The Unincorporated Man (48 page)

But Sean was not ignoring the media now. While he usually disdained the ilk who’d so thoroughly eviscerated his character and his movement, he couldn’t help but be interested in the buzz that was now infecting the entire system. Plus, like practically everyone else in the Terran Confederation, he harbored a strange fascination for this unincorporated man. That Sean would ultimately be responsible for causing Mr. Cord an unrelenting amount of pain and suffering he could not possibly know. For now, Sean just stared transfixed at the holodisplay as the story of Justin Cord’s mea culpa unfolded.

There in the holodisplay Justin Cord had spoken an elemental truth. Sean was convinced to the core of his being that this truth was being spoken to Sean, and Sean alone. This truth was ringing clear. So clear, in fact, that a smile appeared on a face that seemed to have been missing one for years. Sean leaned back in his chair and began repeating a mantra that would haunt the corporate world’s upper echelons—and society itself—for years.

“One free man,” he whispered to himself, “one free man… one free man… one free man…”

8 Mardi Gras

Mardi Gra’s a-comin’ and full-on fun awaits you at the rings of Saturn! Don’t miss this year’s rings of ice-refracted laser light show… brought to you by Philip Morris and McDonald’s—proud partners in the terraforming of Titan. The show encompasses an area equal to seventy times the Earth’s surface. Quite simply it’s the biggest show in the solar system. And remember, there’s no bad seat from space!

—FROM AN ADVERTISEMENT HEARD ON
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
,

SYSTEM PRIVATE RADIO (SPR)

J
ustin was sitting in his New York apartment giving serious thought to what he was going to wear. This was normally not a problem, as he usually wore what he wanted. It was the rare occasion that would compel him to put some thought into his ensemble. But this was no ordinary occasion. In a little less than two weeks the entire system, from the solar observation platform to the Oort Cloud to every planet, moon, and orbiting piece of debris big enough to hold a human, was going to party like rich college kids on spring break with their parents’ credit cards.

The few consistent traditions Justin was able to nail down were that Mardi Gras lasted for exactly one week, one could do things during Mardi Gras that would not be mentioned or held against them for the rest of the year, and that what one wore at the start of the festivities should be worn for the entire week. In what little time Justin did find to read, he’d learned about how some people would take weeks off prior to “the week” to not only grow new body parts, but also to learn how to use them—whatever that meant. Apparently, full bodmods—with rare exception—were the rage almost exclusively with those with self-majority. Body nano of so invasive a nature usually took time to generate, and once in place usually took the customer of that transformation a good week to acclimate to—you had to have money, and lots of it, to afford that kind of time and technology. But from the reviews he’d read by “satisfied clients,” the money spent and time preparing was well worth the week of stares they’d receive once the party got going. In looking at some of the modifications available, Justin realized that he could have done pretty much whatever he might imagine—from growing dinosaur skin to adding extra working appendages. In his brief review of the more “popular” getups, he was so taken aback by what he saw that he could only liken the advertised bodmods to creatures out of the more radical sci-fi films he remembered from his past.

Justin had decided almost immediately that, though he could afford it, a bodmod was not in the cards for him. Getting used to his new, “younger” skin was hard enough; the last thing he wanted to do was switch into another one. So that left him thinking about what type of “typical” costume he might choose for himself. Normally, this was the sort of question he’d bring to Neela, but for some reason she wasn’t available—except by handphone. She’d told him that she’d had to take care of some sort of personal issue, and that she’d meet up with him at their hotel in New Orleans. He knew better than to argue, and so had managed to while away the time, not thinking about what to wear until it was almost too late. So now Justin was left with Dr. Gillette to help him sort out his fashion quandary. He found the good doctor sitting in the kitchen having breakfast and reading a hard-copy newspaper. Thaddeus heard Justin enter, looked up at his patient, and smiled.

“Justin, my boy,” said the doctor, “I must thank you for your advice concerning printing out the paper… on paper, which is where, I guess, they got the name in the first place.”

Justin chuckled and removed a bowl from the cabinet. He grabbed a bag of cereal from the pantry that tasted enough like peanut butter Cap’n Crunch as to make no real difference. He’d forever pat himself on the back for including freeze-dried boxes of his favorite cereals in the chamber where he’d been found. It was a simple matter for the nanobots to figure out the exact amounts of each ingredient to replicate the flavors and textures of the foods he’d brought along for the journey.

