***
The Drinks-n-All behind me I wind my way through a silent downtown. Traffic lights turn on and off as I pass by. Here and there street cleaners with Fraggers in hand vanish the city garbage as they do each night. The occasional SandRider passes me by, our sand-clouds mingle, a brief wave shared.
I glance over my shoulder as the lights of Sand Lake Flats fade from the rear-view mirror, open the throttle wide and Hellbent’s exhaust note challenges the cold silence.
Hunched over and charging along the slack between dunes night cloaks all black as the Gates of Hell, wind knifes to the bone. I angle to the top of a long narrow dune, hunch down lower beneath the fairing, crank the throttle open wider and speed onwards.
It is not often I spend time riding the night cold these days. Campaigning has restricted my movements about darkened sand but has increased my searching for signs of danger. Nothing stirs out there upon blackened sand tonight.
No Poip—Police over internet protocol that is—reflect silver in the moonlight.
I shiver and tonight’s biting cold reminds me of the morning all of Here-Born’s teachers were arrested and imprisoned, self-included. Our arrest happened immediately after EB forced a new curriculum upon us.
Never before had any of us imagined how dangerous a weapon against young minds an education system could become. Instead, we at first viewed the new curriculum as a stupidity so thick one could roll it down a dune.
Our Here-Born schooling system, based on competence, vanished the moment verbatim learning replaced conceptual understanding. As a greater crime, EB’s system demands unquestioning acceptance of theories and adds penalties for those who chose not to do so.
Now still, those penalties commence with unspoken condemnation of any who dare to investigate for themselves and peaks in the refusal of further education—something never openly stated.
Their system also denies students the right to complete daily schoolwork by breaking the day into periods so short nothing can be finished. Bells or sirens announce the beginning and end of the day and the end of every class.
Students are forced to quit doing what they are doing when the bell or alarm sounds despite the work being incomplete. They then study something else—imagine running a business that way!
This study regimen instills compliance as an involuntary response to command stimuli (the bell ringing) and so unquestioning obedience to those in charge.
This study regimen of breaking the day arbitrarily into sections is based upon tests and experiments done on dogs. Food was placed out and simultaneously a bell was rung. Next, only the bell was rung but there was no food. And the dogs salivated each time the bell rang expecting food.
But these tests results were inconsistent, and those conducting them appear to have overlooked the fact that We the People are not dogs, let alone rats.
We Here-Born teachers drew the line at school uniforms devised as they are to make us equal by being dressed the same—the death knell of individuality via enforced conformity.
Last though not least, all students had to and still must, regurgitate exactly what they had memorized onto examination answer screens. Responses, when provided as demanded by their system, bring reward—a diploma—but one not backed by competence nor by any skills of application out in life.
Worse, the economic value of each student remains based upon the grandness of the Institute issuing their certificate. All Certificates are earned by memorizing what one has studied and then giving the correct answers.
And damned be it to a student’s actual competence, ability, or quick mind for the Certificate is the all of their Educational system and thus a person’s economic value.
We teachers were not fooled and continued to teach our own system which is crafted to lead students to what’s called a Moment in Time. A Moment in Time is the instance in which our education comes together as all the pieces fall into place conceptually. My son will shortly undergo his. I look forward to doing my first with a child.
Upon our refusal to kowtow to EB’s curriculum and illegal demands, we teachers attained instant infamy all the way to the sacred halls of the House and Senatorial Hub of the United Countries of Earth-Born. There they decided what to do with us teachers over coffee and cookies, or so I heard.
“Once-Other!” snarled my then wife, Deidre. “How can you expect to earn a living breaking the law? You’ve been let go, laid off, outlawed. What’s going to get it through to you? Teachers are history. It’s illegal to teach. You might as well be a crucified doctor, flaunting the law.”
“Deidre dear,” I replied. “I am a teacher so I teach. They will have to arrest and imprison me to stop me.”
“And you think they won’t!” she spat.
Two weeks later our doorbell rang at 3:00 a.m. on a cold Sunday morning.
Despite their humanoid shape, their cheerfully bright silver bodies and their soft desert-camouflage military coveralls, Poip dragged me roughly out my warm and comfortable bed. A real-time demonstration of their complete lack of emotion or any other human trait, whatsoever!
This despite promises they were human-friendly.
“I knew nothing good would come of you,” Deidre snarled as my feet hit the cold floor.
So did our marital relationship finally wreck upon the rocks of mutual bitterness. Thankfully, I’d taken precautions and asked my good friend, Bordt Nettler, to care for Deidre and Karrell our son.
Poip kicked the front door open and pushed me out.
My beloved lanky blonde headed boy with big blue-eyed watched from his window as they dragged me away. Wounded by the fear and grief landscaping his young face, I bade him understand.
“They haven’t taken note of why we fought them to win our freedom, Karrell. They should venture over to the monument in Capital Square, Washington, Here-Born. It stands in honor of our heroes, our patriots.
“There they will discover that half our original population gave their lives in the war for our freedom—our independence. Never forget Karrell—no offer of wealth should be considered worthy of surrendering up one’s Rights, one’s Freedom, one’s Honor, one’s Neatness.”
