by Makansi, K.
So I rolled up a few pieces of paper up into a scroll, tied it with a piece of twine, and stuck it in my pack to give to Joral—once he’s lying unconscious at my feet.
I turn a hard left around to the back of the building, toward the little side-door that has only a palm scanner, not a retinal piece as well.
There, Joral and Rose are waiting for me—though Joral, lying on his back and gazing up at the stars, looks nothing like he did when I spoke to him earlier.
“I need to,” he says slowly, “see Annnnnnaaaaa. She’s from the wiiiiiilds.”
Nice work, Rose, I think. I bite back a laugh. He definitely enjoyed the chocolate she was to give him earlier tonight. The chocolate Bear and I laced with dreamweed, a potent psychotropic drug, one of Rhinehouse’s creations. Eli says Rhinehouse manipulated the genes in salvia divinorum, a hallucinogen, to create dreamweed, used mostly for medicinal purposes to help ease chronic pain, anxiety, and bipolar disorder. “I don’t think he expected it to grow so well,” Eli said then. “Now, it grows all over the Wilds. Hence dreamweed.” It’s also a powerful amnesiac, if taken in the right dosage. I’m hoping we gave Joral the right dosage.
Bear and I dried a few of the leaves and ground them to a fine powder, mashing them in with some melted chocolate before allowing it to solidify. Neither of us were certain the plant would have the same effect when dried, but Joral is clearly feeling the effects.
“Il est fini,” Rose says. Rose is by herself tonight. She’d said Luis was expected at some sort of meeting and couldn’t help tonight, and it was very courageous of her to agree to help us by herself.
“Thank you,” Bear says. She gives us a quick nod and disappears around the corner of the building to keep watch.
“Joral!” I whisper, as loudly as I dare, crouching down to his side. He rolls his head and grins at me.
“‘Ey, Anna,” he says, too loudly, the sounds slow, drawn-out. I even see a little bit of drool pooling by his lips. “Why’re you here?”
“I got your paper, Joral,” I whisper, fighting the urge to slap a hand over his mouth. “But I need your help, okay?”
My adrenaline rising, I check my surroundings. But there’s nothing. Unless they’re wearing heat-cloaking gear—which is very possible—there’s no one else here.
“You brought me paper? For my son?”
“Yes, for your son—and for you. Now, I need you to do something for me. Okay?”
“Okaaaay. Yeah. You help me, I help you. Riiiiight?” He’s not even looking at me. His eyes are wide but unfocused, staring through the spotted darkness of the sky.
“Joral, I need you to scan me into this building, okay?”
“Okaaaaay,” he says.
He doesn’t move.
Glancing around, aware of the fact that drones or other Enforcers could show up at any moment, I grab Joral’s hands and try to pull him to his feet. Finally, he stands, a weird, loopy smile on his face, and looks down at me.
“You’ve got stars in your eyes,” he says, staring up at my face as I drag him closer to the door.
“I’m sure I do. Can you please put your hand to the palm scanner, Joral?” He nods at me, still smiling, and this time, wobbles to the scanner and puts his hand up to it.
“Liquid,” he says, muttering. “Gooey.”
“What are you saying?”
“The ground … it’s moving.” He’s squinting at the scanner, which has just beeped in recognition and flashed green. I dart to his side and punch in the code. Another gift from Rose.
3-1-4-7-Z-H-U-C-F.
The door swings open.
I whisper a silent thank you and whistle three times, the signal to Bear and Rose that the door’s open. In a matter of seconds, they’re at my side. With Bear propping the door open, I pull the scroll of paper out of my backpack and place it in Joral’s hand. His fingers wrap around it lightly, perhaps sensing the fragility of the gift.
I help Rose get Joral to start walking back to his cabin. With luck, he’ll wake up in the morning a little nauseated, but otherwise totally fine and with no memory of anything that happened while he was high.
