The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “If you’d like,” answered the ever helpful curator, “we can set the deck to any decade, or even year and season, you want. Though the view from the present-day deck is . . . well, psychedelic!” That got him a round of applause and a few chuckles.

  Before Justin could answer he was bombarded with helpful suggestions from the crowd of twenty or so. He heard suggestions for every decade, but most were for the seventies, of course, though all seasons were shouted out equally.

  “Thank you, thank you all for your help and kindness,” he said earnestly, “but I think I’d like to see it ‘as is,’ if you will. I’d like to compare it with my memories of how it was the last time I was here.”

  That brought an appreciative and even envious sigh from the surrounding group. Justin then thanked the curator for keeping the press at bay while he toured the facilities.

  “No probs, Mr. Cord. Truth is, we’re not really down with the press, seeing how they bum on us all the time. We just powered up the null field, and that did the trick. Though I am afraid you’ll be your own cat once you leave the environs of the historical society.”

  The curator was about to speak further when the elevator door behind Justin opened and, in addition to the lift’s chime, he heard a gasp of surprise. He turned around to see a man emerge with his arm in an Ace bandage and sling. He was decidedly not in seventies garb, and his face was covered in a ski mask of sorts. The crowd around him seemed upset, and were muttering, “Bad form, not in the script.” Instinctively, Justin ducked as the man slid his arm from the brace, revealing a long silver tube. A blast emanated from the cylinder in the direction of Justin’s head.

  Justin felt his teeth rattle and his vision blur at the edges.

  “Neurolizer!” someone screamed. Justin sensed and heard rather than saw the two bodies hit the floor behind him like sacks of potatoes. The crowd responded in panic. If Justin had known what a neurolizer was he probably would’ve joined the fray, which would have given the assailant an easy couple of seconds to take a few more shots. But whether by instinct or by pluck, Justin did the opposite. He put his head down and charged the man, hitting him squarely in the chest. The gun flew out of the man’s hand and back into the elevator as he and Justin, through inertia, followed its path—both of them hitting the elevator’s back wall with a resounding thud. At that moment the elevator doors slammed shut, trapping them inside. While his opponent tried to use his fists to no effect, Justin used his knees and elbows, and then jammed his thumb into his assailant’s eye. The man screamed in agony and rolled to his side. Justin was about to smash his fist into the man’s face when he felt the swift, dull thud of a hand crashing down hard on his back. He wheeled around too late to see the blurred outline of another figure. Then all went dark.

  “Wake up!” one of the voices shouted. When Justin failed to comply as quickly as expected he was treated to a hard slap across the face. The two men, Justin realized, had grabbed his arms that, without any strength coursing through them, felt like unwanted appendages rudely stuck to his side but annoyingly painful as the means by which they were holding him up.

  He realized he was still in the elevator and that it was not moving. He was also glad to be alive.

  Standing before him was the very same man who’d only moments before tried to take his life, the same man who’d surprised him in the elevator.

  “I’ll make this quick, Mr. Cord,” the man said. “Contrary to what you might think, I meant you no harm.”

  “And the people you attacked?” spat Justin.

  “Unfortunate,” he answered, unconvincingly.

  “What is it you want?” asked Justin, trying to buy time.

  The man smiled knowingly. “Why, your very first share, of course. Unlike GCI, I’m not patient, nor do I have deep coffers. What I do have is this.” He aimed the neurolizer at Justin’s head. “You’ll of course be able to argue that you gave it to me under duress, but what do I care? Even owning it for a few brief weeks while it’s tied up in court and I’m at the nuthouse will make my stock rise enough to repair whatever damage they do to me on the psyche audit.” He laughed the laugh of the unbalanced. Then, aiming the gun and holding out his DijAssist at the same time, he said, “Your thumbprint, please.” On cue, the man behind him gave him a small shove to the back.

