The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  When the vows had been spoken, husband and wife turned to face the crowd, grinning like children, and jumped the broom, sealing the marriage. Then the dancing began and Kafari found herself swept onto the dance floor by one partner after another. She hadn’t smiled so much since Simon’s departure. When Dinny asked her to dance, her smile turned brilliant.

  “I’d love to dance with you, Dinny.”

  “Thank you for coming,” he said as they whirled onto the floor. “It meant a lot, seeing you here today.”

  “I should be thanking you. It’s… lonely, for me.”

  His eyes were grave as he met her gaze. “I don’t know how you do it, Kafari. If Emmeline and I were torn apart for that long…” He just shook his head. “I honestly don’t know how you keep going. Of course,” he gave her a strange little smile, “I’ve never understood where your strength comes from. You scare me sometimes, Kafari. I’d follow you anywhere. Into any battle you thought worth fighting.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “Emmeline wants to meet you,” he added. “She’s so afraid you won’t like her.”

  “Why wouldn’t I like her? She had enough sense to marry you!”

  He grinned. “Yeah, she did, didn’t she? I never thought she’d say yes.” His happy expression faded in the wake of a thought so visibly unhappy, Kafari’s breath faltered. “I was scared to death, you see, because I couldn’t offer her family much. Mama and I couldn’t get enough loan money to rebuild, let alone buy equipment and a new dairy herd. We sold the land, but it wasn’t enough to start over, not in the dairy business. We had the bees,” he said, with a wry quirk of his lips, “and that brought in enough money to support Mama, renting out the hives for pollinating crops and selling Asali honey. But I had to hire on as a farm hand, to make ends meet.”

  He glanced toward his wife, who was dancing with someone Kafari didn’t know, probably a relative, given the resemblance. “I’ve been working on the Hancock family’s cooperative since the war. They’re good people. The co-op’s been growing pretty fast, these last few years. We’ve got fourteen families, now, as full members in residence, with another seven who’ve pooled money and equipment as affiliate members.”

  “Twenty-one families?” Kafari said, startled. “That’s a pretty big group, isn’t it?” A frown drove Dinny’s brows together. “I’ll say it is. We’ve got eighty-four people in residence, right now, and another forty-three in affiliates. The original members were burned out in the war, same as Mama and me. The Hancocks had a lot of land,” he nodded toward the lovely sprawl of fields and orchards and pastures that filled a significant percentage of the canyon, “and they were lucky in the war. The Deng never touched Cimmero. The first five families who formed the co-op were from Klameth Canyon. Friends, collateral cousins, in-laws. They brought whatever they’d managed to salvage in the way of equipment and livestock and what have you. Mostly they brought their know-how. We make a living, which is more than a lot of folks can say, these days.

  “But we’re growing too fast, for some worrisome reasons. Johnny Hancock has signed six new families into the co-op in the last year alone, and all seven affiliate families have joined in the last six months. We could’ve added nearly a hundred new families, if we had enough land to fill government quotas and supply our own pantries and tables out of what’s left. There’s not enough produce left over to sell anything at the private markets, these days. And POPPA’s land-snatchers just keep confiscating farms and ‘restoring’ them to the wild, while screaming at us to meet those damned Subbie-driven quotas. I lie awake nights, worrying about where it’s going to end.” He wasn’t looking at Kafari, now. He was gazing at his wife, lovely in her wedding finery, a vivacious and beautiful girl who represented everything Dinny Ghamal wanted most in life: a wife to love, the hope of children, someone to stand beside him as they built a future together, leaving a legacy that would last for generations.

  If POPPA didn’t smash it all to flinders.

  A chill touched Kafari’s shoulderblades.

  The music ended and Dinny led her over to the chairs where his bride was chatting happily with friends and relatives. She looked up, noticed Kafari, and turned white as milk. She struggled to her feet. “Mrs. Khrustinova!”

  “It’s Kafari,” she said with a smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Ghamal.”

