The Harvest
By Griphen S. Stone
Two solar eyes peer above the horizon once again searching for signs of life. Sunrise has come to the colonial
inhabitants of the planet Detaneus. Long ago the sky had given birth to new energy and a second Sun was born. It
was believed to have been the aftermath of a distant star going nova. An historical event only paralleled by the
more recent occurrence known as The Great War of Gamiticus; so named for the world ruler at that time, Belusa
Gamiticus. Tyrant, dictator and relentless murderer only Vlad the Impaler also from Earth one thousand years before
could equal his atrocities.
But Belusa had not acted alone. Lack of patience, abundance of ego and innate madness had triggered the
launch of thousands of nuclear devices thought to have been long disarmed or destroyed. Trust had never been in
the vocabulary of earthlings. It was just another fantasy. A misconceived notion. A ploy used when no other would
suffice. It would eventually be humanities demise and lead to Belusas’ divine plan to take artificial intelligence to
superior levels and serve as a precursor for inhabiting other worlds.
Now several decades after reform, reconstruction, and relocation of specialized species present day inhabitants
are thriving once again. To call them human would be blasphemous. Stripped of desire, will and dignity they exist for
one purpose. They are mere toys in a madman’s sandbox. For those who govern the sandbox these colonists are
articles of amusement. Sent here with a promise of renewed worth they are mere objects of pleasure only reserved
for the divine. His name is Zemac. More than an entity he is an enigma and quite possibly a legend, in his own mind.
Scattered about the limited habitable surface there are seven Colonies. Purposely the same in size they form a
twenty mile radius that surrounds a central hub known as the Common Ground. It is within this massive hub that the
lowly inhabitants began their initial journey into their respective colonies. Its origin and current function remains
shrouded in mystery. Yet without it no one would exist. It is the source of all control and influence. So strong was the
belief that somewhere in its bowels there exist a supreme power that a religious faction emerged. But it was
eventually deemed useless by authorities and erased from the memories of those who became infected.
Xeroc, the leader of Colony One was in his living quarters. Selected from many candidates during the first round
of elections, his military background and expertise with public relations made him the perfect choice. In all there
were only seven leaders, one for each of the colonies. Throughout history too many Chiefs and not enough Indians
had proved to be a bad combination and Zemac, the current leader of the entire planet, never did approve of power
struggles So, to eliminate any uprising he not only decided to level the playing field he also took it upon himself to
shorten it. How he loved his power over the commoners.
In Xeroc’s hand was a dispatch from the illustrious leader. Carefully he removed the parchment from its metallic
case. Indeed it was an antiquated means of communication but Zemac loved the nostalgic value and meaning it
afforded. Disbelief washed over Xeroc’s usually expressionless face. Pacing he continued to read on, stopping often
in his tracks with shock, despair and disbelief at the highlighted points he felt compelled to re-read. Finishing, the
message departed his shaking fingers and floated to the floor as he stood before his window. His quarters towered
25 stories above the colony below. Twenty plus stories above the dwellings of those he commanded. From here he
was also afforded the ability to see the surface beyond. On a clear day he could see Colony Two to the North. Like
the other colonies its’ path stretches forward from the common ground, just another spoke on the wheel of progress.
And Xeroc was just another cog hoping to remain useful in the progress !
of re-civilization.
It was nearing midday, the suns well on their journey west. The heat of the day on Detaneus could reach well over
175 degrees but the combination of geology and technology had aided in man’s adaptation to his environment.
The planets core, much like Earths consisted primarily of iron and nickel. Its mantel was composed of aluminum,
copper and magnesium which further aided in the absorption of the heat during the day while cooling it off at night.
Aided by minute injections of titanium oxide before arriving on Detaneus, colonist had developed a metallic like skin
giving it refractive qualities. This membrane protected vital organs and soft tissue of their anatomy from the harsh
environment of their new home. Thermal optimization had been achieved. However, they would not be protected
from the apocalypse that would soon be thrust upon them.
Xeroc entered an elevator pod located in his quarters. So began his descent to his kingdom below and ascent
into another level of hierarchy. Lowering a visor for protection he began to roam his domain. He was popular but
often acknowledged by an apprehensive wave or just a nod from his constituents. Actual verbal communication was
not an acceptable practice on Detaneus. If commoners were caught or even suspect communicating openly with
superiors they would be punished.
