The Unincorporated Man (16 page)

The flyer finally came to a soft landing on a street named Via de Panzani. And there, nestled comfortably amid the late-afternoon hubbub, was the restaurant, Sabatini’s. Neela and Justin got out of the flyer, walked a few yards, and took a seat on the outside patio. Within thirty seconds an impeccably dressed human waiter appeared at the table.

“He’ll have the…”

“Pizza,” Justin finished. “Pepperoni pizza… with extra cheese.”

“Pizza?” exclaimed Neela. “You’re in one of the most expensive restaurants in Florence and you’re ordering pizza?”

“Yes,” he said with a self-satisfied look on his face. “I’ve just had this intense hankering for pizza.”

“We could have had that in Boulder.”

“True, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun getting it,” he answered, in jest.

“Fine,” she said, resigned, “he’ll have… pizza.”

Neela ordered the house special and a bottle of Chianti as Justin took a piece of bread from the basket placed on the table.

Neela almost laughed at the seriousness with which Justin buttered, then savored, each bite of his appetizer.

“Tell you what,” she said. “You eat. I’ll talk.”

“Fine with me.”

“OK. I know this’ll sound simplistic, but how would you define money?”

“Easy,” he answered. “It’s a placeholder of value.”

“Good answer. What does that mean?”

“Neela. Please. Do we really have to do this? I’m pretty well versed in economics.”

Neela clapped her hands.

“Bravo, Justin. Bravo. You have a prink… I mean, preincorporation understanding of economics from three hundred years ago. Imagine if someone showed up with, say, an MBA from three hundred years prior to your day and age thinking he knew it all—so if you don’t mind…”

“Duly chastised,” answered Justin. “The answer to your question is this—having a placeholder means I have something you want. You don’t have what I want. Say a shirt for…” He held up what was left of the loaf on the table. “. . . some loaves of bread. If I don’t want any bread you’re not getting my shirt. But with money we agree that the value of the bread, the shirt, the orange, somebody’s labor is represented by whatever we agree on. It used to be gold and silver and moved to currency. In my era it was being replaced by electronic placeholders.”

“Good. And if you don’t mind my asking, where’d you learn the basics?”

“I grew up poor, and through hard work, perseverance, and a little bit of luck managed to become wealthy. At some point I wanted to know all about this thing called ‘money’ that I had managed to make so much of. So I hired an economist who spoke plain English, and she managed to get some stuff through. And that’s when I finally realized what money was and what it was based on.”

“Blind faith,” she answered.

“Exactly, Neela. Faith,” he confirmed. “The certainty that I could take a green piece of paper with some dead president’s face on it, turn around, and give it to someone else, who’d give me what I wanted.” The waiter brought over a large pepperoni pizza, sliced it with a pizza cutter, and disappeared back into the restaurant. “Like this pizza,” Justin said, savoring the smell.

“Except that we no longer use paper,” Neela corrected.

“Right.”

Justin took a bite of the pizza, and about a second later frowned.

“What’s the matter?” asked Neela.

A wan smile appeared on Justin’s face. “I was hoping that after three hundred years Italy would have learned how to make a decent pizza.”

“Didn’t they invent the stuff?” asked Neela.

“Common error. It was invented in New York. Some say Baltimore; others, Philadelphia.”

“Who knew?” Neela said, with a shrug.

“So now, Justin,” she continued, “let me ask you another question.”

“Shoot.”

“Given what you know about government currency, why would corporate currency bother you?”

“Corporations are profit-driven organizations that only…”

“. . . that only want profit,” Neela finished. “And that’s why, if you think about it, they’re so much better at running currencies. They won’t devalue currencies to make a political party happy. They won’t unilaterally print more money to make people think they have more money or temporarily affect a balance of trade.”

“You’re talking about inflation.”

“Yes, I am, and correct me if I’m wrong, but your rates of inflation bordered on the chaotic.”

“You’re not wrong, Neela,” he answered.

“Corporations,” continued Neela, “will also ruthlessly hunt down counterfeiters and embezzlers. And they’ll make sure you’ll use
their
money over the competition’s by giving you added-value services. For instance, American Express can be used in any city in the solar system, in any personal transactions, and they’re even willing to guarantee all passages bought with American Express credits.”

