The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  Kafari started to shake. Simon wiped sweat off his forehead and gulped an entire cupful of punch as though wishing for something considerably stronger. Aunt Min just nodded, heading through the same door Yalena had taken during her exodus. Kafari leaned back into the couch cushions as a feeling of momentary relief settled across her. She had forgotten what it was like, having other capable adults around to share the burden of childcare. Anastasia, attempting to regain Iva Camar’s good graces, was busy cleaning up the spilled punch and cookie crumbs. Kafari’s mother ruffled the girl’s hair, then sat down beside Kafari on the sofa, speaking low enough the sound reached only her ears.

  “You didn’t say how bad it was, honey.”

  Kafari shook her head. “Would you have believed me?”

  A sigh gusted loose. “No. I don’t think I realized just how serious things are in town, these days.”

  Simon joined them on the couch. “It’s worse than that,” he nodded toward the door Yalena and Aunt Min had disappeared through. “Much worse, I’m afraid. Unlike these kids,” he nodded toward Yalena’s cousins, the younger ones entertaining themselves while the older ones listened intently to the adult discussion underway, “Yalena spends her after-school hours involved in town-style activities. Things like the Eco-Action Club, the Equality for Infants Discussion Group — no, I’m not making that up, I swear to God — and the ever-popular Children’s Rights Research Society, which spends its time studying bogus sociological hogwash churned out by Alva Mahault, the new Chair of Sociological Studies at Riverside University. Then they dream up new schemes to implement the sociology research’s ‘facts’ in ways beneficial to legal minors. This involves, for the most part, suggesting things like mandatory vacations off-world for every child, to be paid for by taxes, naturally, mandatory personal allowances and federal requirements for providing in-home snacks for every child. The ‘best’ ideas are presented to the Senate and House of Law for consideration as new legislation, most of which is immediately hailed as groundbreaking social brilliance and passed into law.”

  Shocked silence greeted his bitter assessment. Kafari’s father spoke in a thoughtful, droll tone, “You have a gift, Simon, for stating things with great clarity. Ever think of running for president?”

  Someone chuckled and the ghastly tension in the room ebbed away, allowing an abrupt and lively discussion about the best ways to counter such arrant nonsense. Kafari, who worked ten-hour days in a spaceport populated largely by rabid believers in anything and everything POPPA suggested, found it both refreshing and marvelously relaxing to listen to intelligent people who understood the basic way in which the universe works and weren’t afraid — yet — to say so. She was content, for now, to simply listen and bask in the warmth of feeling completely at home for the first time in many long months. When she drained the last of the punch from her cup, she caught Simon’s eye and nodded toward the door Yalena had gone through. She indicated with a gesture that he should remain where he was, then went in search of her daughter.

  She found Aunt Min on the back porch, seated in a rocking chair, with a hunting rifle laid comfortably across her lap. Her aunt nodded past the well house. Kafari’s parents had installed a big bench-style swing that hung from the spreading branches of a genuine Terran oak. Kafari remembered the tree, which had supported a swing of one kind or another for as long as she could remember. In her childhood, it had been a big tractor tire. Kafari suspected her parents enjoyed the bench swing, particularly on warm summer evenings. Yalena was sitting on one end of the swing, staring across the nearest of the ponds, chin resting on tucked-up knees, swinging slowly by herself.

  “She’s not having a very happy birthday,” Kafari said, sighing and keeping her voice low.

  “No,” Aunt Min agreed, “but that’s largely her own doing.”

  “I know. But it’s hard to see her hurting, like that, all the same. I wish…” She didn’t finish the thought. Wishes were for children. Kafari had reality to cope with, one agonizing day at a time. She stepped off the porch, heading for the swing. “Mind if I join you?” she asked, keeping her voice easy and casual.

  Yalena shrugged.

  Kafari perched on the other end. “Your cousins were very rude.”

  Yalena looked up, surprise coloring her eyes, which were so achingly like Simon’s, it hurt, sometimes, looking into them. “Yes,” she said, voice quavering a little. “They were.”

