HARVEST

by Maus Merryjest

Long stalks and vegetable tendrils waved in the wind, whipped mercilessly by the afternoon siroccos that were so common this late in the season. The air was dry and the sun was cruel, its touch radiating from the Sienna-red earth that was one of the characteristic soils of the planet, as emblematic as the precious vegetable harvest that rolled as far as the eye could see, row after row in an orderly grid. ???????? ???????? (Louloúdi Efí?meros) , the scientists on earth branded it in their lengthy books of galactic taxonomy. Flower of the Desert, to the common colonist. During the high season, near the harvest, they blossomed all across the fields at nightfall, the signal that indicated that the harvest was only a few weeks away when their fruits finished ripening with unusual celerity.

Large forms could be seen moving along the amber-colored stalks, dark red skins reflecting sunlight with the gleam of sweat and exhaustion. Large, calloused hands toiled constantly in the care of the plants, tearing at encrusted cocoons of parasitic insects. They tended to the soil, refreshing nutrients with mixtures hauled on large containers across their broad backs. They only vaguely resembled humans in their general structure, but their basic makeup had been engineered to survive long, arduous hours in the hostile atmosphere of Agelastos.

To the original stock, engineers had added characteristics belonging to several creatures endemic to the harsh climate- strong eyes with nictating membranes to safeguard from sand and dust, advanced scent to track the early stages of putrefaction that certain plagues brought upon the harvest, and superior hearing to communicate across the vast distances of the fields. No piece of equipment survived long in the open atmosphere of Agelastos, so corrosive it was to metal that colonists had been forced to build large fortresses of rock, atmospherically hermetic in order to house their sophisticated technologies. Communicators were out of the question in the open field, much less in the hands of the strange creatures whose bestial appearance did not altogether mask the fact that they were but constructs built upon a human base. They were owned by their creators, and they themselves owned very little.

A white vehicle moved through the vegetable ocean at a slow, steady pace. It was compact, even by frugal colony standards, consisting solely of a passenger module sitting atop a caterpillar track. Most of its parts were made of durable plastics, bypassing the danger of external corrosion, though its sensitive circuitry was susceptible to the ravages of the atmosphere every time the cabin door opened outside of the hangar. Thus, it was unusual to see any vehicle traveling through the fields unless it was harvesting equipment deployed solely for the brief and hectic period during which the fields were despoiled of their new harvest.

Inside the transport was a slender woman. Her features were hard to discern, obscured as they were by the veil that came down to her waist, affixed to the head by a stylized diadem in the shape of intertwined barley leaves. Her veil was white, as were the gloves and tunic that left not an inch of flesh visible, protected from the inclement sun. The passenger, Adrasteia Konstantinides, was the daughter of Hiparkos Konstantinides, the owner of the colony. Like any good demiourgois, members of the productive class, the household’s sole focus was the production of the goods that were required by the Republic- and the Flowers were of incalculable value in the manufacture of advanced medicinal products. The woman leaned closer to the curved glass of the module, slender covered hands touching the window. Before her, the rows of plants passed, leaves catching the sun and dazzling momentarily with fibrous reflections. She felt the pace was almost hypnotic, the surreal quality of the world heightened by her hermetic bubble, which she herself could only perceive from her veil, like some strange creature lying in wait within her cocoon. The constantly-moving workers- the doûloi – were ghosts to her, wandering in a white haze.

Fresh from her last year at the Platonic Academy, Adrasteia had decided to join her father in his venture on harsh Agelastos. As the sole child of the house of Konstantinides, the harvest would fall to her one day. When the phulakes, the guardians of the Republic, considered her fit to breed and assigned her a husband, she would bring the riches from the harvest to her husband’s household and thus bring no shame to her family or her caste. She had wanted to see the plants, examine the crops just as she had done at the Academy during her study of hydroponics. Back then she had touched the soil, smelled it, felt the health of the plants slide through her fingers, sap across her skin. But here, it wasn’t fitting for the daughter of the master to mingle with the doûloi, with creatures beneath the status of a human. She sighed softly to herself and felt her own breath return, stifling under a veil which felt very heavy in a way that had nothing to do with the density or length of the material.

Gritting her teeth, she grabbed at the long trails of cloth, which simply slid off her soft gloves, impractical as they were for anything except concealing the skin. She tore the gloves off with an exasperated sound, and then yanked the blessed veil back, causing the diadem to clatter noisily against the nondescript white floor and felt perfectly justified in not caring about it. Face flushed, she finally saw the fields and the workers, the ferruginous earth. She pressed herself against the window, looking downwards into the rows of stalks. One of the doûloi was standing very near, repositioning the nutrient container on its back. As her vehicle passed, it looked up.

The eyes were strange, wide and attentive, and daylight seemed to dwell in them to a greater degree than she had seen in humans. A very feline face framed by long, coarse hair. It simply continued to stare at her as she passed from him, and she found herself disquieted by the intensity of the stare—and she was unsure of the reason for it.. She knew the creatures had some understanding- enough to understand and obey instructions… perhaps it had been waiting for her to impart orders for it to follow? Having caused it undue expectation made her feel sorry for it.

A sudden impact brought her out of her revelry, as the interior of her bubble shook with unexpected violence. Grabbing onto her seat, she looked around in panic, eyes wide, but was dislodged from her seating position by a second shock. As she scrambled to stand, she saw a towering dark brown shape, imposing against the bright light. The voúvalos was a native of Agelastos, a powerful beast only slightly resembling the bovine species of Earth, but infinitely more aggressive and territorial. Scuffles between them and the doûloi were not uncommon, especially as lone beasts wandered in search of females with which to form a herd and inevitably happened upon the fields. Adrasteia’s heart beat savagely against her chest as the voúvalos charged forward again, checking her module and causing a visible crack to appear across the front window. She felt how the impact had tossed the vehicle off-balance, a pit at the bottom of her stomach telling her that it was no longer grounded. She scrambled uselessly to reach for the controls, but the pull of gravity was too strong: the vehicle slowly fell on its side, causing plastic to groan and windows to crack further. She fell hard against the window, impacting her back and the back of her head and knocking the wind out of her lungs. As she blacked out, she felt one more violent shudder along the walls as the beast charged once more.

