Reaping (17 page)

As tired as I am, the slow pace of the drive is calming, freeing even. Whatever is over the next hill, beyond the next bend in the road, is a revelation. Best of all, there are no more underground tunnels. I remember lying on the couch in the Chancellor’s mansion as Vale told me about reading a book from the Old World. He said people used to drive their old-fashioned wheeled cars—with a steering wheel, how primitive—from one side of the American continent to the other, just to feel the “freedom of the open road.” That’s how I feel now, winding through this abandoned city, free, finally, of the expectations of those back at base. 
The freedom to reclaim my destiny, just as nature is reclaiming this city.

Three hours later, we’re deep in the Wilds, following the barest remnants of an old highway as we arc down around the southern border of the Sector. My v-scroll map tells me we’re almost there. Bear is stirring awake as I struggle to keep from nodding off myself.

“You okay, Remy?” Bear asks, rubbing his eyes. “You want me to drive for a while?” He’s been asking me that since we first started even though he's never driven a hovercar, I’m reluctant to let him behind the gauges.

“It’s okay. We’re almost there. You can help me look for a good campsite. Keep your eyes out.”

“I don’t know how you’re not tired.”

“I am tired. I just want to get out, set up camp, and get my sleep horizontally.”

“Remember we’ll be in more danger the closer we get to the Farm, right?” he points out. “Security at Round Barn—” he means Farm Ten, but they’ve all got idyllic, agrarian nicknames “—was lax when I left. But who knows now. Might be drones and Boss men around the perimeter. Won’t be safer there than it is here.”

May be more dangerous, but at least I won’t be in danger of getting run off the road by an inexperienced driver,” I tease.

“How hard can it be?” he asks, gesturing to the control board. “There’s three dials and a steerstick. Farm equipment's more complicated than that.”

“It takes practice to keep the hovers balanced over rough ground so you don’t veer off into a tree.” I change the subject. “Let's go over the security again.”

He shrugs, his face clouded, as though facing an unhappy memory.

“It's not as tight as at other Farms, from what we ever heard. There’s a fence and a few gates big enough for hovercars and trucks, but none of it’s real well maintained, and the fences aren’t hard to climb or dig under. Aside from what I mentioned before, drones patrol the perimeter and Bosses keeping watch on the inside. Heard a story from a transfer that they got high fences and guard towers at Two Lakes, by Okaria proper. Said it was for the wild animals. Sam couldn’t figure how they’d have dangerous animals so close to the city and none near Round Barn.”

Suddenly I’m not even tired. Imagining what Round Barn will be like captivates me. When I was younger, we toured of a few of the Farms after my father was named Poet Laureate. He did poetry readings and sometimes he'd show off my artwork. The workers seemed to like seeing me at his side. The Sector always brags about how it supports the arts as well as the sciences. They like to promote the idea that anyone from the Farms could become like any of us in the capital, could rise up and become a celebrated artist. Of course, what none of the laborers on the Farms knew was that they were being fed chemicals designed to suppress their creative abilities, their spatial imaging, their imaginations. If my father had been born on a Farm, he would never have had a chance at becoming a famous poet.

When I visited, the Farms seemed like havens of tranquility where everyone was fed plenty and clothed well. It was an egalitarian dream. Peaceful, happy people glad to be doing their part to keep the Sector strong. Maybe they were that way once, naturally, of their own accord. But what I didn’t realize, until my family joined the Resistance, is however idyllic it was in the past, now the workers don’t have a choice now. They can’t even 
think
 about doing anything any differently. And if a glimmer of individual thought shines through, like it did with Sam, that's easily taken care of.

Bear points out the window to a hill in the distance. “Good flat spot up there along that ridge, maybe. High ground and far enough off this stretch of old road to avoid anyone coming or going. And plenty of tree cover to stay hidden.”

I nod, surveying the ridge.

“The hovercar won’t make it up there, though. The angle’s too steep. We’ll have to leave the car down here and carry our gear up.”

We survey the area until we find a gulley suitable for hiding the hovercar. I lower it to the ground and shut it off. We empty the car of our gear—mostly lightweight camping gear, food provisions, some radio equipment, light firearms, and the hand grenades I stole from Normandy’s armory. I throw a shimmer blanket over the car for camouflage. Bear and I shoulder our equipment bags and trudge up the steep ridge line to flatter ground.

