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This is my entry for the Farmpunk Fiction Contest #3 created and hosted by 
Devilsong
Calvin Bateman hadn't signed on with Leviathan Inc. for the money or because he loved the work. In truth, the pay was middling and the job itself alternately terrifying and tedious. He'd signed up for the nanites. Leviathan kept an army of the little bastards fluxing through his bloodstream, bolstering his immune system and delivering jolts of adrenaline and other chemicals in dangerous situations. These boosts increased his strength and stamina and heightened his senses, briefly transforming him into something almost superhuman.
They were also the only thing keeping him alive. He suffered from an auto-immune disorder known as Harnett's Syndrome, wherein his white blood cells were in constant danger of going rogue and attacking his body. The disease had been held in check throughout his childhood with leukophasic inhibitors. But by the time he graduated high school he'd built up a tolerance to those drugs. His only hope of survival from that point on was nanite therapy.
So he'd signed on with Leviathan, starting as a merc then working his way up the ladder till he landed a job in their domestic division as an investigator.
When he looked back over his career he couldn't help feeling bitter. He'd never wanted to be a soldier or detective. His whole life had been plotted out for him by the damn disease. But he did his best not to dwell on it. He reminded himself that almost nobody was truly free. Most people were indentured, one way or another.
Everyone belonged to somebody.
***
Bateman sat nearly an hour and a half in the front office of the Hearthstone Pantry Plantation that morning, skimming through news blurbs on his Oakleys while the receptionist, a young woman with her thick red hair combed into a crest, cast mistrustful glances at him.
He didn't mind the wait or even the scrutiny. It beat crouching for hours in reeking alleyways to snap pictures through grimy windows, or pumping surly barflies for information, or being shot at.
"Mr. Nessen will see you now," she proclaimed at last, and led him down the hallway to his office.
A middle aged-man with handsome features, dark eyes, and jet-black hair, Ledgerboss Nessen was seated at a desk with seven monitors in front of him. And though his office was enormous, it was so cluttered with books, tablets, and furniture that it felt as tiny as a closet.
"I'll get straight to the point," he said. "As a member of the NATO Sustain Initiative, Hearthstone delivers over two trillion tons of food to 132 nations annually. Billions rely on us for their survival. It's absolutely critical that every aspect of our operations go according to plan. But for the past four months, our ledger's been fucked up."
Bateman cocked an eyebrow. "Fucked up how?"
"There are serious discrepancies between our harvest and storage tallies. The numbers keep changing."
He felt a stab of irritation. "That sounds a like computer problem."
"It's not a computer problem. We've used this system for over a century and it's never given us any trouble before. Every step of production is closely monitored, logged, and authenticated. We're accurately tracking the food we grow and harvest. But somehow the tallies are changing once that food goes into storage."
"Then maybe some of your employees are helping themselves," Bateman said. He wasn't surprised. The advances that had been made in farming were being outstripped by the exploding population. With entire nations teetering on the brink of starvation, every morsel, every grain was precious.
"It isn't theft either. We have cameras everywhere. It would be very difficult, even for a group of employees working together, to sneak any food out. Besides, our stores aren't being depleted. We're actually showing surpluses in every silo, cellar, and warehouse."
Bateman blinked. "So someone's sneaking produce in?"
"I know that sounds ridiculous. And honestly, it would be just as difficult to sneak food in as out. I can't account for the discrepancies, but I can't ignore them either. There's something shady going on here and I want you to get to the bottom of it. I need answers. Fast."
"Alright," Bateman said. "I'll see what I can do."
***
He spent the rest of the morning tapped into the Hearthstone database, examining their records, logs, and security footage.
That footage, shot from dozens of cameras all over the plantation, showed nothing remarkable or suspicious. Just an endless procession of workers cultivating, harvesting, and storing crops.
But skimming through the plantation blueprints, Bateman found something interesting. A row of old silos stood at the far north end of the compound. Though they'd been part of the original plantation, they hadn't been used in years. And as another row of newer silos stood in front of them, they were only visible from the western end of the property. If there was something shady going on, those silos — out of sight and out of mind — would be a natural location to base it from.
Returning to the video footage, Bateman found that the camera nearest to those silos caught a fleeting glimpse of them every time it swiveled left. Selecting just that area of the screen, he had the computer search for significant differences in that space over the past four months.
It returned eleven hits. In every case the camera had caught fleeting glimpses of royal blue - the color of the jumpsuits worn by Hearthstone employees.
And in one, Bateman could make out part of a face. Despite the blurring and the distance, he was able to bring it out enough for the computer to attempt a biometric reconstruction of the rest. It would take three and a half hours to compile.
