The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  Mosh was taken aback. “All those times were accidental . . . I swear.”

  No one bit.

  “Wait a minute,” he continued. “You think Justin is starting to develop more than professional feelings for you?” he said, looking at Neela.

  “Well,” she answered, taking obvious pride in her looks and figure, “it makes sense.”

  Now Eleanor looked worried. “Joking aside, Neela, don’t you think it’s a dangerous game to play?”

  Mosh nodded—concerned.

  “I am not encouraging anything, much less that,” she retorted. “I am simply using whatever I deem necessary to help undo some of the damage Hektor’s already done. I can steer Justin’s feelings into appropriate channels once I’ve reestablished that all-important relationship.”

  “So you’re telling me,” said Mosh, “that this ‘steering’ has nothing to do with the fact that this man is handsome in that rugged sort of way your file suggests is to your liking, not to mention a little mysterious, and, to top it all off, badly in need of your help?”

  Neela was about to answer, but Mosh wasn’t through.

  “You may wish to be careful, my dear, that you do not become the puppet instead of the puppeteer. I don’t need to remind you that our laws and customs concerning patient/professional relationships protect more than just the patients—they also severely punish the offenders.”

  Neela looked at both Mosh and Eleanor. “You have nothing to worry about. He’s a patient. Nothing more, nothing less. A patient, I might add, that I desperately need to find.”

  Neela left quickly, afraid the conversation would continue—and of what it might expose if she stayed.

  As Neela left her concerned mentors, Eleanor looked uneasily toward her husband.

  “We need to help her.”

  “I agree, but how?”

  “Can you get ahold of Gillette?”

  Mosh rubbed his chin. “Yes, but if he all of a sudden just shows up it will hurt Neela professionally—cast doubt on her at an important point in her career. I don’t think the situation is as dire as that.”

  “Tell you what,” Eleanor answered. “You let me worry about that. By the time I’m done with her she’ll be making the request. Your only job is to make sure the good doctor’s on board when she calls.”

  “My only job, eh?” he chuckled.

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, ego rescued.

  He would call Dr. Gillette as soon as he got back to the office.

  3 Walk About

  Hektor knew he was in trouble. He knew it because the call he’d just received from his boss’s assistant ended with a request for a face-to-face meeting. It was rare that a meeting would have to be taken in person, and even rarer that a boss would fly out for it. Now his was coming to town, and it wasn’t to deliver a compliment.

  He was told to meet at the local Marriott, a beautiful hotel recently redone in the turn-of-the-millennium style. Though he didn’t have to, he decided to walk, for no other reason than to finish off a little something he’d started the day before. It was bad form, but he pulled from his pocket the cigar it seemed he’d only just lit up. Might as well finish it now, he figured, stepping out into the street. Better this bad taste in my mouth than the one that’s coming. Between the wind and the now semistale tobacco, it took Hektor a full two minutes just to get the damned thing lit. He allowed himself a good half hour to arrive at his destination. His pace was leisurely enough that he began to notice his surroundings for the first time since he’d arrived. A rare treat, in that his life had pretty much been on the go from the time he’d joined GCI those forty-odd years ago. He’d never allowed himself the luxury of “taking it all in,” as it were. Well, he may have rushed through his career, but he certainly wasn’t about to rush to its demise. The weather was appropriately dreary. Not by coincidence, but rather by dictate. Seemed the folks in Boulder felt inclement weather was part of the town’s charm, and though the weather had been influenced for centuries, there was no accounting for which way a town wanted the wind to blow. It appeared to Hektor that this one wanted it to blow harshly. All the better—he had plenty to think about, and the cold air would do him good.

