The Harvest (6 page)

I thumb through the pages and come to one of the parts where Marius and Enroljas are rallying their friends to join the student revolution. I can't help but think about when Remy and I did the same with the Farm workers only two months ago, dreaming of something better, just like these students in ancient Paris.

I read a few pages and then close the book, relishing the simple feeling of holding it in my hands. Hardbound but scratched, dirty, and with rough edges, it's certainly showing its age. I open it again and turn to the front, looking for a publication date. Instead, on the first sheaf of paper, I find something strange: a series of lines, some short, some long, scrawled diagonally across the page in no apparent order. Handwritten, in faint carbon pencil, my first thought is that it's a strange bit of doodling. But then something clicks: It's not a doodle. It's a code. A language used in the Old World I recognize as Morse. I studied telegraphy in my classes, but we discussed the languages of the Old World briefly and none of my professors taught us to decipher Morse.

I stare at the lines. What other books did that girl bring me? I feel my heart rate spike, and force myself to stay still. I lean my head back and concentrate on my breathing. For all I know, my parents are monitoring my heart rate or have implanted me with a medical chip. After a moment, I toss the book on the bed as if the very sight of it bores me. I stand and move over to my dresser where the rest of the books are stacked. I go through them again, picking each one up, reading the titles.
Plants of Northern America: An Encyclopaedia
. Not helpful.
Gargantua and Pantagruel
. Entertaining, but unhelpful.
U.N Millennium Development Goals Report, 2023
. Nope.
Classic Cocktail Recipes of New Orleans
. I spare a second to smile at the irony that New Orleans is now a drowned city, while the Orleáns rule the new world of Okaria.

Not for long, I think.

Telecommunications in the 19th Century
. Jackpot. I flip it open, skim the table of contents, and my eyes land on Chapter Five: Introduction to Morse Code. This cannot be a coincidence. I have little doubt that my every move is being monitored by someone very high up on the chain of command, but it seems like a million-to-one shot that I find a coded note in a centuries-old book that just happens to be in the same pile as one that will allow me to decipher that code.

I stare at the door for a moment, wondering about the stony-faced servant. Was she responsible for this? Or was she just a carrier? And then the following moment: Am I getting paranoid? Am I going crazy? Am I seeing signs where there are none?

I shake my head. I can't start doubting myself. Not now. Not before I know for sure. I turn to the page where the chapter on Morse code begins.

Morse, it turns out, is not a simple language, but it's easy enough to understand. It's based on a standardized sequence of short and long signals, called dots and dashes, the same kind of system Eli uses when encoding his messages between Resistance bases.

It's not long before I'm mapping the symbols out in my head, for lack of a pen or pencil.
Classic prisoner treatment
, I think.
Denial of tools with which to write
. For the first time, I'm conscious of the intellectual improvements my mother imbued in me without my permission. I stare at the dots and dashes on the page in front of me, the symbols shifting and rearranging into something altogether different. I force my heart to maintain a steady beat as the words consume me.

I'm here. I'm waiting for you. Do not lose hope. Little Bird.

5 - REMY

Spring 65,
Sector Annum
106, 18h30

Gregorian Calendar: May 23

The leaf comes with the food drop. It's not Meera this time, all dark hair and red cheeks, enthusiastic as she pokes her head through the door to her old apartment. Fear gnaws at me as I wonder where she is. I thank the messenger, a boy with intense blue eyes and hair that looks as soft as goose down. He can't be more than twelve, and he looks vaguely familiar as he smiles and scuffles off. I pick through the produce, eating handful after handful of gooseberries until they're almost all gone, then unwrap the meat and put it in the refrigerator. I rinse the leaves that had been used to wrap the meat under the sink, and that's how I find the message. The dots. I cut the water and run my fingertips across the bumps, feeling for the patterns, proud of myself when I can interpret the symbols without holding the leaf up to the light.

An ally we call Onion wishes to speak with you. He won't hurt you. He's on our side. Sundown today. At the apartment. Meera.

Glad as I am to have a note from Meera—she must be okay—I can't make sense of the message. Meera trusts this person. He has an Outsider code name. He wants to talk. So why does she reassure me that he won't hurt me, that he's on our side? He must be someone I wouldn't know to trust unless she told me. Someone who works for the Sector. Someone on the inside.

My fingertips skitter across the leaf, shameless now as I hold it up to the light to make sure I've read it correctly.
An ally we call Onion wishes to speak with you. He won't hurt you.

I wonder who it could be. Someone like Chan-Yu, maybe, who was once a soldier of the revered OAC Black Ops, so trustworthy Corine Orleán appointed him to be Vale's personal assistant, who was secretly an Outsider the whole time. But it must be someone I know, or should know, or she wouldn't have thought to reassure me.

He's on our side.

