The Unincorporated Man (52 page)

—INTERSYSTEMNEWS
BROADCAST

Rumor has it that Justin Cord has been the target of another assassination attempt. Given Mardi Gras celebrations, hard news is hard to come by, but Justin was apparently rushed to the medical facilities on the Moon. We will keep you informed as we are informed. Remember, don’t drink and fly manually, you owe it to yourself and your shareholders.

—INTERSYSTEMNEWS
BROADCAST

Justin was recuperating quite well after the horrific events of the past few days, and had even had his arm regrown at almost the same time Neela was having her costume degrown. Perhaps the greatest effect of the assassination attempt had been on Neela and Justin’s fledgling relationship. Neela had only meant to sleep with Justin during Mardi Gras. She’d rationalized that it would actually make perfect sense to scratch that itch for the both of them, and then be done with the urge once and for all. And when everyone found out, at least the haze of Mardi Gras might soften the blow for the both of them—even more so when people realized it had only been a onetime Mardi Gras fling. That is, until the moment she almost lost him. The thought of his not being present in her world, of his not being with her at all times, was more frightening than anything she’d ever experienced in her short life.

Nothing mattered now but him. She was with Justin, and they both knew that they’d continue to see each other long after the week of Mardi Gras had ended. They discussed it in detail, and agreed to be discreet, but also both agreed that at some point the system would have to accept Justin and Neela as a couple.

Justin found himself sitting in the kitchen of the McKenzies, reading his morning paper when the now very much human Neela entered wearing only a bathrobe and a smile. He’d forgotten how energizing smiles could be until he started seeing them on Neela. It wasn’t so much that hers was better or worse than anyone else’s. And like his first wife once had, Neela was smiling
because
of him, and that made all the difference in the worlds. The walls he’d so carefully built were finally coming down, and that, too, he’d decided, was good.

The tender moment was broken when Omad and an unfamiliar woman entered and sat down. Neela, who was still leaning against the kitchen door frame, gave Omad an exasperated yet forgiving look. Omad, she realized, would forever be Omad. She took her place near but not next to Justin at the large kitchen table after pouring herself a cup of coffee. Mosh came in next with Eleanor. From the happy yet exhausted look on their faces one would have been hard-pressed to believe the still frisky couple had been married for nearly four decades. They were followed soon after by Dr. Gillette sans his enormous phallus, at least if the bathrobe was any indication. Thaddeus had spent all of Mardi Gras at an orgy, and only in the great festival’s waning hours had he been made aware of what had happened to his most famous client. A few days in the hospital was enough for the doctor to realize what had transpired between his protégé and patient. He was smart enough to realize that if he tried to change their minds he’d probably be looking for a new job. His only hope now was to ameliorate what he thought of as “the damage” by working at it from the inside.

Omad chose that moment to introduce his date. “Hey, everyone this is… er…” He looked toward the woman who he’d just spent the night with for help.

“Agnes,” she answered. She had, noticed Justin, the all too familiar look of a groupie too shy to say a word yet clearly awed by the celebrity. “I mean,” she managed to stutter, “when I met Omad I had no idea he was
that
Omad… . I mean, he told me that he was, but you know how many Omads there are out there during Mardi Gras?”

“Indeed,” answered Mosh. “I still can’t believe he licensed his face.”

Neela snickered. “I can.”

“Hey,” Omad answered, “it was only for a week, and a guy’s gotta make a living.”

Justin turned toward Agnes. “Please… continue.”

Agnes shrugged. “Still, he seemed like a nice guy, and it
was
the last night of Mardi Gras, so I figured, why not? And now, Damsah’s ghost, you’re all here. It’s like in one of those super vids off the Neuro. I mean, I’m only a penny and live in a dump, but you,” she said, looking directly at Mosh and Eleanor, “you actually live in a single room.” She proceeded to take in the surroundings again as if still not believing her good fortune.

“I’m sure you have a lovely home as well, Agnes,” said Justin, supportively.

“Nothing much, really, just a five-bedroom Victorian on a quarter acre of land.”

