The Seeds Trilogy Complete Collection: The Sowing, The Reaping, The Harvest (including The Prelude)

by K. Makansi

  “Yes,” I respond.

  A warning flashes across the screen.

  The data type in this file is not approved by the Okarian Agricultural Corporation. Please do not continue.

  I glance at Gold, who gives me a slight nod, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Override,” I say. “Open the file.”

  The file opens, and a database appears before us.

  Abiu, the first entry reads. Açai, Acerola, Alfalfa, Almond, Amaranth, Apricot, Apple.

  The list goes on.

  “What is this?” Gold whispers.

  I touch my finger to the screen, landing on one of the names. Amaranth.

  My screen divides into columns, and different incarnations of the same thing appear. A three-dimensional, rotational model of a double-helix strand; a long-form notation of the base pairs in the double-helix; and a computational model showing genetic variants within the genome.

  “It’s a genome,” he says quietly, answering his own question. “What the hell is amaranth?”

  “It’s a grain.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I like to eat things other than bread and meat occasionally. You’d never heard of corn before I made you eat some.”

  “Fair point.” He’s never been the most experimental with his food. Then again, it’s only been the last ten years or so that we’ve had the luxury to be experimental. Before that, we ate what we had and were thankful we didn’t go to bed hungry. “Go back to the overview.”

  The main list reappears. What is all this?

  “Do you recognize these words?” Gold asks.

  “Some of them.”

  “Sure. Some are easy. Apple. Apricot. Barley. But what’s this one?” He points to a strange word on the screen. Avocado.

  “Never heard of it. Have you?”

  He shakes his head. “Is all this food?”

  I shrug. “All the names I recognize are food crops. I sure as hell would like to know what the rest of them taste like.”

  “Do you know how much we could get for this database?” He stops looking at the plasma and stares at me with that maniacal look he always gets when he’s got an idea. Eighty percent of his ideas are crap. Fifteen are straight from the looney bin. But five percent are bloody genius, and that’s why he and I are partners. When I glance up, meeting his eyes, I can almost see his mind spinning, eagerly calculating how many seeds we could make by selling this information to the OAC. “How much they would pay for this?”

  “Why would we—”

  “Look at the size of that file! What if it’s the genetic codes to every food crop ever sequenced in the Old World? You said your dead friend over there was gripping it in his palm. It has to be valuable! By all that’s sacred, we’d get seats on the Board of Directors just for showing this to them.”

  My heart pounds, blood rushing in my ears, and I don’t know why. “What do you think they would do with it?”

  “Who cares what they’d do with it? We could have everything we ever wanted, K.” His eyes light up. “The premiere lab in Okaria. The finest facilities in the Sector. We can finally fund our research.”

  “But—” I sputter. Turning all this over to the OAC gives me a bad feeling, but I can’t put my finger on why. “Their whole goal is to streamline food production. They don’t need the genetic codes to Old World crops. They’ve modified and created their own. Who’s to say they wouldn’t destroy this as soon as we handed it over? Or lock it up and throw away the key?”

  “Who cares?” he asks, staring at me as though I’ve lost my mind.

  “Who cares?” I repeat, disbelief leaching into my voice. “Gold, think about it. If this database really does have the genetic codes to every Old World food crop ever sequenced, we wouldn’t need the OAC for seeds anymore. We could sequence our own.” We wouldn’t ever need their seedcoins again. Their money would be worthless to us. We could print our own money, our own food, our own crops. Think of the possibilities!”

  “If we don’t tell them everything we’ve found, we’ll be violating the terms of our contract. Our agreement would be void. They wouldn’t owe us anything.”

  If he’s thinking about the legalities, he’s almost there. He wants to do it. He’s almost on my side.

  “Gold, you’re thinking about it wrong. It’s not about what they owe us. It’s about what we owe them. And the answer is: nothing. Ever again.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face.

  “Kanaan Alexander, my friend, you are finally learning to think like a revolutionary.”

  The Harvest

  by Gabriel Alexander

  Poet Laureate, Okarian Sector

  Honeyed light sings across my back

  In the garden with loving hands

  A pomegranate

  A bow across a string.

