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

by K. Makansi

  “What are you doing?” I ask, nonplussed.

  “Getting us out of here,” the man says. “Zeke said you were a good man. He said I could trust you.”

  I trust you. Words my father said to me not even an hour ago. I never thought I would regret the chance to escape my parents, but now I wish I didn’t have to leave him. I wish we had an opportunity to talk, father and son.

  “Zeke Sayyid?”

  “He’s an old friend of mine from Ellas.”

  “What a coincidence.” I settle into the co-pilot’s seat. “My best friend’s name is Sayyid.”

  “You don’t say.” He grins at me.

  “Can you turn off the tracking?”

  “First thing I did.”

  “Deme?” I say. “We’re in. Got new coordinates for us?”

  “Hold on.”

  While we wait, I survey the instrument panel. “As soon as we’re out of sight, activate cloaking. I think it’s high time we disappear.”

  “Plot a course for old Toronto,” Demeter says. “It’s in a caution zone. Far enough out there won’t be many drones. Eli’s on the way with a Resistance airship so you don’t have to worry about being tracked.”

  I plug in the coordinates and turn to the pilot. “Let’s move.”

  “Roger that.” He sticks his hand out and I take it. His grip is firm. “Jamison Fitzpatrick at your service. Fitz, for short.”

  “Valerian Orleán. Vale, for short.”

  “Good to meet you, Vale.” He punches the intercom button. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.”

  Fitz lowers us into a perfect landing, nearly nose to nose with Eli’s ship. He turns off the cloaking, and I’m out the door before anyone can move. The plan is to load the prisoners onto Eli’s ship. Eli brought Zoe and Firestone to scan the Sector ship for tracking devices and deactivate all Sector firmware. Once it’s safe to use, they’ll fly it back to the Resistance.

  As soon as I disembark, Eli runs over to me. The first thing out of my mouth is: “Are you really better?”

  “Good as ever,” Eli responds, hugging me. “Want me to prove it?”

  I nod, and he pulls a small plasma from his jacket pocket. He opens a file on the plasma and a photo comes up: four smiling faces sitting on the dock at Kanaan’s house. Remy invited me to her grandfather’s house a few times so we could get out of the city. Eli has his arm draped over Tai’s shoulders, both of them smiling broadly. A younger version of me is sitting next to Remy, a sliver of sunlight between us. We were just friends then. It was on that same dock I kissed her for the first time.

  “I open this photo up at least once a day,” Eli says, his voice soft. “Just to make sure. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I’ve never seen this before.” I can barely get out the words.

  “I’ll make you a copy. Back at base.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And since you brought her up, I’ve got news.” I perk up. “After her stunt with the Round Barn video—”

  “That was her?” I’d suspected, but wasn’t sure. It seemed too risky, too dangerous. But then, Remy’s never shied from risk.

  “Of course it was her. Who else had access to that footage? Anyway, she’s holed up at General Kofir Bunqu’s estate. He’s on our side. Can you believe it?”

  I nod. This is no surprise. “He’s the one who gave Demeter back to me.”

  “Soren and Osprey are headed there now. Osprey’s in touch with Remy’s Outsider contacts. They’ve got big plans and things are moving fast. Thought you might want to join them now that you’re persona non grata with the parents again.”

  My heart flip flops at the thought of seeing Remy. “And just how am I supposed to get back into Okaria? We’re hundreds of kilometers away and we’ve got the prisoners to deal with.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “Are you going to share this plan with me?”

  “Firestone?” Eli calls out. “It’s time to present Vale’s gift.”

  “He’s not gonna give me some of his vile homebrew, is he?”

  “Vile?” Firestone appears from around the side of the airship, hunched over as if he’s pushing something. “Way I remember, you took to it just fine. All except for the green tint it gave you. And the headache. And were you the one with the dry heaves? I can’t remember.”

  I shake my head and then pull him in for a hug. “Good to see you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, enough with the weepy reunion. I’ve got something special for you from your Outsider buddies.”

