Orson Scott Card - Ender 1.5 - Investment Counselor

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Investment Counselor

Orson Scott Card

Andrew Wiggin turned twenty the day he reached the planet Sorelledolce.

Or rather, after complicated calculations of how many seconds he had been

in flight, and at what percentage of lightspeed, and therefore what amount

of subjective time had elapsed for him, he reached the conclusion that he

had passed his twentieth birthday just before the end of the voyage.

This was much more relevant to him than the other pertinent fact—that

four hundred and some-odd years had passed since the day he was born,

back on Earth, back when the human race had not spread beyond the solar

system of its birth.

When Valentine emerged from the debarkation chamber—alphabetically

she was always after him—Andrew greeted her with the news. "I just

figured it out," he said. "I'm twenty."

"Good," she said. "Now you can start paying taxes like the rest of us."

Ever since the end of the war of Xenocide, Andrew had lived on a trust fund

set up by a grateful world to reward the commander of the fleets that

saved humanity. Well, strictly speaking, that action was taken at the end of

the Third Bugger War, when people still thought of the Buggers as

monsters and the children who commanded the fleet as heroes. By the

time the name was changed to the War of Xenocide, humanity was no

longer grateful, and the last thing any government would have dared to do

was authorize a pension trust fund for Ender Wiggin, the perpetrator of the

most awful crime in human history.

In fact, if it had become known that such a fund existed, it would have

become a public scandal. But the interstellar fleet was slow to convert to

the idea that destroying the Buggers had been a bad idea. And so they

carefully shielded the trust fund from public view, dispersing it among

many mutual funds and as stock in many different companies, with no

single authority controlling any significant portion of the money. Effectively,

they had made the money disappear, and only Andrew himself and his

sister Valentine knew where the money was, or how much of it there was.

One thing, though, was certain: By law, when Andrew reached the

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Investment Counselor

subjective age of twenty, the tax-exempt status of his holdings would be

revoked. The income would start being reported to the appropriate

authorities. Andrew would have to file a tax report either every year or

every time he concluded an interstellar voyage of greater than one year in

objective time, the taxes to be annualized and interest on the unpaid

portion duly handed over.

Andrew was not looking forward to it.

"How does it work with your book royalties?" he asked Valentine.

"The same as anyone," she answered, "except that not many copies sell, so

there isn't much in the way of taxes to pay."

Only a few minutes later she had to eat her words, for when they sat down

at the rental computers in the starport of Sorelledolce, Valentine discovered

that her most recent book, a history of the failed Jung Calvin colonies on

the planet Helvetica, had achieved something of a cult status.

"I think I'm rich," she murmured to Andrew.

"I have no idea whether I'm rich or not," said Andrew. "I can't get the

computer to stop listing my holdings."

The names of companies kept scrolling up and back, the list going on and

on.

"I thought they'd just give you a check for whatever was in the bank when

you turned twenty," said Valentine.

"I should be so lucky," said Andrew. "I can't sit here and wait for this."

"You have to," said Valentine. "You can't get through customs without

proving that you've paid your taxes and that you have enough left over to

support yourself without becoming a drain on public resources."

"What if I didn't have enough money? They send me back?"

"No, they assign you to a work crew and compel you to earn your way free

at an extremely unfair rate of pay."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't. I've just read a lot of history and I know how governmerits work.

If it isn't that, it'll be the equivalent. Or they'll send you back."

"I can't be the only person who ever landed and discovered that it would

take him a week to find out what his financial situation was," said Andrew.

"I'm going to find somebody."

"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.

* * *

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Investment Counselor

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

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