The Harvest

"There weren't always Dragons in the Valley. They came from the Up and Out-- came to our world and claimed it for their own. They lamed us with their fire. Before they came, we lived in houses that scraped up to the sky. We rode in magical cargs— little houses that could move all on their own. Our medisink was strong and our knowledge deeper than time. Our reach was limitless. We could even fly, all the way to the Up and Out, on the backs of great metal birds who's wings were longer than a tree is tall!"

"Your bulling me Grandfa. There's no such bird that big, and houses can't be that tall or they'd pound down to the ground."

"I know it's hard to drink, but it's the big truth! Back then, before the dragons, we didn't live in mud houses. We lived in tall houses made of metal and moldstone. They were big strong, so they could build way high and never pound down."

The boy sratches his sun-browned nose and wrinkles his brow. "What's moldstone?"

"It's build-a-rock, like mud brick but stronger. The builders in the Bright Age knew how to make it and they could put it into any shape they wanted. They used it to make tall houses and wide paths for their cargs to ride on. They even built cliff walls strong and tall enough to stop wide rivers."

The boy's eyes are wide and he shakes his head. "No Grandfa, I don't believe it. You're bulling me for sure."

"No fib, my needle is an eye!"

"Your eye... is a… what?"

"A needle. It's a Bright Age word for a bone-pin. It's part of a chant that means your eye is sharp for the Big Truth, so you have to tell it. Only the Keepers know it now, but I will tell you." The old man deepens his voice, and recites with piety: "Cross my heart until I die because my needle is an eye!"

"So you're really not bulling me?"

The old man shakes his head, and the wrinkles of his face crease into a smile. "Never Taim. I never lie. You can drink everything I say. That is the Oath of the Keepers. Tell the Truth, the Big Truth, and nothing but the Truth. So help me God."

"Who's Megod?"

"Not 'Megod', just God. He was a man in the Bright Age who could do any magic! He's gone now, of course. No more question's now Taim, it's almost dream time."

The light streaming through their open window has softened to orange, and the sky outside has gone pink.

The old man sighs and lay's another fur across his Granchile. "It will be cold tonight, my loved one. You'll need this blanker."

"But Granfa, how can a bird be big enough to carry people? And how can it be made of metal?"

"Back in the Bright Age they could make metal and bend it any size and any which ways they wanted."

"But how could they make it alive to fly?"

"Magic chile, that's the Big Truth. We lost the magic when the Dragon's came from the Up and Out. That was when they took the night lights and put an end to the Bright Age. Look outside Taim."

The boy yawns and blinks. "I only see stars Granfa."

"And where are they Taim?"

The boy laughs then. The sound is prettier than running water, but thankfully not so rare. "In the sky, you silly oops!"

"Yes, in the sky. That is the Up and Out. The Keepers know that each of those stars is a world shining down from many, many, many, lifeyears away. But during the Bright Age, our world shone the same ways. It was Bright like day, even in the night. And you didn't need a candle-wick to see by. The Citeries were like stars that you could walk through. Worlds of magic you could live in."

The boy looses another yawn. His eyes have drifted shut and his breathing is heavy for dream time. But he speaks, softly between sighs: "Granfa what are Citeries?"

"Citeries aren't anything now. But in the Bright Age they were like mighty forests full of tall houses and night lights. Thousands of our people lived in Big Citeries, and it could take you a whole day to walk from one side of the Citery to the other. That's why people rode cargs."

The old man casts his gaze out to the sky, and bites his lip to stifle a pang. "I've seen one of the Citeries myself. When I was young. I was training to be a Keeper. We went on a Study, out South to the Citery once called Fresnol. It is mostly glass now. But I could see the skeletons of the tall houses, leaning on the groundwise. Some buildings were still up. But they were burned and cindered and ugly and sad. Nobody can live there now, because the land is poison. Beans refuse to grow and the soot winds are too hard and the rain will burn your skin.”

He breaths hard through his parted lips and adds in a whisper, "It's a-rotten and a tumble-ruin now. But I would have liked to see it in it's grand, during the Bright Age. I bet it would have been hella coolish."

Then he looks at the boy who’s now fast asleep and whispers: “I’m fraid the magic is gone forever in real talk, but I hope big that it comes back for you in your dreams.”