Every home or flat in Okaria comes outfitted with a special vidscreen for displaying notifications from the government, the OAC, or the Okarian News Network. Once a day, ONN collaborates with the OAC and the Sector to release a thirty-minute news update. When I arrived at the Resistance three years ago, one of the first things the Director did was explain that these broadcasts are entirely propaganda. Full of falsely beautiful images of the Farms, videos of productive, happy workers and engineers in the towns, and snapshots of the so-called No-Go Zones in the Wilds, taken—supposedly—by drones, these videos are deceptive and misleading. They are purposefully designed to direct the citizens' eyes away from the Sector's real problems, so that the people in power can deal with them quietly and without public knowledge.

They're pushed out every evening at 19h00. If you're eating dinner with your family, watching a different broadcast, or using the vidscreen for homework, your screen will turn on or switch programming with or without your permission. The only way to miss it is to walk away.

Since I returned to the city, I've been trying to watch the broadcasts every night. A lot of the bars and smokeshops downtown display them, so it wasn't hard to sneak in somewhere in the inner suburbs or outer ring of downtown. I'd pretend to be waiting for a friend, watch as much of the broadcast as I dared, and then, with an urgent glance at my plasma, I'd dash.

Since Meera offered to let me take over her apartment, I've been able to watch them in private. Now, I'm sitting on the couch in her old place, legs curled beneath me, waiting for the show to start. It used to be that Linnea Heilmann, with a gilded voice and picture-perfect face, would organize and narrate the various briefings. But since she left to hunt down Eli, the network hired a new public correspondent, Jon Spironov. He's older than Linnea, with a comforting voice and a reassuring face. He doesn't have quite the same penchant for attention-grabbing broadcasts that she did, but his calming, even-keeled displays make you feel like nothing could ever go wrong. I've gotten used to his voice on the feeds like you get used to music playing in the background.

The bright, trumpeting intro starts and the screen flares to life. I take a gulping sip of Meera's green tea. After the intro, Jon's weathered, handsome face smiles at me from inside the ONN broadcast studio—conveniently located right next to the capitol building.

“Citizens of Okaria, I'm your Sector Public Correspondent Jon Spironiv. We have some important updates today, so please stay tuned. But first, a brief announcement from Philip Orleán on Valerian's progress in his recovery.”

I sit up. This is the first time Vale has been mentioned on the evening broadcasts since the few days after he was captured. This is what I've been waiting for—why I've gone out of my way to watch the broadcasts every night I've been in the city. I have to remind myself not to expect anything but half-truths and deflections, but any information is better than none. The screen cuts away from Jon and to Philip, sitting at his desk in the capitol building. I grit my teeth and look away for a moment, as the painful memory of the last time I saw Philip across a desk rips through me.
When you give us what we want, I'll personally hand you a bucket of fresh figs, just like I used to
. Words he said after fitting me with a few charge capacitors and hooking up a power source.

Maybe it's just my memory, but he seemed calmer then, staring down a political prisoner and torturing me with electric shocks. Now, even with no one across from him but a camera drone, he bites his lip and his fingers tap the desk once, twice, three times before he starts talking.

“My fellow citizens,” he begins—and the feed goes dark.

I stare at the vidscreen blankly.

The feeds sometimes falter. They'll flicker in and out, or your screen will freeze and lag behind the official display. That's a part of digital broadcasting. But the daily broadcasts have never once gone out completely, in all the years I've watched them.

A dim green light flicks alive in the blackness. For a moment it almost looks like a flame from a lighter, but then it glows and expands. A biolight. Tousled blonde hair becomes visible, and a shadowed face.
That's definitely not Philip.
Another biolight flicks on and now I recognize the face: it's Linnea Heilmann. The backdrop is hazy, and there's a low hum, almost as if some sort of machinery is running in the room. But Linnea's shimmery hair and large, clear eyes are unmistakable.

I drop my teacup. The ceramic mug shatters as it hits the floor. I'm on my feet, ready to run, wondering why in all the seasons Linnea Heilmann is on my vidscreen during the official Sector broadcast.
Did she betray us?

“Citizens of the Sector, I don't have much time. I'm Linnea Heilmann, former public correspondent for the ONN. Two months ago I told you that I was resigning my position to take an internal communications job with the OAC. This is not what happened. I was sent into the Wilds with instructions to search for the traitor Remy Alexander. I was on a mission to kill her.”

I sink back into the chair in front of the vidscreen. Amazement washes through my body like a river through a floodplain. She's simplifying parts of the story—she's left out Eli and the virus she gave him. Maybe she's worried about time, or wants to keep her narrative straightforward. But the essence is true: she was sent into the Wilds to find and kill me.

“Corine and Philip Orleán ordered this mission, but I don't work for Corine anymore. I don't work for the Sector anymore. I don't work for anyone, and neither should you. I am a free agent, and I will no longer lie for anyone. And I'm about to tell you why.”

