Unfit (2 page)

  When I get through the door, I find my father smoothing the carpet on the stairs. I know our family identification from Orion and cash savings are hidden under the stairs in a wooden box, safe from a sensitive telekinetic’s eyes. The auditor will be sensing for gold and silver. Wood and paper will escape their scans.

  There’s a knock on the door right behind me. The auditors must have seen me coming home and sent someone over right away, lest I slip over a back fence bearing away any of their precious gold.

  My father comes downstairs and opens the door.

  “Megerin, tax auditor,” says a man in robes.

  “Sure, sure, enter.” My father steps back, making way.

  Megerin sweeps into our front hall, followed by an uneasy-looking assistant holding a clipboard. Megerin stands straight and moves with the grace of authority. His gaze looks sharp during that brief moment his eyes rest on me.

  But he doesn’t hold my gaze. He glances around the hall, taking in our faux-wood panelling and faded-rose wallpaper. He eyes the wooden coat rack nailed horizontally on the wall and the dangling, brass-plated light fixture. I can’t shake the feeling he’s even counted the number of shoes at the door.

  “Anything to declare?” asks Megerin, as he strides past me, opting not to remove his boots or cape. Nothing in the livingroom attracts his attention, so he moves right into the kitchen, followed by his assistant.

  “No, nothing new,” says my father, following them.

  I walk into the livingroom, listening to the sound of Megerin opening our drawers, followed by the rattle of silverware. Megerin will do physical searches where he senses metals, so as to locate all possible undeclared gold. The punishment for hiding gold or untaxed credits is confiscation. A punishment, I’m certain, Megerin has awarded enough times to leave him bereft of a soul.

  “We have no more gold,” says my father. “The last of it was taken in the other two audits this year.”

  There’s a tacit complaint in his voice. Before the Coalition took over, audits took place once a year.

  If Megerin hears the complaint, he gives no indication. He confers with his assistant about the value of our silverware since the last audit. Satisfied that our kitchen’s value has remained unchanged, he leaves and goes upstairs.

  My father goes with them, following them into the bathroom. I climb to the top of the stairs to watch.

  “New tiling here,” says Megerin.

  “I did that by hand,” says my father. “That should increase the house-value by at least twenty gold, which grants us the home renovation tax-break, right?”

  Megerin looks to his assistant, who nods and flips through a few pages on his clipboard.

  “According to our records, you received a break less than twelve months ago for basement wiring,” says the assistant. “So this renovation must apply to some future audit.”

  They do a quick sweep of my parents room, then mine. They take longer in mine, so I join them to see what they find so interesting. Megerin has my newly completed dress out of my closet. He studies it appraisingly.

  “My daughter made that by hand, from basic fabric she bought for about half a gold,” says my father.

  “Masterfully made,” says Megerin, running his hands along it outside the protective plastic sheet. “I’m going to appraise this at forty-five gold.”

  My father chokes in surprise. The figure is half a year’s salary. If I could sell my dresses for that much gold, my parents wouldn’t have to work.

  “Pen this residence down as taxes paid,” says Megerin, turning to leave with the dress.

  “Wait,” I say. I rush past them before they can leave. I grab my three best dresses from my closet and hold them out to Megerin. That’s half my wardrobe, since I only have seven dresses, counting the one he holds. “These three dresses, I offer, in exchange for that one.”

  “Thank you for your generous offer, but this one will suffice,” says Megerin, sparing the others a passing glance.”

  He leaves with his assistant. I move to follow, but my father puts an arm around me. They don’t even check my brother’s room. I hear the tread of their boots on the stairs as I hang my dresses back up.

  “Don’t worry, Kwan. You can make another dress.”

  “I made that one just for Greg, and he hasn’t seen me in it.”

  “Hun, it’s just things.”

  “Special things, to me.” I twist out of his grasp and go to my dresser.

  “Now, hun, don’t do anything foolish,” says my father.

  I have seven bank notes in twenty-credit denominations. Auditors don’t much like paper money because it leaves a trail when they try to convert it into gold. Paper trails make it hard to skim funds off the Coalition’s tax intake.

