The Spencer ratings had developed as marketing became more of a science and less of an art. It was known for making extremely accurate predictions of trends and fads as well as of shifts in consumer interest. In the last fifty years it had become as indispensable to ad men as quadratic equations were to mathematicians.
“Forget the Spencer ratings,” scoffed Hektor. “They won’t work concerning Justin Cord.”
“I will do no such thing!” screamed Publicity. “You’re not even a member of this board. I don’t know why we’re even bothering with you.”
“You’re ‘bothering with me,’ ” Hektor answered calmly, “because I was detached from Special Operations”—he then smiled acidly in the DepDir’s direction—“and assigned as a special adviser to the board. And, I repeat, since we’re already well into it, my advice is to drag out the pretrial motions. We can’t get a favorable ruling in court, but we can still win. Justin will say and do things to piss off the public. He can’t help it; he doesn’t like the whole idea of incorporation—an idea, I might add, that is fundamental to all the values we as a society hold sacred. So when Wonder Boy starts mouthing off against this, the heart of our civilization, we’ll do just fine.”
“He’s got enough money to hire the best lawyers in the system,” fired back Publicity. “What makes you think they’re going to let him mouth off?”
“He can’t help himself,” answered Hektor. “He says what he thinks.”
“If only he were the only one,” muttered the DepDir loudly enough for all to hear. This got the room laughing, Hektor included.
“However, we’re all forgetting,” continued the DepDir, “about what’s important here—the money. Who gives a damn about civilizations and values? Our job is still to bring a profit. If we get some of Justin’s stock we’ll not only be richer, we’ll also have the option of invoking audits and other means of control over him.”
“What basis,” asked Accounting, “do we have for getting any shares of his stock?”
All heads now turned toward Legal.
“We will use in loco parentis,” she answered, then appeared to brace herself for what she knew was coming.
“What?” asked several members of the board simultaneously.
“There is precedent,” she continued. “When a child is suspended, and then through some tragedy loses both sets of parents, the nearest relative can take over the raising of the child, and therefore be entitled to the 20 percent parental stock award.”
Accounting looked befuddled. “That’s quite a stretch. I mean, we’re talking about the difference between a child who’s incorporated and an adult who’s not.”
More heads nodded in agreement.
“Allow me to finish,” said Legal, slightly annoyed at having been interrupted. “The precedent was used to award in loco parentis to American Express when they revived Israel Taylor Schwartz. For those of you not familiar with the case, approximately eighty years ago a man was ready to be reanimated. He had been frozen in suspension, having suffered a terrible head injury. Because he was from the early days of the incorporation movement he, in all likelihood, would have remembered the Grand Collapse. An enticing prospect for our historians, indeed, but only if he could be revived successfully. American Express used what were then considered to be cutting-edge techniques to attempt neuro-pathway reconstruction. In return they were awarded not only the 20 percent parental bonus, they were also able to charge Mr. Schwartz for the considerable cost of his revival. Sadly, the procedure did not work as hoped, and Mr. Schwartz awoke a congenital idiot. By the time they reworked his neural pathways almost all of his memories and personality traits had been wiped clean. Which brings us back to loco parentis. Israel Taylor Schwartz, ladies and gentlemen, was, by all legal definitions, a child.”
“But,” asked Publicity, “didn’t we already charge Mr. Cord for the expenses incurred in his reanimation? Couldn’t he claim our losses have been covered?”
“In that you are correct,” answered the DepDir. “Hektor made out a bill for ten million credits and someone actually paid it.”
The board dutifully responded by glaring anew at Hektor.
Hektor mumbled, “You make one little mistake . . .” Then, louder: “How is the investigation going on that, DepDir? Have you found the person responsible for paying out the debt?”
Hektor’s momentary diversion worked, as the board turned their attention back to the DepDir.
“I thought,” parried the DepDir, “that you had some leads you were running down . . . Hektor?”