Linnea holds one of the biolights closer to her face. I'm frozen in place, mouth hanging open, stunned. I can hardly believe this is the same Linnea Heilmann whose voice I'd come to despise, who used to tout the Sector's victories with a tone so celebratory it bordered on manic.
What changed her?
I wonder.

“When I was a little girl, I had a best friend. Her name was Tai Alexander. Fellow Okarians, I am here tonight to tell you Tai was not killed by an Outsi—”

The feed goes black again. A second later, static fizzles on the screen, along with a loud buzzing noise, almost painfully sharp. I press my fingers into my ears, but my eyes are glued to the screen. Jon Spironov's face reappears, but this time he looks confused.

“Citizens! As you can see, our evening broadcast has been disrupted by the very rebels and terrorists who captured and tortured our own Valer—”

The studio backdrop dissipates, and after a half-second of static, Jon's face is replaced once more by Linnea's, hazy and otherworldly from the greenish tint given off by the biolights.

“The Sector doesn't want you to know that the massacre at the SRI was ordered by Corine Orleán. They don't want you to know that the reason the man murdered a classroom full of students was because his drugs were off, his MealPaks made him violent and uncontrollable, his food turned him into a killer. They don't want you to know they're changing your minds and bodies so you'll be tame, docile, happy, and unquestioning. So you won't ask what happened to Tai, or your friend who disappeared from your town, or why those in the capital live to be a hundred years old, and those on the Farms live half as long.”

The screen flickers and dies, and for a second I think whoever's in charge of Sector programming must have finally figured out how to shut the whole system down. But then Linnea reappears, her face tense, her voice low and urgent.

“The Sector will turn off this broadcast soon. You won't hear from me again. The OAC's Security Directorate will hunt me down, just like they're hunting Jeremiah Sayyid and Remy Alexander and Elijah Tawfiq. Listen to me now. Don't eat your MealPaks. Listen to your true self. Look for—”

The feed cuts out and the screen goes black.

For a long moment, I'm unable to move. Unable to think. I lean back into my chair, looking out the window at the deepening sky. Then a broad smile, irrepressible, creeps onto my face.
That was brilliant
. It must have taken a herculean effort. I can't imagine the Resistance—even with Eli, Zoe, and Firestone working together—was able to pull that off without inside help. Who did they recruit from the Sector to hack the broadcast? A well-placed Outsider? A Sector citizen leaning toward the Resistance? Or was it something simpler: a gun to the head of one of the broadcast engineers?

Not for the first time since I decided to stay in Okaria, I miss my friends, desperately. I miss my team. I wish I had a way to contact them, to congratulate them, to ask them how the hell they did that. And the strangest feeling wells up inside of me: a strong desire to hug Linnea.

Then there's a knock at the door.

In the excitement of Linnea's broadcast, I had forgotten entirely about my promised visitor. I run to the door and glance through the peephole. But the person—whoever he is—is too tall to identify, even through the convex lens. All I can see is that his hands, clasped calmly in front of him, are as black as Jahnu's and as large and strong as Soren's.

I can't help but be afraid.
An ally we call Onion. He won't hurt you
. I breathe the words into my bones, into my brain, trying to will the fear out of my system.
How can you be so sure, Meera?

I've got a knife in my pocket and my boot, and a smoke grenade in my sleeve if I need to make a quick exit. Satisfied, at least for the moment, with my defenses, I crack the door. I peer out, and stare up at the person waiting patiently, his face half-hidden by a light summer jacket. He's wearing military-issue boots. I recognize them—they're the same style Vale was wearing when we met for the first time in three years on the raid at Seed Bank Carbon. I've seen this man's face on the Sector feeds a thousand times. General Bunqu, commander of the Sector Defense Forces Guardians. The Guardians is the division that guards high government officials and protects government buildings in the capital as well as towns throughout the Sector.

I met General Bunqu one time, when my father was named the Poet Laureate of the Sector. The chancellor—then Cara Skaarsgard, Soren's mother—threw a gala in his honor, and Bunqu attended. I liked him. He had a warm smile and an open face, and his voice, as deep as Lake Okaria, was comforting.

So, Kofir Bunqu is Meera's Onion.
He has an Outsider name. Is he one of us? I don't know much about him, but I can't trust him. Not yet. No matter what Meera says.

I open the door.

“Thank you.” He dips his head ever so slightly as I close it behind him, careful never to show him my back, my right hand resting on the handle of my knife. He notices this. “You are right to be suspicious,” he says. “But you have nothing to fear. ” He looks around. “Are we alone?”

I nod.

“Good. Shall we sit?”

“I want you to hand over any weapons you're carrying.” The words tumble out of my mouth in a rush. I'm ready to throw if he hesitates for a second.

But he doesn't. Silently he opens his trench coat. He pulls out two handheld Bolts and a knife, and passes them to me. I set them on the kitchen counter, out of reach. Standing between him and his weapons, I gesture to an empty chair. He sits. I pull over one of the kitchen stools for myself. If he wants his weapons back, he'll have to get past me first.