  Justin spat on the pad the man had held out. “You don’t need me for anything, you’ve got me at gunpoint. Why don’t you just press the damned thing to my thumb and leave me the fuck alone?”

  “Now that’s not very gentlemanly, is it?” said the man as he grabbed Justin by the scruff of the neck. “First of all, the DijAssist can sense pressure of a voluntary nature. That means you have to put your thumb on it. I can’t press it against the DijAssist. It will know.

  “Second of all,” he said, and then didn’t complete his sentence, choosing instead to slam his fist onto the “open” button prominently displayed at the bottom of the elevator’s bank of floor buttons. As the doors slid apart the man lifted Justin up by his collar and pushed him out of the elevator onto the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Justin was momentarily struck by the brightness and noise of the new space. He could see the inside of the Empire State Center surrounding the Empire State Building. The magnificence of the view was lost on him as he tried desperately to figure a way out of his situation. Justin also saw that a cadre of securibots had descended onto the observation deck, making sure to keep a safe distance, and that a number of flying drones, presumably police of some sort, were circling the trio—waiting to take a clean shot? Justin wondered. The assailants, however, were keeping Justin close and constantly shifting their bodies so as to make the machines doubt, if such a thing was possible.

  The two men dragged him over to the ledge of the building and then lifted him onto a precariously small wall. Next stop—street level, ninety-seven stories below.

  “Don’t think the floater field’ll save your ass,” yelled the man with the gun over the din of securibots barking orders and sirens wailing into the cavernous shell of the Empire State Center. “We’ve taken ’em out. Now,” he continued, fixing his glare on Justin, “sign or die . . . doesn’t matter to me, either way I’m famous.” The assailant had Justin’s shirt by the scruff and the neurolizer pointed at his forehead, pushing him farther over the edge. The gunslinger glanced briefly over to the other man, indicating that he extend the DijAssist for Justin to place his thumb on.

  Justin, looking ever the terrified victim, nodded his head in agreement, and almost desperately put his thumb out to sign—but not far enough to reach the pad. It looked for all the world as if the fear of a ninety-seven-story plunge was preventing him from losing his already precarious balance.

  The man with the gun stared hard at his partner. “Closer, you idiot!”

  The second man extended the DijAssist closer, so that Justin could press his thumb against it. When Justin was certain that all eyes were focused on the point where his thumb was to meet the DijAssist, he overextended and grabbed the man by the wrist. In one fell swoop Justin dropped onto his backside, pulling the unsuspecting brute onto his body. Then, in quick succession, he rolled himself and the man over the ledge, into the thin, processed air of the Empire State Center. At the last moment Justin reached out and grabbed the ledge while his horrified assailant fell past—a screaming human cannonball. During the melee the man holding the gun had instinctively let go of Justin’s shirt so as not to fall down with his prisoner, but it had taken only a few seconds for him to regain his wits and balance. He leveled the neurolizer at Justin, who was now hanging on to the ledge by his fingers, feet dangling precariously. Before the man could squeeze the trigger he was vaporized by the securibots, who finally had an open shot.

  The pain in Justin’s backside—the result of his dropkick onto the concrete ledge—stabbed so sharply up his spine that he wondered if he’d been hit by friendly fire. The last thing he recalled was the strength in his fingers giving out and the freefall that fo
llowed as his spent body dropped into the void, with only the fading distant roof of the Empire State Center as a last vision. And then, once again, his world went dark.

