Read Online The Harvest by K. Makansi - Free Book Online Page A

different broadcast, or using the vidscreen for homework, your screen will turn on or switch programming with or without your permission. The only way to miss it is to walk away.
    Since I returned to the city, I’ve been trying to watch the broadcasts every night. A lot of the bars and smokeshops downtown display them, so it wasn’t hard to sneak in somewhere in the inner suburbs or outer ring of downtown. I’d pretend to be waiting for a friend, watch as much of the broadcast as I dared, and then, with an urgent glance at my plasma, I’d dash.
    Since Meera offered to let me take over her apartment, I’ve been able to watch them in private. Now, I’m sitting on the couch in her old place, legs curled beneath me, waiting for the show to start. It used to be that Linnea Heilmann, with a gilded voice and picture-perfect face, would organize and narrate the various briefings. But since she left to hunt down Eli, the network hired a new public correspondent, Jon Spironov. He’s older than Linnea, with a comforting voice and a reassuring face. He doesn’t have quite the same penchant for attention-grabbing broadcasts that she did, but his calming, even-keeled displays make you feel like nothing could ever go wrong. I’ve gotten used to his voice on the feeds like you get used to music playing in the background.
    The bright, trumpeting intro starts and the screen flares to life. I take a gulping sip of Meera’s green tea. After the intro, Jon’s weathered, handsome face smiles at me from inside the ONN broadcast studio—conveniently located right next to the capitol building.
    â€œCitizens of Okaria, I’m your Sector Public Correspondent Jon Spironiv. We have some important updates today, so please stay tuned. But first, a brief announcement from Philip Orleán on Valerian’s progress in his recovery.”
    I sit up. This is the first time Vale has been mentioned on the evening broadcasts since the few days after he was captured. This is what I’ve been waiting for—why I’ve gone out of my way to watch the broadcasts every night I’ve been in the city. I have to remind myself not to expect anything but half-truths and deflections, but any information is better than none. The screen cuts away from Jon and to Philip, sitting at his desk in the capitol building. I grit my teeth and look away for a moment, as the painful memory of the last time I saw Philip across a desk rips through me. When you give us what we want, I’ll personally hand you a bucket of fresh figs, just like I used to . Words he said after fitting me with a few charge capacitors and hooking up a power source.
    Maybe it’s just my memory, but he seemed calmer then, staring down a political prisoner and torturing me with electric shocks. Now, even with no one across from him but a camera drone, he bites his lip and his fingers tap the desk once, twice, three times before he starts talking.
    â€œMy fellow citizens,” he begins—and the feed goes dark.
    I stare at the vidscreen blankly.
    The feeds sometimes falter. They’ll flicker in and out, or your screen will freeze and lag behind the official display. That’s a part of digital broadcasting. But the daily broadcasts have never once gone out completely, in all the years I’ve watched them.
    A dim green light flicks alive in the blackness. For a moment it almost looks like a flame from a lighter, but then it glows and expands. A biolight. Tousled blonde hair becomes visible, and a shadowed face. That’s definitely not Philip. Another biolight flicks on and now I recognize the face: it’s Linnea Heilmann. The backdrop is hazy, and there’s a low hum, almost as if some sort of machinery is running in the room. But Linnea’s shimmery hair and large, clear eyes are unmistakable.
    I drop my teacup. The ceramic mug shatters as it hits the floor. I’m on my feet, ready to run, wondering why in all the