Unfortunately, our new drive meant the date was over, as Hansen and Mara dug in. All in all, it went as well as any date, nut the drive itself made the night with Mara memorable. I fell asleep thinking about the possibilities. What kid didn't dream of the stars, after all? There was already plenty of people thinking hard about a space elevator – Plasma Steel made it possible, after all.

Personally, I've never liked the idea of an elevator. An elevator would only be meaningful if we were able to exploit the moon and asteroids and other planets. None of that is particularly close to where an elevator would drop stuff off in orbit. If we had drive tech fast and efficient enough to make the distances involved in space workable, then we had drive tech powerful enough that escaping Earth shouldn't be a big deal. I mean, with Mars being six months away at best, I couldn't imagine having enough trade and commerce to justify an elevator. And most of the asteroid belt was even farther. I suppose if the drive in question was some kind of nuclear thing, maybe you didn't want that on the surface. But no one was really thinking about those anymore.

But still, the International Space Station was a going concern; it had been expanded and enhanced a great deal since my childhood. They kept a couple dozen people onboard all year now. There had even been a couple of manned missions to Mars that managed to get their people back, too. So far, Plasma Steel was difficult to work with on spaceships – the engineers may have been delighted that it didn't change size with temperature changes, but its inflexibility made it very difficult to get an atmospheric seal. You needed near-perfect tolerances right out of the mold to make it work. But the techs who worked on the ISS and Mars missions had made great strides, even if their hulls were made of old materials.

More telling, Star Wars, Star Trek, and other sci-fi franchises remained popular. Even as critics and doomsayers cried about lotus-eaters, the stars still drew our thoughts. And with Hansen's new drive (I was determined to see it named after him)(despite my efforts, it ended up getting called an impulse drive), space could finally be a reality. And it was with that sense of excitement that I attended my surprise meeting the next morning.

I had made my usual morning pilgrimage to the Main Line Mocha, but instead of being greeted by Mary and a pot of experimental coffee, I was met by a tall man in a suit that didn't quite fit. Actually, no, the suit fit fine – nothing too large, too small, it was more like he didn't fit himself. In hindsight, I suspect that he was just overly prepared to get yelled at. Braced shoulders combined with a permanent cringe made for an oddly shaped man that didn't mesh well with an old-fashioned business suit.

He stood as soon as I came in, squared himself towards me, and extended a hand. With a placid face, he boomed at me, “Ward Ackley? I was told I could find you here. I wish I had been able to make an appointment.”

I had missed a lot of sleep that night, and the cheerful voice made me wince. I said, “Morning. Normally my administrators handle most people's concerns around here. Who were you talking to?”

“Oh, I'm from Grand Rapids, not around here. And it really is you, personally, that I should talk to. Maybe your accountant?”

That was confusing. I answered, “Boring actually resigned a while ago, but I could call him in, I suppose. Um, I'm sorry, but who are you?”

“I'm Agent Robertsen, sir. From the IRS. We've sent a great deal of mail, and emails, but haven't gotten a response, so I've come out. Barker cleared me, although I didn't tell him I was here to talk to you. I thought you'd probably want to keep this somewhat private.”

That was a surprise. I had honestly forgotten that the IRS was even a thing. “That's probably best. Do you have a comm ident yet? I can call my accountant and set up an appointment with you. This afternoon, or maybe tomorrow morning, should be fine.”

“Oh, don't worry. I wasn't expecting you to be able to meet right away. I'm heading back to Grand Rapids for another investigation. I was just here to serve you with notice. We can set up meetings later.”

And with that, he handed me an envelope and left without another word.

I opened up the envelope. I was being audited, investigated with suspicion of tax evasion.

I called, “Mary? Can I borrow your com? I need to call someone.” Maybe I should give in and get a com badge like everyone else. Or maybe an assistant to follow me around.

Through most of my life, I'd heard about rich and wealthy types who believed themselves above it all, that they had the power and capability to ignore the law and consequences. They can do anything they want and never suffer for it. They reach a point of power where they become untouchable, able to put off criminal investigations, silence civil complaints, and squash news reports. They might not actually be above the law, but their belief is so strong that it completely informs all their actions.

I guess I wasn't there yet. News of the audit didn't make me angry, nor did I just dismiss it as irrelevant. Instead, it settled like a rock in my stomach. It didn't matter how the environmental controls were set, I felt cold and shaky. My thoughts were a little bit wild, panicky, but I couldn't get them to settle on anything but the slip of paper the agent had handed me. I'm not sure I had ever felt this much fear for the future before, not even when I was struggling at college. Being given probation and threatened with suspension felt similar, but nowhere near this degree. And my 'accountant' wasn't making me feel much better.