“I am,” Hektor volleyed back, “but I don’t have the resources of your department, nor your experience in such matters, DepDir or, should I say, ‘acting director of Special Ops’?”
“DepDir’s fine,” Kirk snarled, “and thank you for your confidence, Mr. Sambianco, but tracing who paid the ten million credits has been reassigned from my department and given to Accounting.”
The board turned to Accounting while all the heads were busy trying to calculate what that meant in terms of their careers. Did Accounting manage to steal the job from Special Ops? If so, then that meant that Accounting was more powerful than they’d thought. Or had the DepDir managed to push this off onto Accounting? Which would mean that it was a dead-end assignment and Accounting didn’t have the power to avoid it. Or did The Chairman move it from one department to the other? That would be bad for Special Ops and could be bad for Accounting . . . if her department failed. But as both Accounting and the DepDir were old hands at this game, their faces showed nothing except mutual respect (which was felt) and trust (which was not).
“I’m still not following the in loco parentis, Legal,” continued the DepDir. “Mr. Cord did not wake up an idiot. Au contraire, he appears to be quite cognizant.”
“Yes, that’s true, but we can claim that we are his only true legal guardians, and that his adaptation back into society has been at our expense. Yes, the revival itself was covered, but he’s spent a considerable amount of time at our facility, with our specialists, getting, much like Mr. Schwartz, reacclimated to our new world. So while we won’t take over full ‘parenting’ of Mr. Cord, it is within reason, based on precedent, that we can claim a limited percentage of him.”
Publicity seemed content with the answer.
“Well done, Legal,” the DepDir said.
He turned toward Accounting.
“Accounting, you stated that Mr. Cord was priceless. But say you were to put a credit amount on his head. What would you guess?”
“An even billion,” she answered, without batting an eye, “but you could double or even quadruple that easily.”
“Let’s take the billion-credit figure,” said the DepDir. “Twenty percent of a billion is two hundred million. So if we deduct the ten million he paid us, and then go with an opening request of 19 percent of Justin Cord’s stock, we’d be doing alright, correct?”
Accounting nodded.
“I’d guess,” continued the DepDir, “that we could even bargain him down to 10 percent if we had to. We’d still be doing better than we were . . . before the mess.” The DepDir finished this off by again staring pointedly at Hektor.
Hektor started to ignore the fact that everyone glared at him. But that didn’t stop him from challenging what he felt was everyone’s wrong assumptions about Justin.
“What in the world,” asked Hektor, “makes you think he’d settle out of court?”
“Hektor, be real,” answered Accounting. “It’s the logical thing to do. From Mr. Cord’s point of view, he’ll have won.”
“Hektor,” added the DepDir, “we’re going to let him ‘force’ us down to 10 percent. That means he’ll own more of himself than almost any other person alive. It will be the greatest victory in the history of personal incorporation. How could he not settle?”
It was at that moment that Hektor realized the extent of the problem. Logical reasoning, something he was good at, would not work in this room, because no one in this r
oom except for himself understood Justin. Further, no one in the room could fathom the idea that a person might not want to be incorporated. As the board members chatted among themselves, Hektor began to realize the vast implications a Cord victory would have—not only to all those people present, but also, he suspected, to society as a whole. A man who could defeat the incorporation system, or worse, paint it in a negative light, was a man to be feared. Hektor Sambianco was afraid—not of losing his career (the odds were always against him), but of what could happen if the board went after Justin and failed. He had to warn them.
“Wait a minute,” he blurted out, “you’re forgetting something vital here. Justin . . .” Before he could finish his sentence, a red light flashed on the table. All attention was riveted on it.
The flashing red light indicated only one thing—an imminent visit by The Chairman. From the center of the table an empty circle formed, and from that circle a clear holo-image of The Chairman appeared. For Hektor, who’d only ever seen pictures of the man, even the presence of his holo-image was unnerving. Of course, Hektor was only viewing him from the back, but still, it was as close to “live” as he figured he’d ever get. What he did see was the broad stiff shoulders of a man who appeared to be in his early forties and the back of a head full of thick salt-and-pepper hair. What he also saw was the fixed, almost fearful eyes of Kirk Olmstead, acting deputy director of GCI. The Chairman, Hektor realized, was looking directly at the DepDir, though as far as each board member was concerned, The Chairman might as well have been looking directly at them.
