The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Chairman. I need to eliminate a problem.”

  By then it was too late.

  Investigator: The patient was cooperative, you say?

  Dr. Goldman: Oh yes, I would say eager, even. Most auditees have to be sedated. He walked right up to the chair and had a seat.

  Investigator: This is when you began the audit?

  Dr. Goldman: Yes. I ordered the introduction of stage-one mapping nanites, and tuned the recorder to the subject. Mapping must always be done first to determine the areas that need to be read and/or adjusted. That’s when things began to go wrong.

  Investigator: Could you elaborate, Dr. Goldman?

  Dr. Goldman: Of course. [long pause] Forgive me. [pause] I’m still a little shaken.

  Investigator: Take your time.

  Dr. Goldman: The patient’s brain stem had what could only be called an allergic reaction to either the nanites or the scanner. It may have been a combination of both. As the nanites were mapping the upper level neural pathways, they were also . . . collapsing them. By the time we were able to get the nanites out, Mr. Doogle had lost most of his upper-level brain functions.

  Investigator: What does that mean in layman’s terms, Doctor?

  Dr. Goldman: He could breathe on his own, and he could eat and sleep and dream. But without extensive neural reconstruction he would remain a congenital idiot his entire life.

  Investigator: I see.

  Dr. Goldman: But the real question was, do we completely restructure his pathways, in essence creating a new person, or do we try to save as much of his memory, learned responses, and personality as possible?

  Investigator: Does not medical ethics force you to do the latter?

  Dr. Goldman: It’s not that simple. It’s not as if Mr. Doogle had his memories wiped out in chronological order.

  Investigator: Please explain.

  Dr. Goldman: It wouldn’t be like rolling back the clock. In other words, that type of memory loss wouldn’t mean we’d end up with an eight- or ten-year-old Sean Doogle.

  Investigator: Perhaps you could explain what it would mean.

  Dr. Goldman: It would mean he’d be a man with only about 10 percent of his memories, and we’d have no way of knowing which of those memories would be preserved. For example, he may know half the alphabet. Say, everything under Q. He may not remember the sun, his parents, or what a room is. He may remember all the pain of the day his childhood dog died and not know what a dog is. In short, sir, it’s a recipe for madness. Luckily, we did not have to decide. His wife came forward and made the decision for us.

  Investigator: Please tell the board what was decided.

  Dr. Goodman: As per Mrs. Doogle’s request, we tried to save what we could.

  Investigator: She chose madness, then.

  Dr. Goodman: Yes. [long pause]Yes. Madness.

  —TRANSCRIPT FROM THE MEDICAL INQUIRY INTO THEPSYCHOLOGICAL AUDIT OF SEAN DOOGLE

  Over an hour of Sean Doogle floating in the center of a gravity room has been released to the Neuro. Though his parents were strongly against the release of this video, ISN was given permission to show it by Mr. Doogle’s wife and legal guardian of his will, Cassandra Doogle. We must warn you, the video is disturbing. Some viewers have reported crying and even throwing up upon seeing the clip. Parents with young children are urged to view this with caution. In a personal note, this reporter has never been a supporter of Sean Doogle or any of his beliefs or actions. That being said, after watching the creature in the video—flailing madly about trying to make coherent sounds, desperately, it seems, trying to make sense of his predicament—well, all my hatred left. Mr. Doogle may have deserved death, but he did not deserve this.

  —EVENING WRAP-UP WITH MARK STROMBERG, ISN

  RIOTING IN ALL MAJOR CITIES ON EARTH!

  MAJOR OUTBREAKS OF VIOLENCE REPORTED ON ALL THE PLANETS OUT

  TO SATURN! POLICE STRUGGLING TO MAINTAIN CONTROL!

  In major acts of violence not seen since the days of the Grand Collapse and the Alaskan unification, many cities were brought to a standstill. Massive mobs made up of mostly pennies but in some cases containing citizens with higher percentages, some even with majority, were destroying any buildings associated with the government. This led to a string of attacks on court buildings, police stations, and some corporate structures as well. There have also been reports of looting, rape, and even murder. Death tolls from all causes are in the thousands as many remain dead too long to be preserved in cryostasis. Using a combination of deputized citizens, amnesties, and some hard-fought street battles, the authorities have only recently begun to restore law and order to most urban areas. Some in charge believe the exodus of those fearing for their lives has also helped.

  It was the simultaneous release of a video showing Sean Doogle after his botched government audit and Mr. Doogle’s last download to the Neuro, the now infamous “any sacrifice for freedom” speech, that sparked this latest and greatest of social disturbances.

  —HEADLINE AND ACCOMPANYING ARTICLE FROM A TERRAN CONFEDERATION

  NEWSPAPER AFTER THE RELEASE OF THE SEAN DOOGLE VIDEO AND HIS NOW

  INFAMOUS “ANY SACRIFICE FOR FREEDOM” SPEECH

  Justin sat impatiently in his apartment in New York and watched a world go mad. The court had decided to recess for another few days, waiting for the troubles to dissipate. Although private t.o.p.s were still running, the New York City International Orport was shut down due to rioting and personnel failing to show up for work. Utilities and basic services were being disrupted on a citywide basis. As far as Justin could tell, this was happening systemwide. But it was when people started dying that he’d had enough.

