The Harvest (10 page)

Then Meera's fingers encircle the other woman's wrist. She clamps down. She twists the woman's arm across her body, spinning her a hundred and eighty degrees, and grabs her free hand as it goes out wide in a desperate attempt to steady herself. Swiftly she pulls both of her hands behind her back. The woman yelps in pain, and Meera pulls the Watchman's body in front of her own, a human shield in defense against deadly fire from the other officer.

The whole thing takes about a second and a half. The other Watchman jerks his Bolt out, but his instinct is to aim for Meera. Distracted, he barely notices me. But the fumes are already starting to take a toll. His weapon is unsteady and his legs are as wobbly as mine looked just a moment ago.

In the same instant as Meera grabs the woman's wrist, I launch, using the wall to propel myself forward. In a move that might have finally scored me a goal in our old games of football at Thermopylae, I slide-tackle the other Watchman's shins, and he collapses in an awkward heap on top of me.

He's small for a man, but his weight might still have pinned me if I hadn't rolled out of the way at the last second. He's managed to hold onto his Bolt, but I scramble to my knees to pull it from him. By this point, he's hardly putting up a fight. I pull the gun out of his limp hands. He stares at me for a moment, his jaw slack. Then his eyes roll back and his head falls uselessly to the floor.

Meera's Watchman has also collapsed. She's lying on her side, at Meera's feet, her arms tied behind her back with a strip of bioplastic.

“Concentrated, aerosolized valerian root,” she whispers.
Vale would be proud
. “Your own James Rhinehouse came up with that, you know. It's not an Outsider concoction.”

I stare at the two Watchmen, lying limp as if dead, and I remember Rhinehouse telling us about the bioweapons he'd spent so many years creating.

“Botanical guard dogs,” I'd said, walking through his hidden lab. “That's terrifying.”

“Yes,” he said, a shadow clouding his face. “Now, I spend my time developing effective antidotes.” I could hear the guilt in his voice, the regret that he'd spent so much of his life turning these beautiful plants into deadly weapons.

“Come on,” Meera whispers. “Let's get the drone!”

We spare a few seconds to tie up the other Watchman and gag both of them. We leave them with the flower, which will continue blooming for at least another fifteen minutes, and the effects of the gas won't start to wear off for another hour after that. I follow Meera down the hall, pulling the knife out of my boot as we creep up to the corner, waiting. She risks a glance around the edge of the wall, and pulls back immediately.

“Security drone. Level five, by my guess. Dual-capacitor Bolt and both sonar and vidcam capabilities.”

“The drone must be making up for the incompetence of the Watchmen.”

She nods in agreement. Her usual buoyancy is gone, replaced by a look of determination. We prepared for this.

The challenge in both of these fights is not taking out the opponent. The challenge is doing so unnoticed, without firing our weapons. Both of us have contraband Bolts, ones that won't immediately call for aid from nearby Watchmen, drones, and SDF forces upon discharge. But Shia warned us that given the tense air around the Sector after Round Barn and Linnea's broadcast, there are probably electrical discharge sensors mapping the whole arena. They're looking for you, he'd said. If we fire our weapons, we could bring the security detail for the whole stadium down on top of us. And given what we have planned, that's the last thing we want.

“You first,” Meera says. She's stronger than I am, but I've got better aim with a knife. So I back up and set my feet.

As I release the tension in my body, I break into a sprint. I hit my right foot, banking into a hard left around the corner. I dive and roll, keeping my face hidden from view for as long as possible. When I roll up, it's already focusing on me, zooming in, trying to fit me into its algorithms:
is this characteristic of threatening human activity
? While it thinks, I take another two steps forward and square up. I rear back and throw the knife as hard as I can at the drone's lone unblinking eye.

