The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “Twenty percent!” she moaned. “We had twenty percent! What a neutron your father is!”

  Serves you right, Hektor thought. “Mom, please trust me that this psychological audit will not cause a drop in my price but a rise. And I will give you two hundred shares of my stock.”

  Her eyes lit up. No sooner had they done so when she gave her son a suspicious look. “What’s the catch?”

  “One small favor,” Hektor said, smiling. “You will go to Justin Cord and offer him one hundred shares of me.”

  “Don’t be silly, boy. A, why would he take them from me?, and b, what on Mars would I tell him?”

  “You’ll tell him you want revenge.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll leave that to you.”

  “How could he believe such a thing?”

  “Mom, it’s me you’re talking about. He’ll believe it.”

  “Well, I will have to think about it for a bit. Talk to your father, our broker, you know.”

  “Don’t take too long, Mom, things cha . . .”

  Hektor was interrupted by his secretary’s entrance into the room, an act that indicated there was a visitor of enough importance to interrupt whoever Hektor was talking to.

  “Hold on a sec, Ma. Yeah,” he said to the secretary, looking slightly annoyed. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Sambianco,” she answered, “there’s a process server here, and she said to tell you ‘we’ll meet by moonlight.’ I told her you were in Colorado, but she insisted.”

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, lips parting in a wolfish grin. “Let her in.”

  “Sir, did I mention she was a process server?”

  Hektor’s mom cut in. “Hektor, what’s going on?”

  “One moment, Mom.”

  Into the room walked the same incredible seductress who’d served Hektor on the loading bay only a few weeks before. This time she had more clothes on, but still managed the same rarely tenable combination of grace, gorgeousness, and age that advertisers killed for.

  “Mr. Sambianco.”

  “Are you here to arrange a date, Miss . . .?”

  “Snow, and yes, but not the one you think. You are being served to submit for a psychological audit . . . by one of your stockholders.”

  “Let me guess . . . Justin Cord?”

  The woman nodded in agreement.

  Hektor’s mouth opened, forming the beginnings of a smile. He looked over at his mother in the holodisplay, still waiting patiently.

  “Mom, love ya, deal’s off, gotta go.” He cut the phone connection before his flabbergasted mother could say a word.

  “Now, Miss Snow,” he said, turning to the server, “why should I let you just hand me a summons without getting something for it in return?”

  Miss Snow stared straight at Hektor with her best bedroom eyes.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking of asking you out on a date.”

  “My dear Mr. Sambianco, you can ask, but you’re still too young.”

  “How about if I make it worth your while?”

  “Confident, aren’t you?”

  “About many things, but I think you may like this.” Hektor smiled.

  “Alright, Mr. Sambianco, let’s hear your offer.”

  “The first time you served me it was easy. This time it was even easier, because I let you in. Do you admit that I could have made it difficult?”

  “Of course, that’s why they pay me the big creds.”

  “And I’m sure you’re worth every one of them, Miss Snow. Now let’s think about the third time you’ll have to serve me. And I can assure there will be a third, fourth, and fifth time. I know a way it can be as simple as this, and a lot more entertaining.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Sambianco, I’m finding this pretty entertaining as it is. But I must admit I’m curious. What’s your offer?”

  “Simple, really. The next time you have to serve me, just call. You can do it on our date. No running, no hiding, no doubles or processing loopholes, just a pleasant dinner.”

  Miss Snow leaned forward over his desk and, speaking softly, said, “You think you can cause me that much trouble?”

  Hektor leaned over until he was inches from her face and said in just as soft a voice, “Absolutely.”

  She delicately kissed the tip of his nose and stepped back.

  “Done, Mr. Sambianco. On one condition.”

  “If it is within my power to grant.”

  “I believe it is. I’ve given a lot of summonses for psyche audits in my time. What I find most interesting is that when I do a follow-up I find that each person has a different way of getting out of taking the P.A. Some are clever, most are straightforward, and some are downright genius. So here’s my deal. If I like your answer you have a date.”

