A Future We'd Like to See 1.6 - Belief in the Dollar By Twoflower (Copyright 1993) You can't really call them colonies. Sarens don't colonize in the traditional sense of the word; that is, settle down on some planet, plant crops, raise children, dull rural life. No, 'colonies' to Sarens are just like trading posts, only a bit more-ground based and with kids running around. A starbase is no place to raise a child, says the Guide. A Saren child must be raised in the comfort of warm earth and light housekeeping. The Guide had a great many things to say about children, proper Saren behavior, and tips for better trading and cargo deals. The Guide, after all, was to the Sarens what the Scrolls of Ytt'iok are to the Ytts, what the Book of Errors is to the Murfles, and what the Bible is to the Terrans. Of course, not all Terrans subscribe to the beliefs in the Bible, and sometimes would become very violent indeed upon meeting someone who did. Of course, Terra has had more wars than any other civilized race in the galaxy; non-Terrans learned long ago that it's more fun to kill people on other worlds than to kill yourselves. Not that Sarens are bloodthirsty warmongers. Heck no, the Guide knows that the proper Saren life is in the trade, the business of commerce. We don't take sides; we supply both of them. I know a great deal about the Guide. It's my job, after all. We Sarens take our religion more like a binding set of traditions than any righteous spiritual holybook. My career in life is to be an expert on the Guide, and explain its many complex passages (not that the wording is complex, just that sometimes passages contradict other passages) to the people at large on Colony #37047734. I'm the official colony Guidereader. We're stationed on the third moon of C'atel, a truly lighthearted and joyful place despite the continual rainstorms that plague its cities. I sometimes spot down there for the nightlife scene and a quiet drink in some noisy club made out of a converted warehouse. Whereas in other religions where the spiritual leader is expected to be a fine member of society and not partake in women, wine and song, my role is more of a job and I can do all the drinking, wenching, and singing I want. My singing voice is not what it used to be in my youth, however, and I am seeing a nice girl named Mandy at the moment. I do have to wear a sort of mauve robe, traditional of all Guidereaders, but it doubles as a reversible raincoat with multiple pockets for valuables. We believe greatly in both functionality and design. I was setting out on my rounds that day, basically wandering around the colony achieving inner peace and harmony and answering the occasional question. The colony is so lovely this time of year. In sharp contrast to the freakish weather down on C'atel, here on its third moon, it is a pleasant sunny spring day year round. (They never named the moons. 'Moons are moons,' most C'atellians claim, sometimes inserting an interesting gesture wherein they drop their pants and reveal their buttocks. I will probably never understand SOME young people.) Of course, the atmosphere outside isn't suitable for breathing so we very rarely get to take a quiet step outside to watch the sun rise, but it's the thought that counts. I went about wandering that morning, as is traditional Guidereader activity according to the Guide, watching the colonists set about the daily business of preparing the shops and stands. The colony did a brisk trade with the Yttians passing through this system on the way to Macroworld or some of the other business oriented districts, in addition to the usual C'atel clients. As a result, you might see neckties and the latest in briefcase security technology at one stand, and bandannas and green herbs of questionable origin at the next. The whole colony is built like this, one huge ring of shops, offices, homes, and storehouses around a central docking area where ships can transfer customers, then park by automatic pilot in the garage built next door. The colonists were busily preparing the days stock, awaiting the first clients with eager faces and open cash registers. "Guidereader?" a young music provisioner called out to me as I walked by with Walk #34 (harmony and tranquility). "Yes?" "Is it wise to mark up a product more than twice its retail price if it is a popular item?" "The Guide refers to the act of popular markups with dual judgements," I repeated from memory. "In the Book of Popeil, 1:34, it is said that Popeil realized the demand for a certain kind of medicine his planet of business, after a plague had broken out overnight. Foolishly, he set his prices to double, and went out of business as victims fled to his competitors who had considerably cheaper rates. However, when he later sold a special kind of firework before a great celebration that nobody else had, the customers did not mind the markup." "So I shouldn't mark up this Stomach Contents Live album if the competition has a lower price?" "That is correct." "Thank you, Guidereader." "By the way, has my order come in yet?" "You mean your 101 Techno Hits to Rave By?" "Yes. I always did like the little samples from holomovies and things they managed to work into those tunes. Delightful." "I got one copy left," the stallkeeper said, pulling it out from a side shelf. "It is not wise to claim a shortage of stock," I recited, "When the bulk of said goods is out in the open. Book of Al, 5:85." "Eh?" "I can see a stack of those CD2s sitting on the shelf," I said, pointing to it. "Good thing I noticed before a customer did." "Erp. Hmmm. Well, can't cheat