“There can be no such thing as 'fairness in taxation.' Taxation is nothing but organized theft, and the concept of a 'fair tax' is therefore every bit as absurd as that of 'fair theft.'”
– Murray Rothbard –
HardFork...
The story you're about to read is my entry for the @hardfork-series HardFork: Can You See The Future? writers' challenge. I imagine that in 2029, agorists like myself will rely upon the Steemit blockchain for much more than just social media.
Although life is difficult, and made much more so by human governments, I find it hard to deny my fundamental optimism. My glass is half full—no, make that three-quarters.
So it is for Thomas Harding, the protagonist in my story. He somehow manages to face the Central Financial Service eyeball to eyeball and come out OK.
Once again, much appreciation goes to The Writers' Block fiction workshop for their kind and constructive feedback. My tale is all the better for it.
"Reaching into the virtual flow, I reroute my supply chain..."
Image courtesy of Orlando and PixaBay
"Justed"
~by Duncan Cary Palmer~
“I’m coming!”
The pounding at the door becomes more insistent. Through drawn sheers, I see two hulking forms outside. Obviously armed.
“Thomas Harper? Federal marshals. Open the door.”
A little faster now—a busted door is the last thing I need—I open it for them.
“Yes?”
Darkening my entry, two heavily armed, well-muscled goons in flak jackets glower at me.
“Do you have any guns in the house?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We’ve read your blog. Do you have any guns?”
“No, I do not have guns. I’m not a violent man.”
Glancing past, I see another half-dozen in similar armor coming out from behind the eucalyptus trees lining the front of our home. A few county sheriffs. More Feds.
Turning his head, one marshal gestures with his chin. Moments later, two women in business attire are escorted up our front walk. A camera drone buzzes overhead, capturing the whole scene.
Thanksgiving over, I should be thinking about Christmas shopping. Apparently, I have other matters to worry about.
As the women reach the door, the marshals step to either side. Now close, I note the CFS logo embroidered on her jacket. Her—now I recall. She deposed me at their office a couple of months ago. Of course, I took the fifth on everything.
“Good morning, Mr. Harper.”
My long-standing “disagreements” with the CFS have come home to roost.
“Which part of ‘I refuse to answer’ didn’t you understand?”
She holds out an envelope, which I eye askance. It might as well be a writhing centipede.
“This is a Federal ‘Summons to Appear.’”
“You could have mailed it.”
“Just doing my job.”
I take the envelope gingerly, dangling it between thumb and forefinger like a nitroglycerin soaked rag.
“Of course you are.” Just you, lady.
As the women turn to go, the rest of the gestapo fade back through the trees. The drone dopplers out of sight.
I notice the cars parked along the front of the yard. A few neighbors watch from doorways and porches as the autonomous vehicles start, then retreat slowly down our private road in a convoy. Intimidation and community humiliation accomplished, they are no doubt heading back under their respective rocks.
“What was that all about?” I turn. Andrea’s still in her robe, distress battling sleep in her eyes.
“I’ll tell you later. Gotta go fix a couple things first.”
In my office, I snatch my glasses and sink into the chair. A third of the way through the 21st Century, agorism still isn’t for the faint of heart. The tools for keeping our economic activity private, however, have gotten a lot better.
I join the mesh. Satellite direct today; not that the neighbors could ever break my encryption, but I don’t want to leave tracks for traffic analysis. Meshed in, there’s no ISP to gate, throttle, or log me, and The Cloud is a dim GoogAzon memory. Instead, I embrace the beauty of The Tree.
It’s a beautiful thing, this tree. Infinite branches and leaves in one direction, infinitely branching roots in the other. Ha, even if those goons had busted down the door, this pair of glasses is all they would have gotten. Can’t get inside my head? You’ll never reach my branch of The Tree.
“Retinal pattern recognized, please authenticate.”
Tracked, my eyes quickly trace a zig-zag path among floating virtual images of digits and animals.
Tree frog - 3 - lizard - 3 - 0 - lizard - 0 - gecko - yak… Teleology. Boom, I’m in.