Once the likeness had been reconstructed he would try to match it to one of the photos in the emloyee database. He would also take a look around the defunct silos to see if he could find anything suspicious. He instructed the computer to run the employee crosscheck once the reconstruction was complete, and to phone him with the results.
In the meantime, he was hungry. He hurried off to grab a bite.
***
On his way out of the building, Bateman passed a group of field hands all laughing themselves hoarse. His curiosity got the better of him and he sidled up alongside them to see what was so funny.
One of them held a rutabaga which had grown in the shape of a penis, replete with testicles. The semblance was striking, right down to the intimation of a glans at the tip and a coarseness around the base reminiscent of a scrotum. The only disparities were a weird and spindly projection jutting from the shaft, and a peculiar knobby protuberance on the underside. It looked fresh-picked, small particles of dirt still clinging in the crevices, and the worker who held it was vigorously masturbating it while her buddies hooted and guffawed.
Then she raised it to her lips and pantomimed fellating it, earning more jeers and cackles. Finally, with a wicked grin, she slipped in into her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips pursed sensuously round it for a moment. Then that smile split into a grin, her sharp teeth bearing down. With a horrific crunch she bit the member off, severing it almost at the root. Howls of laughter and dismay rang out on every side, and more than a few men winced.
"Jesus Christ, Golovina!" one of them cried. "Is that how you do for your husband?" Her mouth was too full to answer, her cheeks bulging like those of a hamster as she chewed. She flipped him off, then tossed him the disembodied nutsack. An impromptu game of keepaway broke out then, and Bateman, shaking his head and laughing, continued on his way.
***
He decided to have lunch in Brexley Park, a long thin strip of grass along which vendors hawked their wares. After wandering to and fro a couple times, he bought a gyro and a beer to wash it down with and headed back to his car.
But he halted halfway there. For several seconds he stood motionless, indifferent to the irritation of the other pedestrians, uncertain even why he'd stopped.
Then he saw: several paces off was a vegetable cart, selling potatoes, turnips, leeks, and rutabaga. And in the rutabaga bin, nestled at the very front, was the same phallic vegetable he'd seen the workers joking around with at the Plantation.
It wasn't merely similar in appearance or shape. It was the same goddamn rutabaga, identical in every particular, right down to the strange protuberance jutting from the shaft and the knobby bump on the underside.
Shifting his lunch over to one hand, he approached the stand and picked up the horrific phallus. Seeing it up close erased every remaining doubt. Somehow it was the exact same rutabaga.
When he glanced up at the owner, a tall man with lank, brown hair and crooked teeth, he found him grinning.
"I was wondering who would pick that one," the costermonger laughed.
Bateman shrugged and smiled. "How much?"
"Thirty seven dollars."
He fished out his wallet again. "Tell me," he said while the man rung him up, "Where do you get your produce from?"
"Here and there. This batch came from Hearthstone. They've been having a lot of overstock sales lately. " He handed him a receipt. "Thanks for the business, friend. Don't have too much fun with it."
Bateman smiled “I'll try to keep that in mind."
***
The facial reconstruction had another half an hour to go. He headed out to see the silos.
It was a beautiful afternoon, the sky bolt blue and festooned with fluffy white clouds, the sun bright and hot but not oppressive. Bateman, who typically worked in the most squalid crannies of the big city, enjoyed the brisk walk out to the northern end of the property, enchanted by the vast, rolling plains and fragrant verdure; the orchards with their neat dirt paths and perfect rows of trees; the vineyards with their leafy arbors. Only twice did security guards ask to see his clearance, and when he flashed the purple bracelet Nessen had given him they backed right down and waved him through.
He was so enraptured by the pastoral splendor that he almost didn't see the figure. Just as he came within view of the old silos, he glimpsed the flash of a royal blue jumpsuit darting off into an adjacent cornfield, the figure deftly sidling between the stalks.
Bateman charged after them, the nanites flooding his system with adrenaline and synthesized red blood cells. His keen eyes saw the rustling stalks. His augmented hearing tracked his quarry's crashing steps. He barreled into the cornfield and within moments had the runner by the arm.
Just then his phone sounded. Glancing down, he saw that the reconstruction was complete and it had found a match in the employee database. The likeness on the screen and the one before him were one and the same.
"Sally Blyse, I presume," he said.
"And who the fuck are you?"
"Investigator Bateman from Leviathan. Nessen brought me in to deal with the discrepancies."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I have a theory about that." He fished the rutabaga from his jacket and held it out for her to see. "This is the second one of these I've seen today. I mean the same damn rutabaga. Identical in every respect. You follow me?"
She glanced from the vegetable back to his face then heaved a sigh.
"What's going on, Sally?"
"You may as well know," she said. "There's no point in denying it now. But it's better if Vee explains it."
"Who's Vee?"
"She's the one in charge of all this. If you'll take me back to the old silos, I'll introduce you."
