How I Made National IDs in South America (4)

Though it had warped somewhat from Eugene's original intent, the policy — which had snowballed from persuading farm workers, to collecting unpaid taxes, to charging back rent — proved a resounding success.

The reason was simple: it had been implemented at precisely the right moment, just as the times themselves were changing.

First, by putting education front and center, the government split the farm workers who wanted their children to study from the plantation owners who wanted to block national registration. The owners had been able to lord over the countryside like feudal barons in the first place only because the plantation system let them command people. Pit the rural laborers against their employers, and the owners' power began to crumble.

Next, the tax authority came crashing in and levied enormous sums. Faced with the legitimate enforcement of the law, the plantation owners had no choice but to cough up the money they had been hiding, weeping all the while. In the process, their second source of power — cash — ran dry.

An employer with no money? To the farm workers, that was a creature worth less than a pebble in the road. Naturally, the rift only deepened.

Just as the owners were breathing a sigh of relief, thinking it was finally over, the Ministry of Land delivered the finishing blow. The moment back rent was billed, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the plantation owners went groggy on the ropes.

They had lost their money and their power. In the old days they would have grabbed a wad of cash and bolted for the mountains or a foreign country, but with their pockets empty they could not even dare. In the end, aside from the handful who had diligently saved, roughly ninety-five percent of them were hauled off to the Tortilla Farm.

What remained were vast stretches of farmland with no owners, and laborers with nowhere to go. To complete the national registration project, Eugene played his hidden card.

"Let's just give it out."

The ownerless plantations, distributed.

"All of those farms, Your Excellency?"

"What's the point of letting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠empty land sit idle? We've got to grow something on it and sell it."

"But if we collect no rent, issues of fairness may be raised."

"I didn't say we wouldn't collect rent."

"Then...?"

"We collect it in arrears. The rent we took from the plantation owners was six hundred dollars per acre per year, yes? What if we bill it after the fact, but waive the rent on whatever grain they actually produce?"

"...That would certainly keep complaints to a minimum."

"The people working the land stay the same. We're only changing the system. Not plantation owner and laborer — nation and farmer."

To the farm workers, the proposal was nothing short of a revolution. Register your name, send your children to the dormitories to study for free, and lease land from the state to farm as if it were your own. Was that not the sound of heaven and earth turning over?

"Viva Eugene! Viva San Marcos!"

The rural farmers, of course, went wild. Those who received a plot of land taped photographs of Eugene — handed out by the local administrative offices — above their front doors, and every time they passed they pressed their hands together and offered a prayer.

"Your Excellency, thank you for our daily bread."

"The lofty grace of Father Excellency~ Ahh~"

"As our great Excellency looks down upon us, San Marcos overflows with abundance..."

And so, quite unintentionally, Eugene was ascending to the ranks of a living saint.

Of course, where there is light there is also darkness. To the plantation owners who had been stripped of everything, Eugene was the devil himself.

"My farm! My land! The fortune I built with blood and sweat!"

"Eugene Choi... I curse you!"

"Is San Marcos a communist country?!"

Most of them, unable to pay the rent, had been dragged to the infamous Tortilla Farm, and from there they cursed Eugene and the state. Even so, while absorbing that torrent of abuse, Eugene offered them a minimum compensation package with the magnanimity of a true gentleman.

"About those plantation owners who got hauled off."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"What if the state put their talents to use?"

"Their talents, sir?"

"Those people spent their whole lives managing farms and bossing people around. They're veterans at it. So I was thinking..."

Eugene scratched his head.

"What if we hired them as middle managers at the Tortilla Farm? Salary around nine hundred dollars a month."

"...I beg your pardon? Nine hundred dollars is more than double the average wage at the Tortilla Farm."

"In a way, we did confiscate the property and the farms they spent their lives building. We ought to compensate them at least this much. Garnish four hundred fifty from the salary as back rent, and just give them the remaining four hundred fifty. They have families too. They've got to eat."

"...Your Excellency has it all planned out, I see."

"Aigoo, there you go again. It's really nothing."

A shiver ran through Isabella at that extreme pragmatism — the kind that would take even villains and slot them in as spare parts for the state.

In any case, the plantation owners, who had no way to put food on the table, had no choice but to accept Eugene's offer. They had just had their entire fortunes seized and were looking at forced labor — and now they were being offered a salary. What possible reason would they have not to work?

And so the plantation owners, each now managing ten laborers, found themselves thinking...

"What's this? Why is working... fun?"

"This is more doable than I expected...!"

"Four hundred fifty isn't what I used to make, but it's not that bad, is it?"

"Less stress than running a farm, and the work is easier?"

"It's... very stable...!"

They came to realize that the Tortilla Farm was, in fact, the perfect arena in which to exercise their talents.

"Hey, you lazy bastards! Move faster!"

"No dinner if you don't hit quota!"

Old habits from years as vicious plantation bosses were not about to disappear. Already experts at working people to the bone, they began to thrive like fish that had found water. And it did not stop there.

"Hey! Number 1024! I told you spreading fertilizer like that will rot the roots! Do it again!"

"Pull weeds while you move! Weeds! Don't go back and forth twice for nothing!"