  “Chan-Yu?”

  “Next best thing. Osprey is loaning you her—”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got a horse here. I’m out of practice.”

  “Better. I’ve got her oiseau. Her fancy little hoverbike complete with the new cloaking shield we rigged up.” He reaches into thin air, feels around for something and then, voilà, there it is. The same hoverbike that Remy, Soren, Miah, and I followed to meet the Outsiders in the Wilds. “Still don’t know what to make of our Wayfarer friend, but apparently she and Soren don’t need this to travel undetected. It’s all yours.” He pushes it toward me.

  “Here.” Eli hands me a v-scroll. “Directions to Bunqu’s from our coordinates here. Activated by your touch only. I recommend memorizing the map before you head out ’cause if anyone else so much as breathes on it, the whole damn thing erases itself. He’s called Onion, by the way. That’s his code name.”

  “Read it after we’re gone,” Firestone says. He opens the bike’s only saddlebag and pulls out a helmet and coveralls. “Put this on. Once you’re outfitted, you’ll be invisible. Just press this button.” He points, and then hands me a key fob. Keep this with you and you can activate it at a distance.”

  “Does Remy know? Has anyone told her I’m heading her way?”

  “We figured you could surprise her. Soren and Osprey know. They’ll be expecting you, but probably won’t arrive much ahead of you.”

  “And what about you two?”

  “I’m working with Bear and Zeke on supply lines,” Firestone says, and looks at Eli expectantly.

  “Well, Miah and I have plans of our own.”

  “That sounds like trouble,” I say. “How is Miah?”

  “He’s fine. Back at base making preparations.”

  “For these big plans of yours?”

  “Yup.”

  “Is it a big secret?”

  “Nope.”

  “So …?

  “You’ll see,” Eli says.

  I clip the key fob to my belt and step into the coveralls. “You’ll find a kindred spirit in the pilot, Jamison Fitzpatrick.” I turn to Firestone. “He knows Zeke. And, based on our conversation, he’ll be able to teach you a thing or two about homebrew.”

  I pick up the helmet, climb on the hoverbike, and look back at Eli and Firestone. “Thanks for keeping the faith.”

  “Yeah,” Eli says, with a knowing smile. “Get out of here.”

  11 - REMY

  Spring 77, Sector Annum 106, 23h34

  Gregorian Calendar: June 4

  I stretch my back, rest my head against the paneled wall of the window seat, and watch as raindrops strike the windowpane and slide down the glass leaving a silvery trail behind them. Almost dusk. I love this part of the day. There is promise in every time of transition, a hopefulness that something awaits just around the corner. Before dawn, it is what will morning bring? When the sun hangs high in the noon sky, what will the afternoon bring? And at dusk, what will the night bring? The grey storm clouds slide lazily across the sky, darkening into a sort of charcoal blue as the sun sets behind them. My plasma sits open in my lap, a pen-and-ink drawing zoomed out so I can view the full image I’ve created. Raindrops fall from billowing clouds, turning into seeds that sprout as they reach the ground, blossoming into human-like shapes as they take root and grow.

  “The water of life,” I whisper aloud. Every image needs a title, my art teacher told me once, in a class o
n marketing art and design. Without a title, how will your viewers begin to approach or understand the image? Later, at home, my father very politely called bullshit on this idea.

  “Art doesn’t need a translation for the viewer’s convenience. Would you expect me to create a drawing or painting to accompany every poem I’ve ever written?” he asked through thinly veiled disdain. When I shook my head, he continued, “Why would someone expect a painter to put his images into words?”

  But the exhortation stuck, and I’ve titled almost all of my drawings ever since.

  “Remy,” a deep voice says, echoing through the dark room. I turn to the sound, away from the pattering rain outside. “Meera’s here, downstairs.”

  “Thanks,” I say and unfold my legs to stand. “I’m finished with the flier.” I hand the plasma to General Bunqu and he zooms in and out. His eyes widen and a smile forms on his broad, handsome face.

