The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  They finally landed in the tranquil forest of Cattenom, just outside the once rustic but abandoned town of Galgenberg. The flyer situated itself on a grassy knoll about fifty yards from a moss-covered embankment draped in small rivulets of white, flowing sap. To the naked eye it appeared to be a little hill, but Justin knew better. The “hill” was in fact an overgrown entrance leading into the cold, twisting hallways of an ancient underground fortification quietly rusting away in ignominy. They’d arrived at the once famous gates of Galgenberg, one of the few surviving remnants of the disastrously ineffective Maginot Line. These gates, with their two turrets of artillery, were part of an ancient string of fortresses that had failed as a defense against Nazi Germany in World War II. But for Justin they’d offered a unique opportunity at the turn of the millennium.

  “What are we doing here?” asked Neela, no longer able to contain her curiosity.

  “Checking out a beta site,” he answered, again with no discernible emotion. Then he leaped through the walls of the vehicle and headed straight for the hill. Neela followed quickly. There was a slight chill in the air as the evening approached and a gentle but determined wind whipped across the knoll, making the blond parched grass sway back and forth to its sporadic rhythm. It took only a few seconds to traverse the twenty or so yards to the hill’s entrance. It was now more obvious from the exposed slabs of concrete that this hill was in fact man-made. There was a gated steel door that was slightly ajar. Justin looked back at Neela, tested the door, and saw that it was unlocked. “Hold on a minute,” he said, as he entered the darkened corridor. A moment later he reemerged. “Does the chauffeur have a flashlight?”

  “Not exactly. But I think I know what you mean,” she answered. “How far into this ‘beta site’ do we need to go?”

  Justin gave it a thought. “Not sure, but I’d say at least two hundred feet, uh, seventy meters, more or less.”

  Neela nodded yes and proceeded back to the flyer. Justin watched as she talked to the driver while pointing toward the hill where he stood. The chauffeur went to the vehicle’s hood, popped it open, and pulled out a small cylindrical can. Neela took it and began to shake it vigorously as she started walking back toward Justin.

  “Uh, what exactly is that?” he asked as she approached.

  “It’s our version of a flashlight. Just point to where you want some light and it’ll take care of the rest.”

  Justin shrugged. “How long does it last?”

  Neela looked down at the can and read the label. “This one, three hours. Will that be enough time?”

  “More than enough.”

  They entered the bunker. The space they were standing in was some sort of antechamber, where one apparently waited before going into the underground passageway itself. Surrounding them on both sides were large solid slabs of concrete, and facing them directly was an old steel door with a large metal pinwheel on it. Justin tested it out. Other than the shrill sound it made as he turned it, the wheel still worked. He turned it some more until he felt the door release from the frame. He swung the massive slab of metal out toward him, and as he did it let out a deafening squeak.

  “Could use a little oil,” he suggested, “but not bad for a four-hundred-year-old door.”

  Justin pointed toward an ancient sconce where a carbide lamp had illuminated the way centuries ago. “There,” he said, indicating where the “light” should go. Neela approached and sprayed the antique light fixture with the can she’d received from the chauffeur. The area around the sconce began to glow, dispersing enough light to see at least three feet. Justin looked at the technological feat in admiration, and pointed to the next sconce. This went on as they went deeper and deeper into the network. In a strange way the tunnel was being lit almost exactly as a French soldier would have seen it nearly four hundred years earlier.

  The tunnels were wide. Spacious enough, thought Neela, that four or five people could walk side by side without bumping into a wall. There was a moderately dank smell, but not too bad. The curved ceiling above was a patchwork of reddish brown hues, hanging flakes of dirty white paint, and pockets of corrosion. Positioned about two-thirds up on both sides of the wall were steel tubes of various shapes and sizes running the length of the passageway. As they walked deeper into the void, Neela could feel narrow channels embedded in the concrete beneath her feet. It was only when she looked backward to see their now illuminated path that she realized the channels were in fact rail tracks.

  “It’s how they moved ordnance and supplies,” he said, anticipating her question.

  “Just how big is this place?” she asked.

  “This one section,” he said, looking around, “is part of a larger one that runs for about twenty-seven miles . . . which would be, I guess, around forty-three kilometers . . . but don’t worry, we’re not going nearly that far.”

  They’d already walked about twenty yards down a long corridor. When they came to a T in their path, they hung a right and went another thirty yards, until they hit a long, wide corridor. They hit another T and went left another ten yards, at which point the tunnel split.

  “Which way?” asked Neela.

  “I’m thinking.” A pause. “It’s been a while.” He stood scratching his head. “Left,” he said, “definitely left.”

  They took the left tunnel for another six or seven yards, and finally stopped in front of a section of wall that appeared to have been damaged by an explosion. There was a gaping hole behind which was a metal door—slightly ajar, facing inward. Neela noticed immediately that the revealed door was not of the style or shape of all the previous ones they’d encountered. On closer inspection Neela saw that the “hole” she thought was damaged was unfinished construction.

  “This was one of your treasure vaults.”

