It took a moment for the crowd to realize that Justin had finished speaking. It was only when he started to make his way back down the arch that the chanting began anew. Perhaps it was because this most famous and glamorous of men seemed to truly care about all of them for no reason other than that he cared—with no reward or profit to be gained. Or perhaps it was because they’d simply grown tired of the looting. Either way, the people seemed to love Justin Cord, and they now shouted that love at the top of their lungs.
“One free man, one free man, one free man, one free man!”
By the time Neela and Justin made their way back up to the roof where the flyer, to their great relief, was still waiting and in one piece, Justin knew what his next course of action would be.
“Neela,” he asked, making his way into the driver’s seat, “which city is experiencing the worst rioting right now?”
She shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “I was afraid you were going to ask that.”
As Justin shrugged, Neela leaned over and, grabbing him by the collar, planted a long passionate kiss on his bewildered face.
“Do you know how dangerous what you just did was?” she asked, still holding tight to the collar. “How did you talk me into letting you get us into this thing?” She felt no terror for herself, only for her lover.
“You did really good . . . ,” she continued, hating herself for admitting it and knowing full well what it would mean. “Chicago or Tokyo,” she then answered, “it’s a toss-up.”
“Then,” he asked, flashing a sly grin, “what are we waiting for?”
11 Second Trial
José Chung was a contented man. He’d found the ideal job. To be fair, corporate society had perfected the art of matching people with their most appropriate profession—it was more profitable. But in José’s case, he’d always felt that the powers that be—in this case, GCI—had succeeded admirably. José hated crowds, didn’t like dressing in anything except what happened to be closest in the closet, and was absolutely terrified of having to speak publicly. But he did possess one very profitable attribute—a superb analytical mind. José had the extraordinary ability to make random connections from disparate sources of information. He could also work long hours alone without supervision, remaining intensely focused on the task at hand. These skills resulted in a career as an informational archivist working for a GCI satellite office in Eugene, Oregon. He proved to be so good at his new position that GCI transferred him over to their branch office in Geneva. And after only ten years there, he’d done such an outstanding job that the Legal department transferred him to the home office in New York. Of course, José couldn’t have cared less. As long as he was down in the stacks, he was happy. He not only knew where all the important documents and reference materials were maintained—in both soft and hard copy—he also knew the contents of those documents like the back of his hand.
And right now he was working on a particularly interesting case. Janet Delgado had asked him to find any material relevant to the government’s case against Justin Cord. He’d sent that up days ago, but there was something still nagging him about the personal-incorporation clause. And José was the sort of person who wouldn’t be satisfied until that annoying little itch went away. That aspect of his personality was something that had made him almost impossible to live with but great to have as an asset when working in a profession such as the law.
Staring intently at a large stack of info crystals, and lost in the low hum of the computers surrounding his workspace, José remembered what the “something” was. It was an old law—not even valid anymore, probably not even important. But it was, even if only obscurely, related to the case. And hadn’t Ms. Delgado said “everything”? Well, José was thorough, and if his boss wanted everything, then everything was what she’d get. He made a one-page report, sent it up to Legal care of Janet Delgado, and went back to his lonely existence, unaware of the havoc he’d just unleashed.
Hektor reviewed the facts and, no matter which way he divvied them up, they always came to the same conclusion. Justin Cord and Justin Cord alone had stopped the rioting. The entire system, for the moment, seemed to be at peace. Hektor also couldn’t escape the ultimate conclusion—Sean Doogle’s death and Justin Cord’s actions during the rioting had turned Justin from a potential threat into a very real and present one. GCI now had to rethink its entire strategy.
Hektor labored hard over the new line of attack, and only when he was completely satisfied did he send it up for approval.
Approximately one hour after he’d sent up the plan his message tube notified him of an incoming communiqué. In an era of mass electronics the only truly secure means of message sending was the tried and true one—hard copy via messenger. In this case, the tube had eliminated the need for human intervention and possible corruption.
Hektor retrieved and unfolded the note. It contained a single word: APPROVED.
He then destroyed the message.
Janet Delgado did not hurry to Hektor’s office. A vice president of GCI did not hurry to anyone’s office, with one exception—and it wasn’t often that one was called to that inner sanctum. Of course, she was not technically V.P. of Legal for GCI for the duration of her leave of absence. But Janet was not only kept informed of all the legal goings-on, she also had the final say on all important matters. Now, however, even though she would not hurry, she wasn’t exactly taking her time, either. Normal courtesy would have had Janet and Hektor meet in a neutral location, but with Janet not officially on the board, she met Hektor in his office. This meant she’d have to take the lift down—something she still hadn’t gotten used to.
