The Unincorporated Man (30 page)

He was not so pleased to learn that Neela had found a much less expensive apartment in the Jersey borough, and was even less pleased to learn that a man he’d never met was moving in next door. Still, in the course of an evening he came to like Thaddeus Gillette. Although Justin knew that it was the doctor’s training to be attentive, questioning, and amiable, he still had to admit he liked the guy. Once Justin had spent enough time, drank a few beers, and discussed the situation with the good doctor, the importance of Neela not living next door was understood, if not felt. But that wasn’t the change that bothered him the most. It was having to hire a security agency to protect him, watch his back, approve his itinerary, and check his food. Perhaps he’d been naïve, thinking he’d just pop out of his high-tech casket and resume the life of a regular Joe in an idealized future. Perhaps. Either way, the new security precautions had reminded him of one thing, and one thing only—a life he’d left behind.

5 First Trial

H
ektor was standing in front of a very long table. It was clear to the point of invisibility and supported by nothing but air—or, to be more precise, a hidden magnetic antigravitational device. Were it not for the various DijAssists, papers, pads, and pointing devices strewn across its surface, one might walk right into it.

He was the only one standing.

The rest of the board members gathered around the table were sitting stiffly, aware that their every move and phrase was being, or would be, watched and listened to. Each member had one or two assistants sitting behind him or her, ready to whisper salient information when called to do so. And each board member was addressed by their title and not their name. They were Publicity, GenOPs, Legal, and Accounting. At the head of the table, sitting opposite Hektor, was Kirk Olmstead, the deputy director of the powerful Special Operations branch of GCI, otherwise known as the DepDir. Conspicuously absent was the DepDir’s personal assistant. Hektor was disappointed. He’d been drawn to her ice-queen looks and demeanor. But he had other things to worry about, chief of which was the fact that he found himself in front of a corporate firing squad in the guise of an unofficial board meeting—“unofficial” because The Chairman was not physically present. However, if the meeting’s outcome met with The Chairman’s approval, then it would be entered into the logs as “official,” and all the minutes and decisions would be acted upon. If he did not approve, changes would be made. And if he really disapproved, chairs could be emptied. No one presently sitting at the table thought there’d be any disagreement with the anticipated outcome of the day’s meeting. They’d discuss the facts, gather what information they could from Mr. Sambianco, and then chart a course toward rectification. But that didn’t negate the fact that Hektor Sambianco, once respected as an up-and-coming corporate strategist, was now to be viewed with contempt and, should any of the board members be so inclined, pity.

Publicity spoke first.

“Disaster, an absolute disaster. We’ve got the biggest, most sought-after name in the system making us out as some kind of corporate monster attempting to steal him away forever.”

“Forever’s a bit long,” Hektor said, ignoring Publicity’s hysterics. “More like four or five years.”

The corners of Publicity’s mouth began to twitch as he focused his rage on Hektor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Enough,” the DepDir interrupted, “and Hektor, do us all a favor and shut up.”

Hektor tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“What we need,” continued the DepDir, “is to keep the proper perspective on this. With all due respect to Publicity, we
are
a corporation and our goal
is
to make money for our shareholders. And even though Hektor’s behavior has forced GCI into a course we would not normally have taken, we may as well take advantage of it.”

Publicity began to protest, but the DepDir put up his hand to stop her.

“Accounting,” he said, “just out of curiosity, how much money is Justin Cord worth?”

Accounting, a soft-spoken African woman, spoke up. “He is priceless. We cannot calculate his value because there are too many unknowns, but it is without a doubt that he is potentially the most valuable human being in the system.”

“And we don’t have a single share!” shouted GenOps, a florid-faced, sandy-haired man who had the uninspired yet de rigueur look of fitness so common to nanobuilt bodies. “This is intolerable.”

“For that we can blame Hektor.” The DepDir’s comment elicited general grunts of agreement to which Hektor had the good grace to remain silent.

“But,” continued the DepDir, “we can rectify the future. I repeat, our goal is to make money for the stockholders, and the only reason any of us are here,” he said, pausing to stare markedly at Hektor, “is because we
can
make money. So again, let’s just view this as a moneymaking procedure.” The DepDir looked toward Legal.

“How’s the lawsuit going?”

Before Legal could answer, Hektor held up a dataplaque and gestured that he was ready to present.