  She stands, palms open

  Listen,

  Pale green tendrils unfurl

  Lemons hang from trees like raindrops

  Wheat stalks bend in whirls of sun.

  Arise, arise!

  The world is alight

  Morning dawns and seasons change

  We gather, we harvest

  For it is more painful to remain in the bud

  Than to chance blossom

  Just as the mighty oak awaits in the acorn

  The butterfly in its chrysalis

  And the bird in its egg.

  We fall in love

  As she blooms

  And resurrects us.

  1 - REMY

  Spring 60, Sector Annum 106, 19h30

  Gregorian Calendar: May 18

  Shadow.

  That’s what I think when I catch my reflection in a window, startled for a moment by the fleeting apparition of someone following me, someone who looks vaguely familiar. After a second’s hesitation, I recognize myself. Six weeks after Vale’s fall, and I am still hiding, slinking through the underground veins of Okaria. I haunt the arteries of the city, spending my days in the sewers, back alleys, and smoke dens. At the Academy, my architecture professors waxed poetic about the beauty of our capital: Think of our city as a living being. A complex ecosystem, a body, pulsing and alive. But our study was limited to the gilded exterior, the glittering skins of biomimicking buildings and lush gardens. We chose not to examine the blood and bones within. There was no reason for me then, as an aspiring professional, to make friends with shadows. But now I have become one.

  I pull my hood up and climb the stairs. I bump into someone and mutter an apology. At the top, on the seventh floor, I tap-tap-tap on the door at the end of the hall. Footsteps shuffle inside. The door swings wide and I’m ushered in. It’s all very efficient. The apartment is compact, clean, spare. Moonlight spills through a lone window, and the only sign of habitation is a uniform and shoes folded neatly on the bed.

  Meera works on the plumbing and irrigation systems for the capitol building, where Soren and I were held captive, where Vale and Chan-Yu used to work. It’s a good position for an Outsider. Not high enough in rank to draw attention to herself, but she’s well-poised to pick up knowledge and information from around the city. Not to mention she can get from one side of Okaria to the other faster than anyone I’ve ever met. She claims she knows the sewer systems better than she knows the streets. I don’t doubt her.

  She opens a box on the table and begins taking out items. “Five apples, a pound of smoked elk, root vegetables, various greens. Should last a week if you’re careful.”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” I say, grabbing one of the apples and wiping it on my shirt. I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. If I tried to buy food from a restaurant or street vendor, my biomarkers would identify me, and without a manufactured identity to replace my old one in the Personhood database, the authorities would immediately be notified. After Corine Orleán promised to publicly execute me if they ever catch me, I’d rather go hungry than risk identification. Meera is keeping me alive.

  “Any news?” I ask through a
mouthful of apple.

  She leans forward, a promising flush on her cheeks. “A meeting.” Her eyes twinkle like she’s presenting me with a precious gift.

  I drag a sleeve across my face as juice dribbles down my chin. “With who?”

  “A snake.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. S¬he giggles. Meera is captivating, her smile contagious, her face open and honest. It’s how she gets around the city as an Outsider. That, and her forged documents. Her wide-eyed innocence is capable of charming everyone she meets—and deceiving anyone who doesn’t know her.

  “Okay, it’s a guy named Snake. But he slithers around the city,” she waggles her hand through the air, “silent and deadly.” She hisses aloud, as childlike as Osprey.

  “I’m picturing a guy with bright green hair and fangs.”

  “Oh, Snake is definitely like that. Not the fangs, though. He hides in plain sight. Knows everyone, has contacts everywhere. I always go to him when I need information.”

  “Can he help me find Vale?”

  “If anyone can, it’s him. Tonight, thirty minutes after sunset, at The Elysium. Look for the waiter with purple hair—”

  “Purple?”

  “I told you, he hides in plain sight. Anyway, ask him for the green apple indica. It’s off-menu and we use it as our code. It’s also delicious.”

