The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “Well, I did some checking,” continued Michael, “and it turns out we know one of the people who appeared in the images of Saundra’s little mediabot.” Michael brought up the holo-image he was referring to. Standing before them in three-dimensional glory was an unkempt, rough-looking man with a shit-eating grin.

  “Hey, we do know that guy,” said Saundra. “Looks like he just got majority.”

  Michael laughed. “Nice guess. In fact he did just get majority. He goes by the name of Omad, and he was one of the tunnel rats we interviewed two years ago. Anyone care to guess how he got his majority?”

  No one answered.

  He sighed the sigh of a man who had no takers for a game of twenty questions.

  “He got it trading in credits for an all-expense-paid, first-class lunar vacation.”

  Enrique whistled. “Must’ve been a nice chunk of change.”

  “It’s 150,000 credits to be exact,” confirmed Michael.

  “What could he have found to earn tha . . .?” Irma shut up as she realized exactly what he’d found.

  “Do we have him?” she asked.

  Michael flashed a huge am-I-a-god-or-what? smile.

  Irma matched his grin with her own. “When do you meet him?”

  “Half hour in a little pub called the Oasis Brewery.”

  “Yeah, I know the one,” added Enrique. “It’s on Canyon Boulevard. Been going for centuries.”

  Irma was pleased. The pieces were finally starting to fall into place. “I’m going to the Boulder offices to coordinate and get us the funding we’ll need to follow through on all of this. Saundra, I’m going to need you to go to Florence and try to eyeball this guy.”

  “Why does she get to go?” protested Enrique.

  “Quit your whining,” Saundra said, lost in the information now streaming across her DijAssist. “No can do, anyhow, Irma. Dr. Harper and Mr. Cord are leaving Florence as we speak. The good doctor just made conventional reservations back to Boulder with a stopover in New York.”

  “Then go to New York, Boulder, the Oort Cloud if you have to, just get on his tail and stay there. Enrique, you’re with me at headquarters. Crack that ten million, or better yet, see if our mystery payout man—or woman—has money that we can trace. The sooner we get to his account the sooner we know where he is, what he’s buying, and who he’s buying it from. We could make expenses just selling that to the celebrity sites.” She turned to Michael.

  “This tunnel rat is the one lead we have that I haven’t stupidly given away. Exploit it for all it’s worth. Spend whatever, go wherever. I’m releasing the story in one hour, which gives you a little less than twenty minutes of talk time with him before you get back to me.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Enrique.

  “No, it’s not, but we don’t have a choice. We have to assume that Hektor is releasing the story to all and sundry even as we speak, and that it will take the other newsgroups—the ones that bite—at least an hour to confirm that this is not a hoax, or at least real enough to run with.”

  “Why wouldn’t they all bite?” asked Enrique.

  “More like, why would they?” answered Irma. “Don’t forget who the source is. One Hektor Sambianco, recently discredited GCI big shot, whose stock is in the dump. Couple that with the fact that it’s so close to Mardi Gras and might therefore be a GCI entertainment scam. Which all adds up to buying us more time. My one-hour mark is for the one or two smart editors who won’t file the story away for tomorrow’s bylines, and will instead do some preliminary research immediately.”

  “You really think an hour is all they need?” finished Enrique.

  “Give or take, but yes, I do. Don’t forget, in this business an hour could mean the difference between a Pulitzer and a pink slip. We have to be first out the gate and just hope we can stay ahead of the pack. Any questions?” Irma waited and saw there were none.

  “Go.”

  And with that simple word, what had started out as a human-interest story emanating from tiny Boulder, Colorado, was well on the way to becoming a sociological avalanche soon to shake the foundations of their entire world.

  “Mosh, what happened?”

  Neela was calling from the docked t.o.p. now effectively besieged by the wall of reporters and mediabots floating around access tube 37. The air was so thick with them that they were actually bumping into each other. The din of reporters shouting commentary into their live feeds accompanied the maelstrom. From the floor of the standing-room-only terminal, it looked like a swarm of angry bees attacking their own nest. The Boulder orport was effectively shut down.

  A weary Mosh endeavored to answer via holodisplay. “At New York they knew a man had been awakened from a long cryogenic sleep.” He smiled at Justin, who at this point was standing next to Neela. “While you were in flight The Terran Daily News broke the story that our Justin was . . . are you ready for this?” Mosh didn’t wait for Neela to answer. “Justin Cord.” Mosh also saw that divulgence of Justin’s last name elicited no response either from his young internist or from her distinguished “guest.”

  “You knew?” he asked, almost sighing.

  Neela nodded.

  “Well,” continued Mosh, “I would have liked to have found out in some other way than Eleanor handing me a hard copy of The Terran Daily.”

  “How did they find out?” asked Neela.

  “Blame Hektor,” interjected Justin. “He seems to be a convenient reason for anything that makes my life more difficult.”

  “Only half correct,” answered Mosh. “From what I’ve ascertained, he was the source for some of the media companies, but maybe not all of them.”

  “Bullshit,” Neela muttered. “He probably called them all up and gave them pictures, past and present.”

