The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “There are some sources I have to protect. . . .”

  “Name or nothing,” said Justin.

  It took a nanosecond to give Justin the information he’d soon be able to obtain from the pages of Michael’s own paper. “Hektor Sambianco,” answered Michael, “but he only gave us your picture. We pieced together the rest. I’ll fill you in on the way out. Now, let’s get outta here.” And with that they all began their ascent back up to the emergency hatch.

  Michael sat across from Justin Cord with one thought on his mind. Every reporter in the system wants to be me. He let that thought sink in, taking a moment to enjoy it. Michael knew he was good at his job, but now everyone else would know. There was no way he could’ve done this without the team, and he would tell anyone willing to listen that the interview was a group effort. But for a moment Michael felt the overwhelming triumph that only true personal accomplishment can bring. The only downside was that Dr. Harper, with Justin’s permission, had insisted on screening Michael’s questions. She’d explained that Justin was still emotionally vulnerable, and that certain hardball questions could jeopardize his psychological state. Michael had agreed to wear kid gloves for this interview, knowing he’d probably have to go through Dr. Harper for a second one. But he put that all aside, along with the memory of the harrowing run along the top of the orport’s launch tubes and the perilous jump through the deactivated atomized security net to get his man to safety. He now concentrated on the person sitting comfortably in front of him. The person who in the course of an hour would change Michael’s life.

  Justin found it ironic that he was now back in a room that only hours before he couldn’t wait to escape. And he had to admit that it not only felt good to be back, it also felt safe.

  Michael had insisted that Neela and Omad leave the room. After assurances from Justin that he could handle himself, they reluctantly agreed. Justin now turned to Michael, who was sitting somewhat rigidly across from him.

  “So,” asked Justin, “tell me about this paper of yours.”

  _______

  Michael realized that his subject was trying to control the interview. He smiled and played along. “It’s called The Terran Daily News and has been in continuous operation for nearly three hundred years. In some ways it’s the world’s oldest continuous paper. It used to be called The Alaskan Daily News, which was the product of several pre–Grand Collapse Alaskan papers merging. It’s also the system’s most prestigious paper.”

  “Interesting.” Justin absorbed the information and moved on. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said, “but does this ‘paper’ come in actual paper form?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .” Michael pulled out a hard copy from his valise and handed it over.

  Justin started flipping through the pages. He was curious to see if the paper would feel like a real newspaper or, like so many other things he’d seen, a poor imitation. One thing was certainly different. He noticed that when he looked directly at an ad or picture it came to life as a three-dimensional holograph. One ad in particular caught his attention. It was an extension of the billboard he’d seen earlier in the day. It was for a transbod, and the ad seemed to be issuing a dire warning about the number of days left until Mardi Gras. He closed the paper and focused his attention back on Michael.

  “So it’s called a paper because it’s still a paper?”

  “Well, not really,” answered Michael, “I believe in your day you called films ‘films’ even though they were all shot digitally. Our paper’s distributed though the Neuro. Of our 2.7 billion daily readers, less than forty thousand will get a hard copy. But it’s relatively simple to produce, and some people seem to like it.” He pointed at the paper he’d only recently handed over. “I suspected you’d be one of them.”

  Michael saw the appreciative look in Justin’s eyes as he flipped through sections of the paper. “It’s kind of like,” continued Michael, “those people who still prefer pocket watches.”

  Justin smiled. I only bought the damned Timex because of the tagline, he thought. He looked down at his empty wrist, then looked back up with a shrug. “Let’s begin, Mr. Veritas.”

  Michael opened with a question he knew would appeal to his readers. “Mr. Cord, are you alone or part of a colony of lost ancients that hid themselves away?”

  “I cannot speak for others, but I only had myself frozen. If any survived from my time, I would be pleasantly surprised.”

  “Mr. Cord, could you explain what steps you took to preserve your life?”

  “I hired a brilliant engineer and gave her an unlimited budget and a clearly defined goal. I find that if you supply those three ingredients, amazing things can happen.”

  “And the goal?” asked Michael, more for his readers than any personal need to ask an obvious question.

  “You mean, other than to live?” asked Justin.

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “To create a self-sustaining, perpetual suspension unit.”

  This caught Michael by surprise. He did a quick check on his DijAssist and looked up at Justin. “Do you realize, Mr. Cord, that we don’t have anything quite like that today?”

  “Yes, Mr. Veritas . . .”

  “Michael.”

  “Yes . . . Michael, your ‘friend’ Omad informed me. But I suspect you don’t have anything like it because you don’t need it.”

  “Correct, Mr. Cord. Still, it’s quite a testament.”

  “Indeed it is. I’d thank the engineer personally, but unfortunately . . .”

  Michael smiled sympathetically.

  “The truth is, for those exceedingly rare cases where suspensions have to be maintained for a duration of years, we have the far-side suspension facility on the Moon. The thinking goes, why develop a technology when it’s so much cheaper to let the frigid nature of the universe do it for you?”

