The Unincorporated Man

by Dani Kollin; Eytan Kollin

  “History,” answered Justin, unfazed, “has had to deal with your kind forever. You don’t get it. The ends are the means. You are what you do and what you accept. What makes you think any sane person would want to live in a world that you created when its very nascence is the death of three million people?”

  Cassandra smiled, and the malevolence of her stare silenced the room.

  “They were already dead,” she stated with absolute calm. “We . . . are already . . . dead.”

  She then began to laugh in fits, and then finally in convulsions. Justin was too disgusted to continue, and motioned for the guards to take her away. As they did, he could hear her screaming down the hallway, “Dead! You hear me, Cord? We’re all already dead!”

  Neela found Justin in his San Francisco office, sitting on a couch, scanning documents, and barking orders to a ready and willing cadre of Liberty Party staffers (his divestiture crew had long since been folded into the larger movement). Justin seemed distracted, not driven. He’d been lauded for capturing the terrorist célèbre Cassandra Doogle but took no solace in that small victory, instead holding himself culpable: one, for trusting her, and two, for missing the signs that may have led to early detection. Though Neela had patiently explained to him that it couldn’t possibly be his fault—that Cassandra’s duplicity had gone undetected by greater, more resourceful terror-sniffing agencies than his own—he still bore the weight of the massacre on his shoulders. And so now he was going through the motions of running a ship without bothering to steer it. The faithful were unaware, thrilled only to be in the great man’s presence. Neela, however, knew better.

  Justin waited until Neela was seated before switching off the holodisplay on the coffee table as a courtesy.

  “It’s getting very bad out there, sweets,” he said quietly, and out of earshot.

  “I know, I know,” she answered. “We’ve got another problem . . . I . . . I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

  Justin immediately put down his DijAssist with a look of concern. He shooed people out of his office and told his secretary to block his calls. Then he told the room to tint the glass. It would cause some rumors, but there was nothing he could do about that short of leaving the premises, and that would cause even more rumors, and would entail more press—besides, the gossip had been particularly fierce since the Moon excursion, anyway.

  Justin turned to give Neela his undivided attention.

  “GCI is going to separate us,” she said, choking back tears, “not going to allow me to renew my contract with you.”

  Justin sighed, then pulled her into him and put his arms around her.

  “That’s not all,” she continued, as her words now seemed to be coming out in short, painful convulsions. “They won’t . . . they won’t put me back to work in Boulder, either.”

  She then unfolded a slip of crumpled paper; from the looks of it she’d been clutching it for some time. Her eyes were red and slightly puffy.

  “What? What is it, Neela?” pleaded Justin, beginning for the first time in a long time to feel a pit welling in the base of his stomach.

  Neela almost numbingly regurgitated the information contained within her “marching orders.” “The company,” she stated, “has a pressing need for me . . . on the moons of Neptune.”

  Justin was dumbstruck. “That can’t be . . .”

  “Rumor has it,” she continued, “that GCI has a secret research lab out there. People who get the assignment are paid lavishly, but . . . but disappear for years at a time—and only GCI personnel are allowed out there.”

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “The day my contract with Dr. Gillette is completed . . . which gives us a little less than three months.” She sighed. “It’s going to be a while before I get to see you again, Justin. I know you’re busy, but if you don’t mind . . . I’d . . . I’d like to go out onto the bay with you tomorrow. Can we?”

  Justin was incensed.

  “Neela, how can you talk about going boating? These bastards are going to separate us, and thanks to this stupid system of incorporation they can tell a grown woman—the woman I love—to leave me! And all because you don’t own a majority of yourself? Do you realize how crazy that sounds to me? A person who doesn’t own a majority of themselves! And you don’t, Neela Harper. So you’re compelled to leave me—the man you love. To hell with that! I won’t let it happen!”

  “It’s not a stupid system,” Neela said softly.

  Justin’s face was a mask of incredulity. “What was that?” he asked.

  “Justin, it’s not a stupid system. It’s a good system. In fact, it’s the best system that the human race has ever come up with.”

  “But how can you say that?” He’d expected anger from her, sadness even. But compliance? He felt deflated.

  “How can I not say it?” she challenged. “Justin, I really do love you, but sometimes I think your head never thawed with the rest of your body. Our system works. And it works a hell of a lot better than yours ever did. And I, for one, am proud of it. I may not have voiced it strongly at first because I was your reanimation specialist . . . and then your friend, and finally your lover. There was always an excuse, but enough is enough.”

  “Neela,” began Justin.

  “Just hold on a minute and answer me this. Your country—America—was the wealthiest and most powerful of all the pre-GC nations, correct?”

  Justin nodded.

  “Did all of your citizens have decent housing?”

  Justin didn’t answer.

  “Well, did they?”

  “No,” he had to admit.

  “How about on Earth?”

  “Most definitely not,” he further admitted. “There were probably billions who didn’t.”

  “Justin, our system has over forty billion people in it and not one of them is denied access to decent housing. Not one. How about jobs, Justin? Did everyone in your country have access to work?”

  “You know the answer to that, Neela.”

