Michael regained his composure and pressed on. He hated that he hadn’t seen that one coming. His fault, he figured. Shouldn’t have given him a list to choose from. Oh, well.
“The implication,” continued Michael, “is fascinating. Care to explain?”
Justin was about to go into a detailed answer when he saw Neela shaking her head and drawing her hand across her throat. He acknowledged her signal with a slight nod, and gave Michael a sound bite instead of a response.
“Well, I kind of expected all the other things, but personal incorporation is something I definitely found surprising.”
“In what way? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Let’s just say it was a little unexpected, and I’m looking forward to learning all about it.”
Michael realized that there was no point in pressing the issue further.
“Well, I’m sure our readers will look forward to your IPO date for the chance to invest in you. I know I will.”
“Well, uh, thank you,” Justin answered, stuttering uncharacteristically. His confidence of a moment ago was strangely shaken by Michael’s good intentions. Nothing bad had happened, and he knew that Michael was offering him a compliment, but it was hard to take it as such. In essence, Michael was saying, “Can’t wait to see you up there on the auction block.” The only thing missing for Justin was the shackles someone of his era normally associated with such goings-on.
Neela, sensing his discomfort, intervened. “I know it’s your interview, Michael, but I’d like to ask Justin a question that I’m sure your readers would want to know as well.”
Michael considered objecting, but the desire to remain on Dr. Harper’s “good” list was greater than his need to control the interview. He leaned back a little in his chair, putting his DijAssist to the side.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I’m curious, Justin,” Neela went on, “about what you did for fun in the past.”
“Well, of course, there were movies, plays, sports, music . . . that sort of thing.”
“The music of your era is considered some of the most varied and moving ever.”
“Yes,” he countered, “but do you think it was any good?”
“I do, in fact. The classical rockers are much emulated. Tell me—did you like the Beatles?”
“Sorry, no.”
Neela’s expression revealed surprise at the answer.
“I loved the Beatles,” he said with a grin.
Neela smiled back. “Smart-ass.”
Justin laughed.
Damsah’s ghost, there is something there, thought Michael. It was a story—or would be, if anything ever happened. He’d sit on it for now—reputations were at stake. Maybe he’d talk to Irma about it.
“Well, then,” she said, “maybe you won’t be surprised to learn that they’re the most popular turn-of-the-millennium group today.”
“No, I wouldn’t be,” he answered, having an urge to give them a listen. “Even in my generation they had a certain . . . timeless quality.”
Justin tilted his head slightly, as if straining to listen to a song that wasn’t there.
Michael, following what he felt was Neela’s mundane line of questioning, was forced to admit that, for better or worse, it had seemed to jar something loose in his interviewee. “Are you alright, Justin?”
“Sorry, yes. That last question reminded me of one of their songs . . . now it’s stuck in my head.”
“Which one?” asked Michael.
“ ‘Across the Universe.’ ”
The next couple of days were pleasant ones for Justin. He made no more attempts to sneak out of the hospital, and heeded Neela’s advice about not interacting with the press. Omad would come by, and they’d hit the clinic’s exercise room, then go to the cafeteria for a beer. Other than the fact that people were constantly staring at him, Justin was beginning to think that his new life had returned to what might be called normalcy. He’d even gotten used to the stares. After all, he was a bit of an anomaly, and the looks he’d been getting were not oppressive. People were looking at him with what he gathered was open curiosity. But it became clear early on that they knew better than to bother him. He was to find out later that Mosh had let it be known that anyone who spoke to him without an obvious invitation to do so would be fired on the spot. Justin recalled a very interesting conversation with Mosh and his wife, Eleanor, one night over dinner. Eleanor was a knowledgeable source of information on practical financial matters, like getting a currency account and buying a house. Plus, she seemed to take a mother-hen attitude toward Justin, which he found strangely comforting.
