Harvest

Dalton the Harvester shuffled among the rows of stasis-chambers, wandering as if he were blinded or lost. A blue glow washed over him, the massive dome that made up his universe pulsing with auroral light, waves of cerulean and turquoise reflected across thousands of onyx-dark containers. Cold air swept in time with the pulses, catching the motes of white dust disturbed by his footsteps until his tunic was caked and his throat coated with it. For all he knew, the powder might be the last trace of a vanished world, or merely the bones of other, long dead harvesters. Either way, it was just dust to him. He cleared his throat and spat.

His hand brushed the top of the nearest sarcophagus, the surface mirror smooth. Warmth spread outward from his palm as the stasis-field brightened. Now, a figure could be seen inside, a naked, screaming man suspended in the luminous matrix. Dalton let his mind reach into the field until he felt the slumbering thoughts trapped there.

"Not yet," he muttered. "Not ripe yet."

He withdrew his hand and the sarcophagus went dark again. Though time slowed inside the field, it could not be stayed completely. Thoughts flickered through the sluggish brains, fermenting over the decades until they were ready to be harvested. Once, Dalton had lain within such a sarcophagus, waiting for his memories to be collected and sold. But, instead of being emptied, it was discovered that he had the gift, the ability to worm inside the frozen minds and take what survived. Partially drained, he had been awakened and brought back to prey upon his unluckier comrades.

"Not ripe yet," he repeated, and moved on.

Along the rows he drifted, the only sound his breath and the wind's empty moan. His fingers grazed the surface of another sarcophagus. A flicker ran up his arm, a faint burst of light overlaid against his retinas. Dalton turned and faced the waist-high container. Here were dreams worth taking.

"Good. Good," he whispered. He disrobed, then lay face down atop the stasis-box, naked as the man trapped within. The glassy material grew translucent. Inside, frozen eyes glared up at him. Dalton looked away. Did they know, he wondered? Could they feel this final indignity, this last hurrah of conscience before even that was stolen? He tried to remember back to the time when he was being harvested, but no memories remained. His old life was gone. Whoever he had been was dead. Now, he was simply Dalton. Empty-eyed, hollow-souled Dalton. But, unlike the poor fool mired beneath him, Dalton would one day be whole again.

Be good, Dalton, the voices in his mind soothed. Do what we ask and someday, when you have repaid your debt, we will give you back your memories. Behave, and when we decide you're ready, you can rejoin the world of the living. Would you like that Dalton?

Of course he would. What zombie had not dreamt of waking from the nightmare? He drew a deep breath, then forced himself to stare into the unseeing eyes below. The man in the sarcophagus would have been handsome had it not been for his snarling, howling expression of rage. So many were like that, fighting to the end. Others surrendered, withdrawing into themselves as the long night closed over them. Both had their subtle textures, the final moments coloring the memories as the flavor of oak might color a cask of well-aged brandy. Dalton let his mind slip deeper into the murky thoughts.

He smiled. There were triumphs here, the minor achievements of another life. A first kiss. A childhood victory in a tournament. The warm touch of a beloved pet. These, Dalton took with ease. They would bring a small price in the markets outside the dome, but, they were not the dreams he sought.

"Ah..." The smile on Dalton's face widened as he found the darker recollections. Eyes closed, he relived the sensation of the man's fist striking a lover's face and shuddered at the intensity of it. The woman fell, pleading while he took her face in his hand, the same hand that had only moments before knocked her to the floor, and brushed away the hot tears. Unexpectedly, the man brought his index finger to his lips and tasted the salty droplets smeared across it. Dalton sighed. These memories would fetch the highest prices, the rage and guilty afterglow a subtle brew to be savored by the true connoisseurs. Dreams such as this would go far toward servicing his debt and bring him that fraction closer to the day he could once again be whole. Dalton writhed with pleasure as he drank in the memories until only the worthless dregs remained. Further and further he sought, while the filaments embedded in his brain siphoned the harvest off to those waiting outside the dome.

Finished, the memories stripped clean, Dalton slid off the sarcophagus and lay on the floor beside it. The stasis-box faded to black, the husk within it hidden once more from view. Spent, Dalton drifted asleep, his mind as void of dreams as the one he had just emptied.

A small bundle lay beside him when he woke. Dalton opened the coarse sack and drew out a pair of oat-cakes and a flask of water. Flecks of grain dribbled off his chin as he ate. Finished, he left the bag and the flask where they lay and moved on. He knew they would be gone should he ever wander back this way, vanished as mysteriously as they appeared. How the miracle happened he never paused to question. Like air, the food was simply part of his existence.

