The Unincorporated Man (58 page)

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” she pleaded. “You can’t stop it.”

“But at least I can try.” Justin put both hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “My sweet, sweet Neela. I didn’t have myself frozen just to survive. I did it to live. I’m responsible for this—if not wholly, then at least partially. And I have to try and stop it any way I can.” His eyes hardened. “I probably won’t succeed, but if I don’t try I may as well have died three hundred years ago.”

Neela’s expression signaled defeat. She knew better than to argue with him—especially in his current state of mind. So she decided to follow him out the door into the chaos that had become New York City.

Justin’s security would be rankled as soon as they realized he’d ditched them in the biggest riot in New York’s history, but what he wanted to do couldn’t be done with a bunch of bruisers following his every step. He and Neela flew the car down to Mars Avenue. This was in the middle of what used to be the Hudson River. It also just happened to be the center of the great city’s rioting. They flew over seething masses of people but couldn’t find a safe place to land. They decided to park on a nearby roof. Justin then tried to get Neela to take the car back to the apartment, but she let him know that her life was hers to do with as she wished—incorporated or not. Justin was tempted to ask her what her stockholders would think of that, but he gauged the look in her eyes and wisely let it go.

The lift down to the lobby was mostly silent until they emerged at the bottom floor. There they encountered a large horde of rioters tearing down and looting anything they could get their hands on. It was only later that Justin discovered he’d been in the new American Express building, and that the crowd he’d encountered was made up of mostly 25 percenters taking out their rage on an obvious target. Out of nowhere a half-crazed screaming woman came at Justin and Neela wielding a golf club. Justin easily knocked her aside and threw the weapon into the lift behind him. The club disappeared harmlessly up the tube. Next a man, apparently attached to the recently disarmed woman, came at Justin but slowed down almost immediately when he realized who he was about to attack.

“Damsah’s balls,” the man whispered under his breath, “you’re… you’re him, aren’t you?”

Justin nodded but remained in a defensive position, fists at the ready. He wasn’t sure which outcome his answer would elicit. He didn’t have to wait long.

The man started shouting and waving his arms. “It’s him! It’s him!” In a cascading wave the rioting in the lobby came to a standstill. Everyone stopped and stared at Justin and Neela. Rioting could still be heard in the street, but silence now reigned in the trashed lobby.

What now, genius?
Justin thought. He was used to public speaking, and even knew how to address a hostile crowd, but this was completely beyond his experience.

Neela whispered into Justin’s ear, “You need to speak to as many people as possible.”

He came up with a plan on the spot. To no one in particular he said, “Tell everyone you can that I’m going to Colony Park
right now
and will speak to everyone from there.” He started walking slowly toward the front doors, praying silently that he and Neela would make it without either collapsing from fear or being swung at by rioters. The crowd, however, parted without a sound as Justin and Neela exited the New American Express Building into the pandemonium that ruled the streets. As they left they could hear the voices of the rioters behind them shouting to their friends and avatars about Justin’s recently imparted information.

Colony Park was in the middle of a river reclaimed by New York. Though not as big as Central Park, it was only four blocks away and big enough to hold most of the rioters. Some of the people from the lobby ran ahead of Justin and Neela to protect them and warn away any oncomers who might have thought about laying a hand on the famous duo. Others took up the rear, essentially performing the same function. As Justin and Neela walked down Mars Avenue toward the park, the crowd grew thicker and larger both in front of and behind them. And as the throng got bigger the yelling had changed in character—initially to sounds of surprise and awe, but then into something far more terrifying. Coming from the crowd, both Neela and Justin noticed, was a soft murmur. The type of murmur that could only be discerned when whispered from the mouths of thousands. The fact that it was not shouted made it downright eerie.

“One free man, one free man, one free man, one free man” whispered over and over again like a religious invocation.

By the time Justin and Neela arrived, the park was in the process of being filled by people who’d only a few minutes earlier been tearing the city to pieces. Again the crowds split as Justin and Neela aimed for the center to climb the park’s tallest sculpture, Exploration Arch. Though Justin hadn’t a clue what he was going to say, he did know that his simple act of
saying he would speak
had perhaps prevented businesses from being destroyed or, more critically, lives from being taken.