“Nothing much?” asked Justin, perplexed. “Trust me, Agnes, that would be ‘much’ in my day and age!”

“Dude,” said Omad, first looking apologetically over to Agnes, “it’s fixed.”

Everyone else remained silent—almost as if Omad had uttered a dirty word. Justin looked at Neela. She looked at Dr. Gillette, who just looked back at her. She thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “OK, Justin, you know about the luxury t.o.p.s, and you know about the special features of your apartment in New York.”

Justin nodded. “Yeah, they can form shapes and textures as desired. Pretty neat.”

“Very neat and
very
expensive,” continued Neela. “The materials are easy, but the nanos that run the transformation have to be constantly updated and checked. The amount of human labor involved is large for reasons that I don’t really understand. But the social effect is that only the richest can afford to actually live in fluid dwellings. That’s when there came a split between houses that were fixed, partially fixed, partially fluid, and fluid.”

“And on my salary,” continued Agnes, “fixed it is.”

Everyone nodded his or her head.

“If you don’t mind my being so bold, Agnes,” said Justin, “I’m quite curious as to where the rest of your salary goes.”

“Oh, not at all!” she gushed. “Well,” she said, picking at small croissant, “a lot goes into travel and entertainment. Then there are my investment portfolios. I really can’t afford to buy into anyone really profitable, but I might get lucky and hit a shooting star… like Omad.”

Omad smiled. “Actually, Neela’s a much bigger shooting star than anyone in the world right now.”

Dr. Gillette saw the look of confusion on Justin’s face and came to his rescue.

“The poor cannot afford to invest in the profitable,” he answered as if Agnes was not in the room, “or even the potentially profitable. If they could then they wouldn’t be poor. What they
can
do is invest in each other. A few shares of a poor, struggling nobody cost nothing. The theory is, if you invest in enough of them somebody will make it big and you’ll become rich. For reasons, Justin, that you would understand and most of this era would not, these types of people are called ‘penny stocks.’ And those few ‘pennies’ who do, in fact, rise dramatically in value are called ‘shooting stars.’ Mostly because the reason they became valuable had nothing to do with inbred talent… present company excluded, of course. For instance, they were the sole witness of an extraordinary event, or married somebody with greater wealth than theirs. For the most part, shooting stars go down in value and disappear back into the pennies almost as fast as they rose, and hence the name.”

“So you’re telling me,” said Justin, now looking toward Agnes, “that investing in someone like you, a penny, would be like gambling?”

“Oh, more than that, Justin,” answered Agnes. “The penny stocks are a way for everyone to participate in society. When you gamble you get nothing, but when you invest you at least take stock in someone else.

“But, to be perfectly honest,” she continued, as if resigned to her station, “I wouldn’t be a good bet.”

A little while later Justin found himself reading alone in Mosh’s well-stocked library. He put down his book,
The Rise and Fall of the American Republic
, and called up his avatar.

“Yes, Justin.”

“I was thinking about doing something nice for Agnes.”

“Forgive what must be my limited understanding of human interaction. Did you form a closer relationship with Ms. Goldstein than I observed?”

“No,” answered Justin, “I did not.”

“Then why do you wish to do something nice for her?”

“Because,” answered Justin, remembering all the people who’d underestimated him, “I think she
is
a good bet.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered sebastian, “now I understand. What did you have in mind?”

Justin narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “How much stock does she have in herself?”

“In order to find that information out you would need to own at least one share of Miss Goldstein. You have given me and your brokers explicit instructions not to buy a single share of a single person.”

Justin gave it some thought. He was adverse to the prospect of owning a share of anyone because it smacked of slavery, but in this case, he was willing to forgo his dictate—if only temporarily. “Sebastian, is there any requirement as to how long I must own that share?”

“None.”

“Could you please have one of my front operations buy one share of Agnes and get the information, and then sell it?”

“Might I suggest, sir, that you purchase one hundred shares, or at the least ten.”

“Why?”

“Purchasing and selling just one might cause some automatic programs to flag the sale and investigate, for investment or media purposes. However, the buying and selling of a hundred-share lot would not be seen as unusual. Certainly not in the penny stocks.”