After we set up camp, Bear munches on oat bars and venison jerky while I lay out our bedrolls.

“We should both get some sleep today,” I say, checking the thin wristwatch I brought from Normandy. “It’s one in the afternoon, plenty of time to rest before night sets in. Then, I think we should go exploring. I want you to show me the Farm while it’s dark and quiet. You can show me your old home.”

Bear shudders, looking pale.

“Wouldn’t hardly call it home anymore,” he says.

“Are you anxious to see your friends? The ones you’ve told me about?”

He nods. “Won’t be too easy finding them on the inside, though, but we’ll get through to them somehow.”

“You figured out how we should start the conversation?”

Bear stares at me a second before responding, as if trying to put his words together in his head.

“The people I’m thinking of, they’ll listen if I tell ’em something. Not the brightest of folk, but then, neither am I. But the rest of ’em—they’ll be harder to get through to. But you made all them notes and drew those pictures. We’ve got plenty of good speeches. And when the time comes, we’ll tell the truth, I guess.”

Tell the truth, I guess
. I nod. 
Words to live by.

“See there? That’s where the Dieticians’ lab is. All the little cabins are where we live.”

The moon isn’t full tonight, but it’s not far off, and I brought two weeks worth of our infrared contacts for both of us. I showed him how to put them in, and how to blink rapidly three times to shift between the infrared and the visible light spectrums. It took him an hour, but I think he’s got the hang of it.

“So the little buildings are where the workers live. And there’s a compound—that, there—where the Boss men and women stay at night.”

He points out a few other buildings until I feel comfortable with the general layout.

“Who do you want to try to talk to first? We should try to contact them as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, maybe.”

“One of Sam’s old friends, name’s Luis. And a girl I used to talk to. Another one of the ones who asked questions. Fierce, she was. Rose, is her name. Rose and Luis are good friends.”

“What do you think is the best way to get a message to them?”

Bear stares at the plain below us, his eyes narrowing as he considers my question.

“Been thinking about that, and I got an idea. Used to be an old Boss we all liked, Joral. Real nice, he was the one who let me take Sam to your parents when he got hurt. He won’t like it if I talk to him—just cause he’s nice don’t mean he doesn’t support the Sector, he’ll probably turn me in—but you can go. You can find him and ask him to get a message to Rose and Luis.” Bear grins at me in the moonlight. “‘Specially if you give him some of that chocolate you brought along with us, he always liked that stuff.”

I consider this idea.

“How will I know it’s him?”

“He’s real striking. Sharp grey hair always sticking up no matter what he does, and a big, huge, honker. You see that nose, you know it’s him.”

“Should I pretend to be a Farm worker?”

“No,” he says. “He’ll know you aren’t. Sometimes people who aren’t with the Farm come and go ’round about here. So long as they aren’t Outsiders, some Bosses let ’em alone. That’s what your parents did. If you pretend you’re one of them, or maybe tell him you met Luis or Rose on a market day.”

“What’s a market day?”

“Once a season, we have a gathering, hear some music, and socialize for a time. Of course, it’s all organized by the Farm Boss, but, sometimes folk from around join in. Tell Joral that you’re passin’ through and just want to see how they’re doin’. Maybe he’ll pass a message to them.”

“Okay,” I nod. “What should the message be?”

“How about one of your drawings? That one of Sam you did. That’ll get their attention.”

I watch Bear, his mouth set in a sad little frown, staring out over the place he once called home.

“We’ll use that one, then. I’ll go in the morning, at first light, before work starts. I’ll tell them we want to meet them tomorrow at twilight.” I clasp Bear’s hand and smile at him. “We’re going to do this, Bear. We’ll avenge Sam, my mother, Tai. We’ll do it together.”

Bear smudges dirt on my face and charcoal around my eyes, trying to disguise my features. I wrap a woolen shawl over my head to cover my hair. It’ll be hot come midday, but I’m not planning on having this excursion last more than an hour.