  Kafari held her peace for three or four more swings, then said, “You were very brave, in there. I was really proud of you, Yalena. You do realize, of course,” she smiled wryly, “that you missed a chance to demonstrate better manners than they have? But it took guts to stand up to them that way.”

  Quick tears shone in her daughter’s eyes. “Thanks,” she said, all but inaudibly.

  “Would you like to see the pearl sheds?”

  Yalena shrugged again.

  “Later, maybe.” Kafari was determined to be patience, itself, today, even if it killed her. “I’ll bet, though, that you’ll be the only girl in school who’s ever seen a real pearl hatchery. Your grandparents helped perfect the technique that allows pearl growers to seed, grow, and harvest the pearls without injuring the oysters. It’s a very gentle process. And it gives the Klameth Canyon pearl growers a big advantage in the off-world marketplace. We can produce crop after crop without having to grow new oysters, as well as new pearls. Klameth Canyon produces more pearls of higher quality than any star system in the Sector.”

  “I didn’t know any of that,” Yalena admitted, sounding intrigued. “Did you grow pearls?”

  “Oh, yes. I was pretty good at it, too.”

  “What did you like best?”

  Kafari smiled, remembering the intensity of her interest when she’d been just Yalena’s age. “I liked producing the special colors, more than anything else. The pinks are awfully pretty, but I liked the black pearls best, I think. Although they’re not really black. They’re more of a deep violet with an indigo-jade sheen. Your great-grandmother invented the process that produces that color. She engineered a bacteria that’s harmless to the oyster, but causes a biochemical reaction that lets the oyster pull minerals from a special solution in the ponds and deposit them in the nacre that forms the pearl. Chakula Ranch holds the patent on it. I would be willing to bet,” she added with a smile, “that you will be the only girl in school with a Chakula black-pearl necklace.”

  Yalena looked up. “But I don’t have any black pearls.”

  “Ah, but it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

  Surprise left her eyes wide. Then a glow blazed to life, born of hope and delight and a sudden realization that her mother was not just a person she did battle with daily, but someone who understood — and cared — that Yalena still encountered some nasty hazing from school mates who knew that Kafari was a Granger and that Simon was an off-world soldier whose name was mud in any household that supported POPPA.

  “D’you mean that? Really and truly?”

  “Your father and I talked it over with your grandmother and grandfather. We’ll even let you pick the pearls.”

  Her daughter’s eyes shone. “Oh, Mom! Not even Katrina has a pearl necklace! And she’s got the prettiest jewelry in school. And Ami-Lynn will just die of delight, watching the look on Katrina’s face when she sees it!”

  Ami-Lynn had long been Yalena’s best friend in the universe, while Katrina was a girl that everyone, apparently, had good reason to detest. It would be quite a coup, to outdo one’s worst enemy when said enemy had the prettiest jewelry in school. Kafari grinned and gave her daughter a conspiratorial wink. “Sure you don’t want to see the pearl sheds?”

  “Will any of them,” she jerked her head toward the house, voice harsh with pain and anger, “be there?”

  Kafari winced, but shook her head. “Nope. Just you and me. If anyone tries to butt in, I’ll heave ’em into the nearest pond.”

  A smile stole its way across Yalena’s face. A crafty smile, but Kafari un
derstood the impulse. It wasn’t easy, celebrating one’s birthday with a bunch of strangers who’d been hideously rude, whatever the provocation might have been.

  “C’mon, let’s go see if we can find some pearls good enough to ruin Katrina’s whole year. We’ll pick them out and then take them to a jeweler to have a necklace made.”

  Yalena started to slide down from the swing, then paused long enough to whisper, “Thanks, Mom.” There was a world of emotion — of thanks and apology and gratitude — rolled up in those two simple little words. She laid those words and emotions in Kafari’s hands, blinking rapidly and hoping that her overture wouldn’t be rejected.

  “You’re welcome, Yalena. Happy birthday, sugarplum.”

