by K. Makansi
THE SEEDS TRILOGY IS HEADED TO HOLLYWOOD
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Copyright © 2016 by K. Makansi
All rights reserved.
THE SEEDS TRILOGY - BOX SET
Published in the United States by Layla Dog Press.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the publisher. For information, contact us through our webpage at http://www.theseedstrilogy.com. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental, and names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Cover by K. Makansi and Kevin Wietzel.
Table of Contents
THE SOWING
THE PRELUDE: Soren Skaarsgard
THE REAPING
THE HARVEST
Copyright © 2013 by K. Makansi
All rights reserved.
THE SOWING
Published in the United States by Layla Dog Press.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the publisher. For information, contact us through our webpage at http://www.theseedstrilogy.com. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental, and names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Visit our website at www.theseedstrilogy.com to learn more.
Cover by K. Makansi and Kevin Wietzel.
Electronic Book ISBN: 978-0-9898671-0-8
THE SOWING
Book One of the Seeds Trilogy
K. Makansi
For Jason
Prologue - TAI
Fall 23, Sector Annum 102, 13h45
Gregorian Calendar: October 13
I rest my head in my palm and try not to nod off as the afternoon sun crawls across my desk. At the center of the classroom, Professor Hawthorne spins a 3D hologram demonstrating how a genome folds and wraps to form a chromosome. I’ve seen it a hundred times.
“Artificial DNA synthesis, such as that used to create the seeds upon which the Sector depends for agriculture, has been in existence for some time. Recently, however, I’ve begun to investigate some of the potential data storage properties of artificial DNA. As you know, DNA is the most powerful and compact form of data storage in existence….”
I look around at my fellow students, who are staring, enraptured, at Hawthorne, scribbling feverishly on their desk screens. I bask in my ability to tune out this entire lecture. They’re not all like that—sometimes I’m the one frantically scribbling, trying to keep up with Hawthorne’s frenetic lecture pace. But protein folding is my mom’s area of research, and I’ve practically grown up on it.
I rub my eyes and shift in my seat. It’s warm in here, and I’m waging war with my eyelids, trying to keep them at half-mast. I’m about to fall asleep when I notice a red light blinking in the corner of my tablet. Hoping Hawthorne won’t notice my distraction, I tap my finger lightly against the plasma screen where the red dot is pulsating. A few scrawled lines pop up:
Hey, pretty lady. Still breathing? I’ve practically lost my pulse. Dinner tonight? Assuming we both survive this lecture, that is. - E
I fight the grin that threatens to overrun my face and instead swivel in my chair so I can see Elijah Tawfiq, Hawthorne’s research assistant, out of the corner of my eye. Sitting at the back of the room, he’s doing a good job of pretending to pay attention. I shoot him a sly smile in response, and he flashes me that crooked grin of his that always sends a delicious pulse of warmth through me. It feels like a hummingbird has nested in my belly, buzzing and flapping its anxious, happy wings. His dark brown eyes are set deeply into his olive-toned face, and his lashes are so long they almost look like feathers. He runs his hand casually through his thick brown hair as he leans back, stretching, arms above his head. I turn back to my desk in an effort to suppress the temptation to jump him here and now. I jot off a quick reply.
Passing messages in class? Why, Eli! I would have thought better of the Sector’s most promising young scientist. - Tai
After weeks of flirting, Eli and I have been “officially” dating for almost a month now, but I still haven’t gotten over the thrill of seeing that insane smile aimed at me, the eagerness in his voice and step when he’s headed my way, and the magically soft kisses he presses into my skin as often as he possibly can. I’ve never been in love before, but I’m sure this is what it feels like. Filled up to overflowing, giddy. Ridiculous. I want to spend every passing moment with him—and even that probably wouldn’t be enough.
The red dot blinks again in the corner, and I bring up his message.
I’ll pick you up at seven.
I can’t help but grin outright this time, and I hide my smile behind my hand. What a cocky little bastard. He didn’t even wait for me to say yes. Of course, it’s not like I would turn him down. Still, this time I don’t turn around. I’m afraid I might actually giggle, and I don’t think Hawthorne would appreciate that.
“By imposing a simple coding sequence—bits of data for base pairs, for example—it would be theoretically possible to use synthetic DNA to store enormous quantities of data. We could insert the entire population database for the Okarian Sector into less than a gram of artificially-synthesized DNA.”
I roll my eyes—I’ve heard this excited speech ten times already from Eli. I zone out again and return to doodling.
Behind me, I hear Eli’s chair scraping as he gets up. It’s not like he needs to be here—he knows this material backward and forward. After all, at twenty-one years old he’s two years ahead of me and has been working as a research assistant with Hawthorne for the last year and a half. With any luck, soon I’ll be done with my introductory classes at the Sector Research Institute and I’ll be able to devote my time to research as well. I contemplate following Eli out, ditching the lecture for a quick make-out session in the bathroom, but I realize Hawthorne would probably catch on. So I sigh and turn back to the discussion of artificial base pairs and drift off into thoughts of our dinner date and the possibilities that await.