This potential threat was eliminated by limited exposure. It was once a year that all colonies would gather at one
location. That location was predetermined on a rotating basis. In the mind of the demented this insured the integrity
of the event and offered a sense of false security to its participants. It would be the responsibility of colony leaders
to coordinate the timely arrival and departure of their respective colonies. Additional attention was necessary to
monitor the inventory of imported and exported goods. In years past convicted smugglers had tried to establish a
stronghold on unsuspecting colonies. A controlled environment is a happy environment. But Xeroc did not subscribe
to Zemac’s iron fist. It was in his face. His own forbidden smile.
The scene was characteristically busy. Street vendors had arrived from their arduous journey and were now
open, pouring out their goods in hopes of surviving another season; a season unsuspectingly they would never
see.
For farming purposes soil differences had been methodically altered to provide a diversity of growth potential in
each colony. Therefore every resident from each respective colony was required to grow and harvest, in addition to
their own staples, a few of those which may not be available in other colonies. It was a balancing act that insured
everyone acquired the staples necessary for survival. It also harbored a sense of caring for ones neighbor.
Rehabilitation can be a slow and unforgiving process.
As it always has salvage operations would provide the remaining makeup of this yearly event. Each Colony
possessed a stockpile of used and outdated machinery left behind by unwary travelers to Detaneus. It was a virtual
junkyard from which fragments of humanity had accumulated and lingered too long. Somewhere among the not so
ancient rubble lie a hidden agenda. The spare parts required to maintain the integrity of a secret society of
humanoids could be found here. Enlisted to seek out and identify potential threats to the order, it was Zemac’s wish.
It was his command.
As Xeroc made his way to through the crowds his senses registered the calculated and deliberate abnormality in
the atmosphere. Something was wrong, yet so right. The air became thick with the stench of betrayal. Paralyzed by
the fear of fruition he remained still for an eternity. Acrid air was bearing down on him. Something invisible and
deadly. The blanket of fog began to make its way toward the colonist from the bowels of the “Common Ground”.
The harvest had begun!
Helpless and otherwise unaware residents continued to business as usual. Xeroc’s task would be different. This
would prove to be the beginning of his nightmares and the end of his regime. Visions of Zemac’s dispatch haunted
him. Reasoning and deception, once at war with one another, were now allies. He began to make his way back
through the crowds. How could he act casual, unaffected and appear characteristically calm? In slow motion those
who found the time to look up did so. Beneath the hardened exterior his sovereignty began to disintegrate. His
beliefs, his programming and all that he stood for was melting, exposing every weakness. What they would see was
a pillar of strength. A forbidden smile.
The cloud of poisonous gas pressed forward. It took its first victims as it reached the border of Colony I. The quiet
screams could only be heard in Xeroc’s mind. The density of the cloud masking the horror choked what screams that
were left. One by one each resident of Colony I fell like dominos. It was a perfect execution. There was no smell, no
panic, and therefore no indication that it was deadly until it was too late. The acrid cloud washed over him and
slowly moved on leaving him only with the memory of horror. He wanted this to end. Couldn’t wait for this to end. At
one point he had even hoped to join those he once nurtured.
But he was immune to the gas. He had taken a preventive measure before leaving his quarters. It had been
written. Still he could not dismiss the responsibility of his actions.
It felt like an eternity before he returned to the entrance of his quarters. As he entered his room from the elevator
a broadcast projector was already displaying the holographic face of Zemac.
Xeroc sat, gathered what composure he had left and began to report the events that had just transpired.
“Xeroc Reporting sir. Operation Harvest has been initiated and completed. There are zero survivors.” He said with
conviction.
At first no response was registered and then Zebor said, “Excellent. Prepare for
Phase II.”
“Phase II?”
“Is there a problem Xeroc?”
“No. No not at all. It’s just that I was not under the impression this harvest would involve multiple Phases. Didn’t I
already report there were no survivors?” He was becoming uncharacteristically irritated.
“Yes you did”
“If I may inquire then, how many Phases will there be?”
“That information is on a need-to-know basis.”