  Soon all that remains of my apple are seeds. I toss them in the box and grab another. This is not the first clandestine meeting Meera has arranged for me, but it’s the first time she’s sounded so hopeful.

  After Vale’s fall, when the drone whisked him away to the gods only know where, I stayed in the apartment Chan-Yu had arranged for us. Damn the risks, I told myself then. Corine’s promise to execute me most likely meant she’d be looking for me out in the Wilds, or at the Resistance bases. As far as I could tell, no drones or Watchmen were able to ID me, even when Chan-Yu and I were chasing Jeremiah through the city streets. In a way, staying here is safer for me than heading back out with the Resistance. Like Meera’s mysterious purple-haired Snake, I am hiding in plain sight.

  I know it’s dangerous to stay, but my instinct screams: I can’t leave Vale. I have to find out what happened to him. Is he alive? Is he with his parents? What have they done to him? And by all that grows, what was he doing on that roof?

  Chan-Yu, it turned out, had only paid for the shortest possible lease: two weeks. I spent three nights in the sewers after the rental term was up. That’s when I met Meera. I’d taken to spending much of my time in the smoke dens—places I never knew existed—because it was so easy to blend in. Like everything else in Okaria, the dens are heavily regulated, but they’ve all taken on the personalities of their neighborhoods. With black walls, heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains, dirty velour booths, and small, blood red biolights at every table, Le Mouton Noir quickly became my favorite. It was close to the apartment we’d used, everything seemed to be covered in a thin film of grime, and most of the regulars worked in delivery, water recycling, composting, or bioluminescence, so I knew I was unlikely to run into any of my old friends. The smoke came cheap and plentiful, and escape was just a few puffs away. And the place was open twenty-four seven.

  I thought I had changed my appearance enough to go unnoticed, but Meera recognized me right away. She’d been looking for me, she said.

  She slid into my booth and offered me a pull from her water pipe. I rarely smoke, finding the atmosphere calming enough on its own. Plus, I was running out of seeds.

  “My name’s Meera,” she said. “We should be friends.”

  I hesitated, trying not to look suspicious. “What makes you say that?”

  Ignoring the question, she held her pipe out to me. “This is my favorite flavor. Tastes like black caps. I think you’ll like it.”

  Black caps. That’s how I knew. It’s what Outsiders call wild blackberries and raspberries. They grow in great brambly bushes in parts of Outsider territory, and every tiny corpuscle tastes like a burst of heaven. Rhinehouse says the Sector’s version, the ones they use in Mealpaks, have been so hybridized they hardly have any taste at all. I don’t even remember eating them when I was younger.

  “Black caps. Never heard of such a thing.” I took a long drag, feeling the calm sink in, remembering how I used to love smoking with Eli, Jahnu, and Kenzie at Thermopylae. Meera leaned in, elbows on the table.

  “Word on the street is we have friends in common,” she said, looking me up and down. “You hungry?”

  “Starving.” Meera flashed her siren smile, and in the haze of the blackberry smoke, I couldn’t help it. I smiled back.

  “I can help you with that. Let’s go to my apartment. I’ve got food to spare. We can catch up on how our mutual friends are doing.”

  I was hesitant at first, reluctant to trust anyone. But after weeks with no news of Vale, no word from Chan-Yu, Soren, Osprey, Miah, or anyone else in the Resistance, I’d finally found someone to talk to. Or rather, someone had found me. My mind foggy with hunger, loneliness, and desperation, I figured if Meera was a spy for the Sector, she’d lead me right to Corine. I was willing to take the risk.

  My trust was well-founded. Meera fed me, gave me extra clothes, replenished my disguise makeup, and now she’s going to let me move into her apartment.

  “Everything is mostly cleaned out,” Meera says, pulling a shirt up over her head to change clothes for work. “I won’t be far, and I’ll be by every few days with food.”

  “I hate to kick you out of your own place,” I say, protesting for the thousandth time and trying not to stare at the scarred lines on her back. One time, I asked how she got her scar, but she just gave me a sly smile and said nothing.

  “Remy, you’re not kicking me out. This place is hardly big enough for two and besides, I’ll be staying with a very close friend.” She winks.

