“The Chairman’s suite,” said sebastian. “It contains three levels. The bottom level is devoted to business affairs and the top two are presumed to be living quarters.”
“Presumed?”
“No confirmed interior shots have ever been taken, and The Chairman has never given interviews from there. It is assumed that the entire two floors are fluid, but no one knows for sure.”
“Fluid rooms are expensive and difficult to maintain, sebastian. Couldn’t someone simply check maintenance records or fluid-room technicians’ comings and goings?”
“Indeed one could, Justin, and many have tried, but The Chairman values his privacy and took the precaution of having lots of orders and supplies available. It is difficult to determine what he needs and what is merely ‘cover.’ For instance, it is a matter of public record that his quarters ordered twelve reproduction tiki bars. Is that something The Chairman is likely to use?”
Justin remembered a couple of wild parties he’d attended when younger with a tiki theme. “No, sebastian. One, maybe, but I doubt he’d need twelve. OK,” he said, looking in the direction of the red line, “let’s get this over with.”
From where he’d been standing it was only a short walk to two large double doors. They looked to be made out of oak, and were ornately carved with all manner of horticulture. They opened as he entered. The room appeared to be a large reception area surrounded by art. It was at least thirty by thirty square feet, with another set of imposing double doors opposite the ones Justin had only recently entered. To the side of the double doors was an assistant with a stack of papers, data crystals, and a large array of holodisplays. The young man, who seemed to have enough work to keep him busy for days, looked up briefly and indicated that Justin should take a seat. Justin noticed that the assistant was not particularly tall, and a bit out of place behind a monstrous desk, appropriate for his stature but awkward for his age.
As soon as Justin sat down, the double doors to the right of the secretary burst open and a group of executives emerged. From the looks on their faces it seemed pretty clear that The Chairman had just torn the lot of them a new one. Their clothing, appearance, and manner suggested that these were men and women who’d climbed high up the corporate ladder; however, the manner in which the last one out quietly closed the door behind him told Justin they hadn’t reached the top rung yet. Half the group tossed their data pads onto the secretary’s desk without bothering to look at him. Justin detected a small sigh emanating from the young man at what must have been the doubling of his workload, but, thought Justin, the kid did well not to let his unhappiness show in any obvious way.
Though the group had been whispering among themselves as they left the inner sanctum, they shut up quickly the second they saw Justin in the chair. It was obvious that they knew who he was, but Justin thought he detected surprise—until, as a person, they all adopted poker faces.
They didn’t know I was going to be here. Interesting, thought Justin. So he likes playing games.
They studied the famous guest openly for a moment but made no attempt to go up and talk with him. In fact, they all filed past, ignoring him outright. The set of double doors from which Justin had entered now opened and then moments later closed, sweeping into the hall the last of them.
An eager to please and painfully young voice finally spoke up. “The Chairman will be a few moments, Mr. Cord. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, a drink, reefer, stims?”
“Coffee would be fine, Mr. . . .”
“Oh, everyone up here calls me Marcus. Let me see if I remember. Your preferred coffee is Jamaican Blue Mountain—Earth, not orbital grown. Not too strong, but nice and hot.”
“That’s very good, Marcus,” answered Justin. “GCI must keep very good records on me.”
Marcus laughed. “Oh, I’m sure they do, Mr. Cord, not that I’d ever get to see them. I know your taste in coffee from watching Celebrity Lifestyles.” The boy’s face reddened a bit. “It’s one of my favorite shows.”
“Mine, too,” Justin said, stretching the truth a little to make the young man feel more comfortable. Justin did know about the show, but more so because Neela had loved it. The thought of her now pained him. He shifted his eyes to the art on the wall, hoping it would distract him. Besides, he had nothing to do now but wait. The man with the real power was gently reminding him of that fact.
Justin noticed a statue. It had a bronze quality, yet the surface seemed somehow alive. It may have been the subject matter itself. On first glance it seemed to be in the form of a man trying to walk. But the longer Justin looked the more he realized it was a man trying to walk . . . off his pedestal. Maybe even, thought Justin, escape it. He looked at the head of the figure. Though somewhat abstract, there was a pained and sorrowful expression emanating from every contour of its face. Justin knew that the statue knew it would never escape.
He got up out of his chair and began to walk around the figure. The ability to take mere objects and form them in such a way as to elicit a real and complex emotional response was, to Justin, the essence of art. He differentiated that from the utter garbage that used to hang on the walls of most of the modern art museums of his time. Anyone could throw crap—sometimes literally—onto a canvas and put it in a museum. They’d even elicit a response, but not one worthy of the patron or the artist.
Justin felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see the erstwhile assistant, cup and saucer in hand.
“Your coffee, Mr. Cord.”
“Thank you, Marcus.”
Justin took a sip. Definitely not synthetic. “Tell me, Marcus. Is this the original or a cast?”
“A little bit of both, Mr. Cord. It was made from a picture of the original statue. It’s a fine reproduction, but nowhere near as fine, I’m told, as what the original looked like . . . which, I’m afraid, was destroyed in the Tokyo Earthquake of 2107. Legend has it that the artist mixed his own blood into the bronzilite, but who can really know?”