***

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

Admiral Landry gazes out across the waves and nods. "Speak, Captain Lancer."

"An assault would be suicide, sir. If the US military at it's height couldn't stop the first Harvest or even slow it, what good could we possibly do? The nation was burned to glass and ashes, and the Dragons crawled on, unscathed. The First Global Alliance couldn't stop the second harvest either, they never even managed to bring down a single Dragon."

"What's your point?"

"Sir, I don't believe an assault is strategically viable. We're utterly powerless against them. And that's to say nothing of the terrible logistics. Even if we knew how to kill them, we don't have any idea where the Dragons are nesting. It's been two centuries since the fall of the United States, and over 100 years since we've heard any news at all from the Western Hemisphere proper. All we can guess about the current state of the mainland climate and terrain comes from the satellite images shared by the Chinese Overwatch. Large stretches of land are obscured by smoke and vapor, we'd be going in blind."

The Admiral shakes his head. "Your preaching to the converted my friend. I never said anything about an assault. Only an expedition."

A small group of shore birds clusters on the sandy beach below. They're fighting over a few crabs, those that lingered too long at the receding tide.

The younger man scowls. "Well then, we could send an expedition to the main land, but to what end? What would we be looking for?"

"A suitable site for a colony."

Captain Lancer's eyebrows bounce, but he lends no voice to his incredulity.

The older officer continues. "We're nearly 1,000 miles closer to California than England is, or was, to old Plymouth Rock. If they could manage the trip with sailing rigs, we should be fine with our hybrid vessels. A well established farming colony could provide us a shipping line to bring our people some luxuries. Real food. Old World food, not these lab-made abominations." He lifts a seaweed-base ration bar off the table before them-- both men know it's packed full of all the nutrients they need, but it tastes the way low tide smells.

He sets it back down, and offers Captain Lancer a smile. "Imagine, if we had enough land for orange groves and cattle ranches like they had in the Golden Age. Do you know what a cheese burger was, Lancer?"

"No, sir."

"Well I've read about them and seen some old Golden Age advertisements in the data base. But I don't really know either, because I've never tasted one. It was made with meat from a cow, ground up and seasoned. It had a fatty, greasy food stuff called 'cheese' melted all over it, and it was sandwiched between two pieces of wheat bread. They used a red sauce on it, called 'ketchup'... and a sour garnish called 'pickles'. The recipes for all these foods are still in our databases, and the seeds and gene strands are in our Bio Preserves. And who knows what, of these Old World resources have been allowed to grow wild on the abandoned continents?"

The admiral looks East, and sighs. "I'd like our people to be able to one day eat a cheeseburger, Lancer. To know what it's like. Or at least the opportunity to grow some of the foods we've only heard about. Or seen through glass in the Cold Storage Preserves. There are still around 8 billion people on this earth. We're all living in fear, of the next Harvest. But we on the refuge, are the only people relegated to ration bars and the generosity of others. The Americas are out that way. 300 years ago, the United States was known as 'The Land of Opportunity.' And it could be again, at least for us."

Then he chuckles. "Not that I'm complaining about the rations our engineers have created, or the seafood our fisheries bring in. Or the rice and soy the FGA sends us. These things have kept us alive... it would just be nice to dine like free men. But more importantly: a mining colony could keep us in good supply for some of our mineral needs. We're overgrown here on the Islands. Before the fall, Hawaii was a state, of 1.4 million people. Now it's a 200 year long refugee camp, currently housing 8 million. How many Harvests until the FGA collapses? They wont last forever. And when they stop sending relief, our population will become unsustainable."

"Sir, our tech is evolving quicker than ever. The Engineers for the Department of Aquacultural Yield just expanded the nori farms, and they project a 40% increase in crop production over the next year. The geneticists have grafted several new flavor genes onto some of the salt-fruit and sugar-weed varieties, so even the basic rations are going to get a whole hell of a lot tastier-- and varied-- not just more nutritious. The fisheries are thriving. If China and the FGA withdrew all their support tomorrow, we'd be in dire straights. But give it another year or two and we'll be selling a surplus to the West!"

The clouds shift and the brightness of the sun gleams off the rolling waves. Lancer shields his eyes and continues: "Not to mention, living space isn't really an issue. The City Planners have completed construction on another strip of float housing and--"

"Lancer, are you old enough to remember the tsunami of 2292? Or have you only read about it?"