  “Neela,” answered Mosh, “whatever Hektor’s up to is not important now. Wait for someone from the clinic to get to you. We’ll figure it out once you and Justin are safely back home. Do not leave that t.o.p. until you can do it without getting mobbed. Do you understand?”

  Neela nodded, and Mosh disconnected.

  She paced back and forth within the confines of the t.o.p., trying desperately to get her thoughts in order. She stopped and stared at Justin.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, locking her eyes onto his. “I’m so wrapped up in everything that’s happening I’m forgetting about my job—which is you. How are you doing?”

  “Neela, how are you doing?” he shot back.

  Neela smiled sadly. “Thank you for asking; most clients don’t.”

  “First of all,” continued Justin, “I’m not ‘most clients.’ Second of all, in case you’ve forgotten your history, I’m familiar with a media circus. Not on this level, of course, but I have been under the siege of the spotlight more times than I can possibly count. So do me a favor, don’t worry so much about me. I can handle it.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she answered. “I’d hoped that the media circus thing was going to be the last part of a long and gradual process, and somehow it ended up being the first. Damsah, it’s only your first day, and it’s not even over.” She took Justin’s hand and clasped it between both of hers. “You’re Justin Cord, the Unincorporated Man, and you have no idea what that means.” She motioned her arm to indicate the outside world. “And neither, I’m afraid, do they.”

  “And you do?” he asked, earnestly.

  “I’m good at my job, Justin,” she answered, releasing her grasp, lest he read too much into it. “For the most part we’re trained to integrate the reanimated individual back into society. But the toughest part of this job, I suspect, will be integrating society to you.”

  Justin hadn’t been “alive” long enough to think about what effect he’d have on the world other than possible future contributions. He’d spent the better part of his few hours on Earth trying to gain some semblance of order within his universe. Neela’s comment only made him realize how complicated his new life might turn out to be. He’d always assumed that i
f his crazy scheme actually worked, his life would be easier—glories of the new world and all. But he was now beginning to realize that it might actually be harder—much harder. Still, he thought, it could always have been worse.

  “Well,” he said, “I know I haven’t been awake very long, but at least so far, from what I’ve seen and understand, I rather like this society. Despite one or two quirks, it’s exactly what I was hoping for when I was frozen.”

  Now Justin took Neela’s hand in his. She seemed surprised. He sensed she wanted to pull back but didn’t.

  “You are doing a great job,” he said. “I feel better being in this new world just having you around, and isn’t that what a good reanimation specialist is supposed to do?”

  Justin inched his face forward. She quickly put her thumb on his forehead. It was a strange action to take, but it stopped him in his tracks.

  “Justin, I really need to explain something to you. . . .”

  “You don’t, Neela,” he said, interrupting. “For all I know you have a boyfriend or even”—a lascivious smile made an impromptu appearance across his face—“a girlfriend.”

  “I do not have a girlfriend,” she answered, swatting his shoulder, “so you can get that image out of your mind.”

  “Which gets us back to the boyfriend,” he replied.

  “No boyfriend, either.”

  At the realization of her availability, his smile continued to brighten.

  “And you can get that image out of your mind as well. Look, Justin, it won’t happen. Not now. Not ever . . . even . . . even if I wanted it to.”

  An admission? he wondered.

  “It?”

  “It,” answered Neela. “In your era, wasn’t it illegal for a patient and doctor to be intimate?”

  Justin scratched his chin, considering the question. “Well, it was frowned upon, but it happened a lot—still it was illegal under certain circumstances. Are you saying it’s actually illegal to consider such a relationship?”

  Neela was relieved by Justin’s changed body language. He had gone from being aroused to inquisitive. Inquisitive she could deal with. “Very illegal, and also highly immoral,” she answered. “Actually, you’d be better off not thinking about it like a doctor-patient relationship. I misspoke.”

  “Then how?” he asked—more wounded than curious.

  Neela looked up while trying to find an appropriate analogy. It didn’t take long. “How would you have felt,” she said, now refocused on Justin, “about a priest sleeping with a teenaged member of his or her congregation?”

  Justin’s face went blank at the implication. “You’re shitting me, right? That bad?”

  Neela nodded solemnly. “While I’m not familiar with the expression, I can assume its meaning. So the answer is, no. I am not ‘shitting’ you. In fact, I may be understating it.”

  “Understating?” he gasped. “Perhaps it’s you who doesn’t understand.” In the recesses of his mind he fervently hoped so.

  Neela shook her head. “When revival first became an option for those who’d made up the second generation of revives . . .”

  “Second generation?”

  “Yes, Justin, there were no survivors from the first generation—none, that is, until you.” She paused and looked at him anew. Coming to terms with his uniqueness was like standing in the surf and being pummeled by a series of waves. Each wave had different implications, shifted her ever so slightly, and reawakened her awe.

  She continued, “I suppose if no one survived it’s silly to call them the first generation, but they were at least prescient enough to have themselves suspended, even if with outdated technology. Circumstance, as I explained to you earlier, was their undoing. It was the second generation, post–Grand Collapse, that was responsible for the harshness of the doctrine we live by today.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A lot,” she answered. “To be fair, no one really knew how fragile the mind of a revive was . . . how susceptible to suggestion they truly were. I could recount the sordid tales of abuse and deception that served to rob this second generation of any and all worldly possessions, much less their sense of self-worth and dignity, but I’ll leave you with a far more effective argument—70.”