Another sarcophagus fell under his hand. He stopped, drawn by the mind within. A woman lay suspended inside the matrix. She seemed peaceful, wearing a contented smile that should have confounded him, but instead only enticed. She was tall and slender, not a girl certainly, but a woman in the flush of life. Though her head was shaved, he saw her as she had been, reddish-gold hair luxuriant as a summer sunset, her eyes sapphire blue. The flesh beneath his robe prickled at the expectation of what he might find.

Memories drifted up to him, watery images seen as if through a warped lens. Slowly, the haze cleared to reveal a warm afternoon, rich with the scent of willow and ripening grass. The woman leaned against a massive tree, the simple white dress she wore hanging gracefully to her lithe figure. Who did she wait for, Dalton wondered?. He imagined her arms around him, tasted her skin as she tipped her head back for him to nuzzle the soft places along her neck. Wind rustled the leaves above her as she pushed a loose strand of hair back from her eyes, then smiled. "So, you decided to come, after all?"

He bent to kiss her.

Startled, Dalton broke free of the memory, shocked that he had delved so far. Had they seen? Did the Lords of this place know the pleasure he had stolen? Sweat pooled under his arms. How would they punish him for taking the memories and keeping them to himself? Trembling madly, his hand strayed once more toward the sarcophagus, but he snatched it back. "Not ripe, yet," he said out loud, desperate to cast off suspicion. "Not ripe." He darted away, lurching between the coffins, all the while aching to return and terrified that he might.

Dalton raged. He wanted the woman for himself, but knew it was impossible. Instead, he threw himself on a nearby sarcophagus and drained the mind trapped inside it, a middle-aged woman who had murdered her lover in a fit of jealous betrayal. No subtlety here, no rich overtones, but Dalton didn't care. The price for her memories would be small, but at least he could think clearly again once he had finished. Exhausted, he curled up on the floor and drowsed.

When he woke, three figures stood above him, tall and broad-shouldered, magnificent in their cowled white robes. Dalton forced his eyes open. The trio of Lords stared downward, their faces hidden. Through them, as if looking through a dense fog, he watched the play of color undulate across the walls. That the figures were only projections made them no less terrifying. Dalton threw himself before them.

"My Lords."

"Dalton..." The nearest of the trio glided forward. His voice was stern and deep. "Look at me."

"Yes, Lord." It took all his will to look up. "Have I angered you, m'Lord?"

"Angered us?" The cowled figure laughed. "On the contrary. You have served us well, and we would have you continue to do so. We thought a token in order."

A spark leapt from the man's right fist. Dalton blinked at the blue-hot flash, an acrid whiff of ozone drifting outward as something struck the floor. He glanced down and saw a small copper vial. The apparition spoke again.

"A taste of your own memories. Call it an appreciation."

"M'Lords are too kind," Dalton stammered.

"Be well, Dalton. Continue to serve."

As one, the trio turned, then vanished. Only the vial remained, rocking on the floor where it had lit. Dalton reached for it, but snatched his hand back, the metal so cold it burnt his fingers. He stuck his frost-burnt fingers in his mouth and sucked away the pain. Grimacing, he snatched up the vial and wrapped it in the folds of his filthy tunic then stumbled to his feet.

Slowly, the vial warmed. Uncertain what to do next, Dalton sank to his haunches in the lee of a stasis-box and studied the vial. It seemed to vibrate with pent up energies. He imagined the container filled with insects, furious to be released. He pried the stopper loose and raised it to his face.

A sour, chemical tang swept past nose, so strong his eyes watered. Dalton tipped the copper bottle toward his mouth, but could not drink. Again, he thought of insects, legions of them poised to invade his body. Was this a test? A cruel joke? Had the Lords given him poison simply to see if he was fool enough to trust them?

"Coward," he muttered. Every instinct said throw the vial away, but the temptation overwhelmed him. "Better dead than half-alive." He drank, gagging as the oily liquid slid down his throat. At once, his stomach convulsed. Helpless, he toppled to floor, clutching his knees to his chest.

Flashes of light burst in his field of vision. Dalton rubbed his eyes, but the flashes remained. Images winked in and out of existence, too fast for his brain to capture. Half-recalled aromas played in his nose, apples and spice and rain-washed pine, odd counter-points to the rotting-flesh taste in his mouth. Certain he was dying, Dalton heard colors, felt thunder on his skin, tasted the forgotten flavor of moonlight.

Gradually, the sensations died away. Dalton crawled to his feet. Did he feel different? What was it the Lords had promised, a 'taste of his own memories?' He tried to dredge up the fleeting images, but found nothing. Had they lied after all?

"No," Dalton said, certain he would be overheard. "I trust you. Thank you, m'Lords for your gift."

