The Harvest

 The Harvest 1

Pravdin wiped sweat from his brow and squinted at the sky. The sun hung directly overhead, bleaching the endless wheat fields into a sea of pale gold. His combine harvester droned on, cutting a precise swath through the grain while the dashboard screen blinked its constant metrics: yield calculations, moisture content, collection quotas.

Eight years had passed since the foreigners had arrived. Eight years since the mysterious "modernization" that transformed their village into something both more efficient and less human. The village elders called it progress—Mother Russia recovering from the great war that had devastated the outside world. Everyone else simply called it survival.

The combine's alarm chirped, signaling his mandatory rest period. Pravdin guided the machine to the edge of the field where other workers gathered in the shadow of a solitary oak tree. The farm supervisor—a thin man with dead eyes and the telltale bump behind his right ear—nodded at Pravdin's approach. Everyone called the bump a "listener." The supervisors and officials all had them, and they always seemed to know things they shouldn't.

"Quotas are down two percent from yesterday," the supervisor announced flatly. "The Regional Committee expects better."

No one responded. They just sipped their rationed water and avoided eye contact. Mikhail, the grain transport driver, wandered off toward the tree line to relieve himself. Pravdin sat alone on a storage crate, staring at his calloused hands.

Two years ago tomorrow, those hands had held his father as he bled out in this same field, when the previous harvester had malfunctioned. The machine had detected a blockage, and his father had reached in to clear it. Then, as if possessed by some malevolent spirit, the harvester had activated its clearing cycle. The memory still came to Pravdin in nightmares—the scream, the blood, the horrible whirring sound.

"You look like a man with burdens," came a voice.

Pravdin looked up. A stranger stood before him—gaunt, unshaven, with intelligent eyes that didn't match his ragged appearance. Vagrants weren't unusual since the "modernization," but they rarely approached workers directly. They knew better.

"I have nothing to share," Pravdin said, looking away.

"I'm not asking for anything," the man said quietly. "My name is Vadim. I served with your uncle in Czechoslovakia, before the secession."

Pravdin frowned. "I don't have an uncle who served."

"Not one you know about." Vadim's voice dropped even lower. "Not one they allowed you to remember."

Before Pravdin could respond, Mikhail returned, and Vadim shuffled away, seeming once again like just another vagrant. The supervisor called them back to work, but as Pravdin climbed into his harvester, he noticed Vadim watching him from the edge of the field.

2

"Alyosha! Dinner!" Lyubov called from the doorway of their modest home.

Pravdin watched his ten-year-old brother race in from outside, clutching a notebook filled with complex equations. Since being selected for the advanced program at school, Alyosha spent every spare moment studying.

"Teacher Borodin says if I maintain my scores, I might be eligible for the Central Academy next year," Alyosha announced, his eyes bright. "I'll get to live in the town hub, and learn about the new computation systems!"

"That's wonderful," Lyubov said, placing a meager portion of stew before each of them. "Just remember what matters most."

"The advancement of Mother Russia in her time of global recovery," Alyosha recited proudly.

Pravdin suppressed a frown. "Is that what they're teaching you?"

"Pravdin," his mother warned.

"It's true," Alyosha insisted. "Teacher Borodin says before the modernization, we were backward and vulnerable. Now we're rebuilding while the contaminated lands recover."

"And you believe everything Teacher Borodin says?" Pravdin asked.

"He has access to the Information Network," Alyosha replied, as if that settled everything.

Lyubov's spoon clattered against her bowl. "That's enough. Alyosha, finish your studies after dinner. Pravdin, I need your help with the garden."

Outside, among the vegetable rows that supplemented their meager rations, Lyubov spoke in hushed tones.

"I saw the vagrant today," she said, not looking at him. "The one with the limp."

"How did you—"

"Word travels. Listen to me, Pravdin. Whatever he told you, whatever he offered... stay away."

Pravdin pulled a weed with unnecessary force. "You don't even know what he said."

"I don't need to." Her hands trembled slightly as she worked. "These men come through, fill young heads with ideas, then vanish when the authorities arrive."