“Look! The sky is full of eyes and they’re all winking at me!” he exclaims. Rose shoots us a pointed look, as if to say, I never thought I’d see him like this, and they disappear into the darkness.
Inside, Bear pulls the heavy door shut behind us, enveloping us in pitch black. He takes a step forward and the lights around us come on, illuminating the interior of this section of the building. I thank our lucky stars there are no windows.
“Now what?” Bear whispers.
I stare at the hundreds of glass vials, plasma monitors, hologram displays, microscopes, and pieces of equipment I can’t begin to name. The task before us is daunting.
“We begin the revolution.” I drop my pack, and Bear does the same. I pull out our waterskins, now full of a sugar solution Bear and I spent all day yesterday concocting using stolen sugar and honey from the food stores. We were only able to make five liters, but from what I learned from Kenzie about the Dieticians and how a lab operates, that should be plenty to start.
Bear wanders over to one of the stacks of shelves, piled high with dusty old equipment, plasma screens now years out of date, empty glass jars, and broken security equipment while I carry the waterskins over to one of the polished metal tables in the center of the room, Bear starts reaching up to pull something off the shelf.
“Don’t,” I say abruptly. He jerks his hand back, as though hit by a low-charge Bolt blast. “We don’t want to touch anything we don’t need to.”
Although I know it’s nearly impossible not to leave any identifiers behind, we can still try. There’s a reason my springy hair is tucked under a black hood, both Bear and I are wearing thin gloves I’d stolen from Hodges, the nurse at Normandy, and covered nearly head to toe so as not to leave behind dead skin cells. They’ll figure out we were here eventually, I’m sure, but the longer we can delay that, the better.
“Vraiment, Remy, what is this stuff?”
“It’s a lot of different things. See that, there?” I point to a large microscope in the corner. “That’s used to look at things that are very, very small, like cells. Or even smaller, like molecules, proteins, fats, and amino acids.”
“I know what fat is,” he pats his stomach, “but what are molecules, proteins and amino acids?”
I look up from my pack and smile. Wow. No one’s ever depended on me for a biology lesson before. “Let’s see. Molecules are the smallest part of a chemical compound that can be part of a chemical reaction. I guess the best explanation of a protein is that it is an organic—that sort of means made from living or potentially living materials—compound made up of molecules that give living tissue structure.” I reach out and press his forehead with my thumb. “Your skin, hair, and muscles are made of protein.”
“And what about the last one, amino acids?”
“Amino acids are basic organic compounds, meaning they’re made of molecules, and they’re important because they are the building blocks of proteins.”
“Oh,” he says, though his head is still cocked to the side, confused. He changes the subject, pointing down a darkened aisle at rows and rows of tiny containers holding some kind of clear liquid. “Are these the chemicals we’re going to replace with our sugar water?”
“Yes.” I pause. “We might not have quite enough to replace everything they have in this lab. But we should have enough to do some serious damage.”
“What do we do?” he asks.
“I’ll show you.”
I take a skin of water over to the sink. Using a lab tray, I grab as many of the vials as possible and bring them over. One by one, I pop the rubber stoppers and dump the contents down the drain. There goes Apathy, I tell myself, and there’s Ignorance, and there’s Blind Trust, washed so quickly and easily down the drain. I know the science behind these little vials is a thousand times more complicated, intricate biochemical interactions,
individual biology, and even, simple chance, but it’s more rewarding to think of this process not as chemistry but as restoration. We’re giving the people back their humanity.
Bear watches as I grab a micropipette and begin the slow process of refilling the vials with our placebo. Though I never took but the one basic required lab class, I spent enough time watching Tai and my mother work that I know my way around most of the simpler equipment. As I work, I read the labels written on the glass, trying to remember what the letters and numbers mean from my brief stint in organic chemistry, but it’s like reading another language. I’d need Soren or Eli to interpret for me.