“Try not to talk like you usually do,” Bear is saying, coaching me on how to blend in. “You sound like you’re from Okaria, not one of the peasant folk who wander the Wilds. And Joral’ll try to convince you to stay on the Farm. Sometimes people who pass by end up joining a Farm just ’cause it seems nice to have a warm bed, hot water, and plenty of food. He’ll try to talk you into staying. Just tell him you got a husband or something waiting for you out in the woods and he shouldn’t bother you after that.”

“But I shouldn’t say I’m in a group, right?”

“No. Then he’ll think you’re an Outsider, and he might send you off or call in some more Boss men to find out where the rest of the group is.”

It shouldn’t surprise me how suspicious the Bosses are of the Outsiders. The massacre at the SRI that killed my sister wasn’t the only crime that’s been attributed to the Outsiders over the years; the Sector finds it convenient to blame mysterious and violent incidents on the Outsiders. With so much hatred directed their way through Sector propaganda, it’s easy to see why people are so afraid of them. Yet, from what Bear says, the fear seems even more pronounced on the Farms than it was in the city. Maybe the propaganda against the Outsiders has increased since I’ve been gone.

Bear stops smudging charcoal around the edges of my eyes, and sits back to admire his handiwork.

“You look nice,” he says. “Like the fancy ladies at the Solstice balls.”

I shoot him a wry smile.

“I’ve got dirt all over my face.”

“Well, yes, but....”

“Let’s hope no one else thinks I look like a socialite from Okaria.”

“They won’t,” he says, and cracks a wide smile. “Not with that dirt on your face.”

I push myself to my feet and look one last time at the drawing I did of Sam, as best I could remember him, his face wreathed with spring flowers and autumn leaves. I roll it up and drip a bit of melted wax from one of the few candles we stole from Normandy, and press the scroll closed. A seal, like from the ancient world. But unlike the ancients who used signet rings or cylinder seals, neither one of us want our identification known until the scroll is opened. So instead of pressing one of our fingers in the wax, we press it closed with a leaf. Once it’s unrolled, Rose will see the message Bear scrawled in the corner.

Beaver Creek, midnight. A.B.
 The initials of his real name, Antoine Baier.

“They’ll come,” he says, a hitch in his voice. “They were like family. They’ll come.”

We walk around the edge of the cleared land, sticking to the shadows and trees. Just because our jackets help hide our thermal signature from drones, doesn’t mean the guards have gone blind. I’ll have to take off my jacket soon enough—of those who wander the Wilds, only Outsiders and Resistance fighters have heat-cloaking clothing, and I don’t want to be associated with either group. By the time the sun is fully up and we can see the stirrings of activity in the camp, we’ve found what looks to be a footpath that leads into the cleared plain of the Farm.

“This is how some people get in and out,” Bear says. “Not many people know about it, though. You get outta 
le foret
, you’ll see there’s a slit cut in the fence. Easy enough to push through.”

“Do the Enforcers know about this?” I ask, wondering at the fact that this glaring oversight has gone uncorrected for so long. At my side, Bear shrugs.

“Joral does. Maybe a few others. Some of them aren’t so bad. Just doing their job.”

“Won’t they know I’m an intruder?”

Bear laughs.

“You aren’t gonna go in that way right now. That’s for tonight, when we go to meet Rose and Luis, if you can get the message through. Right now, you’re gonna go up through the pedestrian gate and ask real nice if you can talk to Joral. Like I said, as long as they don’t think you’re an Outsider, they’ll let you come and go as you please. Might even give you some food if you look desperate enough.”

I stare at Bear, wondering if I’ve gone completely insane. I, Remy Alexander, daughter of Okaria’s Poet Laureate, member of an active “terrorist network”, escaped prisoner of the Sector, am going to walk right up to the gates of a Farm and ask to be let in. They better not recognize me.

Bear leads me a little ways further through the trees. I take off my jacket and hand it to him, my heart pounding.

“Remember, you're the last person they'll be expecting,” he says, a serious expression on his face. “I’ll be waiting.” I smile reassuringly, trying not to show how nervous I am. It feels like walking into the maw of a giant beast.

“If I’m more than two hours—”

“I lay low for twenty-four hours,” he interrupts. “If you’re still not back, I radio Normandy.”