* * *

Adrasteia woke up to warmth and a pervasive white, accompanied by a piercing ache in her head as if someone had driven a dagger into her skull. At first she could make no sense of anything- the whiteness, the strange, hot breeze that she felt randomly caressing her body, the muffled mumbling. Finally the throbbing pain subsided enough that she could focus her eyes, and she saw that the white before her was her veil- the detail of the weave and its embroidery plain to see. Her hands were resting on her chest, underneath her veil, and she used them to pull the fabric aside as she sat up slowly from her prone position on what she quickly saw was the soil of the field. She had been laid out on the ground, her veil covering her, and placed right next to the harvest rows so that the waving stalks shielded her from the sun.

The white, bent shape of her transport module slowly righted itself under the efforts of three doûloi. Not too far away from the module, she could see the lifeless form of the beast that had attacked her, legs splayed out under it and bathed in its own blue blood. Adrasteia stared at the slain beast for a long period of time. She saw doûlos near it- he was slightly taller than the others and his ragged, primitive clothing only differed from that of the other servants on the field by the presence of a threadbare sash which had been colorful at one point. Now, it was stained with blue-green blood.

The creature turned around and began to walk in her direction, and as it drew nearer she recognized it as the doûlos that had stared at her as she passed by. Something in its bearing, she realized, had called her attention then as it did now. Perhaps the sash means it was chosen as a leader of its kind, she reflected. She didn't know why, but she felt it was improper for her to be found in an undignified position, and she scrambled to stand up, adjusting her veil as the apparent doûlos chief approached her. She cast a glance around her, but her barley-leaf diadem was nowhere to be found. Good. She had to admit that she hated the thing.

“Are you with harm?”

The question startled her. She had never personally heard any doûlos speak before and the sonority of the voice, deep and cavernous, surprised her. For once she was grateful for the veil that concealed her features as she scrambled to answer a question whose content had only now registered.

“I am fine.” The answer shot out like a whip, harsher and sharper than she had intended. The creature only looked at her in silence for a few seconds, and its gaze made her slightly uncomfortable. Taking a slow breath, she added “Thank you.” She wasn't quite sure why she said it, it was never necessary to thank a servant, much less a doûlos. Service and protection was their expected lot in life, and yet she felt it necessary to express her relief at being rescued. Though not too eagerly.

“You are master's daughter.” It said simply, with a shrug. “Wait inside. Will send for someone.” It gestured to the now upright vehicle, the attack had ensured the end of its days as transportation, but it made for a passable shelter in the meantime. Wordlessly she stepped up to the passenger pod and sat down, door closing behind her. From behind her veil, she watched as the doûloi gathered together. The one that had spoken to her, the one that had stared at her, was now speaking. She couldn't hear what it said, but there was some authority in its bearing, however primitive, and it pointed to a smaller, leaner doûlos- probably a youth- which presently sprinted away with impressive speed. The others remained for a moment and then dispersed back to their tasks, while the chief stayed by the module. Keeping watch over me, she thought indignantly.

She tried not to focus on the state of the passenger pod or the vehicle in general, and to ignore the pain on her back and the back of her head. Pride burning in her throat, she sat up straight, spine like a steel bar, hands on her lap, and eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the damaged window. She might as well have been a statue in honor of rigid Artemis, clad in virginal white.

It was at least an hour before someone from the household came, driving a similar passenger pod to her own. Antiphata, the woman who had once been her nurse, hobbled out of the transport and came to the door of her module. Adrasteia's pride was now tinged with fury- her father had sent her childhood companion instead of the capable men of the house as a message. He had remonstrated with her at her stubbornness in seeing the plantation, insisting that it was not nor would it ever be work suitable for a woman. Now he was sending the nurse to fetch a child who was in over her head. She said nothing to Antiphata, though she could not bring herself to be cruel to the old woman, and walked haughtily to the new module, all too keenly aware of the large eyes that followed her without a word.

* * *

She returned the next day, after a battle of wills with her father. Even though she had logically pointed out that another voúvalos encounter was unlikely so soon (the males were fiercely territorial, after all, and prone to avoid each other), her father let her go with the resignation of losing yet another vehicle to her daughter's unwomanly willfulness. As she headed for the hangar, he was heard despairing to the bust of Hymen on his desk that the Phulakes would tear at their tunics when the time came to find her a suitable match. To the statue of Zeus Astrapios that stood by the large double windows he complained that she had gotten it from her mother (“You know my pains, with the wife you have...”)- may Hades keep her shade far away from him. And may Hades eagerly receive the poor man who would be doomed to be Adrasteia's husband, for she was sure to send him to an early grave.

The calloused mention of her mother did nothing to her- her mother had died not too long after she had been born, and she had been raised in a world in which her memory was only a noun. No-one spoke of her, no-one mentioned how she died, nor how she lived, and her father clearly despised her. Why? She never knew, and could never know.

She retraced the exact same route as the day before, knowing that it would infuriate her father even more if he knew. But she was adamant to prove herself right, and even though her hand shook as she nudged the guiding stick on the console, she was determined. The fields passed by her, waving at her window, and the diligent doûloi passed by her absorbed in their labor. She finally brought her module to a halt at the very spot where the previous one had upended the day before. She could tell only by the slight depression on the earth where the transport had fallen, as it was mostly covered up by dust due to the winds. This particular module, the one that Anthipata had used, was a newer model and had two hatches with a tiny vestibule (enough for one person) in between them- so that passengers could enter and leave the module without putting the delicate electronics in the cabin into direct contact with the corrosive atmosphere. The doors were controlled by two switches and a sequencer inside the cabin.