  Dr. Thaddeus Gillette was a well-dressed man approximately 103 years old, but not looking a day over 35. In his line of business, “slightly older-looking” was the style society found most befitting. Not that Thaddeus cared much about what society wanted, but it was so much a part of the norm that he hadn’t given it a second thought. So when he became a distinguished professor, he promptly went to the nearest body modification center and aged himself another thirteen years. He had black curly hair with a sprinkle of gray in the sideburns, brown deep-sunken eyes, and the tired look of a man who had too many papers to grade, too many lectures to give, and not enough hours in the day. And now he found himself in the heart of the Big Apple, in a skyscraper somewhere on the 307th floor, in front of a door leading into a luxury apartment inhabited by the man who by all rights should have been his patient to begin with. Strange world, he thought. Via his DijAssist he briefly reviewed the news footage of Justin’s press conference. He paid attention to the end, where the world saw Justin launching himself at Hektor and having to be forcibly restrained from beating him to a pulp, while this Sambianco fellow, Thaddeus noted, was the smiling picture of contentment—even with the threat of Justin’s restrained fists mere centimeters from pummeling him further. He was curious about Hektor’s apparent indifference—or was it satisfaction?—but wanted to check with Dr. Harper first before saying anything to Director McKenzie and his colleagues. The other thing Justin noticed was that it was Dr. Harper who had managed to calm him down. Thaddeus watched the vid as the Cord fellow listened to her—allowed her to get through to him. What was not obvious on the recording, and what he desperately prayed he was wrong about, was the way Dr. Harper felt about Justin Cord. Thaddeus was trained to read the subtlest forms of body language, and even he was not sure. But he thought he saw something. For now it was just a suspicion. Though rare, it wouldn’t be the first time that a reanimationist had feelings for a patient. After all, it was only natural to be protective. It was the disastrous result that history had proven would follow that was decidedly unnatural. He made a mental note to bring it up with Dr. Harper. When he was ready he put away his DijAssist and placed his palm over the doorbell. The entrance melted away almost immediately, and Thaddeus found himself face-to-face with an apprehensive but clearly relieved Neela Harper.

  “Thank you for coming,” Neela said.

  “My dear young and skilled Dr. Harper, thank you for inviting me. I can assure you that I have no objections to being made a part of history.”

  Neela smiled politely and led the doctor to a large living room area, indicating a chair for him to sit in.

  “Speaking of which,” continued Thaddeus, “can this eminent yet thirsty historical figure bother you for a glass of iced tea?” He then sat down.

  “Of course, Doctor,” answered Neela.

  After she returned with the drinks and handed Thaddeus his iced tea, she sat down on a couch across from Thaddeus. A small coffee table separated them.

  She continued, “The only problem was convincing Justin that I needed to consult with you.”

  “So you have established trust?” Thaddeus asked.

  “As much as Justin can trust, yes, I have. Though I suspect it’s more in the nature of a security blanket rather than as a guide. To be quite honest, I often feel like a glorified DijAssist.”

  “Dr. Harper,” answered Thaddeus, all smiles, “you’ve done a marvelous job in the most difficult case I have ever seen. No one could have foreseen the travails you’ve encountered, including outright sabotage.”

  Neela smiled back in appreciation, and Gillette could see that this was a person in desperate need of a talk. It was also obvious to him that she was in danger of burning out.

  “I’m also very impressed that you called me,” he added.

  “I can see,” responded Neela, “that you have a high regard for yourself, Doctor.”

  “I deserved that,” he agreed merrily. “What I was trying to say is that many a young revivalist in your position would have tried to do this all on their own, in an attempt to gain all the credit. You did not—showing, in my opinion, great presence of mind. Though I would be lying if I said I would be as pleased if you had called Dr. Bronstein.”

  “I may be good, Dr. Gillette, but I’m not stupid enough to think that talent makes up for experience—which I know you have in droves. With regards to Dr. Bronstein; while brilliant, I suspect he believes in theories too much, usually his own. From what I’ve read about you, and from your own reports, I gathered that you would be more open to extraenvironmental inputs—of which I can assure you there will be many.”

  “My dear girl,” answered the doctor, “I think that is the nicest way of saying ‘you make it up as you go’ that I have ever heard. And please call me Thaddeus.”

  “Very well, Thaddeus, but only if you call me Neela.”

  “Done,” he answered, smiling amiably. “Let me just reiterate that I believe you’re doing very well. Remember that there has never been a case like this, and likely never will be again. You’re as much an expert here as I am, and indeed, more so.”

