The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “I always wanted to go wild on Mardi Gras,” she said, “but I didn’t have the money until now. I’ve been dreaming about this costume since I was little. Most kids have some sort of crazy drawing they’ve held on to, hoping one day to strike it rich enough to bring it to fruition. . . . I guess I just got lucky.”

  “Yeah,” laughed Justin. “You found me.”

  “Oh, stop being so vain,” she teased. “Omad found you. I’m just reaping the benefits.”

  Justin chuckled nervously. Is she flirting with me?

  “Ahh, yes,” interrupted Thaddeus, stopping in front of a brass-rimmed door. “Here’s my room. See you kids later.”

  Justin and Neela walked down to the hallway’s end and arrived at a penthouse. Since the hotel was a nostalgic re-creation, the doors opened, and thus required Justin to put his palm on a pad located near the entryway. The reader checked his DNA and palm print, allowing him access. They both entered and were greeted with a beautiful master suite. There was, Justin could see, a single plantation bed in the center of the room. Two Louis XIV chairs were placed in front of the grand four-poster sleeper almost as if guarding it. The rest of the furniture was period, and the adjoining antechambers were just as exquisitely laid out. French doors led out onto a balcony that gave a fine view of the street and all the goings-on.

  “Well, we’ve seen your room,” said Neela, “now let’s get out of here, because in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a party going on!”

  Justin had to laugh. All he’d wanted to do was get into the room and out of the fracas, but now that he’d been entranced by the vixen currently occupying the body of Neela Harper, he nodded lamely. “Let me just get into my costume.”

  “Sure thing,” she answered, hopping onto the bed and spreading her wings alluringly across the comforter.

  Justin opened up his costume box. The outfit enclosed was a simple affair. Coarse tunic with sandals and a belt. Though the tunic went down to his knees, he decided to wear underwear. A decision made even easier after seeing in recent broadcasts where mediabots could go.

  “Spartacus,” he explained, shrugging.

  “Ahh, the symbolic outfit,” Neela said, nodding in support. “Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “Neela,” he responded, “no outfit could possibly look good next to yours.”

  She laughed.

  “Anyways,” he continued, “Spartacus seemed like the perfect outfit. Had he remained a gladiator slave and mercenary performer for the Roman masses, he could’ve had all the riches and benefits that Roman society offered.”

  “But he chose to rebel against the Romans and fight,” added Neela.

  “Yes,” said Justin, “he chose to fight.”

  “And die.”

  “Been there, done that,” he joked. Then to reassure her, “Don’t worry, Neela, it’s just a symbol.”

  She frowned. “You ready or what?”

  “No,” he answered, “but that doesn’t matter. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for what’s waiting for me out there.”

  Their hotel was located between Decatur and Chartres streets, so they opted to head up Canal to Chartres. Once there they saw wrought-iron balconies filled with party revelers tossing jewels down to the partygoers below, as well as up to those floating above. The rain of trinkets, jewels, and knickknacks acted as a graceful frame of color to the spires of the St. Louis Cathedral, located farther down the avenue in the heart of the French Quarter.

  Justin chose to ignore the finger-pointing of those who recognized him, and he grudgingly gave autographs to those who requested it. Neela got a pass, as everyone apparently assumed the vivacious creature next to the Unincorporated Man was most likely his well-transbodied bimbo of the hour. When she suggested he buy a mask, he refused. Night had fallen, so the street was dim enough, and everyone was drunk enough, that the “fame” harassment was at a minimum. Plus, he had a few securibot floaters trailing him for good measure should any revelers get out of hand.

  As they inched their way down the sidewalk through the garrulous crowd, they heard the cacophonous sounds of a parade heading toward them. They decided to stop for a minute and take in the moving pageant. At first a man on a horse rode by. He was, explained Neela, the captain or krewe leader of the Orpheus Club. Next came the officers and the queen, soon followed by maids and dukes. They were followed by an enormous float. Its theme was a historical event and, in this case, “three centuries of progress.”