He smiled and dropped the curtain.
Trial and conviction were packaged, preordained and rapidly executed. Sentencing was the same all round—three years in prison.
We were marched off to prisons unlike any on Earth-Born.
CHAPTER 7
Of Jail Time, Economic Value And A New Taxation System
“Being in chains is more trying than dying,” a plump-n-short teacher declared as hundreds of us dressed in bright green prison garb shivered in the cold morning light waiting to enter our new home.
The first set of brown steel gates swung wide as the sun touched the horizon. We shuffled forward in groups of a hundred, were processed one at a time, and led to holding pens until all were done. Some of us covered our ears in protest of harsh Poip voices bellowing orders from all directions.
“I shall see this day paid for,” Madsen whispered staring down at sand.
With the sun climbing quickly, a second set of gates rolled open screeching their thirst for but a sliver of grease. Stoic prison Poip dressed in khaki fatigues herded us inside. Single story adobe dormitories with dark brown bars welded to door and window frames bordered the main thoroughfare.
A row of palm trees ran the length of the sidewalk their feet hugged by green fern and rose bushes. Palm branches swayed in the wind as though pointing the way.
“Welcome!” said a prison Poip. “You will be conducted to quarters. There you will remain until called. Make no noise, keep smoking to a minimum and enjoy the free time.”
As one, we glanced fearfully around and then set off.
Ahead, the prison property stretched a mile wide in both directions and forty long. I took a deep breath and smelt the good side of cows, pigs and wheat on the breeze and more pungently—the bad side.
I glanced left and smiled knowingly at the two-story schools,
workshops, and apprentice halls. Inside these inmates in pursuit of a better life beyond the restraining gates learn and practice economic techniques of their own choosing.
Silver lights flashed across window panes as Poip waved us on in their standard jerk-n-go fashion while nodding as though they understood what had brought us into their care.
We marched one mile and two-hundred some sand-paces to our dorms our feet shuffling a rhythm in sand. A few teachers hummed a worker’s dirge around the shuffle. Several pairs of calculating eyes assessed us from darkened windows as though we were ambulatory food.
Under harsh Poip glares, our dorms admitted us to gray walls, concrete floors, low ceilings, no fans and bed-bunks that we promptly discovered were registered as patented torture devices.
“I suppose as teaching goes, hands on has its value,” I quipped on entering. No teacher laughed though plenty glared fierce enough to knock a head off.
On the following day, Madsen and I twinned up to neither of our satisfaction. “I’ve spent more time with Once-Other than I care for,” he declared.
Poip nodded and twinned us anyway.
We began work at the lowest rung performing primitive manual labor, which old timers referred to as Dung Duty. On a strict schedule, we awoke at five and started our day milking unruly cows. On that first day, I was barely able to avoid having my head staved in by kicking hooves and my buttocks perforated by horns far sharper than seemed natural.
Done, we were on our hands-n-knees cleaning pigsties very hands on accompanied by olfactory overload. Next, we collected cow dung even more hands on. Pushing squeaking wheelbarrows, we carted vast quantities to the wheat fields where we dumped portions onto a dung pile spreading the remainder ever more hands on and fly swamped.
“Not pleasant,” Madsen said as we held raw dung dripping in our bare hands.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “At least the fresh stuff’s warm. May be kinda good on freezing mornings. For a while anyways.” He was not a happy camper.
Six weeks of Dung Duty concluded along with the enforced use of a mess hall reserved solely for dung dealers—temporary and permanent assignees.
“How better the food tastes,” said Madsen a week free of Dung Duty.
“Smells like food,” I added, agreeing with him for the first time in decades. I then grinned wider. “Prison may be bad but not as awful as on EB. Cheer up Madsen. You know how it works.”
He grunted mid-chew, remaining silent thereafter.
Now!
Punishment for punishment’s sake is not welcome on Here-Born, let alone for revenge. Instead of incarceration we remove those found guilty of crimes from society. This is more to protect others than to punish an offender.
Once in prison, they will find two roads available to them.
Only one of these leads back into society.
Rehabilitation Road is available on self-determined request alone. This because no individual improves unless each personally desires it. With that in place education and internships are available while incarcerated.
I’ve checked and no prisoner to date has survived a program by faking a desire to better him or herself. It’s too much hard work and intense application.
But! Inmates preferring to hew a criminal’s tack never get the chance to practice their skills on others again. Oh, they get better quarters after their sentence ends but they will continue working the basic trade they have.
In this way prisoners who have no wish to get straight and honest and become economically valuable and viable never leave prison. However, at any time if one decides to shed the criminal’s ways—he is welcome to travel Rehabilitation Road.
On the other hand, by working a fruitful job while imprisoned prisoners become skilled in their chosen career paths and earn income from beyond the confining walls and fences. This income is used to pay staff salaries and all the expenses of their own incarceration for the duration they stay or until death takes them.
There are no taxation dollars for prisons in our system. Their inmates alone finance them. Although! A portion of Here-Born taxes does end up as bonuses paid to individual prisons. It is in payment for the number of prisoners released who stay to their chosen occupations and commit no crimes, from then on out.
