With deductions subtracted from overall income, we have found out how much of our yearly income is taxable. In other words, what your profit is.
So, those of us who show a profit of up to fifty thousand dollars per year over and above the deductions pay 10% in taxes—the highest percentage that we have. Those who show profits higher than fifty thousand pay lower percentages in taxes. This means that here on Here-Born taxation rates work in reverse to Earth-Born.
Therefore, those who show a profit greater than fifty thousand dollars will pay a lower tax percentage...and so on down to 2.5% being the lowest.
Unbelievable! Is the kindest EB attitude on hearing this.
But. The high percent is an incentive used to drive self to earn more. Here success may only be rewarded and never penalized—by law.
Some EB’s find it interesting what happens with a lower tax rate—the more you earn.
First off, you will pay a greater amount of dollars in taxes to Government due to the higher income and second you get to keep a higher percentage of your own hard-earned income. I believe other times referred to this as win-win. But what of cheaters?
For us, cheating on one’s taxes is almost unheard of.
And why?
Well! If you fake it by showing larger deductions, you end up showing less profit for the year. This can put you into a higher tax percentage bracket. On the other hand, if you make your deductions less than they should be you will show a profit greater than it is, and that is fraud.
What happens to you when you commit that fraud is not a happy thing.
A public list of names of all the persons and businesses who refuse to pay taxes at all or who cheat hoping to pay less at a lower percentage bracket is available to all individuals, all businesses. Soon as ones’ name appears, many will no longer employ you or do business with you—but deciding so is at their personal choice alone. There are no regulations that demand anyone do this.
That is a stiff price to pay for a few dollars more or less.
But! How does our legal side of life feel about someone doing either of these two?
Well! Go ahead and thank you for the extra dollars—is one way. And losing your entire income due to unemployment or the refusal by others to do business with you is a harsh penalty that many never recover from. And if you want to come back to full financial prosperity it’s a long road.
You first sign a commitment to pay what you owe from the past and what’s due in the future. If not. There are few ways of getting income once on that list. Most are menial jobs located out in the open desert. All of which are run by individuals who prefer to profit from another’s misfortune or misdeeds.
Few survive long out there.
So take your pick.
And! Beware anyone adding a name to the list that should not be on it. You will be liable for loss of income and criminal charges are levied against you as well.
Yes. Here-Born’s taxes are not merely fair but it’s criminal to attempt changing or adding to them...let alone actually changing them.
Looking up from the past, I find myself naked in front of my bedroom mirror. I pull pajamas on, pause and examine the moonlit sky as I do each night.
I was once a teacher but am now a vendor of pre-owned body parts. Pre-owned parts are as difficult for tourists from Earth-Born to understand as our tax system is.
“That’s so revolting,” is how most tourists react to human parts on display and for sale.
To which I am inclined to say, “Despite rumors to the contrary we are not robots nor zombies. We can and do die.”
If anyone still appears confused, I’ll add, “The fleet which brought our forefathers here, crashed. They had miscalculated gravity—badly. Experiments on the regrowth of human parts were underway onboard. During and after the crash-landing chemical compounds escaped into the atmosphere.
“These evolved to become preservatives, which we now use to treat injuries. In this fashion, pre-owned parts came to thrive as a business.” Few do much more than gag despite so eloquent an explanation.
I got divorced soon after my release from prison. My now ex-friend Bordt Nettler and ex-wife Deidre then got married.
I later become a campaigner. Conducting a campaign as a pre-owned parts dealer made more sense as contact with tourists is a natural part of a pre-owned vendor and a one-on-one tourist guide’s daily life.
Therefore, for the second time my career with SandMasters ended but this time at the Hunduranda dealership. The first termination happened with the factory itself. Something I do not care to discuss, as I’ve mentioned.
With teeth brushed and in bed I bid the day farewell amidst thoughts of Peter Wernt, my new EB tourist and campaign target.
In what condition will I find his Foundation?
Which is what we call his education.
Which is the target of my campaign.
And the target of our Hope.
CHAPTER 8
Of Poip, Pre-owneds Galore And A Strange Eb Tourist
Sand Lake Flats Review—Morning Edition
Those of Earth-Born fearing a disruption of society position themselves upon EB’s Foundation.
We know Society’s foundation is, after all, its education system.
However, on Earth-Born education remains the domain of Government alone.
Their students monitored via testing will find their brightest identified and offered education at its best.
These students cannot help but accept and by doing so become molded into conformity by a Foundation tunnel-visioned in design, in result.
Thus is attained a conformity of viewpoint to the satisfaction of an old, old need.
The need of the fearful to be relieved of fear.
In addition, the afraid celebrate each graduate with their own victory cry.
This bright one will not upset the applecart!
Sadly, the brightest of their young believe they remain alert to when brainwashing may begin.
And in that alertness they discuss issues in words that are an exact copy of what they’d heard on the News the day before.
None realize this.
Yet all declare said words are their own heartfelt opinions.
Tragic?
Tull-Tor Hawkur—commentator.
***
The morning sun slips stealthily onto sand. Temperatures soar despite the shards of morning-pink lingering in the sky.