The voice speaking was that of a man who knew he would not be interrupted. It was deeply resonant, yet mellifluous. It carried such confidence and authority that to ignore it or disregard it would be unthinkable. It was a voice that could terrify if angry and mollify if pleased. Today the voice sounded pleased.
“Mr. Olmstead,” said The Chairman, “I have been listening in, and I approve of your plan. Not only that, but I think you have demonstrated the ability to assume full responsibility of your position. I call a vote of the board to promote Kirk Olmstead from acting to V.P. of Special Operations. All in favor?”
The vote was unanimous.
Hektor watched the proceeding with a bit of regret, as he had sold all of his shares in Kirk to buy his own. But mostly it meant the crushing end of his career. All his cards had been played, all his smokescreens dissolved. After the vote The Chairman offered his congratulations to Kirk and faded from view. The board looked at Kirk with new respect and, in some justified cases, fear. But one thing was certain—the debate concerning the lawsuit against Justin Cord was officially over, and Kirk’s victory was overwhelming.
The DepDir stood up and, as was befitting his newfound authority, all in the room followed suit.
“I think,” he said, “we can adjourn the meeting. Hektor, could you see me in my office?” It was not a question. Hektor had the grace to simply nod and head out. He also had enough poise not to be upset when forced to wait for three hours in the DepDir’s antechamber. He knew what had to be done. Kirk Olmstead had just become one of the most important men in the entire solar system, and was therefore making and receiving a lot of very important calls. In all likelihood he was also preparing to move into his new office. According to protocol it would be one level just below The Chairman’s penthouse suite.
In a weird way, thought Hektor, it was kind of flattering that Kirk would take the time to dress him down and boot him out. Kirk could easily have given that dubious task over to his pretty secretary, which Hektor would not have minded. But his fight with Kirk was personal, after all, and as such it needed Kirk’s personal touch. Hektor knew he would have done the same.
“DepDir will see you now,” came a voice from nowhere.
Hektor got up and waited for the doors in front of him to open. He stood facing them for fifteen minutes before they finally dissipated; revealing the new vice president of Special Operations sitting behind what Hektor figured was probably a bigger desk than he’d had an hour before.
Kirk scowled.
“I told you not to lose, Hektor.”
“I know. Let’s get it over with.”
“Your position with the board,” said Kirk, “is terminated. You’re being assigned as a corporate representative to the Oort observatory. We have a contract to supply key components to the government project and need to have a man on the scene to make sure nothing goes wrong. If all goes well the project should be done in, oh, say, twenty years.”
“Ow.”
Hektor was impressed. He’d be out of the way for over two decades in a place that could be described as about as far out as one could go. It would take months just to get there. He also knew that Kirk would arrange it so that he’d get no vacations or transfers. Hektor realized that he was going to be Kirk’s opening warning shot to everyone else at GCI—don’t mess with Olmstead or you’ll end up like Sambianco.
“Of course,” continued Kirk, “you’ll only be earning about a third of what you’re making now. Good Lord,” he said, peering into his holo-screen, “I see you recently put a large amount of money on your credit account. I’d imagine, when the companies begin to realize you won’t be able to pay it back, they’ll demand a stock sale. It’s a shame that your stock will sell for so little. Still, with luck, I’m sure you’ll manage to hold on to 1 or 2 percent more than the 25 percent minimum. You’ll be happy to know I’ve had my secretary contact the markets about your new position, so they’ll be able to adjust to the new reality. Now, get out.”
Hektor was unmoved. “Let me just say one thing, Olmstead.”
“Why should I?” groused the new boss. “You lost.”
