Chapter XXXIV:
Slavery as a Career

AFTER BEING PRIMPED and pruffied by her handlers, and looking exceedingly well following her repast and productive chat with Dowley, Malory was ready to take the podium for her grand announcement. The band finished its song, received its accolades, took its bows, and launched into the traditional fanfare to introduce the President. I watched from the wings as Malory marched across the stage, feeling as nervous as a mother eagle who knows her fledgling can fly and will fly but cannot quell the gut-butterflies none the less.

Marco stood beside me in his capacity as reporter rather than event organizer, tapping his story into his wrist device.

The afternoon had muted into a glorious sundown, all oranges and reds and yellows, with traces of royal purple clouds here and there. I could not have conjured a more majestic weather effect myself. The crowd had dwindled by the number of those who had chosen to pursue free beer at the Federals ballgame, which is to say several thousand, but they were not missed. The remaining crowd resembled a starry sky as thousands of pinprick lights winked on and off, on and off in the hope of capturing the President’s image to post on their Net pages, Twit feeds, and all that rot. Malory smiled at her people and said:

“My fellow Americans, God bless you all and thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to show your support and concern for the Sanctuary residents who suffered a terrible tragedy this week.” Applause. “This week’s events proved that Sanctuary was not the solution my predecessors had hoped it would be. To that end, I have dismantled Sanctuary’s gates and provided free medical care to its former residents so they will not cause health issues as they reintegrate into society. Across the nation, all the Sanctuaries’ walls will be removed over the course of the coming weeks, their ruined buildings razed, and the land reborn—in short, Sanctuary is no more!” Lots of applause and cheers; several minutes’ worth. Those in the audience not already standing rose, clapping madly.

Malory continued, “However, one cannot simply set a person free who has known no other life and possesses no other skills than those necessary for bleak survival, and command him or her to go forth and be productive in society without providing the means to do so.” Applause and murmurs of agreement. “Therefore, this is my proposal for the former residents of all Sanctuary districts and anyone else fallen upon hard times:

“The federal government shall relocate these individuals to government-owned farms, provide shelters, tools, seed, feed, and livestock, and train them to be self-sufficient. Any surplus produce shall be collected for the purpose of paying back the program’s startup costs.”

During the thunder-crack applause that followed, I heard a half-gasp, half-hiccup from Marco. I glanced at him questioningly. He whispered:

“This all sounds fine, well, and good in theory, but the government doesn’t own any farms. Can you imagine the price tag of acquiring enough arable land, transporting the people, building houses and barns and sheds and corrals and fences and roads and other infrastructure, supplying the tools and seed and livestock, and providing the means of feeding every person and animal until the community can become self-sufficient? The payback period would be insane! If ever…”

Marco froze, and his gaze turned distant. Meanwhile Malory was announcing her newly forged alliance with Senator Dan Dowley. At her beckoning, Dowley stepped from the wings accompanied by Ambrose, and together they accepted Malory’s challenge to work out the details of this ambitious plan—most importantly, the funding aspects, for even Malory acknowledged the cost was going to be huge—and make it become reality.

I slid a glance at what Marco was writing and saw the following headline:

 

President Hinton Turns Federal System into Feudal System

 

I did not need to read further, although I did. I better than any person in this century knew he had the right of it. These people would never settle their debt to their overlords, because in the capricious nature of an agrarian lifestyle there would always be some crisis resulting in crop failure or livestock plague, and the subsequent necessity of turning to their overlords for yet more protection and relief. The twist upon the system with which I had the most experience was that, in this culture of many freedoms, including the freedom from religion, these twenty-first-century peasants would not be required to surrender a tithe of their goods to the Church—with forty thousand sects in operation from sea to shining sea, only the Lord God Himself could have made an equitable choice as to which Church should be the benefactor, and He remains mum on the subject.

It was a good proposal: the homeless would win by being provided homes and livelihoods, and their overlords would win by solving this problem and by generating a new revenue source. However, I could tell from the grim set of Marco’s expression that he was not going to put such a positive spin upon the President’s proposal: in the body of his article, he likened it to slavery, which was going too far, but it was a notion I foresaw everyone latching on to, and no amount of dissuasion would make them unlatch. The issue would degenerate into a PR nightmare, plunge Malory to a single-digit approval rating, and terminate her political career.

I could not risk it.

I unleashed a spell causing his writing device to freeze. Marco swore softly and rushed off to find some other means of recording his thoughts; in his distraction, he stepped in front of a moving shuttle and was killed. That consequence I did not intend, I swear by All That Is Holy. I was among the first upon the tragic scene, lending what healing arts I might, to no avail. As I had informed Malory, resurrection of the dead does not lie within my provenance to deliver.

In the confusion of the moment, however, I spirited Marco’s recording device into my purse, ensuring the contents of his final article would remain secret. Everyone assumed he had written a piece praising the President’s farm-relocation proposal. I did not disabuse the notion.

Other notes recorded on Marco’s device documented a secret of especial importance to someone more dear to me than the very air I breathed—the nature of which went far to explain Sandy’s actions and angst—a secret that by Marco’s own written admission he had intended to reveal as soon as possible after the memorial event. I vowed to complete Marco’s mission somehow, in spite of the physical and emotional chasm separating Sandy from me.

It never occurred to me to do any less.