Neela waited at the base of the edifice as Justin slowly made his way to the top. It was wide enough for him to stand on and tall enough for all to see him. When he got to the top he held up one hand and the vast crowd understood that he wanted silence. Even the low hush died away. But not, unfortunately, the relentless buzz of the mediabots that had been alerted as soon as the first Dij-Assisted message flew through the Neuro.

“I was faced with a choice three hundred years ago!” Justin bellowed to the crowd, so as to carry his voice as far as possible. He needn’t have bothered. The mediabots made sure he was now live on everyone’s DijAssist. And his voice wasn’t just being carried in the park, it was being carried live over the entire Earth, and as an uninterrupted feed to Mars and to the billions beyond.

“My choice?” he continued. “Accept death or try and do something about it. Almost all the billions of people before me had accepted the inevitable. I did not!” The crowd broke out in applause. Justin waited for it to taper off. “Of the few hundreds from my time who tried to escape their fate, only I am alive.” Justin waited for the crowd to absorb that salient fact. “How many people did I have to kill to be here today? How many bodies do you think I buried for the right to stand here—very much alive—at this moment? What faces haunt me in the middle of the night?” He waited a good ten seconds before continuing.
“None!”
he shouted. “Not a single soul… that is, not until
now
.” He sensed the crowd’s confusion.
Good
, he reasoned,
let them think about that
.

“For the rest of my life,” he continued, “I will have to wonder how many people will not see their moms or dads, their children or their friends because I chose to save myself!” From the crowd came cries of “no!” and “not your fault!” and “blame the corporate bastards!” Justin quieted them down again. “Do you think this ‘one free man’ wants a single one of you hurt? A single one of you killed? I want you to have all the things humans used to only dream about—family, love, happiness, and… freedom. These are your birthrights!” The applause was deafening, and again Justin waited for it to subside. “These are your birthrights, but they cannot be purchased in blood!” More thundering applause. “Sean Doogle demanded blood for the faults he saw in this world. Sean Doogle paid the price he demanded of others. But know this,
I am not
Sean Doogle! I do not want the life of a single person as a… ,” he paused to add an emphasis of disgust to his next word, “sacrifice.” He’d made a purposeful allusion to Sean’s last message and hoped it would have the mitigating effect he desired. “If you need blood for your outrage,” he said, bringing his voice to a crescendo, “then start with mine!” More cries of “no” were heard, and it took Justin five minutes to coax the massive crowd into silence. “Your lives,” he continued, “may not be perfect, but that does not mean others must die. If you don’t like what’s going on in your world, then do something about it. If you don’t like being owned,
then don’t own
. I swore to own no part of another human being. You don’t have to either. Protest the injustice inherent in incorporation by not playing a part in it anymore. Divest and be free.”

Justin had to pause as the crowd took up the chant of “divest and be free.” When he got them quieted down, he continued. “If you don’t want incorporation, then change it. If you hate being tagged like some animal, go on the Neuro and get a shield.”

He had to stop as the crowd started repeating his words. “My friends,” he pleaded, “please do not, I repeat,
do not
bathe your actions in blood!” More applause, less tentative this time, more enthusiastic. “Trust me,” he said, coming to his close, “the prize will not be worth that cost. The only request this ‘one free man’ has is that you all leave here in peace… that you all go home and decide how you want to bring about change…
without death and destruction
. Nothing would make me happier than knowing that all of you made it home to your families safe and sound. Let not one among you suffer harm this day. Let us all depart in peace.”

It took a moment for the crowd to realize that Justin had finished speaking. It was only when he started to make his way back down the arch that the chanting began anew. Perhaps it was because this most famous and glamorous of men seemed to truly care about
all
of them for no reason other than that he cared—with no reward or profit to be gained. Or perhaps it was because they’d simply grown tired of the looting. Either way, the people seemed to love Justin Cord, and they now shouted that love at the top of their lungs.

“One free man, one free man, one free man, one free man!”

By the time Neela and Justin made their way back up to the roof where the flyer, to their great relief, was still waiting
and
in one piece, Justin knew what his next course of action would be.