“Do it.” After a few minutes Justin had the information he wanted. He was assured by sebastian that Agnes’s stock had then been resold.

“She is indeed a true ‘penny,’ Justin,” said sebastian, “owning just 25 percent of herself. She has spent most of her stock on education, but specialized in a type of fashion that became, for lack of a better word, ‘unfashionable.’ Barring a change in her chosen field, her expertise will, in all likelihood, not be needed. She will have to retrain, and will therefore remain a penny stock for decades, if not centuries.”

Justin’s head tilted slightly. “How long will it be before she can make majority?”

“Statistically averaging based on her age, income, spending bracket, and expenses, and if she continues her frugal ways… one hundred and seven years.”

“How much would it cost me to buy a majority of her stock?”

“You will need to buy 26 percent of her to do that. Given her current portfolio, and taking into account what such a large order would do if purchased at once…”

“Factor in a series of purchases over a year’s time.”

The answer was instantaneous. “Fifteen thousand GCI credits. Or roughly thirty-seven thousand of your U.S. dollars.”

Justin was thunderstruck. A fluid room, he was informed, would cost millions, but a person’s life and freedom cost less than 5 percent of that. And Agnes was just one of billions whose “worth,” at least on paper, was almost worthless.

Two days after meeting the most famous man in the universe—a fact her friends still refused to believe—Agnes Goldstein returned to her house.
It ain’t much to look at
, she sighed,
but it’s home
. She noticed a small white envelope protruding from her door.

An envelope was strange enough; she’d read about them as a means of paper delivery but had never actually touched one. The fact that someone had gone to the trouble to place it in her door was even stranger. She wasn’t sure how to open it, so she tore the end off, trying hard not to destroy the piece of paper inside.

It read:

Agnes
,

I wanted to thank you for helping me understand a little more of this often strange and baffling world I’ve somehow managed to find myself in. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to show my appreciation by giving you a gift… .

Agnes’s heart began to pound.

. . . Over the course of the next year you will be given an additional 20 percent share of your own personal stock. This will bring your self-ownership up to 45 percent.
It is imperative that you do not tell anyone about this gift,
as it will transform you into a shooting star and the stock purchases will not work
.

Once you’re at 45 percent your prospects will be bright indeed. If I may be so bold as to suggest you either work hard for another ten years and achieve majority, or you invest the stock in an education that will give you the standard of living you clearly desire. (Call me crazy, but I still love a Victorian—fixed or not!) Whatever you choose, I hope you make the most of this second chance. I myself have recently been given one and know how wonderful they can be. If you feel this gift to be inappropriate or undesirable, then do nothing. However, if my gift meets with your approval, all you have to do is have your avatar call mine
.

Sincerely
,

Though the letter was unsigned the sender was obvious. She sat down on her front porch and took a deep breath, holding back her tears. She was being thrown a lifeline by a man from another century—and all because she’d been in the right place at the right time. Then she laughed. She’d never once had any real luck, and now she’d just landed the biggest shooting star of her life.

That night Agnes couldn’t sleep, unable to believe her good fortune. Believing, in fact, that perhaps the whole thing had been some cruel hoax being played out by one of the many gotcha shows currently popular on the Neuro. She worked herself into a frenzy, castigating herself for being so gullible, then alternately pinching herself for what she felt in her gut must be real.
I did meet him… it was real…
, she told herself over and over again.

When the next day arrived Agnes Goldstein was told by helena that 2 percent of Agnes’s stock had been added to her portfolio. She reread the letter over and over as tears of happiness filled her eyes. She would make the most of this, somehow.

9 The 5 Percent Solution

Every generation seems to have their unifying “where were you when?” moment. For some it’s a positive, as was the world’s first look at a man walking on the Moon in the twentieth century. For others it’s a negative, as was the destruction of the World Trade Center in New York City on September 11, 2001. For the post–GC millennium it was the first landing on the asteroid belt, and now, for us the pendulum has sadly swung the other way. Everyone will remember the moment. Everyone will know exactly where they were when the unspeakable happened.

—MICHAEL VERITAS, “WHERE WERE YOU?”