Adrasteia flipped both switches without bothering to set the sequencer. Both hatches opened with a hiss and the acrid smell of the atmosphere invaded the cabin, her veil once again tossed by the wind. She imagined her father wringing his hands at the thought of the gradual corrosion the interior of the module would suffer as a result of her careless action. A servant would probably have to scrub the interior clean to remove as many corrosive elements as possible. She felt a twinge of remorse at that, and wished she could force her father to scrub the damned cabin himself.

She stepped down onto the soft earth and looked around. She wasn't really aware of what she was looking for until she saw it- the threadbare sash and the mane of hair. Her feet carried her towards the doûlos and she was aware that the veil was very impractical- within her module (where proper women stayed, her father would remark) it was a protection from the glare of the sun, but walking through the fields under high wind made her resemble something akin to laundry out to dry, fluttering aimlessly on a washerwoman's cord. Nevertheless she tried to maintain her dignity by grasping to the edge of the cloth and pulling it down along her figure, so that at least the front would not flutter away. It did not notice her until she was almost five feet away- or if it did, it chose not to acknowledge her until then. It straightened up and brushed its large hands, covered in the red of the soil, and looked at her. She couldn't understand why, but this creature had a quiet dignity in its rags and soil stains that made her feel strange, small, even though she was clad in garments that were perfectly worthy of her station.

“Has it damaged, again?” it asked. Now that she was prepared for the voice, she remarked upon the creature's strange use of words. Then she remembered that doûloi received no education, except that which was deemed strictly necessary to accomplish their tasks.

“No, the transport is fine.” Well, she thought, parts of it are going to corrode faster now.

“Need you something from me?”

“Have you a name?”

The question seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised the doûlos, its eyebrows raised a little. “I bear the name of Timon, from father.”

Timon, a name that meant 'respect', a servant's name. The awkward silence was interrupted by the intermittent howling of the wind as it picked up again, sending a shower of particles in their direction. Tiny specks of red appeared on her dress and veil. Finally, she broke the silence.

“I am to be the heir of the fields someday. I wish to know more about what shall rightly be mine.”

Timon did not answer her right away, but instead seemed to contemplate something for a short while and then turned around, starting to walk towards the rows. Indignant, she asked, “Where are you going?”

Timon looked over its shoulder. “Follow, learn.” It continued to move, bending down to inspect the stalks. Adrasteia bit her lip and marched after it. The doûlos kept a steady pace, and as they moved along it spoke in short sentences, tersely explaining the need to keep the plants well-nourished during the high season, but these explanations were very short, few and far between. Her veil and her clothes were looking decidedly more red by the minute. Finally the sun grew low and the shadows long, and Adrasteia had to return, else her father decide to send her nursemaid and the cook to fetch her.

Every day for a week Adrasteia returned, and every day she marched up and down the rows with Timon, which seemed to acknowledge her begrudgingly. Yet still all she heard from the doûlos were generalities she herself had learned at the Academy. She knew every crop had its own distinct peculiarities, and only the most general of subjects were ever taught to women- perhaps for the keeping of a quaint conservatory or vegetable box. She wanted to know her crops, and yet they seemed content to keep her from them.

And yet I am capable of understanding, she thought, I am capable of doing.

At that moment, Timon buried its hands deep into the soil and felt, narrowing its eyes. A few moments passed and it shook its head. Adrasteia stared, rooted to the spot. Eventually Timon stood up and took out a small collection of red ribbons from a pocket in its sash, one of which it tied around the stems tightly. As Timon moved on, Adrasteia wondered. She walked up to the plant and saw nothing the matter with it, nothing that she could see differently from the others. Then her eyes wandered to the disturbed earth, where Timon's large hands had made a burrow. She held up her hand and noticed the sun glinting off the silken glove, part of her protective cocoon. She continued to stare at her hand, now with the wind teasing her veil and her long skirts, and she experienced a sense of asphyxia she had never felt before- as if the layers of the soft material around her were heavy beyond all expectation, smothering her. With the same fury that she had experienced in the transport days ago, she pulled at her gloves until her fair skin came into view, and she yanked her veil clear off her head, tossing it into an irrigation ditch without a second glance. She got to her knees, feeling the moist earth soak through the dress and not caring about it. She buried her hands into the burrows, following the Timon-made tunnel, and her hands touched the roots. Adrasteia paused for a moment, feeling the unusual surface of the Flower of the Desert, feeling how there was an unusual growth, a series of growths extending from the root and intertwining. They felt slimy to the touch, and flexible. When she retrieved her hands, she saw a distinct brown coloration that did not match the deep sienna of the earth. She stared at the color and frowned, turning around on her knees to face the row that had been behind her. First, she brushed the coloration off on her dress, and then she burrowed her hands into the soil the way she had seen Timon do. It took her some time to make as much headway, as her hands were much smaller, but she finally reached the root and felt around. There were no growths, no slime, the root was solid and asperous.

She withdrew her hands slowly and saw that they were clean of coloration. She also saw that Timon was standing a few feet away, silent. She looked into its eyes defiantly and said “Root rot. The whole row is in danger.”

There was a slight change in Timon's expression. She couldn't exactly say what had changed, only that its expression when it regarded her was slightly different. “The ribbons are for Tros to see. Tros carries the special mixture.” Pesticide, she imagined. She had made a gamble- she knew what root rot looked like in barley and similar plants, and had hoped that the symptoms were similar in this particular crop.

She stood up and began to walk alongside Timon once more. That day, and over the days that followed, Timon spoke more, and more often, telling her of the plagues that were only found on Agelastos, much harder to identify than root rot. She learned how to identify the worm that ate at the heart of the stalks by the greenish tint the tendril-like leaves developed, and how the seemingly innocent and decorative bivalva- a winged insect whose butterfly-like wings resembled the scalloped shells of the terrestrial ocean- could attract ravenous plant-eating insects with its scent, and how it would feed upon them once they had had their fill of the nearby plants. When she came home, her father was scandalized at the redness of her complexion and the state of her dress. Anthipata had to be given smelling salts.