  “Deal,” answered Hektor, without missing a beat.

  “So then,” Miss Snow said, sitting down comfortably in one of Hektor’s guest chairs, “how do you intend to escape the P.A.?”

  Hektor leaned back in his chair. He then put his hands behind his head, his feet up on the desk, and opened his mouth in cool repose.

  “I don’t.”

  “Are you insane?” Legal ranted, pacing in her office.

  “Thank you, I feel fine,” Hektor answered calmly.

  “Maybe you really do need a P.A. And if I keep listening to this load of horseshit I’m going to need one, too.”

  “Janet, it’s perfect,” he tried to explain. “If Justin hadn’t demanded one of me I probably would have suggested it to him . . . on the sly, of course.”

  “Of course,” Janet mimicked. “Hektor, do you realize what a psyche audit is?”

  “I assure you, Janet, I do.”

  “First they’ll send nanobots in to crawl all over your neural pathways,” she said, choosing to ignore his last comment. “Any minor or major glitch they find, they fix . . . on the spot. Now, I don’t know about you, but I like me the way I am, warts and all. And the last thing I’d want is to know that my pathways have been smoothed over by an army of unfeeling microbots that I’m gonna end up pissing out in the morning.”

  Hektor remained unmoved. “Got it.”

  Janet took another stab. “They say that you’re not the same person . . . ever.”

  “Of course not,” he answered. “By the time anyone gets a P.A. they really do need an adjustment, so of course they aren’t the same person. Who would be? But Janet, I can assure you, I’m not crazy, which is why I’m not afraid to take the P.A.”

  “But you’re letting Justin put you through one? I’m sorry, Hek, but that sounds pretty crazy to me.”

  “Actually, that’s the real reason I’m here. I need your help.”

  “What for? You’re obviously not going to stop it.”

  “No, I need your help to make it happen as quickly and noiselessly as possible.”

  Janet stared at him, too dumbfounded to speak.

  “Janet,” explained Hektor, “I got him good and mad in the courtroom and he lashed out. But when he calms down he’ll probably change his mind. I have to have this done before he does.”

  Janet looked over at the man who’d only weeks before swept in and kept her career from careening down the side of a gully. She’d decided to trust him then, when the stakes were far higher. There was no reason not to trust him now.

  “What about Kirk?”

  “What about him?”

  “He won’t let this fly. It’ll make him look bad.”

  “Don’t worry about Kirk,” he answered. The icy tone of his reply was assurance enough. Then, “Find anything on Harper?”

  “You mean her supposed relationship with Cord?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dead end. If they’re having one, which I do not believe they are, they’re doing a pretty good job of concealing it. He seems pretty attached to her, but that’s not out of the ordinary. She, of course, is behaving perfectly. Technically, she’s not even his reanimationist
anymore. On top of that, the microfacial analysis is pretty conclusive.”

  “Keep looking,” he said, unmoved by the lack of evidence. “She’ll sleep with him, and when she does, we’ll need proof.”

  Janet shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What’s the point, Hektor? If it’s Cord you’re after, how does destroying Harper help . . . unless, of course, you’re getting some sort of sick joy out of it?”

  “Janet, I never destroy for sport. Only for commerce.” He leaned across his desk, picked up a folder marked “Harper, N,” and then tossed it over to Janet.

  “Archaic, I admit,” he said, referring to the paper documents, “but 100 percent secure, I assure you.” Janet nodded. “Dr. Harper will be our voodoo doll,” he continued. “The more pins and needles we can shove through her eyeballs, the more pain Justin will feel.”

  Janet leaned over, grabbed then opened the folder, and rifled through some of the notes. Nothing too serious, she saw. A few minor indiscretions in college. Certainly nothing that would damage Neela’s reputation or bring the wrath of Cord down on Janet’s office. Then she noticed a small memo atop a contract. It was from Hektor’s office, and it was addressed to Kirk Olmstead.

  “You asked Kirk to go after her contract?”