  Justin was able to make out an oversized replication of an early nanobot that was quickly followed by one of the first transorbital pods. The t.o.p. kept shooting out of one orport tube representing Hong Kong, into another orport tube representing New York. That float was followed by another representing the terraforming of Mars, which was followed by another representing the newly begun terraformation of Venus.

  Drifting purposely all around these larger floats were smaller ones representing the colonization of the asteroid belt as well as that of the lower-orbit colonies. Following the “show” floats were three smaller ones hovering at various heights. These smaller transports carried the costumed Orpheus Club members, who were kept busy throwing shiny trinkets into the open arms of the revelers.

  One of the necklaces landed on Justin’s outstretched arms. When he looked at it closely, he realized it was a string of diamonds made of at least forty genuine three-carat stones. He began to laugh, slowly at first, and then in fits. The sky was raining diamonds, his date was an auburn-skinned, leather-clad vision in wings, and here he was alive and well to experience it all.

  Neela grabbed him by the arm and they began, again, to make their way down the street. At the corner of St. Louis and Chartres they passed the Napoleon House, on top of which was an octagonal cupola rumored to have been built as a lookout to sight Napoleon’s ship on the river. Legend had it that Napoleon intended to land in Louisiana and stay in the house they currently found themselves in front of. Unfortunately, he never made it, having perished before reaching the city. As in Justin’s day the house had been converted into an old drinking haunt. On this night they could both see from the curbside that the place was crammed wall-to-wall with people, and even, in one part of the room, they were crammed in ceiling-to-ceiling. They moved farther down the road, alternately pulling one another through the tightly packed swaying mass of humans and transbods. They passed Toulouse Street and were close to Jackson Square across from the St. Louis Cathedral. Chartres, like the other streets of the French Quarter, seemed to act as a small tributary of a great orgiastic river pouring forth into Jackson Square, where larger shows were taking place.

  Justin realized he was no longer moving of his own volition, and was, in fact, being pushed along by the swell of partiers behind him. He could barely see Neela’s hand, which he was holding, though he could still feel the tight grip of her long nails. The smell of sweat and alcohol was everywhere.

  He felt a sharp yank to the left. Then another. In a flash he found himself standing in a small alley. While it, too, was crowded, it was not nearly as full as the torrent of partiers they’d just left behind.

  Justin leaned up against the dank stone wall, catching his breath and massaging the shoulder Neela had practically yanked out of its socket. “You nearly pulled my . . .” He stopped talking when he realized how close Neela was to his face. So close he could feel the soft rush of air emanating from her nostrils.

  His skin bristled and his heart began to pound.

  Neela could feel his breath on her neck. She lingered for a moment, allowing the tension to build between them.

  “Neela . . . I . . .”

  She silenced him with the tip of her index finger lightly touching his lips.

  Justin put his hands on her waist and slowly pulled her in—giving her a chance to change her mind—he didn’t know, didn’t care. He matched her stare with his. Though her eyes were black as night, they hid nothing. With one hand Justin slowly brushed aside a wisp of Neela’s long, dark hair
that had fallen over her cheekbone. With the other he gently framed her face, then gingerly brought his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was slow and deep.

  Neela leaped up onto him and locked her long leather boots around his waist. He then carried her the few steps across the cobblestone alleyway until her back was pushed against a wall. Neela felt the cool stones against her shoulder blades and wings. A tiny, dimly lit balcony was above them and a small wooden door was to their left. If there was anybody above they didn’t notice, and should anyone exit the door, they wouldn’t have cared. Neela shrouded her wings around Justin’s body as he quickly rid them both of their undergarments.

  Neela was now no longer Neela Harper in the body of an animal being, she was that animal being. She swayed her wings to Justin’s rhythm as her tail moved about frantically, snapping violently to every climax she felt.

  She kissed him fiercely, cupping his face in her hands.

