Sowing

by Makansi, K.

  I take a deep breath and walk to the front to begin the presentation.

  The table is a giant circle with a large open space in the center. This is where the holographic slides will appear, and I have enough room to walk around the holograms and point things out. Everyone, of course, has a plasma which will display the images from my presentation individually.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend this meeting here in the capital. I know you all have important things to attend to, but I believe the Seed Bank Protection Project is prepared to move on to the next stage, and it’s important that I have your full approval as we take the next step.” The fifteen or so faces looking at me are attentive and questioning, but receptive. I have a good audience.

  After brief introductions, I dive right into the heart of the matter.

  “The Resistance has a distinct advantage over us: every one of them was originally one of us. They were professors at our schools, researchers at the seed banks, government officials, OAC administrators, or students. Citizens just like us. Every one of them, for reasons we cannot discern, defected.” At this, I notice, some of the OAC council members glance at each other. One or two shift in their seats. A sensitive subject, I know. Most of the people in this room were probably once well acquainted, or even good friends, with those who are now in the Resistance. “In short, they know everything about us. But since they’ve gone underground, we know very little about them.”

  Here I pause, while Demeter lowers the lights. She flips on the holographic slideshow in the center of the room, and at the same time, display screens light up at each individual seat around the table. The first slide is a list of high-ranking government and OAC officials who are known to have defected to the Resistance. On the holograph in the center of the room, a headshot with the individual’s name underneath appears. Every few seconds, a new headshot and a new name appears.

  I take a deep breath as I prepare for the next line: “So, the goal of my first mission is to level the playing field. This is a hostage-capture mission.” I pause, survey the room. No one moves. Everyone has turned to stone. In my ear, Demeter whispers: “Full steam ahead.”

  “We could continue to squander countless hours of effort and manpower by taking aerial photographs, scanning the radio transmissions for encoded messages, deciphering messages, attempting to hack into their servers—or we could go directly to the source. It is my belief that the most effective way to obtain the information we need is to capture and interrogate a member of the Resistance. Specifically: Elijah Tawfiq.”

  What was a room of statues is now an avalanche of questions, raised hands, whispers, clamoring voices, and scuttling chairs.

  “Question, Vale—”

  “He’ll be too well-defended; he’s too valuable—”

  “This is insane. No way this team can take on that task—”

  “Why Elijah?”

  Only the generals and my parents sit stolidly, keeping their thoughts and opinions to themselves. I hold up my hand, trying to appear patient and calm. I had expected this response, and I am prepared, but the sleep deprivation is getting to me. The room appears slightly fuzzy, and now that everyone is talking at once I’m having a hard time following, and I can’t quite process what everyone—what anyone—is saying.

  In the holograph at the center of the room, Elijah’s former government headshot rotates, now accompanied not just by his name, but by the following:

  Age: 25.

  Location: Unknown.

  Sector Status before Defection: Sector Research Institute, Research Fellow; Advisor: Professor Aran Hawthorne; OAC Programmer.

  Assumed Resistance Status: Computer Programming and Network Communications.

  As the tumult of voices quiets, the room comes back into focus. I resist the temptation to rub my eyes.

  “I understand this is a controversial proposition, and all of your questions merit attention. Please, beginning with the generals, ask your questions, and I will answer as best I can. General Bunqu, we’ll start with you.”

  The general sits quietly, staring at Elijah Tawfiq’s face in the middle of the room. Everyone seems afraid to breathe for fear they might disturb his quiet meditation. Finally, after almost ten seconds of utter silence, he speaks:

  “Yes, Lieutenant. I have several tactical questions for you.” He pauses to breathe, as though those words took all of the energy out of him, though I know that to be far from true. He is choosing his words and his question carefully. “But perhaps we can address those later. First, I would like to know why you have chosen Elijah Tawfiq as your target.”

  Short and to the point, as always; speaking for the whole room, of course.

