The Sowing (38 page)

After we’ve taken a few minutes to strip and add more layers of sweaters, gloves, and hats, we continue on. I wonder how far we’ll get, if we’re on a fool’s errand, and if it might just be safer to head towards the Resistance. At least we have a confirmed location on them. The Outsiders are nebulous and invisible. If our drones can’t find them, how will two inexperienced woodsmen? I think back to my training in emergency situations, survival in the wilderness, when we learned the basics of hunting, building fires, tracking and trapping. I hope I won’t have to use those skills; our instructions were rudimentary at best. No one’s ever gotten stuck in the Wilds before—at least, no one who wanted to return.

After about an hour’s worth of walking, we’re both starving, so we decide to take a break to eat and check that we’re headed the right way. We’re halfway through a meal when I suddenly realize I have no idea what time it is.

“Jeremiah,” I blurt, “did you bring a watch?” He pulls up short.

“No, I don’t think I did.” He starts rummaging through a side pocket in his enormous bag. After a few seconds of browsing, he zips the pocket back up. “Nothing.”

“Shit.”

“Not like it really matters out here, does it?”

“No,” I respond, realizing he’s right. “I guess it doesn’t. Just wondering how much more daylight we’ve got.”

“We left the Sarus around eleven. I think we’ve got at least four or five more hours.”

We finish our meals in silence, check the map, and shoulder our packs. The sound of rain hitting the damp, decaying leaves beneath our feet mingles occasionally with bird calls, though those are few and far between. Mostly it’s quiet. Every out-of-place noise sets me on edge as I listen intently for drones, passing airships, or followers on foot. Do the Outsiders know we’re here? Have the drones found us yet? What will happen if—or when—they do?

Sometime in the afternoon, we come across a clearing that has obviously seen recent use. There’s a fire pit with blackened, ashy logs, and Jeremiah points out faded boot prints in the grass and mud. I hold my hand over the ashes, checking the temperature, but it’s cold.

“I wonder who was here?” he asks, poking around in the grass.

“Looks like no more than one or two people. It’s a small site.” An idea flashes in front of me. “I wonder if it was Chan-Yu.”

Jeremiah rolls his eyes dramatically. “The odds of that are astronomical, Vale.”

“Are they? How many other people are running around in the Wilds in small groups? We’re looking for the Outsiders; they’re looking for the Outsiders.”

“Probably a fair few. You’re the one who admitted that we know next to nothing about the Outsiders or anyone else who lives in the Wilds. What’s to say these woods aren’t crawling with people? Or that the reason the Sector has a hard time tracking the Outsiders is that they split up and travel in groups of two or three? You’re letting your hopes of finding Remy and Soren cloud your judgment.”

I have no response to that. Instead, I start examining the footprints, checking out the exterior of the camp. “Zoom,” I say and my contacts zero in on bent blades of grass and crushed leaves as I try to remember what they taught us in our day-long seminar on tracking last year when I first started my military training.
Look for any sign of disturbance
, they said.
A snapped twig or a bent branch can give your quarry away.
I stop when I notice a scraggly bush. A few winter berries have been plucked off; I see the stem that’s left where the fruit was plucked. “Identify,” I say, and HUCKLEBERRY – EDIBLE appears by the bush. Someone knows what they’re doing. At least more than I do. I look ahead, out of the clearing and into the forest. I take a few steps forward, bent over, staring at the ground. A few crushed leaves indicate a striking heel. A stick crushed into the ground here. I follow the path, looking up from the ground every few minutes. It seems well-worn; the underbrush is clearer here than along the rest of the forest floor. Every few feet there’s another broken twig or crushed leaf pile, so I’m confident I’m following someone’s—or something’s—tracks. It’s natural and easy to follow. So natural I don’t notice the silence around me, and when I turn around to call Jeremiah, I realize he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Miah?”

No response.

I look around. I didn’t realize how far I’d come. I can’t even see the clearing behind me.

“Jeremiah?” I call again, being careful not to raise my voice. I look around, to either side of me, wondering if he wandered off in some other direction. I squint into the distance.

Suddenly a chill runs up my spine, and I feel a cold cylindrical object pressed to the base of my skull. I freeze.