The glass lens shatters. The drone freezes temporarily, switching from primary digital navigation to sonar. Meera careens past me a second later, taking advantage of the downtime. She takes a flying leap and catches it by the semi-spherical rotor and drags it to the ground. The drone can't support her weight, so it starts to sink, tilting sideways. A drone's sonar sensors aren't nearly as detailed as the cameras, but it has the advantage of being able to see and process information in every direction at once. But its weapons systems don't have the same range of motion. It can't lock onto her from this angle, not unless it gets free from her grip. The drone's dual-capacitor Bolt swivels down as far as it can go—but it's not far enough. Unable to lock onto the target, it won't fire, and Meera is able to jam her knife into its rotor, crippling it. When it stops flying and collapses to the ground, she quickly opens the top to access the nanocircuitry, and with a few deft motions on the glass panel, disables the whole thing.

“We're in,” she says quietly.

Because drones aren't remotely controlled—their AI is sufficient to get them through almost all human interactions—the footage from the camera and sonar recordings probably won't be seen for several hours, once the Sector starts trying to piece together what happened here.

With nothing standing between us and the projection room, I'm almost more nervous than before the fight.
Now I tear off the mask concealing the true face of Okaria.

Together we walk to the door and pull out our Bolts. I tie my scarf over my face, and Meera follows suit. She presses her palm to the palm reader. It flashes green, and the door swings open.

We walk in.

The projection room isn't the same as the control room, Shia told us. This is where all the recordings are stored from every camera drone around the stadium. All the raw material comes here first for storage. Then, in a much higher-security room in the basement of the stadium, all that footage is edited live and on the fly, the best shots and angles are selected, the colors are brightened, the athletes are made glossier and sharper, and then the final product is sent back up here to be broadcast out to Okaria via a series of giant antennae on top of the stadium.

“All you have to do is swap some of the circuitry around and plug in the footage you have via UMIT,” Shia told us, just this morning, as we went over our final plans. “The guys in the control room won't even know they're not broadcasting the games until someone tells them that what's displaying on the vidscreens across the Sector is different than what they're sending out.”

I'd nodded. “We're cutting out the middleman.”

“Exactly,” Shia responded.

“They'll know you did it,” Meera said softly, concerned for our newfound ally. Shia shrugged, looking uncomfortable, trying to put on a tough face. “As soon as we palm in with your fingerprints and plug in Remy's footage, they'll come after you. They'll come after you long before they find us.”

“Can you get him out of the city?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said, turning to Shia. “But you have to leave tonight, or not at all.” Shia went white. He pulled back from the table where we sat in Meera's apartment, his knuckles taut and his eyes wide. “There's an outbound truck headed to Belleron tonight. I can get you in. They'll drop you off near an Outsider waystation and you can take it from there.”

“I'm not ready to leave,” Shia said, panic in his voice.

“Are you ready to die?” Meera asked, matter-of-factly. “Because our plans are made. There's never been a better time. If you want to help expose the truth, we have to do this. And the second we do, you'll be in the crosshairs.”

So Shia left, with a survival pack for the Wilds, detailed instructions on how to get to the nearest Resistance base, and my reassurances that I would call him back as soon as it ever became safe for him to return.

“I hope I see you again one day,” he said to me, his tall frame stooped as he hugged me goodbye. “I'm glad I met you, Remy Alexander.”

“I'm glad I met you, too, Shia,” I said. “And don't forget to have the base director contact Eli at headquarters as soon as you make it to safety. The Wilds are nothing like how the Sector portrays them. You don't need to pack a hazmat suit. The most dangerous thing you could encounter is a mother badger. Or maybe a grizzly.” I punched him playfully in the shoulder.

He put his hands over his face. “You're not really helping, Remy. A grizzly sounds terrifying.”

“Oh, no,” I reassured him, “grizzlies are nothing compared to angry badgers. You'll be fine,” I said more seriously. “I've spent a lot of time in the Wilds, now. It's beautiful. Follow our directions, and you'll make it to the Resistance safely.”

Now I look around the projection room. It's a tiny, cramped space, no bigger than some of the bunk rooms back at Normandy. I pull out the tiny magnetic drive I've been carrying with me for months now, wondering when, if ever, I would have use for it. This is the footage I hope will start the revolution.

The fire has been lit
,
Vale
, I told him, before the battle at Round Barn, when we all learned how Evander Sun-Zi earned his nickname.
Now we just have to carry the torch.

