“You’ve got to be kidding me . . . right? My Tiffany case is only worth four hundred, and this,” Justin said, holding up his wrist to show the watch, “this thirty-five-dollar piece of crap is worth almost fifty times as much?”
“I couldn’t be more serious, mister,” answered Fred. “That watch should be in a museum, not on a wrist. If you’re willing to wait you’ll get more money for it but I can transfer credits now, no questions asked. Check with your avatar, it’ll tell you.”
In the minute or so he took to confer with sebastian, Justin learned two early and valuable lessons. One, in an age of nanotechnology, diamonds were worthless—any kid with a home nanochem set could produce them. Two, most of the “mil one,” short for “first millennium,” accessories he’d managed to bring with him into the future would prove to be far more valuable than he ever could have imagined. He’d figured that if he were revived he’d be able to calculate the worth of his cache based on their condition and age; what he hadn’t taken into consideration was how few in number were the amount of good antiques that had made it through the so-called Grand Collapse. After a quick consultation with sebastian and some whispered conversation with Omad, Justin agreed to an unheard-of price of 38,000 credits, SCV (standard credit valuation). About two-thirds of its present-day value, but the third he’d tossed was worth the money he’d gained. And, more important, how he’d gained it—quickly, and without questions.
“How do you want it?” asked an obviously happy Fred.
“Is it safe to assume,” asked Justin, “that ‘in fifties and hundreds’ won’t count as an answer?”
Fred looked at Justin blankly, then at Omad for rescue.
“Give him a credit card.”
“That, I’ll also assume,” Justin added, “is not what I think it is either, correct?”
“Depends,” answered Omad, “on what you think it is?”
“Well, in my day it was a card that took the place of money . . . kind of like a loan. You’d buy something with your credit card and pay the credit card company back later . . . with interest.”
Fred stared at Justin in awe. “Omad. I gotta hand it to you, this guy’s a real piece of work.”
“More than you realize, Freddie. More than you realize.” He turned his attention back to Justin.
“Today it’s a card that keeps a record of how many credits you have at your disposal. The difference is, if you’re using a card it usually means it’s a quiet account. . . .”
“It’s illegal?”
“Not exactly. It’s just not linked to your regular account per se. See, Fred here will transfer the credits to an escrow account that only you’ll be able to draw from. Normally you’d stick your hand into that thing over there.” Omad pointed to a device that looked like a small, upended box with an embossed handprint inside. “That thing would verify that you’re you through DNA, palms, prints, and nonstressed voice activation. It then transfers money either to or from your registered account.”
“But since I don’t have an account yet . . .”
“Friend,” interrupted Omad, “you don’t even have an identity yet.”
“Right. OK, credit card it is.”
Fred had long ago given up trying to understand what the deal was with the man with the priceless relics. And, truth be told, she wouldn’t have cared much one way or another. She’d make enough from this one day to cover the entire month. And if this guy had more stuff of this quality, she’d let him ramble about anything he damned well wanted to . . . as long as he rambled to her first.
“OK,” piped in Fred, “now that we’ve established the method, let’s talk about the means. What currency we talkin’ here, Omad?”
“Well,” joked Justin, “we’ve already established it ain’t going to be American.”
“Why not American?” asked Fred. “AmEx works in my book.”
“AmEx, as in American Express, like the company?”
“Uh, yeah . . . doesn’t have to be, mister. You’d prefer GCI, or maybe Visa?”
“Give me another minute,” Justin said to both Omad and Fred, as he pulled the DijAssist out of his pocket and walked back down the length of the shop to the entrance. As he looked out the door he could still see the street performers doing their best to impede traffic. It was only now that he noticed the occasional passerby stop to place their hand on a hovering box next to them. The box had roughly the same configuration as the palm unit in Fred’s shop. As the person put their hand on the box, they’d say something. Justin couldn’t read lips, but he could swear they were saying the number five. They’d say the word, and move on. One or two even stopped to listen.