THE TERRAN DAILY NEWS

It was only afterward that we went and looked up all his writings. All during Mardi Gras that bastard was telling us exactly what he was planning to do. But who takes the rantings of a madman seriously? Especially during Mardi Gras!

—FROM AN ON-THE-STREET INTERVIEW WITH DETECTIVE LOGANOF THE BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, POLICE DEPARTMENT

SYSTEM PRESIDENT MILDRED TURNER MURDERED!

ATTEMPT MADE ON THE LIFE OF THE GCI CHAIRMAN!

LIBERTY PARTY HEAD, SEAN DOOGLE:

“YOU TRIED TO KILL THE ONE FREE MAN.”

—HEADLINES ONE HOUR AFTER THE EVENTS

In an unexpected turn of events, the Fifth Appellate Court ruled in favor of the plaintiffs in the case of the shareholders of
Mildred Turner versus Sean Doogle Incorporated
. Sean Doogle has been stripped of all but 25 percent of his portfolio, and that remaining 25 percent is in a trust to be run by his parents until Mr. Doogle’s legal status is finalized. The only reason the plaintiffs won the case was because Sean Doogle sent the court ironclad proof of his culpability in the crime. Without that proof no court would have taken so drastic an action against a man not present to defend himself.

—NEURO COURT NEWS

N
eela perused the last line of another narticle she’d been reading. She wasn’t even sure why she bothered. They all pretty much ended the same way:
One free man, one free man, one free man
. She put down the paper and looked across the kitchen table in the New York apartment she now considered hers as much as his.

“One free man, my ass,” Neela groused. “If they could only see the way you’ve been forced to live, holed up like some kind of animal, unable to leave your apartment.”

Justin sighed. “Yeah, it’s what they were shouting in New Orleans the night I broke my chains. Do you think my little stunt on the balcony had anything to do with this?”

“No!
” Neela shouted, and then lowered her voice. “No, I don’t believe that, Justin. These are the actions of a lunatic. Your choice of Mardi Gras costume would not have made a difference. Besides, news reports showed some people were shouting that phrase before you appeared on the balcony.”

Justin managed a tepid smile and took Neela’s hands into his.

“You’re probably right. But I keep asking myself the same question over and over again… do you think this would have happened if I hadn’t woken up?”

She smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Stupid question. Sorry,” was all he could think to say, and went back to staring into his cup of lukewarm coffee.

“Two more attacks this week!” Kirk tossed some info crystals onto the long table for effect. He waited for them to finish their slide before continuing to speak. “This is all Justin Cord’s fault!” His voice boomed off the high ceiling of the GCI boardroom. And what would have been an invective meant for the ears of the board members only was now also being heard by a cadre of security personnel and securibots. These well-armed sentries had not only manned the perimeter of the boardroom, they had also manned its interior. And for the first time in living memory, which by most accounts was well over a century, the security was designed to protect people and not just information. The attempt on The Chairman’s life had quickly seen to that.

“Of course it is,” said Legal.

“Brilliant observation,” spat Accounting. “Any other gems of wisdom for the board?”

“Fuck you, Accounting!” Kirk spat back, more pissed at himself for letting her get to him than with what she’d actually said. The fact that Accounting was willing to let her hostility show so openly said volumes about how the power on the GCI board had shifted. But Kirk had seen worse days in his long rise to the top. Not much worse, but worse.
She’ll pay
, he thought.

Accounting remained unperturbed. “And you have a nice day, too.”

“So,” asked Publicity, “what do you propose we do about it?”

Advertising cleared his throat. “Why do anything? We already have enough egg on our face as it is. This whole fiasco is our fault; or at least that’s what the public thinks. I say it’s time to lay low and let someone else deal with it.”

“Like who?” Kirk asked facetiously. “The government?”

The whole board laughed out loud at the ridiculous thought.

Kirk was pleased.
At least I got them to laugh. Now, down the garden path
.

“
We
have to do it,” he intoned. “Even if it’s not our fault, the public thinks it is. And that’s all that matters.”

He saw Publicity nodding his head, sporting a self-satisfied smile.