To prove his sincerity, he found a sarcophagus with a ripened mind within and drained it. Finished, he lay down, exhausted. To his amazement, images invaded his slumber, and for the first time since being roused from his sarcophagus, Dalton dreamt.

Bits of his past flitted near, but never lighted long enough to grasp. Grassy meadows. A storm-tossed lake. Warm nights under an obsidian sky. Once he caught sight of a crystal city, but the memory fled as soon as he woke.

"Who am I?" he whispered, already regretting the token the Lords had so casually tossed at his feet, the gift bringing only torment. Angry, Dalton craned his neck and shouted.

"Who am I?"

The echoes died away. Dalton turned a slow circle, then, terrified, began to run, pushing himself until his lungs burned. Sarcophagi passed in a blur as he darted among them. Images leapt at him, every careless brush of hand or thigh sending unwanted memories hurtling outward. Even the air seemed charged, the play of light upon the curved walls sweeping faster.

He stumbled. Unable to keep his balance, Dalton sprawled across the floor, gasping for breath. His hand fell across the sarcophagus in front of him. He didn't need to look at it to know who lay within the inky box. Somehow, instinctively, he had returned to the golden woman. Trembling, Dalton shut his eyes.

Again, the viewpoint shifted. They lay together beneath a gnarled tree, sunlight slanting through the branches warm on his bare skin. The woman turned to him and smiled. "Always so serious, my love." She brushed his cheek with her fingertips. "Can't you just enjoy the moment?"

"How can I enjoy what isn't mine." Dalton blinked, startled at the sound of his own voice. She laughed, then kissed him playfully on the nose.

"But I am yours. Every moment I'm with you, I am completely, utterly yours." Still laughing, she rose to her feet and started toward the pile of discarded clothing heaped nearby. Dalton watched her walk, lost in the sway of her buttocks. He felt his desire stir, and clambered to his feet.

"How much longer must we play this charade?" He tried to take her in his arms, but she ducked away.

"Be patient, my love." She retrieved her dress and slipped it over her head, smoothing the fabric down. "Our time is almost here, I promise. It won't be long now..."

Dalton reached for her, but his hand fell on nothing. With a start, he woke from the memory as his hand broke contact with the sarcophagus. The meadow was gone, replaced by the austere prison of the dome. Tears streamed down his face as the truth struck him. What he had touched were not the woman's memories, but his own.

Another world, another time.

The crystal city had been his playground, the jeweled backdrop of his ambitions. Pathalt. Queen of cities. Empire binder. Gateway to Aeturna. Dalton knew these names, the frantic, rushing streets as familiar as wine on a long summer evening. Scion of a minor diplomat, he had been born to the intrigues of court. His future lay bright in that long ago season. He might have risen through the ranks of the Senate or the Court, or ventured outbound with one of the armadas to spread the Empire across the stars. Nothing held him, no chains to slow his rise. Given time, he might have one day stood at the right hand of the Emperor.

Instead, he had squandered himself on love.

Dalton glowered as he sat upon the stone floor, the memory devouring him from within. It had seemed so easy then, whenever then was. He had loved her, and she him, and when the time came, she promised, she would kill the cuckolded fool that kept her and run away with Dalton. They were young and the universe beckoned.

Sharp pain gouged his leg. He glanced down and realized it was his own nails digging into the emaciated flesh. Furious, he leapt to his feet and shouted at the coffin in front of him.

"Why? Why did you betray me?"

No reply came. He had expected none. The answer already burned in his mind, awakened by the elixir his keepers had bestowed. Anura - at last, he recalled her name - had promised to kill the man she was bound to so that she and Dalton might run away. Instead, when confronted, she had confessed everything. Dalton had been arrested without trial and locked within a stasis-box, his fate to one day be drained for the entertainment of the privileged few, a moments distraction for their sallow revels.

The memories came faster now, flooding him with the recollections of that last day. The hall was bright and crowded, the walls faceted to capture the play of sunlight against the high ceiling. Guards in black armor. Judges in billowing white robes. And Anura. She had been there, too, watching placidly as he was shoved naked and bruised inside the sarcophagus. Had he called out her name as the field closed around him, stealing thought and breathe in its crushing grip?

But, he mused with sour gratification, something had gone wrong, something unexpected. Rather than being drained, his keepers had discovered Dalton's talent. And now it was he, not her, that held the strands of fate. Anura lay trapped inside her coffin, while he, wretched, unwashed Dalton, stood above her, ready to repay her unkindness.

"Will you remember me, my love?" he wheezed as he stripped off his tunic. A thin smile creased his face. "No matter. I will remember you."