  “Yes, I do. And until recently I could say that anyone who needed a job had one with our system. Justin, I love incorporation even with all its faults, because it’s the one system that’s given the most happiness and prosperity to the greatest number of people . . . ever.”

  “Neela, that’s bullshit,” he snapped back. “It’s not incorporation that did that, it’s the technology. You have a nanite industrial base, Neuro culture, and fusion power. With all that is it really any wonder that everyone is well housed and fed?”

  “Justin, where do you think our technology came from? It’s not the technology. Oh, I’ll admit it’s great—you’ve certainly helped me to appreciate that—and I’ll also admit that I would have hated living in your time. Sweet Damsah, you were dying from cancer. But in your day you had the technology to feed, employ, and house the world. But not one country ever had the system. They all failed in the end.”

  “But in my world,” he said plaintively, “no one was ever forced to leave their loved ones against their will.”

  “The hell they weren’t,” she challenged. “Maybe no one you ever knew was forced, but pre-GC, hundreds of millions of people were forced, by stupid wars, unnecessary famines, and no jobs to leave whole families and lives behind. If anyone here gets ‘forced’ to move, they’re usually well compensated, and that person can almost always bring their family with them. It wouldn’t be efficient otherwise.”

  “If that’s the case,” he countered, “then why can’t I go with you to Neptune?”

  “Besides the obvious,” she said, indicating the patient/doctor meme, “it’s because I’m an exception to the rule.”

  “Great. A lot of good that does me.”

  “But,” she continued, “I’m part of the thousands of exceptions out of forty billion. Your system had hundreds of millions of cases out of only six or seven billion.”

  “But that doesn’t take away from the fact,” he grumbled, “that they’re still fo
rcing you to go.”

  “No, Justin,” she said, getting up from the couch, then turning around to face him. “It’s you. You’re the one who’s forcing me to go! Why can’t you see that?”

  She looked at her lover, sitting wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “Honey,” she continued, “if you could give me anything, anything at all in the whole system, what would it be?”

  Justin didn’t hesitate for a second. “I’d buy up every stock that you didn’t have of yourself and give them all back to you.”

  “Take it further,” she urged. “What if you could make me the Unincorporated Woman, would you?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  Neela shook her head. “Justin, I know this will be hard for you to hear, but . . . I wouldn’t accept it. Don’t get me wrong; I’ll be overjoyed the day I get majority—have a big party and everything. But, forgetting about the government’s automatic 5 percent, how could I become unincorporated? Why would I want to? Everything I know, have, and am I owe to incorporation—including you! Who and what I am is tied up in it, from the day I was born until the day I die. It’s a system that makes every human being personally responsible for all other human beings. It takes the most consistent motivator of our species—self-interest—and makes it work for everyone. I belong because of incorporation. And I so wanted you to belong, too. Do you even know we never exchanged?”

  “Never exchanged what? Stock?”

  “You sound so horrified,” answered Neela, “yet it’s so beautiful. Two people who are in love exchange one share of themselves with the other. They don’t sell it or buy it. They give it to each other. A real promise to share that is not a promise but a fact.”

  “I know about that, Neela, but we . . . we could have exchanged engagement rings.”

  Neela nodded in understanding. “Many of us still do that, but a ring is a onetime gift. A stock exchange is something that begins the moment it’s given and continues until you die.”

  Neela sat back down and put her hand on Justin’s lap while she tenderly touched his face.

  “There are so many things I want to do with you, and for you, that I’ll never be able to do because you can’t . . .” She changed her mind. “Won’t accept my world.”

  “It’s GCI that’s keeping us apart,” he said, gritting his teeth, “not me.”

  Neela took Justin’s hand in her own. “Justin, I want to have children someday, and I’d like you to be the father.”

  Justin’s eyes began to well up. “Neela, I . . . I don’t know what to say other than, of course. I can’t think of a person I’d want to raise children with more than you.”

  “You mean, of course, our incorporated children, don’t you?”

  Justin was about to speak, but the implications of what Neela had just said stopped him cold. He hadn’t given much thought to having children, knowing that the day would eventually come and that he’d be ready—but that was the extent of it. However, Neela was right. Any children they had would be automatically incorporated, regardless of his personal status. Not only that, but he’d own 20 percent of them, and he’d have to own them . . . or, at least, their stocks, until the children reached the age of twenty-one . . . whether he liked it or not. His children would be just as vulnerable as Neela. Well, no, he realized, not as vulnerable. They’d never lose majority control of themselves—unless they frittered it away—but they’d be limited in their actions by the ever-present laws of incorporation.

  “Don’t you see, Justin? Until you decide to accept our way of life, we won’t really have a life. I do love you, and will stay with you as long as I can, but when I have to go I will go. And I’ll do so willingly. You can have me or the Unincorporated Man, but you can’t have both—not anymore. Please, for my sake and for yours, don’t try any fancy legal maneuvers. I’d rather we just enjoy these last few months together.”

  Justin sat down on the couch and held her tight, breathing her in deeply, as if he could somehow capture a part of her that would stay with him forever. He looked into her eyes and smiled wistfully.

  “I’ll see about the boat for tomorrow, then.”