“I’m glad you like the paper, Doc,” he said, sitting across from his friend and confidant. He offered the doctor some of his cereal. “Cap’n Crunch?”

The doctor shook his head. “I prefer my food to move, thanks.” Justin still couldn’t get used to “moving” food, which was popular. It wasn’t that the food was alive; it was just… animated. Oh, he’d tried it, and hadn’t found the experience unpleasant. For example, he had a type of oatmeal that swirled around in his mouth of its own volition, managing to excite tastebuds on the back of his tongue he never knew existed. That was followed by the sensation of the food “moving” down the throat almost as if scratching an itch he never knew he had. Which was also, surprisingly, not an unpleasant sensation. It would just take some time to get used to. In the meantime, he had his Cap’n Crunch, his Quaker Oatmeal Squares, and his low-fat granola. Quite backward by the social standards; however, comforting by his.

Dr. Gillette turned a page to follow an article. “At first,” the doctor continued, “this paper-turning thing seemed like a totally archaic and useless tradition. I mean, why have a paper printed when you can just have it read to you or read it from a DijAssist? But after a couple of mornings of experimenting—purely as a matter of research, I can assure you,” he said, almost as an apology, “well, I must admit that I’m finding myself positively addicted.”

“It can grow on you,” answered Justin, taking pleasure in his recently bestowed if not antiquated gift. Then, “Tell me, Doc, do you happen to know where Neela is?”

“Depends,” he answered, with an arched eyebrow.

“On what?”

“On why you need her.”

“Why,” asked Justin, “should that make one iota of a difference?”

“Because if you need to ask her a clinical question, then I’ll need to be insulted.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then,” smiled the doctor, “I won’t be insulted; that is, I’ll be concerned.”

“Ahh. No, it’s not clinical, it’s, well… um… a fashion thing.”

“I see,” Thaddeus responded, with a jovial grin. “In that case I don’t know where Dr. Harper is.”

“Dr. Harper? So formal, Thaddeus?”

“For you, yes. Or, at least, it should be. And just in case I haven’t reminded you enough,” he said, while wrestling spastically with the unbound newspaper, “no good can come of a patient and a reanimationist having anything other than a professional relationship.”

Justin began to protest, but Dr. Gillette waved him off. “Ever since you two came back from the museum things have changed.” He tossed the paper aside in disgust, muttering something under his breath about “newfangled” devices.

“Nonsense, Doctor,” answered Justin, managing to get a word in edgewise. He used his best game face, making sure he had direct eye contact. The good doctor wasn’t buying.

“Oh please, Justin,” answered Thaddeus. “I’m old enough, and certainly expert enough, to know when a man is infatuated—you—but until the VRM that infatuation was not returned—by her.”

“VRM?”

“Virtual Reality Museum,” answered the doctor tersely.

“Hey, Doc, I can assure you…”

“You can assure me of nothing, Justin. It’s all the little things I’ve noticed. Like her overconcern for you. She’d chalk it up to being especially sensitive toward your needs, probably say something about ‘post-VRM syndrome.’ But you and I know better, don’t we?” The doctor didn’t wait for a reply. “Or how you wait for each other before eating at the table. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve both begun to finish each other’s sentences.”

“Doc,” parried Justin, “I think you’re overreacting. I can assure you…” He paused, waiting for the interruption. There was none forthcoming. Thaddeus was waiting to be convinced. “I can assure you,” repeated Justin, “that we’re just friends.”

“All that I’ve just described,” answered Thaddeus, “are the beginnings of the strongest possible relationship. Of that I can
assure
you.” He then somehow managed to reassemble the discarded newspaper and buried his head among the columns. “And I have absolutely no fashion sense,” he answered dismissively, almost as if his accusatory exchange had never taken place.

Justin pondered the conversation as he dived into his bowl of cereal, grabbing the sports page from the discarded pile in the middle of the table. He perused the headlines. It seemed that the Mars Rangers had beaten the crap out of the Titan Warriors in a game called rocketball. From what Justin could ascertain, the object of the game was to wipe out as many of the opposing team members as possible while trying to advance the ball in ten-kilometer stretches. The only game that seemed to have survived intact was soccer, and Justin had never been a big fan of the game. A die-hard football fan, for sure, but soccer was a game that never appealed. The closest thing he found to football involved variable gravity fields and body armor; however, none of the teams, stats, or players made much sense to him.
Time for that later
, he thought. There was also, per Justin’s request, a comics page, but its presence on the table was for naught. Justin had tried to get sebastian to convert the short, animated, three-dimensional holographic presentations that were the comics of the day into the two-dimensional panels Justin had been used to—to no avail.