  Justin shrugged.

  Neela frowned. “That’s the actual percentage of those who either committed suicide shortly after revival or attempted it.”

  She waited for the enormity of the number to sink into Justin’s psyche. When she was satisfied that it had, she continued. “Don’t forget, suspension as a life extension option was begun by a fringe element of society. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it never gained acceptance in your era, and had barely gained acceptance in ours—that is, until it was actually proven viable.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “There was no system in place,” she continued, “no ‘soft pillow’ to land on for this second generation of revives. No data with which to base treatment. It was a ‘good morning and welcome to the world’ sort of affair and then an ‘oh by the way, all your family and friends are dead—here’s a little starter money, good luck.’ ”

  “Not much of an acclimation process,” said Justin.

  Neela nodded. “Now you see why I was so upset that your integration has gone so bloody wrong. I keep waiting for you to fling yourself off a building or be hit by a wave of interminable depression, but you seem strangely immune—of course, it’s only been a day.”

  “Like you said, Neela,” he said, half joking, “it’s still early. I could jump off a building or whatever it is you people do to off yourselves these days.”

  Neela shot him a worried look.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” he said, laughing. “I assure you I plan on staying around for a while. But at least I now have an inkling of why the ‘no date’ doctrine is so entrenched.” And then, gazing deep into her eyes, he said, “Pity.”

  Pity indeed, thought Neela, suppressing her heart for the sanctity of her soul. She’d never once felt anything for any of her revives. That is, not until now. She told herself that it must be his uniqueness. But something more was stirring—perhaps intellectual, perhaps admiration. She’d sort through it later once things settled down.

  Neither she nor Justin had time to realize that they’d just “broken up” before ever getting started because they were interrupted by the sound of the upper hatch exploding outward. The harsher glare of emergency lighting poured through the hole, bathing the interior. Without thinking, Justin leaped forward to protect Neela. Sadly, Neela did the exact same thing—the result of which was a head-on collision.

  It took a moment for the stars to clear, but holding their heads in their hands they both managed to look up in time to see Omad peering down. He’d somehow managed to blow the emergency hatch.

  “Justin, Doc, good to see you,” he said nonchalantly, teeth glinting in the bright light.

  “Omad!” Justin was genuinely pleased, even if still smarting from the head blow. “How on Earth did you get in here?”

  “I’d like to know that myself,” Neela said, still rubbing her forehead. The pain was strangely alleviating.

  “I had some help from . . . ,” Omad chose his next words carefully, “an ally.”

  A voice could be heard from behind Omad.

  “Omad, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  Neela squinted upward. “Who is that?”

  As Omad began a slow floating descent to where Neela and Justin were standing, the “ally” popped his head through the exposed hole. It was Michael Veritas.

  He quickly introduced himself while pulling his body through the opening in the t.o.p. He descended the length of the craft, landing next to Omad. “Nice to meet you,” he said, sizing up both Neela and Justin.

  Neela didn’t return the pleasantry and focused her outrage on Omad.

  “Omad, what were you thinking bringing someone like that in here?” She turned to Michael. “No offense.”

  “None taken,�
� Michael answered, smiling.

  Omad didn’t bother with Neela, choosing to appeal to Justin directly.

  “Justin, right now you’re the virgin at the orgy. One way or another you’re gonna get screwed, the only question is, will it be by one or dozens?”

  Justin started to laugh.

  “You have a way with words, my friend. So tell me, is Michael here to be my ravager?”

  Wisely, Michael didn’t take the bait, choosing to let Omad finesse the already awkward introduction.

  “We have a plan to get you out of here quickly and quietly, but I can’t do it without him.”

  “And let me guess,” continued Justin. “The price is, he gets the first ‘screw’?”

  “Yeah,” answered Omad, appreciating Justin’s ability to get down to the brass tacks. “That’s pretty much the gist of it.”

  “In that case, Omad, I think I’d rather wait and let the authorities settle this. If I’m to be screwed I’d rather choose the ‘screwer’ under different circumstances.” He turned to Michael. “No offense.”

  “Again, none taken,” Michael responded. “There is one small problem, though,” he added.

  “Yes?” answered Neela.

  “If the authorities handle it,” he continued, “which I’m sure they’re discussing right now, you’ll both be taken into their custody.” He looked directly at Justin. “And don’t forget, Mr. Cord, you’re undocumented, as we all know your ID is about as real as the furniture in this room. So while the choice is yours, I suggest you take me up on my offer. I’ll get you out of here, and yes, I’ll get the story, but it’ll be your story—that I can promise you. And if integrity’s an issue I have a system Pulitzer to back up my name.” Michael was done. His outer calmness in the face of possibly losing the biggest interview of his career was a sham. His heart was beating so hard he could have sworn the people in the room could hear it.

  Justin looked to Neela, who nodded. “Deal,” Justin said. “But on one condition.”

  Michael remained poised. “Name it.”

  “We want to know how you broke the story.”