by John Ringo
“I do.”
“Any other nominations? No. All in favor say aye.”
“Aye!”
“Opposed?” There was silence. “Passed by acclamation, Mayor Edmund.”
“But no handouts!”
“Well, a bit,” Edmund said, stroking his beard in deep thought. “The refugees that come in are going to be in shock. We can probably last one season with them still in shock but we have to get fields planted, material made. They’ll need to get on their feet and learn skills. But which skills and how? Say we… hmmm…”
“Yah,” McGibbon said. “A training program?”
“But, they don’t have any idea, most of them, how much work all of this is,” Bethan said in exasperation. “And most of them have never worked a day in their lives! It’s hard running a farm, from either side of the kitchen! I mean, just the washing!”
“And we’ll need tools, seed,” Myron shook his head. “We’ll need farmers, Edmund, lots of farmers. And that’s not just sticking seed in the ground.”
“We’ll handle it,” Edmund said definitely. “In this room is probably a thousand years of accumulated experience in how to live in preindustrial conditions. There are people in this room who know things about their skill areas that masters of any other age wouldn’t have dreamed about learning. We’ll feed the new people and teach them until they’re more or less ready to go out on their own.”
“Training program, hmmm…” Tarmac said. The innkeeper looked around in thought. “Break them down in groups, run them through a few days to a week of each of the things that we’ve got skilled craftsmen to teach.”
“Yeah,” Myron replied after a moment. “Have them do the stuff that apprentices would do. Give them at taste of the job.”
“Work them hard but slowly,” Tom Raeburn said. “Build them up to it.”
“And, remember, many of the refugees who come here are going to be Faire goers,” Edmund said with a nod. “Yeah, most of them don’t know a whipple tree from an apple-tree, but they’ve got some experience of living rough. And there are others, guys like Geral Thorson and Suwisa, makers and dealers mostly, who have really useable skills. I don’t know who is going to make it, I don’t know where anyone on Earth was when the power turned off. But some of them are bound to make it. And when they do, we’ll be as ready for them as possible.”
Edmund glanced up as a figure glistened into visibility by his shoulder.
“Edmund, I need some time,” Sheida said, looking around at the crowd. “Myron, Bethan,” she said, nodding.
“Sheida, what’s going on?!” Maria McGibbon shouted.
“Please,” the avatar said, raising her hands. “Please, I don’t have time. I’m… even now we’re fighting and it’s… it’s like fencing mind to mind. They think of a way to attack us, we think of a way to attack them. They’re dropping… rocks, satellites, things like that on Eagle Home at the moment. We’re deflecting them but that’s taking power and that means we can’t attack back.”
“When is the power going to come back?” Myron asked.
“I… I don’t know,” Sheida answered. “Not soon. Edmund, we have to talk.”
“Folks, what I want you to do is break up. Tarmac, you and Lisbet are in charge of figuring out what we need for minimal rations for refugees and where and how to serve them. Get a couple of other people together with you. Robert, you’re in charge of preparing to do large-scale hunting and gathering ferals. Get with Charlie on how to keep them and setting up a mass slaughter program. You’ve run the Faire the last couple. Get to work, people, we don’t have much time. Myron, you’re with me.”
CHAPTER NINE
Edmund led Sheida in to the back room of the pub as the conversation exploded behind him. But he could tell from the sound that they were working, not panicking, not spinning their wheels. They were all smart, and experienced and self-starters. All they had needed was a touch of self confidence and a direction to point. With that he could more or less let it run and just make sure it didn’t run out of control.
“You done good, Edmund,” Sheida’s avatar said.
“Thanks,” he replied then looked around. “Are you an avatar or a projection?”
“I’m… I’m an autonomous projection,” Sheida replied.
“That’s proscribed!” Myron snapped.
“So is dropping rocks on my home,” the avatar said with a sigh. “I can only handle about fifteen of these but they can give orders and gather real information while I handle things that only I can do, like give code commands to the Net. Right now, both sides are fighting for controls. We discovered that we could lock out programs and sub-programs and we’ve been doing that as fast as we can. Unfortunately, they noticed and now they’re at it. And it requires direct orders of a council member. So creating full avatars was the only way to get anything else done. Every hour or so I take a break and upload all the data I’ve gained and make any corrections I have to. It’s working. We know that because we’re still alive.”
“Is it that close?” Edmund asked.
“Every few minutes I think they’re going to finally kill me,” she answered with a sigh. “And then sometimes I think we’ve finally come up with the one true thing that is going to wipe the floor with them. And it never does.”
“Bitchin’,” Edmund said with a snort. “You need to back up. This kind of battle never gets won thinking purely tactical. Back up and take a look around for a deep strike.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sheida asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t understand the nature of the battlefield. But winning a war is not about killing your opponent, it’s about making them give up. To do that you place them in a situation where they believe, whether it is true or not, that they’ve already lost. In the best of all possible worlds, your enemy creates those conditions for you. But that takes an idiot on the other side. I take it that Paul hasn’t shown any signs of tactical idiocy. Let’s hope he’s less capable at strategy. And that is what you should be thinking about.”
