The Unincorporated Man (24 page)

Neither she nor Justin had time to realize that they’d just “broken up” before ever getting started because they were interrupted by the sound of the upper hatch exploding outward. The harsher glare of emergency lighting poured through the hole, bathing the interior. Without thinking, Justin leaped forward to protect Neela. Sadly, Neela did the exact same thing—the result of which was a head-on collision.

It took a moment for the stars to clear, but holding their heads in their hands they both managed to look up in time to see Omad peering down. He’d somehow managed to blow the emergency hatch.

“Justin, Doc, good to see you,” he said nonchalantly, teeth glinting in the bright light.

“Omad!” Justin was genuinely pleased, even if still smarting from the head blow. “How on Earth did you get in here?”

“I’d like to know that myself,” Neela said, still rubbing her forehead. The pain was strangely alleviating.

“I had some help from… ,” Omad chose his next words carefully, “an ally.”

A voice could be heard from behind Omad.

“Omad, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Neela squinted upward. “Who is that?”

As Omad began a slow floating descent to where Neela and Justin were standing, the “ally” popped his head through the exposed hole. It was Michael Veritas.

He quickly introduced himself while pulling his body through the opening in the t.o.p. He descended the length of the craft, landing next to Omad. “Nice to meet you,” he said, sizing up both Neela and Justin.

Neela didn’t return the pleasantry and focused her outrage on Omad.

“Omad, what were you thinking bringing someone like
that
in here?” She turned to Michael. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Michael answered, smiling.

Omad didn’t bother with Neela, choosing to appeal to Justin directly.

“Justin, right now you’re the virgin at the orgy. One way or another you’re gonna get screwed, the only question is, will it be by one or dozens?”

Justin started to laugh.

“You have a way with words, my friend. So tell me, is Michael here to be my ravager?”

Wisely, Michael didn’t take the bait, choosing to let Omad finesse the already awkward introduction.

“We have a plan to get you out of here quickly and quietly, but I can’t do it without him.”

“And let me guess,” continued Justin. “The price is, he gets the first ‘screw’?”

“Yeah,” answered Omad, appreciating Justin’s ability to get down to the brass tacks. “That’s pretty much the gist of it.”

“In that case, Omad, I think I’d rather wait and let the authorities settle this. If I’m to be screwed I’d rather choose the ‘screwer’ under different circumstances.” He turned to Michael. “No offense.”

“Again, none taken,” Michael responded. “There is one small problem, though,” he added.

“Yes?” answered Neela.

“If the authorities handle it,” he continued, “which I’m sure they’re discussing right now, you’ll both be taken into
their
custody.” He looked directly at Justin. “And don’t forget, Mr. Cord, you’re undocumented, as we all know your ID is about as real as the furniture in this room. So while the choice is yours, I suggest you take me up on my offer. I’ll get you out of here, and yes, I’ll get the story, but it’ll be your story—that I can promise you. And if integrity’s an issue I have a system Pulitzer to back up my name.” Michael was done. His outer calmness in the face of possibly losing the biggest interview of his career was a sham. His heart was beating so hard he could have sworn the people in the room could hear it.

Justin looked to Neela, who nodded. “Deal,” Justin said. “But on one condition.”

Michael remained poised. “Name it.”

“We want to know how you broke the story.”

“There are some sources I have to protect… .”

“Name or nothing,” said Justin.

It took a nanosecond to give Justin the information he’d soon be able to obtain from the pages of Michael’s own paper. “Hektor Sambianco,” answered Michael, “but he only gave us your picture. We pieced together the rest. I’ll fill you in on the way out. Now, let’s get outta here.” And with that they all began their ascent back up to the emergency hatch.