  It seemed his stock was down. Way down. Hektor had seen it happen before. It didn’t take place in the blink of an eye. That would’ve been merciful. No, it was more like watching a lone zebra being nipped to death by a pack of wild hyenas. All it took was the smell of blood. What started out as a small wound inflicted by one determined hunter ended up as a feeding frenzy shared by all. Hektor pictured how it must have gone down. Probably an executive with a solid portfolio had sold him short on seeing or hearing of the debacle in Boulder. She told one of her husbands, who most likely told one of his close associates who was owed a favor, and after that the run was on. It was like having your own little market meltdown. The slang for it was a “minigrand.” Or, more precisely, a miniature Grand Collapse. His stock market price had dropped 87 percent. He’d gotten a flurry of calls from family and friends. He was even pretty sure his own mother had sold him short. Of course she’d denied it, but he would’ve done the same in her shoes. In fact, he had sold his uncle short after a particularly nasty scandal went public. Got out just in time, if he remembered correctly. Family, friends, foes. How quickly the lines blurred when profit was at stake.

  Hektor arrived at the hotel in good order. He walked up the small flight of stairs leading to the main doors and entered the building. The lobby was elegant but understated, and he noticed a row of comfortable-looking chairs to the left of the check-in desk. He walked over, sat down, and waited. He knew he’d be conspicuous enough, and now all he had to do was wait for whichever lackey was sent down to retrieve him. He didn’t have to wait long.

  She was young and pretty in a just-out-of-trade-school sort of way, and wearing the de rigueur five-piece business suit so common with the entry levels. If she knew what was going on her mannerisms certainly didn’t betray the fact.

  “Mr. Sambianco,” she said, keeping her eye contact to a minimum, “won’t you come with me?”

  She didn’t wait for a reply before she turned heel and started walking back from the direction in which she’d come. Hektor got up and followed. He couldn’t be mad at the callousness of her approach. An hour ago she’d most likely been at corporate headquarters fetching coffee and opening nonvital accounts for her boss. And now she’d been called to accompany him on a nochance-of-hobnobbing mission to Colorado. And whatever plans she’d made for the evening had about as much chance of coming to fruition as Hektor had of having his stocks not permanently relegated to junk status. Yeah, thought Hektor. I’d be pretty pissed off myself. Though he was proud, business was business, and she was just an automaton sent to do a job.

  “This way,” the ice princess said, barely turning her head. Hektor followed her down a long, well-lit corridor. He noticed the floor creaking as they walked. Nice touch, he thought. Yet another little programmed “extra” one would expect from the finer hotels.

  They finally stopped in front of a small, nondescript door. The woman passed a card through a slot; it buzzed in the old style, and then the door swung open. Hektor entered the room and looked around. Not the nicest of suites, but suitable for what he suspected was about to occur. The woman left him in a small sitting area by a window and departed without asking if she could get him anything. How the mighty have fallen, Hektor reflected. He stared out the window. It was still overcast, and he could see a bank of clouds trapped against the Rocky Mountains. A full fifteen minutes passed before his boss emerged from the bedroom. Hektor stood up immediately, but his boss motioned for him to sit back down, taking the seat across from him.

  Kirk Olmstead was the deputy director of Special Operations for GCI. Yet another good-looking man in a world of good-looking men. The nanites capable of creating such physiological feats were inexpensive to the point of being given away with magazine subscriptions. What made Kirk stand out was the same thing t
hat had made successful men and women stand out for eons—fashion. He was wearing the latest Land Rover PowerSuit, an exquisite mix of classic lines and rugged adaptability. “Walk on water or dive beneath” was the tagline of the recent ad campaign, Hektor recalled. Mr. Olmstead also had another distinguishing characteristic—his eyes. One look was all that was needed to realize that this was one man who controlled the lives of many. And while he had the power to help or harm thousands, there was now only one in his sights.

  Hektor spoke first. “You couldn’t have done this with a phone call?”

  The DepDir shook his head.

  “That bad, huh?” asked Hektor. His question was answered immediately with a dour smile.

  “Alright, Hektor,” the DepDir began, “I’ll get to the point. You’ve managed to screw up what should have been an easy and, more important, quiet assignment. Now it’s going to turn into the biggest media blitz since the pope’s divorce.” He paused for a second. “Maybe bigger.”