“Of course. One last thing. The leaders of the other 6 colonies were not present at this years’ event and………”
Before he could finish his thought Zemac interrupted, “And your point is?”
His irritation still festering he replied, “It is a change in protocol that I was not made aware of. Instructions for new
or changes in initiatives are part of our function requirement.
Irritated by Xeroc’s inquiry Zemac sharply closed with “You will receive your instructions as they become available
and deemed necessary. They will be delivered by the usual means. Until then I suggest you make good use of your
time.”
What the hell does that mean, Xeroc thought? Good use of my time? Should I wallow away in sorrow? Human
emotions are forbidden. So then, should I suggest going back out to the killing fields and confirm success yet
again? No! Sarcasm was a human emotion and arouses suspicion. None of this was making any sense. Before he
could ask Zemac his intentions his image dissolved, leaving a very palpable trace of doubt in Xeroc’s reasoning.
Then something foreign stirred in him and he became very paranoid. Was the annihilation of all seven leaders
next? If so why not gather everyone as the colonists had been? But that would be foolish. Zemac would then be
devoid of a kingdom to rule and no happy place to send his demented mind on vacation. Perhaps he alone was the
target. Singled out because he had befriended his constituents. Became too sympathetic. He was a threat, a liability;
no longer an asset to the grand scheme of things. No matter what Phase Two would bring he was sure of one thing;
he wouldn’t like it.
For reasons unknown to him Xeroc began to replay the events as he understood them. Prior to this moment he
had been ordered to carry out the mass execution of what was now being hailed as Phase One. After reading his
uncomfortable dispatch foreign feelings of apprehension had consumed him as he made his way through the market
place. Blank yet familiar faces paused to acknowledge his presence. A leak in his armor had oozed compassion. It
was then a voice called out his name. There, in the shadows a hooded figure! Who would dare violate the code? I
know this face whose image played over and over again. Voice recognition would eventually reveal the truth.
Xeroc could not prepare himself for what he was about to experience. Without warning he became totally
disoriented, distracted by a red blinking light off in the distance. He was unable to move. He was being scanned. The
pattern of light invaded him like a virus.
A renewed awareness would inform him that his mind had been artificially imprinted. He had been programmed to
believe he was part human, part machine. He was discovering that he was in fact humanoid. Spare parts assembled
with care and precision. A lost child of the salvage yard and relative of the Common Ground.
At the same time he also became aware that a bio-signature chip had been placed in his memory. He was a
replica of Zemac! His entire existence had been nothing more than a cloned computer program created by a race
of beings long ago under Belusas rule. But none of this really mattered now. He had already begun to shed his alter
ego known only as Xeroc. His molting complete he would begin a new journey. Phase II would manifest and reveal
itself in the form of a new identity.
Walking toward that blinking light he knew now of its familiarity. He had been pre-cast, retrofitted and programmed
at the facility that lay beneath that light. And now it was calling him back, guiding him with a beacon. More advanced
than his predecessor he would not make the same mistake twice. He would emerge from the depths without flaws.
This was possible because recollection was an input device, not a reaction.
With upgrades there would be no further cause for alarm by his creators.
By tomorrow there will be no trace of the Harvest. The gates of the Common Ground will be activated. Drones will
appear under the shroud of darkness. By days light thousands of corpses will have mysteriously disappeared into
the night. Xeroc will never question why or who? He is only programmed to carry out a set of specific instructions.
Deductive reasoning and awareness have become strangers.
The Common Ground, having vacuumed the surface of its vermin, will once again make preparations for next year’
s harvest. In short time the recycling will be complete. For a select few they will become assets to Zemac’s regime.
For others they will return to Earth to replenish the growing need for supremacy. For most, they will provide the
colonies farming with cultivation and nourishment. A fresh, rich fertilizer will coat the fields.
On schedule a transport ship approaches in the distance. Its cargo? Voyagers sent to Detaneus for their crimes.
A one-way ticket. Desperate for preservation Earth rids themselves of convicts. As humans and menaces to society
they are considered a virus. Unsuspecting all they see below from their smoky portal is a wheel with its prominent
seven spokes. A central hub rises to greet them. As they depart the ship a new race of beings, a secret society will
pass them by as they board for their own journey. And a new season for harvesting will commence.