“Neela,” he asked, making his way into the driver’s seat, “which city is experiencing the worst rioting right now?”

She shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “I was afraid you were going to ask that.”

As Justin shrugged, Neela leaned over and, grabbing him by the collar, planted a long passionate kiss on his bewildered face.

“Do you know how dangerous what you just did was?” she asked, still holding tight to the collar. “How did you talk me into letting you get us into this thing?” She felt no terror for herself, only for her lover.

“You did really good… ,” she continued, hating herself for admitting it and knowing full well what it would mean. “Chicago or Tokyo,” she then answered, “it’s a toss-up.”

“Then,” he asked, flashing a sly grin, “what are we waiting for?”

11 Second Trial

J
osé Chung was a contented man. He’d found the ideal job. To be fair, corporate society had perfected the art of matching people with their most appropriate profession—it was more profitable. But in José’s case, he’d always felt that the powers that be—in this case, GCI—had succeeded admirably. José hated crowds, didn’t like dressing in anything except what happened to be closest in the closet, and was absolutely terrified of having to speak publicly. But he did possess one very profitable attribute—a superb analytical mind. José had the extraordinary ability to make random connections from disparate sources of information. He could also work long hours alone without supervision, remaining intensely focused on the task at hand. These skills resulted in a career as an informational archivist working for a GCI satellite office in Eugene, Oregon. He proved to be so good at his new position that GCI transferred him over to their branch office in Geneva. And after only ten years there, he’d done such an outstanding job that the Legal department transferred him to the home office in New York. Of course, José couldn’t have cared less. As long as he was down in the stacks, he was happy. He not only knew where all the important documents and reference materials were maintained—in both soft and hard copy—he also knew the contents of those documents like the back of his hand.

And right now he was working on a particularly interesting case. Janet Delgado had asked him to find any material relevant to the government’s case against Justin Cord. He’d sent that up days ago, but there was something still nagging him about the personal-incorporation clause. And José was the sort of person who wouldn’t be satisfied until that annoying little itch went away. That aspect of his personality was something that had made him almost impossible to live with but great to have as an asset when working in a profession such as the law.

Staring intently at a large stack of info crystals, and lost in the low hum of the computers surrounding his workspace, José remembered what the “something” was. It was an old law—not even valid anymore, probably not even important. But it was, even if only obscurely, related to the case. And hadn’t Ms. Delgado said “everything”? Well, José was thorough, and if his boss wanted everything, then everything was what she’d get. He made a one-page report, sent it up to Legal care of Janet Delgado, and went back to his lonely existence, unaware of the havoc he’d just unleashed.

Hektor reviewed the facts and, no matter which way he divvied them up, they always came to the same conclusion. Justin Cord and Justin Cord alone had stopped the rioting. The entire system, for the moment, seemed to be at peace. Hektor also couldn’t escape the ultimate conclusion—Sean Doogle’s death and Justin Cord’s actions during the rioting had turned Justin from a potential threat into a very real and present one. GCI now had to rethink its entire strategy.

Hektor labored hard over the new line of attack, and only when he was completely satisfied did he send it up for approval.

Approximately one hour after he’d sent up the plan his message tube notified him of an incoming communiqué. In an era of mass electronics the only truly secure means of message sending was the tried and true one—hard copy via messenger. In this case, the tube had eliminated the need for human intervention and possible corruption.

Hektor retrieved and unfolded the note. It contained a single word: APPROVED.

He then destroyed the message.

Janet Delgado did not hurry to Hektor’s office. A vice president of GCI did not hurry to
anyone’s
office, with one exception—and it wasn’t often that one was called to
that
inner sanctum. Of course, she was not technically V.P. of Legal for GCI for the duration of her leave of absence. But Janet was not only kept informed of all the legal goings-on, she also had the final say on all important matters. Now, however, even though she would not hurry, she wasn’t exactly taking her time, either. Normal courtesy would have had Janet and Hektor meet in a neutral location, but with Janet not officially on the board, she met Hektor in his office. This meant she’d have to take the lift
down
—something she still hadn’t gotten used to.