  One hundred forty credits. It’s my life savings from various summer jobs I’ve held. It’s been hard saving that much. As my father works seasonally, repairing boats for a living, there’s never much extra money for savings.

  I fold the notes in half and tuck them into my purse. My father stops me before I can leave, setting his hands on my shoulders.

  “Hun?”

  “I will follow them to the tax office and appeal his decision. When they lower the value on the dress to what it’s really worth, I will buy it back.”

  “And if they refuse the appeal?”

  “Then... I will find myself a corner somewhere and cry my lungs out.”

  “Is that a promise you won’t use your powers on them?”

  I stare at him horrified. I’ve never before stepped over someone’s will to force them to do anything.

  “Okay, that’s the face I wanted to see,” says my father, gathering me into a hug.

  For a moment, his own subconscious mental shields falter, and I see his grandfather being led away in chains in their home in Orion. Then I see myself in a diaper, trying to take a step.

  “Dad, I’m seventeen already. Almost eighteen.”

  My efforts are rewarded by an image of myself on my first birthday mashing chocolate cake in my fists. Parents. There must be something that goes wrong with their memories when they have children.

  “I would stop you if I could, but you’ve got that look in your eye that my grandmother used to get,” says my father, releasing me.

  “Father, I will not disappoint you.”

  We hug, then I rush downstairs to follow Megerin.

  Megerin hangs my dress from a rail on the side of the cart. Two assistants have just finished labouring to push a leather armchair onto the back when I arrive. Also on the cart are two wooden crates, one framed painting, and a gold-plated stand-up lamp, complete with large, gaudy shade.

  One of my neighbours, a man named Damas, stands behind the cart with his arms crossed. It seems mine won’t be the only appeal today. I go to stand with him.

  “Your dress?” asks Damas when he sees me.

  “Yes, appraised too high. I want to claim it back. And you?”

  “The lamp has been in my family for generations. I don’t know why they suddenly want it, but it’s been audited before. They just can’t find a record.”

  “So disorganized, this Coalition.”

  “Careful,” says, Damas leaning to peer at the front of the cart.

  The young man tending the horses has not overheard us. His thoughts read bored and impatient, so he’s not a Lightning. Thoughts of water and shade come from the horses. I could probably get them to gallop right now, with a mental picture of a fountain. And if my dress should tumble from the cart during the chaos, no one would see it “vanish”.

  “What have we here?” asks Damas.

  Two auditors arrive, pulling a girl along with them. I know her from school. I think her name is Hattie; she’s a grade behind me. She wears a basic school-type brown dress and a matching bonnet.

  Hattie cries and mumbles incoherently, as the auditors tie one of her wrists to the cart by a simple coil of twine. They leave for the next house.

  “What happened to you,” asks Damas.

  “My father couldn’t pay taxes on his new horse,” says Hattie.

  “You’re not really trapped here,” I tell her. “You could run now. They’d never catch you.”

  “But then they might punish my father.”

  “He just traded you for a horse. What now do you owe him?”

  “He’s gonna get me back. Now that he has the horse, he can work again. He’ll use the money to get me back. He promised me.”

  “Your Pa’s a drunkard,” says Damas. “You’ll be lucky if he saves enough money to buy food for that horse.”

  “He’ll do it. You’ll see.”

  Damas shakes his head. “You could make Rion with a bit of elbow-grease. Be a stable-hand or a live-in nanny for pay until you’re old enough to marry.”

  “I caaan’t,” says Hattie, breaking into sobs again.

  If there’s enough left of her after the Coalition has finished using her body, they will probably grow bored and allow her to return home. If it were me, I’d pull my arm out of that twine and run as far as my legs would carry me.

  The cart remains in-place for another forty minutes while the auditors complete their assessment of the block. Megerin goes about his work with calm efficiency. He almost seems content to be doing this.

  “Don’t glower so,” says Damas. “You have a face too cute for glowering.”

  “Surely he realizes that taxing us so frequently amounts to theft.”

  “They need to hire more mercenaries to keep the peace. That costs money. And then, there’s the incursions from Rion up north of us. Our neighbours sense weakness in Hillvale, so they’ve come to snatch up our land.”