  In one incident the magnetic fields allowing orport flight had been purposely sabotaged in a small rural city, sending hundreds of people plummeting to their deaths. And of those deaths, eighty-seven were said to be permanent. It appeared that Doogle’s followers had one major success. The attorney general was assassinated outside his office. He was using a secret exit to avoid the press and walked right into an ambush. Though no group claimed immediate responsibility, authorities assumed it to be a vengeance killing for Sean Doogle’s effective death.

  “Neela,” Justin sighed, gazing pensively, “all those people are dead because of me.”

  “Bullshit,” she fumed. “Those people are dead because a bunch of criminals are rioting and destroying vital services . . . and, in case you hadn’t heard, not all the deaths were fatal.”

  “Well, then, why did those eighty-seven deaths need to be permanent?”

  Neela sat down next to Justin and put her arm around his sagging shoulders. “The brain,” she explained, “was destroyed by the fall, Justin. All the neural pathways were splattered.”

  “Honey,” Justin said, exasperated, “I know about brain death. I knew about brain death when your great-great-grandfather was a gleam in your great-great-great-grandfather’s eye. What I meant is, why does it have to be permanent? You have psychological audits, which seem to me to be the mapping and interpreting of how an individual’s brain works. So why can’t you store the recorded data and put it back into a new brain?”

  Neela exhaled slowly, her face destitute.

  “You’re asking a question,” she said, “that’s been gone over by smart people and smarter corporations for hundreds of years. What it boils down to is this: You can store the brain via cryonic suspension, and even correct for any misaligned brain cells during that suspension with nanotechnology, but what you cannot do is restore the brain. The few times it was tried a gibbering lunatic was the end result. When it comes to the human brain, knowledge must be grown, not implanted. The most they’ve been able to do is implant some small bits of knowledge into an already functioning brain. But that, as a technique, is still in its infancy and is also not 100 percent. So the short answer to your question is that we haven’t conquered death—just aging.”

  If Neela had hoped that the diversion into the evolution of death
would sidetrack her lover, she was wrong. She could’ve brought up the fact that she, too, was in the process of being audited, and that her assets had been frozen, but in the context of all that was happening she chose to keep it secret. Justin got up, put on a jacket, and headed for the door. Neela leaped out of the seat and beat him to the exit, placing herself squarely in front of him.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed,” she pleaded. “You can’t stop it.”

  “But at least I can try.” Justin put both hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “My sweet, sweet Neela. I didn’t have myself frozen just to survive. I did it to live. I’m responsible for this—if not wholly, then at least partially. And I have to try and stop it any way I can.” His eyes hardened. “I probably won’t succeed, but if I don’t try I may as well have died three hundred years ago.”

  Neela’s expression signaled defeat. She knew better than to argue with him—especially in his current state of mind. So she decided to follow him out the door into the chaos that had become New York City.

  Justin’s security would be rankled as soon as they realized he’d ditched them in the biggest riot in New York’s history, but what he wanted to do couldn’t be done with a bunch of bruisers following his every step. He and Neela flew the car down to Mars Avenue. This was in the middle of what used to be the Hudson River. It also just happened to be the center of the great city’s rioting. They flew over seething masses of people but couldn’t find a safe place to land. They decided to park on a nearby roof. Justin then tried to get Neela to take the car back to the apartment, but she let him know that her life was hers to do with as she wished—incorporated or not. Justin was tempted to ask her what her stockholders would think of that, but he gauged the look in her eyes and wisely let it go.

  The lift down to the lobby was mostly silent until they emerged at the bottom floor. There they encountered a large horde of rioters tearing down and looting anything they could get their hands on. It was only later that Justin discovered he’d been in the new American Express building, and that the crowd he’d encountered was made up of mostly 25 percenters taking out their rage on an obvious target. Out of nowhere a half-crazed screaming woman came at Justin and Neela wielding a golf club. Justin easily knocked her aside and threw the weapon into the lift behind him. The club disappeared harmlessly up the tube. Next a man, apparently attached to the recently disarmed woman, came at Justin but slowed down almost immediately when he realized who he was about to attack.

  “Damsah’s balls,” the man whispered under his breath, “you’re . . . you’re him, aren’t you?”

  Justin nodded but remained in a defensive position, fists at the ready. He wasn’t sure which outcome his answer would elicit. He didn’t have to wait long.

  The man started shouting and waving his arms. “It’s him! It’s him!” In a cascading wave the rioting in the lobby came to a standstill. Everyone stopped and stared at Justin and Neela. Rioting could still be heard in the street, but silence now reigned in the trashed lobby.

  What now, genius? Justin thought. He was used to public speaking, and even knew how to address a hostile crowd, but this was completely beyond his experience.

  Neela whispered into Justin’s ear, “You need to speak to as many people as possible.”