A hangover manifests a faint throbbing at my temples. Pleased at its mildness, I hunch down over the handlebars and tickle the throttle open. Hellbent responds and we accelerate across sand headed for my shop Pre-owneds Galore of SLF.
Dust swirls seeking entry to my eyes, nose, and mouth.
I snort and chuckle but keep a keen eye on the way ahead.
Minutes on, my path across sand weaves back-n-forth some. I bend my arms at the elbows to lessen the degree of body motion feeding back into the steering and our tracks straighten. I run an eye over sand to find a treacherous surface awaits this morning’s unwary commuter—this courtesy of last night’s Antarctic blowing out the southeast.
Mother Wind creates our roads as flat stretches of sand—many being old riverbeds now eons dry. Each day and every night she leaves freeways and highways in her wake but never in the same location. But always headed in the same two directions. Out here, tar turns soft and mushy by day, hardens at night and often cracks beyond repair making it worthless.
Those of her children who awaken during daylight hours are contradictory of nature. From the north comes Sister Storms, from the southeast whispers Mourner’s Wind, from the north-east wafts Arzern’s Delight and from the southwest gusts Chef’s Call-out. Only two rush about at night, the Antarctic and the Arctic.
I cut the long way around what looks suspiciously like quicksand. The relentless dust swirls up and about me. I chew at the taste of it flat and gritty in my mouth. Mid-chew Peter Wernt leaps to mind and so too the dangers of bracing up to a new EB mind. Every EB tourist encou
ntered is a new universe of thought, a new challenge, making entry to each Foundation unique.
However, with entry gained, I plant our ideas of Freedom and Rights within and perhaps they will spread these on returning home—this is our Hope. But not as easy a task as it sounds.
Of late, I have struggled more than before while getting little in the way of results. Each my recent tourists were full-blown failures, not one having expressed enthusiasm for our Here-Born Rights. I groan as Madsen’s face springs to view carved hard as Rocklands rock and as disagreeable.
As a senior, he does not camp happily when failure is involved. But his recent threat spat at me out upon sand was too vague for my liking. Campaigners are all volunteers. Why then does he impart useless threats? Especially when they say naught of any ill that may befall me. His words cling to me now, bloodthirsty worms wriggling about in search of edible thoughts.
During bouts of deep introspection, I imagine he has revealed my real name to Poip and visions of Jiplee’s fate besiege me. Any-n-all reasoning stumbles and falters and I dangle betwixt flight and obligation. I cannot help myself. He is too grim. I fear he will betray me, as did our elected officials sell out our entire nation.
Therefore, I now hide certain thoughts from him. Yes. I’ve not been forthright of late. In self-defense, I’ve decided to keep secrets and to hold back certain bits of information. On the flipside, I have many unanswered questions. Who murdered Jiplee? Is this EB’s response to our campaign once we announced it—it is no secret? How did the killer identify her? Was her last tourist involved? But Madsen worries me most of all.
Only of late have I realized that if he is saying things to me that are critical of mutual friends...then he is saying the same to them about me. Witness his comment about Maggie counting pennies.
There are many that do such rumor mongering...while pretending to be a friend to one-n-all. Such persons insist they merely share worthwhile information about others for one’s own benefit.
I shudder at the effort of laying to sleep worrisome images and ideas. It’s a struggle, but I generate extra energy for self and accelerate down the last dune towards town. Looking out ahead my heart flutters with sudden trepidation. Barriers block access into town this morning. A double line of Poip does duty behind several rows of orange colored drums.
Ahead of these a Poip pair, the A-one and B-one models of a two-part system, do duty. B-one stands off a short distance as A-one interviews each commuter. I join the waiting line of SandRiders but keep a watchful eye busy.
Some of us twitch involuntarily, the tension of pretended ease being more than they can handle. Poip busily move with their perpetual stutter motion. The wind sighs around our silent protests. Exhausts burble at idle, tires scrunch on sand, heat offers no mercy. Poip voices almost hurt.
I stare at my fuel tank and run a fingertip along a pinstripe, my eyes busy elsewhere. Nervous tension drifts on the wind. Commuters scratch at armpits and scalps. Engines idle while others tick once shut down.
Dressed in military fatigues, the silver-bodied Poip move briskly, methodically, questioning commuters one at a time—their uniforms snap-n-crackle in starched stiffness. Robotic Poip voices grow sharper and cut the wind more than usual.
Once assessed most commuters head for town. Others find themselves shoved into Poip-wagons. With each wagon full, they head off into the desert, the snarl of exhausts resounding a victory call.
I reach the front breathing too fast, knees weak and grateful I’m seated. Sweat drips down my back. I manage a smile.
“You Once-Other?” the A-one asks as it looks up from the data displayed on its Nomadi screen.
“I am,” I reply.
“What’s your real name?” A-one demands.
“That information is not available,” I reply and raise an eyebrow in query.
“In the interest of happiness I advise you to disclose,” A-one says.
“Whose happiness?” I ask it.