  Yalena smiled again, sweetly this time, and slipped her hand into Kafari’s. They set out together for the pearl sheds.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I

  I come awake as a reflex alarm from my external sensors sends a signal racing through my threat-assessment processors. I snap to full wakefulness and scan my environs instantly. Simon stands beside my right tread. He is involved in a discussion with three men, none of whom I recognize. All three have just entered my exclusion zone, triggering an automatic reflex through my battle-readiness circuitry. I surmise that Simon has deliberately steered them into this zone for the express purpose of triggering me awake.

  One is armed, carrying a concealed handgun in a shoulder holster. Despite the presence of a concealed weapon, I hold my fire and watch closely to see what develops, since Simon has not signaled me via his commlink to take action against hostile intruders. I therefore do not react with full battlefield reflexes, but I maintain alert vigilance, as my Commander is not wearing a personal sidearm.

  The three visitors in my work-bay are dressed as civilians. Two are heavily muscled with blocky, thick torsos. They look more like space-dock stevedores than executive assistants to the president of Jefferson, which is the ID code transmitted by the visitors’ passes clipped to their jackets, allowing them access to restricted areas of Nineveh Base. The third armed individual holds most of my attention as I do an automatic scan of Brigade channels, seeking a passive VSR while I await developments and Simon’s instructions.

  This man’s identification states that he is the president’s chief advisor, Sar Gremian. He is taller than Simon, with dense, heavy bones that support muscles sufficiently well developed to qualify as a heavy-weight prizefighter. His skull is devoid of hair. His face is deeply pitted with scars that suggest severe adolescent acne. His expression wavers from bitter to savage and his voice is rough, reminding me of career drill sergeants I have seen drilling new recruits.

  The conversation underway appears to be hostile, as stress indicators — elevated heart rate and rapid respiration, coupled with facial expression — suggest an angry argument underway. This perhaps explains Simon’s action in leading these men into a zone where I would automatically resume consciousness, for the express purpose of having me listen? Simon is speaking, evidently in answer to an unknown question.

  “Absolutely not. I said no when you called from Madison and my answer has not changed.”

  The two burly men with the president’s advisor react with overt anger, faces flushing red, fingers curling into anticipatory claws, but they do not make any actual moves toward my Commander, so I bide my time and study the unfolding situation. The president’s advisor merely narrows his eyes. “You’re refusing a direct order from the president?”

  A muscle jumps in Simon’s jaw. “You are not the president of Jefferson, Sar Gremian. The president’s chief advisor does not have the authority to send a Bolo anywhere.”

  “I’ll get the authorization, then.” He reaches for his comm-unit.

  “Be my guest. I’ll tell Gifre Zeloc the same thing I told President Andrews, when he demanded something like this. You don’t use a Bolo for crowd control. Sonny isn’t a police officer, he’s a machine of war. There is,” Simon adds with an acid bite in his voice, “a significant difference.”

  Sar Gremian pauses, then chooses not to complete the transmission. “Let me try to explain the situation to you, Khrustinov. That mob of protestors outside Assembly Hall has refused to disperse, despite repeated orders to disband. They’ve blocked Darconi Street. They’ve jammed every square centimeter of Lendan Park and Law Square. They’ve thrown up barricades across every entrance into Assembly Hall. They’ve trapped the whole Assembly and they’re blockading President Zeloc’s motorcade. He can’t leave the Presidential Residence.”

  Simon shrugs. “That’s his problem, not mine. Madison has an entire police force for this kind of work. There are five thousand police officers on this base, alone, and that doesn’t include the five thousand that have graduated every year for the last five years in a row. If my math skills are up-to-date, that’s twenty-five thousand federal police officers at your disposal. Given the amount of money it’s costing to train, feed, and house them all, I suggest you make use of them.”

  Anger flickers across Sar Gremian’s scarred features. “Don’t play games with me, Khrustinov! President Zeloc wants that Bolo,” he jabs a finger in my direction, “to clear out that pack of criminal agitators.”

  “Criminal agitators?” Simon asks in a soft voice I have learned to associate with profound anger. “That’s an interesting choice of words, coming from a POPPA social engineer.”