“All well and good, Neela,” answered Justin, “but the dollar was a strong and respected currency. Not only that, it was global, stable, and rigorously controlled.”

“I agree that the U.S. dollar was remarkably like a corporate currency around the turn of the millennium. The, what was it, the Federal…?”

“The Federal Reserve.”

“Thank you, the Federal Reserve acted very much like a corporation for its day. It protected and didn’t expand the money supply, and was ruthless in its counterfeit defenses. But Justin, it was still a government in the end.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that politics getting in the way of money, not a corporation, brought on the Grand Collapse.”

“Details, please.”

“Some politicians came along and promised something for nothing at the beginning of the Grand Collapse, and decided that the best way to deliver on the promise was to devalue and then print the money. It’s true—and well documented, I might add—that in many ways the VR plague was the immediate problem. But they made a bad situation far worse by somehow managing to destroy the currency and the economy of the greatest nation-state in history. By the time it was all over, the corporations were the only organizations left that were capable of providing services.”

“But what if one of your corporate currencies does the same thing?”

“Justin, the dollar was by law the only currency you could use in the United States. Does this monopoly sound like a good idea, ever? We have forty-seven major currencies, all of them backed by insurance, and if someone does something stupid consumers are more than free to use the other forty-six. It’s not as if I keep all my credits with one company, though most are with GCI. When your government screwed up your dollar, and it was inevitable that it would, your people had no choice but to go down with that sinking economic ship. I’m not saying that we haven’t had currency troubles, but the truth is, we’re not trapped by our currencies, we’re freed by them.”

“Fine. I’m beginning to see your point. But what on Earth would you need forty-seven major currencies for? I mean, in my day healthy competition in most products consisted of between three to five major players.”

“Different kind of product, Justin. Look at it this way: If you needed to buy diamonds, what currency would you want?”

“In my day, South African.”

“Timber?”

“American or Russian.”

“High-tech?”

“Japanese or Korean, though the Israelis were moving up.”

“And all around?”

“The good old U.S. of A. dollar.”

“Our corporations do the same thing. Different companies specialize in different things, just like different countries used to. Only back in ‘your day’ those countries would use their currencies for political ends, which almost always hurts the currencies and the people who were supposed to be helped. Today currencies are used strictly for their economic need, and the middleman is out of the picture. If for whatever reason the demand for copper goes up, the commodities currencies become more valuable, and their value rises relative to other currencies, to the exact amount of the new demand. There’s no static.”

“Static?” asked Justin.

“You know, like when your government used to overprint money. What would happen was, people would go out and buy more ‘stuff.’ The makers of that stuff thought that there was a new demand, when, in fact, that wasn’t the case. There was just more money. They weren’t getting a real read of market demand; they were feeling, without knowing it, the effects of the overprinting of money. Hence, static.”

“Got it.”

“Anyhow,” continued Neela, “everyone understands the economic reality and can therefore plan for it. And it’s why something as important as the running of an economy shouldn’t be left to a politically motivated institution.”

“There’s a certain amount of logic to what you’re saying,” admitted Justin. “But what about the euro? That was a group of governments getting together to start a currency, and before I was frozen I recall that currency doing well… better than the dollar, in fact.”

“You only saw the first couple of years,” she answered. “Then it started acting like every other politically based currency. Since it was bigger, the ramifications were worse.”

“You’re referring, I presume, to the Grand Collapse.”

“By Jove, I think he’s got it,” Neela sang.

Justin smiled. Yet another phrase he’d remembered from his past was still very much alive and kicking. He was finding some ironic solace in this.

“So,” he said, finishing off his last slice of pizza, “am I to gather that GCI’s currency is the ‘dollar’ of today?”

“Correct,” Neela answered.

“GCI,” sighed Justin. “That’s Hektor’s outfit.”

“Mine, too,” said Neela. She sounded apologetic.

“Excuse me,” Justin said to Neela, as he perused a list of topics he’d written down on his DijAssist. He scanned the list and then looked up. “What is this SCV?”

“It’s an amalgamation of all currencies,” she answered, “both major and minor, updated via the Neuro on an hourly basis. It’s systemwide, so everyone can have an idea of how much things cost. But there’s no actual currency called an SCV. It’s just a benchmark.”