Of all the problems he’d dealt with in planning his trip to the future, the idea of loneliness was never one he’d considered. Since the death of his wife he had wanted to be alone and, in fact, had drawn comfort from the walls he’d built around himself. He’d been prescient enough with his physical being, just not with his emotional one. Now he was beginning to regret not having tried harder to get his erstwhile assistant, or at least someone else from his era, to accompany him. But then Justin would remind himself that all plans have at least one mistake inevitably discovered after the fact. His was in believing that as an outsider he’d have no problem leaving his world, and everyone in it, behind. And now that it was gone he knew he’d been wrong.
Mosh was tired. He was, after all, approaching his second century and beginning to feel it. As if the day-to-day pressure of running a hospital weren’t enough, he now had a pissed-off GCI and a horde of ravenous media to contend with. The tricks the press were pulling to get into the hospital ranged from funny (someone claiming to be Justin’s long-lost brother) to ludicrous (one idiot shooting himself in the leg to gain entrance). Mosh gladly signed the recommendation for a psychological audit on that man. What was becoming intolerable was that the world was rapidly catching on to the fact that Mosh McKenzie, ex–GCI board member, was alive and well. And that was a very bad thing. Mosh had known when he retired just how ruthless the corporate world could be—even to retirees. Which was why when he’d left he’d done so with an old-boy handshake deal. He’d get to rule his private fiefdom as long as he promised to stay out of the spotlight and clear of GCI’s internal politics. In short, he’d agreed to disappear.
But thanks to Justin he was not keeping up his part of the bargain. He was exerting power, and the world, as well as GCI, was starting to remember that Mosh McKenzie was not only a man to be reckoned with, but also a man who’d once been in contention for the Chairmanship.
Mosh looked out at the conference table and saw a bleary-eyed group of people staring back at him: Neela, Dr. Wang, Gil Tellar, and Eleanor. Mosh chuckled to himself, realizing that it was this same group, minus Eleanor, who less than a week before were so excited by the prospect of their “find” that they’d already planned their retirements. Well, that had changed, hadn’t it? None of them had gotten much sleep during the week, and they were all beginning to realize that they’d be getting even less as time wore on. If they attempted to leave the hospital they’d be mobbed by a news-starved world. If they attempted to contact anyone outside the hospital, it was a sure bet their lines would be hacked into. There was no escape. The interest in Justin was at a fever pitch and they were the closest thing to the man who, but for one interview in The Terran Daily News, had barely spoken to anyone. The press was painting him as a romantic hero from the past who’d survived incredible odds to reach nirvana. The talk in all the homes and offices was of Justin Cord. Any information about him was instantly downloaded and gobbled up. Most of it was readily available for free, but for the few enterprising entrepreneurs, it was sold at a profit. His birthplaces were immediately made into tourist attractions . . . all five of them. Items that had been owned by him, even with flimsy vetting, were auctioned off at an enormous price. It was a banner day for anyone in the Justin Cord business. Unfortunately, it was proving to be difficult for anyone in the business of helping Justin Cord.
“We
need to find a way to get him and us out of the spotlight,” Mosh said wearily.
“That’s not going to happen anytime soon.” It was Gil. “You’d have an easier time reversing the Grand Collapse.”
Dr. Wang cleared her throat. “Most people are famous in a reflected way. They reflect the fame of other people or events or actions. Those people are relatively easy to separate from the spotlight. You simply remove them from the source of their fame, and soon the world loses interest. The actor stops acting, or the sports figure stops playing, etc. But Justin is not reflecting fame. He is fame. You cannot separate him from himself. The world will have to grow tired of Justin for the spotlight to fade, and that, I suspect, will take some time.”
“Unfortunately, I agree with the assessment, Doctor,” answered Mosh. “My question is, how do we get the damned spotlight to shine somewhere else?”
“Mosh,” chided Eleanor, knowing what her husband was implying, “we will not throw that nice man out on the street.”
“What street, Eleanor? That man is going to be one of the wealthiest men in the system the second he steps out the door.”