  “Thank you, General, for the opportunity to explain this in detail.” For a moment, just a second’s hesitation, the words that form on my lips are: Because I think Remy is with him. I clamp my jaw shut to prevent my mouth from forming the words against my will.

  Everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to continue. I swallow. I force her face to the perimeter of my mind and regain my bearings. What was the question again? Oh, yes, why Eli. Yes.

  “We’ve chosen Elijah Tawfiq for a number of reasons.” Demeter shifts the slide to a series of partially decoded communiqués that contain references—we believe—to Eli’s assignments with the Resistance. “First, because of his assumed role in communications, we believe he is likely to have a tremendous amount of information. We can use his knowledge to begin decoding the rest of the Resistance’s internal messages and to find out how far they have progressed in imitating—or exceeding—our technological capabilities. Second: He’s one of the only relatively important Resistance members whose movements we can track at all. Last, because he’s still low on the totem pole, he’s required, for reasons of sheer lack of manpower, to go on their raids and scavenging expeditions. Whereas the higher-ranking members of the Resistance keep their heads well-buried underground, Tawfiq pops up here and there on engineering, reconnaissance, and raid missions.”

  Demeter brings up a series of high-res photographs taken by our security systems during seed bank raids: each of them shows Tawfiq with a Bolt slung over his shoulder or cradled in his arms. What no one knows is that I’ve cropped each of the photos to exclude the figure at Eli’s side—to exclude Remy. I was afraid that if they saw her in the photos, some of the officials—who might have heard through my parents that we dated, for however short a time—would suspect me of being biased, accuse me of going after her instead of Eli, and veto the mission. And that’s the last thing I want. I knew I had to convince them that I was only going after Eli, that Remy has no part to play. Even though that’s a lie.

  “I readily admit that our information on the precise nature of this raid is incomplete, but based on intelligence that General Aulion and I have reviewed, we are ninety percent certain that Tawfiq will lead a raid on Seed Bank Carbon. Additionally, we obtained a valuable piece of information from my mother, Madam Orleán, who received word through her own sources that Dr. James Rhinehouse is looking for something at that same bank.” She smiles serenely at me from across the table as people flash glances her way.

  No one questions my mother’s sources.

  “To finish answering your question, General Bunqu,” I say as he nods solemnly at me, not a trace of a smile on his face, “we’ve chosen Elijah because he is at once valuable and vulnerable. Furthermore, we do not seek or anticipate any casualties. Our goal is to undermine the Resistance rather than to destroy lives. The Sector is not in the business of murdering its citizens. Does that answer your question, General?”

  Kofir Bunqu looks at me and for one delirious and sleep-deprived second I am convinced his eyes are boring a hole into my soul and that it is seeping out into the room, saturating the walls and the floors and the people. But then he speaks, unsmiling and unblinking, and I come back to myself.

  “I am pleased that harming members of the Resistance is not your goa
l. Our cause will not be advanced by indiscriminate slaughter.” The silence after his response seems to crash in on me.

  “Question, Vale,” comes another voice from another world, and my soul is suctioned back into my body and my head spins, owl-like, to rest upon the source of the voice: Evander Sun-Zi, my father’s right hand man. His formal position is Director of Agricultural Farm Production, but he’s better known as “The Dragon,” a nickname he earned from his ferocity and quick-to-anger temperament. “Actually, this question is not for you but for General Aulion.” I jump like a twitchy mouse at the mention of Aulion’s name.

  “As Vale’s mentor, you have full knowledge of the work he’s put into this mission. Does it meet your approval? Keep in mind the boy’s”—Did he really just call me that?—“position as well as his personal relationship to the chancellor and the OAC general director.”

  I pray to everything that has ever been considered sacred that Aulion takes my side here.

  Aulion looks at Sun-Zi and then his eyes slide over to meet my father’s. “I believe that Lieutenant Orleán has adequately prepared and is competent to proceed.”