“Even the copy,” stated Justin, “is magnificent. Does the artist have any more works extant?”
“Yes,” answered Marcus, “I have a list of all the works as well as their locations. I will see to it that your avatar is informed.”
“I’d very much appreciate that, Marcus.”
Justin continued his perusal.
“I see that The Chairman has one of my old pieces. And,” he said, admiring the work, “he appears to have done a masterful job of restoring it.”
“Ahh, yes, you’re of course referring to the Gustav Caillebotte. With innovative approaches to nanite restoration, we can be 99.7 percent certain that this is how the painting looked on the day it was originally completed.”
Justin nodded, grunting his appreciation.
“Tell me, if you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Cord,” asked Marcus. “What made you choose to purchase this painting . . . originally, that is?”
Justin didn’t take his eyes off the work. “Like the sculpture here, Caillebotte’s work is multidimensional.”
“Really? How so?” asked Marcus, staring at the painting anew.
“Well,” answered Justin, “on one hand you’ve got this large-scale canvas covered in stark colors and strong brushstrokes—the work of a master craftsman. On the other you have a very powerful piece of protest art meant to underscore the insidious crawl of the industrial revolution. An interesting choice for your boss.”
Marcus remained silent.
Justin looked at the other paintings. One, he saw was a Daumier, an artist he knew to be deeply interested in people, especially the lower classes. The next was a work by Shitao, the renowned monk artist whose paintings were famous for sharing their creator’s self-conscious projection of spiritual liberation.
And finally there was the still life. It was drab and gray and somewhat representational of a vase of flowers. It was, Justin decided, ghastly, and he had absolutely no idea why it had been chosen to be a part of such an esteemed collection.
“Marcus, forgi
ve me if I speak from ignorance, but why is this piece here? Does it represent a school or style I don’t have the experience to understand?”
“In a way, Mr. Cord . . . watch it closely . . . very closely.”
Justin moved up closer to the painting and stared hard at the whole of it. After a time he realized that, in fact, it was slowly and subtly changing color and tone.
“That’s kind of interesting. Why’s it doing that?”
“Haven’t you heard of M’Art, Mr. Cord?”
“Yes, yes I have,” he answered. “That’s art that’s linked to the various markets.”
“M’Art works will actually change color and tone based on how the markets they’re tied to are doing.”
Justin nodded. “So this is M’Art. A little stiff, if you ask me.”
“Oh, Mr. Cord. It’s actually a very exciting field. There are so many ways a M’artist can approach the subject. For example, what colors represent what markets? Do tones matter? What objects are given to which colors? Once all those factors have been decided, you have not only a very complex painting, but one that will truly change every day, and in wholly unpredictable ways. It’s not a static image; it’s a painting that truly reflects the world it’s a part of.”
Justin put his hand to his chin and stared hard at the seemingly inconsequential piece. “But what makes this one so special? Special enough, that is, to warrant your boss’s wall space?”
Marcus, Justin saw, smiled knowledgeably.
“Although it’s a relatively simple still life, this painting is considered by many experts to be the first true piece of M’Art ever created. On top of that, this M’Artwork is not tied to one specific market, but rather to the entire system exchange.”
“In a painting so small?” asked Justin.
“Yes,” Marcus said proudly, almost as if he’d owned it himself, “in a painting so small. Part of its genius.”
“It must be priceless,” said Justin, squinting his eyes ever so slightly, wondering if perhaps that, too, would reveal a different experience.
“It’s insured at over three hundred and fifty million credits,” answered Marcus matter-of-factly.
Justin guffawed. “No shit,” he said, while watching the colors change from inches away. “Better not sneeze, then.”
Marcus smiled.
“Is it just me or does it look a little washed out to you?”
“If the markets don’t improve,” answered Marcus, “it’ll probably go negative. Never done that before.”
Justin finally backed up so he could study the collection again from a distance, with a more discerning eye.
“Tell me, Marcus, which one’s your favorite?”
“Oh, the sculpture,” the secretary answered, without missing a beat.
“Really. Why is that?”
“Look at it long enough and you realize it’s not really a sculpture.”
Justin turned his head slightly to see Marcus transfixed on the statue—lost.
“What then?”
“A mirror, Mr. Cord.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Pretty deep answer for a kid.”
Marcus’s bright-eyed look came on—as if a switch had been flicked. “I’m twenty-three, Mr. Cord.”
“Bullshit, Marcus. If you’re twenty-three then I’m . . .”
Justin stopped talking and stared blankly at the boy.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath, mouth forming into a knowing grin. He now studied Marcus in much the same way he’d only moments before studied the paintings. The hair was a different shade and was straight, not wavy. The nose was smaller and slightly misshapen, and the eyes were a different color. There were enough differences that you had to look for it, but it was him, alright.
Justin extended his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Chairman.”
The Chairman laughed heartily, and took Justin’s hand firmly into his.
“Damn, Mr. Cord. I was hoping for at least an hour.”
