Sowing

by Makansi, K.

  “But here’s the key: he told me I couldn’t tell anyone about it, that it was top secret, because—”

  “Wait,” Soren interrupts. “Where did he get the DNA in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. When I asked him, he said he was studying some old frozen cyanobacteria samples he found in one of the lab’s storage units, but now I’m not so sure. Anyway, he said he looked at their chromosomes and realized they didn’t look anything like cyanobacteria chromosomes. In fact, they were perfectly ordered and well-structured. The crazy thing is, they looked like sunflowers.”

  “What?” I sputter. “What do you mean, ‘they looked like sunflowers’?”

  “The chromosomes had been somehow manufactured and arranged so that the strings of DNA took on the pattern of a sketch of a sunflower, when viewed in their entirety. We’d never seen anything like it. Some chromosomes wind themselves up into intricate supercoiled structures, like when you twist and keep twisting a rope, although most just look like tangled knots of spaghetti. This one, though, was so perfect, so elegant. It might as well have been a 3D model of a sunflower. When Hawthorne studied them, he realized every single cell contained non-functioning DNA—even though those cells could never have existed as living organisms with that DNA.”

  “What does that mean?” I demand.

  “It means that someone removed the bacteria’s real DNA and inserted artificially coded DNA,” Eli says. I can always count on him to put scientific information in easy little packages for me. “Then they froze the cyanobacteria, ensuring that the DNA would be perfectly stored.”

  “And perfectly hidden,” Soren breathes.

  “Every cell had the same DNA. Hundreds of copies of this non-functioning genome in hundreds of cyanobacteria—they were clones.”

  “But why—and who?” Jahnu asks. “Why would someone do that? What was in that DNA that was so important to hide and preserve?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what Hawthorne wanted me to help him figure out.”

  “Get back to the point,” Kenzie says. “What does this have to do with … with the massacre?”

  Eli’s brow furrows, and he peers into the distance for a moment, as if trying to see the molecules vibrating in the air itself. “I don’t know.” He turns back to Kenzie. “Maybe nothing, but a couple of weeks before he died, Hawthorne told me he’d made a breakthrough. That’s when he got all excited about using synthesized DNA as a method of data storage. We were scheduled to meet in his lab after class the day of the, you know. But, and this is key: he also told me he was going to tell Corine Orleán about it.”

  “Did he tell her?” My parents never bought the story about the terrorist attack by an Outsider, and ever since the sham investigation and Sector cover-up, they’ve been convinced Corine was involved somehow. But there was never any way to prove it.

  “If he did, he never told me. But right before the attacker shot himself, he said something about Corine.” I’ve heard this part of the story before, but from the surprised looks on the others’ faces, I can tell I’m the only one who has.

  Eli pauses, and I fight the urge to tell him to go on. He has to tell the story on his terms. After a moment, he turns and looks at me.

  “He said: ‘A word to the wise: never get on Madam Orleán’s bad side.’”

  The silence is so thick it almost pulsates with every breath we take. The wind rustles through the tall grasses around us and flies buzz near my ear. The smell of autumn leaves and chill air presses in around me.

  “Shit,” Jahnu whispers.

  “Do you think Corine ordered the attack?” Kenzie asks in a hushed voice.

  “I’ve wondered about that every day since,” Eli replies.

  “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re thinking my sister was murdered because of this DNA and that this same DNA may be what Vale’s supposed Seed Bank Protection Project is all about.” If this is why Tai died, could it also be the key to avenging her death?

  “I don’t know, Remy, but something in my gut tells me it’s all related.”

  “Why is it so important? What is it?”

  “That’s the thing. I still have no idea what’s on it. I’ve gone back and looked at the code again and again—”

  “Wait,” Soren interrupts again. “Didn’t you say this was top secret? How have you looked at it again since then?”

  “I downloaded it onto my computer, genius,” Eli scoffs. “You think I let Hawthorne dictate my work hours? Nine to five, in the lab with him looking over my shoulder? No way. I worked when I felt like it. So I copied it to my plasma. When I fled with the Alexanders, I copied the sequence onto a spare drive. I can reconstruct the whole sequence for you on Remy’s new plasma.”

  As usual when Eli’s announcing his law-breaking habits, I am immensely proud to call him my surrogate older brother.

  “Do you think she knows?” Jahnu asks. “Do you think Corine suspects you still have this information? Maybe that’s what Vale’s ‘Seed Bank Protection Project’ is all about. It’s not the Resistance they care about—it’s you.”

  Eli shrugs in response. “It’s been three years. Why now?” he says warily. “None of it really makes sense, but….”

  “One thing’s for sure, though,” I say, feeling as though my life has been given singular purpose. I cut a huge chunk of cheese for myself, suddenly starving again. “We need to find out what’s in that DNA.”

  5 - VALE

  Fall 48, Sector Annum 105, 12h28

  Gregorian Calendar: November 7

  Waking up at 06h30 hours this morning was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in a long time. I met General Aulion at the training center of the Sector Defense Forces Complex. He wasted no time setting me on a two-hour daily workout routine, making it explicitly clear to me that if I failed to complete it every single day, I would be demoted from my command position. After struggling through the ten-kilometer run, the sprints, and the weights—with him watching my every step—he gave me ten minutes to shower and clean up. Then he walked me to the tactical room.