  I fight the urge to grin, but my happiness is tempered. I can’t help but think that Aulion’s words were at least partially coerced by my father. But I can’t worry about that now—he took my side, and that’s all that matters.

  “Does anyone else have any more questions before we turn to the strategic overview?” I ask. Heads shake. Faces turn to their neighbors and then back to me.

  My mother smiles broadly and says, “Vale, I believe you’ve satisfied our concerns about the necessity of the mission and the wisdom of your choice of target.”

  “Thank you, Madam Orlèan. With your permission, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll proceed.”

  ****

  Forty-five minutes later, after a thorough tactical overview including the training my team has undergone, attack strategy, retreat options in case of failure, and a comprehensive map review of the seed bank, my father calls for a consensus vote on whether or not to approve the mission.

  “Master Administrator, will you count the votes? All in favor of approving Valerian Orlèan’s proposed hostage-capture mission, raise your right hand.”

  I look around the room. All the hands are raised. A bubble of excitement starts in my toes and spreads up through the rest of my body, cresting finally in an enormous smile that I can’t keep off my face.

  There is a long and somewhat pregnant pause in the room. Then the master administrator speaks:

  “Thank you all for your votes. All in favor. Valerian Orleán, your first official mission has been approved.”

  My father looks at me grimly, as though to say, Don’t get comfortable. This was the easy part. “We will expect constant updates from you over the next several weeks as you continue to drill and prepare.”

  “And of course,” my mother cuts in, “we eagerly anticipate hearing about your results and the information you obtain from Elijah Tawfiq, once he is ours. I look forward to meeting him again myself.”

  The peculiar way my mother says the words “once he is ours,” as if Eli is nothing more than a tool or a computer part or an airship to be possessed, somehow sounds too brutal, and my chest tightens as I once again push away memories of the past. Even as everyone stands and the master administrator announces “Meeting adjourned” from a faraway world and everyone is shaking my hand and my father is clapping my shoulder and my mother is kissing me on the cheek, a fog gathers around my thoughts and clouds my vision, and I discover I can’t see properly. My knees threaten to buckle beneath me, and I keep hearing the words “once he is ours” echoed over and over again. Once I deliver Eli to the Sector, what will become of him? What exactly does one do with a person who is ours? My mouth forms words, and the muscles in my face move in the direction of what must certainly be a very practiced smile, but I keep asking myself why I ever thought capturing a human being and making him ours was a good idea.

  11 - REMY

  Fall 82, Sector Annum 105, 18h07

  Gregorian Calendar: December 11

  Barely lukewarm, the water from the old, rusted showerhead trickles down my forehead as I struggle to get the sweat and dirt off. Dank, earthy air and dim lights combine to make me feel like I’m showering in an underground cave. It’s always a fight down here, but today it’s especially bad. I drew the short straw after our workout and had to shower last. Back in the Sector, we’d get all the water we wanted, but out here, hundreds of kilometers away from civilization, our small array of generators is never enough to keep the water hot enough for everyone. Tai and I used to share a bathroom with an oversized stone tub. I could lay out flat and point my toes and still not touch the end. Tai spent hours in that tub, but I preferred a good hot shower over a long soak any day. The shower had about twenty nozzles that you could adjust from what Dad called gentle rain to torrential downpour to Atlantic hurricane. After joining the Resistance, I quickly learned how much of a luxury all that really was, and now my curls are always just a bit grimy.

  I lather up with a bar of soap and scrub down my body as quickly as possible before I start to get chilled. As soon as the trickle of water has rinsed all the soap from me, I grab a towel and pat dry, throwing on my clean clothes. I grab my toiletries and my sweaty workout clothes and head back towards my dorm.

  “Hey, Remy!” someone calls behind me.

  “Oh, hey, Kenzie.”

  Her bright red hair dances around her face as she smiles. “Headed back to the bunk?”

  “Yeah, gotta get something warmer than this.”