  Their breathing was out of sync as they each seemed to gasp in sporadic bursts. She was lost in his motion; she felt nothing and everything as her body began its steady and quick ascent. As soon as she sensed that he was about to release, she allowed herself to experience her purest vulnerability, and that was all she needed. As Neela heard her lover climax, an explosion of sensation washed over her in multiple waves of dissipating energy, each one draining her until she collapsed onto Justin’s powerful shoulders.

  He gently lowered her to the ground as she leaned on him for support. She covered his half-naked body in the folds of her great crimson wings and drew him close in embrace.

  He pulled back slowly and softly kissed her lips.

  She smiled at him and gently caressed his cheek.

  “I guess this means I’m fired,” she said, still catching her breath.

  Justin laughed. “Lord, I hope so.”

  “You OK?” she asked, still seeing, even in the dim light, the flushness of his face.

  “Yeah, just a little drained . . . nothing a little walking won’t rectify.”

  “Sounds like a lovely idea.”

  They gathered their garments, dressed quickly, and emerged hand in hand from the alley, where they were quickly swallowed up by the boisterous crowd streaming into Jackson Square.

  After a few more hours of soaking up the night they made their way back to the Hotel Rex, knowing Omad would be waiting for them. They did their best to tidy up, and then, as one, entered the lobby, oblivious to their friend who’d been sitting patiently on a chair next to one of the lobby’s hexagonal pillars.

  Omad was dressed in an old-fashioned, mismatched, three-piece business suit, and was wearing a pinstriped collarless shirt. Resting beside his knee was a large metallic briefcase with the letters IRS spelled out on both sides. He also had a holstered gun on his hip, and wrapped around his head was a black sash with the eyeholes cut out. He stood up as Justin and Neela approached.

  “Let me guess,” Justin said. “Tax man?”

  “Let me guess,” Omad retorted. “Satiated lovers?”

  Neither Justin nor Neela answered, remaining stone-faced.

  Omad didn’t give them time for a denial. “About time. All I can say is, thank Damsah for Mardi Gras.”

  “Hey!” Neela protested, attempting to change the subject. “You didn’t say anything about my transbod!”

  “Neela,” he answered with an appreciative wink, “if I were to say what I’d like to say, the man currently attached to your hip would probably wallop me.”

  By Neela’s satisfied look, Omad knew he’d said it all.

  Justin interjected, “So, was I right?”

  “About what?” asked Omad.

  “About you being a tax man.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Omad replied, getting back on track, “you got it on the first try, but I was hoping you’d be more frightened.”

  “OK, Omad,” Justin replied, taking the bait, “why did you think that getup would scare me?”

  Omad answered with the earnestness of the devout: “For us it’s just stories, but you were actually . . .” He struggled to get the next word out as a look of disgust filled his face, “taxed.” Omad saw that Justin still wasn’t getting it. “Tax men actually came after you.”

  “It really wasn’t as bad as all that.”

  “You mean to tell me,” challenged Omad, “that faceless, nameless government types were not always after you, trying to take away your own hard-earned money and property—while threatening you with prison if you didn’t cough up enough credits?”

  “It was ‘dollars,’ ” corrected Justin, “and they did.” He thought about it briefly. “You know, Omad, it really was like that.” Now it was his turn to grimace. “Good costume.”

  He remembered his first audit. He’d been raked across the coals by some low-level bureaucrat trying to curry favor with a superior.

  “In fact,” added Justin, recalling the torturous months of work the little prick’s stunt had cost, “it’s a damned good costume.”

  Omad beamed. “By the way, I brought that little thing you asked for.” He began to open his IRS bag.

  “What thing?” asked Neela.

  Justin stopped Omad by gingerly putting his hand on the briefcase. “Why don’t you give it to me upstairs?”

  The ride up the ancient lift was filled with an uncomfortable silence. When they finally got to the suite, Neela was dying with impatience.

  “So, what is it?”

  “Neela,” answered Justin, “it’s really no big deal. You’re making mountains out of nano.”