Bateman smiled. "I bet you will." He knew that she was almost certainly leading him into an ambush. No doubt this Vee and all her friends would be more than happy to plug as many bullets in him as it took to shut him up.
On the other hand, he might never get a better opportunity to uncover what was going on at the Plantation. He didn't have anything to accuse Sally of at that point, other than wandering near the silos. And now that she knew he was on to her, she would likely warn this Vee and any other coconspirators. Everyone would disappear.
"Okay, Sally," Bateman finally said. "Let's go meet Vee." Then he drew his .44 and leveled it at her. "Just don't try anything cute."
"That won't be necessary," she said.
"I sure hope not. Let's go."
He tensed up as they approached the silos, half-expecting assassins, all garbed in Hearthstone blue, to leap out from the surrounding cornfields and open fire.
But there was only the breeze.
She led him to the furthest silo and opened the door. "Come on." She slipped inside.
Bateman hesitated another few seconds, still casting warily about. Finally, with a sigh, he ducked in after her.
Inside: just Sally, standing at the center of the dusty enclosure.
"Where the hell is Vee?”
"She's right here, Bateman." Sally pointed to the floor.
For a moment he saw nothing but a dirty concrete basin. Then that surface gave a shudder, its rough face rippling like some strange fluid. Those ripples cascaded inward, and a blazing aperture, equal parts orifice and prism, tugged and puckered open where they converged.
Bateman recoiled against the wall. "What the fuck is that?" he shouted as he trained the .44 on it. The ripples seemed now to be stiffening into a sort of annular labia, part tissue and part glaze.
"It's just Vee!” Sally shouted back. “I know she looks different, but she's here to help us." She crouched beside the horror, the mere shape of which Bateman was still struggling to make sense of. That bizarre and puckering wound at the center flared open wider and wider, emitting shoots of silver light like needles.
"Look!" Sally cried, and produced a banana from her pocket. She held it up then tossed it into the aperture. The slivers of light lanced through it the instant before it was sucked inside.
A moment later, the cavity flared open wider and emitted a yellow spew.
Bananas! Dozens of bananas, flying high into the air then tumbling down, bouncing and scattering around the rim of that cosmic ostiole which Sally called Vee.
"Jesus," Bateman whispered.
"You see?" Sally beamed. "I told you, she just wants to help! She hears the suffering around the world... the cries and screams, the sobs and prayers, and they wound her. She only wants to help."
Bateman stooped down and snatched up a couple of the bananas. Just as he expected, they were identical, right down to the seams and spots and creases in the peel. "So you're using this damn thing to try and cure world hunger? One banana at a time?"
Sally glowered at him. "Vee's not a thing! She's as self aware as you or I. And I'm not using her. You can't just control Vee. She wants to help! Do you know, the name she and her people have for famine translates roughly into Devil. She heard the Devil's song, ringing across the fathoms and eons, and she came here to do battle."
Bateman looked down at the thing again, and the bananas strewn around it. "And where did you say she's from?"
Sally looked uneasy then. "That's complicated."
"And how did she tell you all of this?"
"That's complicated too."
"Enlighten me."
"You really want to know?"
Bateman smiled ruefully. "I need to know. Nessen hired me to figure out what's causing the discrepancies. I gotta have something to tell him."
Sally nodded, her expression thoughtful. “That’s a very good point,” she said.
The orifice flared open even wider than before, the ringed lips distorting back into ripples, and those ripples reaching outward. Bateman saw that they were rushing right at him.
He tried to run, fresh adrenaline flooding his system. But Vee was too swift. The floor gave way beneath him and he felt himself helplessly tumbling toward that hole. As he thrust the .44 into the aperture and jerked the trigger, a voice, serene and feminine, but freezing cold, transpierced him with the light.
Don't be afraid, Calvin. Nessen was right. The tallies are way off. But I'm going to help you balance out the ledger.
***
An hour later, Bateman and Sally emerged from the silo together.
"I told you you had nothing to worry about," Sally chided.
He made no reply, but pulled out his phone.
"Nessen? Bateman here. I've figured out what's causing the discrepancies. Please come down to the defunct silos as soon as possible." He hung up before the Ledgerboss could ask any questions, confident that his curiosity would get the better of him.
The beautiful afternoon had given place to a sultry evening, the sun starting its reluctant descent, the firmament beginning to bruise. A flock of birds, flying in formation, swept across the sky then vanished into the offing.
Some small and quivering part of him gave a hiccup then; a feeble frisson of guilt; an inward acknowledgement that what he was about to do constituted a betrayal.
But he didn't let it trouble him long, reminded himself that most people were indentured, one way or another.
Everyone belonged to somebody.
Thanks for reading! :D And thanks to