Justin looked down at the DijAssist in his hand. “Sebastian.”
In a volume Justin could swear was a few steps above a whisper, sebastian spoke up. How the avatar knew when to speak up and when not to would be a discussion for another time. Right now, first and foremost, Justin needed a little catch-up lesson. “Yes, Justin?”
“Can you give me the basics on money in about a minute?”
“Not in this lifetime. But I can get you started.”
“Fine.”
“I have taken the liberty,” said the eager-to-please avatar, “of seeing how currency was handled at the turn of the millennium. I think I understand the source of your confusion. What you would term as money, or a universal medium of exchange, was issued by your nation-states or, to be more precise, your governments. When you said ‘American’ you were referring to dollars, were you not?”
“Correct.”
“Today units of exchange are handled by private companies.”
“Your companies make their own money?” Justin asked in a voice loud enough for Fred to pick up.
“Hey,” shouted Fred, from the other end of the store, “don’t you know it’s rude to talk to an avatar with company present?” In a slightly more muffled voice she added, “DeGens.”
“Forgive him,” he heard Omad say, “he’s, um . . . new around here. I’ll go see what’s taking him.” Omad went over to where Justin was standing.
“Um, Mr. I-gotta-get-me-some-money-fast, what seems to be the problem now?”
“Nothing,” answered Justin. “I’m just chatting with my avatar.”
“Yeah, well, we’re going to have to talk about that. In the meantime, finish with your little friend because my real one,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “is starting to get impatient.”
“Relax, Omad, she wants this watch. She’ll wait. And don’t you worry either. You’ll get whatever cut you’ve worked out with her as well.”
Omad feigned innocence for about as long as it took him to realize the gig was up . . . or the better part of two seconds.
“Your watch, Justin. Your call,” Omad said with a smirk. He wasn’t so anxious to get back to Fred, anyway. All she seemed to do was complain.
“OK, sebastian,” Justin continued, “how can companies be in charge of the money supply? Wouldn’t that mean that they could literally make their own profits?”
“Who else would make the money?” interrupted Omad.
“At least someone impartial, Omad. In my day it was the government,” said Justin.
“Just so you know, Justin,” interrupted sebastian, “this is taking way more than the minute you required.”
“It’s all right sebastian, ixnay on the minute-nay thing.”
“Pardon?”
“Forget about the minute thing.”
“Ahh, you were using a modified form of Pig Latin.”
“Uh, I suppose,” answered Justin, taken aback somewhat.
“The proper phrasing,” offered sebastian, “would be . . . ixnay inutemey ing. . . .”
“Forget about it, sebastian,” snapped Justin, annoyed.
“Forget about what?”
Justin sighed. Even his avatar was yanking his chain.
“You let the government issue money?” asked Omad. “Damsah’s ghost. No wonder you had the Grand Collapse.”<
br />
Justin grimaced. “You know, I keep hearing about this Grand Collapse thing. Is it possible you’re referring to another type of Great Depression?”
“Actually, Justin,” added sebastian, “the two events are distinct.”
“Two events?”
“Oh, yeah,” interjected Omad, “that first one was a moth’s prick in comparison to the second. Come to think of it, money supply was a problem.”
“Omad is correct, Justin,” confirmed sebastian. “Both depressions were the result of improper government control of the money supply in response to cultural and political rather than economic situations. However, yours was not saddled with the unfortunate encumbrance of the VR plague.”
Justin looked puzzled. “Mine?”
“Referred to as the ‘Great Depression,’ ” sebastian clarified.
“Ahh,” answered Justin, shaking his head.
“The first event was well analyzed and the second one clearly predicted by Tim Damsah, and so his solution was ultimately adopted.”
“Hey, buddy,” called out Fred, displaying a rare bad poker face, “you want my money or what?”