  “Funny you should mention that,” answered Justin, smiling wistfully. “Sandra, the engineer who designed the unit, considered that very concept. It was determined that we could send a team of engineers to the Moon and dig a cavern and store me there for a little less than what the actual project cost.”

  “Not to be rude, Mr. Cord, but why go through the risk of creating a new and therefore untested device when your other option made so much more sense? Even in your day the technology for going to the Moon was well established.”

  “Are you familiar with the pyramids, Michael?”

  “Are you talking about the Egyptian pyramids, Mr. Cord?”

  “Please, call me Justin, and, yes, the very ones.”

  “Familiar enough,” assured Michael.

  “Well,” continued Justin, “do you know what those pyramids were designed for?”

  “Monuments to the king, I suppose.”

  “Actually, Michael, they were suspension units.”

  Michael rubbed at the scruff on the end of his chin. “Care to explain?”

  “I don’t mean,” continued Justin, “in the modern sense, but the Egyptians had a worldview like yours and mine. Namely, if you preserved your body as well as you could, the actual body would be reawakened in a better world, and you would have everything that you needed or wanted in the next life.” Justin paused for a moment. “But only if you preserved the body. Makes you wonder if the ancient Egyptians were exposed to advanced technology at some point. But I digress; the point is that the pharaohs believed that they must preserve their bodies with as much wealth as they could carry. In that way they’d live well in the next world.”

  “So you prefer to see yourself as a modern-day pharaoh, then?”

  “Not really. I don’t consider myself a god, wasn’t born into wealth, and certainly didn’t die with members of my estate buried with me. However, I’ll admit there are certain similarities.”

  “But somehow the pharaohs inspired you?”

  Justin chuckled. “Yes, the pharaohs were indeed an inspiration. They inspired fear.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know enough ancient history
to follow your thinking, Justin.”

  “How many actual pharaohs were found in their pyramids?”

  “Well, I’d guess maybe two or three.”

  “Try none.”

  “What about King Tut?”

  “He came from a much later dynasty that learned an important lesson. If you build a pyramid and fill it with lots of stuff, what are you telling the whole world? Allow me,” he said, as he saw Michael beginning to answer. “You’re saying, in effect, ‘Hey, world, here I am, dead with lots of treasure.’ ”

  “Good point,” agreed Michael.

  “Not one pyramid was found intact. By King Tut’s day and age the pyramids had been around and sacked for over a thousand years. So the new pharaohs dug hidden tombs to keep their bodies safe, thereby greatly increasing their chances for an afterlife.”

  “So in your mind ‘Moon’ equals ‘pyramid.’ ”

  “Exactly.” Justin was beginning to feel comfortable talking. Though he’d developed a dislike of journalists, even the supposed “reputable” ones, this interview was different, because it was allowing him to talk about something that centuries before he could share with almost no one.

  “Had I gone with the Moon plan,” Justin continued, “I would have had to inform governments about my launch schedules. That would have entailed official inspections. The whole world would have known that I’d spent a fortune to have myself buried on the Moon, and any asshole with a spare missile or the desire to see if I had treasure could have finished me off.”

  “So you built a tomb,” said Michael, with dawning understanding.

  “Correction. I built a self-sustaining suspension unit which I stuck in a tomb.”

  “Semantics. It got you what you wanted—anonymity.”

  “Yes, it did. The more anonymous, the better. You want to know what kept Tut safe for all those thousands of years? He was such an unimportant, short-lived ruler that everyone forgot about him. And before you ask the next question, relatively speaking I was pretty much the same. Yes, I was rich, and yes, had a certain amount of fame, but in the grand scheme of things I was a mere blip on the radar screen.”

  “More than a blip, Justin. We’re still pretty well versed on your life’s story to this day and age.”

  “A fluke, I can assure you, Michael. I happened to disappear at a time when media coverage bordered on obsessive, which, ironically, I didn’t think could get any worse.”

  Michael laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “And that,” continued Justin, “combined with the fact that a whole lot of information got wiped out in the Grand Collapse, apparently made me stick out like a cherry on a cream pie. I can assure you, in my day and age I was well known, but as the old saying goes, ‘there’s a billion Chinese who could give a crap.’ ”

  “I’m familiar with that phrase,” answered Michael. “Today that number’s graduated a bit.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “OK,” continued Michael. “Why didn’t you go to the cryonics organizations that were in existence at the time?”

  “Like the pyramids, obvious open targets waiting to be destroyed.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Why only save yourself? We’ve all seen the size of the crypt you made. Seems like you could have easily brought someone else with you.”

  Justin shifted uneasily in his seat. He noticed the chair attempting to shift with him, to make him more comfortable, much like his bed had when he woke from his long sleep. But, for what he was feeling at the moment, relief wasn’t to be found in the machinations of a well-meaning ergo chair.

  “I offered it to one other person,” he said, sighing. “My personal assistant. But he refused. He felt it was wrong to live longer than what he considered to be one’s preordained time.”

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Michael said, “that was a very strong meme . . . um . . . stereotype of the time. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “I know what a meme is, Michael. The Darwinian evolution of a thought or, in the case of death, group think. And I don’t blame myself.”

