Bovine Spring

George was not supposed to be a cow.

His team had been observing the aging Polish farm, a neat square barnyard of home and stockade and shed, for eight months now. This was the ideal point, they’d determined – farmer Józef the ideal subject – for a corrective intervention in the human species.

They’d done this quite a few times before. Find a civilization in the Kernov stage, see if it’s candidate for a slight nudge, then… well, a harmless mindjack into the right subject, who could lead the right revolution, and they’d be out of there.

George looked around the Soviet-era barn – a steel loop around his neck kept him chained in a row of cows; in front of him, across an aisle, the other row of cows. Dung channels behind them. A cracked concrete ceiling with a single square hole in it – a haychute. All around, the weathered windows of the barn letting in grey light, illuminating the unfortunate scene.

The downside of the mindjack was, of course, this: George could not be released till the host died. A small price to pay for the change they achieved together, though – and a proper martyr was usually just the spice a revolution needed to really kick.

The cow to George’s left looked at him and bellowed with curiosity.

Clever one, that – thought George. He could tell the cow perceived the subtle change in its stablemate, the host. He wondered if the host’s consciousness could perceive it, too. Probably not. It was still alive inside that head, but a conscious mind has precious little influence on its body in the best of times – so it barely notices when that sliver of choice disappears.

George snorted with frustration. Perhaps if he was a particularly insubordinate cow – refused to give milk, kicked at Józef a few times – he’d be singled out for an early trip to the meat plant. Then, when his consciousness released, he could come back and mindjack the correct subject. But this plan would take time, this would take patience. George was not patient.

It was impatience that had landed him here – impatience and a touch of George’s usual recklessness. Once they’d determined that the day was right, his team had directed the mindlink towards the barnyard, waiting for Józef to cross it on his way back from milking the cows. But two hours later, as the sun began to rise, the farmer was still at his work, and George figured he could just steer the link towards the barn till he felt… there it was, intelligence. He let his mind get sucked through the space between, slap into its new host like a plucked elastic band.

And then he was a cow.

Józef had left the barn as soon as George had realized his error. If he’d waited just thirty seconds longer, he could’ve avoided all this – right now, he could be sowing the seeds of revolution, but… George realized he was pawing at the concrete floor with his front hooves. An angry instinct, it seemed.

It was the long daytime now – George knew from his months of observation that Józef wouldn’t be back to the barn for a second milking till evening. Which meant that he had nothing to do but think. Perhaps his team would realize the mistake, would do him the mercy of killing this cow for him. But how would they tell where his mind was? And then the real question slapped George in the face – why had he felt intelligence? Surely, he’d linked into that same mind where he perceived it, he hadn’t missed. So was this cow some genetic freak, some bovine genius? Certainly not, the odds of such an outlier were absurd. But then… the only other option was…

George’s thoughts were interrupted by the cow at his left again – “Mwhoooow, muhhoooooo,” it bellowed intently. And George let his mind pause, let himself feel the unconscious knowledge of his host float to the surface, and he realized that the cow had… said something. A phrase, a sentence, a… language?

George snorted, but he did this knowing it meant – Apologies madam, but I didn’t catch that; could you please repeat it?

And the cow bellowed, again, “Mwhoooow, muhhoooooo,” but what she meant was – My friend, you’ve been acting quite strange this morning, is something the matter?

George’s lips rattled with a forceful exhalation – this was how he laughed, he realized. My God, he thought; he reeled with the implications, with the impossibilities, with the urgent challenge of trying to understand this planet through this strange new knowledge.

But first came the task of not dropping his cover, of not revealing that he was more than his host. Months of research had prepared him to continue living as Józef among that man’s family and few acquaintances, but he knew nothing about this cow… much less the social graces expected of her!

He looked back at his flank, saw its youth, decided to risk something: “Maaaahhooooooo,” he moaned, meaning, of course – I’m sorry, I’ve felt a bit out of sorts since moving here from the calf-pens.

A brown cow with a rich tuft of hair across its forehead grunted from across George, and he knew he’d guessed correctly, hearing in the sound a clear – I’m surprised you’re doing as well as you are, Sophie; life in this barn isn’t what it used to be.

And George then knew two things, two very important things: First, Sophie was his name (a pretty name, good fortune there); second, all was not well among these cows.

George reached into his unconscious mind, the mind of Sophie, and tried to recall…

He felt the memory of calf-pens, cramped but joyous, with childhood friends all around. Józef’s nephews and nieces would come to stick their hands through the grates, and the calves would suck on them, and the kids would laugh.

