Chapter 18: Harvesting Potatoes
Early the next morning, Zhao Man washed down the leftover half-potato from yesterday with the remaining bracken pickles from his bowl, finishing it off in a few bites. Hoisting his pack onto his shoulders, he set off for West Gate 3 to assemble.
Arriving at the gatehouse ten minutes before five, he saw a fleet of heavy-duty transport trucks already lined up along the wall. Long queues formed before each vehicle as workers boarded in an orderly procession.
Zhao Man located Zhao Qingjin’s truck. Two squad members flanked the flatbed on either side: one holding a scanner, while the other operated a tablet-like device.
When Zhao Man reached the front, the guard with the scanner gave him a curt nod and ran the sensor over his entire body, backpack included. Zhao Man extended his wrist terminal to swipe against the tablet. After a thirty-second pause, the operator nodded, and Zhao Man scrambled up into the truck bed.
Seven or eight people were already seated along the inner panels. Hugging his pack to his chest, Zhao Man slid down against the metal wall. Ten minutes later, the transport was packed to capacity. The tailgate slammed shut, and the heavy truck rumbled forward, swaying and jolting toward their destination.
Thump!
The wheels hit a steep rise in the road, launching the passengers right off their seats. Even squeezed tight between bodies, Zhao Man couldn’t stop pitching violently from side to side.
Just as he felt ready to throw up, the truck finally ground to a halt. Climbing down, Zhao Man checked the time: nearly seven o’clock. Looking up, he saw a massive black perimeter wall looming fifty meters ahead, so tall it resembled an imposing mountain ridge.
Beep-beep. “Brigade 7, fall in!”
Zhao Man hurried over. Zhao Qingjin stood atop an outcrop, beside a squad pennant emblazoned with the numeral 7.
“None of you are new to the harvest, so I’ll keep the ground rules brief,” Zhao Qingjin projected his voice. “Stick strictly to your assigned grid. No wandering off, no fighting, and no pocketing potatoes under any circumstances. Anyone caught stealing will forfeit their entire daily wage, face a tenfold fine, and be permanently barred from recruitment for the rest of the harvest season. Your individual quota is fixed to your personal capacity: the more you work, the more you earn, up to a maximum of fifty cents per day. We regroup here at five o’clock sharp for the convoy back. If you’re late, you walk. Any questions?”
Zhao Qingjin’s gaze swept the gathering. Meeting only silence, he continued, “Since you all understand, play by the rules. Emergency alerts are pre-configured on all your terminals. If anyone interferes with your harvesting operations in any way, shape, or form, feel free to hit the panic button. Alright, fall into line.”
Zhao Man followed the crowd. The labor force had no gender restrictions; it looked as though half the population of the Sixth and Outer Rings had mobilized. Passing through the massive gates, he stepped into a sprawling citadel of steel. As far as the eye could see, rows upon rows of metal framing stood in pristine alignment. The central plaza—blessed with the best natural light—featured an elevated platform stacked in three-meter tiers all the way to the top. Flanking it on all sides were shoulder-width metal troughs, bristling densely row after row. Whether on the terraced platforms or in the narrow troughs, every square inch was overgrown with foliage shifting from vivid green to wilted yellow.
Zhao Man tracked his terminal’s coordinates to his assigned sector, stopping before an automated tier of metal racking on the fifth level. The framework was identical to the assembly Tang Heng had delivered to his house: shoulder-width and roughly ten meters long, with two-meter service aisles separating each row. Vertical columns linked each level with gaps of under half a meter, each level holding a single furrow of potatoes. Glancing at the elevator-style control panel on the pillar, Zhao Man counted twelve tiers in total. Factoring in the two rows ahead of him, this comprised his full workload for the day.
A small workstation was mounted between the second and third tiers, holding a specialized optical terminal, a sickle, and a trowel.
Taking two steps into the aisle, Zhao Man picked up the specialized terminal. Instantly, a massive sorting bin—two meters wide and chest-high—swung out from beneath the console, choking the entire corridor.
The interior of the bin was partitioned into three sections of varying sizes, each illuminated by an LED indicator: Low Radiation, Moderate Radiation, and Foliage. Each section was deceptively shallow, but pressing his hand against the bottom, Zhao Man found the base gave way, designed to lower automatically as weight accumulated.
With the sorting bin deployed, Zhao Man buckled into the safety harness attached to the frame. The entire bank of metal troughs whirred upward until the lowest tier locked into place right before him—no bending over required, perfectly positioned at a comfortable working height.
