The Harvest (4 page)

He strides to my bedside and drops to his knees. Takes my hand in his, brings it to his lips. I steel myself and watch him as if he's a stranger. I try to smile. I fail. His betrayal somehow seems less political, more personal, than my mother's. I can barely look at him. My skin burns with fresh anger.

“Vale,” he says, his voice catching, “son, it's good to have you back.”

I'm not back
, I want to scream.
I'm a prisoner. No different than Remy and Soren were all those months ago.

“It's good to see you, too, Dad.”

“We have so much to talk about,” he says, glancing at my mother.

“It can wait,” she says. “There is still a lot of medicine in your system—”
Drugs, you mean
“—and they may interfere with your cognitive abilities.”

“I feel fine,” I say, not wanting to miss out on anything, any piece of information, anything I can use to get out of here. “We do have a lot to talk about.” I ask my question a third time: “How long have I been asleep?”

“Doctor Nguyen was correct that you were unconscious for about two weeks.” She glances at Philip. “But you've been awake intermittently for the last few weeks.”

“Weeks?” I force myself to keep my voice at a reasonable volume. “What day is it? When was I awake? How long has it been since I—”

“It's been six weeks since you fell,” my father interjects.
Fell
, he says, like it was an accident, instead of
threw yourself off a building
.

“If I was awake before, why don't I remember anything?”

“Vale, there's something you need to know,” my mother says, “something we should have told you before. But it's a long story. Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow.”

“I feel fine.” I try to sit up, to prove I'm ready.

“Are you sure?” Something in my father's voice tells me he's dreading the coming revelation as much as I'm longing to hear it. “Here, let me get you something to drink,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. He pours a glass of water from a pitcher on the dresser, and they both watch as I take a long drink and then hand the glass back. Corine looks to my father, who tilts his head in an almost imperceptible nod. She takes a deep breath and turns back to me, now gazing at the headboard behind me.

“Three years ago, the OAC's research on human genetic modification took us in a very exciting direction. We discovered a new method of splicing genes using nanotechnology, one that would allow us to target specific cells and cell types and modify them.”

I hold my breath.

“It was groundbreaking research,” my mother continues. “With this kind of technology, we realized, we could begin to disrupt the Dieticians' MealPak additives and go straight to the source. We could alter human biochemistry directly without having to rely on a constant supply of medicines to maintain profile fidelity.”

Profile fidelity
. My heart is pounding. I can't tear my eyes away from her.

“In the initial stages, we used test subjects,” my mother continues. I don't bother to ask whether those “test subjects” volunteered to be tested or not. “But once we knew it would work, we went directly to implementation.”

“Only a few were privileged enough to receive these optimizations,” my father says, his expression utterly calm. “Your mother and I, of course. Top-ranked military staff, including several members of Corine's Security Directorate unit.”

The black ops.

“Several researchers in my trusted group at the OAC volunteered as well,” my mother says. “All in all, twenty-five people were selected or elected.”

In the woods, when I left Okaria, I never went through withdrawal, even though Miah did, even though everyone in the Resistance talked about it like it was a rite of passage.

“And I was selected.” My voice is dull. My head feels as though it's been filled with cotton. I can't quite remember how to focus my eyes. I stare at my mother's ear, to give the impression that I am looking at her, while I struggle to regain control of my vision.

“Yes, Vale,” she says. “Two years ago, your Dietician replaced the usual compounds in your MealPak with a gelatin that contained the nanobots that would alter your DNA to optimize your functioning capacity and align it with your medical profile. We were able to implant genes that improved your strength, speed, endurance, spatial imaging, memory, mental processing, creativity, and language skills. We gave you everything you ever could have wanted from your mind and body.”
What do you know about what I wanted
? “Since then, your MealPaks have been a placebo. Food, untouched, unaltered.”

“But, from a policy standpoint,” my father says, “we couldn't introduce these modifications to the general public until we were sure they worked long-term. If not, we'd have to continue supplementing the genetic alterations with Dieticians' cocktails to ensure full effectiveness.”