Bear replaces the vials I’ve filled and pulls more off the shelves. I glance over my shoulder and my heart sinks: this will take hours, and we only have until dawn. And that’s assuming no one walks in on us to check on a timed experiment.
Working as quickly as possible, Bear and I pipet sugar water into hundreds of vials. Soon, my thumb is tired and I’m yawning, using all of my focus to try to stay awake.
“Only one skin left,” Bear says, finally, when I’m afraid I’m going to topple from sheer boredom. When I’ve finally drained the last waterskin, I heave a sigh of relief and pack up as quickly as possible. Bear darts around like a minnow, methodically putting everything back into place exactly as we found it. I find a bottle of sanitizing solution and quickly wipe down the counters and sink. When everything looks pristine, we grab our bags and turn to head out the way we came.
We weren’t able to replace every chemical on the shelf, but we got through at least two thirds of them. I wish I had a better idea of how far in advance the MealPaks are prepared. If the Dieticians prepare them the day of consumption, the workers here could begin to notice withdrawal symptoms within twenty four to forty eight hours. If the Paks are prepared in advance, though, they might not feel the effects of our tampering for a few days.
Either way, I’m betting on no more than a week before the ‘sickness’ starts to go around, and this time, the Farm workers will be capable of wondering why.
Outside, I hold my breath as I blink three times to reactivate the infrared sensors in my contacts. For a moment, I panic and imagine I’ll open the door to see a dozen Sector airships hovering overhead. But as I crack the door and stare out into the night, I’m greeted only by silence. Bear and I slip through the door, thankful that there’s not nearly as much security this time of night, and jog through the fields back the way we came.
By the time we’ve made it back up to the cliff overlook, which quickly became our favorite spot, I’m grinning like a loon and fighting the urge to shout in triumph. We did it! I want to scream to the sky. Instead, I turn to Bear, my confidante and teammate, and whisper:
“Let’s see what the Bosses make of that.”
The next day we sneak back in and spend much of the day trying to talk with the other farm workers, telling them more or less the same story that we told Luis and Rose.
But we’re not having much luck. I didn’t expect that placebo MealPaks would take effect in less than 24 hours, but it’s still somewhat disappointing that pretty much everyone acts exactly the same: hesitant, confused, skeptical, or downright hostile. A few people, like Rose, seem to have retained a little more of their defiance, their vitality, but without a personal connection, it’s near impossible to get them to listen—especially when I’m trying to remain “Anna” and not Traitor Remy Alexander. Revealing my name is just too risky right now.
Bear and I sit around our campfire, exchanging reports of our various conversations during the day. After hours of talking with different workers, probing them about Andre and Sam, and hiding drawings all around the Farms in locations where workers would be likely to find them, it feels as if we’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Be patient, Little Bird—I imagine my grandfather’s voice in my head. He would always say that as he dangled a fresh date, my favorite dessert, in front of me. I wouldn’t get the date until I told him all about what I learned in school that day, the fun things I did with my friends, the drawings I was excited about. After all that I had to give him a big fat kiss on the cheek, and only then would I get my dessert. Delaying gratification can be sweeter than gobbling down your treat without anticipating it, without truly savoring it, he’d insist with a waggle of his finger.
But I’m not waiting for a little piece of fruit. I’m waiting for a sign. We need a sign that the workers are waking up, that the people will rise, that the Resistance will finally take a stand against the enemy we’ve been cowering from all these years. The sign is coming, I tell myself, over and over again, the words echoing in my head. I can feel it in my bones: the last evening of silence.
Something big is going to happen, and I am ready for it.
15 - VALE
Spring 8, SA 106, 15h00
Gregorian Calendar: March 27
It’s now day four of looking for Remy, and we’re getting desperate. The Director only gave us seventy-two hours, though Eli’s taken to muttering “Damn her and her orders,” under his breath at every opportunity. I had to work hard to suppress a sense of triumph when Soren insisted Remy would be at the Farm nearest to Normandy, but she turned out to be nowhere in sight.