  I think of Vale, the idea of staying with him someday in a warm house, with a proper kitchen, and a real bed. If we live long enough.

  “If the meeting with Snake goes well, you’ll have a better idea of where Vale is and how you can see him. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. For everything.”

  “If you ever need to run, there’s a safe house on the outskirts of Okaria the Outsiders stay at sometimes. You might know about it.” Her eyes twinkle. “It’s your grandfather’s house.”

  “Kanaan’s?” I ask, wide-eyed. “Outsiders stay there?”

  “On occasion. It’s big, empty, comfortable. What more could we ask for?” She squeezes my hand and whispers, “We’ll talk soon. Good luck.”

  It’s still dark—the first hint of dawn is edging the horizon—when Meera leaves. I consider a nap, or a few minutes of quiet meditation, but opt for some of the smoked elk instead. It’s early, and I haven’t slept much tonight, but I’m antsy. Time is running out. How much longer can I stay in Okaria, pawning food from the Outsiders, hanging out in smoke dens, listening, watching, waiting? I am not safe here. One wrong move and I’m done for. Phillip’s goodwill was waning when Soren and I were captured, and I’m sure it’s nonexistent now. If I’m caught again, the Sector will have no mercy, not after Round Barn, not after what I did to Evander.

  I pull out my plasma and begin sketching. Where are my friends? Are they safe? How are Jahnu and Kenzie? Has Rhinehouse found an antivirus for Eli? Will I ever be able to see him again?

  The sketch morphs into something grotesque. A disembodied mouth, open in a scream, bits of tongue flaking away like burnt paper.

  Thirty minutes after sunset, I walk into The Elysium smoke den. Located deep in fashionable South Okaria, far away from the city center, The Elysium couldn’t be more different from Le Mouton Noir. The lights are dim but luminous. Hundreds of tiny green biolights flicker along the walls. The glassware here is polished and fine, the smoke clean, the hookahs as elegant as the patrons. It’s like I’ve entered a different dimension, as if I’m floating in the ocean amidst a sea of glowing plankton. There is an
air of intense sensuality. Bodies lean into each other, lovers kiss in the corners, beautiful people sip colorful cocktails, and stained lips pull long drags of smoke from glass pipes. Low, throbbing music plays in the background and conversation is hushed and secretive.

  As I pass, one woman gives me a long, inviting look, with a raised brow and full, red lips. She is captivating, to be sure, with long hair curling around her shoulders, wide hips and a small waist. For a moment, I envy her figure, her glamour, her confidence. She is a woman who knows who she is and what she wants.

  I shake my head no and raise my hand to the back of my neck, a nervous gesture that has only gotten worse over the weeks. To avoid recognition, I cut my hair with one of Chan-Yu’s knives, left in the apartment after we fled. No more thick, dark curls. Now, just an even tuft of close-cropped fuzz. When I went with Meera to her apartment that first time, she giggled and pulled out an electric razor, offering to shear my hair more evenly than the butcher’s job I’d done with the knife. It looks better, but I’m still not used to it. I want my curls back. When I catch my reflection, my eyes seem too big, my neck too long, all my shapes slightly wrong.

  But if I don’t recognize myself, neither will anyone else.

  I find a booth and cozy up to the corner, sitting with my back to the wall, scanning the space for a purple-haired man. I don’t have to look hard. I notice him behind the bar, shaking a cocktail mixer. A few minutes later he appears at my table. I don’t know what I expected: someone striking, maybe, someone really tall, or very good looking. But Snake is unassuming except for the hair, which sticks up every which way, with deep purple roots that taper into lavender. He has dark eyes, slightly upturned at the outer edges and shaded by long lashes, but there is nothing truly distinctive about them. His face, though not especially handsome, is trustworthy. Is it just because I want to trust him?

  “Hello, mademoiselle. I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like a drink, a smoke, or both?”

  Does he know who I am? I look at him closely, scan the rest of the area quickly to make sure I’m dealing with the right purple-haired man. “I’ve heard good things about the green apple indica. That and a tonic, please.”