Either, figured Justin, the new medium was not meant to be expressed in the old form, or he was too out of touch to understand modern humor. He hadn’t understood what passed for humor in his day, preferring old episodes of
I Love Lucy
to the mostly vapid sitcoms that came later. He also had to get used to the fact that what he once thought of as the business section was here called “the front page”—which made perfect sense given the society he found himself in.

Justin polished off his bowl and moved it aside.

“Why,” he asked Dr. Gillette—off topic, “do you say that Neela’s not really my reanimationist anymore?”

The doctor looked up from behind the science section of the paper.

“You mean, besides the fact that
I’m
your official reanimationist now, and that Dr. Harper works for me?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, then, you and Dr. Harper,” he answered, “have become closer than what would be considered the norm for a client and doctor. To be frank, it interferes with the professional relationship. Of course, in retrospect, it’s not that surprising, is it? You’re a famous, handsome, and mysterious man. She’s an intelligent, compassionate, and not unattractive woman.” The doctor considered then rejected the idea of bringing up the fact that Neela had metaphorically given birth to Justin—being the first female he saw after reanimation. While that attraction was well documented as a psychological norm, in this case, decided Thaddeus, there were so many other variables at play as to render the phenomena statistically insignificant.

“So, I’m guessing this kind of thing must happen all the time,” offered Justin, looking a little disappointed.

“Almost never, and certainly never like this—that is, with the deep emotional bonds,” answered the doctor, putting his paper down—this time neatly folded—on the table.

“Justin, you and your situation are unique. The truth of the matter is that Neela is far more than your friend, which given your circumstance is probably more critical to your emotional well-being than a reanimation specialist. But it is not usual, and not moral. However, in your case it might be needed. If I thought otherwise I would have had Neela transferred out of here a long time ago. Luckily, officially she’s not your specialist. I’m not saying that you don’t need a specialist… you do. But that, my dear friend,” said Thaddeus, eyebrow raised, “you have in me. Nor am I saying that because she’s not officially your specialist that means she’s open territory. She’s not. Because Dr. Harper woke you, in the eyes of the world she’s still your reanimationist, and therefore still off-limits.”

“So,” Justin answered, “what you’re telling me is that in Dr. Harper I’ve not hired the services of a reanimation specialist but those of a
friend
?”

The doctor nodded.

“You know, Doc,” continued Justin, “we had a word for that in my day.”

The doctor was not amused. “It’s humor like that which will get you and Neela into trouble,” answered Thaddeus, picking up on the crude innuendo. “I wish you’d get sexed already. You do realize that intercourse is readily available in this day and age for no charge. You could have the oldest of women and not have to pay for it. The fact that you don’t makes your infatuation with Dr. Harper all the more obvious.”

“Doctor! I… um, before we discuss my sex life, could you at least tell me how to go about finding Neela? She’s not answering her DijAssist.”

“You mean Dr. Harper.”

“Neela, Dr. Harper, either way, it’s not helping me decide what I’m going to wear to Mardi Gras.”

Dr. Gillette immediately relaxed, and a smile broke out on his face. “My dear boy, why didn’t you say so? Fashion’s one thing that I readily agree I have no business advising on. However, Mardi Gras is quite another matter, and I would be delighted to be of assistance.” Dr. Gillette leaned forward with a convivial grin. “How do you feel about enormously large phalluses?”

Justin sighed.

Sean Doogle of the Majority Party made a surprise and radical announcement this morning from his party’s headquarters in San Francisco. It would appear that, not being satisfied with life on the political fringe, Mr. Doogle is now taking his party out of political reality and into never-never land. In a prepared statement it was announced that the Majority Party was no longer satisfied with granting everyone a majority status within themselves, but that they wished to end the practice of personal incorporation entirely. The party will now be called the “Liberty Party,” in what this journalist supposes is an obscure attempt to link themselves to the Liberty Party of the American pre–Civil War era. That party was made up of individuals who helped to end slavery over four hundred years ago. This party, one supposes, seeks to end civilization as we know it. It is the belief of this site that we shall soon hear the last of the Liberty/Majority Party, and good riddance.