Earlier today, Jahnu wisely observed that Remy might have chosen Bear to accompany her, instead of any of us, for a reason. “I think we ought to think a little less about ourselves and a little more about Remy, about why she left and why Bear went with her,” he said. I acknowledged his subtle reprimand with a smile and earned a wink in return. “Why would she have asked Bear to go with her as opposed to any one of us?” he went on. “By that logic, she’s almost certainly at the farm Bear came from—Farm Ten, right?”
“Round Barn,” Kenzie said, from his side.
“Jeesh, Jahnu, why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Soren asked.
Jahnu shrugged. “I just thought of it last night. Kenzie and I were talking—”
“A little pillow talk, eh?” Miah cut in with a teasing smile and an elbow to Kenzie’s ribs. Kenzie just rolled her eyes in that Miah, you’re such a goof way she has, but Jahnu ignored him, continuing in his earnest manner.
“—and she mentioned that Remy might not be in the places we’re looking because we’re thinking about it from our perspective, not hers. We’ve searched all over Twelve and Four because they’re easily accessible from Normandy, but of course she wasn’t there—why go to those Farms when you’ve got someone with you who knows the ins and outs of Ten?”
“Why, indeed,” Eli asked, turning his glare on Soren.
“Don’t blame me for thinking rationally,” Soren mutters. “Although why I thought Remy’d be rational for once is beyond me.”
“Bickering gets us nowhere closer to Remy,” I said. “Jahnu’s idea is a good one. Let’s head to Round Barn and see if we can get radio contact or a sonar lead on her or the car she, uh, requisitioned from Normandy.”
A few hours later, we’re buzzing around the perimeters of Farm Ten, all our cloaking capacities engaged, and Eli’s surfing the radio frequencies, trying to get a bite.
“Montana Three, do you read? This is Montana Four,” he repeats, over and over again, using his and Remy’s code names. Everyone in the Resistance has a code name based on family groupings and on places from the Old World countries of North America. Miah and I even have our own names now—Calgary One and Two.
“Montana Three, do you read? This is Montana Four.” He cycles through the frequencies again and again until we hear what we’ve all been waiting for. My head snaps around, my heart thudding to a stop.
“Montana Three here. What’s the word?” A wide smile spreads across Eli’s face. There’s static, but Remy’s voice is strong. Relief floods my veins like a drug.
“Eighty-three, and where the—” The current date on the Sector calendar is always the “word.” These code phrases help confirm that the two people radioing each other are both Resistance fighters, and not Sector operatives who may have obtained a
code name illicitly.
“And the time?” Remy cuts Eli off before he can start his tirade. The current season is the “time” and each season is assigned a color. Before Eli answers, he shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“The time is fucking purple, okay? Now tell me where the hell you are!”
“Where are you?”
“In your neighborhood, cruising the skies.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for you, stupid. What do you think?”
Our airship is too big to set down near the coordinates Remy gave us, so we land about five kilometers away and radio our coordinates to them. We wait about thirty minutes, the anxiety palpable, before Remy and Bear arrive at a jog. When they pull up short, staring around at the apparently empty field, Eli jumps out of the cloaked ship like a madman, and Remy almost shoots him on the spot. I would have been startled, too, had a manic, fully-grown man jumped at me out of thin air. Much hugging ensues, and I hang at the back of the group and wait until they’ve greeted everyone else.
Her eyes finally catch mine; this time, there is no apprehension in her eyes as they alight on me. Relief washes over me, and I step forward as Miah moves to the side. But once I’m in front of her, I don’t know what to do. Hug her? No. Shake her hand? Hardly. So I wave. Smooth, Vale. Really smooth. Why the press thought I was such a “playboy” back in Okaria is beyond me, since I rarely dated and apparently cannot even properly greet a pretty woman. If Linnea Heilmann saw me now, she’d be laughing her ass off.