Gripping the sickle, Zhao Man reaped his way from one end of the furrow to the other, then gathered the severed haul from the far side, dumping the entire armful of vines into the foliage compartment in one sweep.
Taking the trowel, he worked the blade down along the inner rim of the metal trough. The loam wasn’t overly compacted, but levering it loose still demanded real elbow grease. Because the troughs were narrow and arranged in stacked tiers, he had to work one-handed; digging out an entire furrow of potatoes was a grueling test of arm strength and sheer patience.
Underneath the dirt lay a carpet of golden tubers, the largest the size of three clenched fists, the smallest matching an infant’s fist.
Stepping back to the sorting bin, Zhao Man began sorting the yield. The specialized scanner eliminated the need to slice open the skin; placing the potato onto the scanning plate triggered an automatic readout, allowing him to sort it into the corresponding slot immediately.
Each tier was mounted on a slide rail, allowing the sorting bins to glide along smoothly. Once he had scanned and categorized the entire trough, Zhao Man pressed the “2” key on the console. The completed furrow slid down to the baseline, while the second tier glided down from overhead to lock right before his chest.
Having cleared his first furrow, Zhao Man noted that the potatoes registered strictly as moderate or low radiation, though the leafy vines were intensely irradiated. Furthermore, the crop was staggeringly prolific: a ten-meter trough held twenty individual potato plants, tubers packed so tightly they jostled against one another. A single furrow filled the bin halfway.
Repeating the process, he finished sorting the second furrow. The bin was now brimming. Zhao Man was still standing at ground level, the two completed troughs stacked snugly together below.
Tracks engaged along the metal framing and the floor platform. The filled collection bin slid smoothly down the rail, and Zhao Man hauled out a fresh bin from the staging rack. He hit the “3” button; the foot platform lifted slightly as the third furrow glided downward. Zhao Man released his death grip on the safety line, took up the trowel, and set to work unearthing the tubers buried beneath the loam.
When his terminal chimed with the midday rest alert, Zhao Man checked the time: twelve o’clock. Across the facility, some laborers kept scanning through the break, while others sat right where they were to rest. Seeing that his current trough was still a third full, Zhao Man pushed through to finish; this was the final furrow of the first column.
Having cleared the remaining third, Zhao Man hopped down to the ground floor and slumped against the framework of the second column. Shaking out his burning, leaden arms, he fished out his boiled potatoes and water flask, chewing through his lunch at a deliberate pace.
Gulping it down in a few ravenous bites, Zhao Man massaged his forearms, took a sip of water, and made a quick trip to the latrine. After a ten-minute breather, he resumed the harvest. He had spent five solid hours that morning clearing just one column. If he failed to finish all three columns, his day’s earnings would default to a rate of fifteen cents per column, or 1.5 cents per furrow. If he wanted to walk away with the full fifty cents, he had no choice but to sacrifice his rest breaks.
The most agonizing, time-consuming phase of harvesting potatoes was digging through the dirt. Troweling with one hand for hours turned muscle into burning acid. Worse, the potatoes were packed so densely that he had to exercise constant vigilance to avoid nicking the skins.
A bruised potato drove up long-term preservation costs, so the scanner kept a strict tally: each worker was allotted a margin of thirty damaged tubers per day. Beyond thirty, every ten nicked skins docked one cent from the payout, and every five split potatoes docked another cent. Zhao Man was already three nicks away from maxing out his allowance.
At four-forty-five in the afternoon, Zhao Man finally laid down the trowel and scanner. Unbuckling the safety harness, he slung his pack over his shoulders and trudged toward the exit, his aching arms dangling limp at his sides.
Working through the entire afternoon without a single breather, he had pushed himself to the limit and cleared all three columns, pocketing forty-seven cents. By this hour, the agricultural base had mostly emptied out. The few workers still shuffling along while shaking their sore arms were either the elderly or adolescents.
A security turnstile blocked the exit, framed by an overhead scanner. As Zhao Man stepped through, the frame flared green, and the turnstile parted with a mechanical hiss.
Queues had already formed at the staging ground for the convoy back. Stepping up to Brigade 7’s transport, Zhao Man noticed that more than half the laborers on board were cradling thick bundles of wild vines.
“Are they giving those out for free?” Zhao Man asked the man seated beside him as he slid down.
The man shot him a look reserved for idiots. “Who’d give you anything for free? The brush outside the base is choked with them. Once you finish digging potatoes, you just go hack some down yourself.”
Zhao Man: “…”
Being slow on the uptake is entirely my own fault.