  “I always bring a sweater with me. These halls are so dank and chilly,” she says, shaking her head ruefully. She walks with me towards our shared bunk room.

  “It’s either that or hot and sweaty,” I agree. “God, I’m tired.”

  “Me, too,” she nods. “Eli really worked us to the bone on that one.” Eli’s our squad leader and is in charge of setting our training regimens. We do a lot of solo training, but every few days we spend several hours working out together, going over formations and drill policies, doing target practice, et cetera. We only have a week or so before our next mission, so Eli is pushing us hard right now. “You really killed those hurdles.”

  “Yeah, I beat my best time,” I say casually.

  “How’d you get so fast? I’ve got four inches on you!”

  “It’s a damn good thing I’m fast, ’cause you could take me in a fistfight any day.”

  “Lucky we’re on the same team, then,” she says. “So, what are you doing tonight?”

  “The usual. Dinner, then staring at our damn chromosomes, hoping a solution magically appears in front of my eyes. What about you?”

  “Jahnu and I are going topside for a moonlight soiree,” she says, whispering confidentially, and I can tell she’s eager to share the news. “What should I wear?”

  “Something sexy, obviously,” I grin. “What about that green dress you have? It looks great on you.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” she sighs. “Definitely. I’m just so—”

  “Happy?”

  “Yes! He’s so sweet, and thoughtful, and—I know you two have been good friends for a long time. Does he talk about me, too?”

  “Are you kidding?” I roll my eyes. In fact, Jahnu hasn’t been talking much at all to me lately. He just sits around looking all dopey and dreamy. “Face it, Kenzie, you guys are in love,” I say, giving her a playful shove. Just then, we round the corner and run smack into Jahnu.

  “There you are,” he says, his eyes lighting up as he sees her. He bends over to give her a kiss, and a bright smile spreads across her face. “Remy, Firestone sent me to look for you. Your mom’s calling in. She’s been on the line for about ten minutes now.”

  “Shit.” I’d forgotten we agreed to talk today if we could. I always try to talk to my parents before we go out on a mission—just in case something bad happens. It sounds morbid, but it makes us all feel better. “I’ll se
e you guys at dinner, then,” I say, but neither of them are paying me much attention right now. They’re making moon eyes at each other, and I’m pretty sure I actually hear cooing. I sigh and jog off towards the comm center.

  When I arrive, I rap lightly on the metal so I don’t startle Firestone. It’s more out of habit than courtesy; I don’t think anything could shake him. Firestone’s got messy black curls and angular features that don’t quite all fit together right. His eyebrows and his chin are too pointy; his nose seems angled in the wrong direction. His real name isn’t Firestone, but no one knows what it is or who started calling him “Firestone” in the first place. He’s one of the few Resistance members at our base from a factory town. Eli says he split off when he was about twenty and lived out in the woods for a year or so by himself, and no one really knows why. One of our hunting parties happened across him one day, half naked and living in a tree. He’d gone more than a little crazy. But when they brought him back to base, it turned out he’s an experienced pilot and a whiz mechanic who can take things apart and put them back together better than they were before. He’s pretty quiet, but Eli’s managed to get on his good side by rehabbing old machinery with him. And I think they get along because they’re each, in their own ways, a little insane.

  “Heya, Remy,” he calls. “Guess Jahnu got word to you that your mum’s calling in?”

  “Yeah.” I sit down at the chair next to him and pull on the big old-fashioned headphones. They’re antiquated, but I’ve gotten used to them by now. I flip the call switch, and instantly I hear my mom’s breath.

  “Sorry,” I whisper apologetically. “I forgot we were supposed to talk.”

  “It’s okay.” Her voice is soothing but does nothing to calm my nerves. Every time I talk to them, I just realize how much I miss them—and how much I’m afraid to lose them. “I wasn’t worried. I just wanted to make sure we got to talk before you head out on this next mission.”

  “I know.”