  Emmeline blushed prettily and clasped Kafari’s hand for a moment. “Thank you for coming to our wedding.” She glanced at Dinny, then got the rest out in a rush of words, before she lost her nerve. “And I wanted to thank you, as well, for Dinny. He wouldn’t be alive, if not for you. The Deng would have killed him. He means so much to me, Mrs. — I mean, Kafari,” she corrected herself with another shy blush.

  Kafari chuckled and pressed her fingers in a gesture of warm reassurance. “Where did you meet him?

  “I went to school in Madison, at Riverside University, and I hated it, until I met Dinny. Most of the boys were so…” She groped for words. “So babyish. All they talked about was sports and beer. I never knew people could be that stupid and shallow. Then I met Dinny at a campus rally to save the agricultural degree program and everything changed.” She gave Kafari a sweet smile. “I never knew anyone could be so happy, either. So I just wanted to say thank you, for keeping him and Aisha alive. I’m more grateful than you can ever know.”

  “I think you heard a garbled version of that story, then, because Dinny and Aisha saved my life, not the other way around. I can’t tell you what it means to me, meeting the girl Dinny Ghamal thought highly enough of to marry.”

  Emmeline blushed again.

  “Now then, Emmeline, why don’t you tell me your plans for after the honeymoon?”

  Dinny’s bride smiled, openly delighted by Kafari’s interest, then drew Kafari down to sit beside her. She chattered happily about the little cottage they were building on one corner of her parents’ land.

  “We bought it out of Dinny’s savings and mine. The cottage includes a separate addition for Aisha. She rents out most of the bees to orchard owners during pollination season. The honey commands premium prices on Mali. And you should see the improvements Dinny’s been making in the dairy herd. He’s got a shrewd eye and a good instinct for breeding new heifers. Milk production’s nearly doubled and the demand for Hancock Family cheese has just skyrocketed. Not only in the Canyon, but in Madison and even Mali.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” Kafari smiled, catching Dinny’s eye. “Both of you.”

  She sent a hopeful prayer skyward that their happiness would last a lifetime.

  II

  I am lonely, without Simon. Two years is a long time to miss one’s best friend. I am unable even to communicate with his wife, as she does not have security clearance from Gifre Zeloc to speak with me, any longer. Time has passed with terrible tediousness, for I have nothing to do but watch a deteriorating situation I can do nothing about, a sure-fire recipe for unhappiness.

  I currently monitor from depot the progress of a substantial motorcade traveling from Klameth Canyon to Madison. The vehicles form part of a massive protest over the farm-tax portion of the Tax Parity Package under debate, which is expected to be voted on today. Granger activists are calling the proposed Tax Parity Package the “TiPP of the Iceberg” in an obscure reference to unseen navigational hazards faced by ocean-going ships in polar regions.

  Their opposition stems, in the main, from language authorizing the government to seize produce, grains, and butchered meats in lieu of cash tax payments, a strategy developed to cope with a shrinking tax base as producers go bankrupt and shut down production, unable to obtain a sufficient profit to pay a tax burden one hundred twenty-five percent higher than it was before the POPPA Coalition came to power.

  I find it puzzling that government administrators are surprised when their actions produce logically anticipated results that do not match the goals they intended to reach. It is more puzzling, still, trying to fathom why methods proven to be
ineffective are not only continued, but increased in scope. Agriculture on this world is not sustainable. I am not the only rational mind on Jefferson able to discern this fact, but it is not a Bolo’s place to question the orders of its creators. I am here to discharge my duty.

  That duty now includes surveillance of the other apparently rational minds on Jefferson, who are busy protesting — vociferously — the nonsustainable policies and regulations promulgated by Jefferson’s current, legally elected lawmakers and enforcers. I therefore closely monitor the nine hundred privately owned groundcars, produce trucks, antiquated tractors, combines, mechanical fruit harvesters, and livestock vans that carry five thousand one hundred seventeen men, women, and children from Klameth Canyon’s farms, orchards, and ranches toward Madison. Aircars stream past, as well, heading toward Madision’s main municipal airfield.