"So you believe in the authorities now?" Pravdin couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "After what happened to Father?"

Lyubov's face hardened. "Your father's death was a tragedy. But getting yourself killed or sent to a labor camp won't bring him back."

"We're already in a labor camp. This whole village—"

"Enough!" Lyubov seized his arm, her eyes suddenly fierce. "You have one job now: survive. Keep your brother safe. He has a chance, Pravdin. A real chance."

Something in her intensity made Pravdin pause. "You sound like you know these people. The vagrants."

For a moment, her guard dropped. "Once, before your father. Before you." She looked away. "It changes nothing. Promise me you'll stay away from him."

Pravdin said nothing, and they finished their work in silence.

3

Three nights later, Pravdin slipped out after curfew, navigating the darkened village by memory. He found Vadim and six others gathered in an abandoned storage cellar beneath the old church.

"We wondered if you would come," Vadim said, gesturing to an empty crate.

The others were mostly young like Pravdin—farm workers, a mechanic, two women from the processing plant. All bore the hollow-eyed look of people who had lost too much.

"Tell me the truth," Pravdin said. "About everything."

Vadim nodded. "Eight years ago, a coalition called the Global Economic Coalition—the GEC—seized control of Russia. Not with flags and declarations, but with technology and manipulation. What you think of as 'modernization' was occupation."

"The war—"

"There was no war," one of the women interrupted. "It's a lie to keep us isolated, to explain why we never see or hear from the outside world."

"The listening devices, the brain-scanners, the automated systems—they're all tools of control," Vadim continued. "Your supervisors report everything you say, everything you do. The educational programs select the brightest children and indoctrinate them completely."

"Like my brother," Pravdin whispered.

Vadim nodded grimly. "The town hub sends us machinery that breaks down, rations that barely sustain us, and takes everything we produce. Russia has become a resource extraction zone for foreign powers that hide behind our own flag."

"We lost," the mechanic added. "But they never let us know we were fighting."

Pravdin's mind raced. It explained so much—the sudden appearance of foreigners, the inexplicable changes, the constant surveillance. But it seemed impossible that such a deception could be maintained.

"If what you're saying is true, what can we possibly do about it?"

Vadim smiled thinly. "Resist. Disrupt. Show them that we are not machines to be programmed. The system runs on predictability and compliance. Even small disruptions tax their resources, force them to reveal their hand."

One by one, they outlined their plan. Small acts of sabotage—equipment malfunctions, misrouted shipments, corrupted data. Nothing dramatic enough to trigger an immediate crackdown, but enough to create inefficiencies in the system.

Pravdin thought of his father, of the machine that had killed him. Of his brother, reciting propaganda with innocent conviction. Of his mother's tired eyes.

"I'm in," he said, and felt something like purpose for the first time in years.

4

Weeks passed. By day, Pravdin harvested wheat, met quotas, and presented the model of compliance. By night, he participated in small acts of rebellion—sugar in fuel tanks, corrupted figures in inventory records, damaged circuitry in surveillance equipment.

The results were subtle but real. Shipments delayed. Additional maintenance crews deployed. More frequent inspections. Vadim told them this was success—resources diverted, attention fragmented.

At home, Pravdin tried to maintain normalcy, but Lyubov noticed the change in him.

"You're not sleeping," she said one evening as Alyosha worked on his studies.

"Harvest season," he replied.

She studied his face. "Whatever you're involved in, it isn't worth the risk."

"Some things are worth any risk."

Her eyes flashed. "I once believed that. Then I watched friends disappear, one by one. The true believers always die first, Pravdin."

Before he could respond, Alyosha burst in from his room.

"Teacher Borodin told us about bad people causing trouble in our region!" he announced. "He says they hate Mother Russia and want to wreck everything we're building."

Pravdin tensed. "What kind of trouble?"

"Breaking machines, messing up the food deliveries," Alyosha said, repeating what he'd learned. "Teacher says it's treason of the highest order."