A minute later, I hear footsteps out in the hallway and wonder if Eli is back already. But it’s not Eli. The man standing at the entrance to the classroom is wearing an all-black uniform with a mask covering his face. The military-grade Bolt he has tucked into his shoulder is aimed right at Hawthorne’s head. For a half-heartbeat, a split second, the room seems to hold its breath as all eyes shift, afraid, to the man in black. There is a soundless flash of blue as the man pulls the trigger.
Then Hawthorne’s head disintegrates.
For another half-secon
d, the world is still, as Hawthorne’s mutilated body drops, like a crumbling pillar, to the floor.
Panic consumes the room. There are screams and shouts as my classmates scramble to their feet, desks are overturned, and chairs skitter across the floor. Without thinking, I drop to the floor and curl up under my desk. The dry scent of static and ozone from the Bolt’s discharge hangs in the air like poison. Adrenalin surges through my body. Adrenalin, also known as epinephrine, is a catecholamine. By binding to adrenergic receptors, adrenaline stimulates glycogenolycic reaction in the liver…. From my vantage point on the floor I peer up through the desks, see the man take aim at a student, fire. She drops to the floor, her eyes shuddering cold, her chest a mess of blood, organ tissue, bone. Two more blue flashes; two more students fall.
Is there an escape? Is there any way to stay alive? I look around for an out, but all I see is chaos. One of the students, Matthew, lunges at the man in black. In exchange he gets a knife in his stomach. He staggers, spits up blood. I squeeze my eyes shut and fight back tears, clinging to my desk, hoping against all hope to avoid detection.
In a matter of seconds, silence reigns. Sobs catch in my throat and I can no longer contain them as I look around at the lifeless bodies of those who were, moments before, classmates and friends. Cellular death and decomposition begins moments after the heart stops beating. Brain damage begins. Life, beyond three minutes of oxygen deprivation, is irretrievable.
Every sound in the room seems amplified to ten times normal volume and I can hear the man’s breath echo as though in a cavern. The whole world must surely be able to hear my heartbeat. Everything slows to a murmur, a crawl, as I watch the man’s boots clunk, clunk in my direction. I shiver violently and look around for something, anything with which to fight him. There is nothing. Eli, where are you? I want to scream, cry out for him, but at the same time I hope he’s somewhere safe and that he will escape my fate.
The man crouches down to look at me and I stare my death in the eyes. I try to control my breathing, to choke back my sobs, and I wheeze with the effort of holding them in my chest. I brush my tears away on my shirtsleeves. I will be brave. Bravery is nothing more than a part of a threatened animal’s defensive reaction, consistent with the release of a combination of dopamine, adrenaline and oxytocin. The man reaches a hand up to pull his mask away from his face, revealing bloodshot eyes and a thin mouth, lips pressed together as he contemplates his prey. Then he turns his face slightly to the side and his eyes widen, his lips pull back in a maniacal grin.
“Come on now, don’t cry. You don’t want your family to remember you this way. Give them a smile for when they find you, hmm? Gimme a smile, will you?” He pulls his still-bloody knife from his belt and waves it in front of my face. As the blade grazes my chin I cringe and pull away. I squeeze my eyes shut to force his image out of my mind. I think instead of my parent’s faces—I love you, Mom and Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you one last time. I think of my sister, Remy, and her dreams of being an artist. Please be okay, Remy. Please be okay.
I taste the salt on my lips as tears roll down my cheeks. I take a shallow breath and whisper, “Just do it, you fucker. Just do it.”
His clothes rustle. His breathing is calm. Everything is quiet. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, as though maybe they will shield me from his weapons, from this certain death. I love you, Eli.
As the brain experiences death and begins to shut down, dimethyltryptamine is synthesized in the pineal gland, triggering psychedelic experiences that often resemble visions of the afterlife. My eyes are closed and I’m enveloped in black, but somehow everything fades slowly to white—a bright, intensely brilliant light that lingers and pools behind my eyes, spreading like ink soaking into cloth, staining, obliterating everything, every memory, every emotion, every image until nothing remains.
The Sowing
by Gabriel Alexander
Let us practice resurrection
Let us sow our shadowed recollections
Let us breathe life into these broken images
For there is glory in the flowering
And we will dream a dream of spring.
In the Sowing is our memory
Of the dim vast vale of tears,
The visionary gleam of unremembered
Seasons, so solemn and serene.
We are the way and the wayfarers
As the lone and level sands stretch far away
But here at home we till and toil
Here we heed the song of the soil.
And so we collect our wingéd seeds
With all the works and days of hands
Scattered fragments of our spirit
And like some distant ancient anointing
We are poured out like water
We are sown throughout the land.