  The convoy of ground-based vehicles is joined en route by hundreds more from farms scattered across the vast Adero floodplain. None of this acreage was farmed at the time of my arrival on Jefferson, but has been terraformed extensively during the past ten years to replace Klameth Canyon farms whose soil was badly irradiated during the fighting. Urban hysteria over “radioactive food” made this conversion necessary to calm public fears about the safety of the food supply.

  Despite this urgent necessity, the land conversion has drawn increasingly sharp criticism from environmentalists, who are demanding the immediate closure of all “industrial point-source pollutors defiling the Adero floodplain’s pristine ecosystem.” Since the only industry in the Adero floodplain is agricultural production, the farms are clearly the intended targets of environmentalist demands. I do not understand the current frenzy, since point-source discharges from the floodplain’s seventeen small towns produce in one calendar year twelve times the amount of chemically contaminated stormwater runoff, groundwater leaching, and coliform discharge into surface waters than the combined discharge of all farms in the floodplain for the past decade.

  The Tax Parity Package — with one hundred fifteen unrelated amendments called “riders” hoping to piggyback their way to a successful passage into law — includes language designed to dismantle those farms, but does not address the significantly larger urban toxic-discharge problems. If passed, the proposed legislation will close down six thousand agricultural producers, condemning ten thousand, eight-hundred ninety-six people to fiscal insolvency and unemployment. Granger datachats indicate widespread willingness to start over elsewhere, but a planetary plebescite of six million votes altered the constitution two years ago, placing a moritorium on new terraforming anywhere on Jefferson.

  Closing down six thousand farms while prohibiting the necessary environmental terraforming required to grow foods digestible by human beings is not likely to reduce the food shortages that are the fundamental reason the Tax Parity Package has been proposed in the first place. Attempting to unravel the snarled and frequently illogical thought processes of those I am charged to protect and obey may yet drive me insane, at which point, it will cease to matter whether I understand or not.

  I am unhappy to note that I understand the Grangers — a group I am charged to investigate as potentially dangerous, armed subversives — far better than I understand the people issuing my orders. It is, at least, good to know one’s enemy well enough to outgun and outsmart it. Of particular concern to my threat-assessment analysis is the upsurge in Granger political activity, which has increased five-fold in the past year. Anish Balin, a twenty-three-year-old Granger firebrand of mixed Hindu and Jewish descent, maintains a datasite and conducts a live weekly datacast, both called Sounding the Alarm.

  His solutions to what he terms “Big City Bosses” include repeal of the moratorium on terraforming, discontinuance of urban subsistence handouts, repeal of weapons registrations, destruction of weapons-registration records, and work-to-eat programs that would put urban subsistence recipients to work in Jefferson’s farms and cattle ranches, their sole remuneration being meals and dormitory housing.

  On most worlds, this economic arrangement is termed slavery. It is generally frowned upon by civilized worlds. Balin’s outspoken opinions have resulted in a greater unification of urban voters, many of whom had been disinterested in politics until Balin’s angry rhetoric convinced them that Grangers are dangerous and subversive social deviants advocating the destruction of Jefferson’s civilized way of life.

  I foresee trouble as these opposing factions prepare to clash against one another for control of Jefferson’s future. Urban sectors hold the numerical majority of Assembly votes, but the Granger population is large enough to make itself disagreeable, if it so chooses. The “Food Tax” protest is a clear case in point. It is the largest Granger-based political demonstration undertaken since the weapons registration legislation was passed. Granger activist groups from across Jefferson’s two habitable continents have cooperated to organize the rally, having correctly assessed the tax package’s economic and legal impacts on agricultural producers. Farm vehicles are draped with banners and signs bearing inflammatory slogans that declare Granger discontent: No confiscation without remuneration! The Food Tax will finish what the Deng started! You’ll take my food when you pry it from my cold, dead hands! And the most clearly logical of them: Destroy the farms and you’ll starve, too!