“Those who were selected had to be kept in the dark, so as not to compromise the integrity of the experiment. If you had known, you might have behaved differently. Since then, we've been doing routine checkups and analyses on everyone who was optimized,” my mother continues. “When you …” she pauses, searching for her words, “when you came back six weeks ago, we used that opportunity to continue your analyses to see how your optimizations had held up under duress. Using neurodisruptive technology, we temporarily disabled your ability to form new memories.”

So you could run your experiments in peace.

“So we could make sure you were as healthy and high-functioning as ever.”

I am a piece of equipment to be fixed, a tool to be utilized, a machine designed to operate according to your plan. I am your feather.

Six weeks have passed since I last saw Remy. Six weeks since the Resistance was destroyed. Where have Remy, Soren, Miah, Chan-Yu, and Linnea been all that time? Are they in custody? Were they able to escape? Are they even alive?

What do I do now?

My mother leans in close and again presses her hand into my shoulder. I meet her eyes, wondering if I'll see any spark of the humanity that once kept her alive, or just gears clicking behind her pupils, keeping time to a drumbeat of deceit.

“I'm sorry we couldn't tell you,” she whispers. She sounds so genuine, even vulnerable. But beyond this veneer of the caring, doting mother is the cold face of a woman who felt she couldn't involve her son in the first place. The two-faced monster emerges in my fuzzy vision: a mother proud and protective of her perfected creation; a mother refusing to grant her creation freedom from her twisted vise of lies. “But we wanted it for you. We've only ever wanted the best for you, Vale.”

I don't understand
, I think.
I can never forgive you
.

“I understand,” I say. “I forgive you.”

3 - REMY

Spring 62,
Sector Annum
106, 14h05

Gregorian Calendar:
May 20

“Please don't ever do that to me!” A high voice cuts into my solitude from across the park.

“I would never.” The second voice is lower, with a tremor of laughter. “How could anyone do that? Kidnap their best friend?”

I'm passing the time sitting on a bench in Reunion Park. This park is the heart of the city. To my right, about four kilometers down the Rue Nationale, is the campus of the Academy and the Sector Research Institute, the SRI. To my left, down the same street in the opposite direction, is OAC headquarters. And dead ahead down Rue Jubilation, through a grove of beautiful, century-old elm trees, is the capitol building, its glass structure arcing gracefully against the sky. The city's most famous monument, a maze of trellises and hanging gardens arranged in the shape of a sunflower, the symbol of the Okarian Sector, is at the end of Rue Jubilation. This park is one of the best places to eavesdrop on the wealthy and privileged citizens of Okaria—and those who serve them. Nearly everyone who works at one of those buildings will pass through this park at some point during the day.

It's an unseasonably chilly day for so late in spring. This works in my favor, giving me an excuse to wear a thick scarf and pull my hood up over my hair. Even so, I can't risk walking outside without my disguising makeup on, especially if I want to loiter here. Reunion Park is the closest I dare come to the places I used to know as well as the back of my hand, and even here, I feel like I'm walking on the edge of a knife.

It's worth the risk. Under the guise of sketching on my plasma, I've been listening in to the conversations of the rich and powerful all day. I've only caught snippets, but it's been enough to get a feel for the mood of the city. From what I can tell, most people still think of Vale as a celebrity. They're curious about what happened to him, and how he's recovering from his time as a hostage of the Resistance. Many believe that the Orleáns are holding back pieces of the story, but everyone seems confident that all will be revealed in time. The prevailing attitude is that since Vale has been returned to his loving parents, the terrorists will be taken care of, the renegades brought to justice, and all will be well in the perfect world of Okaria.

But at least people are talking. Vale's name has been spoken aloud countless times today, and everyone is fascinated with his story. Even better, there are those who wonder aloud about Jeremiah's role in Vale's “kidnapping,” and others who have speculated darkly that there's more to the story than the Orleáns are letting on. A few have even commented that Evander Sun-Zi seemed unbalanced during his press conference right after the demise of Round Barn.

As the girls pass, I notice both are wearing the black pants and crisp green jackets that comprise the Academy uniform. They walk arm in arm, each with a fruit tart in hand. The warm smell wafts toward me, and I start to salivate. Meera's food is delicious—and safer than anything from a Dietician's hand—but there's never enough of it.

“I would never forgive you.” They must be about fifteen or sixteen, the same age I was when Tai died.