  “Impressive. I believe this will do nicely for your purposes. Should I transfer it to a UMIT?”

  “I don’t know. Meera’s in charge of all that.” I smile. “I’m art. She’s logistics.”

  “I suppose I’m universal magnetic information transfer,” he laughs.

  “That and security. And transportation. Oh, and food.”

  “Speaking of which …”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  In the kitchen, Meera has already raided the refrigerator and set out a platter of fruits, nuts, and vegetables that the Outsiders have smuggled in for Bunqu. I don’t wait to be asked, and dig in as soon as I sit down.

  “We gonna do this thing tonight?” Meera asks.

  “I’m ready if you are,” I say, stuffing a fig in my mouth. “How many places are we going to go? We’ll need to have seedcoin in hand or enough money programed into the UMIT for each place.”

  Meera turns to General Bunqu. “What do you think? We’ll only pay to display in the most disreputable places.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Where all the best people hang out.”

  “Don’t worry about money,” Bunqu says, handing the plasma to Meera. “Take a look at the finished product. Remy’s ‘flier’ is a work of art.”

  “Wow. That’s beautiful,” Meera says. “But what about the other drawing? The creepy one you described to me.”

  “I thought we’d use both,” I say. “I programed the flier so one dissolves into the other with the information about time and place appearing between each loop. Go to the previous screen. I finished the other one this morning.”

  Meera slides to the previous screen and looks up at me, shaking her head. “Lovely.” She hands the plasma back to Bunqu, and his lip curls in distaste.

  “Very literal.”

  I think it’s one of my better drawings. One could even call it pastoral. Inspired by the carnage at Round Barn, it’s a landscape, a field lush with corn and bean stalks, vegetables, sunflowers, and fruit trees, all growing out of the gaping jaws, nose holes, and eye sockets of skulls like half-buried potted plants.

  “It’s about how the Sector builds its way of life on the dead,” I explain, not that I need to explain to Meera or General Bunqu. “Not just the eternal cycle of sowing and harvesting, but on killing our own people.” I remember one of my instructors looking at a series of my drawings and actually making a tsk-tsk sound. She said my work was “extremely expressive.”

  “If this doesn’t get people’s attention, I don’t know what will,” Meera says.

  The sweet, earthy smell of the den is soothing, and I feel the tension lifting off my shoulders. Wisps of smoke cast strange, flowing shadows across the lights. The low drumbeat echoing from the stage resonates in my rib cage. Glasses clink, matches strike, and carefree laughter rings in my ears. I wave my UMIT over the plasma display and pay five seedcoins for two days’ worth of signage on a small corner of the announcement board. It’s the last of the money on my UMIT. My drawing immediately flashes into view, replacing one of the older displays, which read: MDMA Party - OAC Sponsored - Green Dragon Hall - Summer 1 22h00 - ONLY TWO HUNDRED SEEDS ENTRY AND DRINK TICKET!

  Meera and I split up to cover more ground, and for the last few hours, I’ve been posting the flier for the vigil we’ve been planning in every seedy smoke den, cocktail shop, and bar I can find. I’m sure there are always informers, drones, and Watchers keeping an eye out even in the places I frequent, but there’s much less chance anyone will care about what I’m posting. They’ll be looking for suspected Outsiders, Resistance sympathizers, or plain old criminals, not people planning a mourning vigil out in plain sight.

  We decided to keep the language vague, hoping that if anyone with friends or family affected by the SRI classroom massacre sees the notice, they’ll get the code, understand, and help spread the word. As for anyone else that sees it and doesn’t get it, well, we don’t want them at the vigil, anyway.

  Sisters, brothers, friends

  Remember the promise of youth cut down too soon

  Illuminate the lives taken, too sudden, too violent

  Class shattered

  Lives unmoored

  A promise destroyed

  Stolen

  Sorrow.