  At best, the slogans are indicative of a hostile mindset. When livelihoods are threatened and planetary starvation looms as a distinct possibility, people grow desperate. It is a universal truth that desperate people are capable of and willing to commit desperate and violent acts. I therefore maintain constant, vigilant contact with the caravan on its way to Madison. Given the status of Granger activists as potentially violent dissidents, I use radar and X-ray scans to determine the contents of the vehicles passing Nineveh Base.

  I detect no firearms or other weaponry, although many of the vehicles possess racks for storing the long guns used in the fields and pastures to defend against inimical wildlife. Predatory species raiding Jefferson’s farms and ranches have increased their populations by twenty percent over the past ten years, due largely to stringent environmental regulations setting aside much of the Damisi highlands as inviolate conservation sanctuary and establishing narrow criteria for classifying an attacking native predatory animal as sufficiently dangerous to warrant shooting it.

  Violations are treated on a case-by-case basis. A guilty verdict results in confiscation of the weapon, the vehicle from which it was fired, and the land on which it trespassed in search of an easy meal. I do not understand these regulations. An enemy that repeatedly demonstrates its fearlessness of humanity and its voracious appetite for anything that moves should logically be designated as belonging to the “shoot fast, ask the carcass what it intended” category of acceptable threat responses. If I were human, it is what I would do.

  I long for Simon — or someone else — to explain such illogical legislation in a way I can comprehend, in order to prepare reasonably accurate threat-assessment scenarios on possible subversive activities that include the promulgation and enforcement of such laws. Unable to resolve these vexing questions, I do my best to monitor protestors who appear hostile, yet are taking great care to remain strictly within the legal codes governing possession, transport, and use of personal weaponry.

  As personal weaponry is banned in strict “exclusion zones” encompassing a two-kilometer radius surrounding government installations — regulations enacted in the wake of criminal assaults on dignitaries visiting from Mali and Vishnu — the Grangers have left their guns at home. Given the Draconian punishments enacted for breach of these regulations, the zeal of Granger activists to avoid legal entanglements is commendable and wise.

  This does not induce me to lessened vigilance. I launch an aerial drone to monitor the progress of the motorcade across the Adero floodplain and into Madison’s outer periphery. Traffic snarls occur as the column of vehicles, which now numbers one thousand, six hundred and twelve, encounters cross streets and traffic
signals. Despite adequate advance notice by the protest’s organizers, Madison’s police force has not been deployed to maintain smooth traffic flow.

  Police officers have banded together, instead, to form a security cordon thrown around Assembly Hall and Law Square. No protestors will be allowed to enter Assembly Hall and apparently no one is concerned about disrupted traffic flow and the concomitant risk of accidental collisions. The municipal airfield is similarly jammed, as five hundred twelve privately owned aircars arrive more or less simultaneously, expecting to land and rent parking spaces for the afternoon. Instead, they are ordered into apparently endless holding patterns by the airfield’s psychotronic auto-tower, which was not informed that an airfleet of this size was expected to descend upon it.

  The resulting chaos, as the auto-tower attempts to sort out the approach vectors of five hundred twelve incoming aircars leads to seventeen near collisions in the span of five point seven minutes, with aircars circling and dodging like a swarm of gnats above a swamp. A human operative finally arrives and “solves” the congestion problem by shutting down the airfield, refusing permission for anyone to land.

  Angry protestors sling insults at the tower operator and begin landing in defiance of the directive, parking on the grassy verges rather than on the airfield, itself. They are therefore in technical compliance with the order prohibiting them from landing on the field, while simultaneously showing contempt for the official issuing that order. It is clear that these people are serious about their participation in the planned rally.

  The caravan of ground cars entering Madison’s outlying neighborhoods has been split into fragments which inch their way through congested city streets, earning open hostility from other drivers and occasional fusillades of rocks and gravel thrown by irate pedestrians, particularly large drifts of sub-adult males traveling in packs, with nothing better to do than violate stringent laws regulating reckless endangerment of public safety.