After a week on the job Hektor had inexplicably moved his entire office from the upper level of the board members’ area into a subbasement lot. His stated reasons were security and the need to be close to the hard files and communication networks. Janet was inclined to believe him. Hektor made an effort to attend all board meetings in person, and to be at as many of the get-together brunches and lunches as his schedule would allow. He was the opposite of a dour, isolating figure. But, thought Janet, it was still odd that the second most powerful man in the system had relegated himself to the bowels of GCI. Not only that, but now some suboffices were starting to follow him. She’d prayed it would be a temporary trend, as she liked her above-the-cloud views. She was also beginning to wonder how much of Hektor’s new power came from his recently acquired job and how much came from Hektor himself. She wasn’t sure she liked the answer. The intern who greeted her at the elevator door was young, eager, and polite—typical in and of itself. But this intern, Janet noticed, also had that glow of someone doing a job they loved for a boss they respected. He was part of a small host of people working for Hektor who’d been labeled “Hektor’s Hectics” by those not fortunate enough to make it into the V.P.’s inner circle. It was meant to be a derogatory term, but as often happens in life, the people it was meant to deride took on the name as a badge of pride. The small but growing group that Hektor was building seemed more like a club than an office crowd. The way this one Hectic greeted her—respectful, but also relaxed and friendly—made Janet wonder if they considered her a Hectic as well.
The claustrophobic hallways may have been a maze of boring beige and endless rectangles, but the offices, Janet had to admit with a certain pang of jealousy, were wonderful. The first thing Hektor had done was to knock down walls to make one big common area. This area felt more like a large university coffee shop than a workspace. While there were desks and terminal access points, the room was also filled with carpets, huge sofas, colorful floaters, and comfy chairs. Some people were sitting alone reading, while others were talking happily in groups. Some, she noticed, were even asleep on the sofas. It seemed like a recipe for anarchy, but Janet’s keen administrative eye saw that a lot of work was actually getting done. Everyone seemed to be working with pads, DijAssists, or bundles of paper. The loud, passionate conversations were all work-related, as far as Janet
could tell. And she would have bet the moons of Io that the junior executives she saw sleeping and strewn across the couches had not left this room for at least forty-eight hours.
Janet had read Hektor’s file, and nowhere in it did it show him having the aptitude for leadership like this. She’d incorrectly thought of him as the consummate loner or special assistant. But there he was—standing at a table surrounded by a cadre of adoring workers. She came up to hear what she assumed must have been the end of a joke—and judging by the size of the crowd, a long and involved one.
“So the poodle, with his back turned, says, ‘Where is that damned monkey? I sent him to bring back another cheetah an hour ago!’ ” The crowd around Hektor exploded in laughter. It was at that moment that Hektor noticed Janet. “Janet, glad you could make it. OK, everyone back to the salt mines.” Although Janet heard good-natured groans, the group quickly and cheerfully scattered. Hektor pointed to one of the many doors lining the walls. “Let’s go where we can talk in private.”
The room they entered was a small, utilitarian office, having the desk, terminal, guest chairs, and large padded chair that most workplaces had. She also noted two large locking cabinets. What made her realize that this must be Hektor’s actual office was the box of Cohiba cigars on his desk. That old and almost obsolete vice was almost peculiar to Hektor. She was sure that other people in the system must smoke cigars as regularly as he did, but she’d never met them.
How long before everyone out there’s smoking those dreadful things? She shuddered to herself. Hektor took a seat, and indeed grabbed a cigar from the box on his desk, but thankfully, she saw, he did not light it up.
“The Supreme Court,” Hektor stated, “will continue the trial the day after tomorrow.”
Janet was visibly annoyed that she hadn’t been told of so important a development.
“When did they announce that?” she said, miffed.
Hektor looked at the clock in his thumbnail. “In about two hours.”
Janet felt better, realizing that Hektor had gained access to inside information. She was only sore that he’d obviously used it to razz her.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said, taking a seat. “About time, if you ask me. The sooner I win this case the better.”
“You’re sure you can win this thing?” Hektor seemed intent on this question.
“You have nothing to worry about. Justin Cord will be forced to incorporate, and that should end all of this nonsense concerning the Unincorporated Man.” She spoke with the total confidence of someone about to exact some well-deserved revenge.
“There is nothing that could possibly save Justin Cord?” asked Hektor, digging deeper. “No legal tricks that Manny Black could pull out of his hat to keep the Supreme Court from ordering his incorporation?”
Janet hesitated for a moment. There was that one report, only a page long, that Mr. Chung had sent her. She realized that it was a potential problem, but there was no possible way Manny Black would have access to that information. Still, if Hektor needed to know . . .
“There was this one thing. . . .”
Justin Cord has returned to Geneva for the continuation of his trial versus the government. Hard to believe that it was only a little over a week ago that the proceedings began. While the issues remain the same, the world has surely changed. The scene outside the court building is one of tumult as the square is now filled with protestors both for and against the Unincorporated Man. The police have let it be known that if the protests turn violent they will inundate the area with Incapacitate—the highly effective and safe knockout gas. It has now been produced in amounts large enough for the Geneva police force to use.