  “Yes.”

  Janet nodded. “No contract. No protection. We can mess with her. Brilliant.” Then, “Why give it to Olmstead?”

  “Because he’ll fail, of course.”

  Janet again looked puzzled.

  “So why would he take the risk?”

  “Because,” answered Hektor, “I made it sound like a good idea. His idea.”

  “But can it actually be done?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” barked Hektor. “The contract’s damn near iron-clad. That Mosh McKenzie is not one to screw with. You fuck with him, you’d better hope you’ve got some limbs you won’t mind losing. He made that contract.”

  “So basically you want Kirk to screw up.”

  “That’s the plan. Not too big a screwup, but it all adds up in the end.”

  Janet said nothing, working out all the possibilities. It was a skill she’d honed to perfection in her slow and steady rise up the GCI corporate ladder.

  “You do realize,” she offered, now more than ever wanting to be seen as an asset to the man seated before her, “that any attempt to make a run on Harper’s contract will alert Dr. Harper and Mr. Cord that you know of their supposed weakness for one another . . . I mean, why else do it, right?”

  Hektor nodded, again unmoved. “Janet, I want them to know that GCI suspects them. Fear does not work against ignorance or certainty. It creeps in and festers with possibility. Let them wonder what we know; what we’ll do with our knowledge. Let them wonder if we’ll tell others of Dr. Harper’s perversions. Let them worry. It’ll make them paranoid and unhappy. In return Justin will get in an attack which you’ll help funnel directly to its intended target.”

  Janet looked up from the contract she’d been perusing. “You.”

  “Me,” he repeated, nodding. His eyes were cold and his lips parted, in a caninelike threat.

  “Fine, Hektor. But I’ll need some sort of excuse for why I’m not doing my job when word of your audit gets out.”

  Hektor nodded in agreement. “If anyone asks, tell them that your hands are tied.”

  “Because?” she asked.

  “Because, my dear, there’s almost no redress against an unincorporated man.”

  6 Open and Shut

  Justin woke up feeling better, or to be more precise, calmer. He scanned his immediate environment. The room was an almost exact duplicate of his old office’s antechamber, a place he’d often go to take catnaps during his long workday. The small, ornately paneled space had wall-to-wall bookshelves, a small fireplace—now lit—and one standard twin-sized bed that he was lying in. If they’re going to mess with your biology, best to wake up in a familiar place, he thought, not that it’ll make one iota of difference. Justin yawned and stretched out his arms. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the procedure even though he’d been told. But he’d been so conditioned to coming out of any “anesthetic” experience both groggy and somewhat disoriented—especially in his dying days—that the mere fact that he now wasn’t made him feel . . . well, slightly disoriented.

  It had been Neela’s idea to have him go in for some aging therapy, and after some discussion and research on his part, Justin agreed. But he insisted that they do the procedure back in Boulder, again for comfort and familiarity. It was not difficult to arrange, and GCI, feeling the sting of both the public and its stockholders, felt it impolitic to deprive him of the facilities he preferred. He got himself dressed, took one last look at “his” room, and went out to the waiting area. Neela was sitting in a floating chair busily scanning something in her DijAssist. She looked up as she heard Justin enter.

  “I feel fine,” he answered before she could ask. “In fact, I feel better, no, not the right word, more centered, than before.”

  “I’m glad,” she replied, “but still kicking myself for having overlooked it. I mean, we just woke you up at the default age.”

  “Hey, you woke me up. That’s what really matters.”

  “True enough,” Neela said, getting up from her chair. “I think we were more focused on that than anything.”

  “Well, other than a few adolescent outbursts, no real harm done.”

  Neela’s thoughts drifted to Hektor. I wouldn’t be so sure.

  They’d planned on spending the rest of the day doing a little shopping, but after being hounded by the media and cornered by fans, they spent the bulk of the afternoon in their hotel rooms. They made arrangements with Mosh and Eleanor for an early dinner and tried to relax. Neela felt a good night’s rest would be in order given what she knew Justin was in for the following day.