“Also,” continued Kirk, “we’re GCI. We’ve spent decades building the public’s trust. It’s how we got to be the most powerful organization in history. But if we run and hide, what will the public think then?” He paused for effect. “I’ll tell you what they’ll think. They’ll think we’ve lost our edge. They’ll think we’ve backed down… cowered in the face of a challenge. And how do you think that perception will play on our stock prices, currency rates, and personal value?” Kirk waited to let that last question sink in. “You know the drill, folks, because we’re all the best at playing it. You smell blood, you attack. I can guarantee you that right now our closest competitors are meeting in their boardrooms figuring out a way to remove GCI from the top of the mountain… . I know that’s what I’d be doing.”

“So then back to my question.” It was Publicity. “What do we do about it?”

Kirk looked at Legal.
It’s now or never
, he thought.
Bold moves for bold players
.

“We kill him.”

There was no immediate outcry of protest. Nor was there an immediate show of support. Rather, the board seemed to be considering it.
Good, at least they’re in neutral… neutral I can work with
. He saw Accounting squirm.
Spoke too soon, did we… bitch?

“And what will killing him solve?” asked Accounting, almost as if on cue.

Kirk rose from his seat and put both of his fists on the table. “Justin Cord is an unincorporated man in an incorporated world. He has shown no desire to participate in our way of life, and as such will continue to be a rallying point for every terrorist crackpot out there. Doogle’s just the tip of the iceberg, folks. We need to remove that threat now, and the only way we do that is to kill him. GCI will, of course, be ‘shocked’ at his death.”

Kirk sat down in his chair, pleased. Not a single protest. If his motion carried he’d hold on to his position and, even better, rid Accounting of hers.

“May I speak to the board?” asked Hektor from his chair near the door. As a special adviser he was not allowed to speak without request or permission, but was accorded the honor of being in the room while the board met. This was correctly viewed by many in the press to be a stepping stone to the board of GCI itself. At times there could be as many as four special advisers to the board or, conversely, none. At this time Hektor was the sole adviser.

Kirk shifted uneasily at the challenge. “I move that the special adviser
not
be allowed to speak.” Though he stared hard at his supposed allies, no one seconded his motion.

Accounting, seeing a break in the clouds, did not hesitate. “I move that Mr. Sambianco be allowed to speak.”

“I second,” said Legal. No one on the board was surprised. Accounting had formed a new alliance, and it was well known that Legal was no friend of Kirk Olmstead. What was surprising, especially to Kirk, was that the rest of the board voted for Accounting’s motion.

“Motion carried,” Kirk grudgingly agreed. “Mr. Sambianco, you have the floor.”

I so owe that lady
, Hektor thought, as he stood up to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen of the board, V.P. of Special Operations is correct in that Justin Cord and his pathological hatred of incorporation is the center of the crisis. But killing him would be the worst possible thing that you could do. Besides, Kirk,” said Hektor, steely grin forming at the tips of his mouth, “you already tried that and failed.”

Kirk’s face turned red. “How dare you!”

Now it was Hektor’s turn to toss his crystals on the table. “It’s all there, Kirk. You’re not the only one who’s been keeping tabs on people.”

No one dared reach for the crystals. The group preferred instead to wait for the gunfight to be over, the bodies to fall, and then hopefully side with the last man standing. “In fact,” continued Hektor, ignoring Kirk’s outburst, “I would recommend to the board that an extra protection unit be assigned to Mr. Cord. You see, it’s a matter of sparks and kindling. No social system is perfect. It’s just that ours has worked so well and for so long that we’ve forgotten that salient fact. If you look back at history you’ll see that every system breeds resentment. Ours has just been very good at providing for everyone’s needs and wants. Even better, it’s succeeded in getting the troublemakers into positions of power and authority… present company included.”

The board chuckled at his self-mockery.