1 - REMY
Fall 47, Sector Annum 105, 17h32
Gregorian Calendar: November 6
The door squeaks open and the room brightens. I turn to see Soren Skaarsgard, nearly as tall as the doorway, pull it shut behind him. The cramped cellar falls into shadow once again.
“Eli’s got it figured out,” he says. “It should be back up any second.”
Elijah Tawfiq, one of our engineers and the closest thing I have to family here at the main base, had managed to tap in to the Sector communications feed, and for a moment we saw flashes of familiar faces and snippets of commentary before the screen went black again. For a government that refuses to acknowledge we exist, their defenses against us are getting much better.
Soren pulls up an empty chair and sits, but then, just as quickly, stands again and starts pacing. My knee bounces up and down, and my fingers tap on my chair until Jahnu shoots me a stop-it-or-I’m-going-to-hurt-you glare. The feed’s been down for ten minutes, but each single minute twists and frays in anticipation. Like that moment before a vaccination when the doctor asks, Are you ready? before she plunges the needle into your arm.
I breathe deeply, try to calm myself. This viewing room is dark and musty, and my friends and I are the only ones here. Recycled air blows through the vents like a gale, but it never does much good. Seems like down here I’m either sweating or shivering. Today the room is stuffy and I feel faint, like I might be sick. But I don’t know if it’s from the heat or the anticipation.
We all jump as the screen bursts to life, and the official Okarian Sector Anthem plays in the background over the speakers Eli has retrofitted. We missed the opening speeches while Eli was tinkering with the feed, and now the first thing we see is a sweeping panorama of the state-of-the-art science labs, the glass-fronted performing arts center, the verdant, wide-open spaces of the athletic fields, and, finally, my old dorm. The Okarian Academy, my alma mater. Or it would have been if I hadn’t left.
I groan loudly as I recognize the smooth, effortless voice of the commentator, Linnea Heilmann. Her sultry voice is famous throughout the Sector, but for me each word is like a stab in the gut. When the camera cuts to her, face glowing and blue eyes narrowed, every perfectly coiffed blonde hair in place, I taste bile on the back of my tongue. She was my sister Tai’s best friend. When I was little, Linnea braided my hair and always took time to look at my drawings, even when Tai was tired of me.
But Tai’s been dead for three years, and now Linnea is the voice of the people who murdered her.
“And now we turn to the Placements,” Linnea trills. “Each graduate will announce his or her chosen job or continuing academic career as a citizen of the Okarian Sector.” I dig my nails into my palms. Besides the Solstice Celebrations twice a year, Graduation Day is the biggest annual event. The students at the Okarian Academy and the Sector Research Institute are considered elite members of society, watched and admired by the rest of the Sector, almost as if they were old-fashioned royalty. My friends and I, sitting here in this dim underground room, hundreds of kilometers from Okaria, were once members of that elite. I’m sure every Resistance base with the capacity to tap into the feed
has people crowded around a screen trying to catch a glimpse of old friends—and enemies—they left behind. “We know that each of these promising young students will contribute to a better and brighter future for us all.”
“Better and brighter if slavery is your thing,” Soren mutters under his breath.
My stomach is in knots. If I’d stayed, this would have been my graduation year—mine and Jahnu’s. It would have been us up there on the stage, sitting next to friends and classmates, joking about the formalities of the ceremony, smiling for the photographers. It would have been us accepting our placements, smiling and celebrating with family and friends, preparing to accept full Okarian Sector citizenship. The people up on the stage were our classmates, our friends. Watching them now feels like betrayal.
The screen cuts to a group of graduates from the Sector Research Institute, and I recognize some of them as Tai’s old friends. They would have been closer to Soren and Kenzie’s age, and I know Soren would have been at the top of his class. The SRI and the Academy always hold their graduation ceremonies at the same time. While the graduates chat casually, all smiles, we hide out in a dark basement beneath an old city miles and miles into the Dead Zone, away from the capital, away from the Sector, away from home. We are sewer rats, living in this scorched skeleton of a city, hiding out in places nearly bombed into oblivion during the Religious Wars, scurrying into the safety of makeshift structures. We are forgotten by most, ignored by many, and tracked like dogs by those who remember. We are traitors.
And so we watch as, one by one, our former friends take to the stage and announce where they’re going next—some are taking positions with the Sector, a few accept research fellowships at the SRI, several are heading out to help oversee factory towns or Farms, and one or two will be officers in the Sector Defense Forces. On the screen, Moriana Nair, Jahnu’s cousin, steps up and walks across the stage. I reach over and squeeze Jahnu’s hand. He and Moriana practically grew up together. I can hear Soren swearing under his breath. Kenzie is sniffling, and I watch as Jahnu wraps his arm around her, comforting her even as he watches his cousin announce her research placement.