  “It went wrong, sir. I’ll certainly admit to that. It was all going well until someone paid the goddamned coverage.”

  “Oh yes,” replied the deputy. “The coverage. The request for payment you put into an official GCI form. What were you thinking?”

  “Kirk, it was for ten million friggin’ GCI credits! Who for the love of Tim has that kind of money?!”

  “With all due respect, Hektor,” shot back the deputy, “who for the love of Tim cares? You were stupid enough to put it in writing when you didn’t have to. Mind explaining what possessed you?”

  Hektor thought back on the reason for the gaffe; the delicious pleasure of sticking it to Neela. However, like the orgasm attained through an illicit sexual encounter, the pleasure was not nearly as great as the devastation now being wrought.

  “No real reason, sir. Just trying to make it all seem official.”

  “Well,” intoned the deputy, “it’s official, alright, and now not only yours, but all of GCI’s ass may be in a sling.”

  Hektor tried to play that one out in his mind. He was so concerned with the demise of his own ass, as it were, that he’d completely forgotten what his failure might mean to GCI. Of course, he realized. It wasn’t just a matter of GCI losing out on getting a piece of Justin. If this went to court it might just become a matter of GCI losing a piece of itself. Leverage, Hektor thought. I’ve actually got some leverage here.

  “You think he’ll sue, sir?”

  The deputy, who had not once taken his cold glare off Hektor, shot back, “I wouldn’t be so concerned with what he’ll do, Hektor, so much as what you’ll do.”

  “If I’m reading this meeting correctly, Kirk, what I’ll be doing as soon as I walk out this door won’t have much of a rat’s ass relevance to anyone.” Hektor was enjoying his trashing of protocol. No point in being polite.

  The DepDir didn’t respond. That was a good sign. The fact that he was thinking meant there was something to think about. Had he only wanted to downgrade or even fire Hektor it would have been done by now. No, something was up. The DepDir wouldn’t have wasted his time coming out if there wasn’t. Still, he just sat there staring while seeming to mull over a decision. Hektor held his breath, trying to look calm. He hadn’t figured on this. Hadn’t held out any hope at all, actually. It was the longest minute of his life.

  “You’re reading this meeting correctly, Hektor,” the DepDir said, “in that you’re in pretty deep shit. What you’re not reading correctly is that we’re gonna give you a chance to dig yourself out.”

  Yes! Hektor could barely believe his luck. “Whatever it is you need me to do, it will be done.”

  “It had better be, Hektor. The Chairman himself has become involved in the problem.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “ ‘Oh, shit,’ indeed, Hektor, but good for you.”

  Kirk leaned back in his chair, pressing the fingers of his hands together.

  “The point you’ve raised . . . about the source of the funding . . . what I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room . . . the bottom line is . . . well, we don’t know who paid out that money.”

  “Not possible,” Hektor said in abject disbelief. “We know everything.”

  “Correction, Hektor. We thought we knew everything. Frankly, I’m convinced that by the time we actually do find out, we’ll have spent about as much credits doing so as our mystery man . . . or woman . . . paid out.”

  “Well, Kirk. If you can’t find him, what makes you think I can?”

  “You can’t. That’s not what we want from you. It’s been decided at the highest levels that to move forward we’ll have to find the source. Whoever it is obviously has access to our communications and can counter our moves. That, by the way, is one of the reasons for this face-to-face meeting; more secure.”

  As it became clear to Hektor where the DepDir was heading, he couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’ll need a lightning rod.”

  “I always liked you, Hektor. You catch on quick.”

  “So,” continued Hektor, “you want me to take the brunt of the media blitz and continue to be the likely target of more blindsides, like the appearance of ten million credits.”

  The DepDir smiled back. “No one wants the job, Hek. At least, not until we know what we’re dealing with. It’s a career-killer. And, well, yours is . . . you know.”

  Hektor nodded.