“Put your hands on top of your head, Valerian.” The voice is low but dangerous, and somehow familiar.
How did the Sector catch up to us that quickly?
Every muscle in my body is tense, coiled. I raise my hands slowly and place them on my head.
Who is that?
Someone pulls my hands roughly behind my back and binds them together.

“Do not speak,” the voice says.
I know him,
I think, but who is it? I decide to follow his advice and keep my mouth shut. Hands shove me forward, and I stumble, walking back towards the clearing where I last saw Jeremiah. “Walk.” I obey, treading gingerly. I keep my eyes peeled, not daring to turn around. I can hear the crunch of dead leaves underfoot behind me, the noises of people who don’t care if they’re being followed or not.
They can’t be Outsiders,
I think.
I know that voice.
My heart plummets to my boots as I imagine facing my parents again, this time as a traitor and a fugitive. I stumble back into the clearing and find Jeremiah standing, facing me, his hands similarly bound, and a Bolt similarly aimed at his head. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.

What does surprise me is that the hand holding the Bolt belongs to Elijah Tawfiq. 

27 - REMY

Winter 2, Sector Annum 106, 14h51 
Gregorian Calendar: December 22

After Bear begged me to kill him, I just walked into the bunk room and lay down for a few hours, immobile and numb. I tried to think about everything that had happened, but nothing would process.
I killed a man,
I kept hearing over and over again in my head, an echo accompanied by the image of the dead man’s eyes staring unblinking into mine. Only instead of irises and pupils, they contained coins, small golden coins with the numeral
one
emblazoned on them. I might have been dreaming. I don’t really know. At one point Soren came in and tried to talk to me, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t even move. Finally, with a sigh, he simply lay down beside me and put his arms around me. This time, I didn’t protest against his embrace. Instead, I turned into his shoulder and buried my head there, like a turtle hiding in its shell. I wanted to cry, but nothing came.

“Bear?” I croaked. I wanted to say something more, but the words stuck in my throat. Soren knew what I meant.

“He’ll be fine. But we have to bury the body soon.” I nodded, my nose smushed up against his collarbone.

In the comfort of Soren’s arms, I fell asleep, and when I woke up again, he was gone. I stirred, confused and worried about his absence. My fears coaxed me out of bed as dark scenarios flew through my mind—Bear committing suicide or murdering Soren; Sector soldiers attacking the boat and killing us all—but they were unfounded. The two of them were sitting at the table in the kitchen area, Soren regaling Bear with stories of the glamorous life in the capital while they shared a block of cheese.

Now, Bear and I are sitting in silence while Soren checks the ship’s controls.

“What was he like?” I ask suddenly, looking at the boy curiously. He’s about the same age I was when Tai was killed, I’d guess. Bear doesn’t look at me, and it takes him a minute to respond.

“Always moving. Full of energy. He wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, but he could hold his own in a conversation. Thought for himself, even if they weren’t always the right thoughts.”

“How old was he?”

“Year older than me. Like I said, he took a liking to me. Kinda took me under his wing. Didn’t let the Boss give me shit ever.”

“Did they? Before you got to be friends?”

“They weren’t the nicest people in the world,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Never did nothing so bad to me as what they did to him, so I guess I can’t complain.” I think of the coins in Sam’s eyes from my dreams, glinting dead and metallic.

“So where are you all going?” Bear asks after a few minutes of silence. My eyes flit to the back of Soren’s head, but he’s engrossed in checking the map and the controls.

“Home,” I say simply. He doesn’t press the issue.

We don’t say much for a while. Finally Soren turns back to us.

“We need to clean the deck and bury Sam. It’s about three in the afternoon. We should do it before it gets dark.” Soren stands up, business-like. “I think there’s a good spot ahead. It looks like there’s an old industrial site up ahead—I saw some smokestacks a little ways downriver.” He nods pointedly at Bear. “It would be a good spot to memorialize him. That way if you ever want to come back, you’ll know where to find him.”

Quietly, timidly, Bear responds: “Yeah. Okay. Don’t know if I’ll ever make it back here, but that’d be nice.” He gives Soren a small, hesitant smile. “He woulda liked being by the river.”