  Omad made himself busy checking the place out, moving from room to room as if he were a secret agent checking for surreptitious devices. He went onto the balcony and returned a moment later.

  “Omad,” said Justin, “thanks for being so cool with me and Neela and all. I was expecting horror and culture police.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he answered, looking for all the world like an angry parent. “I think you two are nuts. And if it wasn’t Mardi Gras you couldn’t get away with it. Still, fuck it. You two are perfect for each other. I don’t think it will end well, but enjoy it while you can.

  “Oh, by the way,” he continued, “did you know that there’s a huge crowd gathering outside your window?”

  Justin’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah. It must be time.”

  “For what?” asked Neela, starting to feel a bit apprehensive as she, too, noticed the swelling crowd beneath their balcony.

  Justin smiled mischievously. “I arranged a little press conference.” Before Neela could say another word he looked over at Omad. “You got it?”

  “Yeah,” Omad groused, still staring out the window, “I got it.” He walked from the balcony entrance back to the edge of the bed where he’d put his briefcase, gently snapped open the clasps, and removed a pair of large silver shackles.

  “I hope they’re to your liking,” he said, holding up the manacles, one cuff in each hand.

  The cuffs had three very large links with one letter, viewable from multiple angles, etched onto each one. The letters were G, C, and I. As Omad held them up, Justin walked over to where he was standing and put his hands through the wide holes of the metallic bracelets. He felt their weight and texture; even rattled them a bit.

  “They’ll do what they’re supposed to do?” he asked.

  Omad nodded. “Tested the prototype myself. Worked like a charm.”

  Justin shook the links one more time for good measure. “Then they’re perfect,” he said, smiling brightly.

  “Uh, Justin,” asked Neela, “what do you think you’re doing?”

  He gazed at her with a fiery determination.

  “Declaring independence.” And with that he went to the French doors leading to the wraparound balcony and stepped outside.

  Neela could hear the crowd’s roar as her new lover walked onto the balcony. A sense of foreboding welled up inside her, but it was too late to stop the course of events.

  _______

  Sean
Doogle waited patiently below Justin Cord’s balcony. He was joined there by a few thousand revelers, a horde of mediabots, and a cavalcade of reporters. Unlike everyone else in the crowd, Sean sensed that history was about to be made, and in the deepest recesses of his being that he was destined to play a part. The “one free man,” as he now referred to Justin almost exclusively, had called an impromptu press conference. Something must be up. The lucky men, Sean had decided, got caught up in history in the making; the great men exploited that history to achieve their ends. There was no question in Sean’s mind what type of man he was. And so he waited.

  Justin approached the edge of the balcony, arms lowered to shield from view his new wrist accessory. The mediabots, like the crowd, were kept a safe distance away by the hotel’s well-enforced protection fields. But New Orleans was a small, tightly packed town made doubly so by the current holiday; Canal Street was a broad boulevard and the distance that would normally be accorded a hotel of the Rex’s stature was cut to a third.

  The crowd quieted to a murmur. No small feat, considering the amount of drugs and alcohol coursing through the veins of many in attendance.

  When Justin felt he had the maximum amount of attention he could hope for, he raised, in one quick motion, his shackled wrists high above his head. By the time he’d completed the move the entire plaza had come to a standstill and was now filled with a deathly silence. As he held his hands up, he made sure to move his body in a 180-degree arc. He was only going to do this once, so he wanted to be sure that all could see the letters carved into each of the shackle’s links.

  From the moment Justin raised his hands, baring for all the “GCI” shackles, a flood of self-adulation swept over Sean Doogle—he’d guessed correctly. The coconspirators he’d planted strategically in the crowd looked to him now, waiting intently for his signal. But Sean, aware that history was recording this moment, knew the timing would have to be perfect. Not yet . . . not yet, he kept repeating. Sean pointedly refused to look into his beseechers’ eyes. They’d just have to wait. They’d get his signal when he was ready to give it.