“Actually,” said Gil, “he may already be. Justin’s been giving me lists of stocks and works of art and collectible items he’s socked away—if they’ve survived, that is.”
“You mean other than what we found in the tomb?” asked Dr. Wang.
“Precisely.”
“So,” said Mosh, “you’re telling us he buried treasure around the world before he was suspended?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” answered Gil. “Or, at least, that’s what he’s telling me.”
“Rich or not, we can’t simply throw him out,” insisted Eleanor.
“We don’t have to,” said Neela, interrupting the fracas. “He wants to go. To be exact, he wants to give a press conference and move back to New York.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Mosh asked, glaring at Neela.
“I tried,” she answered, “but you all seemed pretty intent on not letting me get a word in edgewise.”
“I wonder why that is?” Gil asked, neither needing nor expecting an answer. Everyone laughed.
“Yeah, yeah,” chortled Neela, “very funny, Gil. But the fact remains, he does want to leave.”
Mosh’s sense of relief was palpable and visible. He’d been thinking of sending Justin for a long space cruise on a private yacht, something that would’ve taken him to the Oort Cloud and beyond. It would’ve taken over a year before he’d have gotten back, and by then he would have hopefully had enough time to begin a proper adjustment into society. Or had Justin preferred, he could have become one of the many people who simply wandered through the solar system, content to call home wherever they happened to be. But now it was moot. Justin had solved his problem, and for a lot less money.
“Is he really ready for that?” asked Eleanor.
“You’d think not,” answered Dr. Wang, “but Neela and I have gone over his biophysicals, and they’re all in proper balance. And if he does have any emotional turmoil he’s hiding it better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Gil was perplexed. “I know I’m not an expert or anything, but shouldn’t it take longer to mainstream someone like that?”
“Like what?” asked Neela.
“Like, that old,” answered Gil. “Not to mention the fact that everything and everyone he held dear is irrevocably gone.”
“Not his nature,” said Neela. “Justin will always try to deal with reality without pretensions or delays. It is in his nature to accept a situation.” And try to master it, she thought.
Mosh drummed his fingers on the table until he noticed the racket he was causing. “Alright, people, let’s figure out what to do here.”
“Legally,” answered Gil, “we have to keep him here until he’s ready to leave. And that doesn’t mean when he says he’s ready. It means when we say he’s ready. We’re a medical facility first and a harried bunch of workers second. It’s important we remember that.”
“Morally, we have an obligation to keep him till he’s ready to go,” added Eleanor, looking to Neela for support.
“He’s ready,” said Neela, “but he does have one condition.”
“Name it,” said Mosh, a little too quickly.
“Me.”
Advertising media saturation in a society as advanced as this one is both a blessing and a curse. Indeed, had it not been for the market demand and successful application of products and services to help limit advertising, society would have experienced a second Grand Collapse (by the simple fact that no one would have wanted to leave their homes for fear of advertising inundation). Luckily, there was almost as much money to be made in antipublicity and antiadvertising product development as in the traditional fields of advertising, and so a healthy balance was reached. But if the public wanted to be informed of an event, or in effect allowed themselves to be advertised to, then what became known as “permissive” market saturation could easily reach so close to 100 percent as to make no statistical difference whatsoever. Of the four events in modern times to reach the magic 100, three of them involved Justin Cord.
—FROM A LECTURE GIVEN BY PROFESSOR MARTIN JONES, UNIVERSITY OF SAN
MIGUEL DE ALLENDE, POSTED AT MEDIA AND MODERN SOCIETY
The press conference was held in the clinic’s loading dock. Although not ideally suited, it was the only place big enough to hold the event. Floaters and reporters were busy scurrying about everywhere, except for a small area cordoned off by the main entrance leading into the clinic. And that’s where most of them were encamped, waiting for the system’s hottest news story to walk through the door.
Justin and Neela were waiting patiently on the other side of it, listening to the clamor, and occasionally peering out through the one-way mirror.
