Reaping The Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 3)

by Michael R. Hicks

  But the discomfort had become something more ominous near the forty-eight hour mark after exposure. The ache in its joints had become acute, and after a few more hours had become so painful that it could no longer walk. Soon after that, every joint was engulfed in fiery pain, even when Zohreh lay completely still.

  After about sixty hours, the harvester guessed, it could not move its limbs at all, as if they had been fused in place and filled with molten metal.

  Then the true pain began, literally in every bone in the thing’s body. It could feel itself slowly reshaping, and realized that its bones were growing again, just as they had when its body transitioned from the larval to adult stage. The bone growth of its species during that phase was phenomenally fast, the malleable flesh of the larva condensing into the adult form, the carbon fiber-like bones forming in little over twelve hours.

  The Zohreh-thing understood then that something in the viral payload had switched the genetic signal for bone growth back on, and its skeletal structure was growing out of control. The bones were expanding in a completely random fashion, causing unbearable agony. Some of the bones, starting with the rough equivalent of the left femur, snapped under the pressure exerted by the frantically growing bones on the other end of the knee joint. The bones in the thorax bent and cracked as the ribs and segments of the spine elongated and twisted out of shape. Its claws extended and curled inward, the sharp nails at the end spearing the wrist joints. The plates of the skull thickened, slowly crushing the brain. The pain was excruciating…and inescapable.

  Near the end, even the malleable tissue began to transform itself into a thick, hard carapace of twisted bone tissue that encased the thorax, and random bone spurs grew inward, slowly skewering the internal organs.

  It was almost a relief when Zohreh was found by a larva on its random quest for food .

  ***

  “It’s a miracle.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. President,” Naomi said with a smile. Lynch still looked like a shell of what he had been before he’d assumed the presidency, but hope and determination had replaced weariness and despair.

  “It was intended as one, Dr. Perrault. Please continue.”

  Naomi gestured to the map display behind her showing the status of the harvester infection across the globe. Instead of showing the unstoppable spread of harvesters, it showed the success of the ongoing containment operations. “Today marks the end of the sixth week since the virus was released,” Naomi went on, “and multiple streams of intelligence reporting are showing clear and unambiguous signs…”

  “Now that doesn’t happen very often,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said quietly with a wink to Naomi. Several of the military officers, none of whom wore anything less than a single star on their rank insignia, chuckled. Jack was among them as a newly minted brigadier general by direct order of the president.

  “…that the harvesters are being wiped out in the infected zones,” Naomi went on. “Fifteen major population centers have been recategorized from red to yellow status.” Red, of course, meant that the area was overrun with harvesters. Yellow indicated that the harvester population was largely destroyed. “I’m also very pleased to report that Phoenix has been added to the cities on the green list.” Areas on the green list were safe zones that could be resettled. “That’s the first city with a pre-war population of over a million that’s been placed on the list, and I believe we’ll see San Antonio and the entire island of Oahu added next.”

  That earned her a round of applause, led by Lynch, and she bowed her head and tried not to blush.

  When the applause died down, she went on. “We have eight virus production centers now, up from six a week ago. Centers in Norway, Russia, China, India, and Argentina will be opening within the next two weeks.” She gestured to the map. “As you can see, our main problem now is distribution. As you know, we began the mass clearing operations using the surviving KC-135T aircraft from the 171st Air Refueling Squadron, converted to carry a viral slurry in their fuselage tanks. The first missions established a cordon here, around Cheyenne Mountain, and other surviving critical facilities and population centers. Since then, we’ve been trying to put every potential asset from crop dusters to hand hand-held sprayers into service.” She paused. “While it’s a bit of a gloomy fact to mention, in about six months nearly every human being on the planet will be an asymptomatic carrier of the virus.”

  An admiral who was new to Naomi’s weekly briefings looked at her quizzically. “And what exactly does that mean, doctor?”

  “It means that we don’t suffer from the disease, but our bodies harbor the virus.”

  “In other words, sir,” Jack clarified, “an adult harvester can catch the virus from an infected human. If they so much as breathe the same air, they’ll catch it. Or if they eat one of us.”

  The admiral humphed. “Nice. I guess that should put the fear of God into any of the impostors, then, shouldn’t it?”

  Naomi nodded. “Four were inside this very complex, having somehow avoided the cat patrols. But they didn’t escape the virus every one of us now carries.”

  The president leaned forward. “So what does the future look like in your crystal ball, Naomi?”

  “We have a long haul ahead of us, sir,” she told him grimly. “We’re gaining ground quickly, of course, but the virus isn’t one hundred percent lethal, and the harvester population is still growing at an exponential rate in areas that haven’t yet been inoculated.” She paused. “If my estimates are correct, we could lose as many as five hundred million to a billion more people over the next three years.”

  The room fell deathly silent. “How can the harvesters kill so many more of us when we’re wiping them out left and right?” Lynch spoke the words in a whisper.