—THE TERRAN DAILY NEWS
The atmosphere in the court was electric. It had only been a week and a half since opening arguments, but everyone present could feel that the trial was different from the one that had begun. Too much of the world outside the halls of justice had been transformed by the civil and social strife of a society coming to terms with itself. Although there seemed to be just as many people who felt Manny Black had to lose his case as there were those who felt he had to win it, both sides readily acknowledged that the stakes had been raised.
It was a good thing that those people did not talk to the eccentric lawyer. He would have told them, as he was telling Justin Cord in excruciating detail, just how slim the chance of victory was. Manny had even told Justin that he could have gotten the Supreme Court to consider only taking 1 or 2 percent. Something contraindicated by the Constitution but arguable under the Preamble. And even that was a long shot.
The court was about to be called into session when a courier arrived at the defense table. He was typical of the new Western Union, right down to the uniform and the billed cap. But he should not have been there. Manny had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and with Justin Cord’s money backing him, he had the clout to make that order stick. That this courier was able to walk right up to him—on the day of the trial, no less—was a flagrant violation of his wishes, and of decorum.
“Western Union,” the man said, much too cheerful for the setting. “Manny Black, I have an important telegram for you.”
“Security,” said Manny, without bothering to look up; then he continued perusing his notes in preparation for his opening statement. Two uniformed agents appeared immediately from both sides of the courtroom, converging on the Western Union man. The man seemed unperturbed.
“Check up law HR 27-03.”
Manny looked up. He eyed the courier with suspicion.
The Western Union man shrugged his shoulders. “I was told that if you sent for security, I should say that.”
“I hardly see how the terraforming of Mars,” retorted Manny, “is in any way pertinent.”
The guards began to drag the Western Union man away.
The courier twisted his head back as the guards hustled him out of the courtroom, and said, “. . . of the Alaskan Federation!”
Manny kept on working. But that part of his mind that never stopped making connections flared with realization. So stunning was this one that most of his conscious mind kept reviewing the opening while his upper mind blazed with the implications—that is, if he remembered his history correctly. “Wait!” he shouted to the guards, who’d by this time had the perpetrator in a body cuff and were carrying him out the door. Manny motioned them back over to the table. The hapless courier was placed in front of Manny and Justin.
“Where is your telegram?” barked Manny.
Justin, who’d been watching, was surprised to see Janet Delgado go pale, and then turn red with what appeared to be rage. She whipped out her DijAssist and started talking into it furiously. The Western Union man, now released from his body cuff, handed Manny a data cube and had Manny sign for it. After he was done he courteously tipped his hat and left—no hard feelings. Manny transferred the message into his DijAssist and began scanning the data. He called up a holographic keyboard, and without saying a word began typing in commands and searches almost too fast for the human eye to follow. Whatever Manny was doing, he was totally engrossed, his face blank, and his eyes greedily absorbing all the information available. Justin did not know what was going on, but the fact that it upset Janet Delgado made him hopeful for the first time in months. After only two minutes the chief justice banged his gavel, silencing the crowd but not Manny’s lightning keyboard strokes.
“Alright, Mr. Black, wow us with your opening.” Chief Justice Lee sounded less than enthused, and it was plainly clear that he didn’t think Manny could say anything that would impress him.
Manny, fully absorbed, hadn’t bothered to look up.
“Mr. Black,” intoned the chief justice, “Mr. Black!”
Manny looked up with a start. He was like a man awakened from slumber by the ringing of a bell in his ear. “Can I help you?” he said, with all the sincerity of a store clerk.
The room broke into chuckles. Manny turned red when he rea
lized what he’d done.
“Mr. Black,” cautioned the chief justice, “I’m sorry to inconvenience you with a trial. But you will not waste the court’s time. You have had almost two weeks to prepare your opening, since the prosecution gave theirs. I find that almost unethical, but my colleagues are inclined to listen. If you’re not ready to give your opening statement, then please tell us so. Or, better yet, concede the trial so we can get on to other pressing cases.”
Though Chief Justice Lee was known for his temper, and his harangues of lawyers from the bench were legendary, Manny did not seem to be bothered.
“My apologies to the court,” began Manny. “If it will make the court feel better I will not be giving the opening I had initially prepared.”
“I’ll bet,” muttered Lee.
“That’s quite enough, Chiang,” intoned Justice Tadasuke. “You may enjoy your cantankerous reputation, but now you’re just being rude.”
Before Chief Justice Lee could retort, Manny spoke up. “If it please the court, I will swear that my opening statement is not the one that I had prepared, and will accept a psyche audit to verify my statement. In fact, I am prepared to give, based on new information given to me only minutes ago, an entirely new statement.”
This brought a gasp from the crowd, and even Chief Justice Lee was momentarily silenced by the declaration. Justice Tadasuke spoke into the gap. “That will not be necessary, Mr. Black. Please proceed.”
Manny leaped from behind the desk and began pacing in front of the bench.
“If it please the court, I must admit that I’ve had a difficult time with this case. I’ll even admit that part of that difficulty arose from the very simple fact that I was probably going to lose.”
The Unincorporated Man Page 51