  Until that moment Neela had been carrying the lion’s share—feeling overwhelmed and underqualified. The doctor’s remarks not only helped validate her feelings; his mere presence allowed her to look forward to some much needed respite.

  She quietly sipped her drink. For a few brief seconds only the sound of ice cubes against glass broke the silence.

  “Could I ask you a . . . personal question?” asked Thaddeus.

  “First of all, Dr. Gill . . . Thaddeus, you don’t have to ask me that question . . . ever again. Just ask. Second of all, of course.”

  “You must try not to take offense,” he said, prepping her for the second part of his question. Too late, he saw. “Exactly how much ‘trust’ have you established with Mr. Cord?” His implication was obvious. Neela began to bridle.

  “Please forgive me, Neela, but I saw something on the video of the assault that concerned me. Correct me if I’m wrong here, please. It’s just the way you looked at him, spoke to him, that’s all. If I suspect it, others will, too.”

  Neela counted to five and let out a deep breath. “To answer your question,” she said, with no small amount of fortitude, “I did not gain his trust that way.”

  Thaddeus watched and listened but still wasn’t satisfied. Some itches needed to be scratched, others eliminated outright. Until he was satisfied that he’d been incorrect in his assumption, he’d push a little further.

  “We’re colleagues in this, Neela,” he implored. “What you say to me here will be just as confidential as if Justin—or any patient for that matter—had said it.”

  Neela weighed her answer. Even if the silence incriminated her, what she was considering revealing were words and thoughts that no one in their right mind would dream of uttering. “She seemed like such a nice girl,” she imagined her neighbors saying. “Always a kind word . . . I never would have believed . . .” All such thoughts ran through her head as she decided whether or not to speak the unspeakable. But in the end she realized she needed to talk to someone—anyone—about what she was experiencing, if only to help her sort through and expunge it from her system. She was tired. Tired of feeling dirty—tired of being confused. Who better to confess to than the reanimation specialist par excellence, Thaddeus Gillette?

  “I did not develop trust like that,” she repeated, answering in a whispered tone—conciliatory. “But may Damsah forgive me for saying this . . . I . . . I wanted to.”

  Her shoulders sagged at the confession.

  Thaddeus said nothing—ever attentive.

  “I can’t believe I am saying this,” she continued, pursing her lips tightly, almost as if they were expelling bile. “It goes against everything I was taught and believe. If someone had told me I would feel that way abou
t a patient of mine . . . of mine, I would have issued a challenge right then and there. If I’d found out about another reanimationist who felt what I’m feeling now, I would’ve had nothing but contempt for them. But try as I might, Thaddeus, I look at him sometimes . . . the way he says something, I swear sometimes it’s how he smells . . . and my thoughts are not professional, not professional at all.”

  She put her glass down on the table and put her head in her hands, hunched over, fingers forming lines through her scalp.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she pleaded, staring down at the coffee table.

  Dr. Gillette got up from his seat, sat down beside her on the couch, and gently patted her shoulder. She looked up and locked her eyes onto his, desperately waiting for salvation.

  “Yours is a problem of great concern, I must admit. But,” he said, offering her a glimmer of hope, “not as unexpected as you would imagine.”

  “How so?”

  “Three reasons, my dear,” he answered, sliding a little farther back, re-creating an acceptable space between them on the couch. “First, you’re very young and new at your job to have to face a challenge of this magnitude. I reviewed your record. Because you had such a great skill and inclination for this work you were made a primary at a very young age. You should have been sent to a major facility, where you would have been assigned to a team as a secondary having little contact with clients. Had you joined me, and I can assure you I would’ve been glad to get you, you would not have been a primary until you were at least well into your fifties.”

  “So being sent to Boulder was a compliment?”

  “You weren’t sent. More like ‘plucked.’ Didn’t you find it strange that the colleague you were paired with was middle-aged—early seventies, if I recall?”