  “How’s it going, Sparrow?” I turn to see Snake, and notice that his purple hair has been shaved into a mohawk.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Got a message from Onion via Meera. She was posting the notice at The Elysium when a messenger found her. I was just getting off work, so she sent me to find you. They want you back at the house.”

  “What’s happened?” I ask, my pulse spiking.

  “That’s all the information I’ve got.” He smiles and puts his hand out for my UMIT. “I’ll take over, if you want.”

  “Thanks, but I think I just spent the last of my money anyway.”

  “Better get going, then. Sounded important.”

  I nod, and give him a quick hug. He slips through the crowd. I pocket the UMIT and head out into the night. I emerge onto a side street where The Vine, a semi-legal establishment that sells marijuana in the light and moonshine—not approved by the Dieticians for distribution—in the shadows, takes up most of the real estate. I pull my hood tight, tie it under my chin, and set out at a jog. Rain pelts my jacket. Mist and surreal shadows line the alleys, and it’s hard for anyone to see clearly through the gathering fog.

  To avoid going on foot the three-odd kilometers back to Bunqu’s estate, I hop one of the last PODS by sneaking in after a late-night commuter. I pretend to press my palm against the reader to register my identity, and then jump the POD right before the door closes after the woman in front of me. She stares out the window, her face blank as a new canvas, ignoring my presence altogether as the POD glides into motion. So much the better.

  At the stop nearest Bunqu’s estate, an illuminated field of glowing succulents leads me through a pebbled path and down the long road to Bunqu’s private gate. Why has he summoned me?

  As the gate comes into view, my pulse jumps. I key in the code the general gave me before Meera and I headed out, and the gate slides open, soft as a whisper. Inside, a sleek, low-slung structure composed of concrete, glass, and bamboo blends into the landscaping. I look up at the second-floor window next to which I spent most of my day. The light’s out in my room, but a soft golden glow emanates from the wide front window, even though it is mostly hidden by a bamboo shade. Something about the wide lawn dotted only with neatly trimmed ornamental trees makes me nervous. Bunqu says he refused the offer of perimeter guards, telling Aulion that he could damn well take care of any threat himself—not that anyone would ever dream of taking on Bunqu. I trained with him one morning this week. The man’s a solid wall, as fast as quicksilver and stronger than anyone I’ve met. I didn’t dare even hold his punching bag. He claims to be an expert in every kind of martial arts he’s been able to study, and I believe him. Apparently, so does Aulion. Still, the pit of my stomach feels hollowed out, and I walk faster, wondering what, by all that grows, is waiting for m
e inside.

  Nervous about going through the front door, I head around the side, toward the entryway hidden by a high concrete wall. Fumbling with the keypad to enter the password, I type: Listen to the forest floor. I can’t help but smile at the line. When I asked what the verse was from, Bunqu waved my question away and said he’d tried his hand at writing poetry a few years back and none of it was any good. He’d liked that line, though, so it became his security code for the house.

  I pass through a garage where a sleek hovercar is parked. By the time I hurry down the hallway and pass through the kitchen, I can hear voices. I head for the front room, but then stop. The doors to the back veranda, where Bunqu has a covered sitting area adorned with flowering vines, fruit trees, mosaiced floors, and an inviting firepit, are wide open. I step out and stop dead. Bunqu looks up from serving tea and says, “Ah, Remy. We’ve got guests.”

  Soren and Osprey, both sporting smudged faces and dark circles under their eyes and wearing clothes that have not seen soap in days if not weeks, sit wearily, leaning on the table.

  “What? When? How did you get here? You don’t have bad news, do you?”

  “Not even a ‘hi’ after you abandoned us in Okaria two months ago?” Soren says, with classic Skaarsgard sarcasm. I start to reach around the table to hug him, but he waves me off. “My bones hurt.”

  Osprey punches him in the shoulder.

  “What a baby. Can’t handle a few days in the woods on foot.”

  “Forty kilometers a day is a grueling pace,” Soren retorts.