The second girl throws back her head and laughs. “Are you kidding? I would never forgive
myself
.”
They lean into each other, giggling, and change the subject. Schoolgirl troubles take precedence as their voices fade into the distance.

Although few here in the heart of the Sector seem inclined to doubt the Orleáns' story, I can't help but think that all this chatter is a good sign. Before Vale left, the Sector was hell-bent on keeping its citizens in the dark. He told us the Resistance was a top-secret word, requiring an officer-level security clearance. This ensured peaceful, ignorant silence. But when Vale abdicated, and Corine and Philip declared open war on the Resistance, they tossed around words like terrorism and betrayal and treason. That got the people talking. The citizens of Okaria aren't like those on the Farms. They're not being dumbed down. Quite the opposite: here, the Dieticians create cocktails to enhance neural connectivity, snacks to boost creativity, and you can order juice blends with shots of memory retention, spatial imaging, or emotional awareness. In the capital, the people are truly awake.

I hear laughter behind me and turn to see a group of friends unloading their netball gear on the edge of a sand court. I wish I could count the number of times I played netball on that very court, laughing and joking with my own friends. They look to be around my age, and given how close the park is to the Academy and the Sector Research Institute, there's a good chance I might recognize one of them. When I was at the Academy, there were relatively few places the students would frequent, and we often ran into the same people over and over again. So it is everywhere, I assume: people find their favorite hangouts and then rarely explore outside their comfort zones. I've seen more of the city in the last few weeks than I ever saw when it was my home.

I move my pack and swivel around so I can watch while pretending to be absorbed with my plasma. As the game begins, I watch the ball pop up and down, back and forth over the net, and hear the grunts of the players as they dive to save a point. I keep sketching, glancing up every once in a while as the players rotate, until I realize one of the girls
does
look familiar. She started on the opposite side of the court, but now she's on my side, and when she stops to pull her dark, straight hair back into a ponytail, I recognize her.
Moriana Nair
. Jahnu's cousin, and Jeremiah's girlfriend. Without thinking, I pull my hood down to shade my face, as if she might suddenly recognize me.

I think back to the last time I saw her. On television, in the dark halls of Normandy, after Thermopylae was destroyed. Pleading with Linnea Heilmann, then the primary announcer for the Okarian News Network, insisting that Jeremiah was surely innocent, that he would never have kidnapped his best friend and dragged him to the Resistance as a hostage. But more recently, I remember her terrified voice on the mic the night Vale was shot and plummeted off the roof of that building. I remember her panicked words to Jeremiah:
Please come out, they know you're hiding and that you're with Remy, if you don't come out now they're going to find you and kill you …

Right now, Moriana looks as though she's never been afraid a day in her life. Cheerful and exuberant, she shouts wildly with her friends, leaps high up over the net to slam a ball down, and crows whenever her team scores. It looks like the last thing on her mind is politics, terrorism, or revolution.

A part of me seethes, watching as she tosses the ball up to serve it across the net. How can she be so carefree after what Corine put her through? How can she still be here in the Sector after hearing Jeremiah and Vale on the mic with her, knowing what Miah risked to see her?
Why isn't she afraid
? This is a bad idea, I realize. I have to get out of here. I grab my pack and jam my plasma in it just as a bad hit sends the ball sailing my direction. I look up to see Moriana running straight toward me.

Great. What do I do now
? Out of instinct, I reach for the ball as it rolls toward the bench.

“Thanks so much!” she says to me, jogging the final few meters. I look at her. Straight at her. Will she recognize me? My muscles tense.
Fight or flight
. But I don't move.

Nothing. No recognition.

I almost wish she would see through my disguise. That she would say, astonished, “Remy? Is that you?” I wish I could tell her that Jahnu was hurt. I wish I could tell her that Tai's death was no accident. I wish she would ask me about the night Vale fell, about what happened, if I knew anything, if I was there.
Did they capture Jeremiah?
she might ask.
What happened to Vale?
And I would tell her. And then my turn for questions:
Are you okay? Are you afraid? What did Corine do to you that night?

She waits as I hold the ball in my hands.

“You look familiar,” I say.
What am I doing?

She cocks her head, examining me closer. “So do you. Were you at the Academy?”