“Let me guess,” said Justin. “GCI’s credits are always higher than the SCV, and it’s the most important currency in the solar system.”

Neela was impressed. “How’d you figure that one out?”

“Not hard, really. I remembered that the prices in the pawnshop and now on this menu have GCI’s currency next to the SCV.”

With something as simple as a sales tag and menu listing, Neela realized, Justin had somehow come up with a keen insight into her world. Her lesson plan was shrinking by the minute.

“I’m waiting for you to ask your question,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

“Which question?”

“The one that’s purely for personal pleasure and curiosity. And if I’m guessing correctly, the one you’d feel a little guilty even wanting to ask.”

Neela looked at him open-mouthed, in shock. He’d described her feelings exactly. He was correct in that she did want to ask him questions of a more personal nature, i.e., questions not necessarily associated with his adaptation to society. However, he was incorrect in that she never would have broached the subject. But now he’d given her permission, and she had to assess whether or not, even under that circumstance, it was acceptable to pursue.

“How did you…?”

“I am,” he said, then corrected himself, “or
was,
a very good businessman, Neela. Reading people is not only useful but vital at the level of finance I worked at.”

“What kind of numbers are we talking about here?” Neela asked.

“Oh, come now, Neela. That’s not what you want to know.”

I guess I’ll just apply the “nothing’s going according to plan” rule,
she lamented to herself.

“OK, Justin,” she responded, “who are you… really?”

4 Fame

I
rma Sobbelgé was seventeen when she got her first share of a truly valuable stock. Not that those of her parents, brothers, and sisters weren’t valuable, it was just that their value was based more in the realm of psychology than economy. The reasoning was simple and straightforward—owning shares of a sibling made one think twice about doing any undue damage, both physically and emotionally, to that sibling. In fact, Irma was convinced that had she not gotten shares of her baby brother early on, the little bastard wouldn’t have made it to puberty. And given how well not only her family, but most families in general, performed, she considered it borderline miraculous how
anyone
at all managed to survive and function before the incorporation movement. She rightly felt that the gaining of her first-ever shares was an indelible rite of passage—up there in importance with the loss of her virginity (a good memory) or the field trip to the Museum of the Virtual Reality (a horrifying one). For Irma, gaining those shares was the start of a process that connected her to society more intimately and securely than anyone had ever been connected before. Because that connection, unlike at any other time in history, was made through the powerful and subtle bonds of the world’s most cohesive unifier—self-interest. And it was in the spirit of that self-interest that Irma managed to happen upon a very valuable share.

When she was seventeen she had a relationship with a boy from a wealthy family. The boy thought he was a man and she was young enough to believe him. He was also anxious to get into Irma’s pants, and in the spirit of self-interest gave her the share. As he was fond of grand gestures, that single share just so happened to belong to the newly appointed chairman of a powerful, up-and-coming corporation by the name of GCI. If only the boy had known that a simple “wanna do it?” would have sufficed, he might not have forked over so valuable a commodity. But both he and Irma were “in love,” and neither had any idea just how valuable and useful a gift that share would turn out to be. Irma felt, as the gesture was intended, that giving it represented an act of pure and undying love. However, when that undying love managed to do just that some six months later, a person broker, “perker” for short, contacted her, representing the family. It seemed the perker was interested in buying back that single stock
and
at market value. Even then the stock would have brought a considerable amount of money but, against the universal advice of her family, Irma decided to hold on to it—a prescient move indeed. Because it turned out that
that
chairman ended up becoming The Chairman. Not only the most famous and reclusive individual in the solar system, but also the man responsible for making GCI the most powerful corporation in human history. The fact that she owned even one share of his stock made her unique among her peers, like someone lucky enough to have inherited a rare work of art made a person of standing unique among theirs.

As Irma got older she discovered that, unlike with other celebrities, politicians, and people of that ilk, there were almost no shares of The Chairman lying around. Plenty of offers to buy, but hardly ever any for sale. And even when that exceedingly rare occurrence did take place, the going price was so stratospheric it almost always made the headlines.