Over the next few weeks, she was able to compromise with her father. Instead of going out in full veil and tunic, she was allowed to leave in more practical clothes- provided that she wore a loose cape and wide-brimmed hat for the sun. She agreed gladly, and made a point to forget both items in the cabin every time.

It was about the third week that Timon approached Adresteia during their patrol of the stalks. She considered herself efficient in the care of the plants, and she saw some validation in how Timon communicated with her-though always with the invisible fence of her status between them, though it was the last thing on her mind during those hours. She enjoyed the learning and the practice, feeling useful. Timon spoke to her, quieter than usual, “You learn much. There is more to learn, but not here.”

She looked at him and frowned. By now her skin had slowly turned from the sheltered ivory of a demiourga to the bronzed olive of a georga, a common tiller of the soil. “Show me, then.” she told Timon.

* * *

The doûloi village was not too far from the fields, but it was clear that someone swathed in fluttering cloth from head to toe would not have been able to made the journey. The terrain was hard and it rose and fell abruptly, scabrous ridges caused Adrasteia's feet to trip, nearly sending her head-over-heels down the hills. She held on to Timon for much of the way, and it made no sign of protesting.

There were several dozen houses, all low and dome-like, built from stone and polished diligently until the surface was smooth and lustrous. Doorways and windows were framed by wood, intricately carved. All houses were oriented roughly towards the center of the village, where the well dominated the heart of the rock-paved square. Adrasteia was surprised by the unexpected touches- the stones of the well had been carved with patterns that suggested the flowing of a river, stone posts whose ends had been sculpted into rough but identifiable animals from Agelastos, each marking one of the 'streets' of the village.

The sound of laughter made her turn her head and she saw female doûloi, just as tall as the males, albeit slender, herding small versions of themselves down the street. They shot timid glances at her as they walked into one of the buildings, the wooden door sliding quietly after them a few seconds later. Timon gestured for her to follow and led her to one of the larger buildings at the end of the village, easily the size of several houses and longer. The crackling of a large fire could be seen in an enormous fireplace at the end of the hall. Over the fire there was a spit, slowly turning to roast the meat that had been placed upon it. Periodically a heavyset doûla would brush a red sauce over the roasting meat, examining it with a critical frown on its brow.

There were others in the large house, and they turned when Timon entered and bowed- acknowledging the presence of someone they considered their leader. They froze, however, when Adrasteia walked in, moving around the doûlos' stocky frame. She saw their panicked glances to Timon- unsure of how to proceed.

“Master's daughter is our guest...” Timon began.

“Adrasteia.”

Timon looked at her, frowning.

“That is my name, and that is what I will be called here.”

A second's hesitation, and then Timon spoke again, “Adrasteia is our guest. We will treat her as one of ours and she will eat from our table.”

The instructions seemed to be enough, and everybody inside the house nodded and returned to their tasks- some were preparing ingredients, others were sharpening knives, and others were going around, arranging the seats. The doûloi had taken most customs from their masters, and thus their seats were the kline- couches upon which one could recline or sit up, and eating while laying down was the accepted custom. Timon gestured for her to sit, and she did so, though she felt uncomfortably small whilst laying down on furniture set to accommodate the powerful frames of this people.

Now that her eyes had accustomed to the dimmer light, she could see that the upper walls were painted with scrolling motifs -what was called 'meandros'- not unlike the ones she saw in her father's estate. Rougher and less skilled, perhaps, but appealing nonetheless. The wall closest to the table sported an enormous fresco of a tall woman clad in white and brown, one hand extended in benediction and clutching three different plants. She instantly recognized the primitive depiction as that of Demeter Themsophoros, she who looked over the harvest. And she recognized a very rough depiction of the Flower of the Desert as the central stalk. There was a similar representation at the dining table in her father's manor, exquisitely painted, and yet to find its primitive facsimile here disquieted her more than she was prepared to admit.

The doûloi eventually sat down for the feast, the room filled with more doûloi as the hour neared, several giving Adrasteia nervous glances. She remained at ease, or tried to seem at ease, saying little and looking at the life around her, as couples shared seats, others sat alone, but all in a great murmur of resonating voices as they were glad to be together at the end of a hard labor. She was vaguely aware of the lengthening shadows outside, but she cast the thought aside.

“It is custom...” a strong voice interrupted her thoughts, “... that honored guests speak the blessings.” It was the rotund doûla that had been tending to the meat. Now it carried it in an enormous platter, and the smell made Adrasteia's mouth water. She was conscious that all eyes were on her, dozens of large, strangely luminous eyes that flickered with the firelight. Timon looked at her and nodded slightly, and she knew she had no other choice.

She stood up and took the wine-filled chalice that was given to her by the doûla- usually golden and wrought with precious stones in her manor, here was simple wood, though intricately carved.

She walked forward, towards the fresco of Demeter, with the doûla and the feast right behind her. She saw that a small altar had been carved into the stone wall, and there the doûla presented the platter. The doûla gave her a momentary glance before she took out a cloth bag and started sprinkling meal over the meat, and Adrasteia lifted her hands in prayer towards the fresco of Demeter, intoning the hymn she had been taught since she was but a girl:

“Demeter and Persephone, you who reside in Olympus,

And abide at the side of Zeus,

who delights in the thunderbolt.

Holy they you, and revered. Come, you goddesses,

who have charge of the city of Eleusis, fragrant with incense,

And of Paros the island and rocky Antron.

Come, O lady resplendent with gifts,

Queen Demeter, bringer of seasons, and your daughter,

the most beautiful Persephone.

Think kindly and grant, in return for this song,

a rich means of livelihood that suits the spirit.

And I will keep you in mind throughout the rest of my songs.”

