The Harvest (14 page)

“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 on 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 me 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.

“At least you didn't get typhoid fever,” Osprey says brightly.

“What's typhoid fever?” I ask. Osprey shakes her head. “You don't want to know. ”

“No bad news today.” Soren holds up his cup. “Just tea. This is ten times better than anything Rhinehouse ever served us.”

“Forget tea. I keep telling General Onion here that I need something stronger,” Osprey scowls up at Bunqu. “I need a proper capital city cocktail after the trip we've had.”

“Tea first,” Bunqu says. “To calm the nerves. Then I'll fetch a couple of bottles of sparkling wine worthy of a true welcome.”

“I recommend a Chateau Ile d'Orleáns. My grandfather's vineyard has always produced a fine wine.”

I turn. There, standing in the doorway with a washcloth in his hand and a freshly-scrubbed face, is Vale. His black hair is a riot, and he looks exhausted, but he's clearly tried to make himself presentable. He looks at me with those bright sea-green eyes that make me think of sun-lit water, and I wonder how it is that he makes me feel so
known
. My breath catches. I can't move.

“I … what …
how is this possible
?” I stutter, unable to think, to react.

But then I don't have to. Vale's arms are around me, pulling my body into his, his breath warm against my forehead, and I don't have to say anything at all.

“Remy Alexander,” he whispers, “may I—”

I don't wait. I stand on tiptoes, skim my hand up to the back of his neck and bring him to me. There's a moment where everything else disappears. It feels like lying on Granddad's dock, feet dangling in the water, clouds drifting by overhead, like biting into spring's first ripe strawberry, so perfect the juice drips down your chin. It's probably only a couple of seconds but it carves out an expanding space in my chest that tells me
this
is what happiness is.

And then it's over.

He pulls away, and conscious thought rushes back in like a tide. He reaches down to take my hand.

“Done yet?” Soren asks.

“Don't be an ass,” Osprey says, pressing her fingertips playfully to his cheek, turning his face away from her in a mock-slap. “It's not like you haven't kissed me in public more than once. Matter of fact, that was pretty tame compared to what you—”