What was odd about The Chairman’s lack of shares was that it was contrary to the norm. Famous people, politicians and celebrities especially, went out of their way to subdivide their stock into minuscule percentages to be given away as shares to as many people as possible. It seemed, recalled Irma, that at every election she would get a complimentary share of at least a dozen politicians in the mail with the some old hackneyed line: “Vote for the candidate you have a stake in.” Irma would routinely send those freebies to her perker for immediate sale. If she were lucky, the lot of them would bring in enough money to pay a utility bill.

But The Chairman’s share was clearly different. In many ways that single share determined much of her life. Her investigation into his world led to her present career of journalism, which had led to husband number two—a journalism professor. Husband number two, besides having the gift of charm, also had something rare—a single share of The Chairman that he, too, got at an early age and was smart enough to hold on to. The fact that her second husband had the same power to fascinate made him seem more intriguing than he actually was. Unfortunately, she realized that bit of information a little too late, discovering to her dismay after the marriage that all he really was, was a jerk with some smooth lines, a pretentious ego, and one share of The Chairman. Well, the jerk and his share were soon to be parted.

Cornelius loved his job. It was true he only had one client, but he only needed one—given who that “one” was. He hadn’t started out that way. He used to be a regular, run-of-the-mill perker. He may have known that the job was a combination of the words “person” and “stockbroker” or he may not have, but he knew his job. People were a perker’s stock-in-trade, and Cornelius knew people very well—in fact, he saw himself more as a gossip reporter than as an accountant. He knew perkers who made a living at high-end, exclusive parties, and others who did very well never leaving their cubicles, hooked into the Neuro following obscure trends. But the rules of his trade hadn’t changed that much since its first recorded transaction in Mesopotamia over four thousand years ago. Buy low, sell high.

Life was going pretty much according to plan until one deal changed it all. There were three shares of Chairman stock that had become available due to an inheritance. Though they weren’t Cornelius’s clients, he did some research and found out that the heirs were going to sell the stocks to The Chairman directly, for a hefty profit—enough, in fact, to make the bickering family members civil to each other for the first time in months.

Cornelius knew that Chairman stock, let alone three shares of it, did not become available all that often. So he searched all the accumulated financial records and found what he was looking for. Apparently, the now deceased titleholder had once, in a third-party deal, put his Chairman stocks up as collateral. And, as part of that deal, a “first rights option to buy” clause was included. It allowed the third party the right to buy The Chairman’s stock first, and at a previously agreed-to price, should the stock ever be put up for sale. Cornelius realized that the inheriting family was not going to inform the third party about the impending sale, either because they didn’t want to or, more likely, because they were unaware of it.

So he made a call.

After the third party’s money manager got over the fact that he’d dropped the ball, he was happy to include Cornelius in the deal. After all, Cornelius had not only prevented him from possibly losing his job, he would manage to make the third party’s family significantly richer. In the end, the original inheriting family was forced to sell, and then went back to squabbling with each other, all cursing the fact that their father had once again screwed them all. Cornelius got his usual commission, which in that case turned out to be a small fortune.

The day after the deal was closed he got an anonymous call. He was offered his standard deal and a twenty-thousand-credit bonus if he could find a way to buy another share of Chairman stock. There was, however, one catch—the share had to be acquired within the next forty-eight hours.

Cornelius, liking a good challenge, accepted. It wasn’t easy, and it ended up costing the anonymous caller a fortune, but the fact remained that he’d risen to the challenge.

That was how Cornelius was offered and eventually accepted the position as perker for The Chairman. He had only one job. He was to acquire Chairman stock. He could use any means necessary as long as it didn’t break the law’s boundaries—he could push, absolutely, but not break.

He had a huge budget and more money than he wanted. Even when he achieved majority, he still worked. Many of his old colleagues thought he’d sold out. But they were wrong. Each stock was like a brand-new hunt. The same method almost never worked twice. He was more psychologist or big-game hunter than perker. And money was never the answer. Had it been, The Chairman would never have needed him. Money helped, but it was only a tool to get The Chairman one more share. He had only one regret in his job: He did not own a share of Chairman stock for himself. Of all the dozens he had gotten for The Chairman, he turned them all over. And not because he couldn’t afford it. Given the money and resources he had at his disposal he could probably afford two or even three. But in his heart he knew with the certainty of the sun’s arrival that if he ever got one share for himself he would never work for The Chairman again.

So he went about his task and put his one regret firmly out of mind.