Lyubov's face drained of color.

"He showed us the new monitoring systems today," Alyosha continued excitedly. "They can track every machine, every storage facility. He says soon they'll be able to identify the saboteurs by behavior patterns alone."

That night, Pravdin met with Vadim in secret.

"They're onto us," he whispered.

"We expected this," Vadim replied calmly. "It means we're having an impact."

"My brother says they have new monitoring systems."

Vadim nodded. "Which is why we need to escalate, not retreat. The distribution center in the town hub. That's our next target."

"That's madness. Security there—"

"Is focused outward, not inward. We have someone on the inside. One disruption to their central system, and the entire hub goes dark for hours."

"And then what?"

"And then we expose the truth about who really controls the hub. We broadcast it through their own network."

Pravdin wasn't sure if Vadim was brilliant or delusional. "How many of us would make it back?"

Vadim's expression shifted to something practiced, reassuring. "We've run operations like this a dozen times in other districts. Our success rate is remarkably high. I won't promise there's no risk—that would be a lie—but with proper execution, everyone returns. At worst, someone might face questioning." He leaned forward. "The cause demands courage, not martyrdom."

Pravdin thought of his mother's warning. Of Alyosha's excitement about his future. "I need time to think."

"Don't take too long," Vadim said. "We move in three days."

5

The next morning, authorities arrived in the village. A team of security officers in crisp uniforms went house to house, conducting interviews. When they reached Pravdin's home, a thin man with a prominent listener bump led the questioning.

"Production is down seven percent in your sector," he stated, eyes fixed on Pravdin. "You were operating harvester unit six during three recorded slowdowns."

"Equipment troubles," Pravdin said, heart pounding. "The maintenance logs show the service requests."

"Indeed they do." The man's gaze revealed nothing. "Curiously, no defects were found during inspection."

"I can only report what I experience," Pravdin replied.

The man turned to Lyubov. "And you, citizen? Have you noticed any unusual activities in the village? Unauthorized gatherings? Strangers?"

Lyubov's face remained composed. "Only the usual harvest business. We're focused on meeting our quotas, nothing more."

"And the boy?" The man glanced at Alyosha, who stood stiffly by the bookshelf. "I understand he's quite promising."

"He works hard," Lyubov said carefully.

"The Central Academy has very high standards. It would be... unfortunate if family complications affected his candidacy."

The threat hung in the air for a moment.

"We understand the importance of his education," Lyubov said.

After they left, Lyubov rounded on Pravdin.

"They know," she hissed. "They're watching you specifically."

"You don't know that—"

"I know how they operate!" For the first time, she grabbed him and shook him. "Listen to me. Before I met your father, I was part of a resistance cell in Leningrad. I watched them track us, isolate us, and then eliminate us one by one. The only reason I survived was because your father got me out, gave me a new identity here."

Pravdin stared at her, seeing her anew. "You never told me."

"Because I wanted you to live!" Tears welled in her eyes. "Whatever they told you they're fighting for, it isn't worth your life. It isn't worth Alyosha's future."

Pravdin thought of Vadim's plan, of the distribution center. "What if we could show everyone the truth?"

"There is no 'truth' that will set us free," Lyubov replied bitterly. "Only survival, day by day."

Pravdin sat in silence long after his mother had gone to bed. Her words echoed in his mind alongside Vadim's promises. He thought of his father's death—preventable, senseless—and of

Alyosha's innocent excitement about serving a system built on lies. He thought of the village's slow starvation despite their endless work, the disappearances, the constant fear.

Perhaps his mother was right that revolution was a fantasy. Perhaps Vadim was using them all as pawns in a game no one could win. But doing nothing meant accepting that this half-life was all they deserved—all his brother deserved.

The truth might not set them free. But lies had already imprisoned them.

That night, Pravdin made his decision.

6

Three nights before the operation, they gathered one final time in the abandoned church cellar. Vadim stood before a crude diagram sketched on a piece of scrap metal.