A-one steps backward throws its arms wide and says, “Once-Other, please take a timeout and attend to a bulletin directly from the Director of the Department for the Assurance of Happiness, Earth.” It pauses and points to its twin. “A moment as my friend downloads.”
Its friend buzzes and whines, a coffee grinder about to let go of life, and falls silent.
A-one says, “The Bulletin has been downloaded. May I have your attention, please?” And grasps its handgun.
I swallow at a suddenly dry throat despite having been briefed that this action on the part of Poip is a test. A test to discover we campaigners—none of us has figured out how precisely such a test is supposed to work. I hold to a relaxed outward attitude and even manage a smile.
A-one lets go of its weapon and once again throwing its arms wide, says, “Welcome to Earth’s delivery of law and order and the assurance of happiness for one-n-all.
“The people of Here-Born can now demand happiness as an entitlement. It is well worth your while to understand that the sole task of Poip is to ensure the happiness of all citizens.
“Please visit our website where you’ll discover happiness is by law an entitlement. We hope happiness participants will tell others how much life has changed for the better with happiness now guaranteed.
“Attention! One and all!
“No one may violate your right to happiness.
“Now! Moving on!
“We do understand the need to withhold real personal names on Here-Born despite how unhappy that makes others. Under current law, we have embraced the idea.
“Have a nice day fellow citizen. Your friendly Director of the Department for the Assurance of Happiness, Mister Warrent McPeters.”
I ride across old sand-snail burrows unaware of the handlebars moving from side-to-side and the crunch of tire upon sand. All I can sense is Poip-scan boring into the back of my head. I rub the nape pretending I am unconcerned and glance into a rear-view mirror. As a group all Poip turn from scrutinizing my retreat and focus on the next in line.
I sigh but cannot smooth away all anxiety.
They’ll arrest me someday—once they know my real name.
On that day, I will vanish.
I nibble at my lower lip.
We are in a real war and up against an endless parade of laws and regulations eroding our freedoms and rights. At times, all seems hopeless. Still, in the strangest manner a ray of hope peeks out from between the clouds of doom-n-gloom—it comes by way of results, campaign results.
By all accounts, our ideas of freedom and rights have driven certain EB tourists quite mad, screwball-snorting as one report claims. These campaigners warn that affected persons tend to wander off into the desert and are never seen again.
Strange hope this is indeed.
Nevertheless, despite the deaths EB tourists keep coming—that gives us hope.
But our struggle isn’t lightened in any way. Recently, a lady tourist handed me her business card assuming I’d broken an EB law or two. And by way of an invitation to hire her she said, “I’m a Criminal Attorney, Once-Other.”
“That’s very honest of you,” I replied changing one of her nouns into an adjective. She was not amused.
I turn my attention outwards as the city of Sand Lake Flats embraces me.
Out upon open sand scanning is easy. Sand hides none; sand hides all...yes...a quandary. At the entrance to any city, scanning changes from relaxed to tense. I check down alleys, behind store windows looking for foreigners and locals alike.
I examine each for signs of danger but find none or perhaps fail to see where there is. I relax a little and allow the city’s welcome to touch me with its own peculiar tradition. Yes, there is an animal readiness about SLF.
The city sprawls upon a valley floor some insist was once the bed of a lake or frying pan of the gods. It is prey to sandstorms violent of velocity and pernicious of disposition. Emergency Fraggers stationed throughout the city provide recovery from such sandstorms.
I note that on
the sidewalk, a man stands with an ear bent to Nomadi, back to me, yet his eyes follow my progress reflected in a shop window. I reach for his thoughts but find them in do-not-disturb mode. A cold hand clasps at my throat.
Why would he block me? He glances at his Nomadi screen, holds it up and searches for bandwidth. I look up at the towering profile of SLF and realize he was merely concerned my presence came between him and a tenuous connection.
I peer overhead where perhaps a sniper waits. All I find are hundreds of tall communication towers boosting Nomadi signal for residents and businesses alike notwithstanding the odd dead spot. From overhead, the city’s combination of tents and single story buildings entwined by a daisy chain of high-rises forms an organized pattern...if you squint.
Attention back on what’s nearby, I veer left skirting the city’s edges headed for the purple-n-gold striped circus tent and fairgrounds located south of the Mall’s east parking lot.
SLF Mall stands two floors tall, is oval in design and shimmers green in the sunlight. Ocean green I believe.
I zero in on my store scrutinizing it for anything out of place. To my relief, tie-downs are taut with knotted loops still hanging as they were last night. It is a large rectangular tent with its main entrance facing west.
Its roof is finished in reflective silver in homage to our sun and doubles as solar panels. Walls are pastel green broken by vertical white stripes. One can see through the tent walls when the sun hangs eastwards and at the right angle.
Nothing appears out of the ordinary and my heartbeat eases. If sudden death awaits one, it’s normally carefully hidden in full view amongst all that is familiar.
Which is likely what Jiplee discovered but far too late.
Inside, I roll up sections of the north, east and south sides allowing passersby and the breeze to enter. I pause, step outside and scan my surroundings a habit of those who live upon sand and know its dangers. Yes, scanning the horizon for signs of sandstorms comes as natural as does breathing.
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