into a fist and relaxing again. Finally she opens her eyes and drops her hand to her lap. She looks at Philip, and then to Moriana.

  “What do you think?”

  “Are the modifications ready? Did the transcription key work?” Moriana responds. Corine lifts an eyebrow.

  “They are.” Now that we’re safely back in the Sector, will Moriana stand by me? Or will she turn tail and run back to Corine?

  “I think we should delay implementation until next week. Call for a citizen referendum and a vote on whether the changes should be implemented. Since we all agree that these genetic changes will be beneficial both to the Sector and to the individuals—” she meets my eye, knowing full well that I don’t agree with anyone else in the room about this key point “—there should be no harm in sharing our goals with the citizens.”

  Philip looks immensely relieved by Moriana’s answer.

  “I second Moriana’s notion,” he says, and my heart leaps in my chest. “Vale’s plea seems well-founded. If there’s public resistance to the idea, why move forward?” I wonder if he notices the irony in his use of the word resistance. “And if the people welcome these modifications the same way they welcomed the MealPaks decades ago, so much the better.”

  Corine glances around the table, and my breath catches in my throat. With Moriana’s words and my father’s second, we might actually have a chance. We might be able to convince her.

  She stands, a clear signal the meeting is over. “Your father and I have a lot to talk about.”

  23 - REMY

  Summer 5, SA 106, 3h50

  Gregorian Calendar: June 25

  A new moon renders the night pitch black. Save for one pale green biolight, carried by Bear and bobbing to the rhythm of his footsteps, we walk in darkness. In my pocket, wrapped in sheepskin, is Osprey’s astrolabe, which will enable me to find my teammates throughout the day. Vale is already in Okaria at the chancellor’s mansion, trying, with little hope, to talk Corine out of her plan. Chan-Yu went into the city with Vale and Moriana to deliver the peyote to his sister, Soo-Sun, who it turns out, has been working as a housekeeper right under Corine and Philip’s nose. She was the one who delivered my note and who helped Bunqu return Demeter to Vale. Of course Moriana doesn’t know about Chan-Yu’s mission or Soo-Sun’s role. Or about the five thousand men and women who will march on Assembly Hall today.

  It’s almost four in the morning, and we’ve marched nearly ten kilometers. Clothes rustle as bodies move against each other, gently collide, and move away. Eli grabs my hand and squeezes. I press against his side for comfort more than warmth, though the air is clear and cool.

  We will enter the city from many directions, forcing the Sector to spread their troops across the capital. Everyone who was able came into Okaria via commuter train over the last few days on the pretense of visiting family or going to the Solstice celebration a few nights ago. The rest of us are coming by train, by airship, and some even by boat. The Resistance mobilized every airship we have, coordinating load and drop points outside the city, flying in loops for hours, to get as many people to the city as want to come. The faint breathing and footsteps of these hundreds of humans fill the air, just as I am filled with a swelling sense of anticipation.

  Above us, the starry sky feels like a blank canvas onto which I paint my hope for this day—and for all the tomorrows that may come. In the darkness I feel myself shedding old skins I’ve worn. Hundreds of old Remys leave me like ghosts with each step forward. It is time, after all, to let them go. I imagine these ghosts floating up like smoke into the starry night, drifting slowly but inexorably toward the moon, while here, my feet firmly on the ground, I walk toward my destiny.

  I take solace in our thousands upon thousands of footsteps. If nothing else, we will have walked together upon this soft earth. For the first time since I joined the Resistance, I blend into the crowd. The Sector would be hard pressed to locate Remy Alexander in this sea of people in a sea of darkness. We walk together, not as individuals with our own agendas but as a collective organism fighting for justice. We’ve all got a stake in this now. It’s no longer about avenging Tai’s death or my mom’s death. It’s about fighting for our lives. The coming rains might wash away the impressions of our bodies on the earth, but our ghosts will remain. We will have marched. We will have tried. We will have fought.

  Darkness inspires, perhaps even necessitates, morbid thoughts. I shiver as I comprehend the very real possibilities of the day we walk toward. I might die when morning comes. The black ops could rain death down on our march just like at Round Barn, just like at Thermopylae. I’m scared, but ignoring that fear would be foolish. Instead, I embrace it. I feel its sharp corners and inhale its cold, pungent scent. I outline its contours in a constellation above me. To understand it is the only way. When I comprehend my fear, I can say: I see you. I know you. Fear doesn’t like being called out, being recognized, being brought to light. It shrinks back when it is seen, leaving only knowledge and power behind. This is ou
r greatest weapon against it.

  So I tell my fear: No. Not today. Today, we march.

  Bear’s light suddenly stops and sways at his knees. We have arrived at a copse of trees at the bottom of a hill. About three meters to our right, the rails of the maglev tracks glisten in the moonlight. We line up along the tracks, no more than three deep. A moment of silence precedes the distant yet unmistakable hum of the coming train. We’ll have seven minutes when the train stops. Doors’ll open and we’ll all climb in quick and quiet. We’ll be joining our friends from Sakari and Lesedi there. In forty-three minutes exact, we’ll be at our stop just outside the capital. Bear’s words from our earlier meeting ring in my ears as my anxiety rises and falls like waves on a shore.

  We’re a little ways outside the limits of Siman, the closest factory town to Okaria. On a normal run, the train would be programmed to zip past us on its way to a depot where cargo would be offloaded and delivered to various locations around the Sector. Bear and Zeke’s team hacked the whole transport system and programmed this train to stop at various drop points to pick up freeloading passengers. Though it’s a cargo train, we’re able to squeeze our bodies into position around the cargo and the other marchers, who greet us quietly. When the doors close, we are once again enveloped in complete darkness.

  Last night, Miah loaded all the weaponry we have into the Sarus, along with Eli, Soren, Osprey, and me. Miah flew us to Siman, where Bear was organizing a swath of the march into Okaria. He was by turns giddy with excitement and solemn with the implications of the journey upon which we were about to embark. Nothing like this had ever happened in the entire history of the Okarian Sector—not since Jubilation Day. And here was a sixteen-year-old boy from Round Barn leading the way. With help, of course, from Zeke, Reika, Rose, and Louis, still recovering at Resistance headquarters, and other Resistance activists and thousands of sympathizers from the factory towns and Farms. But to not give Bear credit for his organizing efforts would be doing him a disservice.