But should too many go back to a life of crime upon release—the Courts simply stop sending the guilty to that prison and out of business they’ll go. In this way, prison staff must not only rehabilitate inmates but also create economically valuable and honorable individuals.
“What?” EB tourists scream. “That’s cruel and unusual.”
My rebuttal is always, “Who sends criminals back into society knowing they intend to continue a life of crime?”
EB’s tend to stare in silence some with jaws dropped open like flytraps.
“Only those who are uncaring or who profit by it or both,” I add.
“Why?” they ask again and frown in confusion.
So be it.
I was fortunate in my career allocation once Dung Duty ended.
When a young man I had undertaken an apprenticeship at the SandMaster factory. These are massive eight-wheel-drive armored vehicles with front-n-rear steering and twin engines. Due to Deidre, I never graduated—about which I do not think let alone speak.
With that background, I took up work at the local Hunduranda SandMaster dealership. I enjoyed the work and seldom ran across Madsen and his darkening moods. He quickly noticed and sneaked about trying to surprise me. I avoided him all the more. And so we played prison tag for some while.
After many months, a prisoner approached me in the yard one still and hot morning. I recognized him as one of those who had viewed we teachers as ambulatory food. He was tall, lean, almost hairless, cold-eyed and nasty. I had earlier noted him hovering about my periphery. Others had warned me that he brooked no backchat.
Without an introduction, he said, “Got’ah me no economic value Once-Other.”
“You’ll spend a damn long time doing manual labor,” I said forcing a steady voice, stomach quaking.
His eyes said he understood.
“You want personal economic value?” I asked and licked at chapped lips.
“What’ah I do?” he asked.
“You sincere?” I queried and without waiting for a response added, “You know...this comes as self-determined only?”
“Like’ah my life way it is. Kind’ah works for me.”
The criminal peeked out at me.
“You know where that leads?” I managed to say and sound calm.
He nodded yes.
“You cause damage? Any harm?”
He confirmed without looking at me.
“No matter how long your sentence you must make up for what you did. The victims or their family must agree.”
“I hear you-n-all. But’ah why? Got’ah me six years only. I’m counting seven here.”
“Who sets a criminal free to do what he does?” I asked.
He shrugged a no comment.
“Tell me. Have you at least worked out compensation for the damage?”
“Got’ah me nothing to offer.”
“Listen.”
I took his elbow.
His skin cringed from my touch and he glared down at me. I waited, heart racing, my stare fixed out across sand to where wheat swayed in a gentle breeze. Something about his demeanor changed, his skin smoothed over, he moved off and we headed towards a distant wheat field.
I let go his arm, saying, “I’ve heard of a prisoner who, on release, spent the rest of his days working a hard job and caring for the lady he had injured. This he did through to her old age and dying day. In the end they say, he cried during her funeral.”
“Ye-ah?” he barked.
“No dung. Look.” I pointed at a wheat field. “No telling where real benefit will come from. Would you have guessed people living in deserts on Earth-Born? And now—wheat fields in a desert.”
“Damn’ah,” he mused, pulled out a
knife and opened it, his eyes on my face. I figured he was contemplating how different he could make it look.
I swallowed noisily and said, “Be very careful with this. If you pretend to want a new and productive life only to get out of prison...it will not work out. Also, if once out you commit crimes again, you will end up back here. But...you will never be offered Rehabilitation Road again.”
We stood in silence for endless minutes, me sweating as he cut at the thick calluses manual labor had rewarded him with. A few moments on, he snapped the blade closed, squared his shoulders and walked off without a word.
He thanked me upon his release—and there you have it. Just attain economic value while incarcerated on Here-Born and upon release one already has employment.
Upon my release, I gained full-time employment with the Hunduranda SandMaster dealership at a qualified, professional salary. Deductions from my first paycheck alerted me to a new and illegal EB tax.
Can anyone believe that over on EB you pay higher taxes the more productive you are? That is how they reward success—by penalizing it?
Now Here-Born’s lawful taxes are...well!
On Here-Born, 10% is the highest percentage anyone will pay in taxes and that is anyone or anything. From there it drops in 2.5% increments. Therefore, it goes 10%, 7.5%, 5.0% and the lowest taxes anyone or entity pays is 2.5%.
Deductions are those items we spend money on which can be subtracted from our income before we are taxed. These include all the essentials of living life. Such as rent, the upkeep of one’s home, transport and gasoline, expenditures for doing business, food, water, maintenance and whatever else living life and working costs.
Further deductions include all items on which government may spend our taxes. All of which we have listed in our Constitution. Then we deduct all insurance, any Healthcare, and all education.
We get to deduct these all figuring no government would want to tax the mere act of living, which is what all those expenses represent.
Now, all of these you can deduct for yourself personally if single or for all your family members if married and living in the same household. Many extended families live together in extended homes. Often these are connected via enclosed paths. Each distant enough to ensure privacy yet close enough to form a tightly knit household. The advantage gained is the collective family income total is used instead of per individual.
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