"Sir?"

"None of the infrastructure we've built off shore will survive another tsunami like that. In 2292 we believed we were beginning to thrive, then we were made beggars, living off the handouts of the FGA, as we so often have. Our long term survival is at best case: a long shot. But we ought to strengthen our chances as much as we possibly can, and that means never laying all of our hopes on one support system. The nori farms and the floats are a miracle of modern engineering but they can fail. And then we'd be left hoping on one thing only.... Relief shipments from the FGA which can, and will, one day fail. This could happen soon, depending on where the next Harvest strikes. A colony of our own could fail too, but it could also be the difference between life and death if the other two supports give out."

Lancer frowns and scratches his neck. "Well... who would man the expedition? It will be hard to convince anyone to leave the Islands. We're refugees but this is our home, and it has been for 10 generations. Who wants to set foot on the ruins of the Americas? Who wants to go any closer to the Dragons, even if they are lying dormant until the next Harvest? People feel safe here."

The Admiral chuckles again but this time his smile is dry and mirthless. "But are they? The Dragons will wake again in our lifetimes. Who's to say a Feeding Cluster won't land here during the next Harvest?"

The younger man shrugs. "But the same could be said of any settlement we establish on the mainland. If those things really came from space, no place on earth can ever be beyond their reach."

Admiral Landry nods. "You're right, so what's the appeal of imprisoning ourselves here, on this scrap of land in the middle of the Pacific? A false sense of security, while we quietly wait the doom of starvation and the collapse of our little society?"

Lancer shrugs, and looks at the ration bar the Admiral has left on the table. "I suppose we can't damn ourselves by trying. The trouble will be, like I said, finding people who want to risk leaving the Refuge.

***

A crier's voice rings out across the main square of one of the southward floats: "You've been told these dragons came from space! You've been told they're aliens! You've been told they are higher life forms, so far advanced that we cannot ever hope to harm them."

The square is full of traffic, pedestrians cross this way and that. A small crowd has gathered around the crier, but the majority of the Refugees take no notice.

And for many, this is deliberate. They've heard these types of preachers before. But the people have no room for religion now, they're too busy with their labor assignments, their leisure, and their social comforts. All of these are much blessed distractions from the terror sleeping in the East.

They want to silence their fears, ignore their worries and live as well as they can for the little while they can.

So they ignore this crier, but he is undaunted: "In one way, these doomsayers are correct! We cannot ever hope to harm these beasts, at least not on our own! Not without FAITH! The Georgians know-- like our patron St George knew-- that there is only one way to defend against the dragon, and that is too surrender to GOD! To have faith, to follow the Word and teachings of the Lord, in Piety! For these winged serpents did not come here from another planet or another galaxy! NO! They were loosed on us from Hell itself! For after Noah, the Lord God promised to never destroy us again with the Floods of His Wrath! But He never made any such promise to spare us from FIRE! He has sent these demons, these fallen angels, upon us, and that is justice!"

A young man towards the back of the gathered crowd whispers to the woman beside him: "This guy's a fucking moron."

"AND WHY HAS THE LORD GOD RELEASED THIS BURNING UPON THE EARTH? BECAUSE IT NEEDED TO BE CLEANSED! Humanity had grown ugly in sin! Wasteful, and filthy. Had we not polluted God's good Earth? Had we not made war against each other? Had we not angered the LORD? Had we not become the very residue of the unclean?! and since the LORD had made covenant on His Word to never again wash us away, there was only one justice left: to burn us away!"

The whispering man takes a sip from a water, then adds: "They're not demons. These are living creatures. They may be monsters but they are of the flesh-- why else would they eat? And why would they be reproducing?"

The woman looks at him and asks, "They're reproducing?"

"Oh yes, I believe so. Just look at the numbers, numbers of dead I mean. The first Harvest was about 200 years ago, and they killed something like an estimated 300 million people. Destroyed the old United States in less than a year-- reduced them to the Alaskan Republic and the Hawaiian Refuge. The second Harvest finished off the rest of North America-- Canada and the AR-- along with South America, an estimated total of 600 million people. They ate more because there were more of them, that's what I think. Next time they harvest, they're going to take even more. Maybe up to a billion, then 2, then 4. In about 300 years humanity will be nearly wiped out. Then the brood will wake and hunger for 8 billion-- and there will only be about 1 billion humans left to eat. We might not really go extinct, because scraps of humanity may go unnoticed in caves and bunkers and the remotest wilds but we'll be set back a good 300,000 years, scrounging the wastes and living in nomadic clans.