She remained with her arms outstretched for a few seconds, as she was taught... but she always experienced the same sensation at every hymn: nothing, going simply through the motions. The symbolic hecatomb finished, the doûla brought the meat over to the table and cut out even slices of the meat with the sharpened knives. Adrasteia sank back into her kline, her skin ruddier than usual at the silence that followed her singing. Soon, however, all was forgotten as the meat and the carafe of wine made its rounds, bringing laughter and conversation with it.

“How long have you had your village?”

Timon paused from taking a bite of his slab of meat, “Many generations. Six, at least, no more.”

“Was it built by us?” Her father had only inherited the plantation from her grandfather, and he himself had inherited it from his father. The harvest of Agelastos had been in her family for as long as she knew.

“No.” This was the doûla who spoke, filling its cup with wine, “We build ourselves. Planned, carved. The rock here, strong, very good for building.”

“So my... the Konstantinides did not help? What about the schooling?” they could speak, so someone must have thought them, she thought...

“Schooling...” this seemed to amouse the doûla, which broke into a muffled laughter.

“I will show you. Later.” Timon interjected, and that was the end of that part of the conversation. She drank her wine, and soon the taste of it made her smile. Before she knew it, she was laughing.

* * *

The room was only slightly bigger than one of the houses, and it was in very poor condition. It clearly hadn't been used in a very long time, and was falling into disrepair.

Adrasteia examined the sole bookcase and its meager offerings, fingers flipping through crackling pages of old paper. Of course, digital readers would not survive in that environment, they needed books... but these books... she shook her head.

“These are....”

“That is what they teach us. Ten years past each mating season, they send one man. He reads this to us. When we understand, he leaves.”

Adrasteia looked at the colorful images, the over-exaggerated letters. Every book was similar, basic. No, to call them basic would have been praise. She thought that the Platonic Academy had skimped on her education, giving her only what they thought a woman should be able to handle... but there was no name for this. She saw Timon standing by the door, and she remembered how she felt several weeks back- shackled by inadequate instruction. Useless. Worse than useless. Insignificant. And all that was luxury compared to what Timon and its people... Timon and his people had had. Her eyes were wide open as she looked at Timon.

“There is one more.” He said, and walked into the room. Adrasteia moved quickly and was by his side as he clawed at one of the walls, easily removing a stone brick as big as her head. Inside the small niche, sequestered away, there was a thick book- but one that had been singed by fire.

“What is this?” She reached for the book and cradled it, its frailty alarming her.

“Long ago... one came, like you.” Timon said, looking at the book. “I was too small to remember well. A woman came. Insisted to live with us, said she would teach us things.” He tapped the book. “We learned. More than all had learned before, she taught us for a short time.”

“Who was she?” She opened the half-eaten cover and stared at the first page. A chill of recognition in the back of her mind as she read the name of the author, but that was all that was forthcoming. She could not remember where she had seen it before.

“I never knew. The elders didn't speak of her anymore, when I was grown.”

“Why not?” she asked, but the state of the book told the story.

“Fire took her home. Took her. I remember her screams, in the night. House collapsed, trapped inside.” He said with a faraway look in his eyes. “Was before well. We had to get water for the day from the river, back then.” She knew the river was at least three miles away. She didn't need to ask anymore, she knew that whomever she was, she had burned alive before any help could arrive, especially if it had been one of Agelastos' infamous windy nights.

“What was her name?”

“She only say, 'Daskala'”

Daskala, 'teacher'. Before she realized it, her eyes were reading over the fragments of words still extant in the mauled pages. She kept flipping the pages, eager to read more, but of course there was barely anything to read. They replaced the book back into its niche and walked out in silence. Along the way, Timon showed her the place where Daskala's house once stood, close to the other side of the village. Some of the cobblestones still bore scorch marks, but the house itself was gone, replaced by a sole stone post in the rough shape of a woman with a nondescript bird on her shoulder. She recognized the allusion: Athena.

They stood before the post for some time as the shadows lengthened further and the last gleam of the sun radiated in the horizon. It was then that she noticed a peculiarity... one of the stones, presumably where the center of Daskala's house had been, bore a strong mark, far more pronounced than any of the other scorch marks. It was a tightly circular print, no bigger than an apple, and within its circumference it had completely melted the stone. Timon led her back in silence and bid her farewell as the night began to fall. Before she got into her module, she turned to face the doulos.

“Timon?”

He looked up at her.

“You call my father 'master', and you call me your master's daughter.”

“That is it. For that is what you are.”

She kept her eyes on him, remembering the hecatomb at the dining house. Her hymn-singing had been strong, and yet the words had all been hollow from within. She had paid lip service to someone she didn't believe in, something she had never believed in but knew better than to admit it openly.

“Who owns you?”

The question caught him off-guard. “You do.” He said, after too long a pause.

“I don't believe it.” She said quietly. The wind picked up again.

“I own myself.” He admitted finally, his voice weary and hoarse. “But no one can know. I will be killed, and then... nothing to own.”

She nodded slowly and climbed back into her module.

When she arrived at the manor, she went directly into her room and used her media station to connect herself to the Alexandrian Network. She inputted the name and title she had gleaned from the burnt book and requested a digital copy of the text. She let out an impatient noise when the notice came back that it would take a week before the text could be converted into digital format and delivered. Apparently nobody had taken the trouble of converting it yet.

As she was preparing for bed, her father came into her room. Hiparkos Konstantinides was a tall, imposing man with graying hair at his temples and a well-kept beard, his eyes were piercing and focused, a trait his daughter had inherited from him.

“You were later than usual, later than you've ever been. What kept you?”

Adrasteia froze as she was brushing her hair. “... I was distracted and lost track of time. It won't happen again.”

“It will not. You are not allowed to return to the fields again.”

A violent sensation wrenched at her stomach, and she said firmly, “No!”

He paused and narrowed his eyes. “I may have indulged you more than it is wise for a father to indulge any woman, Adrasteia, but hear me well- my orders will be obeyed.”