"The distribution center," he said, tapping the drawing. "Five access points, but only three are viable for our purposes. Nina and Leonid will create a diversion here, at the loading docks." He nodded toward a broad-shouldered woman and a thin, nervous-looking man.

Nina folded her arms. "What kind of diversion?"

"A small fire in the waste processing unit," Vadim replied. "Nothing dangerous, but enough to draw security away from the control sector."

Alexei, the mechanic with scarred hands from years working with farm equipment, leaned forward. "And if they don't respond as expected?"

"They will," Vadim said confidently. "Their protocols are rigid. Meanwhile, Pravdin, Misha, and you will access the central control hub through this maintenance corridor."

Misha, a quiet woman who worked at the processing plant, spoke up. "I've seen armed guards there during shift changes."

"Which is why you'll enter at exactly 23:40," Vadim explained. "Guard rotation creates a seven-minute window. Once inside, Alexei will disable the security feeds while Pravdin uploads our program to the main system."

"And you?" Pravdin asked, noticing Vadim hadn't assigned himself a role.

Vadim pulled out a small device that looked like a hearing aid. "I'll coordinate from a secure location. This connects wirelessly—like your harvester's remote diagnostics. I'll guide you through each step."

Leonid's eyes narrowed. "So we take all the risk while you stay safe?"

"My skills are in organization, not infiltration," Vadim replied smoothly. "More importantly, if you're captured, you can't reveal my location. And if something goes wrong, someone needs to remain free to continue the work."

No one looked entirely satisfied with this explanation, but no one challenged it either.

"What happens after the upload?" Pravdin asked.

"The program will broadcast the truth about GEC control to every connected device in the region," Vadim said. "Documentation, evidence, everything people need to see through the lies. Then we'll see how loyal the supervisors remain when everyone knows who really pulls their strings."

As they dispersed into the night, Nina caught Pravdin's arm. "My brother died in one of those 'equipment malfunctions' last year," she said quietly. "Whatever happens tomorrow, at least we're doing something. That matters."

Alexei nodded in agreement. "For my children. Even if they never know."

Misha said nothing, but her determined expression spoke volumes.

The next night, as Pravdin prepared to leave, he looked back at his sleeping home one last time. His mother's warnings echoed in his mind, but so did the faces of his companions—ordinary people risking everything for a chance at truth.

Everything went wrong almost immediately. Guards were stationed where none should have been. Alarms triggered early. The mechanic was caught at the first checkpoint.

"They knew we were coming," Pravdin whispered into the tiny microphone, his heart pounding as he and Misha, the processing plant worker, hid in a service corridor.

"Impossible," Vadim's calm voice replied in his ear. "The guard rotation changed last minute. Adapt and proceed to junction B-7."

"The mechanic is gone," Pravdin hissed. "Half our team is—"

"Focus on the mission," Vadim cut in. "What do you see ahead?"

Pravdin swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run. "Two corridors. Left has red marking, right has blue."

"Take the blue. Ten meters, then the second maintenance hatch on your left."

Somehow, following Vadim's precise instructions, they made it to the central control room. Sweat poured down Pravdin's back as he worked, inputting commands exactly as Vadim dictated. On the monitors, he saw his two other comrades being apprehended.

"Almost there," Vadim's voice remained steady. "Final sequence now: Blue-Green-Red-Blue-Seven."

Pravdin's fingers trembled on the keyboard. "It's done."

"Good. Now take the emergency exit route. Follow the yellow conduit to the service elevator."

Pravdin grabbed Misha's arm and they ran, footsteps echoing on the metal grating. The yellow conduit snaked along the ceiling above them, leading to a narrow service shaft. Behind them, alarms continued to blare.

"Guards coming from the east corridor," Vadim's voice warned in Pravdin's ear. "Take the maintenance ladder down one level."

Pravdin spotted the ladder and motioned to Misha. She nodded, face pale but determined, and began climbing down. Pravdin followed, his hands slick with sweat on the cold metal rungs.