Boring had read over the slip, and then simply asked me what I wanted to do. I had no idea, which is why I had gone to him in the first place. I said, “What do you mean? How can I owe taxes? I haven't earned a penny in years and years. Hell, unless there's a bank account somewhere I've forgotten about, the only money I still have is that dollar on a plaque the chamber of commerce gave me way back when we first incorporated. And it's not PPI getting investigated, it's me!”

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“Calm down, Mr. Ackley,” Boring said. Of course, he wasn't upset, he wasn't the one being threatened with foreclosure, homelessness, shame, embarrassment, jail, and more. “This is pretty routine. I'm honestly surprised that this is the first time you've been audited. I'll bet your connections in the army and congress have shielded you some.”

“So why aren't they shielding me now?”

“I couldn't say. It probably doesn't matter yet,” answered Boring. “This is just an investigation, after all. They're probably just worried that you haven't reported any income in years.”

“Because I haven't gotten any income,” I said. “All my needs are met, and I get all the luxuries I could want.”

“Yup. And those needs have value. Payment in kind is still payment, arguably.” Boring went on, “We figured that since you were just receiving what everyone else here was getting, then you wouldn't need to file, just like them. PPI's payments effectively covered what they owed. The IRS may be ensuring that you really aren't receiving more than your citizens. I'd hate to be one of the economists assigned to measure the value of room, board, and production credits, but there is still value there.

“There's been a handful of people here getting audited, and they haven't gotten in trouble, with a few exceptions. We can certainly use that precedent to cover you.”

That didn't make me feel better at all. “Exceptions! Exceptions! So I'm not safe, I really don't want to go to jail, Will.”

He waved his hand at me, brushing away my objection. “I doubt it applies to you. So far as I know, there's been a few hundred audits on citizens here, and only two got into anything resembling trouble. In both cases, they had sold personal property for a large amount of money, and failed to report – or pay taxes on – the sale. An old painting from one of them, and some WWII memorabilia in the other.”

“If I recall correctly, a different CEO type bought both of them. There's a pretty hopping market going on for antiques and artwork. It's basically the only thing left that's desirable that's still hard to get. Most luxuries are all too easy to get – I've got a solid oak desk in my rooms that I paid maybe fifty dollars for. But the old masters? Rare memorabilia, original Tiffany lamps, stuff like that, they still shuffle around and require more cash every year.

“Have you been buying or selling anything like that?”

“No, I haven't. I don't even own anything like that unless you count some of the stuff from the company that I've saved. The first armor prototype, the first piece of Plasma Steel that me and Hansen accidentally made. But nothing I've bought or sold,” I said. The government was even going to take those away.

“Then you're fine, I'm sure,” said Boring. “Don't worry about it, these investigations take years. Get one of your lawyers involved, they'll determine how best to cooperate with the IRS, and where it's best to fight or whatever. I don't usually say this, but forget about this for a while. Go distract yourself, find something that needs doing, or something otherwise fun.”

Like that was going to be possible.

In the end, Boring was right. The audit didn't go anywhere. I think we may have turned over a few extra tons of food each year to account for my 'income,' but I don't recall the details. There were really only a few actual consequences. First, my attorneys earned their room and board for a few more years. They spend a ridiculous amount of time on me. I suspect that the Arcology's lawyers were getting bored with nothing to do but handle domestic disputes and trying criminal cases. The chance to handle a high-profile case dealing with money and income must have been irresistible.

I lost a lot of sleep, too. Frankly, even after everything that's happened, I still wake up with cold sweats after dreaming about getting handed an envelope. Speaking as someone who has faced all sorts of problems, getting investigated by the IRS is way more stressful than anything else I know. I've been car-bombed, besieged, and chewed out by dried-up old counselors, and that slip of paper still makes my heart race when I think about it.

What surprised me most was how angry everyone got. I do mean everyone. I didn't talk about the audit at all, except with Boring, the other owners, and my attorneys, but word got around. I guess that's what happens when you get served in a public place. But, instead of gossiping about my scandal, people got upset. And not just in my arcology, either. There was even a major protest in DC about the investigation.

I guess I had a reputation of humility or something. People knew that I didn't abuse my station, that I had been generous and so forth with my employees since the beginning, and hadn't ever cheated anyone. Since I didn't cheat the people I was legally allowed to cheat, most people felt like I deserved the benefit of the doubt about cheating the government.

I think a lot of people were concerned about the implications of charging me. The percentage of people who still earned and used money as such was down to the single digits. Nearly everyone either lived off handouts or worked for payment-in-kind. It was pretty much expected that getting taxed for things that also got distributed for free was a bad idea. Of course, just because most people thought it was a bad idea doesn't always affect public policy.

I was lucky that they backed off. Maybe it was just because I really didn't have anything the government could take that they didn't already have.