The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  He put both hands on the dais, readying himself for the onslaught. “Yes.”

  Irma stood up, basking momentarily in the special treatment accorded her and her paper. “Mr. Cord, Irma Sobbelgé, Terran Daily News. We have it on good authority that you’re leaving the clinic. Is that true? And if so, where will you be living now?”

  Justin smiled, knowing that Irma had just asked two questions instead of one, but he admired her desire to milk her moment for all it was worth.

  “It is true,” he answered, “that I will be leaving the clinic, and I wish to thank all the staff here for doing an amazing job under the most unusual of circumstances. I am grateful. But a man is reborn in a clinic; he is not meant to live there.”

  The room started to laugh, taking Justin by surprise. He didn’t think what he’d said was all that funny, but it may have struck a cultural chord he knew nothing about. When the laughter subsided, he continued.

  “I’ll be living in New York City for the time being, though the asteroid belt is looking interesting to me. I may eventually settle in Ceres.”

  And in one fell swoop what had been meant as a joke set off a real-estate war on the tiny boulder that raised property values by an average of 37 percent.

  He pointed to another reporter, a pretty woman of Asian descent. She stood up to speak.

  “Miss Huan Lee Kim of the Neuro News,” she belted out.

  “Yes, Ms. Kim.”

  “Mr. Cord, will Dr. Harper be continuing on as your . . . integrationist?”

  “Yes. I have signed a contract with the director of the clinic for her services for the next year.”

  “May I ask as to the nature of that contract?” she pressed.

  “No,” snapped Justin.

  Miss Kim was about to sit down, not expecting an answer but having more than enough to scandalize her readers for weeks, when Neela, who was standing behind and to the right of Justin, stepped forward.

  “If you would allow me to answer that question, Justin,” Neela said.

  Justin nodded in surprise and took a small step backward to allow Neela front and center.

  “Miss Kim, Mr. Cord has agreed to pay my salary for a year, as well as the cost of replacing me on staff for the year. In return he will be my exclusive patient, though I have contacted Dr. Gillette of the Vegas Clinic, and he will be consulting on this case. I would also like to say that the tone and emphasis of your questions were not becoming to my professional integrity or your own. Mr. Cord is my patient, period. Soon he may be mine and Dr. Gillette’s.”

  “Doesn’t he trust you?” someone shouted from the back.

  “Completely,” smiled Justin, “but Neela insisted, and who am I to argue with my specialist?” The crowd chuckled, and Justin picked someone else before they started shouting out their own questions. A well-dressed man in an intricately layered, multicolored suit stood up.

  “Mr. Corwin of The Detroit Times,” he said, as proudly as he could manage.

  “Yes, Mr. Corwin.”

  “Mr. Cord, I am sure that you will be a wealthy man, but where did you get the funds to pay for your own private specialist for a year?”

  “Before I had myself suspended, I took the precaution of placing certain valuables in places around the world. Sadly, most of them were found and looted, but three of my troves went untouched. According to the appraisals I’ve received you can consider my financial status as ‘comfortable.’ ”

  Justin pointed at another woman standing off to the side but jumping in a manner that caught his eye.

  “Yes, you over there with the impressive jump.”

  “Thank you. Miss Daniels, Boulder Sentinel.”

  “Yes, Miss Daniels.”

  “How ‘comfortable’?”

  “Let’s just say comfortable enough to hire my own specialist for a year and pay her salary.”

  Justin smiled in a way that let them all know that he had more than a sufficient amount, and in all likelihood enough to put most of their salaries to shame. And in a society that respected wealth and property as few others in history, his evasive answer only added to the mystique that was fast becoming associated with his name.

  “Well, Mr. Cord,” Miss Daniels said, “that is impressive. What will you buy first?”

  “Happiness,” said Justin, in all seriousness.

  There was a shout from the back: “As long as you share it, I wish you all the happiness you’re entitled to!”

  The crowd buzzed and turned to see who had the temerity to interrupt their guest of honor. What they saw was a smug-looking Hektor Sambianco leaning against one of the open bay doors, arms folded across his chest.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Hektor Sambianco,” Justin said, extending his arm in his bane’s direction. “You can leave now, Mr. Sambianco, or, if you prefer, be removed.”

  Hektor didn’t budge. Instead he stood there smiling, almost daring Justin to follow through.

  “You’re forgetting, Mr. Cord, that as a duly authorized representative of GCI I have every right to be here. But I will not stay long if I’m not wanted.”

  “You’re not,” answered Neela. “Now please leave.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll just drop this off and be on my way.” Hektor approached to within five feet of the podium and took out a small device that looked like a pen and pointed it toward the ceiling, where there appeared a document with dense legal script. After a few moments the image faded. “There, that should do it,” he said.

  “What was that?” Justin whispered into Neela’s ear, but before she could respond Hektor delivered the answer.

  “Forgive me, Justin. I would have handed you the papers digitally and in person, but you looked so hostile. I served the documents in a more public fashion than is traditional. But no one can argue that you didn’t see them. And if by some odd chance you didn’t, well then, I’m sure you can pick them up by watching the news—any channel should do.”