The sub-level was dimly lit and thick with the smell of industrial cleaners. Pipes hissed overhead. Pravdin's heart hammered in his chest as they crept forward, following Vadim's directions through a maze of service corridors.

"Ahead you'll find the waste disposal system," Vadim instructed. "The chute leads to the external collection area. It's your only way out now."

They found the large metal hatch, designed for maintenance access to the garbage chute. Misha pulled it open, revealing a dark tunnel sloping downward.

"You first," Pravdin said.

Misha hesitated, then climbed in. The sound of boots on metal flooring echoed from somewhere behind them. Pravdin squeezed into the chute after her and pulled the hatch closed just as flashlight beams swept the corridor.

The descent was quick and terrifying—a steep, slippery slide through darkness that ended in a sprawling waste collection bin at the facility's rear perimeter. Pravdin landed hard, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs. The stench was overwhelming.

"Misha?" he whispered, scanning the dim area. He could see where she had climbed out of the bin—fresh handprints in the grime along the edge. But of Misha herself, there was no sign.

Pravdin pulled himself out and crouched in the shadows, listening for pursuit. Nothing. The rear of the facility seemed deserted, the guards all responding to the internal alarms.

Following Vadim's instructions, he made his way through a drainage culvert, then across a field to the rendezvous point—an abandoned grain storage silo half a kilometer from the town hub. When he arrived, he was alone—Misha nowhere to be found.

"Where did she go?" he asked into the microphone.

"Don't worry about her. It's handled. Maintaining radio silence is now your priority," Vadim replied. "Mission accomplished. Destroy the communicator and go home. Lie low. When the message broadcasts, everything will change."

Pravdin did as instructed, crushing the device under his boot before beginning the long walk home.

Pravdin made it home just before dawn, muddy and exhausted. Lyubov was waiting.

"You went," she said. Not a question.

"It's over now," Pravdin promised. "I'm done with it."

The broadcast never came. Instead, the next day brought increased security, mandatory public assemblies, and announcements about "terrorist infiltrators" being captured and processed. Pravdin listened intently during the public address, searching for any hint that their mission had accomplished something—anything. But there was only the same propaganda, the same lies.

Had Vadim deceived them? Was there ever a program to broadcast the truth, or had it all been for some other purpose Pravdin couldn't see? He remembered Vadim's calm voice during the chaos, directing them through danger while remaining safely distant. The questions gnawed at him, but there was no one left to ask.

For two weeks, Pravdin worked the fields with his head down, jumping at every unusual sound. No authorities came for him. Vadim had vanished as expected, but more disturbing was that the four villagers who had joined the mission—people Pravdin had known all his life—had disappeared without a trace. No arrests, no public punishments, no bodies found. They were simply gone, as if they had never existed. The processing plant continued operation with new workers, and no one dared ask questions.

"Perhaps we can return to normal now," Lyubov said one evening, allowing herself a rare moment of hope.

Alyosha burst in, waving an official letter. "I've been accepted! The Central Academy wants me to start advanced placement immediately!"

Lyubov's smile was genuine but tinged with sadness. "We're so proud of you."

Pravdin embraced his brother. "You'll show them all what you can do."

For a moment, it felt like a new beginning.

7

The harvest was nearly complete. Pravdin guided his harvester through one of the last remaining sections of wheat. The dashboard readout showed flawlessly optimal performance—no anomalies, no slowdowns. He had been a model worker since the failed operation.

A warning light flashed. Mechanical blockage detected. Pravdin sighed and brought the harvester to a stop. Last night's unexpected rain shower had added moisture to the remaining wheat, making the stalks tougher and more likely to wind around the intake mechanisms.

He climbed down and walked around to the front of the machine, toolbox in hand. Alyosha, who had bounced eagerly beside him all morning, peered curiously from the cab.

Tomorrow, his little brother would leave for the Academy. This Sunday—this final day of harvest—was the last they'd have together before everything changed. Pravdin had insisted on bringing Alyosha along, despite his mother's concerns about safety. He wanted to give his brother one more

day of normalcy, of brotherhood, before the system took him away. These quiet moments in the fields, the shared silence of work, the occasional laugh at some small observation—these were the treasures Pravdin had risked everything to protect. These simple freedoms that weren't really freedoms at all, but felt like it when no one was watching.