I nod my agreement. Giving Sam a proper burial is probably the best thing I can do right now—both for him and for me. I stand and follow Soren out the door, preparing myself to look at the man I killed. I’m determined to face my fears. Someone—Soren or Bear, or maybe both—has lain Sam out and crossed his arms in a sort of final salute and set his knife on his chest, the blade pointing down towards his feet. He looks both peaceful and warlike, somehow. The boat is already drifting to the eastern bank of the river, slowing and coming to a halt. Soren hops out into the water and pulls the boat into shore as far as possible. This way we’ll be landing on the beach, not in the water. He looks at me, his eyebrows raised, as though asking,
Are you ready?

I’m ready.

Sam is bigger than Soren, which is saying something. He’s too big for Soren to carry alone. It’ll take both of us. And I’m not going to ask Bear to help us carry the body of his best friend, the man I murdered.

I cross the deck to where the dead man’s body is lying and I bend down to lift his feet. There’s something sickening about holding, touching a dead body, but I quell my revulsion and do my job. Soren lifts his shoulders, and together we heave Sam’s enormous weight over the deck and dump him unceremoniously over the gunwale. The body falls in a heap onto the sandy beach, and we scramble over, righting Sam’s body and carrying him awkwardly a little ways off the beach. I make sure to pick up the man’s knife and tuck it back under his arms. Bear follows us, hopping off the boat, moving with slow, reluctant motions. We prop the body up against a tree and start scouting a good burial site.

It occurs to me that we don’t have a shovel. When I mention this to Soren, he doesn’t seem bothered.

“It’s healthier to let him decompose naturally anyway,” he whispers back to me, out of Bear’s earshot.

“Healthier? He’s dead.”

“You know what I mean.” He shoots me a scowl. “We’ll cover him with some underbrush and let nature take over from there.”

I suppress a shudder.

We let Bear select the burial site. He points out a spot under a giant honey locust tree. “They’re beautiful in the fall,” he whispers. The decrepit smokestacks are visible above the treetops, towering over the skeletal remains of the old buildings. Soren and I dutifully move the body over to the indicated spot and start gathering leaves and branches with which to cover him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Sam’s closed eyes as I throw leaves over his face.

Finally, after the body has been covered, Soren, Bear, and I stand back so Bear can say a few words.

“I’m sorry I brought you out here, Sam. I thought we could find something good.” He’s quiet for a moment. “They’re nice,” he says finally. “You woulda liked them.” I contemplate Bear’s words. He’s not implicating me or angry at all. On an impulse I reach out and grab his hand, feeling his rough, calloused palms, hardened from a lifetime of physical labor. I squeeze it tightly and look at him sideways. He looks up at me and gives me a weak, bleary-eyed smile:
I forgive you.
I nod back at him.
I forgive you, too.

“Sam, I’m gonna miss you,” he continues, still holding my hand. “You looked after me when no one else did, and I tried to do the same for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t as good at it as you were. I hope you’ve found peace, and I’ll do everything I can to get back at the Boss and all them people who hurt you. I’m gonna go fight with the Resistance, Sam,” he says, and Soren and I exchange suddenly worried glances. “I’m gonna make up for what they did to you, you’ll see.” He wipes his eyes with his free hand and lets go of mine.

“I’ll miss you, buddy. Goodbye, Sam.” He turns away, and Soren and I are left together, staring down at the patch of leaves and brambles that mark another lost life.

I look up at Soren.

“What did he mean,” I whisper, “he’s ‘gonna go fight with the Resistance’? He’s too young.”

“Why?” Soren shrugs. “That’s about how old you were. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. We might as well take him along.”

But I’m not looking at Soren anymore. I’m looking past him, beyond the trees to a shimmering patch in the distance that doesn’t look normal. It’s … glistening, I realize, and not just from the rain. It’s
glistening
in an unnatural, almost magical way. The trees are shimmering like a mirage in the desert. I look back at Soren to check to make sure it’s not me, that my eyes aren’t malfunctioning. No, Soren looks perfectly normal, although he’s looking at me like I might be sparkling, too.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I respond slowly, shifting my focus back to the shimmering trees. I walk past Soren, in the direction of a little clearing, and here the shimmering is more distinct, so strong now that sections of the trees appear to shift, out of place, or to blur in with the background. I walk towards the shiniest spot I can see. It’s hovering in midair, like a window to another world. I reach out to touch it when I bang my head against something—something hard.