New-Denmark, Fall 2045
The office air felt thick, unmoving. No windows—just the hum of the fan and a lingering scent of metal. Will Follow sat stiff, uncomfortable in his own chair. Angela Smith stood tall, ramrod straight. Trevor Glover stayed in the back, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
Angela spoke first.
— “Three attempts. Three failures. She vanishes every time. We have a leak.”
Will didn’t react.
Glover leaned forward, voice low, cutting.
— “Someone’s tipping her off. You said this region was locked down. All we see is a woman outrunning our satellites.”
Will shifted slowly.
— “I did what I could. Frozen accounts. Cut supply lines. These people… they’ve never needed us. Not really.”
Angela narrowed her eyes.
— “You’re dodging, Will.”
He stayed still.
— “I’m being honest. You’ve squeezed every inch of this valley. My people are under constant watch. If there’s a leak, maybe it’s coming from Loring. You've got hundreds of techs in there—half don’t even know what they’re building.”
Glover stepped forward, voice tight.
— “You’re suggesting Homeland has a mole?”
— “I’m saying maybe it’s not my farmers talking. Maybe someone on your end remembered they had a conscience.”
Angela’s silence stretched a beat too long.
— “We’ll look into Loring.”
She tapped her pen against her tablet.
— “They had their chance. Cut everything. Equipment, food, fuel. If they won’t sell, we’ll create the need.”
Will murmured:
— “You’ll push them even deeper. They’re already disappearing.”
Glover stood.
— “They’re not ghosts. They’ve got allies. Networks. We’ll find them.”
Will didn’t flinch.
— “If you burn the roots, the valley burns too.”
Glover stepped closer, voice like ice.
— “Then let it burn.”
Angela, cold and crisp:
— “And while it does, find me the one feeding her our movements. We’re not losing another op over some ghost farmer.”
Will swallowed hard. He felt the threat now, thick and close. He knew what they were capable of.
But he also knew something they didn’t.
Gipsy wasn’t just a target anymore.
She had become a symbol.
Will Follow drove without music. Just the engine’s thrum and a blinking turn signal he’d forgotten to switch off. The conversation with Smith and Glover played on repeat in his head like a scratched record. He had done everything—said everything. Still, they wanted more. Crush the farmers. Force their hand. Squeeze the last breath of humanity from the land.
He gripped the wheel too tight. The town he’d once learned to love felt foreign now. Lowered gazes. Silent streets. Fear in every breath. The machine was coming, slow and heavy. And he stood right in its path.
He parked outside his home, killed the engine. Sat still. Then pulled out his phone. Five years. No words. He searched the name: Brigitte. Dialed.
She answered. Sharp tone. Three silences. He didn’t dance around it.
— “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. The arrests, the raids, the threats… It’s not clear. I don’t know if this is law enforcement or just a purge. CropF... it’s not what it used to be.”
Silence.
— “I wanted your advice. Just that.”
A dry sigh.
— “Leave the ship while you still can, Dad. Save your skin. And that of the families you’re still capable of protecting.”
He wanted to speak. Justify. Nothing came. She had already hung up.
In the silent car, Will felt the weight dig deep in his gut. An old, sour shame. Maybe he already knew.
Maybe it was too late.
Or just barely early enough.
He stayed there, hands on his knees, staring at a house that no longer felt like his.
Loring Air Force Base, Fall 2045
Bare walls. Concrete floor. A single flickering bulb, swaying like a threat. Gaël sat upright, hands bound. His eyes were calm, old beyond his years.
Two men in uniform. No rage. No smirk. Just routine.
— “Your name’s Gaël, right?” said the first.
Silence.
— “We know who your mother is. Who your father was.”
The bulb swung. Gaël didn’t flinch.
The second man pulled out a chair. Sat. Folded his hands.
— “There are two ways this goes. The easy way—you talk, we take notes, you go home.”
He tilted his head.
— “The other way… let’s just say it’s less comfortable.”
Still, no response.
— “You think we’re bluffing?”
They opened the door.
The third man entered. Rubber gloves. Blank eyes. A bucket. A cloth. A plank.
Gaël closed his eyes. Just once.
Then opened them again. Clear. Defiant.
They strapped him down. Laid him flat.
The cloth came down.
The water began.
His body fought. But his will held. He thought of Soham. Of Lila. Of his father. Of rain on dry hay. His mother’s hand on his forehead when he was small. He didn’t scream. Not once.
Minutes passed. Long and cruel.
The executioner stepped back, panting. One muttered:
— “He’ll crack. They all do.”
But Gaël was smiling. Barely—but enough.
A clipped voice:
— “Back to the cell. Let him think it over.”
They dragged him, soaked, barely breathing. He left a trail of water behind.
He shivered. But something inside him hadn’t broken.
And it never would.
Riley Brook, Fall 2045
The Billings barn, north of Riley Brook, was packed. Boots scuffed the floor. Faces lined by years and hard seasons. A hundred farmers—young, old, all gathered around Julie, Tim, and Barnes.
— “Enough,” barked a grey-bearded man. “They’re picking us off. Gipsy today, who’s next?”
A hum of agreement. Julie raised a hand.
— “You all know what she’s done for us. What she’s protected. What she carries. If that makes her a witch, then I guess I’m one too.”
A few chuckles. No one smiled for long.
Barnes showed a map. Red dots. Watched farms. Drone paths. He spoke little. Clear. Tim explained what they’d seen.
Then the door swung open. Jessy stepped in, two members of his crew behind him.
— “The Council voted,” he said. “Every First Nation east of here is with us. With her.”
A hush. Breath held.
— “No violence. No militias. But no surrender either. Any farm hit will get trucks, voices, eyes. We show up. We stay up.”
An older farmer near the grain barrel:
— “And when they come with guns, papers, laws?”
Jessy met his eyes.
— “Then we show them what they lack. Roots. And long memory.”
He stood quietly, gaze sweeping the room.
— “You know… people talk about land, survival, resistance. What they forget is—we’re already connected. Like the roots of trees. Mycorrhizae. That underground web that lets trees share nutrients, warn each other, hold the forest together.”
Silence.
— “We think we’re alone in our silos. But we’re part of the same living network. What we give, protect, and grow—it feeds the rest. Even when we don’t see it.”
Julie nodded. Tim stayed still, eyes fixed.
Jessy’s voice dropped:
— “That’s how we win. Not by striking harder. By holding together. Like old trees.”
A murmur rose. Denser now. A shift.
Julie took Jessy’s hand, then turned to the crowd.
— “We won’t give them war. We’ll give them a people.”
And that night, around a fire laid on frozen ground, the farmers stayed. Together.
More united than they’d been in years.