“I worked for you for a long time, Kirk. I was there for the Titan project when we were hip-deep in getting the government contracts for the Oort observatory.”
“You want to call all that in just so you can say one thing?”
“Yeah.”
Kirk considered it. “I’ll tell you what, Sambianco. Don’t burden me with your crap and I’ll change your orders to one of our stations around Neptune. You’ll still be in the boonies, but at least you’ll have a bar to drink in and a whorehouse to visit.”
Kirk peered again into his holodisplay. “And according to the latest census, about thirty million people or thereabouts in the Neptune area to listen to your bullshit.”
Hektor was stuck. His first instinct was to take the deal by turning around and walking out. There was a huge difference between being with millions of people for twenty years and being trapped with a couple thousand. But Olmstead was making a huge mistake concerning Justin, and Hektor knew it. If only to be able to say “I told you so” later, Hektor canned the deal.
“Fine, Olmstead, if it’s gonna cost me twenty years of misery, then listen up.”
Kirk shook his head in disbelief, and motioned for Hektor to continue. His funeral.
“Don’t be fooled, Kirk. Justin Cord is the devil incarnate. And I’m not talking about the kind with horns and a pointy tail. He’s far more insidious. I’ll admit he’s a likable, charismatic bastard, but don’t make the mistake of thinking of him as one of us. He isn’t. Mark my words, Kirk. All the problems and the faults that brought about the Grand Collapse are made manifest in Justin Cord. He’ll bring all of that crap back if we don’t stop him. In fact, I wish that maniac at the ESC had killed him.”
“Don’t be a bigger fool than you already are,” answered Kirk, angry at himself for allowing the pitiful conversation to drag on. “Cord’s of no value to us dead. How would we settle with a dead man?”
“Justin Cord will not settle!” exclaimed Hektor, shaking his head. “He can’t. He’ll fight, scream, and yell. What you consider a great deal and a huge victory Justin Cord will consider defeat and surrender. Worse, if you go to court with that loco parentis thing, you’ll lose, and you’ll lose big. And when you do, it will make Justin the David who successfully stood up to the biggest corporation in human history and w
on. He will be victorious and unincorporated. What will nuts like the Majority Party do with that, I wonder? Then we’ll all have a problem. And when I say ‘all,’ I don’t mean just GCI; I’m talking all of us incorporated folk. Look it over and see it from Justin’s point of view. Please, for all our sakes. Justin’s a fluke now, but if this gets screwed up he could become an incredibly dangerous fluke.”
“Done?” Kirk asked.
Hektor knew it had been pointless. “Done.”
Though it was an expression whose mechanics no longer existed, Kirk used the phrase he felt most warranted Hektor’s exit.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
It’s official. Justin Cord and company have moved into the oh-so-famous, luxurious, and private 71+ in Old Town New York. Only the most of the most can even apply to live there, but Justin was invited, and someone who knows culture and style wisely told this blast from the past to accept the invitation.
—NEWS CLIP FROM CELEBRITY UPDATE
“Omad, how on Earth could you have drunk my last beer?” Justin was looking in the refrigerator and finding everything a man could want, in fact finding many things that defied description—except a beer.
“Oh, that,” answered Omad, ambling into the kitchen area. “Well, it’s easy. You just wait until there’s only one left, and then . . .” He paused, taking a moment to belch loudly. “. . . drink it.”
Justin stopped looking through the fridge, which he was still amazed existed this far into the future. However, once he understood that a) the fridge wasn’t plugged into anything, and b) purists still loved prechilled as opposed to instantly chilled consumables, the cold box, which he insisted on calling a fridge, started to make sense. He went to the counter, which divided the rec room from the kitchen. Omad was sitting back on a sofa with an empty beer bottle on the coffee table in front of him. Behind the couch was a spiral staircase leading down to another floor, in which were situated the living quarters as well as the apartment’s main entrance. Floor-to-ceiling–length windows encircled the apartment, affording all who entered a spectacular 360-degree view of New York City.
The Unincorporated Man Page 27