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"I'll be here, paying my taxes like a grown-up," said Valentine. "Like an honest woman."
"You make me ashamed of myself," called Andrew blithely as he strode away.
Benedetto took one look at the cocky young man who sat down across the desk from him and sighed.
He knew at once that this one would be trouble. A young man of privilege, arriving at a new planet, thinking he could get special favors for himself from the tax man. "What can I do for you?" asked Benedetto—in Italian, even though he was fluent in Starcommon and the law said that all travelers had to be addressed in that language unless another was mutually agreed upon.
Unfazed by the Italian, the young man produced his identification.
"Andrew Wiggin?" asked Benedetto, incredulous.
"Is there a problem?"
"Do you expect me to believe that this identification is real?" He was speaking Starcommon now; the point had been made.
"Shouldn't I?"
"Andrew Wiggin? Do you think this is such a backwater that we are not educated enough to recognize the name of Ender the Xenocide?"
"Is having the same name a criminal offense?" asked Andrew.
"Having false identification is."
"If I were using false identification, would it be smart or stupid to use a name like Andrew Wiggin?" he asked.
"Stupid," Benedetto grudgingly admitted.
"So let's start from the assumption that I'm smart, but also tormented by having grown up with the name of Ender the Xenocide. Are you going to find me psychologically unfit because of the imbalance these traumas caused me?"
"I'm not customs," said Benedetto. "I'm taxes."
"I know. But you seemed preternaturally absorbed with the question of identity, so I thought you were either a spy from customs or a philosopher, and who am I to deny the curiosity of either?"
Benedetto hated the smart-mouthed ones. "What do you want?"
"I find my tax situation is complicated. This is the first time I've had to pay taxes—I just came into a trust fund—and I don't even know what my holdings are. I'd like to have a delay in paying my taxes until I can sort it all out."
"Denied," said Benedetto.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that," said Benedetto.
Andrew sat there for a moment.
"Can I help you with something else?" asked Benedetto.
"Is there any appeal?"
"Yes," said Benedetto. "But you have to pay your taxes before you can appeal."
"I intend to pay my taxes," said Andrew. "It's just going to take me time to do it, and I thought I'd do a better job of it on my own computer in my own apartment rather than on the public computers here in the starport."
"Afraid someone will look over your shoulder?" asked Benedetto. "See how much of an allowance Grandmother left you?"
"It would be nice to have more privacy, yes," said Andrew.
"Permission to leave without payment is denied."
"All right, then, release my liquid funds to me so I can pay to stay here and work on my taxes."
"You had your whole flight to do that."
"My money had always been in a trust fund. I never knew how complicated the holdings were."
"You realize, of course, that if you keep telling me these things, you'll break my heart and I'll run from the room crying," said Benedetto calmly.
The young man sighed. "I'm not sure what you want me to do."
"Pay your taxes like every other citizen."
"I have no way to get to my money until I pay my taxes," said Andrew. "And I have no way to support myself while I figure out my taxes unless you release some funds to me."
"Makes you wish you had thought of this earlier, doesn't it?" said Benedetto.
Andrew looked around the office. "It says on that sign that you'll help me fill out my tax form."
"Yes."
"Help."
"Show me the form."
Andrew looked at him oddly. "How can I show it to you?"
"Bring it up on the computer here." Benedetto turned his computer around on his desk, offering the keyboard side of it to Andrew.
Andrew looked at the blanks in the form displayed above the computer, and typed in his name and his tax I.D. number, then his private I.D. code. Benedetto pointedly looked away while he typed in the code, even though his software was recording each keystroke the young man entered. Once he was gone, Benedetto would have full access to all his records and all his funds. The better to assist him with his taxes, of course.
The display began scrolling.
"What did you do?" asked Benedetto. The words appeared at the bottom of the display, as the top of the page slid back and out of the way, rolling into an ever tighter scroll. Because it wasn't paging, Benedetto knew that this long list of information was appearing as it was being called up by a single question on the form. He turned the computer around to where he could see it. The list consisted of the names and exchange codes of corporations and mutual funds, along with numbers of shares.
"You see my problem," said the young man.
The list went on and on. Benedetto reached down and pressed a few keys in combination. The list stopped. "You have," he said softly, "a large number of holdings."
"But I didn't know it," said Andrew. "I mean, I knew that the trustees had diversified me some time ago, but I had no idea the extent. I just drew an allowance whenever I was on planet, and because it was a tax-free government pension I never had to think anymore about it."
So maybe the kid's wide-eyed i
"Interesting," said Benedetto.
"How about this?" said the young man. "I only turned twenty in the last year of my voyage. Up to then, my earnings were still tax-exempt and I'm entitled to them without paying taxes. Free up that much of my funds, and then give me a few weeks to get some expert to help me analyze the rest of this and I'll submit my tax forms then."
"Excellent idea," said Benedetto. "Where are those liquid earnings held?"
"Catalonian Exchange Bank," said Andrew.
"Account number?"
"All you need is to free up any funds held in my name," said Andrew. "You don't need the account number."
Benedetto didn't press the point. He wouldn't need to dip into the boy's petty cash. Not with the mother lode waiting for him to pillage it at will before he ever got into a tax attorney's office. He typed in the necessary information and published the form. He also gave Andrew Wiggin a thirtyday pass, allowing him the freedom of Sorelledolce as long as he logged in daily with the tax service and turned in a full tax form and paid the estimated tax within that thirty-day period, and promised not to leave the planet until his tax form had been evaluated and confirmed.
Standard operating procedure. The young man thanked him—that's the part Benedetto always liked, when these rich idiots thanked him for lying to them and skimming invisible bribes from their accounts—and then left the office.
As soon as he was gone, Benedetto cleared the display and called up his snitch program to report the young man's I.D. code. He waited. The snitch program did not come up. He brought up his log of ru
Absurd. It was always ru
Using his version of the ba