By Griphen S. Stone
Two solar eyes peer above the horizon once again searching for signs of life. Sunrise has come to the colonial
inhabitants of the planet Detaneus. Long ago the sky had given birth to new energy and a second Sun was born. It
was believed to have been the aftermath of a distant star going nova. An historical event only paralleled by the
more recent occurrence known as The Great War of Gamiticus; so named for the world ruler at that time, Belusa
Gamiticus. Tyrant, dictator and relentless murderer only Vlad the Impaler also from Earth one thousand years before
could equal his atrocities.
But Belusa had not acted alone. Lack of patience, abundance of ego and innate madness had triggered the
launch of thousands of nuclear devices thought to have been long disarmed or destroyed. Trust had never been in
the vocabulary of earthlings. It was just another fantasy. A misconceived notion. A ploy used when no other would
suffice. It would eventually be humanities demise and lead to Belusas’ divine plan to take artificial intelligence to
superior levels and serve as a precursor for inhabiting other worlds.
Now several decades after reform, reconstruction, and relocation of specialized species present day inhabitants
are thriving once again. To call them human would be blasphemous. Stripped of desire, will and dignity they exist for
one purpose. They are mere toys in a madman’s sandbox. For those who govern the sandbox these colonists are
articles of amusement. Sent here with a promise of renewed worth they are mere objects of pleasure only reserved
for the divine. His name is Zemac. More than an entity he is an enigma and quite possibly a legend, in his own mind.
Scattered about the limited habitable surface there are seven Colonies. Purposely the same in size they form a
twenty mile radius that surrounds a central hub known as the Common Ground. It is within this massive hub that the
lowly inhabitants began their initial journey into their respective colonies. Its origin and current function remains
shrouded in mystery. Yet without it no one would exist. It is the source of all control and influence. So strong was the
belief that somewhere in its bowels there exist a supreme power that a religious faction emerged. But it was
eventually deemed useless by authorities and erased from the memories of those who became infected.
Xeroc, the leader of Colony One was in his living quarters. Selected from many candidates during the first round
of elections, his military background and expertise with public relations made him the perfect choice. In all there
were only seven leaders, one for each of the colonies. Throughout history too many Chiefs and not enough Indians
had proved to be a bad combination and Zemac, the current leader of the entire planet, never did approve of power
struggles So, to eliminate any uprising he not only decided to level the playing field he also took it upon himself to
shorten it. How he loved his power over the commoners.
In Xeroc’s hand was a dispatch from the illustrious leader. Carefully he removed the parchment from its metallic
case. Indeed it was an antiquated means of communication but Zemac loved the nostalgic value and meaning it
afforded. Disbelief washed over Xeroc’s usually expressionless face. Pacing he continued to read on, stopping often
in his tracks with shock, despair and disbelief at the highlighted points he felt compelled to re-read. Finishing, the
message departed his shaking fingers and floated to the floor as he stood before his window. His quarters towered
25 stories above the colony below. Twenty plus stories above the dwellings of those he commanded. From here he
was also afforded the ability to see the surface beyond. On a clear day he could see Colony Two to the North. Like
the other colonies its’ path stretches forward from the common ground, just another spoke on the wheel of progress.
And Xeroc was just another cog hoping to remain useful in the progress !
of re-civilization.
It was nearing midday, the suns well on their journey west. The heat of the day on Detaneus could reach well over
175 degrees but the combination of geology and technology had aided in man’s adaptation to his environment.
The planets core, much like Earths consisted primarily of iron and nickel. Its mantel was composed of aluminum,
copper and magnesium which further aided in the absorption of the heat during the day while cooling it off at night.
Aided by minute injections of titanium oxide before arriving on Detaneus, colonist had developed a metallic like skin
giving it refractive qualities. This membrane protected vital organs and soft tissue of their anatomy from the harsh
environment of their new home. Thermal optimization had been achieved. However, they would not be protected
from the apocalypse that would soon be thrust upon them.
Xeroc entered an elevator pod located in his quarters. So began his descent to his kingdom below and ascent
into another level of hierarchy. Lowering a visor for protection he began to roam his domain. He was popular but
often acknowledged by an apprehensive wave or just a nod from his constituents. Actual verbal communication was
not an acceptable practice on Detaneus. If commoners were caught or even suspect communicating openly with
superiors they would be punished.