Sheida thought about that for a moment then shook her head. “I don’t see anything off the top of my head. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Later, maybe. But not right now.”
The room had a table where during the Faire Tarmac would sometimes retreat to play chess. But the rest was filled with barrels. After rummaging for a bit Talbot came up with a cup and poured some liquid out of an unmarked barrel. He took a sip and wrinkled his face but didn’t pour it out.
“So, talk,” Edmund said.
“Why didn’t you come here when I asked?” Sheida said. “The answer didn’t make any sense.”
“You, we, have huge problems,” Edmund said.
“So far I’m keeping up,” Sheida said dryly. “Maybe you should go slower, though.”
“Glad to see you’re keeping your sense of humor,” Talbot replied. “But I’m not just talking about the ‘war.’ I’m talking about the famine.”
“Yesss…” Sheida sighed. “So, any answers?”
“Why do you think I brought Myron,” Edmund said with another chuckle.
“Right now our greatest problem is farming,” Myron replied. “Or rather, lack of it and where it does exist it’s of no use. We’re going to have to have food, and soon. We still have some supplies but we’re going to burn through them fast. And other places don’t have anything.”
“We’re getting started on that,” Edmund noted. “We’ll be putting the refugees we get to work.”
“Well, Edmund, you know farming is an art more than a science, especially at this level,” Myron contradicted with a shake of his head. “Every farm, every patch of soil, is different. And it’s not as if we can run up a soil analysis. Chemistry, conditions, weather. It all comes down to knowing what you’re doing with your farm. Learning that… well… I’ve been studying it a lifetime and there’s still things I don’t know.”
“So you’re saying that everyone is going to die of starvat
ion,” Sheida said, shaking her head. “Maybe we should just give up.”
Edmund frowned at her angrily and shook his head. “War… you know, Paul knows, nothing about war. It is said that war is the most evil thing ever invented by man. That statement is fatuous and downright ignorant. Man has created much worse things than war. More people have been killed by totalitarian regimes, during times of peace, than in all the wars in the world combined.”
“But…”
“This war will be… awful. Worse, I think, than the AI wars. The lack of industry, transportation methods other than teleportation and the explosives proscriptions mean that we’re going to be forced to a preindustrial or at least pregunpowder lifestyle.”
“I… hadn’t thought it out that far,” Sheida admitted.
“Many people are going to die in the first two years…”
“Two years?” Sheida asked. “We… I was hoping that… Well wars don’t have to take that long!”
“Are you winning? Right now? Decisively?” Edmund asked.
“No, I told you that. If anything, we’re losing.”
“If you don’t lose in the next three months, and I pray you don’t, then it’s going to be a long war. And until the Council stops sucking up all the power, we’re not going to be able to recover.”
“What about more plants?” Myron interjected. “I mean… why can’t you just build more? I know it will be a race who can build them the quickest…”
Sheida sighed in exasperation and shook her head. “More proscriptions. I didn’t realize how many we worked under until this. Power usage peaked shortly after the AI wars during the regrowth period. Usage eventually got so high that it was affecting the biosphere; the heat from all the energy usage was melting the ice caps and to prevent flooding Mother was having to divert more energy into various ways of preventing it. So the Council of the time, and it was a very controlling period in Council history, when the explosive prohibitions and several others were introduced, placed a cap on construction, requirement for Council approval for new construction and roll-back targets. We were well under the roll-back targets, and still had an abundance of power, before the Fall. But now, if we lose a power plant it’s gone. We can’t get it back. And power distribution, under the Council… severance proscriptions means having physical control of the plants.”
“Ugh,” Myron said, shaking his head. “I’m beginning to understand why Edmund hated the whole system.”
“So am I,” Sheida admitted. “There’s also a fuel problem.”
“Why? The plants run off of hydrogen don’t they?” Edmund asked.
“No, they don’t,” Sheida sighed. “They run off of helium three. It’s produced by the sun and drifts out on the solar winds. It collects in various places, notably the lunar regolith and in the upper atmosphere of gas giants like Saturn and Jupiter. Hydrogen produces radioactive byproducts, H3 doesn’t. So they’re more ‘green’ this way. The problem is…”
“Who controls the fuel?” Edmund asked, warily.
“Right now, each plant is fueled for several years of maximum output,” Sheida admitted. “But the tanker will return in… five years.”
“If this isn’t over in five years,” Edmund mused, “there is going to be one hell of a battle for that tanker.”
“Yes, there will be,” Sheida admitted.
“Not a problem for right now, though,” Edmund said. “The point is, are you going to see this through? Are you going to fight to the end or give up out of weakness?”
“I’m not weak, Edmund Talbot,” she snapped. “The question is…”
“The problem is, you don’t even know how to frame the question,” Talbot cut her off. “Because you don’t understand war.”
“No, I don’t,” Sheida admitted. “That’s what I have you for.”
“The question is, is this a just war? Would you admit that?”
“I… guess,” Sheida said. “But is there such a thing as a just war?”
“There are two types of war, purely defensive and policy difference,” Edmund said. “Lecture mode time.”
“Okay,” Sheida smiled. “As long as it’s short.”