  “So what’s the L.A. thing about?” asked Justin, reclining on an overstuffed La-Z-Boy he’d had the room create for him.

  Neela couldn’t help but frown every time he clambered in and out of the huge, retractable monstrosity.

  “I’m telling you, Neela,” he said, putting his arms behind his head, “you ought to try this baby out. It ain’t no ergo chair, but it does have its redeeming qualities.”

  “I’m sure it does,” she answered, halfheartedly. “Maybe later.”

  Her face became more serious.

  “Tomorrow we visit the museum.”

  Justin’s smile faded, too. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I believe you’re ready.”

  “OK then, you’re the boss.”

  Justin had done some research on virtual reality museums as well as the dictates they were predicated on. He knew this much: The museums represented a set of dictates so fundamental to the development of present-day society that a single visit was considered a rite of passage. He also knew that no one ever visited twice. Partly on Neela’s advice, but mostly because he didn’t have the time, he’d avoided learning more. Apparently, the L.A. museum had made special arrangements for his visit, and it was therefore critical that they arrive at a specified time. Since Justin had insisted on flying his new car rather than taking a t.o.p., Neela insisted that they leave by 9:00 A.M. That, she assured him, would allow them plenty of time to arrive at the required hour.

  Justin had two reasons for not wanting to take the t.o.p. First, he wanted to fly his own car. Second, he felt like having a good old-fashioned road trip, especially given the pressure he’d been under with the trial. Too many weeks in the spotlight and with the specter of going to visit a place that seemed shrouded in gloom. Neela didn’t seem to mind, because it not only gave her the ability to talk with Justin at length, it also wouldn’t take that much longer than traveling by t.o.p. They agreed on the specifics, and Justin made arrangements to have the car fly itself out from New York City and meet them first thing in the morning.

  The big surprise for Justin was that hardly
anyone drove anymore. People traveled, of course, but except for a few nostalgia towns like Boulder, they simply didn’t put four pieces of rubber on the pavement and the pedal to the metal. When he had thought of the future it was always with flying cars, but he’d also imagined huge elevated roadways that were twenty lanes wide and filled with futuristic vehicles driving on self-repairing, ever-expanding road systems. Instead he found . . . nothing. Mile after mile of wilderness with not a speck of blacktop in sight. Outside of the cities there were no freeways, no highways, and no roads. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Why build a road when there were orports and flying cars aplenty? But it was still a shock to leave the cities of the future, with their gleaming facades, their towering-above-the-clouds spires, their millions of flying vehicles, and find unadulterated wilderness just a few miles away. On the other hand, he had to admit it was beautiful. The land that had been left to itself had pretty much become renewed. He smiled at the thought of all the environmental wackos who used to be on him like white on rice. They were now, of course, pushing up daisies, never having lived to see their dreams of a green planet fully realized.

  Talking with Neela, Justin had learned that most of the wilderness he was looking at was in fact owned, and that essentially ownership meant extracting what valuable resources there were and leaving the rest alone. It also seemed that the notion of living in the boonies stopped making sense about a century prior to Justin’s revival. With the perfection of nanotechnology, rustic, outdoor getaways—or whatever “boonies” fantasy a person happened to have—could be created . . . in the city . . . in a building . . . on whichever floor was available. And all on the cheap. Certainly cheaper than trying to live outside of a city. So the strange truth was that a planet of over twenty billion people was now mostly empty.

  Flying his car was much easier than Justin had imagined. The vehicle flew itself, but anytime he took over control the autopilot disengaged. It only reengaged at those moments it realized a complete novice was at the helm. Though the car was traveling at approximately 1,600 mph, it felt as light and agile as a paper airplane tossed high into the sky. The wide windows afforded unadulterated views of vast, empty land, open tundra, magnificent mountain ranges, and sinuous rivers. And a slight detour to Arizona allowed Justin to realize a dream he’d always had as a boy—flying into and through the Grand Canyon like a bat out of hell.