She took a very slow breath, very carefully. She tried the angle of reason. “I am to be your heir, father. It is my duty to know the workings of our fields, not simply the th-”

“You are not to be my heir, daughter. The man the Phulakes choose for you to marry will be my heir, you are simply the means through which he will inherit that.” His voice was cold and his jaw was set. She had never seen this side of him before... what could she have done that was that grave?

“Adrasteia... listen to me. And listen to me very carefully.” He began again. “Have you been... consorting with the doûloi?”

The question caused a greater pit in her stomach, but she kept her demeanor calm, speaking off her voice in what she hoped was an amused, light tone. “Why on Agelastos would I ever want to … to associate with animals?”

He seemed to relax at that. “What do you think of them, then?”

“We keep them, and they work for us. We order them, and they obey.” She found it strange to say those words, and she kept her expression neutral, as one who states a fact. And then, she added, because she couldn't help it, “Father... why did we create them?”

Hiparkos rubbed his chin, looking at his daughter. “Because the greater good of the state required it.”

“So they were created for that, and nothing else?”

“It is their purpose, their telos.” He said, using a term that was all too familiar at the Platonic Academy, “To go against it would be to attempt against the very core of their beings.”

“So they cannot choose otherwise?”

He sat down on the kline, hands clasped over his right knee. “If it were possible for them to choose, it would destroy the order. Adrasteia, even the gods, who rule all things, must abide by the responsibilities given to them. Here, in Agelastos, you know very well the importance of order. Demeter Thesmophoros must preside over the fertility of the earth, or else all will die. The doûloi must tend to the harvest or else it would spoil- even if they chose not to tend to the harvest, it is the greater good of the state that would forbid it, for it would destroy us all. The demiourgoi must control the doûloi, and the gods control the world. As you see, everything has a part...”

“Even women?” she asked, trying to mask the anger in her voice.

“... And the women play their part in this great equation by offering thanks and sacrifices at the feast of the Thesmophoria, as Demeter demands it. Not by engaging in unwomanly conduct.”

She spent a few seconds in silence, aware that she was balanced precariously on the edge. Of the questions in her mind, she chose the one that burnt her the most. “Father... how may we know that this is just?”

“Just?” the older man echoed, more puzzled than annoyed.

“How can we know that our ways are right, that we are following a true path?”

He gave her a condescending smile. Once again she was the child way in over her head, ready to receive his wisdom. “Because the philosopher-king of Kallipolis guides us. We have no standing to question his wisdom.”

“But why not?” she asked, looking into her father's eyes and realizing that what was looking back at her wasn't really looking at her. It was only looking at an idea of her- of what a woman could and couldn't understand.

“Because only he has access to the World of Forms. Only he can truly see into the World of Forms and comprehend the nature of the Form of The Good. Our rules and our mandates are created in accordance with his vision, and therefore all of our rules and our mandates are for the greater good. This is nothing new to you.” He said soothingly. This she had all heard when but a child, every child heard it, and every adult still believed it. Why, then, couldn't she believe it? Why did she find this form of The Good less than good?

She finally convinced her father to relent on his prohibition- but only if she could refrain from going to the plantation for two weeks, so that she may begin to revert what her sun had done to her skin. Begrudgingly, she agreed. To pass the time, she ordered the physical versions of all the author's books that she had ordered previously before... those would take longer to arrive.

Finally, one day, the first of the digital books arrived.

It was a grey dawn, one of the rare ones on Agelastos. Every now and then the wind would be dormant enough, just enough, so as not to sweep the ponderous clouds away or thin them into strips of wispy, ethereal matter against the harsh sky. This seldom lasted for long, the winds would be back and the world would be ablaze once more.

Adrasteia rested, recumbent on the kline near the window in the study, her hands holding the data pad as it downloaded its precious content at a glacial pace. Everything took a comparatively long time in Agelastos, if you were used to lightning-fast communications throughout most of the Republic. Here, the hostile atmosphere delayed most communications though signal deterioration, feeding impatience even if it was only a matter of a mere minute's wait. Adrasteia looked at the status update on the sepia-toned screen, the bar slowly filling up in starts and stutters. She imagined the signal as a long coil of golden thread, slowly being lowered to her from a great spool in orbit above, coiling and slashing desperately like a snake, fighting the fierce tempests of the mesosphere in order to find her.

The soft chime of the reader made her focus on the screen once more, a new icon appearing among her collection of texts. At once, she tapped the image with a fingertip and the image expanded to fill the whole screen, displaying elegant characters of a name that had only been a vague suggestion, barely touched in her years at the Platonic Academy: ???????????, Aristotél?s. The laconic voice of the reader began to recite the first few lines of the text, but Adrasteia quickly silenced it with an impatient swipe of her finger across the sleek console on the device. She wanted no other voice but her own inside her mind. She shifted her position to rest her back against the headboard and, in the gray and indistinct haze of a morning that blended all things into the same pallor, she began to read.

"Book One," she said quietly to herself, taking a breath. "Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim..."

The sun had long set and the aides of the house had given up raising her from the study many, many hours ago. She had not turned the lights on, but instead lit the antique candles on the ornate candelabra. It had been an odd thing to do, but it felt right, the intimacy they provided seemed appropriate as she read on further into the night. When at last the words "End of Book X" had scrolled past her eyes, still she didn't move from the kline. She could hear the howling of the wind outside, a faint sound that came through the thick layer of plated glass. The study was now a divided world, with the dancing flames painting the world around her in values of strong contrasts- bright surfaces and dark recesses, sharp angles and defined areas, everything segmented, no indifferent pallor but burning light and the absence of it. She was not gazing at the reader anymore, but rather, facing the candelabra, her eyes were open.

Her father was delighted, as Adrasteia spent a whole month indoors, seemingly doing nothing but reading and all apparent thoughts of the fields completely gone. Nevertheless, two weeks after that month, Adrasteia set out to go to the fields once more, and her father felt uneasy about the look in her eyes.

“You are not free,” she said to Timon, as they resumed their vigil over the crops, now so much closer to the time of harvest.