  “So,” the DepDir continued, “you’re going to be allowed to stay on. I myself will have nothing to do with you. If you agree, you’ll be on special independent assignment to the board.”

  “And if I disagree?”

  “You won’t.”

  Hektor knew what that meant. If he thought his life was bad now, it was nothing compared to what it would be like with GCI breathing down his neck.

  “So if I screw up no one in the department gets blamed?”

  “You mean, if you screw up again,” the DepDir added for effect.

  Hektor squirmed.

  “That’s correct, Hektor. No one but you.” The deputy director got up, indicating the meeting was coming to an end. Hektor followed suit. “I’ve also taken the liberty,” continued the DepDir, “of divesting myself of all your stock. Nothing personal. I don’t want any conflict of interest to arise.”

  “Of course not, sir.” And it helps that it ain’t worth shit.

  “That’s all for now.”

  “Uh, sir.”

  “Yeah, Sambianco,” the DepDir answered in some irritation.

  “My salary . . .”

  “Will remain the same for the duration of your current assignment.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me, Hektor. I didn’t agree to this. If it were up to me alone you’d be mining rocks on Mercury as we speak.”

  “Understood. Thank whoever, sir.”

  “Don’t push it, Sambianco.”

  Hektor took his leave. As he headed back down the creaky hallway he began to realize that the meeting hadn’t gone as badly as he’d expected. Which meant he hadn’t ended up with a one-way ticket to Mercury. Objectively his situation was still terrible. But now he had options—not many—but enough. Even enough to regret having smoked the stale cigar. He was now back in the main lobby of the hotel. For what he was contemplating doing he’d need a nice quiet location. To the right and just behind the concierge desk was a small bar room from which were emanating the dulcet sounds of a trio playing mellow punk jazz. Hektor found a comfortable corner, ordered a sixteen-year-old Lagavulan scotch from the first drone to approach, and sat down. The scotch was brought over and Hektor took a swift sip. He let the strong oak flavors burn, then soothe his throat. When he finally felt appropriately settled in he took out his DijAssist and contacted his rarely used avatar.

  “Time to work, iago.”

  “Good to hear from you, Hek,” said the boisterous avatar that Hektor hated yet for some reason could not bring himself to alter.

  “Shut up and listen, iago. I need you to
sell all the personal shares of other people I have and buy me, or as much me as you can. In fact, borrow if anyone will lend us the money, max out the lines, whatever it takes.”

  “I’m on it, Hek, but wouldn’t it be better to use your broker?”

  “Screw her, she sold me short. You can handle it, and I don’t want to pay the broker fees.”

  Though it was true that most avatars could and would handle just about any mundane tasks, stock transactions included, it was generally looked down upon and rarely done. Not so much out of mistrust of a computer making critical investment decisions but for a far more sociological reason: Relying on an avatar to handle human tasks was considered at best immature and at worst dangerous. A person was expected to limit their interactions with their avatar usually by the age of ten or eleven. And with rare exception most avatars helped in the weaning process. The reasoning was simple. Too much dependence could lead to overreliance. And since the Virtual Reality Dictates had been made into law after the Grand Collapse, society’s interactions with all forms of virtual technology were met with suspicion—avatars proving to be no exception. But this didn’t stop Hektor from using iago to assist him in the task at hand. What he was planning needed to be done quickly, and needed to be done without the same public scrutiny that had sent his shining star tumbling so quickly to Earth. Hektor had also chosen the locale for his deed for maximum insurance—he’d garner little or no suspicion as a lone individual grasping a glass of alcohol mumbling to an avatar in a dimly lit bar.

  “Look, Hek,” iago continued, “I know that you know what you’re doing, but I just have to ask you a question . . .”

  “What is it, iago?” Hektor answered, with barely concealed agitation.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Feel better, iago?” asked Hektor, as he took another sip of the scotch.

  “Not really, Hektor. It’s pretty obvious you’re selling yourself short—which, of course, you realize is against the law.”