I thought long and hard about whether to edit Vale out of the footage. I almost asked Shia to take him out completely. After all, I don't want to put him into any more danger than he's already in. But I ultimately decided he had to stay in. It would sow more doubt about the veracity of the Orleáns' story.

While Meera works with the nanocircuitry, following Shia's instructions, I watch the file directory pull up on the tiny plasma screen provided for data transfer. There's only one file. It's called
The Dragon
.

“It's all ready,” Meera says.

I hesitate, afraid to touch the screen, afraid of what will happen when I do.
They'll know I'm here. They'll know I'm in Okaria. They'll find me, and they'll kill me.

I select the file, and a dialog box comes up.

Upload?

I hit yes.

If I'm caught—if I die—it'll be worth it. The mask has been pulled away. Now, no one in Okaria will be able to hide from the truth.

9 - VALE

Spring 76,
Sector Annum
106, 06h45

Gregorian Calendar: June 3

Philip paces. I've been listening to his footfalls back and forth across the airship cabin for the better part of ten minutes. He hasn't said a word, but the tension is so tangible it rolls over his shoulders like a morning fog over Lake Okaria. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there yesterday. He's barely uttered a word since we boarded. Two nights ago, at the Pan-Okarian Gymnasia Championship, Remy somehow hijacked the media control center and broadcast the footage from the farms to every screen in the Sector. It must have been her, because she kept that footage in case it came in handy—and it did. Ironically, although it was the first night my parents allowed me to access the vidscreen, I almost missed the broadcast.

I'd been reading all day and needed a mindless break. The cook had prepared my dinner and one of my guards brought it to my room with the announcement that, if I wanted, I was allowed to eat in the family room. Family room. I almost laughed aloud and said
thanks, but no thanks
, but the truth was I needed out, so I dutifully followed him down the hall to where I'd spent many happy hours with my parents and friends. The scent of the garden wafted in from the open windows, and I could smell jasmine and lilac in the air. The long couch was more than inviting, so I stretched out and tried to relax.

The guard placed my tray on the low table in front of the couch, activated the vidscreen, and took up his post out in the hallway. My parents were attending the annual competition in person, of course, and watching it wasn't high on my list of priorities so I barely paid attention to the first half. Instead I ate my dinner and then walked around the room, surveying the trinkets and memorabilia on the shelves, examining the books and artwork, some by Okarian authors and artists, some saved from the Old World.

In the background, the sounds on the screen shifted. Angry yelling, people crying out. Panting, footsteps pounding on the ground.

“Don't move!” someone shouted. I turned to the vidscreen. The video was jerky, clearly recorded by somebody in motion. It panned around quickly, so fast it was hard to tell what was happening. The idyllic setting—rows upon rows of vegetables, trellised vines, and trees dotting the landscape—clashed with the chaos in the foreground. In the distance a soldier, wearing a Farm Enforcer's uniform, kneeled with his weapon trained on an unarmed man. As the video turned back, I recognized the large, distinctive red barn.

By the harvest. This is Remy's footage. This is Round Barn.

“Don't shoot, don't shoot!” the man screams. “My hands are—” Then a crackle. Bolt fire. The man on the screen crumpled, his chest lit up in blue.

“Hey!” The landscape tilts as Remy runs forward. When the Enforcer turns toward the sound, a blue blast emerges from right beneath the camera. He collapses to the ground. More footsteps as Remy runs to the man's limp body. The camera gets a clear shot of the man's face as she rolls him over.

“You'll be fully recovered in a few days.” Her voice was barely audible, but the disdain came through loud and clear. “Unlike the man you just murdered.”

My heart pounded.
Who did this?
This footage could out me. If they showed me on screen, they'd blow my cover. Then I asked myself: is that really such a bad thing? If everyone in the Sector believes Jeremiah kidnapped me, watching me fight Evander at Round Barn would show them where my allegiance truly lies.

I have my own tragic memories of that day, but by watching the broadcast I was able to see everything through Remy's eyes. Farm workers cried out with hunger, asking why they were being starved, protesting that they just wanted food, food they'd helped plant and tend, helped nurture and harvest. Evander's airships hummed in the background, but you couldn't see them quite yet.