Justin felt the man’s firm grasp and met it with his own.
“Sorry,” said Justin, “but no twenty-three-year-old I know—in any century—would look at a sculpture and see a mirror.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Cord. And what do you suppose he would see?”
“The world would be his oyster. Everything in his mind would be shaped by the prism of advancement.”
The Chairman shook his head in agreement. “You’re an old man, sir. An old man like me.”
Justin continued to maintain a friendly posture but never failed to realize who he was dealing with. “Not quite as old as you, sir, but let’s just say I’ve aged a bit since reawakening.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you have,” The Chairman said, knowingly. “I must apologize, Mr. Cord. I have underestimated you. I think we all have. You’d think, given the fact that I’ve been studying you almost from the minute you were awakened, I’d have been a little sharper on the uptake. Senior moment, I guess.”
Justin shrugged.
“Would you care to join me for a walk?” asked The Chairman. “The level is now completely cleared out, and I can assure you we’ll have total privacy.”
Not really a question, thought Justin.
“Sure.”
“In a very real sense you get to walk on top of the world,” said The Chairman, smiling brightly.
He reminded Justin of a cat, mouse in paws, unsure what to do with it.
They left the antechamber through the double doors and started walking clockwise around the corridor. Though the Earth was still shrouded in darkness, parts of it were quite luminous. The light was seen overwhelmingly on the coasts and the rivers. It was, thought Justin, as if someone had etched the continents and major waterways in bright fluorescent paint.
“I never get tired of the view,” said The Chairman. “I think that’s why I moved the headquarters up here.”
“So,” asked Justin, “the fact that being up here symbolically makes you the most important person on Earth had nothing at all to do with it?”
“Well,” The Chairman answered, with a mischievous smile, “maybe just a little.”
There was an awkward moment of silence as they both stared out the window onto the Earth below. Justin decided they’d had enough of the small talk.
“Look,” he said, continuing to take in the view, “I think I know your position about my incorporating, but why don’t I spell out the basics and you can tell me if I’m missing anything.”
The Chairman looked amused. “By all means. I’m very curious.”
Justin turned to face his adversary.
“GCI—which is you—contends that I have the power to disrupt the incorporated system, which at its heart is voluntary. I do this by not only continuing to remain unincorporated, but by also acting as the head of the Liberty Party and actively encouraging divestment. You with me?”
“All the way, Mr. Cord.”
“Good.” He continued. “I give credence and hope to the millions who’ve decided that they don’t want to be incorporated anymore, and seeing one man, or, to be more precise, ‘one free man,’ defy the system gives them that hope.”
“Hope is very powerful, Mr. Cord.”
“And, to you, very dangerous,” Justin added.
The Chairman nodded.
“In order to curtail a massive violent social confrontation,” continued Justin, “you need my active support. This won’t end all the problems, but it will pull the steam out of the Liberty Party and the Action Wing. How am I doing so far?”
“Exceptionally well,” The Chairman said with a muted smile. “Please continue.”
“To this end you’re willing to pay over one billion credits in stock options, giving Neela Harper a supermajority in herself. And this, of course, is for the sole purpose of making me comfortable in giving her my one—and only one—share out of the hundred thousand that would be formed following standard articles of incorporation for an individual.”
“You will also stop harassing me, my associates, and my friends—sadly, a much diminished group.”
“I take it you are referring to Mr. Black?”
“Not specifically,” answered Justin, “but yeah, he would definitely be in the ‘diminished’ category.”
“Manny Black was a great loss,” The Chairman readily agreed. “A mind like that is difficult to find and impossible to cultivate purposely.”
“He was a good friend.” Justin paused, remembering the death he’d felt indirectly responsible for. He then continued with his review of the “facts.” “Neela will be given a media-driven, well-orchestrated pass for having become involved with her patient and, finally, you’ll release my assets and turn me into a great human being beloved by all.”
The Chairman nodded. “That’s about the gist of it.”
“Good,” said Justin. “Now that the carrot’s out of the way, let’s see if I’m clear on the stick.”
The Chairman remained silent.
“If I persist,” continued Justin, “in adhering to, how did Hektor put it, ‘my silly superstitions,’ I’ll be audited until I’m broke. I’ll have all my friends and acquaintances harassed to the point that they’ll likely shoot me before they’ll say hello. I will never see Neela again—even to the point of your threatening to kill her.”
“Hektor shouldn’t have been so direct on that, Mr. Cord. It was rude.”
“You saying you wouldn’t?”
The Chairman gave a shark’s grin. “Oh no, Mr. Cord, I’d do it, but I believe that when one threatens the most that’s also when one should be the most polite. . . . Hektor’s still young.”
Strange words, thought Justin, coming from the face of a child.
“Hektor also tried his best to explain,” continued Justin, “why my beliefs are wrong and harmful. And that everything I wanted was right in front of me. All I had to do was take it.”
The Chairman nodded. “So much passion and commitment lurking under that layer of selfish disinterest. Funny, isn’t it, Mr. Cord? Did he really offer you Venus?”
The Unincorporated Man Page 62