  A dark red flush stings Sar Gremian’s face. “You will regret that remark, Colonel.”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  Sar Gremian flexes his fingers, clearly struggling to control his temper. He regains his composure sufficiently to return to his original topic of conversation. “Those lunatics are threatening the entire Assembly with violence, over a minor law bill designed to fight crime. President Zeloc has no tolerance for mob rule. That Bolo goes out there now.”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Gremian? You don’t use thirteen thousand tons of sophisticated battlefield technology to break up an inconvenient political demonstration lawfully conducted by citizens free to voice their opinions in public assemblages. Those protestors are fully within their rights to refuse to disband. Any order to disband is illegal under Jefferson’s constitution. Using a Bolo to threaten and harass citizens exercising their constitutional rights is not only illegal and a bad usurpation of Concordiat property, it’s a damned stupid stunt. One that will do nothing but damage the government’s credibility and spark a wider surge of protests.

  “It might,” he adds in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “even jeopardize passage of a bill you apparently think is a good idea. God knows why, since schemes like that have proven to be totally ineffective at reducing crime on every world humanity has ever inhabited.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think about crime or credibility! Those are our problems, not yours. You’ve been given an order. Send that Bolo out there. Now.”

  “No.”

  Sar Gremian breathes rapidly for two point six seconds, then his frayed temper snaps. “All right. You want to play hardball? Here’s a slapshot for you. You’re fired, asshole.”

  Simon laughs, which is not the reaction Sar Gremian expected, given the startled expression which flickers for a moment across his face. “You think you can fire me? Just like that? Nice try, my friend, but I’m afraid you don’t have the authority to fire me. Neither does Gifre Zeloc. Nor anyone else on this godforsaken ball of mud. I’m deployed here under treaty. I can’t be removed without a direct order from Sector Command. You’re stuck with me, Gremian. Just as much as I’m stuck with you. I suggest you learn to cope.” The disdain in his final words slaps the president’s chief advisor like a physical blow.

  “Then you’ll be fired!” Gremian snarls, “and when you are, I will personally kick your carcass onto the next freighter that docks at Ziva Two. And you can forget about obtaining exit visas for your wife and kid!”

  My Commander’s face turns white in a single heartbeat. Not with fear. Simon is a
ngry. Angrier than I have seen him since we entered battle on Etaine. The look he bestows upon Sar Gremian would melt steel. It sends the president’s advisor backwards a single step.

  “If you do anything to or against my family,” my Commander says softly, his words hissing like plasma through a gun barrel, “you had better watch your back for the rest of your natural life. Never, ever fuck with a Brigade officer, Gremian.”

  Shock explodes through Sar Gremian’s eyes. I surmise that no one in his cumulative experience of life has ever delivered such a message to him. As the shock fades, fury erupts in its place. He snarls a curse and snatches at the snub-nosed handgun concealed beneath his coat. I snap to Battle Reflex Alert before his fingers have finished closing around the grip.

  Every prow-mounted weapon on my turret tracks his motion. Gun barrels spin with a blurred hiss in the echoing space of my work-bay. I lock on with systems active, all of them flashing proximity-threat alarms. Blood drains from Sar Gremian’s pitted face. He freezes, involuntarily loosening his grip on the pistol. He stares up at my battle-blackened gun snouts. Sees in them his own imminent death.

  I break my long silence.

  “Your actions indicate an intended lethal threat to my Commander. My guns are locked and loaded. I have your brain case targeted in my fire-control center. If you draw the pistol in your hand from its shoulder holster, you will not survive to make the shot.”

  Sar Gremian stands motionless, a wise decision for a man in his situation. I detect a stream of liquid registering ninety-eight point seven degrees on the Fahrenheit scale, trickling down his left trouser leg. I surmise that he has never before been this seriously frightened.

  “I would suggest,” Simon tells him softly, “that you take your hand out of your coat. Very, very slowly.”

  The president’s senior advisor complies, moving his hand in quarter-of-a-centimeter increments until it dangles, empty, at his side.