After a week on the job Hektor had inexplicably moved his entire office from the upper level of the board members’ area into a subbasement lot. His stated reasons were security and the need to be close to the hard files and communication networks. Janet was inclined to believe him. Hektor made an effort to attend all board meetings in person, and to be at as many of the get-together brunches and lunches as his schedule would allow. He was the opposite of a dour, isolating figure. But, thought Janet, it was still odd that the second most powerful man in the system had relegated himself to the bowels of GCI. Not only that, but now some suboffices were starting to follow him. She’d prayed it would be a temporary trend, as she liked her above-the-cloud views. She was also beginning to wonder how much of Hektor’s new power came from his recently acquired job and how much came from Hektor himself. She wasn’t sure she liked the answer. The intern who greeted her at the elevator door was young, eager, and polite—typical in and of itself. But this intern, Janet noticed, also had that glow of someone doing a job they loved for a boss they respected. He was part of a small host of people working for Hektor who’d been labeled “Hektor’s Hectics” by those not fortunate enough to make it into the V.P.’s inner circle. It was meant to be a derogatory term, but as often happens in life, the people it was meant to deride took on the name as a badge of pride. The small but growing group that Hektor was building seemed more like a club than an office crowd. The way this one Hectic greeted her—respectful, but also relaxed and friendly—made Janet wonder if they considered her a Hectic as well.

The claustrophobic hallways may have been a maze of boring beige and endless rectangles, but the offices, Janet had to admit with a certain pang of jealousy, were wonderful. The first thing Hektor had done was to knock down walls to make one big common area. This area felt more like a large university coffee shop than a workspace. While there were desks and terminal access points, the room was also filled with carpets, huge sofas, colorful floaters, and comfy chairs. Some people were sitting alone reading, while others were talking happily in groups. Some, she noticed, were even asleep on the sofas. It seemed like a recipe for anarchy, but Janet’s keen administrative eye saw that a lot of work was actually getting done. Everyone seemed to be working with pads, DijAssists, or bundles of paper. The loud, passionate conversations were all work-related, as far as Janet could tell. And she would have bet the moons of Io that the junior executives she saw sleeping and strewn across the couches had not left this room for at least forty-eight hours.

Janet had read Hektor’s file, and nowhere in it did it show him having the aptitude for leadership like this. She’d incorrectly thought of him as the consummate loner or special assistant. But there he was—standing at a table surrounded by a cadre of adoring workers. She came up to hear what she assumed must have been the end of a joke—and judging by the size of the crowd, a long and involved one.

“So the poodle, with his back turned, says, ‘Where is that damned monkey? I sent him to bring back another cheetah an hour ago!’ ” The crowd around Hektor exploded in laughter. It was at that moment that Hektor noticed Janet. “Janet, glad you could make it. OK, everyone back to the salt mines.” Although Janet heard good-natured groans, the group quickly and cheerfully scattered. Hektor pointed to one of the many doors lining the walls. “Let’s go where we can talk in private.”

The room they entered was a small, utilitarian office, having the desk, terminal, guest chairs, and large padded chair that most workplaces had. She also noted two large locking cabinets. What made her realize that this must be Hektor’s actual office was the box of Cohiba cigars on his desk. That old and almost obsolete vice was almost peculiar to Hektor. She was sure that other people in the system must smoke cigars as regularly as he did, but she’d never met them.

How long before everyone out there’s smoking those dreadful things?
She shuddered to herself. Hektor took a seat, and indeed grabbed a cigar from the box on his desk, but thankfully, she saw, he did not light it up.

“The Supreme Court,” Hektor stated, “will continue the trial the day after tomorrow.”

Janet was visibly annoyed that she hadn’t been told of so important a development.

“When did they announce that?” she said, miffed.

Hektor looked at the clock in his thumbnail. “In about two hours.”

Janet felt better, realizing that Hektor had gained access to inside information. She was only sore that he’d obviously used it to razz her.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said, taking a seat. “About time, if you ask me. The sooner I win this case the better.”

“You’re sure you can win this thing?” Hektor seemed intent on this question.