"Pesticide would be fine, but I think if we used beneficial insects that eat the pests..."

Having run farms for anywhere from ten to thirty years, every last one of them was an expert in agriculture. Thanks to that, productivity at the Tortilla Farm soared vertically once again, and Eugene smiled with genuine satisfaction at Isabella's report.

"See? Experienced hires really are the best."

"......"

Of course, as always in the administration of San Marcos, the moment you crested one mountain, a larger one was waiting on the other side.

"Your Excellency, we have a serious problem."

"...What's going on?"

"Far too many students are flooding in."

"Oh? How many?"

"Current occupancy has exceeded three hundred percent. There are children sleeping in the hallways, and even pitching tents isn't enough."

"...That bad?"

"Yes. The parents' educational fervor defies all imagination. If we do not secure additional facilities immediately, the situation will become unmanageable."

"That's a problem. We only just broke ground."

In truth, most of the dormitories they had were empty buildings converted for the purpose — not new construction. Even if Eugene pulled every trick he had, he could not raise that many dormitories all at once. The plan had been to throw up emergency housing and expand from there.

This is giving me PTSD...

He had failed at demand forecasting. Again. And it was not as though he could send the children home.

"We'll have to find a way."

"For the time being, perhaps we could build temporary dormitories out of shipping containers."

"Hmm..."

Eugene propped his chin in his hand and stared at the map until his eyes ached. And then the broad red zones spread across the outskirts of Libertad caught his attention.

"What if we put the dormitories on military bases?"

"On military bases, Your Excellency?"

"The overall number of soldiers is declining, so the barracks are sitting empty, aren't they? Setting up dormitories there might work."

Immediately after taking office, Eugene had abolished the civil service recruitment law that required five or more years of military service — except in special cases — before anyone could apply for a government job. Thanks to that, a third of San Marcos's soldiers had already been discharged, and the surplus barracks were gathering nothing but dust.

"Good facilities, big athletic fields, cafeterias already in place. Where else is more perfect for a dormitory?"

"The drawback, however, is that they would be too far from the schools."

That was true enough. San Marcos had few cars, but absolute distance was not something you could simply ignore. Even taking a bus from the military base closest to a school would take at least forty minutes. Add in assembly and lining up before boarding, and the commute would easily eat two hours each way.

But Eugene, as usual, found the answer.

"Then let's put the schools inside the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bases too. We should be able to stand up a small school, shouldn't we? School facilities were already falling short anyway."

"...Then, conversely, the teachers' commute times could become a problem."

"Don't worry about that. We'll just have the officers teach."

"...?!"

San Marcos had been a military dictatorship for a very long time. Before Eugene University was founded, the military academy had been the country's only factory for elites.

"You mean to use officers as teachers, Your Excellency?"

"They've all been educated well enough, haven't they? And their pay is tight as it is — offer them an allowance and they'll all be thrilled."

"Ah..."

Isabella's mouth fell open as if she had been struck in the head with a hammer. Was this not killing two birds with one stone — having one's cake and eating it too?

"Understood. I will consult with the Ministry of National Defense immediately."

There was, however, one thing Eugene did not know. If you planted a school inside a space as peculiar as the military, peculiar side effects were bound to follow.

The 1st Division Military Base Boarding School. The day at this institution, thrown together on Eugene's orders, began very early indeed.

"Reveille! Reveille! All personnel, wake up!"

Six in the morning. The sun had not even risen, but at the blare of the wake-up bugle, twelve-year-old children shot up from their bunks and, eyes not yet fully open, began folding their blankets with crisp, regulation-perfect precision. Then they pulled on clothes that could have been military uniforms or school uniforms — it was hard to tell which — and sprinted for the parade ground.

"Did everyone sleep well?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Then let's start the day with a refreshing morning run. All personnel, double time, march!"

"Hah!"

Hundreds of children began running the parade ground in formation. The second lieutenant who served as both mathematics teacher and homeroom instructor for Barracks 1 shouted out.

"We will sing a military song during the run! The song is Father Excellency!"

"Father Excellency!"

The children's booming voices rang through the entire base. And the same spectacle carried over into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the classroom.

"Here, His Excellency exported one million barrels of crude oil. If the sale price is eighty dollars per barrel and the extraction cost is twenty, what is the profit? You have three minutes. Begin!"

"Sixty million dollars!"

"Correct! Excellent work!"

During class, they wedged in references they had no need to make.

"All personnel, attention! Salute to His Excellency before the meal!"

At mealtimes, they pledged their loyalty to His Excellency. And after the duty day — no, after class — in the evening...

"We will now watch a documentary titled The Achievements of His Excellency. Everyone, engrave His Excellency's greatness into your eyes."

They conducted political indoctrination disguised as audiovisual education. Across the screen, Eugene's addresses to the nation, scenes of his frugal daily life, and the image of him shaking hands with Drumpf rolled on to a swell of magnificent background music.

"Whoa... so cool..."

"When I grow up, I'm going to be a bodyguard and protect His Excellency!"

"I want to be a civil servant and help with His Excellency's work!"

"I want to be a soldier..."

It was the moment the brakes on the dictatorship train snapped clean off.