Michael sat across from Justin Cord with one thought on his mind.
Every reporter in the system wants to be me
. He let that thought sink in, taking a moment to enjoy it. Michael knew he was good at his job, but now everyone else would know. There was no way he could’ve done this without the team, and he would tell anyone willing to listen that the interview was a group effort. But for a moment Michael felt the overwhelming triumph that only true personal accomplishment can bring. The only downside was that Dr. Harper, with Justin’s permission, had insisted on screening Michael’s questions. She’d explained that Justin was still emotionally vulnerable, and that certain hardball questions could jeopardize his psychological state. Michael had agreed to wear kid gloves for this interview, knowing he’d probably have to go through Dr. Harper for a second one. But he put that all aside, along with the memory of the harrowing run along the top of the orport’s launch tubes and the perilous jump through the deactivated atomized security net to get his man to safety. He now concentrated on the person sitting comfortably in front of him. The person who in the course of an hour would change Michael’s life.

Justin found it ironic that he was now back in a room that only hours before he couldn’t wait to escape. And he had to admit that it not only felt good to be back, it also felt safe.

Michael had insisted that Neela and Omad leave the room. After assurances from Justin that he could handle himself, they reluctantly agreed. Justin now turned to Michael, who was sitting somewhat rigidly across from him.

“So,” asked Justin, “tell me about this paper of yours.”

_______

Michael realized that his subject was trying to control the interview. He smiled and played along. “It’s called
The Terran Daily News
and has been in continuous operation for nearly three hundred years. In some ways it’s the world’s oldest continuous paper. It used to be called
The Alaskan Daily News
, which was the product of several pre–Grand Collapse Alaskan papers merging. It’s also the system’s most prestigious paper.”

“Interesting.” Justin absorbed the information and moved on. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said, “but does this ‘paper’ come in actual paper form?”

“As a matter of fact…” Michael pulled out a hard copy from his valise and handed it over.

Justin started flipping through the pages. He was curious to see if the paper would feel like a real newspaper or, like so many other things he’d seen, a poor imitation. One thing was certainly different. He noticed that when he looked directly at an ad or picture it came to life as a three-dimensional holograph. One ad in particular caught his attention. It was an extension of the billboard he’d seen earlier in the day. It was for a transbod, and the ad seemed to be issuing a dire warning about the number of days left until Mardi Gras. He closed the paper and focused his attention back on Michael.

“So it’s called a paper because it’s still a paper?”

“Well, not really,” answered Michael, “I believe in your day you called films ‘films’ even though they were all shot digitally. Our paper’s distributed though the Neuro. Of our 2.7 billion daily readers, less than forty thousand will get a hard copy. But it’s relatively simple to produce, and some people seem to like it.” He pointed at the paper he’d only recently handed over. “I suspected you’d be one of them.”

Michael saw the appreciative look in Justin’s eyes as he flipped through sections of the paper. “It’s kind of like,” continued Michael, “those people who still prefer pocket watches.”

Justin smiled.
I only bought the damned Timex because of the tagline
, he thought. He looked down at his empty wrist, then looked back up with a shrug. “Let’s begin, Mr. Veritas.”

Michael opened with a question he knew would appeal to his readers. “Mr. Cord, are you alone or part of a colony of lost ancients that hid themselves away?”

“I cannot speak for others, but I only had myself frozen. If any survived from my time, I would be pleasantly surprised.”

“Mr. Cord, could you explain what steps you took to preserve your life?”

“I hired a brilliant engineer and gave her an unlimited budget and a clearly defined goal. I find that if you supply those three ingredients, amazing things can happen.”

“And the goal?” asked Michael, more for his readers than any personal need to ask an obvious question.

“You mean, other than to live?” asked Justin.

“Yes, sorry.”

“To create a self-sustaining, perpetual suspension unit.”

This caught Michael by surprise. He did a quick check on his DijAssist and looked up at Justin. “Do you realize, Mr. Cord, that we don’t have anything quite like that today?”

“Yes, Mr. Veritas…”

“Michael.”

“Yes… Michael, your ‘friend’ Omad informed me. But I suspect you don’t have anything like it because you don’t need it.”

“Correct, Mr. Cord. Still, it’s quite a testament.”

“Indeed it is. I’d thank the engineer personally, but unfortunately…”

Michael smiled sympathetically.

“The truth is, for those exceedingly rare cases where suspensions have to be maintained for a duration of years, we have the far-side suspension facility on the Moon. The thinking goes, why develop a technology when it’s so much cheaper to let the frigid nature of the universe do it for you?”