Had he wanted, he might have drained her memories in a single gulp. Instead, he chose to savor the experience, as if the thousands of minds he had harvested before were but training for this singular event. Dalton grazed the chain of events that made up her life, probing until he found the thread he sought. Back to that long ago afternoon on the outskirts of Pathalt, his last day as a free man, her last hours before she betrayed him. Dalton smiled in anticipation, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, instead of the meadow, he found himself staring at cold gray walls, the damp floor slick with mildew. A young man stood in the corner, shackled to the wall. Dark bruises covered his face. With a shock, he realized he was seeing himself through Anura's eyes.

The man in chains looked up and scowled. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Don't be a fool," she whispered. "I haven't come to hurt you. I'm here to help."

"Help?" He managed a feeble, embittered laugh. A trickle of blood-tinged spittle ran down his chin. "What can you do?"

Dalton watched the scene unfold, entranced by the sight of his younger self. Anura tried to brush his face with her slender hand, but he jerked away.

"Would you be still?" She glared at him. "I bribed the guards to come here, but my money can only buy us a few minutes. Do you want my help, or not?"

He stared at her, his pride almost stronger than his sense of survival. Finally, he asked, "Can you free me?"

"No. But, I can make sure you survive stasis."

He snorted with disbelief. "No one survives stasis. Not intact, at least."

"They do if they prove to be useful." From within the sleeve of her dress, Anura drew out a small gray lozenge. "Put this under your tongue."

"Now you intend to poison me?"

"Don't be absurd. This is full of nanytes. They will give you the ability to mind-touch."

"And that will spare me from being drained?"

"Of course it will." She frowned, frustrated by his stubbornness. "They need harvesters. Without them, they can't steal memories. Trust me, they would spare the Devil himself if they thought he might provide a steady stream of memories to lose themselves in."

His eyes narrowed. "This is your solution? Become a ghoul? A harvester?"

"Better than being dead."

"Is there a difference?" Still, the chained man made no protest as she pushed the lozenge between his lips. The elder Dalton flinched at the memory of that terrible moment. Instead of being bitter, as the potion the Lords had given him had been, the tablet tasted pleasantly sweet as it dissolved. He recalled a warm giddiness and a ringing in his ears as the nanytes infected his brain. He began to shiver, the realization that he owed his life to the woman who had betrayed him worse than the betrayal itself.

"They're coming. I have to go." Anura kissed him, then hurried toward the door.

"Don't leave me."

She turned, her eyes bright with tears. "We'll meet again. I promise." Then, she was gone. A burst of harsh blue light cut the memory short.

Chilled, sick to his stomach, Dalton rolled to his feet and stared down at the stasis-box, too-late realizing the container was empty. Instead of seeing Anura's frozen form floating within, it was simply a dull, crystal box. He spun around. Dozens of people stood behind him, watching, laughing, enjoying the spectacle. Men in white robes and women in gay dresses, some nibbling at snacks while others sipped from silver-edged goblets. Everywhere among them stood guards in polished black armor, their weapons trained on him.

Anura was there as well, her arms wrapped around the tallest of the men in white, the same man, Dalton recognized with a start, who had given him the memory potion. Someone had given her a robe to cover her nakedness, and she had cinched it tight around her narrow waist, leaving just a hint of rounded breasts visible. Even now, newly awakened from the prison of stasis, Anura was radiant. She kissed the man she leaned against, then left him and walked toward Dalton.

"I told you we would meet again," she said.

"You..." Dalton's voice faltered. "You've known all along? Why? Why did you do this to me?"

"What choice did I have?" There was genuine compassion in her eyes, so blue they picked up the patterns in the Dome and flashed them back in endless swirls. Slowly, gently, she caressed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. A shock ran through Dalton, and he had the disturbing sensation that she had just reached inside his brain. It was a touch he knew all too well.

"You're a harvester," he stammered.

"I told you, they would wake the Devil himself if he could snatch memories." Her hand slipped around the back of his head, and she drew him down, kissing him full on the lips, then whispered, "Don't worry, my love. When the time comes to strip you, I promise it will be painless."

Rough hands closed around him. A pair of guards pinned his arms to his side, pressing him backwards into the recently vacated sarcophagus. Dalton screamed as the air around him grew syrupy, the stasis-field closing over his flesh. The light began to leach away, leaving nothingness in its wake. As the utter blackness sealed him within, the last thing he saw was Anura leaning over the coffin's lid, smiling sadly. Silently, she mouthed 'I promise,' then was gone.

Justin Stanchfield's fiction has appeared in various publications including Interzone, Asimov's and the Year's Best SF. He lives with his wife and kids on a Montana cattle ranch a stone's throw from the Continental Divide.