“After all, it’s very profitable to do that. But, let’s face it, folks, it’s been centuries since we’ve had any serious trouble, and in that time resentment has very quietly grown. But it’s grown so slowly, and in such a small percentage of the population, that no one noticed. We’ve all been having a grand old time, haven’t we? And guess what? It still wouldn’t have been a problem without Justin Cord. We all would’ve gone about our business and watched our stock rise. You see, the discontented forgot that they were discontented. Which brings us to Sean Doogle. Sean Doogle not only has majority, but spoiled child that he is, he doesn’t care that he does, and so launches his movement. And now our terrifying Mr. Doogle has a most effective weapon at his disposal—and that weapon is Cord. What does Doogle shout out on every broadcast? What do his followers say to each other? What message is left after each attack? ‘One free man.’ Don’t kid yourselves, people, they’re not talking about Justin. They’re talking about themselves. They view themselves through Justin as unincorporated, and to them that means ‘free.’ ”

“But that’s crazy,” said Advertising. “That sort of thinking will lead us right back to a Grand Collapse.”

“That ‘sort of thinking,’ ladies and gentlemen of the board,” said Hektor, “is Justin Cord’s sort of thinking. He believes it so passionately and so completely that he’s somehow managed to ignite that belief in Sean Doogle, and in turn this Doogle has ignited it in others.”

“Mr. Sambianco,” interjected Legal, “if you believe this, why not follow DepDir’s suggestion of simply killing Mr. Cord and,” she added, with the implicit desire to show she’d chosen sides, “doing a better job of it?”

The pin had dropped. Eyes shifted. Still, no one uttered a word.

“It would,” continued Legal, “be like destroying a lighter after a child has lit an accidental fire. The fire will still burn, but without the lighter no more fires will get started.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Kirk.

“Not quite,” answered Hektor, cutting off the DepDir. “It’s been a long time since anyone has had to deal with an underground movement, but please trust me when I tell you, the last thing anyone wants is for Justin Cord to be killed. He’ll become a martyr to the cause of unincorporation. To respond to Legal’s analogy, Justin is not a lighter but a fully loaded flamethrower. If he’s destroyed, like a flamethrower he’ll cause far more damage than if left alone. In short, it is my humble opinion that he be isolated and, hopefully, as a result be made less volatile.”

“So how do you ‘humbly’ propose,” Kirk asked, “to make this supremely dangerous man
less
dangerous?”

Hektor smiled inwardly.
Gotcha
. “We have to make him incorporate.”

“We tried that and failed,” snapped Kirk.

“No, sir,
you
tried that and failed,” he said, not bothering to mask his contempt. “Now we’ll have to get some help from a different source to neutralize Justin Cord.”

“How about his girlfriend?” suggested Legal. “She could be pressured; we do have majority control of her stock.”

“Only as a last resort,” answer Hektor. “No, I think we should turn to the one place no one turns to anymore.” Hektor waited until they were all leaning forward in their seats.

“The government.”

Kirk was about to lay into Hektor when the whole room noticed that the red light in the table’s center had come on. Only one voice was heard, but everyone was instantly at attention.

“Mr. Sambianco, Mr. Olmstead, will you please come up to my office?” The voice cut out. But everyone understood the implications of The Chairman addressing Hektor first and, more specifically, not using Kirk Olmstead’s given title. After the two men exited the room, Accounting called for a vote to be sent to The Chairman calling for Kirk Olmstead’s removal from the board. It was seconded, passed, and sent to The Chairman before Hektor and Kirk cleared the new security procedures. They did not dare to suggest a replacement, but most of the board already had “buy” orders on whatever was left of Hektor Sambianco’s stock.

The One Free Man has shown us the way. We are not free. The moment we are born we lose 25 percent of all that we will ever make. By the time most of us can make meaningful choices about the course of our lives we are lucky to have majority. Most of us don’t even have that. By that time we are brainwashed by a lifetime of programming that we need to sell more of our invaluable freedom for training, education, advancement, and meaningless, superficial toys. We are told what jobs to work and where to live. We are encouraged to marry the persons most economically suited for us—and this is freedom? They say we are free to choose, but how many choices do we have left by the time the incorporated world is done with us? But the One Free Man does not submit, does not surrender. He is free! We, too, can be free! Follow the Liberty Party into Revolution. Follow the One Free Man!