The crier's urgent voice is still filling the space around them. But his words are now like the waves under the float and the calls of the sea birds over-head... background noise.

She looks at him and narrows her eyes. "Maybe they're just getting bigger."

"Huh? Oh you mean growing instead of reproducing?" He shrugs. "Yeah, I guess that could work. They've grown in size or they've grown in numbers. Either way, they're eating more for a reason and it doesn't seem to be for giggles."

She grimaces. "Well that's not good to hear, is it? I think I liked everything that 'fucking moron' had to say a fair bit more than what you've come up with."

He looks down at his water bottle and nods. "Yeah maybe. There is a certain comfort in the idea that this whole mess is God's will and beyond our control. Kind of absolves us from the worry, doesn't it? But can you bring yourself to believe that?"

She breaths through pursed lips and eventually shakes her head. "Not really. But I think I'd like to try anyway. Maybe that will be enough to make the days a little more tolerable. If these are things sent by God, then all it should take to get them to go away is to do right by God. If they're things that came here of their own nature, then there's really no hope of them ever leaving. Then they're here forever aren't they?"

"Nope." He swirls his cup and takes a swig. "Anything that's alive can die of course. It's a slim chance, but we might discover a way to kill them, someday. And even if we don't, they can't stay here forever. Eventually they'll run out of food and they've surely evolved some survival strategy for that eventuality. Maybe they'll leave, and then that scattering of humans I predicted might re-inherit the Earth."

She laughs, and her laugh isn't cruel but it isn't kind either. If anything it's too knowing, too honest, too direct. "Is that what you'd pray for, if you were a man of Faith? For our species to get a do-over? Seems kind of cruel to me. A real mercy would be extinction and the peace that would bring."

"Maybe." He drains the last of his water and thumbs his chin. "I've read as many survivor's accounts as I could find in the database. One talked about a Cluster attacking an Old World city called 'San Francisco.' The witness said they saw a thunder storm riding up from the south and that as it drew near all the power in the city went out. Everything went dark, not just the houses and towers hooked to the grid-- everything. Cars shut down, computers crashed, every electronic device flickered and died."

He licks his teeth, as though there's a bad taste in his mouth. "And every single person in the city, nearly 1,000,000 people going about their lives, was instantly thrust into a doomed communion. They watched the storm rush upon them, and between the flashes of lightning they saw great shapes swooping and wheeling-- like a colony of giant bats in the night. And lightning chased them from cloud to cloud. Then they began to dive. They'd soar low to the ground, and scoop up any man, woman, or child in their reach. One account says they screamed like souls on fire, and I don't know if they meant the dragons or the people."

He sniffs and frowns but after a moment continues. "The part that scares me the most? Multiple accounts said that the dragons didn't eat the whole person. Just the head. These survivors, they'd see a sweeping black darkness scoop their loved ones from right beside them, and they'd soar back up into the storming darkness. Then the bodies would come tumbling back to the earth missing the part that really made them them. Can you imagine?"

She looks at him, her eyes wide and her brows drawn down tight. Then she shakes her head.

"I can. And I really wish I could find a way to stop imagining. But every night I think about it. And I wonder what would be worse:: to get stolen off the face of the Earth, and decapitated in mid air, swallowed by the jaws of some monster of the skies-- or-- to be the survivor who sees your family, your neighbors and every stranger in your town sucked into a vortex of death?"

He smacks his lips and swallows. "So maybe you're right, maybe extinction would be a mercy. But I'd like it to hurry up and arrive, because waiting and fearing, these things are Hell.... All I know is every time I see a thunder storm brewing out over the water it scares me. When I see them brooding in the east, it scares me all the way to my core. And I do not want to live to see a Cluster swooping down on Honolulu."

And a silence falls between them, broken only by the waves lapping beneath the float and by the seabirds circling over head and by the crier shouting to the wind.

***