Safe in my branch of The Tree, our entire world of distributed, encrypted, secure storage and compute power swims before my eyes, all immutably stored on the Steem Blockchain. Even if they could get this far, CFS might only find enough for a slap on my wrist. But, with this new CFS heat, I’d better turtle up…
For the last six months, I’ve been using additive tech to build a key subassembly. Those CFS bastards may suspect we’re building the seeds of their destruction, but—short of torture—proof of that is entirely beyond their grasp. It’s just not visible at this level. My additive gear is purely generic—nothing you can’t find in any well-equipped home workshop.
Going deeper.
Paranoia dictates that a few briar patches and secret doors adorn my world. Seated at my virtual desk, I deliberately knock over the pencil holder, then immediately touch the drawer knobs in a pattern long ago committed to muscle memory. The sequence teleports me to the War Room.
Here, I can access our team’s complete operation, compartmentalized and accessible to each distributed member according to function. Status lights are green across the board. Autonomous roving agents constantly monitor cyber perimeters, ensuring that what we do in our inner sanctum is invisible to CFS and other hostiles.
Avatars of several friends and colleagues—whose true names and locations I’ll never know—appear in the virtual factory before me. I tap SmilingDragon on the shoulder. She turns, and we hug a greeting. “What’s up?”
“Can you take over for my Fab Node?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I just had a visit from our three-letter friends.”
“Just those assholes. They don’t get it yet, do they? So last millennium.”
“Yeah. I need to unplug for a while, in case they come calling again.”
No, CFS doesn’t get it. We’re agorists not soulless bureau’bots. The “letter of the law” is their words. We’re far more agile. We study their legal terms—then, instead, employ our own.
Enterprises, not businesses. Fabrication, not manufacturing. We dwell, we don’t reside.
Justice is all we want—not their damn “equal opportunity under the law”—while they use their damn statutes to rob the hell out of us.
Just them all to hell, anyway.
We don’t need their laws, or their “services.” Anything we care about is time-stamped, contracted, and encrypted, verifiably a permanent part of the blockchain. Not subject to the whims, taxes, or fees of empowered bureaucrats. Nor within their reach.
“Thanks, SmilingDragon, I’m shifting the load your way now.”
Reaching into the virtual flow, I reroute my supply chain to SmilingDragon’s Fab Node. Then I disconnect my subassembly output pipeline and she connects hers in its place. I watch while she makes a few minor adjustments. Confirming she can pick up the slack, she locks things in, and I restart the pipeline flow.
Fabrication of our product will continue unhindered "in the real world," even with me temporarily not a part of it. Crypto revenue in Steem and SBD is also diverted, so I hope this dry spell doesn’t last too long. But I sure as hell won’t support CFS oppression.
—
The federal building is a multibillion dollar glass skyscraper, soaring above the city. I look out over the harbor, taking deep, calming breaths. Lifting a brief prayer for aid, I enter the courtroom. Thank God, a couple of friends have come for moral support.
The judge, imposingly garbed in black robes, is loftily seated an imperial distance from the bar.
“My” CFS agent enters with her entourage of prosecuting attorneys and other minions, impeccably dressed in fabulously expensive suits.
I’m invisibly attired; clad in righteous dignity as well as blockchain-mail armor.
“I understand you’ve refused to answer CFS’ questions?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
He proceeds with the inquisition. One by one, I again decline each question.
Sending CFS out of the room, the judge repeats the interrogation “in camera.” I’ve been assured by counsel anything I’m compelled to disclose can no longer be used against me.
To my surprise, there does appear to be some honor here.
Though judge and I are light years apart in our world views, his seems consistent. Acknowledging that most of the answers CFS seeks to extort would certainly incriminate me, the judge endorses my silence.
Returning to the courtroom, the CFS lackeys seem deeply disappointed by the paltry few questions I’m compelled to answer. Just you, my friends.
—
A month later, I receive the court transcript. Case closed. Time to reconnect my Fab Node. To get back to making the world better, one consumer at a time, while keeping the fruit of that making out of the insatiable maw of the beast. After all, what is the seed of CFS destruction? Our economic success.
Once more, CFS has been well and truly ’just’ed.
FIN
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