'Borgs and Taxes

Sparks flew in Newland Business Complex #4 as massive floor-to-ceiling sheets of metaplast alloy were welded into place. Jirro Beyet, Newland Tax Inspector, circled around a pile of self-sealing stem bolts as he approached the property owner. The man stood under a shaded pavilion, overseeing the operation.

"Mr. Siyeg!" He shouted over the shrieking whir of a nearby metal shaping station.

The man looked back at him and frowned as he removed his ear plugs. "Are you the auditor?"

Jirro showed his credentials as he looked around. Stacks of inch-thick metaplast, vacuum sealed in flexlead, filled Suite #4's area of the common courtyard. Off-planet shipping labels dangled from the corners of the stacks, ending in numbers that staggered him. Whatever the point of all this remodeling was, it was being done at enormous cost.

He looked back at Mr. Siyeg. "Yes I am. Jirro Beyet, Senior Tax Auditor for the Newland Trade Ministry. As you know from our earlier grid-conference, I have several questions regarding the nature of this renovation work."

He pressed on over an audible sigh from the other man. "First, is this renovation for business or personal use?"

"Both."

"And the nature of its use will be...?"

"Security."

Beyet raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Security from what?"

"Cyborgs."

"So....to secure yourself from cyborgs, you've imported, from off-planet, at vast expense..." he trailed off as he flipped through screens of tax information on his datapad. "750 square meters of armor-grade metaplast with integrated signal shielding, a completely self-contained interior air recirculating and filtering system pre-loaded with off-planet air, 2 space-grade airlock systems, and a...cryogenic foam system?"

"Yes."

Beyet nodded. "That's 5 million credits import tax, then. Transfer only, credit sticks not accepted."

Mr. Siyeg glanced at the furrow gouged into the oak of his desk and smiled. He looked around the office, it's signal shielded metaplast lining meticulously hidden behind a replica of the grey rock finish common to the office complexes in Newland. Tomorrow, he would have to take a day away from the office, as the new air system required an absolute atmospheric vacuum in the building before he could be confident that the office was completely notum-desaturated. Hidden nozzles ensconced in the walls and ceiling could hose down a target in 10 liters a second of fast-acting cyrogenic foam. Rapidly fatal to standard human breeds, he hoped that more resilient targets would simply shutdown when overwhelmed.

It was all really quite ridiculous overkill in terms of security, even for someone like him. But, he mused to himself, bigger prey requires a bigger gun. Or a more virulent toxin. He smiled at the thought as he scanned open the airlock to the office's adjoining room and looked at the looming coffin contained within. The most secretive part of the remodeling process, it murmured and beeped as millions of credits of high-end medical and research technology self-regulated 10,000 tiny variables. From the outside it was just a rejuvenation bed, the sort that black-hearted wealthy buy in the hopes of staving off judgement for one or two more years. But on the inside, it was so, so much more.

He took two vials out from a bag. One contained two tiny slivers of metal, almost microscopic, one plucked from the furrow in his desk, and the other from a sizable dent in the face of his doorman's hammer. The other vial he held delicately, almost as thought it was made of air that at the slightest pressure would slip his fingers. This vial was full of flakes of skin, hair, and a single droplet of fluid, each kept carefully separate from the others inside tiny tubes.

Reverently, he placed each vial in a small access hatch on the outside of the coffin. Inner machinery whirred as the vials were cracked open and the contents moved to examination chambers. Here they stopped and waited, kept in perfect stasis conditions, or as close as modern technology got, anyways. Despite the suspense, it was simply too dangerous to research any further in a room where...certain, notum-fueled, eyes could be watching.

"Soon," he thought.