“Yes, Mr. Sambianco?” answered Legal, glad to deflect the question even if only for a few minutes. She could see she’d pissed off the DepDir, but he wasn’t her boss yet, and until then she’d use her authority to cement that fact. Besides, she figured, Hektor had started this damned lawsuit, let him take some more heat for it. And if she could’ve done something worse to him than what Kirk was obviously planning she would have felt compelled to try. How dare he start a legal proceeding without her.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Hektor. “As all of you may already realize, I was the one who instituted the lawsuit.”

Per corporate chess, the blank stares of the people in the room neither denied nor confirmed whether they knew it or not.

“And,” continued Hektor, “I managed to get it onto the court dockets quickly. It should keep us engaged with Justin for quite a while.”

“It is not a good idea,” answered Publicity, “to keep him ‘engaged,’ young man. Every day we’re mentioned with him makes us look bad. And that does amount to,” she said pointedly looking away from Hektor and toward the DepDir, “what I’m sure is a substantial credit loss, which is why I think we should cancel this lawsuit immediately.”

Publicity looked around and saw that there were heads nodding in agreement.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Hektor answered, “but canceling the suit would not be the correct way to handle this.”

“Oh really, Mr. Sambianco?” seethed Publicity. “And how would you, with all your years of experience, handle this? Drag it out for all it’s worth, even though we’re probably going to lose?”

“Why, yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I’d do.”

This brought a round of mutterings concerning Hektor’s mental fitness. It didn’t last long. Accounting came to his rescue.

“How can you justify such a position, Mr. Sambianco?”

Hektor exhaled. “Cord’s a nutcase. OK, he’s a damned popular nutcase, but he’s still a nutcase. Remember how easy it was to push his buttons at the press conference?”

“Oh, yes,” Publicity chimed in sarcastically, “it did us a world of good to see a duly recognized member of GCI harass the most popular man in the system.”

“It will,” shot back Hektor, enjoying the fact that expendability let him speak his mind. “I’ll grant you Cord’s popular now, but in a couple of months he’ll be pissing people off. And when that happens they’ll remember that we were never afraid of him. And, I might add, when that happens we’ll force him to settle… at a more preferable percentage.”

Hektor could see one of Publicity’s assistants whispering something into her ear.

“According to the Spencer ratings,” Publicity stated, “Justin Cord will remain popular for years if not decades to come.”

The Spencer ratings had developed as marketing became more of a science and less of an art. It was known for making extremely accurate predictions of trends and fads as well as of shifts in consumer interest. In the last fifty years it had become as indispensable to ad men as quadratic equations were to mathematicians.

“Forget the Spencer ratings,” scoffed Hektor. “They won’t work concerning Justin Cord.”

“I will do no such thing!” screamed Publicity. “You’re not even a member of this board. I don’t know why we’re even bothering with you.”

“You’re ‘bothering with me,’ ” Hektor answered calmly, “because I was detached from Special Operations”—he then smiled acidly in the DepDir’s direction—“and assigned as a special adviser to the board. And, I repeat, since we’re already well into it, my advice is to drag out the pretrial motions. We can’t get a favorable ruling in court, but we can still win. Justin will say and do things to piss off the public. He can’t help it; he doesn’t like the whole idea of incorporation—an idea, I might add, that is fundamental to all the values we as a society hold sacred. So when Wonder Boy starts mouthing off against this, the heart of our civilization, we’ll do just fine.”

“He’s got enough money to hire the best lawyers in the system,” fired back Publicity. “What makes you think
they’re
going to let him mouth off?”

“He can’t help himself,” answered Hektor. “He says what he thinks.”

“If only he were the only one,” muttered the DepDir loudly enough for all to hear. This got the room laughing, Hektor included.

“However, we’re all forgetting,” continued the DepDir, “about what’s important here—the money. Who gives a damn about civilizations and values? Our job is still to bring a profit. If we get some of Justin’s stock we’ll not only be richer, we’ll also have the option of invoking audits and other means of control over him.”

“What basis,” asked Accounting, “do we have for getting any shares of his stock?”

All heads now turned toward Legal.

“We will use in loco parentis,” she answered, then appeared to brace herself for what she knew was coming.

“What?” asked several members of the board simultaneously.

“There is precedent,” she continued. “When a child is suspended, and then through some tragedy loses both sets of parents, the nearest relative can take over the raising of the child, and therefore be entitled to the 20 percent parental stock award.”