Justin couldn’t help but laugh at the melee occurring in his honor.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Neela asked, resisting the urge to gently poke his ribs.
“Sure. What man wouldn’t like to have the whole world—sorry—the whole solar system waiting with bated breath to hear what he has to say?”
“In that case,” chided Neela, “it’d better be good.”
He laughed and smiled at her, indicating he was ready to go. Neela smiled back. He seemed, she thought, transformed. He also appeared to be totally accepting, and even eager, about beginning his new life. She wished she could have claimed some of the credit, but she wouldn’t. Even though she’d helped Justin center himself, and was there for him during his first week, it was nothing like how a reintegration, especially of this sort, was supposed to go. If anything, she should have gotten him to slow down, not plow ahead. And now she realized she didn’t want him to walk out that door, because when he did, everything would change again. Not that it hadn’t already, but the few steps he was about to take into the world’s waiting arms would solidify the change irrevocably. Neela wanted to keep this moment for herself before the world took him away.
“You know,” she said, “it’s not like the world knows nothing about you. Besides what’s already on the Neuro, that interview you gave with Mr. Veritas is systemwide.”
“True enough, Neela. I’m happy to say that they know about you as well, Miss Famous Reanimationist with a specialty in social integration. If I’m not mistaken, your interviews with Irma Sobbelgé were broadcast systemwide as well.”
Neela feigned amusement at Justin’s remark, but inside she was worried. The associative fame of being so close to the system’s newest frenzy had shot her stock value way up—beyond what she could have ever hoped to earn in her lifetime. The immediate effect was to make her a wealthy woman . . . at least, on paper. The downside was that her dream of gaining self-majority was slipping further and further away. The more well-known she became, the more her stock shot up. And the more her stock shot up, the more difficult it became to buy it back. She likened it to a cat chasing its tail.
As a precaut
ion she’d called her parents and sister before news of Justin broke and told them not to sell any shares that they owned, no matter how lucrative. As was customary, most parents promised not to sell their children’s 20 percent, and usually willed it back to their offspring in the unfortunate event of an accidental permanent death. But it would have taken saints to turn down the type of offers Neela’s stock was getting. While Neela understood that the decision to sell was her parents’ and sister’s to make, she didn’t want them to get swindled. She’d breathed a sigh of relief when they’d told her that no matter what the going price, the shares would remain in their name alone. As far as her brother was concerned, she’d wisely bought back her few shares from him well over ten years ago.
Another downside to her newfound notoriety was how busy her schedule had become. She’d been booked for countless talk shows and speaking tours, something she looked forward to with loathing. She would have loved to refuse them all; however, as long as she was a minority shareholder of herself she had no choice but to agree. Even the extra credits she made did not make up for the loss of the quiet life she’d almost grown used to. In many ways, she’d often reflect, she was living a parallel life to that of her patient. Suddenly thrown into the spotlight, people fawning for her attention—almost as if she, too, had been reborn.
Incorporation headaches, she thought sadly. She put on a smile for Justin and wondered what it would be like to not owe anybody anything—to be that free.
“Besides,” Justin said, breaking Neela out of her reverie, “those interviews explained the past. This press conference is about the future.” He again motioned toward the doorway. “Shall we?”
“By all means, Justin,” Neela said, sighing slightly. “Let’s not keep the future waiting.”
They stepped through the permiawall into a hailstorm of shouted questions and the associated sounds of buzzing contraptions used for high-quality recording. Justin was a little surprised by the lack of flashes going off but remembered that a civilization with sourceless lighting wouldn’t need a flash to illuminate a face. Still, the noise was enough to deafen, and the shouted questions reminded Justin that this was indeed an old-fashioned media frenzy. He stood in front of a small dais and held up his hands, hoping it would bring some order. The mob quieted down. He pointed first to Irma Sobbelgé. It was their agreement that she would get the first question, and then all special treatment would end. Justin felt he had more than lived up to his end of the bargain, and Irma had agreed.
The Unincorporated Man Page 23