  “Correction,” answered Justin. “It was almost one of my treasure vaults.” He grabbed Neela’s spray can, entered the darkened room, and lit up the space. Neela followed. The room appeared to be a dormitory. Against the wall were two sets of rusted-out bunk beds. Justin took interest in the bed closest to the wall’s end. He started probing behind the bed frame. A key perhaps? thought Neela. After about fifteen seconds Justin sat down on the coil-spring bottom bed and let out a huge sigh of relief. He turned to Neela. Though the room was dimly lit, Neela could see a significant change in the man. Whatever had been bothering him was now gone.

  “This was going to be a site for some of my emergency wealth,” he offered. “There are so many of these tunnels that it would have been simplicity itself to build a wall over a door and, I figured, who would ever really know? But the tunnels started to become major tourist attractions, and all it would have taken was one relative looking for Grandpa’s old barracks, and questions could’ve been asked. And even this out-of-the-way area could have been discovered.”

  “Surely the odds of that were remote?”

  “Incredibly remote, but I came up with some better locations, or at least I thought I had, and this, like some other locations, was abandoned.”

  “So,” she asked, “why are we here, and why are you now human again?”

  “Is that your way of calling me a grouch?” he countered.

  Neela laughed. “Far from it. More like a moody son of a bitch . . . but today you’re allowed.”

  Justin grinned. “I needed to be sure.”

  “Of what? That your abandoned beta site was still abandoned?”

  “No, that the life I’m currently in . . . right now . . . was, in fact, real . . . or, more specifically, not virtual.”

  It took Neela a moment to process the information. “Ahh. You thought you were still in a virtual-reality simulation.”

  He nodded. “I wasn’t sure. I needed a test.”

  “Not to GC you, but . . .”

  “GC?”

  “Oh, sorry. Slang. ‘GCing someone’ means ‘to bring them down.’ ”

  “Got it,” he nodded. “Grand collapse them.”

  “Right . . . anyhow, lik
e I was saying, not to bring you down, but all this,” she said, pointing at their surroundings, “could still be VR. How does standing here change any of that?”

  Justin smiled like the cat who’d caught the canary. “VR needs to be programmed. It’s very intuitive, and can assimilate and incorporate data at levels I can’t begin to understand, but it cannot create an environment out of nothing.”

  “Of course it can,” retorted Neela, “and while inside that environment all would be real.”

  “No, Neela, it would seem real. However, if a person was in possession of knowledge the VR machine did not have, nor did any of its programmers, then it would be possible to test if your reality was, in fact, real.”

  “So,” Neela said, trying to understand his logic, “you didn’t go to your main burial site because that one’s already been referred to in the press.”

  “Exactly,” he nodded. “All my sites have. For this test I couldn’t go anywhere that I’d already been to or, by extension, that the VR machine and programmers could have access to. It had to be something that I and only I knew about. This was the best place.”

  “Why couldn’t the VR machine just show you the tunnels?” she countered. “After all, they’re still a tourist attraction, and once it knew where you were headed it could have gotten the records and built all this very quickly.”

  “Yes,” he affirmed, “but then it would re-create standard images of the Maginot Line, and this rubble and building material is pretty much as I left it.”

  Neela put her hand on her chin and shook her head.

  “OK, I think I’m getting it,” she answered, still not 100 percent satisfied, “but a lot could happen in the three hundred years you were frozen. Suppose that a tour group did find their way through here and recorded your little unfinished work. And just suppose the VR machine got ahold of that recording.”

  Justin’s face lit up as he motioned Neela over to the bed frame he’d been probing around only moments before. He pointed to what Neela thought was a small blotch on the wall. However, upon closer inspection she could see that the blotch was a carved-out name in faded and barely legible letters. It read JUSTIN CORD.

  “If the VR machine can find all of this,” he said, indicating the room, “and then find that,” he said, pointing to the tiny carving, “and then incorporate it all into the program—without me saying a word to anyone, mind you—well, then, my dear Neela . . . then the machine wins. But I don’t think any software, even software as well programmed as that found in the VR machine, could provide this level of detail without an intimate knowledge base, which I know for a fact it did not have access to. So, yes, Neela. This,” he said looking at his surroundings, “is reality. And thanks to this little carving, I now know that for sure.”

  Neela started to clap. “No stone unturned with you, Mr. Cord. No stone unturned.” A chuckle. “Now, can we please get out of here?”

  “Absolutely,” he answered, “and may I never, ever, have to set foot in that damned machine again . . . for as long as I live.”

  “And to think,” replied Neela, “I almost did.”

  Justin nodded. “Like I don’t owe you enough already.”

  They made their way back to the entrance, leaving the ancient tunnels and turrets of Galgenberg to be slowly reclaimed by darkness and eternity.

  Once outside they found themselves standing in front of the mound they’d only recently entered. The sun had set below the horizon, but there was still enough light to see the car and the chauffeur idling away his time, leaning against the hood. The wind had picked up a bit, and it was now appreciably cooler. Justin looked at Neela closely. He wanted to ask her something but had no idea how to start.

  “I still remember my introduction crystals, and sometimes . . . sometimes I even dream about them.” Neela grew serious. “That’s what makes it so dangerous.” She started walking toward the flyer, Justin beside her. “Do you know that we still have trouble with VR addicts?”