  “Yes, of course,” Michael answered.

  “But you are correct,” continued Justin. “The idea of preordained death was the prevailing meme. Had been for all recorded history, in fact.”

  Michael took a deep breath, shaking his head. “As much as I’ve read on the topic, I have to admit that I can’t understand how a society could follow what would appear to be such an illogical and superstitious line of thought. Tell me, did these same people refuse medical care?”

  “No, they didn’t. But to them death was an idea infused with religion and not a disease to be cured.”

  “Well, guess what? We cured it.”

  “Really? You don’t say,” Justin teased. “Please, understand that my assistant, Sebastian, was not a stupid man. In many ways he was the most thoughtful, well-informed person I had ever met in my life. But he was trapped like a bird in a cage. And that’s why he, like millions before him, could not escape the most successful meme of all time—the notion of the inevitability of dying.”

  Michael nodded. “I once read a book on the topic called The Cult of Death.”

  “Let me guess,” offered Justin. “You couldn’t relate.”

  Michael nodded.

  “I’m surprised,” continued Justin, “that you made it past the first chapter. In order to understand a book like that you’d have to think like the people of the twenty-first century, which of course you couldn’t. That would’ve been like me trying to get into the heads of people who lived three hundred years prior to my time.”

  “Tell me,” asked Michael, “were the pyramids also your inspiration for the treasures rumored to be buried within your tomb?”

  “Depends,” Justin laughed. “What rumors have you heard?”

  “Well, that the crypt had in it gold, silver, and precious gems, not so valuable now, but you wouldn’t have known that at the time.”

  Justin nodded. “The rumors are correct.”

  “You also supposedly had artifacts, works of art, and, according to our friend Omad out there,” he said, motioning toward the back wall, “a Timex watch.”

  “Had,” answered Justin. “Sold it this morning.”

  “Really?” Michael looked surprised. “That Omad didn’t tell me. If you don’t mind my asking, how much did you get for it?”

  “Thirty-eight thousand.”

  “AmEx?”

  “Yeah. Is that good?”

  Michael laughed. “Depends, if you think a one-shot four-quarter dividend is a good thing or not.”

  Justin smiled. “I do.”

  “You could have done better,” Michael said.

  Justin nodded, keenly aware of what he’d just heard. Michael hadn’t said “six months’ salary” or a “boatload” to describe Justin’s good fortune. He’d referred to it as a dividend payout. That it had entered into the vernacular was revealing. Justin recalled how once wealth used to be determined by the number of harvests a person could get in. So a question like “How much did you make last year?” would be answered with the amount of harvests the farmer had brought in. The higher the number the greater the awe. Only when industrial society emerged did people think of a per-year salary as the measure of wealth. And now that a purely corporate society had emerged, the obvious indicator of wealth, short of the material, was the quarterly dividend.

  “If you don’t mind,” continued Michael, “just a few more questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  Michael stared at his subject. Justin was articulate, thoughtful, naturally good-looking, well informed, smart, and even, in a way, heroic. He was the embodiment of all that was good about a lost civilization, gift wrapped for the present. And that, decided Michael, was how he would plan on slanting the story.

  “What are your plans for the future?”

  As soon as he finished the question, Justin’s door chime rang.

  The room informed Justin that Neela and Omad were waiting for permission
to enter. Justin smiled, begging Michael’s indulgence.

  “See them in,” Justin said to the room, while staring at Michael.

  Neela and Omad entered. Omad took up a position leaning against the wall while Neela sat down at the foot of the bed.

  Justin looked over at Neela. “Our good friend here wants to know what my plans for the future are.”

  “Don’t look at me,” answered Neela. “I had a whole schedule worked out, and you can see how that turned out.”

  “Well,” answered Justin, “contrary to Neela’s lack of faith in her scheduling abilities, my immediate future is very much in her capable hands.”

  Though she tried to hide it by turning her face, Michael noticed the faint blush in her cheeks. Is she actually attracted to him? he wondered.

  “Well, in that case,” answered Neela, “Justin will stay here for a few days, during which time he’ll rest, read, and begin to learn a little bit about our world and way of doing things. Justin’s long-term plans are, of course, up to him.”

  Michael made a mental note to schedule an interview with this reanimation specialist. He’d do it himself if need be, but would try to pass it on to Irma. She was far better at getting women to trust her than he was.

  “If you could choose,” he continued, “between the following advances in technology—space travel, nanotechnology, the arrival of near-perfect health, or our long life spans—which would you say was the one that you found most surprising?”

  Justin had to think about the question for a moment. While the list he’d been given was impressive, given all that it encompassed, he couldn’t honestly say that any of it surprised him. Amazed? Yes. Impressed? Without question. But surprised? No. The future was all that Justin had dreamed it would be and more.

  “I’d have to say . . . none of the above.”

  Michael looked up from his DijAssist, his cocked eyebrow revealing his astonishment. “Really? What then?”

  “This concept of personal incorporation.”

  “I could have told you that,” Neela mumbled just under her breath, but loud enough to make sure that Michael heard her.