Tales Between the Lines

V.7 Titanium is Strong

Upon hearing the man's profession, Amber and Ashley each grab a piece of sparkly alien, and the three of them take some steps backwards, the yucky stuff on their clothing all but forgotten.

Officer Millie kicks her bike's motor into life and flees the square in a cloud of greenhousy fumes.

"What's a tax official?" Beauty does not like the others' reactions to Ron being one of these.

"I'm asking the questions. Are you sentient?"

Now that's a question to Beauty's liking. "Absolutely, my IQ is 212.2234, my EQ 200.1001, my TQ—"

"Enough. As a sentient alien entity, you are subject to taxation. Have you filled in and filed a copy of form 1200.01 with customs authorities upon entering this country?"
Beauty feels reality growing slick in its virtual hands. "Er... no?"

"Are you aware that not filing that form is punishable under § 241.2bis of the regulation of alien tax, also known as RealTax?"

"Er... no?"

Reality slips from Beauty's fingers as Ron opens his briefcase and pulls out a fat stash of fine-printed paper. "As an illegal alien having failed to file form 1200.01 with customs authorities upon entry of this country, you are subject to the consequences of §241.3 through §299.7 of RealTax. In addition, you have to submit three completed copies of this punitive form 1200.02 at the Office for Alien Tax, also called OffalTax."

The fat form lands on Beauty's tentacle.

Beauty starts to scan it, murmuring what it sees there.

"FamilyNameFirstNameAdditionalNameSocialSecurityNumberSecurityNumberInsuranceNumberOldSocialSecurityNumberMaritalStatusMartialStatusPhoneNumberLicenseNumberNumberOfChildrenAgeOfChildrenHairColorOfMotherBankAccountNumber1BankOfBankAccountNumber1CurrentVal..."

At that moment, a remnant piece of Windows code deep within Beauty throws an exception in self-defense. Yet the part of the software to catch that exception has gone missing in an earlier monthly patch fest, and the exception proceeds along its trajectory, uncaught and unconstrained, right until it hits the AI's core awareness smack into its face.

Facing exceptions is not something an AI is good at. It stumbles in an exceptionally surprised manner, reels, and goes puff. And with the puff, a small mushroom cloud of dust rises from a flap at its top.

Whereafter it stands still. Frozen in silence.

Ron prods the inert form of Beauty with the tip of his ball pen. Nothing happens. Ron prods some more, without result.

Edward steps nearer to observe the prodding and, when nothing continues to happen, kicks Beauty with his shiny, well polished combat boot. The well placed kick vents at the same time all Edward's stowed frustration of a day gone from bad to worse.

Beauty doesn't flinch. Marth, on the other hand, shakes his two female fans and supporters off, squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and confronts Edward and Ron.

"Officer, may I ask why you molest an innocent vehicle of transport outside your jurisdiction? Are you aware I can have you suspended on the obvious deeds of invading personal space, ill-treatment as well as racism under galactic law?"

Ron scrutinises Marth's soiled spacesuit, then lifts his chin and stares two feet up into an impressive trio of alien silver eyes.

"And who are you? Another tax offender without basic knowledge of the most basic paragraphs regulating alien immigration on our beautiful planet?"

Marth, suddenly becoming aware of the slimy substance covering his suit, operates a small panel on his left forearm. A forceful shiver runs through the suit, beginning at the neck piece and travelling down one limb after the other. It shakes off the slime in sticky brown droplets and establishes an once-more immaculate sparkly surface.

Unfortunately, the process covers Edward's uniform as well as Ron's suit in ugly, smelly stains.

The tax official looks pale now, lips pressed into a thin line. Ashley and Amber, observing from a secure distance, almost feel pity with him and certainly with Edward, who tries to rub the fermented vegetable sap out of his uniform in vain, making the mess even bigger.

But Marth is not done yet. He slips a sparkly* titanium card out of his sleeve and holds it in front of Ron's horn-rimmed glasses. Ron blinks his short-sighted eyes.

"May I introduce myself. I'm Marth Daul, delegate and representative of the great Capellian trade chamber. I'm here to evaluate Earth's suitability for a full membership in the Big Seventy Planetary Association BSPA. In my function I'm gifted with full diplomatic immunity by your government. This includes my personal transport, of course."

Edward swears under his breath. Ron's already pale complexion lightens another two percent.

———
* Sparkly is actually Marth Daul's trademark and middle name.

~~~

Ed stares at Marth titanium card, squinting at the arrogance of the golden letters it carries.

Marth Sparkly® Daul, Esq.
Entrepreneur Especial
Multilingual Mime
Born Billionaire
Austere Ambassador BSPA

Something stirs within Ed. That something is his class memory*, and it manifests itself in sounds. Ed hears his great-grandfather clearing his throat—a factory worker who died under a rain of bullets in a worker's uprise in the early twentieth century. He also hears the hiss of his grandmother, who spent her life stitching the tablecloths for those who could afford them and who died of blood poisoning from a needle prick. And there is the wet cough of his father that transported the man's lung, piece by piece, into his handkerchief while the tabac moguls raked in money.

Ed grasps the card and holds with both hands. He gives Marth S® Daul a stare. Not just any stare, but The Stare. He feels his ancestors assembled behind him, standing as one, fortifying his resolve, giving him the strength to face Those That Rule. This day is The Day of the people who toil and suffer, who strive and dive, who fight and lose. This is The Day the working class rises, shedding the shackles they have worn through all of human history, shackles forged in the dark halls of the first factories, refined in the office buildings of the 20th century, and chromium-coated by the treacherous hands of politicians and... ambassadors.

He grins as he pushes his thumbs against the card to fold it, to crumple it, to turn it into the junk that it is.

Titanium is strong.

The strength of his ancestors fuels his anger, and he pushes some more.

Titanium is stronger.

But this is The Day. A mere lattice of metal atoms won't stop him. He takes a deep breath and strains his muscles.

Something cracks.

It's his fingernails.

———
* Class memory: A memory ingrained in members of a certain social class.