I wanted to turn away. The thought of watching it all unfold again put a pit in my gut. I didn't want to see the fire shooting out from Sector airships like dragon's breath in an old fairy tale. I didn't want to see the burning bodies. I didn't want to see Evander's smirking, self-satisfied face. I didn't want to watch as Remy's hands carved Evander's flesh.

But I couldn't turn away. I needed to see what the rest of Okaria was seeing.

As Evander's airships moved into view and their cannons breathed fire on the crowd below, I could only imagine the chaos unfolding at the auditorium where thousands of spectators were watching this for the first time. What were my parents—sitting pretty in their Presidential Viewing Room—thinking? Had they already deployed officers to catch Remy and whoever else might've helped her? What excuse would the Sector come up with to smooth this one over?

A firm hand on my shoulder startled me from my shock. The vidscreen shut off and the guard hustled me back to my room, locking the door behind me in a matter of seconds.

Now, in the airship on the way to Windy Pines, a factory town on the western edge of the Sector, I watch my father pace. He must have seen me on the footage, Evander's boot pressing into my throat, right before Remy tackled him, but he hasn't said a word about it. With an unreadable glance my way, he turns on his heel, strides into the cockpit, and slaps the palmer behind him. The door slides shut with a whisper, and finally the oppressive weight of his footfalls is gone.

The guard opposite me shifts uncomfortably under General Aulion's scrutiny. An ordinary, if high-ranking, Sector Defense Forces captain, he hasn't been through the same intense emotional training as the two black ops at my side, who have barely blinked in the two hours since we boarded the airship. My father's restless pacing and abrupt departure has set everyone on edge. But most of us are wise enough not to show it.

Still maintaining the illusion among the guards that I am “a danger to myself,” my parents ordered that I be accompanied by at least two guards at all times. I am scheduled to speak after my father today, in an attempt to reassure the citizens of the Sector that I am still one of them. Aulion has taken it upon himself to head up my personal entourage of guards. When he volunteered, my mother approved with what I can only describe as barely contained enthusiasm; my father has been too distracted to notice what I suspect to be some sort of unstated understanding between Aulion and my mother. The General's eyes haven't once left me since we lifted off, and the hairs on my neck are standing at attention as authoritatively as the guard across from me.

“It's hard to tell what's going on in the inner network of the C-Links, now that I've separated myself from them,” Demeter says in my ear. “But I believe Evander is going to make a speech in response to Remy's broadcast. The networks are being prepared. Camera drones have been dispatched to the OAC building. Jon Spironiv, the ONN spokesman, has entered Corine's office. Inside her office, I'm afraid, I am blind. I'm still trying to figure out a way into her security system, but so far, no luck. ”

Demeter has essentially gone renegade since she was forced to cordon herself off from the C-Link network after my mother fed her false information. She can't access the same wealth of data she could while she was my authorized personal assistant, but what she can do now is almost more helpful: monitor all movements on the general Okarian network, including drone, airship, PODS,
and any humans linked into them, all without herself being monitored. She also has access to everything in the public information network, which includes the Personhood database, some parts of the Dieticians' database, and anything accessible through the Okarian library system. She might not be able to guide me through top-secret files like she once could, but in a way, this is better. She's free from the constraints of her identity as my assistant; she can do whatever she pleases. And that means she can take initiative, investigate ideas and people without instructions or commands, use back doors to embed herself in various parts of the network the C-Link system doesn't monitor. She has become, as some old sage predicted, a ghost in the machine.

“My sense is that Evander will speak to the nation right after your speech at Windy Pines.”

Perfect timing.

I can feel the airship begin to descend, the gentle weight being lifted from my shoulders as the ship floats down toward the ground. The heavy tripods extend with a
whirr
, and a moment later we settle onto an airfield landing pad. The peace of flight is disrupted. Everyone is in motion. My father emerges from the cabin. He gestures for me to follow him, and I stand to obey. The guards follow at a careful distance. They must not appear to be coercing me. Corine will have drilled that into them.