  “Served, as in court papers?” Miss Kim asked. The whole room had done an about-face, turning toward Hektor.

  “Precisely, Miss Kim. Yes, GCI will see Mr. Cord in court.”

  Justin gripped the dais. “Don’t say anything,” Neela urged.

  Another reporter’s question rang out. “Would that be about Mr. Cord’s suspension unit?”

  “No, it would not, Mr. Haddad. We’re dropping that claim for now.” The reporter was clearly impressed that Hektor had known his name.

  “Then,” Mr. Haddad pressed, “what is it about?”

  “Justin, we should go,” implored Neela, grabbing his arm and trying unsuccessfully to drag him out of the room. She’d sensed his agitation and knew instinctively that Hektor was getting to him—baiting him further. She could also see Justin trying desperately to control his emotions. This was supposed to be his day, his big coming-out party; Hektor had effectively destroyed it.

  “Good question, Mr. Haddad.” Hektor continued. “As I said before, we’re not interested in Mr. Cord’s suspension unit, though I’m sure it’s worth quite a credit or two. No, GCI is suing for something far more valuable—a percentage of Mr. Cord himself. A percentage that we will hold forever.”

  Hektor let that sink in, and watched, almost in slow motion, as the entire press corps turned around to get Justin’s reaction.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Omad grunted as he carried the last box across the threshold, actually breaking a sweat—a rare occurrence now that he’d gone majority.

  “OK, Justin,” Omad asked, wiping his brow, “why didn’t you kill him?”

  “You mean Sambianco?” he answered, shoving a set of boxes into a corner of the room. “I wasn’t trying to kill him, Omad, just . . . punch his lights out.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “Look, man,” Justin said, “the guards broke us up and the rest is up to the lawyers. It happened over a week ago. I’m just trying to start up a new life here in the Big Apple and enjoy the future.”

  Omad put a
box down at his feet, emitting a grunt. “Enjoy the future? Enjoy the future, my ass. You know, Justin, they have things in the ‘future’ called drones. They could have done almost all of this moving without us. If it had to be done by hu-lab . . . sorry,” he said, realizing yet another abbreviation was escaping his perplexing friend’s grasp, “human labor, why not just hire people? You’re richer than God. Is there some tradition in your time that states your friends must be the first to suffer when you move?”

  Justin turned around, laughing. “Well, now that you mention it, yeah. But even more than that, I always felt that a place wasn’t really yours unless you personally moved in some of the stuff and unpacked some boxes.”

  Omad wasn’t buying it. In fact, it made about as much sense to him as would his heading back into the mines. “That’s another thing,” he snapped. “What the hell are those boxes made out of, some sort of biscuit?”

  “It’s called cardboard, Omad,” Justin said, tapping one lightly with his foot for good measure. “All boxes used to be made out of it.”

  Omad shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “You might be surprised to know,” continued Justin, “that it cost a fortune to have those boxes re-created. Maybe even more than the stuff inside . . . for the most part.”

  Omad grinned. “Why? Ya got another Timex in there for your buddy . . . your moving buddy?”

  Justin shook his head, palms flat out. “Sorry.”

  “Then why?” asked Omad. “Why have these boxes made at all? You live in a fluid apartment, shouldn’t you enjoy it? I know I would.”

  Justin sat down on a conveniently located pile. “Neela suggested that this exercise in moving might help me assimilate into the future better. It may seem weird, but I think she’s right. I’m moving into a whole new life, but doing it like this doesn’t make it seem as daunting.”

  “Smart doc, that doc,” Omad said, a little too facetiously for Justin’s taste. “Did she ever mention anything about torturing friends in your little exercise?”

  Justin didn’t answer.

  “I thought not. Well then, you can make it up to me. You’re pretty much in the center of the universe here, so I say we hit some clubs. I might just happen to know of a few fine establishments of exotic entertainment.”

  “Maybe later, friend,” Justin said, fishing through his pockets for a scrap of paper. “I really had something else in mind.” He handed Omad the scrap.

  Omad read it, then looked up in disgust. “You’re taking the ESB over the Virgin Rockets club and casino?”

  “Not forever, Omad, but for today. I’d really like to see the Empire State. It would be like visiting an old friend.”

  Omad softened. “Lemme guess. Part of the exercise?”

  “Not really, but I suppose,” answered Justin honestly.

  Omad put his foot up on the box at his feet and shook his head, disbelieving. “Yeah, I guess from your point of view it would make sense. After all, you were there when it was built.”

  “Hey,” Justin said in mock offense, “I’m not that old.”

  “No? Well, close enough, buddy. Close enough. You gonna take security with you?”

  “In this city? I checked the crime stats, Omad. Even with seventy plus million it still has an absolute crime rate lower than New York in the day of Rudy Giuliani.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Omad said, reveling in his knowledge of the city, “he was that famous mayor who served right before La Guardia, right?”

  Justin gave him a stern look, teacher hat firmly on. “He was mayor sixty years after La Guardia was dead.”

  “Whatever, man. Have a good one, and the next time you need to re-create a moving experience, make sure it involves plenty of money, women, and drugs.”