  “Most of those deaths won’t be from direct harvester attacks, sir,” she told him. “We knew early on that even if we were able to contain the harvesters, we’d still suffer dreadful casualties from starvation, followed by disease. Remember, most of the world’s grain and rice producing regions have been devastated, with either the population eliminated or the land itself laid waste. And the widespread destruction of the transportation infrastructure means we often won’t be able to get food and other essentials from where they’re produced to where they’re needed.”

  “Please tell me you’re working on a plan to deal with this,” Lynch said, looking at the Secretary for Agriculture.

  “Yes, sir, we are,” the secretary said, “but until we have reliable communications again, it’s hard to find anyone in a position of authority beyond the military bases and the green zones.” She frowned. “It’s the Wild West out there right now, but we’ll deal with it.”

  “Another longer term issue,” Naomi said when Lynch turned back to her, “is that we don’t know how much of the infected grain may still be out in the biosphere. As best we know, it was never planted here, and whatever was in Russia was most likely destroyed by their nuclear strikes. But we have no way to know how much might have been planted in the other countries that received samples of the original seeds. We could have recurring outbreaks until we can track down and destroy the last of it. That also assumes that it doesn’t naturally hybridize — crossbreed, if you will — with other varieties of corn. If that happens, it could take years or decades, perhaps longer, to completely neutralize the threat. Any resulting harvesters shouldn’t last long after being exposed to the virus, but there’s always the possibility that they’ll develop an immunity or adapt to the virus. I think that’s unlikely in the short term, but it’s something we can’t allow ourselves to forget.”

  “I don’t think that’ll happen, doctor,” Lynch told her as he eyed the map. “I don’t think we’ll be forgetting any of this for a very long time.”

  ***

  Jack rapped on the door of the small conference room. After the second knock, Melissa opened the door.

  “Jack!” She stood up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then wrappe
d her arms around him to give him a hug.

  “Hey, kid! Take it easy or you’ll break my ribs!”

  “Pansy,” she said with a smile as she let him go and stepped back as Alexander and Koshka moved past her into the room, their tails in the air.

  “Oh, my Lord,” he whispered as he took a closer look at the girl’s face. He hadn’t seen her in the two weeks since he left on his most recent deployment, and the ugly lesions and tiny fibers that had covered most of her face and head were nearly gone. Turning to Naomi, who stood beside him on crutches, her broken leg still encased in a cast. “You did this?”

  Naomi nodded, a very happy and proud expression on her face. “Yes. I told her the gene therapy was risky, but she insisted on trying it. The one positive legacy from the harvester disaster is that we might be able to cure many diseases. She was our test case.”

  “I’m not hideous anymore,” the girl said, touching her face with her hands. “I may not be great-looking, but I don’t feel like a monster.”

  “You’ve always been beautiful,” Jack told her. “Anyone who ever thought any different was an idiot.”

  “Oh, you smooth talker, you.” Renee came to the door. “Get your asses in here before anybody else smells what I’m cooking and crashes the party.”

  She ushered them in, giving Jack a hug before she hung a sign on the outside of the door and closed it. “Those Air Force guys are worse than bloodhounds. They can smell my cooking a mile away and come begging like Oliver Twist.”

  Naomi burst out laughing. “What did that sign that you put on the door say?”

  “Emergency Executive Meeting. Stay The Hell Out.”

  “You did not,” Jack said as he moved over to the table that Renee had turned into an ad-hoc kitchen with two hot plates heating a skillet and sauce pan, a crock pot, and a toaster oven. He found himself salivating at the aromas of garlic and basil from whatever she was cooking.

  She gave him an evil smile. “I did. Come on, sit down and let’s eat. I haven’t seen you in ages, and you look like you’ve lost weight. I can fix that.”

  Jack and Naomi sat down while Renee and Melissa served up the food. “Bruschetta with sautéed mushrooms, tortelli di patata, and stuffed agnolotti.”

  “Just don’t ask what they’re stuffed with,” Melissa whispered. Her lips twisted up in a smirk.

  “Shut up, smart ass, or you’ll be back to eating those God-awful MREs for the rest of your life.” She poured the girl a glass of wine. Melissa gave her a shocked look. “If you’re old enough to fight harvesters,” Renee said, “you’re old enough to have a glass of wine.”

  Naomi looked at the food Renee was serving. “Where did you get the ingredients for this? Even the president doesn’t eat this well.”

  Renee laughed. “Why do you think Jack keeps going on all his little junkets? He’s not killing harvesters, he’s doing my shopping. Now shut up and eat.”

  Naomi turned to Jack. “Is that true?”

  He chuckled. “Sort of. Now eat.” To Renee, he said, “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess. I still miss the Bald Bastard. I guess I always will, but what can you do?” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “At least I’ve got Melissa. I’m working on corrupting her properly. That’s become my life’s work.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Naomi said as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Someone’s been putting shaving cream on the ear pieces of the phones in the congressional staff spaces.” She looked at Melissa with narrowed eyes.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Melissa said with complete innocence.