the Guidereader, now can we?" he laughed. * I was counselling a man at the docking area who had a small child that refused to do his economics homework when the red ship docked. It wasn't an impressive ship, clearly. Seemed to be a cheap Murflan knockoff of a Yttian copy of a Terran tugboat. It was spraypainted red, with various odd symbols involving farm implements scattered on the surface. Since I was looking at the funny hammer-and-sickle arrangement at the top of it, I didn't notice the invading troops until one of them poked me gently in the ribs with a blaster rifle. "Da, where is your leaderski?" the Saren in the furry hat said. "I beg your pardon?" "Your leader. The people's state speaker Piskov wishes for me to find him as our forces take over your colony." "The Guide specifically states that the Saren way towards takeovers is not in the war room, but in the board room," I recited. "Da, and the Communist Manifesto says it should be the people's colony. We are the people, we want our colony. You get, tovarich?" "Towhatvich?" The bustle of identical furry-hat wearing Sarens with guns stopped momentarily, as all eyes pointed at the ship's landing ramp. A man in an identical outfit, but a much meaner look on his face stepped out. He seemed a bit familiar, but the hat and moustache obscured much of his face. He adjusted his hat and pulled out the megaphone from behind his back. "As of this moment," he said, "This colony belongs to the People's Republic of Socialist New Sara. You will soon realize that our way of life is much more satisfying than your former capitalistic dogmaski. The people's army will now be collecting the credits from your imperialist pigdog merchants for proper, even redistribution of wealth. I urge you not to resist, you will soon join us anyway." Now, this is all wrong. Taking all the money and dividing it up EVENLY? Why? What justification would you have for giving money away without services rendered? Would the successful Saren have the same amount of capital as the poor, incompetent one? This didn't make sense at all. "No, my good sir," I said, stepping up to the landing ramp, "I don't see why you have any right to barge in here like you own the place and suddenly disrupt the business flow--" "We have every right, for it is not your colony, it rightfully belongs to the people," the man said. "And I, Piskov shall reclaim it for the oppressed." "The people DO own this colony," I said. "Every merchant here has a share of stock in it." "I assume by your old-fashioned robe and warped attitude that you are a Guidereader, part of the Old Sara way of things, da?" "I am a Guidereader, yes." "Right. Guards!" Piskov snapped, and two furry-hat wearing redclad communists immediately blocked my escape to the left and right. "Lock this man away for now," Piskov said. "We can't have him subverting our ideals and utopian way of life." * Of course, the colony did have a jail cell. Normally it was only used for people who tried to rob a stall or shop. Fraud, embezzlement, and other such crimes were perfectly acceptable in that usually the individuals could settle it among themselves by economical or violent means. And since we did want the criminal to come back sometime and shop legitimately, the jail cell was always very clean and hospitable. Much like a hotel room with bars. I had spent the last two hours listening to the commotion in the ring of shops as money was seized from the shopkeepers for later redistribution. I had heard of this faction of the Saren people before. Very small, but devot believers in their system. The only reason why other Sarens didn't ignore them as a mere quirk in a system that has worked for two hundred years is that they often would kidnap legitimate businessmen and brainwash them into the communist way. I knew they had a Major Ringleader figure, Piskov, but didn't know his name until now. "So all the money is put into one pile, and the people each take an even share?" I asked my two guards. I was lucky they hadn't been ordered not to talk to me, or the boredom might have killed me. Sure, I had my newly purchased CD2 of music in an inner pocket of the reversible robe, but nothing to play it in. "Well, sort ofski," the shorter guard said. "Ski? You enjoy frozen weather sports?" "No. It's the Commuspeak Piskov taught us. You just replace all personal pronouns with 'the people's,' use 'da' instead of yes and put 'ski' after words occasionally. He says it's the way to enlightenment." "Okay, getting back to my question. Why sort of?" "Well, the money is collected by the people's army, then handed over to the state. The state then redistributes it." "Makes sense, can't rely on the people's math skills to handle all the long division. Who's the state?" "Err, just Piskov for nowski," the taller guard said. "He says he'll be employing a larger state once we get more members indoctrinated in the way." "So the state divides it up. Does the state get anything?" "Well, of course. There's the management of the commune, fees, food, supplies, and all sorts of things to worry about." Ah. A loophole. The Guide always said the best way to obtain more money than your peers is to be the supervisor, and obtain a higher salary for the obviously higher responsibility. "But he gets the same share the rest of the people do, right?" "That is correctski." Hmmm. I seriously doubted that. This was sounding less and less like traditional communism and more like corporate ethic by the minute. Every good Saren can smell a rotten deal coming from five rooms away, and this one REEKED. "Say, I have to go to the