  “Lieutenant Orleán,” he growled, “if you’re not in this room every Monday through Friday at 0915 hours sharp, I’ll skin you alive.”

  I’m thrilled we got off to such a great start.

  By the time our three-hour tactical briefing was over, I was ready to crawl back into bed for the rest of the week. The general and I went over every detail of the current security systems in place to defend our seed banks, with a thorough analysis of how the Resistance had managed to break in to three of them. We reviewed aerial photographs that Sector drones had taken of possible Resistance base sites. We talked about their renewable energy technology and their communications systems. And then at the end of it all, Aulion announced that my homework for the day was to prepare a detailed profile of each known member of the Resistance leadership. Due tomorrow morning at 0915 hours. Sharp.

  “Sir?” A voice jolts me back from my thoughts. “This is the entrance to your new office.”

  “Ah. Yes. Thank you, Chan-Yu,” I respond, returning to the present. I step up to the metal box mounted on the wall and insert my arm, pressing my palm against the fingerprint scanner inside. A red light begins flashing above the door to my office. I feel the tiniest pinch on the back of my hand as a microscopic needle penetrates my skin, pulling off just a few cells for DNA analysis. As my palm print and heat signature is read, the red light turns to yellow. After a few seconds, the light turns green, and a robotic voice says, “Thank you for confirming your identity, Valerian Orleán.” The door clicks open.

  As I step inside, I can’t help but smile. I had Chan-Yu make sure my new office was decorated for comfort. He’s done an excellent job. My heels click across the wide planked wood floor until I step onto the thick carpet, handwoven with the Orleán family crest. My mother’s graduation gift. I sink down into my new leather chair and resist the temptation to stick my legs out and spin around. Instead, opting for the more mature path, I ru
n my fingers across the desk and admire the polished wood.

  “How do you like it, sir?” Chan-Yu asks from the doorway, his expression stoic. “Does it meet your expectations?”

  “Meets and exceeds,” I say. “Thank you. This is exactly what I wanted.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, that will be all.”

  And with that, Chan-Yu is gone, and I stand and trace my fingers over the bindings of the books filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the room. Bookshelves. An indulgence, a relic of the past. There are so few printed books left what with all the libraries and personal collections burned during the Religious Wars and then whatever survived just left to rot or turn to dust during the Famine Years. And, of course, we don’t print our own now. Paper is a thing of the past. We write on our plasma tablets, or keep audio notes, or store everything in image files.

  I notice a small box sitting on the credenza behind my desk. On the box is a printed note in what looks like my father’s handwriting.

  Congratulations – P.S.O.

  My father, Philip Sebastian Orleán. I open the box and gasp. How many times have I asked if I’d ever get a Communications Link, a C-Link, of my own?

  “Of course, I think you’re responsible enough for one,” Dad would say, “but the Sector’s Board of Governors has to approve it. I’m the chancellor, Vale, not a dictator.” I carefully peel it from its padded case and hold it up to the light. It’s the color of my skin, wafer thin and nearly transparent. I hold it between my fingers, bending it ever so slightly. I can see the circuits that look like nothing more than blood-filled capillaries, and the clear filaments that are both microphone and transmitter. It weighs nothing, yet this tiny device, invisible once inserted in the ear, is the true indicator of my new status in the Sector—everything else pales in comparison. This makes up for all the pain Aulion put me through this morning.

  There are only ten or twelve of these little devices in the world, and now three of them are owned by members of my family. I turn it over in my hand. The color matches perfectly, and when I let it rest in my palm, it looks like nothing more than a flap of skin. And yet, this is the tool that will allow me access to all the databases in the Sector. Every bit of information that was ever compiled and that survived the wars—every book, map, academic paper, government memo, blueprint, shipping manifest, crop report, seed genome, and even databases a few unscrupulous travelers have sold us from the remnants of the Russian European Federation, the Chinese Collective, and the South American Alliance—all of it is available through this device. All the knowledge I could ever desire is now at my fingertips.

  I sit back down and press the earpiece firmly into place. The skin of each C-Link is imprinted with a scanned topological map of the ear canal of the individual for whom the device was created. My father probably had my ear scanned during my graduation physical. The malleable flap of rubber is designed to mold itself to the wearer’s ear when first inserted and will not engage unless the ear matches the map.

  “Valerian Orleán, welcome to the Okarian Sector’s Database Library.”

  The voice is female, soft, low—and not just a little sexy. I smile and look around the room as if someone could be watching.

  “Hello,” I say, feeling a little stupid.

  “I am your guide, but before we begin exploring, tell me how you want me to address you.”

  “Vale, just Vale.”

  “Very good, Vale, just Vale.” I think I detect the hint of a smile in her reply and remind myself I’m talking to a computer. “Now, you must name me,” she says. “What will you call me?”