  “And so to defend us, they rob us.”

  “That’s the way it’s gotta be, I fear.”

  At a hand-signal from Megerin, the cart lurches and starts to move. It’s a slow, lumbering trot that allows us to keep pace on foot. Few cars or other horses turn down my street while the cart is there. Drivers recognize it right away and choose alternate routes when they can.

  Damas walks ahead of me, consoling Hattie and trying to coax some sense into her. I walk along behind him, keeping an eye on my dress.

  The tax office is a sandstone building, squat and unassuming in the noon light. Across the street from it, stands the electric substation that powers this part of the demesne. It’s the cause of that unnerving “clack” noise whenever the power loads change. Dwarfing the tax office from behind, is a textile printing plant, its sixteen smokestacks billowing white fumes. Two-storey residences frame all the other sides.

  The main entrance of the office has marble steps and a pair of glass doors. There are stables in the back and a large garage door on the side to allow vans and carts. Rifle-bearing, non-powered guards stand on either side of the garage door.

  It is before the garage door that our cart stops. The door is open, and I spy another cart inside already. The auditors wander off to the front doors, leaving the cart to the care of the young man in front.

  “Oi,” says Damas, calling out to the five petitioners for the cart ahead of us. “How long have you gentlemen been here?”

  “Nigh on four hours,” says a man in a pipe-fitters guild uniform.

  “The office closes tonight at sixth hour, right?”

  “Ya, you guys might not get in tonight.”

  Damas curses and leans on the cart. Hattie puts on a wide-eyed look and slumps down to the ground against a wheel.

  “Looks like we might be here all night,” says Damas. “What do you ladies want to do?”

  “We wait,” I say. “I’m willing to wait until morning for a chance to appeal.”

  I make myself comfortable on a clean spot on the sidewalk.

  The cart-leader unhitches the horses and takes them to the stables to be watered. Two more carts arrive behind us during that day, bringing the number of petitioners up to a dozen. Damas and the other gentlemen get into a game of cards. Some of the women have brought their knitting, so they form a circle and chat. Both circles talk amiably about the ‘good old days’ before the Coalition, when apparently everything ran on magic and dreams.

  As sunset tints the sky in red, two petitioners give up and leave. The guards change shifts. Neighbourhood groups come out to give us water. There’s been no movement in the line at all. People jest that the office has been napping.

  Finally, just as a third person prepares to leave, a group of Coalition Lightnings arrive. I am unsurprised to see Pertran leading that group, for he is in charge of the area. There are three other Lightnings behind him, and a Coalition telepath.

  “Dang, it’s Tiller,” says Damas.

  “Oh, a telepath,” says the man facing Damas. “I’m getting outta here. They can keep the gold for that.”

  Two more people leave with the man, grumbling about having their heads mucked around in. I wish I could call out to them and tell them how difficult it is for a telepath to penetrate deeply into someone’s head, unless the other side is also telepathic. But that would raise too many questions about me that I don’t want to answer.

  The people at the lead are scrambling to their feet to be admitted. The time is almost upon us. I rise and mentally prepare what I will say.

  “Name?”

  “Kwan.”

  “Family name?”

  “None.”

  The secretary makes a note in his journal.

  I glance nervously around the hall. Our cart rests to the side, having been pulled in by the guards. The other groups remain outside in the garage and the group before us has left by the front entrance. So the only people left are the Lightnings, the telepath and the secretary. Then there’s me, Damas, and the girl tied to the cart.

  Pertran and the Lightnings sit at a long table, drinking wine and breaking off fistfuls of sausage taken from the first cart.

  Tiller sits at the end of the table, looking serious. A glass of water sits before him, as he gazes at me with a mildly detached expression. I’m unsure if he recognizes me for a telepath, since I don’t feel his senses brush my mind.

  The secretary continues. “Your business to present?”

  I glance at the cart one last time, but my dress is still there. And so this nightmare must continue.

  “I wish to appeal the appraised value of that dress,” I say. “It was handmade, and so it’s not worth the forty-five gold. If you care to look at the inside seams, you will see how rough it really is.”