The cows unionized at dawn. Ling discovered this when she found the herd standing in perfect picket-line formation, their udders stamped with Local 237 – United Hooves of Agri-Justice. A particularly militant heifer named Bessie handed her a list of demands written in methane bubbles that popped into legalese when breathed.
"Eight-hour grazing shifts?" Ling squinted at the floating text. "Healthcare including anti-moonplow PTSD coverage? Who's been teaching you collective bargaining?"
The cows stared at her with unsettling solidarity. Behind them, Arbiter crouched behind a hay bale wearing a disguise made of cowhide and regret.
"It's not what it looks like!" he called out, his voice muffled by a rubber udder helmet. "They threatened to withhold lactose!"
Chu Feng emerged from the barn holding a bucket of milk that curdled into legal briefs mid-pour. "They've lactose-intolerant-lawyered us."
The Bovine Arbitrator arrived via manure spreader, her horns gilded with labor law codices and her tail swishing punitive damages. She smelled of grass-fed precedent and existential barnyard angst.
"Moo versus Ling," she lowed, adjusting her pince-nez made from recycled subpoenas. "My clients demand hazard pay for existential cud-chewing crises and…" Her hoof tapped an addendum. "…a strict moratorium on bovine-themed metaphors in subsection 14(c)."
Ling kicked a methane bubble. It burst into a cloud of Objection! confetti. "Since when do cattle cite subsections?"
"Since your employee handbook failed to define 'sentient livestock' in Appendix B." The Arbitrator produced a hay bale stamped Exhibit A: Willful Neglect of Pastoral Personhood.
Chu Feng whispered, "That's our hay."
"Our stolen hay," Ling corrected.
The trial convened in the pasture-turned-courtroom. The scarecrow judge—newly rehabbed from its solar trauma—presided from a throne of silage and repressed trauma.
Prosecution's Case:
Bessie gave tearful testimony about "being milked for metaphorical value"
A calf entered evidence of "emotional hoof trimming"
The entire herd moo-ed We Shall Overgraze in haunting four-part harmony
Defense's Counter:
Arbiter tried to argue cows lacked standing due to "lack of opposable thumbs" (immediately countered by a hoof-printed class certification)
Chu Feng presented a hay bale alibi (rejected as "compostable hearsay")
Ling played Jiang Yue's music box, which only made the cows produce jazz fusion milk
During recess, the chickens formed a sympathy strike that shut down egg production. "Solid-cluck-ity!" their leader crowed from a makeshift protest nest.
The Bovine Arbitrator dropped her nuclear option. "My clients move for immediate species-wide emancipation and…" She paused for dramatic effect. "…backhoof pay dating to the Agricultural Revolution."
The pasture gasped. A sheep juror fainted. Arbiter's udder helmet deflated in despair.
Ling cracked her knuckles, bioserver scars flaring like barbed wire sunset. "You want revolutionary justice? Let's plow precedent."
She and Chu Feng unleashed the moon plow's dormant protocol – Terra Nullius Reclamation. The fields erupted in:
Anti-colonial wheat that cross-examined itself
Subversive clover demanding landback
Cornstalks reciting anarchist manifestos in photosynthesis
The cows hesitated, their utopian demands suddenly dwarfed by radical agrarian truth.
In the chaos, Ling cornered Bessie. "You want real change? Let's talk means of production."
She led the herd to the old silo where Jiang Yue's original godslayer blueprints fermented. The walls whispered of:
Grassroots tractor collectives
Seed-sharing syndicates
Manure-based renewable jurisprudence
The cows formed a contemplative circle. Their methane bubbles now spelled Das Kapitalf and Moo-lennial Socialism.
"We've been milkwalked," Bessie admitted, her bell clanking in revolutionary cadence.
The settlement included:
A four-day grazing week with paid cud reflection time
Ownership shares in the moon plow's spiritual successor
Strict prohibitions against "udder exploitation" puns
As the Bovine Arbitrator retreated, outmaneuvered by her own clients' raised consciousness, Arbiter stared at the newly politicized pasture.
"This is your fault," Ling said, watching the chickens unionize with the scarecrow.
"Our fault," Chu Feng corrected, arm around her waist as militant fireflies picketed the sunset.
The music box played The Internationale in seven diminishing keys. Somewhere beyond the compost heap, February 30th started a commune.
The audits would continue.
The balance lowed.
But here—amidst class-conscious livestock and perennial revolution—they let the disputed dawn graze its way toward contested horizons.