He felt the memory of first seeing the barn, of being led through it – not to drink his mother’s milk, that came in buckets with blue rubber udders dangling below – but just to pass from a small calf-pen to a slightly larger one across the farmyard. George shuddered as he recalled what he’d seen, the cows chained in place, the smell of their dung-channels heavy in the air.

And then he felt the memory of his own move into the barn… a recent memory… being led to his own empty slot among the twin rows of sad and tired cows. Of seeing the salt block holders there tragically empty, covered in nothing but flies.

The memories had come rapidly, slapping his mind one after the other, and George snorted from the shock of it, a snort that, as soon as he made it, he realized had meant – Good God yes, how do we live like this?

And a cow down the row bellowed; a “moooooooohhoooo” that conveyed in part a resigned agreement, but mostly meant – Ouchie my udders, oh ouchie I need to be milked.

The brown cow across from George directed a curt “moowh” at him – Don’t mind her, Sophie; we’ll all be feeling that soon, but there’s no sense in complaining till the farmer comes back to relieve us.

George replied with a “moooooeeehhh,” meaning, naturally – I mean it plainly, my friend. Why do we live like this? We possess faculties the farmer would not imagine, can we not… George realized his revolutionary instinct was tickling him. “Muuuhhhhooooooo,” he finished - …can we not seize our own freedom – can we not revolt?

All around him, lips rattled with exhalation – laughter, George knew. The cow at his left bellowed again, “moooooooooohhhoooooohoooo” – Revolt? Sophie, from time immemorial, we’ve let these strange creatures feed us, nurse us, relieve our milk-pains. Sure, this farmer isn’t like his father, he doesn’t let us roam in the fields, he doesn’t refill the salt blocks. But these are mere luxuries. Our lives here are safe, our needs cared for. When I was young like you, I too had these thoughts; but as I’ve grown in this barn, I’ve understood the wisdom of our peoples’ choice.

George snapped back, boldly, with a “moooooh” – When you were young, you roamed the fields. Today, we never leave our shackles.

It was a guess inspired by what memories he had, and a risky rebuttal at that – but George felt vindicated when he heard quiet grunts of approval from around the barn.

A cow of black hair with a single large white spot, across the row and a few spaces down, put forth a cautious “mrhooo” – She speaks truth. Look at us, Camilla; this isn’t the life our ancestors chose. If they saw us today…

Another cow, brown and white, agreed with a “mwhooooow” – We were partners to these strange farmers once. We are prisoners now.

George felt the revolutionary moment, like an electricity in the air seconds before lightning, and he knew he had to seize it. Raising his head, looking at the cows about him, he bellowed, “Muhhooooooooo, mwwoooooooooo, mmmrrrrwwwhoooooooo”.

And the barn erupted in debate.

Debate which soon turned to planning.

- - -

Józef was surprised when he entered the barn again. The potato field he’d spent his day harvesting had been a smaller one, so he was ready for the evening milking earlier than usual – but the cows were wide-eyed, bellowing like they hadn’t been milked in days.

He flicked on the vacuum system and watched its lights turn from yellow to green, then unhooked a dangling manifold of milking bells from the ceiling and walked over to the first cow, clicking the manifold’s drain tube into the vacuum lines, and guiding each bell to get sucked onto a teat of the cow’s udder.

But no milk flowed.

Józef pressed the bypass valve on the manifold and heard the hiss of air – it was working. And the cow was mooing like it never had before, it was clearly wanting to give milk. Then Józef noticed how awkwardly it stood, how its neck was braced in the steel loop around it. He walked over, loosened the loop a bit… and some milk began to flow. He loosened it a bit further… more milk.

Józef paused – maybe he’d just discovered something. Maybe… maybe there was a way to milk the cows much faster than he’d ever milked them before, to start making it home before nightfall. He unfastened the steel loop around the cow’s neck. It fell open with a clang against its frame, and immediately, the flow of milk doubled.

Józef grinned.

He left the cow standing there – the dumb beast probably didn’t even realize he’d removed its only restraint – and began to hook up more milking manifolds to the rest of the cows, undoing their restraints as he went.

Soon, the first cow had given all its milk, and Józef moved its manifold over to another, to the last cow in the barn, in fact. He came back and picked up the first cow’s steel loop to refasten it, but it wouldn’t close. He gave it a smack and tried to close it around the cow’s neck again, but… no luck.

Józef stepped back into the main aisle of the barn with the loop, examining it under the light. Right at the hinge, the metal was warped, pressed down as if by… teeth?

Józef looked up at the cow. It was staring back at him, eyes broad and focused. He looked down the barn and saw that, to a one, each cow stood perfectly calm and perfectly still, and each stared directly at him with a glean of – he could’ve sworn it – determination.

And then the revolution began.