  Renee guffawed. “Hey, somebody has to brighten this place up. You should have seen General Reynolds. He laughed his butt off about that. In private, of course.”

  “Well, just keep your pranks out of the operations areas, okay?” Jack gave the girl The Look, just like his dad used to give him.

  “I know,” she complained. “I’m not stupid.”

  “No, you’re not,” Renee told her. “She’s been a huge help to us in rebuilding what’s left of the Internet. She might even be as good as me, someday.” After another sip of wine, she said, “So what’s the story with you two?”

  “We’re leaving for Norway tomorrow,” Naomi told her. “I’ve got a round of meetings with the Scandinavian and Russian scientific advisors, and Jack’s going to go talk to the military people.”

  “That’s going to be fun,” Jack tossed back what was left in his wine glass, and Renee poured him some more. “We’re trying to sort out the mess in northern Russia. Half their population seems to think the grass would be greener in Finland or the Baltic countries, with the people up in the far north clamoring to get into Norway. Harvesters are still running loose, because large-scale sanitization operations have only just started in most places outside the States. But we want to defuse that powder keg before we have another war on our hands.” He smiled. “So we’ll get to spend a week on an all-expenses paid vacation to Tromsø in Norway.”

  “God,” Renee said. “I hope you remember to take your heated undies. Why are they holding it there?”

  Jack shrugged. “Security. The city is on a small island. They’ve sprayed every inch of the place with the virus, and the Norwegian Navy has locked it down and put a ring of troops around it. The Norwegians are involved in the issue, but not nearly so much as the Finns and the Baltic countries, which have already had some battles with Russian forces, on top of the harvesters. No one could agree on any other place to hold the talks.”

  “Will you see Terje?” Melissa asked.

  “Yeah, he’s on the Norwegian delegation, along with another officer they call The Troll. You’d love him, and he has a cool cat named Lurva, too.” He gave Melissa a thoughtful look. “Tell you what. How would you like to go?”

  Her mouth fell open. “Could I? Really?”

  Shrugging, Jack said, “I don’t see why not. As a matter of fact, we’ll need a cat-herder while we’re in the sessions. Cats will be allowed in the rooms, of course, but we’re supposed to take someone to keep them out of trouble while we’re working. I thought you might be interested.”

  “Will Uncle Al be flying us?”

  Al Ferris had been an emotional basket case after the escape from Lincoln, and Melissa had taken it upon herself to cheer him up. It had taken her a while, but she had finally cracked through his outer shell. He’d returned to his irascible normal self, and had even begun teaching her to fly.

  “He’s on the return side of a long range sanitization sortie,” Jack told her, “which is why he couldn’t make dinner tonight. But yeah, he’ll be flying us out in the morning in one of the corporate jets.”

  “But before you decide for sure,” Naomi added, “you need to know that this is actually the first part of a much larger trip. After Norway, I’ve got meetings scheduled in China, Japan, and India, and we might have to stop at some other places, too. Lots of people need our help out there, so you probably won’t be back here for a while. You’ll be stuck with us and the cats in all sorts of interesting, exotic places.”

  Melissa’s face lit up with delight until she remembered something. “What about Renee? Are we leaving her behind?”

  Renee wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m staying right here, kid. No more planes for me. Not ever, if I can help it.” She smiled, but Jack saw the sadness in her eyes. “So you have to promise to call me every night on the satcom and report on how many phones you rigged with shaving cream.”

  They all laughed. It was a sound that warmed Jack’s heart. It was the sound of a loving family, bound together by fate, if not by blood.

  More than that, it was the sound of hope.

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  ***

  DISCOVER OTHER BOOKS BY MICHAEL R. HICKS

  In Her Name: The Last War Trilogy

  First Contact

  Legend Of The Sword

  Dead Sou
l

  In Her Name: Redemption Trilogy

  Empire

  Confederation

  Final Battle

  In Her Name: The First Empress Trilogy

  From Chaos Born

  Forged In Flame

  Mistress Of The Ages (Coming Winter 2013)

  In Her Name Trilogy Collections

  In Her Name: Redemption

  In Her Name: The Last War

  Harvest Trilogy

  Season Of The Harvest

  Bitter Harvest

  Reaping The Harvest

  Visit AuthorMichaelHicks.com for the latest updates!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in 1963, Michael Hicks grew up in the age of the Apollo program and spent his youth glued to the television watching the original Star Trek series and other science fiction movies, which continues to be a source of entertainment and inspiration. Having spent the majority of his life as a voracious reader, he has been heavily influenced by writers ranging from Robert Heinlein to Jerry Pournelle and Larry Niven, and David Weber to S.M. Stirling. Living in Florida with his beautiful wife, two wonderful stepsons and two mischievous Siberian cats, he’s now living his dream of writing novels full-time.