I watch my father as we step out of the airship, the cockeyed smile that always comforted me now set on his face as if it had been carved in stone. Although my mother appears firm in her conviction that their chosen path is the right one, my father seems to be fraying at the edges. Whether through fatigue or self-doubt, it's hard to say, but either way, he's lost some of the confidence he had just a few months ago.

“Dad?” I say quietly, and he jerks his head around to look at me. “Are you okay?”

He stares at me for a few seconds, and then says, simply, “You haven't called me that in a long time.”

Unsure how to respond with Aulion and the guards mere meters behind us, I hold his gaze. Another quiet moment passes, and then he turns back and palms the door. The stairway unfolds to a walkway lined with thick grass sparkling with dew in the bright morning sun. As he steps out, head down, away from the cameras, he mutters so softly I can barely hear him: “What have we done?”

I keep my composure—I've had a lot of practice recently—but my heart lurches to a stop as though it's been slammed against a wall.
Maybe there's hope,
I say to myself.
At least for him.

Outside, the air is warm and humid, and smells of chemical dye. There are additional SDF forces lining the perimeter of the landing pad and a few camera drones floating around, but they are both outnumbered by the Windy Pines Town Council members. They'll accompany us to one of the factories for a tour and then to the town square where my father and I will speak. I haven't been on many tours of the factory towns, but normally, the people are enthusiastic, warm, and welcoming. No such thing today. We are surrounded by frowns, dark expressions, furrowed brows. My father flashes a tight, practiced smile and waves, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm. I do not follow suit.

“Daryl, Evan, Clarisse,” Philip says, shaking hands, kissing cheeks. His strength has always been his warmth and charisma, that easy smile, the genuinely kind way he speaks to people. Today he's trying, but there is a stilted quality to every word, every movement. “Lyle, Kara. Hello, my friends. It's been too long.”

“Indeed,” one of the men says, almost as straight-backed and formal as I am. “We're glad to have you here, Chancellor, and honored to be the first stop on your tour.” But he doesn't look glad or honored. His eyes skitter around, between me and Philip, taking in my guards, and then over to the other council members, who are waiting, quiet and tense. “Captain Orleán, the people of the Sector are glad to have you back safe and sound, though I understand it was a long and arduous process of healing.”

The honorific
Captain
surprises me.
Apparently I've been promoted
, I think wryly.
I wish someone would keep me up to date with all the stories my parents are telling
. “I am well now,” I respond neutrally. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Come,” Clarisse says, turning with a sweeping gesture.

We follow her and the other councilmembers to a platform where a tram has been cordoned off for us. As the doors slide open and we step inside, I think back to the briefing with my mother yesterday as she informed me I was accompanying my father on a speaking tour of the factory towns.

“Windy Pines specializes in textiles. You should remember this from your lessons, Vale,” my mother said. I did remember, but I allowed her to continue without interruption. “There are shipping lines from Pines to Sakari, Lesedi, and North Port, all of which have been experiencing, shall we say, interference from unidentified bands of fugitives looking to use the shipping infrastructure for their own purposes.” I fought the urge to laugh, remembering the Resistance plan to hijack shipping lines to distribute seeds and unmodified food throughout the Sector, and how I was present at the meeting where that plan was born. “Windy Pines isn't the only town experiencing such disruptions, and we suspect that the outlaws are getting help from one or more people on the inside. We're sending you and the chancellor on this trip to reassure the residents and workers that everything is under control.”

We're sending you and the chancellor?
Who is the “we”? I wondered. The Board of Directors? But since when did the Board “send” the chancellor anywhere? Shouldn't the chancellor decide when and where he visited?

She laid a hand on my shoulder, then touched my cheek, as if I was still a child. “You know what to do.”

The tram sets off at a gentle glide. I take in the sights and sounds of the town as it rolls past. Once we arrive at the factory, we are given a brief tour, and I marvel at the enormous looms, nanofiber laser spinners, vats of dye, workers monitoring robotic equipment doing who knows what. In one vast, open floor, I can see stretchers the size of houses laid out to weave the sails Okarians use for sky surfers and sailboats on Lake Okaria.