My heart skips a beat. This is suicide. I should leave right now.

“Oh, no. I'm just in Okaria visiting my cousins. I think I've seen you somewhere, though.” I pause, as if trying to remember. “I know! I watch all the OAC research vids. You're part of Corine Orleán's epigenetics team, aren't you?”

Stop it, Remy, stop it, stop it, stop it.

Moriana beams. “Yes. I'm Moriana Nair, her lead assistant.”

“That's it!” I can't stop myself. I tuck the ball under one arm and stick my hand out in greeting. Reflexively, she takes it as I force a wide smile and turn on my charm. “Wow, it must be something to work so closely with Corine Orleán.”

“Yeah, she's brilliant. She's really taken me under her wing. I'm pretty lucky.” She looks down at the ball, still clutched in my hands, and glances back at the court. Behind us, one of her friends waves, beckoning her back to the game.

Blood pounds in my ears, and I'm starting to sweat, but I can't stop. “Look, I know you need to get back to your game, but,” I glance around as if someone might be listening, “aren't you the one who was friends with Valerian and …” I drop my voice. “… Jeremiah Sayyid?”

She stiffens and frowns, as if she'd just stuck her head in a compost bin.

“Yeah, I knew him.” She holds her hand out for the ball. I grip it harder, my knuckles ashen and tense. “We dated for a little while. That's it.”

I stare blankly.
That's it?
That's all you have to say about Jeremiah, the man who weaseled his way into a top-secret mission to infiltrate the heart of Okaria and risked his life to come see you? The man you pleaded to turn himself into the Sector so he wouldn't get hurt? I can't believe it. Something's not right.

I hand her the ball and look down, trying to look embarrassed. “Okay. Sorry. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your game.”

She nods silently, turns, and walks off, the spring in her step gone.

I duck my head and turn away, walking as quickly as I can without seeming obvious. I grab my bag from the bench where I left it and sling it over my shoulder, booking it for the nearest exit.
What the hell was that all about?
I ask myself. I replay our brief conversation over and over in my head, comparing it against that night when her desperate voice played through our mic system, pleading with us to turn ourselves in or be shot on sight. It doesn't match up. There's no way the Moriana I met today was the same Moriana from six weeks ago, crying, begging Jeremiah to save himself.

Meera holds out a large, waxy leaf. “Just a leaf, right?” I take it and turn it over in my hands. There are bumps on the pale underside that make me wonder if some sort of disease has gotten to it, some mutation or virus that has disrupted the surface. “Feel those dots? That's our code.”

I hold the leaf up to the window. The dots are much more visible in the light, and now that I can see them, they do look organized. The day is bright and sunny and Meera is giving me my first lesson in the Outsider's way of passing information.

“It was called Braille in the Old World,” Meera says. “Used as a way for the blind to read. You
feel
it. It's a dead language, since blindness is a curable condition in the Sector. We use it sometimes in the Wilds, but have found it much more useful here, and those who aren't Outsiders are none the wiser.”

“So how do I read it?”

“You have to train yourself. Run your fingers across the dots and feel them, learn to ‘see' with your fingertips. Once you know the symbols, you can read it just by looking at it. But it's much more discreet to read with your fingers. Sometimes we code messages in public places, and you wouldn't want to be seen staring at a brick wall, or under a park bench. That would be too suspicious.”

“Is this the only way you communicate?”

“Hardly,” she says, with a twinkle in her eye. “I can't reveal all my secrets, can I? For passing messages, we use Braille or Morse Code. Braille is better, since most people don't know to look for it. Some odd historians and quaint collectors still know Morse, so it's not as safe. But we use it when we have to, or when we're not sure our intended recipient knows where to look.” On my plasma, she works through the circles with me, drawing the dots in various patterns that form words, phrases, sentences,
meaning
.

“No such luck,” she says smiling, when I plead with her that I need a nap. After four hours of studying, I am exhausted. “This is your first test. It's from Snake.” She hands me a corn husk, and I stare at it blankly for a moment.

“Seriously? You pass messages on food scraps?”

“We pass messages on everything.”

After another hour, and some serious hints from Meera, I've interpreted Snake's message.

Same place, same table, two days from today, when the first star shows her face.