“I thought you would not return.” He said simply.

“You are not free. But you should be.”

“I am glad you did.”

They walked in silence for half a mile.

“Do you ever wonder... what more you could have learned?”

“Often.” He tied another ribbon around a stalk, and she added another one to a plant ten feet away.

“I can teach you.”

“Why would you?”

“Because knowing is important.”

“Why?” his eyes bore into hers, and she took a step back.

“What you know... nobody else can take away from you. Not other men... not gods... nobody.”

“And what would I do, knowing? By myself.”

“Then you can teach others.” She walked closer to him. “You are respected, they follow your lead. Teach them what you'll know... and then you'll know how to free yourselves.” She put a hand on his chest to stop him from walking. He looked down at her.

“And you. Why are you not free?” he asked.

The question floored her, hitting her like a voúvalos. After a while she realized her hand was still on his chest and she dared to look back up at him, the answer working its way out from a long ways away. “I am. Right now.”

Nothing more was said, but he slowly pulled her down onto the moist earth, and she followed willingly.

The harvest came and went, and the great ships of the Republic dared to pierce the harmful atmosphere and load the precious cargo, paying the Konstantinides household handsomely for a year's worth of bountiful harvest. Adrasteia and Timon met every day and they studied together whenever they did not make love. To ease her father's suspicions, she kept her outings regular, and never past sundown, and she always wore the protection he so desired- for a bride-to-be of the demiourgoi needed to look as if she had never suffered the indignities of work on her skin. She and Timon devoured the Ethics, moved steadily through the Politics and had started reading the Metaphysics. She struggled to grasp the implications of the things she was reading, and Timon doubly so, having had a lifetime of privation. But she saw him hungrily running after her, refusing to surrender to an idea he couldn't fathom. His mind, when properly equipped, proved to be as formidably intense as his body was, capable of taking down a voúvalos or integrate the concepts of the laws of identity.

“I can't be owned...” he said to her one day, as they were sitting side by side on the steps of her module, “... because of what I am. My nature doesn't depend on what others think it is. If I am to be owned, then all men and women are to be owned.” She knew how dangerous those words were- the Republic thrived in the owning of others, one class chained to another until the chains reached the highest caste, which was not bound by any such links but held them all tightly: the Philosopher-King and the Phulakes- the 'guardians' of the Republic. She knew that is the way it was, and she had always known it didn't ring true. She had simply never known why.

And then, one day, as she was preparing to head out again, the books safely secured in her satchel, her father summoned her to his study. When she answered the summons, she found a tall, lanky man with an ingratiating smile and paper-thin eyelids sitting opposite her father. The stranger was clad in a green tunic, which did nothing for his complexion. “Adrasteia,” her father said with a very formal tone, “My daughter, please meet Phulake Lynceus, of the Republic.”

She felt as if a steel blade had split her in half, her hands clutched at the satchel reflexively. “Phulake Lynceus, I humbly welcome you to our home.”

“The Phulake is here to finalize the arrangement, my daughter.”

“The arrangement?”

The man in the green tunic smiled ingratiatingly, putting a hand to his chest. “Surely, my child, you could not forget that you are nearing the age in which a mate is to be decided for you?”

“She comes of age in only three weeks, indeed.” Her father added, helpfully.

“I... I thought it would take more time. Don't I get to meet him?”

“You will, of course, at your marriage ceremony at the temple of Hera and Hymen, as is the tradition.”

She stared at him numbly. Of course, it wouldn't be her choice. She had spent days with Timon doing nothing but following her choice, forgetting that this was the world denied to her, not the norm.

“I see you are overcome, it is only natural. Of course, we must proceed with haste- tactfully.” Lynceus said with an unctuous sweetness to his voice that made her nauseous. “Now that I am here, we may schedule the examinations tomorrow.”

“Examinations?” her heart raced. She had forgotten.

“Of course. Your husband-to-be expects it, and tradition requires it. The bride must be intact before the bridal contract... in order to guarantee the purity of the breed, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You may be excused, Adrasteia.” Hiparkos said, a serene smile on his face. “Continue with your plans. An inspection of the fields will take your mind off these matters. After all, this is beyond woman's sphere.”

She nodded glumly and stepped out after tossing genetically polite words at their visitor. As she headed for the hangar, the slow-smoldering rage began to overtake her. Of course, it wasn't a woman's work to decide her future, to pursue her happiness.

She cried in Timon's arms for more than an hour, sinking into despair, coming back for a grab of rage, and sliding back into despair once more. When she had finally calmed, her mind returned to level, and they both began to talk.

“The moment they examine me... they'll know I haven't been exactly a priestess of Apollo. I will be put to death.”

“Then they're not going to examine you.” said Timon, forcefully.

“I've nowhere to go... we have nowhere to go!”

He shook his head. “There are places that your father can't reach. Places too difficult for your machines to get to on land.” He didn't speak of airborne machines, because the winds of Agelastos caused all but the heaviest of cargo ships to crash, and those could only risk exposure so long before corrosion set in. It was why all cargo ships docked into the underground hangar where the harvest was loaded into their bays.

They decided to elope together that night. She would come to him on the transport, and then she would set its course in the opposite direction of their escape route, trusting that its tracks would at least buy them enough time to run past the village and into the thick forest. From there, they could run at a slower pace, as the unconquered wilderness made vehicular progress impossible, and Timon would have territorial advantage over any pursuer from her household. She left the books in his care and went back to her household early, under the excuse that she needed to rest for next day's ordeals. Sweet Antiphata prepared her a compress and left her to sleep.

* * *

They had been running for at least thirty minutes that night, and they had almost made it to the outskirts of the village when they knew something had gone wrong. Adrasteia had had no trouble sneaking out of the manor, the hangar had been completely deserted. But the module refused to take input for navigation, and the screen locked down immediately the moment she attempted to direct its auto pilot. Instead, a small red square started to blink on the panel, and she knew that it was broadcasting a signal. She scrambled out and onto the earth in search of a rock with which she could smash the console, when Timon's hand stopped her. “Leave it. It doesn't matter now if you stop it, they already know.”