  Remy. It’s the first thing that pops into my head. No. No, how stupid. Why did I think of that? I can’t possibly name my C-Link after—no. “Don’t you have a name already?” I ask.

  “No, Vale, this is a part of the process of acquiring a C-Link.”

  “Can’t you pick something yourself?”

  “To avoid naming me is to avoid yourself. You must choose.”

  Not even a minute has gone by and she’s already seeing past my tricks. Or maybe that’s a common evasion strategy, and the computer’s basic programming is designed to prevent indecision.

  “Okay, fine. This is harder than I thought, though.” I sit down in my chair and lean back, taking a deep breath. I need to come up with a good name. After all, I am—hopefully—going to be living with this system for a very long time, and because the system adapts to each individual’s personality and speech patterns, it’s important to start out with the right relationship. It’s almost as though the system becomes an extension of your brain. It’s impossible to undo your creation. You can only destroy it and start over.

  My mother would never tell me what she named hers—hell, she barely acknowledges she has a C-Link—but I know my father named his “Laika” after the first dog sent into space by the USSR centuries ago. He thought it was both a sign that the computer ought to be as obedient to him as a dog to its owner, and recognition of the technological power and available resources of the old world. I should choose something equally meaningful.

  Then it hits me. “Demeter. Your name is Demeter, after the ancient Greek goddess of the harvest, to constantly remind myself what we strive for: to feed our people and to master nature so the famines of the past never return.”

  “Well-chosen, Vale. However, perhaps you have chosen a double-edged sword. You know, of course, that Demeter was not only responsible for the growing season, but also for the seasons of death?”

  “And she too, during those times, had lost someone very dear to her.” The parallel is clear, but I don’t want to say it out loud. I’ve lost Remy; Demeter had lost her daughter. “I’m not ignorant of what I’ve chosen for you, Deme,” I say, proud of the nickname.

  “Then you have chosen doubly well. Now that you have named me, you may begin exploring and charting your course through the database. Where would you like to begin?”

  “Well, I guess you haven’t heard, but my boss gave me some homework to do today. I need to put together detailed profiles of each of the top-ranking members of the Resistance, including suspected whereabouts, roles within the Resistance, special knowledge and skills, and crimes against the Sector. Can you help me out with that?”

  “Of course. Why don’t we begin by tracing the disappearances of former Sector officials and OAC researchers?”

  Perfect. I smile. “That’s a great idea. In fact, let’s start with the two I know the most about—Gabriel and Brinn Alexander, the parents of Remy Alexander.”

  The lights in my office dim. Three-dimensional images of Remy’s parents appear in the center of the room, and then files relating to Brinn’s research on botanical compounds and pharmacology and collections of Gabriel’s writings as the Sector’s Poet Laureate are listed. Then, folders relating to the Watchmen’s search of Brinn’s office, lab, and their house, complete with images of each room, including a shot of Remy’s bedroom, stark and empty, not at all like the last time I saw it when her sketches and paintings were plastered all over the walls. I remember how she used up every scrap of her rationed paper from her art class and begged more from her fellow art students. The information keeps coming. I sit back in my chair as Demeter brings up hundreds of files, images, and audio recordings and displays them all across the hologram for me to review. All I can do is marvel.

  6 - VALE

  Fall 57, Sector Annum 105, 13h26

  Gregorian Calendar: November 16

  “And so, each of these very particular objectives fits within my larger goals for the Seed Bank Protection Project, which, as you can see, are outlined on the following page.”

  I’m finishing up my first presentation on my work so far. Demeter has linked me in to a meeting with the OAC Corporate Assembly and the chancellor and the Board of Governors. Several of the members of the Corporate Assembly are out visiting Farms and factory towns, so it’s a virtual meeting, and my father decided I could present fro
m the comfort of my new office.

  “As you all know, the project has been created in response to a new series of threats from those who call themselves the Resistance. The damage that the Resistance has inflicted upon our facilities so far has been minor at worst. However, it is clear from their growing numbers, increasing boldness, and the ease with which they have penetrated our defenses that they could very soon pose a significant threat to the security of our food supply.”

  Demeter brings up a series of holographic projections, each image showing one of the government buildings or OAC research facilities with their names and the dates of the raids.

  “After consultation with the chancellor and the OAC’s general director,”—it’s always strange to refer to my parents by their titles—“I understand my primary goal for the project will be to not only defend our own facilities, but also to impede the Resistance’s ability to carry out additional operations and to deter those who may be sympathetic to their propaganda from joining their movement.”

  “Question, Vale,” I hear within my ear. Demeter immediately switches the hologram in my office to a close-up of the man currently speaking. It’s General Bunqu, a man with whom I’ve had the pleasure to train for the past year. He is a sight to behold. At the weights, at the sprints, at the long-distance runs and at the obstacle courses, Bunqu can best nearly every man who dares to compete against him. He only speaks to answer questions or issue commands, and he very rarely smiles. He is as black as a moonless night, and, for some reason, he always reminds me of the giant oak behind my bedroom at the chancellor’s residence—towering, stately, immovable.