Justin didn’t bother answering, but did manage to smile in her direction. In hindsight, the little lesson he was getting at the moment probably could have been put off until later. And had he only traded in the Tiffany box it most likely would have. However, with the Timex he was starting to talk some real money, and there was no way he’d accept payment on an item of such value without at least some rudimentary knowledge of the currency, or in this case, currencies, he was dealing with.
“So again I ask, aren’t corporations more likely to overprint money than governments?”
“On the contrary, Justin,” continued sebastian, “it would make absolutely no sense to do that. If you think of money as a product, and that there will be competition for that product, then by overprinting you devalue that which you hope to sell. In fact, a single currency, especially one controlled by a political rather than capitalistic entity, has greater incentive to overprint. It was called inflation. And just in case you are interested, there are currently forty-seven major currencies and hundreds of minor ones.”
Justin was about to ask another question when he noticed a familiar figure outside the shop just across the pedestrian walk. It was Neela. She was holding up her DijAssist to some people seated around a table at a small café. Though he could have, he didn’t step out the door to let her know exactly where he was—partly out of curiosity, partly out of attraction, and partly because he wanted to see how fast she’d figure out where to find him.
Omad noticed Neela as well. But his feelings were entirely different from those of his friend. Justin, he was beginning to realize, was a pretty good businessman, but he also knew that nothing could wreck a good deal faster than a businessman thinking with the wrong head. And Omad stood to profit from this deal. He saw that Justin wasn’t making a move to let Neela know where they were, and hoped that she’d miss them entirely and move on.
Neela headed straight for the pawnshop.
Omad smirked at Justin. “Tracked you down.”
“Yes,” Justin replied, with just a hint of admiration in his voice, “she did.”
Justin opened the door that Neela was making a beeline for and greeted her with a welcoming smile.
“Won’t you come in?” he said, taking her a little by surprise.
“There you are,” she said, with no small amount of triumph in her voice.
“Great, a party,” Fred called out from behind the counter. “Tell ya what, why don’t we just invite the whole goddamned block in? I’m sure they’d be equally fascinated as I am to hear a lesson on the Grand Collapse, multiple currencies, and how much my ass is starting to get sore sitting here watching this little freak show go on, I’m beginning to suspect, at my expense.”
“Dr. Harper,” said Omad, opening his palm in the direction of the source of the outburst, “Fred.” That was followed by a brief exchange of superficial nods. “Fred, Dr. Harper.”
“Pleasure,” Neela responded, with little conviction.
“Doctor?” asked Fred.
“Reanimationist,” answered Omad, saving Neela the honor. Then, using a thumb to point toward Justin, added, “His reanimationist.”
“Oh,” Fred said, eyeing Neela. “Sorry. For a moment there I thought you two were like . . . you know, a ‘thing.’ But obviously that would be pretty disgusting, even for Omad’s class of friends.”
Omad didn’t bother with an answer, choosing instead to lob a pointed gaze in the direction of Fred. And Justin, who actually thought his brief greeting was flirtatious, wondered why Fred would have a problem with that.
Time to move on.
“How’d you find me?” he asked Neela. “Am I tagged somehow? Some secret DNA-seeking sensor?”
She sidestepped the answer. “Actually, Mosh—I mean, Director McKenzie—the head of the medical facility where you were revived, called a few of his friends who have shops around town and sent them your description. One of them called it in, and that’s how I found you.”
Justin laughed. “Oh, right. Common sense.”
Neela smiled. “It’s a small town, Justin. Not much of a problem.” And only an investor could’ve compelled us to track you down in the way you meant. But nobody owns you.
Neela turned her gaze on Omad. “So you’re the famous tunnel rat.”
“Correction, famous ex–tunnel rat.”
“Right. Heard about that. Not every day that our humble little facility becomes a rat-to-riches story.”
“Riches? Hardly, Dr. Harper.” Though I’d certainly be getting a little closer if you’d just let my friend here sell his damned watch.
“So, if neither of you mind,” she continued, “catch me up.”
“Not at all, Dr. Harper. Justin here is confused by our money. He thinks governments should issue it.”