Accounting looked befuddled. “That’s quite a stretch. I mean, we’re talking about the difference between a child who’s incorporated and an adult who’s not.”

More heads nodded in agreement.

“Allow me to finish,” said Legal, slightly annoyed at having been interrupted. “The precedent was used to award in loco parentis to American Express when they revived Israel Taylor Schwartz. For those of you not familiar with the case, approximately eighty years ago a man was ready to be reanimated. He had been frozen in suspension, having suffered a terrible head injury. Because he was from the early days of the incorporation movement he, in all likelihood, would have remembered the Grand Collapse. An enticing prospect for our historians, indeed, but only if he could be revived successfully. American Express used what were then considered to be cutting-edge techniques to attempt neuro-pathway reconstruction. In return they were awarded not only the 20 percent parental bonus, they were also able to charge Mr. Schwartz for the considerable cost of his revival. Sadly, the procedure did not work as hoped, and Mr. Schwartz awoke a congenital idiot. By the time they reworked his neural pathways almost all of his memories and personality traits had been wiped clean. Which brings us back to loco parentis. Israel Taylor Schwartz, ladies and gentlemen, was, by all legal definitions, a child.”

“But,” asked Publicity, “didn’t we already charge Mr. Cord for the expenses incurred in his reanimation? Couldn’t he claim our losses have been covered?”

“In that you are correct,” answered the DepDir. “Hektor made out a bill for ten million credits and someone actually paid it.”

The board dutifully responded by glaring anew at Hektor.

Hektor mumbled, “You make one little mistake…” Then, louder: “How is the investigation going on that, DepDir? Have you found the person responsible for paying out the debt?”

Hektor’s momentary diversion worked, as the board turned their attention back to the DepDir.

“I thought,” parried the DepDir, “that you had some leads
you
were running down… Hektor?”

“I am,” Hektor volleyed back, “but I don’t have the resources of your department, nor your experience in such matters, DepDir or, should I say, ‘acting director of Special Ops’?”

“DepDir’s fine,” Kirk snarled, “and thank you for your confidence, Mr. Sambianco, but tracing who paid the ten million credits has been reassigned from my department and given to Accounting.”

The board turned to Accounting while all the heads were busy trying to calculate what that meant in terms of their careers. Did Accounting manage to steal the job from Special Ops? If so, then that meant that Accounting was more powerful than they’d thought. Or had the DepDir managed to push this off onto Accounting? Which would mean that it was a dead-end assignment and Accounting didn’t have the power to avoid it. Or did The Chairman move it from one department to the other? That would be bad for Special Ops and could be bad for Accounting… if her department failed. But as both Accounting and the DepDir were old hands at this game, their faces showed nothing except mutual respect (which was felt) and trust (which was not).

“I’m still not following the in loco parentis, Legal,” continued the DepDir. “Mr. Cord did not wake up an idiot. Au contraire, he appears to be quite cognizant.”

“Yes, that’s true, but we can claim that we are his only true legal guardians, and that his adaptation back into society has been at our expense. Yes, the revival itself was covered, but he’s spent a considerable amount of time at our facility, with our specialists, getting, much like Mr. Schwartz, reacclimated to our new world. So while we won’t take over full ‘parenting’ of Mr. Cord, it is within reason, based on precedent, that we can claim a limited percentage of him.”

Publicity seemed content with the answer.

“Well done, Legal,” the DepDir said.

He turned toward Accounting.

“Accounting, you stated that Mr. Cord was priceless. But say you were to put a credit amount on his head. What would you guess?”

“An even billion,” she answered, without batting an eye, “but you could double or even quadruple that easily.”

“Let’s take the billion-credit figure,” said the DepDir. “Twenty percent of a billion is two hundred million. So if we deduct the ten million he paid us, and then go with an opening request of 19 percent of Justin Cord’s stock, we’d be doing alright, correct?”

Accounting nodded.

“I’d guess,” continued the DepDir, “that we could even bargain him down to 10 percent if we had to. We’d still be doing better than we were… before the mess.” The DepDir finished this off by again staring pointedly at Hektor.

Hektor started to ignore the fact that everyone glared at him. But that didn’t stop him from challenging what he felt was everyone’s wrong assumptions about Justin.

“What in the world,” asked Hektor, “makes you think he’d settle out of court?”