“Funny you should mention that,” answered Justin, smiling wistfully. “Sandra, the engineer who designed the unit, considered that very concept. It was determined that we could send a team of engineers to the Moon and dig a cavern and store me there for a little less than what the actual project cost.”

“Not to be rude, Mr. Cord, but why go through the risk of creating a new and therefore untested device when your other option made so much more sense? Even in your day the technology for going to the Moon was well established.”

“Are you familiar with the pyramids, Michael?”

“Are you talking about the Egyptian pyramids, Mr. Cord?”

“Please, call me Justin, and, yes, the very ones.”

“Familiar enough,” assured Michael.

“Well,” continued Justin, “do you know what those pyramids were designed for?”

“Monuments to the king, I suppose.”

“Actually, Michael, they were suspension units.”

Michael rubbed at the scruff on the end of his chin. “Care to explain?”

“I don’t mean,” continued Justin, “in the modern sense, but the Egyptians had a worldview like yours and mine. Namely, if you preserved your body as well as you could, the actual body would be reawakened in a better world, and you would have everything that you needed or wanted in the next life.” Justin paused for a moment. “But only if you preserved the body. Makes you wonder if the ancient Egyptians were exposed to advanced technology at some point. But I digress; the point is that the pharaohs believed that they must preserve their bodies with as much wealth as they could carry. In that way they’d live well in the next world.”

“So you prefer to see yourself as a modern-day pharaoh, then?”

“Not really. I don’t consider myself a god, wasn’t born into wealth, and certainly didn’t die with members of my estate buried with me. However, I’ll admit there are certain similarities.”

“But somehow the pharaohs inspired you?”

Justin chuckled. “Yes, the pharaohs were indeed an inspiration. They inspired fear.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know enough ancient history to follow your thinking, Justin.”

“How many actual pharaohs were found in their pyramids?”

“Well, I’d guess maybe two or three.”

“Try none.”

“What about King Tut?”

“He came from a much later dynasty that learned an important lesson. If you build a pyramid and fill it with lots of stuff, what are you telling the whole world? Allow me,” he said, as he saw Michael beginning to answer. “You’re saying, in effect, ‘Hey, world, here I am, dead with lots of treasure.’ ”

“Good point,” agreed Michael.

“Not one pyramid was found intact. By King Tut’s day and age the pyramids had been around and sacked for over a thousand years. So the new pharaohs dug hidden tombs to keep their bodies safe, thereby greatly increasing their chances for an afterlife.”

“So in your mind ‘Moon’ equals ‘pyramid.’ ”

“Exactly.” Justin was beginning to feel comfortable talking. Though he’d developed a dislike of journalists, even the supposed “reputable” ones, this interview was different, because it was allowing him to talk about something that centuries before he could share with almost no one.

“Had I gone with the Moon plan,” Justin continued, “I would have had to inform governments about my launch schedules. That would have entailed official inspections. The whole world would have known that I’d spent a fortune to have myself buried on the Moon, and any asshole with a spare missile or the desire to see if I had treasure could have finished me off.”

“So you built a tomb,” said Michael, with dawning understanding.

“Correction. I built a self-sustaining suspension unit which I stuck in a tomb.”

“Semantics. It got you what you wanted—anonymity.”

“Yes, it did. The more anonymous, the better. You want to know what kept Tut safe for all those thousands of years? He was such an unimportant, short-lived ruler that everyone forgot about him. And before you ask the next question, relatively speaking I was pretty much the same. Yes, I was rich, and yes, had a certain amount of fame, but in the grand scheme of things I was a mere blip on the radar screen.”

“More than a blip, Justin. We’re still pretty well versed on your life’s story to this day and age.”

“A fluke, I can assure you, Michael. I happened to disappear at a time when media coverage bordered on obsessive, which, ironically, I didn’t think could get any worse.”

Michael laughed. “Fair enough.”

“And that,” continued Justin, “combined with the fact that a whole lot of information got wiped out in the Grand Collapse, apparently made me stick out like a cherry on a cream pie. I can assure you, in my day and age I was well known, but as the old saying goes, ‘there’s a billion Chinese who could give a crap.’ ”