This potential threat was eliminated by limited exposure. It was once a year that all colonies would gather at one
location. That location was predetermined on a rotating basis. In the mind of the demented this insured the integrity
of the event and offered a sense of false security to its participants. It would be the responsibility of colony leaders
to coordinate the timely arrival and departure of their respective colonies. Additional attention was necessary to
monitor the inventory of imported and exported goods. In years past convicted smugglers had tried to establish a
stronghold on unsuspecting colonies. A controlled environment is a happy environment. But Xeroc did not subscribe
to Zemac’s iron fist. It was in his face. His own forbidden smile.
The scene was characteristically busy. Street vendors had arrived from their arduous journey and were now
open, pouring out their goods in hopes of surviving another season; a season unsuspectingly they would never
see.
For farming purposes soil differences had been methodically altered to provide a diversity of growth potential in
each colony. Therefore every resident from each respective colony was required to grow and harvest, in addition to
their own staples, a few of those which may not be available in other colonies. It was a balancing act that insured
everyone acquired the staples necessary for survival. It also harbored a sense of caring for ones neighbor.
Rehabilitation can be a slow and unforgiving process.
As it always has salvage operations would provide the remaining makeup of this yearly event. Each Colony
possessed a stockpile of used and outdated machinery left behind by unwary travelers to Detaneus. It was a virtual
junkyard from which fragments of humanity had accumulated and lingered too long. Somewhere among the not so
ancient rubble lie a hidden agenda. The spare parts required to maintain the integrity of a secret society of
humanoids could be found here. Enlisted to seek out and identify potential threats to the order, it was Zemac’s wish.
It was his command.
As Xeroc made his way to through the crowds his senses registered the calculated and deliberate abnormality in
the atmosphere. Something was wrong, yet so right. The air became thick with the stench of betrayal. Paralyzed by
the fear of fruition he remained still for an eternity. Acrid air was bearing down on him. Something invisible and
deadly. The blanket of fog began to make its way toward the colonist from the bowels of the “Common Ground”.
The harvest had begun!
Helpless and otherwise unaware residents continued to business as usual. Xeroc’s task would be different. This
would prove to be the beginning of his nightmares and the end of his regime. Visions of Zemac’s dispatch haunted
him. Reasoning and deception, once at war with one another, were now allies. He began to make his way back
through the crowds. How could he act casual, unaffected and appear characteristically calm? In slow motion those
who found the time to look up did so. Beneath the hardened exterior his sovereignty began to disintegrate. His
beliefs, his programming and all that he stood for was melting, exposing every weakness. What they would see was
a pillar of strength. A forbidden smile.
The cloud of poisonous gas pressed forward. It took its first victims as it reached the border of Colony I. The quiet
screams could only be heard in Xeroc’s mind. The density of the cloud masking the horror choked what screams that
were left. One by one each resident of Colony I fell like dominos. It was a perfect execution. There was no smell, no
panic, and therefore no indication that it was deadly until it was too late. The acrid cloud washed over him and
slowly moved on leaving him only with the memory of horror. He wanted this to end. Couldn’t wait for this to end. At
one point he had even hoped to join those he once nurtured.
But he was immune to the gas. He had taken a preventive measure before leaving his quarters. It had been
written. Still he could not dismiss the responsibility of his actions.
It felt like an eternity before he returned to the entrance of his quarters. As he entered his room from the elevator
a broadcast projector was already displaying the holographic face of Zemac.
Xeroc sat, gathered what composure he had left and began to report the events that had just transpired.
“Xeroc Reporting sir. Operation Harvest has been initiated and completed. There are zero survivors.” He said with
conviction.
At first no response was registered and then Zebor said, “Excellent. Prepare for
Phase II.”
“Phase II?”
“Is there a problem Xeroc?”
“No. No not at all. It’s just that I was not under the impression this harvest would involve multiple Phases. Didn’t I
already report there were no survivors?” He was becoming uncharacteristically irritated.
“Yes you did”
“If I may inquire then, how many Phases will there be?”
“That information is on a need-to-know basis.”