His avatar informed him of an incoming call. He noted that it was from one of his LCP groupings. It stood for “lower class prestige” holders. They were without question the hardest group to pry shares from. Because with them it was almost never about the money. They would sooner lose a limb permanently than give up something that made them stand out among the world’s billions and billions of souls. But he never gave up hope. He would make sure that they each got small-but-unique Christmas presents annually, and often would have handwritten cards for each of their birthdays, in the hope that when they needed something more than prestige, they would remember him. He was praying that it was paying off now.

He looked at the name his avatar was displaying.
Ahh, yes,
he thought,
the girlfriend who never budged. Smart lady from a surprisingly young age. This should be interesting.

“Miss Sobbelgé,” he answered, as if taking a call from a dear friend, “I am so very glad to hear from you. How may I be of service?”

Although he could have personalized the greeting with sad noises about her divorce or congratulations on getting her first article sale with an intersystem magazine, he chose to keep it basic. They called when they were ready, and he did not want to sidetrack them or, worse, sidestep into a touchy subject. One of the things he had had to learn about having lots of information was resisting the urge to use it. Again it seemed to be the right thing to do.

Irma got right to business. “I’m willing to sell The Chairman my share,” she said.

“Wonderful. You are about to become a financially well off young woman, the current rate is…”

“Whatever it is will be fine, but I will need one more thing besides the money.”

He smiled inwardly but kept it off his features. “And that would be?”

“Information. To be specific, I need to know how many shares The Chairman owns of himself in a way that can be verified financially. And I need it in two hours.”

Cornelius looked at the seriousness with which Irma was staring at him. He wasn’t being sent on a fool’s errand.

“I’ll get back within the next two hours, and, once more, thank you for the chance to be of service.”

He cut the connection and leaned back in thought, cupping his fingers around his chin. After a moment he got up, went to his wall safe, and opened it. In it were various papers, digicrystals, and objects of great value, all of which he ignored. He reached gingerly for a rarely used and specially modified DijAssist. It was identical in all ways to a normal one but for the codes built in that let him make one special call. He went to his desk and called up all information about Irma Sobbelgé and discovered that she currently did not have title to her share, as it was being held by a Vegas casino. A little more due diligence also let him know that Miss Sobbelgé’s ex-husband’s share was being held by the same casino. It seemed they’d made some sort of wager having to do with his boss—winner take all. Just in case, he looked to see if any more shares were being offered in this gamble. Just the two, he noted.

Once he had as much information as he could gather quickly, and aware of his promise to Miss Sobbelgé, he sent his report with all his findings via special interface to The Chairman. He further sent his recommendation that they approach the ex-husband to leverage both shares out of the deal. In ten minutes he got a return message from The Chairman with the simple instructions to offer Miss Sobbelgé no money, but with the promise that The Chairman would provide the information in a verifiable way.

Better the bird in hand,
thought Cornelius, and began to make his employer’s wishes into reality.

Irma was in a privacy room with her ex-husband and some ditz he’d brought along just to grate on her.
Bastard really wants to make this personal,
thought Irma. She was hoping that her own information had been registered at the casino before the bet was considered closed.

The three of them sat in plush recliners as the hologram of the casino employee appeared before them. He began, “As both parties turned in their responses within two hours of each other it has been ruled that the one with the closer number will be the winner, if they are both within 2 percent. This is as agreed to in the contract signed by both before the bet.”

Irma’s ex turned to her. “Irma, you took a guess. Good for you. Never give up.”

The casino employee continued, “As both answers were extremely close to each other, Professor Warburton will explain his decision and answer all reasonable queries from the parties involved.” The image blended from the casino employee into that of the economics professor they had both agreed to as the neutral judge. Irma had the satisfaction of seeing the first sign of worry from her husband. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected her to be within 10 percentage points of him. This was not how it was supposed to happen.

“Well, I have some good news for one of you,” said Professor Warburton, milking the fact that he had a captive audience. “Well, anyway, congratulations, Irma. I don’t know how you managed it, but you are positively the winner. Sorry, Paul.”

Irma’s ex looked like he’d been hit with a two-by-four. It took ten seconds for him to finally respond. “That’s not possible. I destroyed all my records and kept no copies except for the false ones. There’s no way you could have stolen that information from me!”