  He came up with a plan on the spot. To no one in particular he said, “Tell everyone you can that I’m going to Colony Park right now and will speak to everyone from there.” He started walking slowly toward the front doors, praying silently that he and Neela would make it without either collapsing from fear or being swung at by rioters. The crowd, however, parted without a sound as Justin and Neela exited the New American Express Building into the pandemonium that ruled the streets. As they left they could hear the voices of the rioters behind them shouting to their friends and avatars about Justin’s recently imparted information.

  Colony Park was in the middle of a river reclaimed by New York. Though not as big as Central Park, it was only four blocks away and big enough to hold most of the rioters. Some of the people from the lobby ran ahead of Justin and Neela to protect them and warn away any oncomers who might have thought about laying a hand on the famous duo. Others took up the rear, essentially performing the same function. As Justin and Neela walked down Mars Avenue toward the park, the crowd grew thicker and larger both in front of and behind them. And as the throng got bigger the yelling had changed in character—initially to sounds of surprise and awe, but then into something far more terrifying. Coming from the crowd, both Neela and Justin noticed, was a soft murmur. The type of murmur that could only be discerned when whispered from the mouths of thousands. The fact that it was not shouted made it downright eerie.

  “One free man, one free man, one free man, one free man” whispered over and over again like a religious invocation.

  By the time Justin and Neela arrived, the park was in the process of being filled by people who’d only a few minutes earlier been tearing the city to pieces. Again the crowds split as Justin and Neela aimed for the center to climb the park’s tallest sculpture, Exploration Arch. Though Justin hadn’t a clue what he was going to say, he did know that his simple act of saying he would speak had perhaps prevented businesses from being destroyed or, more critically, lives from being taken.

  Neela waited at the base of the edifice as Justin slowly made his way to the top. It was wide enough for him to stand on and tall enough for all to see him. When he got to the top he held up one hand and the vast crowd understood that he wanted silence. Even the low hush died away. But not, unfortunately, the relentless buzz of the mediabots that had been alerted as soon as the first Dij-Assisted message flew through the Neuro.

  “I was faced with a choice three hundred years ago!” Justin bellowed to the crowd, so as to carry his voice as far as possible. He needn’t have bothered. The mediabots made sure he was now live on everyone’s DijAssist. And his voice wasn’t just being carried in the park, it was being carried live over the entire Earth, and as an uninterrupted feed to Mars and to the billions beyond.

  “My choice?” he continued. “Accept death or try and do something about it. Almost all the billions of people before me had accepted the inevitable. I did not!” The crowd broke out in applause. Justin waited for it to taper off. “Of the few hundreds from my time who tried to escape their fate, only I am alive.” Justin waited for the crowd to absorb that salient fact. “How many people did I have to kill to be here today? How many bodies do you think I buried for the right to stand here—very much alive—at this moment? What faces haunt me in the middle of the night?” He waited a good ten seconds before continuing. “None!” he shouted. “Not a single soul . . . that is, not until now.” He sensed the crowd’s confusion. Good, he reasoned, let them think about that.

  “For the rest of my life,” he continued, “I will have to wonder how many people will not see their moms or dads, their children or their friends because I chose to save myself!” From the crowd came cries of “no!” and “not your fault!” and “blame the corporate bastards!” Justin quieted them down again. “Do you think this ‘one free man’ wants a single one of you hurt? A single one of you killed? I want you to have all the things humans used to only dream about—family, love, happiness, and . . . freedom. These are your birthrights!” The applause was deafening, and again Justin waited for it to subside. “These are your birthrights, but they cannot be purchased in blood!” More thundering applause. “Sean Doogle demanded blood for the faults he saw in this world. Sean Doogle paid the price he demanded of others. But know this, I am not Sean Doogle! I do not want the life of a single person as a . . . ,” he paused to add an emphasis of disgust to his next word, “sacrifice.” He’d made a purposeful allusion to Sean’s last message and hoped it would have the mitigating effect he desired. “If you need blood for your outrage,” he said, bringing his voice to a crescendo, “then start with mine!” More cries of “no” were heard, and it took Justin five minutes to coax the massive crowd in
to silence. “Your lives,” he continued, “may not be perfect, but that does not mean others must die. If you don’t like what’s going on in your world, then do something about it. If you don’t like being owned, then don’t own. I swore to own no part of another human being. You don’t have to either. Protest the injustice inherent in incorporation by not playing a part in it anymore. Divest and be free.”

  Justin had to pause as the crowd took up the chant of “divest and be free.” When he got them quieted down, he continued. “If you don’t want incorporation, then change it. If you hate being tagged like some animal, go on the Neuro and get a shield.”

  He had to stop as the crowd started repeating his words. “My friends,” he pleaded, “please do not, I repeat, do not bathe your actions in blood!” More applause, less tentative this time, more enthusiastic. “Trust me,” he said, coming to his close, “the prize will not be worth that cost. The only request this ‘one free man’ has is that you all leave here in peace . . . that you all go home and decide how you want to bring about change . . . without death and destruction. Nothing would make me happier than knowing that all of you made it home to your families safe and sound. Let not one among you suffer harm this day. Let us all depart in peace.”