“Oh, that,” smiled Neela.
“Oh, that?” Justin was incredulous. “Money is run by the likes of Microsoft, and you say ‘oh, that’?”
Now Omad looked confused. “Microsoft?”
“I don’t even want to know,” Justin moaned, shaking his head and thinking about the five-carat trinkets recently scattered about the floor.
Neela took Justin by the hand. “Justin,” she said, as she squeezed his hand slightly. “How can I put this in a way that you’ll get?”
While her simple act was meant as a show of support, its reverberations were not. Short of a few cursory brushes and a handshake, this was the first real human touch, as a means of comfort, Justin had experienced since being revived. While he was able to quell his feelings of feeling, he had a sneaky suspicion that Neela knew exactly what she was doing.
“Let’s see,” Neela continued, “how about this? You’re a bull in a china shop. Yes, it’s a strange and wonderful world you’ve managed to barge your way into, but it’s one that you’re not quite ready for. It’s not a ride, Justin. It’s our way of life. And like I told you at the center, I’m here to help you and answer all your questions, but you’ve got to cut me some slack and learn to trust me just a little, OK?”
“OK, Neela,” Justin responded. “You’re on. The owner of this pawnshop owes me about thirty-eight thousand credits SCV for this thing I’m wearing on my wrist.” He held it up for effect. Neela’s eyes popped out just like Fred’s and Omad’s had.
“Yes,” Justin said, sounding bored. “It’s authentic mil one.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah,” replied Justin. “Been there, done that. Anyhow I don’t know which currency to go with.” He added, “And I’m starting to get hungry.”
Once Neela got over the fact that the man under her care was wearing the equivalent of her year’s salary on his wrist, she also began to realize that the guy she was responsible for was loaded, or would be by the time the week was through. Great, she thought, another set of protocols to catch him up on.
“American Ex
press,” she answered, “and I know a charming little place where we can sit down and talk about money.”
Back at the far end of the pawnshop, Fred finally began to smile.
Justin stood outside Neela’s car for a moment, then followed her in through the permiawall. What greeted him on the inside was not only Dr. Harper, sitting comfortably in a well-proportioned chair, but also a cozy little workspace. In fact, it almost reminded him of the well-designed spaces utilized by the RVs of his time. It had two chairs, a small circular table in the center with the strangest-looking computer he’d ever seen, if that’s what it was, and of course a stunning 360-degree view . . . of the street.
He sat down in the only other seat available, which happened to be directly across from Neela. “Where to?” he said, as casually as he could muster.
“How’s Florence sound?” Neela answered, with just a hint of sly in her smile.
“You know I’m loving this, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah,” she answered. “I’m loving it too. Kind of living vicariously through you, actually.”
“Then how about Venice—could we eat there?”
Neela gave him a sad shrug. “Not without scuba gear.”
Justin pursed his lips and shrugged. “Florence it is then.”
Neela smiled sympathetically. “We’ll have to go to the Boulder orport first. It’s a short trip.”
“Estimated time of arrival,” intoned the car’s automated response system, “four minutes, twenty-two seconds.” And with that the car began its slow but gentle ascent skyward.
Justin was a little saddened by the fact that a trip he’d waited a lifetime to take was only going to last under five minutes. But those feelings were quickly dispelled as the unassailable fact sunk in that he was now in a car that was actually flying. He noticed that Neela was staring out the window—lost in thought. More likely, he figured, she was allowing him the opportunity to fully experience his first-ever flight without it being marred by the white noise of small talk. God bless her.
The car achieved a height of approximately one thousand feet and headed out over the city. For the first few minutes of the trip it had the sky to itself. Justin noticed other flying cars, but they were well dispersed and far off enough that they didn’t seem to pose any danger . . . if any existed at all. It wasn’t until the final minute or so that the car found its way into a small flotilla of similarly sized vehicles all heading in the same direction.
The Unincorporated Man Page 12