  Justin’s head jerked back, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why would anyone want anything to do with VR after having gone through that?”

  “Justin, you lived your real life and made it a spectacular success. You’re every bit as heroic as any character in VR.”

  “Come on,” he said, unbelieving.

  Neela shook her head. “It’s true. The self-made billionaire who challenged an entire culture of death and never doubted, flinched, or quit? The one man to emerge from the wreckage of the old civilization with your pride, skills, and sense of self intact? You really don’t get how completely rare . . . no . . . unique you are. The rest of us, I’m afraid, have lives far less grand.”

  Justin didn’t argue. It wasn’t a matter of hubris. It was just a fact. There was no reason to believe that the psychological reasons for addiction would change just because technology had advanced.

  “But the children, Neela . . .”

  She matched the gravity of his stare with one of her own. “They have to enter young,” she said. “Justin, after the Grand Collapse the Alaskans discovered that the VR plague didn’t go away . . . at least, not entirely. Oh, they tried real hard to suppress it. Even passed laws against it. One of the few laws against a personal choice that the Alaskan Federation passed . . . and guess what?”

  “It didn’t work,” he answered.

  She nodded. “Laws like that are only effective when all of society understands that the law is needed.”

  Justin was astonished. “Society had just collapsed! What more proof did they need?”

  “Not need, Justin. Want. They had all sorts of theories and solutions. There were those who wanted to kill on sight anyone caught using or possessing VR equipment and those who wanted a specified number of hours of usage per day.”

  “So how did they arrive at a compromise?”

  “You just sat in the ‘compromise’ for sixty hours.”

  Justin heaved a sigh.

  “It was discovered,” continued Neela, “that the program worked best on children between the ages of seven and nine. Those who experienced the program in that age range had a VR recidivism rate of less than 2 percent. Once it was realized that an entire generation could be inoculated against VR, the Anchorage Assembly made it mandatory for all its citizens, as well as for all territories joining or conquered.”

  Justin rubbed his hands on his thighs, trying hard to ignore the chilly climate. He was surprised that he’d lasted this long without shivering, and remembered that his body had been “modified.” So the chill he would normally have felt immediately was only now beginning to work its way into his bones.

  “OK,” he said, putting his hands back into his pockets, “I think I can see how this indoctrination became universal, and as much as I hate to admit it, even understand why you’ve subjected children to that horror, but Neela—the Alaskans you’re describing don’t sound like the hunting, fishing, ‘leave me the hell alone’ types that I knew in my day. These Alaskans sound ruthless . . . almost hell-bent on conquest.”

  “Justin,” she answered, hopelessly pushing the hair out of her face that the wind seemed intent on keeping there, “the Alaskans you knew are gone. They died, changed, or were supplanted by the millions of refugees that swamped the state just as a nuclear winter hit. Imagine quintupling the population just as your supermarkets are running out of food. By hard work, hunting, fishing, and other questionable means they brought the great majority of those people out alive. But they were not the same. Harder, more disciplined, fiercely proud, yes—the same, no. These people were not going to let some two-bit dictator get his hands on a few abandoned nukes and start his own empire or, worse, another nuclear disaster. The choice was simple: Join or be absorbed.”

  “Resistance is futile.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Oh, right,” he answered, realizing he’d slipped into a dated lexicon. “It’s an old TV show reference . . . Star Trek . . . Borg.” Might as well be speaking Greek, he mused.

 
Neela’s face lit up. “I’ve heard of them.”

  “You’ve heard of the Borg?”

  “Yes, there are still a few Trekkies around.”

  Justin laughed.

  “I’m surprised,” he continued, getting back on track, “that more people didn’t put up a fight.”

  “Oh, some did,” she answered, “but they were mostly crackpot dictators or self-proclaimed cultists. They were destroyed quickly. In fact, most of the population that was left was glad that someone came along to end the madness and despair. The Alaskans believed fiercely in a limited government, low and simple taxes, and maximum individual rights. The only thing you couldn’t do was something that would affect someone else’s life or well-being, like peddling in VR or participating in acts of terrorism. Within twenty years what was left of the world was united under Anchorage’s confederation.”

  Justin grimaced. Something was still eating at him. “If the Alaskans were as brutal as you said, capable of taking over the world, how come it turned out like this? Everything you told me, everything I’ve read about, should have led to savagery or, at best, some sort of dictatorship. This world just doesn’t make sense.”

  Neela nodded, acknowledging his concern. “You haven’t gotten to Damsah yet, have you?”

  “Well, I know he was the first president of the Alaskan Federation, and died only three months into his term. It was your next president who really got the government organized—I concentrated on her.”

  “Justin,” answered Neela, putting her hands into her pockets also to ward off the evening chill, “if you’re going to understand us, you’ll have to understand Tim Damsah. He is to us what Lincoln and Washington were to you—only combined. You know how bad it got from your VR experience. The truth is, for the survivors it was much worse.” She let that last part sink in before continuing. “The Alaskans were heading for a dictatorship that all the forces of history demanded—that is, until Tim Damsah came along. Most of his speeches were preserved; you would benefit from hearing them.”