The Harvest Read Free Page B

consider a nap, or a few minutes of quiet meditation, but opt for some of the smoked elk instead. It’s early, and I haven’t slept much tonight, but I’m antsy. Time is running out. How much longer can I stay in Okaria, pawning food from the Outsiders, hanging out in smoke dens, listening, watching, waiting? I am not safe here. One wrong move and I’m done for. Phillip’s goodwill was waning when Soren and I were captured, and I’m sure it’s nonexistent now. If I’m caught again, the Sector will have no mercy, not after Round Barn, not after what I did to Evander.
    I pull out my plasma and begin sketching. Where are my friends? Are they safe? How are Jahnu and Kenzie? Has Rhinehouse found an antivirus for Eli? Will I ever be able to see him again?
    The sketch morphs into something grotesque. A disembodied mouth, open in a scream, bits of tongue flaking away like burnt paper.
    Thirty minutes after sunset, I walk into The Elysium smoke den. Located deep in fashionable South Okaria, far away from the city center, The Elysium couldn’t be more different from Le Mouton Noir. The lights are dim but luminous. Hundreds of tiny green biolights flicker along the walls. The glassware here is polished and fine, the smoke clean, the hookahs as elegant as the patrons. It’s like I’ve entered a different dimension, as if I’m floating in the ocean amidst a sea of glowing plankton. There is an air of intense sensuality. Bodies lean into each other, lovers kiss in the corners, beautiful people sip colorful cocktails, and stained lips pull long drags of smoke from glass pipes. Low, throbbing music plays in the background and conversation is hushed and secretive.
    As I pass, one woman gives me a long, inviting look, with a raised brow and full, red lips. She is captivating, to be sure, with long hair curling around her shoulders, wide hips and a small waist. For a moment, I envy her figure, her glamour, her confidence. She is a woman who knows who she is and what she wants.
    I shake my head no and raise my hand to the back of my neck, a nervous gesture that has only gotten worse over the weeks. To avoid recognition, I cut my hair with one of Chan-Yu’s knives, left in the apartment after we fled. No more thick, dark curls. Now, just an even tuft of close-cropped fuzz. When I went with Meera to her apartment that first time, she giggled and pulled out an electric razor, offering to shear my hair more evenly than the butcher’s job I’d done with the knife. It looks better, but I’m still not used to it. I want my curls back. When I catch my reflection, my eyes seem too big, my neck too long, all my shapes slightly wrong.
    But if I don’t recognize myself, neither will anyone else.
    I find a booth and cozy up to the corner, sitting with my back to the wall, scanning the space for a purple-haired man. I don’t have to look hard. I notice him behind the bar, shaking a cocktail mixer. A few minutes later he appears at my table. I don’t know what I expected: someone striking, maybe, someone really tall, or very good looking. But Snake is unassuming except for the hair, which sticks up every which way, with deep purple roots that taper into lavender. He has dark eyes, slightly upturned at the outer edges and shaded by long lashes, but there is nothing truly distinctive about them. His face, though not especially handsome, is trustworthy. Is it just because I want to trust him?
    â€œHello, mademoiselle. I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like a drink, a smoke, or both?”
    Does he know who I am? I look at him closely, scan the rest of the area quickly to make sure I’m dealing with the right purple-haired man. “I’ve heard good things about the green apple indica. That and a tonic, please.”
    Snake nods. “Good choice.” There’s a smile on his lips. He backs away, and my heart is pounding. Can I trust this person ? I have to