bathroom. Can you unlock the cell for me?" "Is there not a commode in there, comrade?" "Well, yes, but I accidentally flushed a washcloth down it a few minutes ago. There's one down the hall a ways." "I will escort him," the taller communist said. "You maintain guard here." My cell was unlocked, and the tall one gently prodded me along down the call. These chaps weren't all that bad, I thought. Misguided, but not the sort of people you wouldn't mind seeing at a party, or something. I was going to regret this. Seeing as how I'm awfully short and this guard was awfully tall, my elbow, when thrust backwards with all the strength I could muster, neatly slammed into his groinal area. I ignored the high-pitched whine of agony, and ran as fast as a pair of sandals can take you down the hallway. I had seen the troops bringing confiscated credit chips in the administrator's office, where I suppose their accounts would be divvied up between the people. I flung the door open to the administrators office and burst inside, which is traditional hero activity. "How'd you get out?" Piskov said in a very non-communist voice before I socked him one across the jaw. Yup, those boxing lessons I had as a kid certainly did come in handy. I accessed the computer on his desk, where he was busy preparing to transfer the colonist's credits. Perfect. Just as I had suspected. This would be easy enough, provided I could live long enough to tell people. I ran a printout of the program he was ready to run and stuffed it up a baggy sleeve on my robe. Piskov groaned slightly, consciousness returning rapidly. I made it to the door before I heard the click of a blaster's safety being disengaged. "Do not move, comrade," he said. "We're going back to your cell now." "Richardson, isn't it?" I asked him. "I thought I recognized you, but I didn't know for sure until I heard you without the dopey accent." "You never were cut out for dealing," Richardson/Piskov spat in perfect English. "But lo, you could memorize and recite the Laws of Trade by heart, making you the teacher's pet. Figures you'd be a Guidereader." "Figures you'd be a swindler," I said. "Remember the time you tried to pawn off Kelly's work as your own in art class?" "Enough," he said, dropping back into the accent. "Back to your cell." "Heads up!" I shouted, palming the CD2 still in my pocket and flinging it across the room. Richardson ducked as it whizzed over his head and embedded itself in the wall, giving me enough time to sprint for the docking area. Sure enough, the most of the troops were there, waiting for the state to hand out their newly acquired shared wealth. A few blasters were drawn upon my entrance, but fortunately I had the printout ready to wave in the air. "Before you shoot, listen!" I said. "I have proof here that the state has been getting more than its fair share of the wealth." "Who is this capitalist dog?" shouted a voice from the back. "Look at it yourself. Who here's good with computer systems?" A few hands raised. I tossed the printout to the nearest one. The man with a furry hat (as usual) and glasses examined the document thoroughly. Richardson raced in behind me, looking in horror at the crowd of people gathered around the dogeared white sheet of paper. "Where did you get that? Give it upski!" he shouted, grabbing for the paper. The man with the glasses pulled it away from Richardson's hands. "This program is designed to divide the money evenly, then skim 20% off each share for the state's account. Where did you get this, robed comrade?" "You can find the actual program in the administrative computer at the newly appointed Office of the State," I said. "I think if you check the Terran Confederation personnel records of a Muell Richardson, you'll find they match your Piskov quite well." "Guards, if you would be so kind as to seize our ex-head of state," the glasses wearing man said. * The glasses-wearing fellow turned out to be named Kechev, and wasn't that bad of a conversationalist. After Richardson was shipped off to Sara to stand trial in a number of cases and the communists returned the stolen money, business in the colony settled back to normal. The red force enjoyed the chance to procure a few personal items in the process as well (legally.) "It's not as if communism isn't a good idea," Kechev said, stirring a coffee in the Cafe De The. "The management simply has to be on the up and up." "So you're planning to settle down?" I asked. "Da. It was Richardson's doing on the whole, the business with taking over colonies and gathering their money, just so he could satisfy his capitalistic personal wants." "Nothing wrong with personal wants," I said, sipping more coffee. "But it is your opinion, and I shall respect it. The Guide insists on tolerance and respect of other's beliefs." "Da... if only more of the galaxy behaved in such a manner, us Saren communists would not be considered outcasts. Well, I must be going, friend Guidereader. As newly appointed Head of State, there is much to do to prepare our people for colonization. I trust we will keep in touch?" "But of course," I said. "I'll pick up the bill for the coffee, by the way." "Nyet. It is the people's responsibility to support its citizens." "Yes, but the Guide states that the host must be generous to his guests, and support all fees." "Then we must take the bill and divide it evenly between us." "But I had two coffees and you only had one. It won't come out to be even." "Da, but..." The Guide says there is a minimum allowed time to debate over who's going to pick up the check. And who am I to defy tradition?