  Justin remembered being upset that the Empire State Building no longer existed as a part of the skyline (even though the skyline had risen precipitously), but was determined to see it nonetheless. Plus, who could resist the prospect of seeing so great an edifice completely covered by another? So, with a few subterfuge tips from Omad, he headed out.

  There had been no greater city in which to walk than New York City, and Justin could see this had not changed. Though the buildings were significantly larger, and the traffic was no longer relegated to the street, the town’s old personality remained—fast and furious, with a lot of heart. He took Park Avenue up to East Thirty-fourth Street, turned left, and headed to Fifth Avenue. Another left, and he was there. Or was he? He’d gotten so used to hanging that left onto Fifth and seeing the majestic building that not seeing it was disconcerting.

  The Empire State Center took up three entire city blocks from West Thirty-second to West Thirty-fourth. The exterior was an amalgam of glass and steel not much different in coldness and structure from the ones Justin had remembered, but for one major difference: This one had a building—correction, a really big building—inside the building.

  The entrance alone was three stories high and led foot traffic down into a huge open corridor. There was a cautionary sign indicating that the interior space was not equipped for personal flying, but that a suicide prevention field was in effect. He walked the long corridor leading to the center of the building. After what seemed like an eternity he finally arrived at the empiric core of the building. It was astonishing in its grandeur and chutzpah: a tremendous cavern at the center of which stood the original Empire State Building in all of its glory. Intact and fully restored to what it must have been like, surmised Justin, when it was finished in 1931. He spent the day in and around the ancient landmark, which now housed the New York Historical Society. For a fee individuals, groups, and schools could go into the building and experience life in various decades—depending on which floors they visited. For example, the sixties were represented on floors fifty-eight through sixty-seven. Those floors would all start their calendars on January 1, 1960, and continue day by day until December 31, 1969. The following day the floors would revert back to January 1, 1960. While the first years of the sixties were characterized by short hair and matching sideburns, the later years were characterized by the more wild and woolly look so well documented for that time period. The effect was made even more compelling by the reenactors found in every decade, dressed in the styles of the period, reading newspapers and magazines and working at the jobs that would have been appropriate for the time. The reenactors, Justin saw, were wonderfully imperfect. Some were underweight, others obese, still others were too short or had poor skin complexions. They all stood out in stark contrast to their perfected nanoized brethren living just outside the confines of the building. There were even apartments available for living, but only if the tenants were willing to live in a manner representative of the chosen floor’s decade. Justin was touched and surprised that all the decades ended on December 31 of the ninth year except for the nineties. This worked out rather well with calibrating the floors, since the Empire State Building was not completed until late 1931, and the nineties, at least according to many historians, really ended on September 11, 2001—seen as the beginning of the end for Justin’s world. He found out that crowds would flock to the ESC just to reexperience September 11, 2001, and other days of magnitude. For example, in the case of the sixties, the first Moon landing, or “where were you” moments like John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Some reenactors, Justin was told, rarely, if ever, left the building, choosing instead to live in an idealized and imperfect view of the past.

  To add sauce to the goose were specially designed holo-emitters fitted to every window. The emitters re-created the “outside” New York of each floor’s time period.

  Eventually word of Justin’s presence leaked out, and members of the historical society approached him. They were overjoyed—not only for his inherent celebrity status, but because they were eager for him to inspect the eras of the building he was most familiar with and suggest corrections. And though he’d had his heart set on visiting the earlier decades, he relented and spent most of his time in the eighties, nineties,
and the turn of the millennium accompanied by a gaggle of excited historians.

  He was on the eighty-seventh floor planning a quick run up to the observation deck, but the seventies floors had been so inviting, and filled with so many things he’d recalled from his past, that he lingered and mingled with the reenactors for longer than planned. He picked up some Time and Newsweek magazines dated from June 1976, then flipped through the pages and chuckled at the ads—including one for 33 RPM singles. He stopped by the small gift shop and eyed approvingly some of the candies he’d spent years attempting to ruin his teeth on. Snippets of conversation he picked up had to do with the inflation rate, and about whether to vote for Carter or Ford. He wasn’t sure if the reenactors were putting on a command performance for his benefit or if it really was this authentic all the time. Though he suspected it was a little bit of both, the truth was, he didn’t care. The idea of getting to experience the seventies all over again—this time as a full-grown adult—was so wonderfully appealing he could’ve stayed for days. He certainly could’ve stayed the night, given some of the offers that had rather forthrightly and era-appropriately come his way. But he rejected them, saving the pleasure perhaps for another day. In the meantime his eyes were delighted by the assault of lime-green polyester suits, wide lapels, bell-bottoms, platform shoes, and feathered-back hair. Feeling exhausted, and with only a few hours left in his day, Justin expressed to the curator of the floor an interest in moving up to the observation deck.

  “Well, thank you very much for coming, Mr. Cord,” the seventies curator said. He was a pleasant-looking man of average height, about thirty or so, sporting a goatee, long sideburns, and an oversized Afro. He’d finished off his ensemble with a powder blue leisure suit and some platform shoes.