“Of course. One last thing. The leaders of the other 6 colonies were not present at this years’ event and………”
Before he could finish his thought Zemac interrupted, “And your point is?”
His irritation still festering he replied, “It is a change in protocol that I was not made aware of. Instructions for new
or changes in initiatives are part of our function requirement.
Irritated by Xeroc’s inquiry Zemac sharply closed with “You will receive your instructions as they become available
and deemed necessary. They will be delivered by the usual means. Until then I suggest you make good use of your
time.”
What the hell does that mean, Xeroc thought? Good use of my time? Should I wallow away in sorrow? Human
emotions are forbidden. So then, should I suggest going back out to the killing fields and confirm success yet
again? No! Sarcasm was a human emotion and arouses suspicion. None of this was making any sense. Before he
could ask Zemac his intentions his image dissolved, leaving a very palpable trace of doubt in Xeroc’s reasoning.
Then something foreign stirred in him and he became very paranoid. Was the annihilation of all seven leaders
next? If so why not gather everyone as the colonists had been? But that would be foolish. Zemac would then be
devoid of a kingdom to rule and no happy place to send his demented mind on vacation. Perhaps he alone was the
target. Singled out because he had befriended his constituents. Became too sympathetic. He was a threat, a liability;
no longer an asset to the grand scheme of things. No matter what Phase Two would bring he was sure of one thing;
he wouldn’t like it.
For reasons unknown to him Xeroc began to replay the events as he understood them. Prior to this moment he
had been ordered to carry out the mass execution of what was now being hailed as Phase One. After reading his
uncomfortable dispatch foreign feelings of apprehension had consumed him as he made his way through the market
place. Blank yet familiar faces paused to acknowledge his presence. A leak in his armor had oozed compassion. It
was then a voice called out his name. There, in the shadows a hooded figure! Who would dare violate the code? I
know this face whose image played over and over again. Voice recognition would eventually reveal the truth.
Xeroc could not prepare himself for what he was about to experience. Without warning he became totally
disoriented, distracted by a red blinking light off in the distance. He was unable to move. He was being scanned. The
pattern of light invaded him like a virus.
A renewed awareness would inform him that his mind had been artificially imprinted. He had been programmed to
believe he was part human, part machine. He was discovering that he was in fact humanoid. Spare parts assembled
with care and precision. A lost child of the salvage yard and relative of the Common Ground.
At the same time he also became aware that a bio-signature chip had been placed in his memory. He was a
replica of Zemac! His entire existence had been nothing more than a cloned computer program created by a race
of beings long ago under Belusas rule. But none of this really mattered now. He had already begun to shed his alter
ego known only as Xeroc. His molting complete he would begin a new journey. Phase II would manifest and reveal
itself in the form of a new identity.
Walking toward that blinking light he knew now of its familiarity. He had been pre-cast, retrofitted and programmed
at the facility that lay beneath that light. And now it was calling him back, guiding him with a beacon. More advanced
than his predecessor he would not make the same mistake twice. He would emerge from the depths without flaws.
This was possible because recollection was an input device, not a reaction.
With upgrades there would be no further cause for alarm by his creators.
By tomorrow there will be no trace of the Harvest. The gates of the Common Ground will be activated. Drones will
appear under the shroud of darkness. By days light thousands of corpses will have mysteriously disappeared into
the night. Xeroc will never question why or who? He is only programmed to carry out a set of specific instructions.
Deductive reasoning and awareness have become strangers.
The Common Ground, having vacuumed the surface of its vermin, will once again make preparations for next year’
s harvest. In short time the recycling will be complete. For a select few they will become assets to Zemac’s regime.
For others they will return to Earth to replenish the growing need for supremacy. For most, they will provide the
colonies farming with cultivation and nourishment. A fresh, rich fertilizer will coat the fields.
On schedule a transport ship approaches in the distance. Its cargo? Voyagers sent to Detaneus for their crimes.
A one-way ticket. Desperate for preservation Earth rids themselves of convicts. As humans and menaces to society
they are considered a virus. Unsuspecting all they see below from their smoky portal is a wheel with its prominent
seven spokes. A central hub rises to greet them. As they depart the ship a new race of beings, a secret society will
pass them by as they board for their own journey. And a new season for harvesting will commence.
New Hampshire Writers Dark Tales
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