Alyosha waved from the cab window, his smile wide and uncomplicated. For him, this was just a special day with his big brother. For Pravdin, it was a memory he was desperately trying to preserve, even as it was still being made.

"Stay there," Pravdin called. "I'll clear it in a minute."

He examined the header where the blockage was indicated, but saw nothing obvious. As he reached for his tools, a movement caught his eye.

"Is it broken like Father's was?" Alyosha asked, suddenly beside him. "I bet it was broken by a terrorist!"

"No, just a simple jam. Go back to the cab, Alyo—"

"There's something caught in there! I see it!" A small arm darted into the harvester's intake.

Miles away, in a climate-controlled room beneath the town hub administrative center, an operator stared at a monitoring screen. Harvester unit six, previously flagged for suspicious performance patterns, had registered a blockage. The operator noted that it was assigned to citizen Pravdin Nikolayev, a suspected collaborator in the recent infiltration attempt.

The operator's finger hovered over the override command. The report stated that Nikolayev was working alone today—a perfect opportunity to eliminate a problem with plausible deniability. Equipment accidents happened, after all.

The command was sent. The harvester's clearing cycle activated remotely.

A child's scream cut across the wheat field, then abruptly silenced.

8

The funeral was small and heavily monitored. Pravdin stood like a statue as they lowered his brother's simple coffin into the ground. Lyubov's wails had given way to a hollow silence that frightened him more than her grief.

The official report called it a tragic accident. No mention was made of remote activation or system overrides. Just another unfortunate casualty of modernization.

That night, Lyubov spoke for the first time since the accident.

"It was meant for you," she said, staring into the darkness of their home.

Pravdin said nothing.

"They targeted your harvester specifically. They knew you were part of it."

"How can you be sure?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Because that's how they work. Clean. Deniable." Her voice hardened. "They took everything from me now. Everything."

In the silence that followed, Pravdin made a decision.

Three days later, he slipped away from the village during the night. He carried only a small pack of essentials and his father's old hunting knife.

He found them—or they found him—two days later. A different cell, operating in the forests near the northern border. Their leader, a scarred woman with knowing eyes, listened to his story without interruption.

"Why should we trust you?" she asked when he finished. "Your operation was compromised. Everyone was captured or killed."

"Not everyone," Pravdin replied. "And I have nothing left to lose now."

She studied him for a long moment. "That's not enough. You need something to fight for."

Pravdin thought of Alyosha's bright eyes, of his mother's broken spirit, of his father's blood soaking into the wheat.

"The truth," he said finally. "People deserve to know the truth."

The woman nodded slowly. "It's a start."

9

Miles away, under the spreading branches of an oak tree, Vadim checked his illicit communication device—a modified version of the supervisors' listeners that connected to networks it was never meant to access.

A message appeared: DISTRICT 14 PRODUCTIVITY DOWN 12% FOR QUARTER. DISTRIBUTION HUB OFFLINE FOR 72 HOURS. SUPPLY CHAIN DISRUPTION EXTENDED TO THREE ADJACENT SECTORS. OPERATION SUCCESSFUL.

Vadim allowed himself a small smile. There had never been any "truth broadcast" program to upload. The real mission had been to sever the town-hub from the wider distribution network—isolating it, causing shortages, and forcing neighboring districts to compensate. He knew the villages would suffer from the resulting scarcity—but hardship bred resentment, and resentment was fertile ground for recruitment.

The sacrifices had been necessary, yes. The boy had been unfortunate collateral damage. But the disruption was growing. The system was showing cracks. Let the people go hungry for a while—they would soon understand who truly controlled their lives.

Someday, the truth would break through. Someday, resistance would become revolution.

He deleted the message and continued on his way, just another vagrant moving through another village, searching for more young men with fire in their eyes and nothing left to lose.