  Hundreds of arrests systemwide. Action Party cells have been found and eliminated, thanks to increased vigilance from law-enforcement corporations, Justin Cord’s sturdy command of the Liberty Party, and a new willingness of former supporters of the Action Wing to come forward with information. It’s believed that two more Gray Bombs were unleashed but quickly eliminated by the new and improved hunter/killer nanites distributed systemwide by GCI. For all the news you need, stay tuned to ISN.

  —INTERSYSTEMNEWS BROADCAST

  Justin found Omad sitting in a small town pub, hunched over a bar. It was lower-class digs all the way, but Justin would never have been able to tell that by using any of his old cues. This place, on the face of it, was kept spotless—but nanites and drones did that for next to nothing. The fittings all looked new, but furniture was as cheap in this day as coasters were in Justin’s, so that was also no clue. And all the alcohol probably tasted great, the drugs would get you blasted, and the food was, more than likely, uniformly delectable.

  But by looking at the bar with eyes newly accustomed to the mores of the incorporated world, Justin could see that this place was a real dump. The first clue was that everything was uniform. The chairs and tables, the glasses and bowls were completely identical, as only drone/nanite construction and maintenance could make things. Also, other than the bartender, who was probably the owner, the place had no human service whatsoever. Orders were taken and drinks and appetizers were delivered by machines. But the real clue was the patrons. They had that “I’m here to get drunk, go away, jerk-off” look that the downtrodden and desperate always had—especially in establishments like this one.

  Justin could tell by the way Omad was hunched over his drink that his friend was hammered to the gills. He called the bartender over. The man behind the counter did a double take when he realized who’d beckoned him.

  “You’re him,” the bartender chuckled. “The asshole.”

  “Yeah, fuck you, too,” Justin shot back. “Can I still buy a drink?”

  “Hey, them’s his words,” the bartender said, pointing to Omad, “not mine.”

  He leaned in as if to impart a secret. “Simple rule here, mate. No matter who you are. You got credits, you get drinks. See? Simple. And I know you got credits. So, what’ll it be?”

  “You got a whiskey called Springbank, Campbeltown 21?”

  The bartender called up a holographic display and entered some commands. “Well, I’ll be audited,” he said, astonished, “says here we do. No one, and I mean no one, in this joint ever orders that. Ain’t got the real stuff, mind ya. All we got is the synthetic. Still interested?”

  Justin nodded. “Yup.” If they could even come close, he’d be eminently happy.

  The bartender put a tumbler into a small alcove, pressed a button on the holographic display, and in seconds the drink was re-created and spat into the tumbler. He pulled a crystal glass out from behind the counter and duly poured the drink. By the man’s look Justin could see that he, too, was curious how well the nanites stacked up for someone who’d tasted the real thing. Justin poured the twenty-one-year-old (could he even say that?) whiskey with reverence. Like the original, the malt was a deep bronze, reddish brown. Points for color, thought Justin. Which was no small task, since Springbank, unlike most of its competitors, never used any coloring additives. Justin sniffed. The nose was a powerful mix of sherry and Springbank salty sea air . . . with just a hint of mustiness. He nodded in appreciation. So far, so good, he thought. He took a sip. Now, in addition to the first flavors he smelled, he was also able to discern the flavorings of the oak cask, black cherries, and chocolate. The finish, he decided, was distinctive of the Springbank distillery—warm and somewhat briny, quickly moving from a sweet, almost syrupy texture to dry.

  “Perfect,” he said, with a satisfied look.

 
; Though the bartender had nothing to do with it, other than the fact that he’d pressed a few buttons, he seemed pleased with himself.

  What Justin didn’t tell the man behind the counter was that the drink was, in fact, too perfect. He took another perfect sip. He realized that he could order this drink from anywhere in the system and he’d get this exact drink . . . every time. Every time in every location it would never, ever change in the slightest iota. And that was the problem. Whiskey, like wine, changed subtly with age. And the Springbank 21 was only drinkable a day or two after opening. And it would continue to amaze with each successive opening. No wonder people were willing to pay big bucks for the real thing, the real anything. Humans needed stability, but they also craved variety. The slight difference a drink would have from how it was made, stored, and prepared would be invaluable after a while—and no one here could afford it. Nor would most of them ever be able to in all the long years of their lives. And, for the first time, Justin truly understood what it meant to be poor in the incorporated world. He took his drink over to Omad who, sensing someone’s presence next to him, looked up.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, asshole?”

  “No idea, Omad,” answered Justin, “you called and told me to meet you. You said you had some good news. ‘Get drunk with a buddy’ sort of news.”

  “Buddy, Justin, old chum, you’re an asshole.” Omad looked as if he had had the most profound realization of his life. “Damsah’s balls, Justin, you are my buddy!” Omad waved to the bar. “Hey, everybody! This is my buddy.”

  No one looked up, but that didn’t stop Omad from laughing uproariously. “Hey, everybody, body and buddy. I rhymed. My buddy has a rhyming buddy!” The patrons, pulled momentarily out of their individual stupors, shot back a chorus of derogatory comments and suggestions for both Omad and Justin.