“Purely defensive is ‘you attacked me and I did nothing to cause it.’ In one way, that is the war that you are in. But not really. What we have here is a policy difference. Both sides believe their cause is just. The question is, is it a just war for you to fight?”
“I don’t know,” Sheida said after a moment. “There will be… have been… so many deaths.”
“There are preconditions worked out over history for a just war,” Edmund explained. “In short, there are seven. Just cause; right authority; right intention; reasonable hope of success; proportionality of good achieved over harm done; efforts made to protect noncombatants; and aim to achieve a justly ordered peace. I’m not going to cover all of them, but let me tell you that when the Fall happened I thought about what you had told me and what Paul said. And this war meets every item. At least on ‘our’ side. Just one thing: What is your intention?”
“To return things to the way they were,” Sheida said.
“Virtual utopia, while I found it personally boring, has got to be better than a worldwide, omnipresent, omnisicent dictatorship of the ‘right’ people, wouldn’t you think?” Edmund chuckled.
“Yes… but…”
“No buts. Remember what I said about defeating the enemy?” Edmund snapped. “It works in both directions. If you were just going to give in, you shouldn’t have started. But given what Paul did, you have to know that it’s the best thing to do. Paul is well on his way to replicating every totalitarian state in history, with the full power of Mother behind him. And that we cannot allow! Paul’s way leads to dozens of separate species of specialized insects. Not human beings with free will and the rights of man. We will survive this, and so will the human race. And we will win!”
“Yes, milord,” Sheida said shaking her head. “I hear and obey.”
“Something else to remember,” Myron said with a thoughtful smile. “What applies to us, applies to Paul and company. Who is advising them?”
* * *
“Farming is going to be our biggest problem,” Paul said gloomily. “With that bitch Sheida’s attacks we can’t move food around. And people are going to start starving soon.”
“Well, I have some ideas on that,” Celine said. “I think we can handle it quite readily. It all comes down to Chansa.”
“What do you mean by that?” Chansa asked harshly.
“Well, farming’s not exactly what you call difficult,” Celine said, waving her hand. “People have been doing it since they chipped stone after all. But the people who make up the refugees are weak and don’t know how to work. They’re all lotus-eaters, agreed?”
“One of the greatest problems with the world that was,” Paul said, nodding his head. “They shall learn to strive again, learn to work again and thereby learn true freedom again.”
Celine glanced at Chansa to see his reaction, but the giant was simply looking at Paul with a furrowed brow. Wondering exactly how much history Paul knew, Celine cleared her throat delicately.
“Are you perhaps saying something like, oh, ‘work will make you free’?”
“Why, yes!” Paul said, nodding and smiling as his frown cleared. “That’s it exactly!”
“Oh, well,” Celine said weakly. “In that case. Uhmm, where was I?”
“Farming’s not difficult.”
“Ah, do a minor modification to the refugees. Make them more resistant to physical effort, conditions, food quality. Perhaps a bit less… mentally refined; farming can be very boring work. Do a bit of selective memory work so that they are not so depressed by current conditions. Just generally… tweak them to make them more suited to the modern environment.”
“So what you’re saying is you want to make them dumb?” Chansa asked, with a raised eyebrow. “Is that how you see me?”
“No, not at all,” Celine replied smoo
thly. “I just want to make them strong. And… tough. Capable of surviving better than standard humans.”
“We are trying to escape Change,” Paul pointed out, frowning.
“Oh, this isn’t really Change,” Celine said. “Just… tweak-ing.”
“That will take energy,” Chansa said. “Where are we going to get it?”
“We can take it from their own bodies,” Celine replied immediately. “There is a program to enhance ATP conversion. It will leave them initially weak, but food and work will help them to recover.”
“I did not take the course that history set before me to turn the human race into moronic drones,” Paul intoned.
“No, you didn’t,” Celine hastened to agree. “But this increases their chances of survival and when the war is done we can change them all back.”
“Ah.”
“And loyalty conditioning,” Chansa said. “And touch up their aggression. I need foot soldiers.”
“Loyalty conditioning?” Paul asked, seeming to be perplexed by the sudden change.
“For soldiers it’s all you need,” Chansa replied. “And some aggression. Like farming, soldiering does not require much in the way of brains.”
“And some basic skills,” Celine added, making a note on the paper before her. “Soldiering and farming are pretty simple. We’ll give them the baseline skills for each. They’ll all know how to plow and… well other things.”
“That should work perfectly,” Paul said, looking at his steepled hands. “Perfect.”
* * *
“The problem is, Myron, that all these refugees are weak-armed, weak-hearted do-nothing lay-abouts,” Talbot said disgustedly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sheida replied. “They’re all in good basic condition, much better than the average farmer in history. Just point out to them that the alternative is to starve. We’re not going to be giving food away, they’re going to have to produce it on their own. They either produce it or they die. And so do we.”
“Lovely,” the smith snorted into his pewter mug. “It may sound like I’m blithe about this but I’m not. They don’t have any skills and they’re not used to hard day-in and day-out manual labor. The last time this was tried a quarter of the population died.”