“You have nothing to worry about. Justin Cord will be forced to incorporate, and that should end all of this nonsense concerning the Unincorporated Man.” She spoke with the total confidence of someone about to exact some well-deserved revenge.

“There is nothing that could possibly save Justin Cord?” asked Hektor, digging deeper. “No legal tricks that Manny Black could pull out of his hat to keep the Supreme Court from ordering his incorporation?”

Janet hesitated for a moment. There was that one report, only a page long, that Mr. Chung had sent her. She realized that it was a potential problem, but there was no possible way Manny Black would have access to that information. Still, if Hektor needed to know…

“There was this one thing… .”

Justin Cord has returned to Geneva for the continuation of his trial versus the government. Hard to believe that it was only a little over a week ago that the proceedings began. While the issues remain the same, the world has surely changed. The scene outside the court building is one of tumult as the square is now filled with protestors both for and against the Unincorporated Man. The police have let it be known that if the protests turn violent they will inundate the area with Incapacitate—the highly effective and safe knockout gas. It has now been produced in amounts large enough for the Geneva police force to use.

—
THE TERRAN DAILY NEWS

The atmosphere in the court was electric. It had only been a week and a half since opening arguments, but everyone present could feel that the trial was different from the one that had begun. Too much of the world outside the halls of justice had been transformed by the civil and social strife of a society coming to terms with itself. Although there seemed to be just as many people who felt Manny Black had to lose his case as there were those who felt he had to win it, both sides readily acknowledged that the stakes had been raised.

It was a good thing that those people did not talk to the eccentric lawyer. He would have told them, as he was telling Justin Cord in excruciating detail, just how slim the chance of victory was. Manny had even told Justin that he could have gotten the Supreme Court to consider only taking 1 or 2 percent. Something contraindicated by the Constitution but arguable under the Preamble. And even that was a long shot.

The court was about to be called into session when a courier arrived at the defense table. He was typical of the new Western Union, right down to the uniform and the billed cap. But he should not have been there. Manny had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and with Justin Cord’s money backing him, he had the clout to make that order stick. That this courier was able to walk right up to him—on the day of the trial, no less—was a flagrant violation of his wishes, and of decorum.

“Western Union,” the man said, much too cheerful for the setting. “Manny Black, I have an important telegram for you.”

“Security,” said Manny, without bothering to look up; then he continued perusing his notes in preparation for his opening statement. Two uniformed agents appeared immediately from both sides of the courtroom, converging on the Western Union man. The man seemed unperturbed.

“Check up law HR 27-03.”

Manny looked up. He eyed the courier with suspicion.

The Western Union man shrugged his shoulders. “I was told that if you sent for security, I should say that.”

“I hardly see how the terraforming of Mars,” retorted Manny, “is in any way pertinent.”

The guards began to drag the Western Union man away.

The courier twisted his head back as the guards hustled him out of the courtroom, and said, “. . . of the Alaskan Federation!”

Manny kept on working. But that part of his mind that never stopped making connections flared with realization. So stunning was this one that most of his conscious mind kept reviewing the opening while his upper mind blazed with the implications—that is, if he remembered his history correctly. “Wait!” he shouted to the guards, who’d by this time had the perpetrator in a body cuff and were carrying him out the door. Manny motioned them back over to the table. The hapless courier was placed in front of Manny and Justin.

“Where is your telegram?” barked Manny.

Justin, who’d been watching, was surprised to see Janet Delgado go pale, and then turn red with what appeared to be rage. She whipped out her DijAssist and started talking into it furiously. The Western Union man, now released from his body cuff, handed Manny a data cube and had Manny sign for it. After he was done he courteously tipped his hat and left—no hard feelings. Manny transferred the message into his DijAssist and began scanning the data. He called up a holographic keyboard, and without saying a word began typing in commands and searches almost too fast for the human eye to follow. Whatever Manny was doing, he was totally engrossed, his face blank, and his eyes greedily absorbing all the information available. Justin did not know what was going on, but the fact that it upset Janet Delgado made him hopeful for the first time in months. After only two minutes the chief justice banged his gavel, silencing the crowd but not Manny’s lightning keyboard strokes.