She knew he was right, and the two of them had taken off, running as fast as each could muster. Her father had known- or suspected, somehow, she thought as she ran with far less discipline and more panic than she would have wanted to have. It is why he had been so pleased at the arrival of the Phulake- he would be able to know exactly what was going on.

They were shocked to find their path cut off at several junctures by the bright glare of searchlights. Her father was not sparing his precious equipment, he had sent his men in advance and set up potential ambush points from which fugitives could be seen- this delayed them further, forcing them to backtrack and seek better alternatives, constantly readjusting their course southwards.

She wanted to stop, change plans, talk, but Timon shook his head- there was no time. Their only hope was that they hadn't reached the Gap yet. The rope bridge that extended from cliff to cliff would be perfect. Some of Timon's people had decided to venture into the forest in the hopes of finding more resources. They had never come back, but they had left the bridge over the Gap.

They burst out of a mass of thickets, sharp thorns tearing at their skins, and Adrasteia could clearly see the bridge swinging precariously in the wind up ahead. Her strength faltered for a moment, but Timon's large hand grabbed hers and pulled her along, his powerful legs pounding against the ground on a last leap to freedom. It was then that Timon screamed, and the world became bright red for a moment for both of them, and full of intense heat. He rolled on the ground and came to a stop, slowly getting to his knees. She took a little longer, as her eyes widened. Where they had been standing, the ground was scorched and a small circumference- about the size of an apple- had melted the rocky surface and evaporated most of the earth.

Out from behind a copse of trees stepped two figures, one was clad in green, and the other one had graying hair at his temples and a well-kept beard, as well as a weapon in his hands.

Adrasteia looked at the ground, at the familiar blast, and then at her father, and she shook her head. “Father.... I can't...”

Hiparkos finished replacing the power cartridge into his weapon, a soft whine suddenly filled the air as the older man shook his head. “... I could have forgiven you everything. Everything... except... this.” He spat out the last word with repugnance. The Phulake simply observed, seemingly uninvolved in what was happening. “... consorting... copulating with beasts...”

“They are not beasts!” she screamed, angrily, stepping in front of Timon, fearing that her father's gun was to be aimed at him. “If anything, we are the beasts! Us and your damned philosopher-king, and your gods! To tartarus with all of you, to tartarus with your playing with other people's lives, telling yourselves it's all 'for the greater good'- you monsters!”

“How dare you!” the Phulake piped up, looking mortally offended. “Perhaps you might remind your daughter what is the penalty for blasphemy against the gods. ”

“She is not my daughter.” Hiparkos said, bitterly as he rested the butt of the weapon against his shoulder. “She is her daugther. There is nothing of me in her.”

Timon, still dazed from the heat shockwave, was too slow to pull Adrasteia away. The daughter of Konstantinides was dumbfounded as he saw her father, the man who had raised her, level the muzzle of the deadly weapon against her. With eyes that looked very much like hers, he measured the distance and pulled the trigger. When he finally did pull her away, she was falling back, lifeless. He roared with frightening fury and cradled Adrasteia's body in his arms as Konstantinides' weapon came up once more to aim at him. The hybrid, whose lot in life until recently had been solely to die or live at his master's whim, instead turned around and ran with blazing speed across the bridge, a limp body in his arms. The next beam came, but it did not hit him- it overshot him and set the bridge alight where it didn't immediately disintegrate it. The last Hiparkos saw of Timon was his plummeting body, still holding on to Adrasteia.

* * *

EPILOGOS

* * *

It is important to remark upon the events that took place after the death of Hiparkos Konstantinides' only daughter. Only three days after the tragedy, Adrasteia's old nurse, Antiphata, left the Konstantinides household, some say that she spat a curse at him and swore the Furies would avenge Adrasteia. Whether it was due to her old age or the fact that he thought nobody would heed her, he let her board the next cargo ship back to earth. A year after that, interestingly enough, Konstantinides named Anaxagoras Theodorus as his new heir- a young man who, it was rumored, had been Adrasteia's arranged match by the Phulakes in the first place. Theodorus never made it to the plantation- after checking in with the household, his personal ship was found at the landing strip without a soul on board.

Two months later, the Konstantinides household inexplicably caught fire, with all inside perishing from asphyxia or worse. When the news reached Antiphata, she simply smiled to herself and went to take a nap from which she never woke.

The Republic scrambled over the importance of appointing a new family into the ownership of the fields, finally sending a compromise agglomeration of two semi-powerful families. What met them upon landing, however, was an enormous congregation of doúloi at the landing strip. They were not interested in serving, they stated very clearly, and they were taking ownership of the plantation. If the Republic wished to negotiate trade, they would be more than happy to oblige. Chastened, the Republic tried a preemptive strike- but no general would accept the campaign: Agelastos' atmosphere made any prolonged ground campaign impossible due to corrosion, air assaults were out of the question due to the effects of the winds on fighter craft, and orbital bombardment was unthinkable- as the doúloi had resettled in the perimeter of the fields, and striking at their homesteads would entail harming the harvest as well. Eventually, they Republic had to learn something it had never done before: negotiation.

And still, long after the ashes of the Konstantinides household had been eradicated by the wind, every year after the harvest all of the doúloi gathered in the old square, back at the old village, and waited. As the first rays of daylight touched the square, a tall individual would emerge from the limits of the forest and slowly walk towards the assembled group. He had his arm in a sling, his leg seemed unnaturally stiff, an eye was missing, but his remaining eye would shine like the sun.

He would sit down on a chair offered to him by one of the elders, and he would take out a book from his satchel very, very slowly. He would open it, look at the assembled crowd and- his free hand toying with a tarnished golden diadem in the shape of intertwined barley leaves- he'd begin to read. And they would listen.

End