The Unincorporated Man (32 page)

Justin popped the cap off his lager, came around the counter, and plopped down into the couch. “Manny Black.” He took a long swig of his drink, followed by a satisfying exhalation.

The room was silent until Omad said what all were thinking.

“Who?”

He missed being graced with an answer because of a ringing doorbell. Gillette looked around—confused by the unusual sound.

“It’s an old-fashioned announcer,” explained Neela to the befuddled doctor. “It works by sending a sound, traditionally bells or buzzers, throughout the house.”

“You do know,” the doctor said, addressing Justin, “that an avatar can just alert you without causing the whole house to be alarmed, don’t you?”

“Justin likes,” answered Neela with slight hesitation, “doorbells?”

“Doorbells it is,” confirmed Justin. “And yes, I do.”

He disappeared down the staircase to greet his visitor. When he returned he had a most peculiar-looking gentleman by his side. The man appeared to be in his fifties. He was dressed in an ill-fitting five-piece suit and tie. What hair he did have was in desperate need of a brush and waved at the back of his head like a weather-worn flag. He carried a briefcase that Neela could swear had bits of food sticking out of it. She also noticed myriad stains on his jacket. While it was perhaps an odd mark of individualism to curry one odd “fixable” habit (like baldness) this man had apparently chosen to ignore every reparable “malady” society had managed to cure—hair, weight, and even, noticed Neela, the slight overcrowding row of his bottom teeth.

“Everyone,” said Justin, “I’d like you to meet Manny Black.”

Hektor was enjoying the last t.o.p. flight he figured he’d be having for a while. Too bad it was to be such a short trip, he thought, only taking him to the GCI Earth Orbital Space Dock just a few miles above Earth. This was the way station, orbital hotel, repair yard, and transshipment point for information, products, services, and people all over GCI’s solar economic empire.

It had been a very depressing week. His stock price had plummeted—again. And his family had sold him short—again. He was pretty sure his parents had sold their entire parental stock award, just to be done with him. If he had any credit left he would have bought some more of himself, as he was now selling for dirt cheap. The only one who had not sold Hektor’s stock was the government. And he was certain that if they could have found a way around that constitutional article they would have sold their 5 percent long ago. To his enduring shame, he had entered onto the lowest rung of the corporate ladder; he was now officially a penny stock. Yes, indeed, it had been a depressing week, but not a surprising one. He knew the way the world worked, and he was aware of the stakes he’d played for. It would have been nice to have a last blowout party, but his credit was shot, his salary was attached to his towering debts, and he suddenly had no friends to go to a blowout party with—yet another price Hektor had paid for his single-minded devotion to GCI and his career.

This much he knew about his future: As soon as he got on the transport heading to the Oort Cloud he would be on his new assignment, and automatically his salary would be adjusted downward. He would then default on his credit card payments, and his stock would be sold to make up the difference. He would, by his calculations, be left with a whopping 26.4 percent of himself, with a margin of error of 3.4 percent, although it was impossible to fall below 25 percent by law. The good thing was… well, no, he realized… there really was no good thing. Unless he considered that human beings lived such a long time that it might be possible to dig his way out of exile, poverty, and disgrace. Of course, it would probably take centuries to get back to where he was, assuming anyone would let him.

With these thoughts and a self-deprecating laugh Hektor got off the t.o.p. and headed for his ship. He stopped for a cup of coffee on the way and stood staring at the boarding gate. As soon as he stepped aboard the transport, his life as he knew it would be over. He was not eager to begin, but he had made his bed and would lie in it. He polished off the coffee, picked up his bag, squared his shoulders, and headed for the gate.

“Mr. Sambianco?” It was a woman’s voice.

Hektor let out a sigh of relief. He had no idea who this person was, but any excuse to avoid getting on that ship of doom, if only for a minute, was gladly welcome. The whole “bravely facing his fate” act wasn’t cutting it. He whirled around to see an exceptionally attractive woman, even by the day’s standards. She wore, well, almost nothing at all. This included a see-through shawl and a skimpy bikini that accentuated her form. Her white hair formed a halo around a face that had sparkling blue eyes and teeth so bright her high-gloss amber lipstick framed them like a work of art. It wasn’t that she looked beautiful—it was that she knew how to
be
beautiful. That was still a rare art. Hektor would guess this woman was a hundred if she was a day. The young just didn’t have the experience to look that good. If this was a going-away gift from some friend he didn’t know about, then he was grateful.

“And how can I possibly help you?” he asked.

The woman grabbed Hektor’s arm and gently moved him out of the boarding line and away from the group of bedraggled passengers slowly trudging past.

“Your file,” she answered, “said you were a hetero. I’m glad to see that I please.”

“Ma’am,” Hektor answered, giving her the twice-over, “you definitely please.”

“Good. I have something for you.”

She took Hektor’s hand, put it on her breast, and then seductively moved her body. He was never aware that she’d put something in his other hand until his avatar began to “ahem” him.

Hektor ignored it. His avatar “ahemmed” again, and after being ignored, spoke up anyway.

“Hektor, you’ve been served.”

“Not now, iago,” Hektor implored. “Go away.”

“I’m afraid your avatar is correct,” the woman said, one eyebrow raised, lips puckering slightly. She gently removed his hand from her breast, kissed him on the cheek, and skipped away.

“Wait,” he called after her. “I don’t know your name. How will I ask you out on a date?”

“I don’t date children,” she sang out, heading down the corridor.

“Children? I’m sixty-seven!” he called after her.

“I know.” She disappeared around a corner.

Hektor realized what his avatar had said.

“Iago, what do you mean, ‘served’?”

“You’ve received a summons to appear in court as a material witness in the trial of
GCI versus Justin Cord
. You’re ordered to remain on-planet and must return to Earth immediately under penalty of law.”

“What happens if I disobey?”

“You will be assessed a fine, but as you are on GCI orders, they will pay the fine and have the summons dismissed. It will be a simple matter for their lawyers. No reason for you to miss your flight.”

“Now, iago,” answered Hektor with a new twinkle in his eye, “you wouldn’t have me disobey the law, would you? Please make sure the summons is posted on my database, but do not broadcast it just yet.”

“When shall I do so, Hektor?”

“When I’m safely and irretrievably back on Earth.”

It was turning out to be an interesting day.
Now, how do I find out the name of that exquisite server?
wondered Hektor, as he headed toward the line of Earthbound t.o.p.s.

Manny Black sat at a table drinking coffee out of a mug that said “Kiss the Lawyer,” a phrase Justin had seen fit to have inscribed prior to serving the drink. He was only a little disappointed when Manny failed to notice it. Seated on couches and chairs were Neela, Dr. Gillette, Omad, Justin, and Eleanor, who had recently arrived. They looked on as Manny absentmindedly took out dataplaques, pieces of actual paper, pens, pencils, and what looked like the remains of a pastrami sandwich. The assembled company gagged at the smell. Omad got up and took the sandwich’s funerary remains to the garbage. While in the kitchen, he took a couple of seconds to order another one. Omad returned shortly with a fresh, hot, delicious-smelling replacement. When he put it down Manny looked at it, blinked, then took a bite and put it back on the plate, totally forgotten. There was not a soul in the room who would not have bet their last stock option that Manny would have cared less which sandwich he ate from. Finally, after a few minutes of fussing, emptying out and putting things back in his briefcase, Manny looked at Justin.

“Ahh, there you are, Mr. Cord. I’ve been reviewing your case. Many interesting problems, a complex matter.”

“Can I win?”

“Maybe.”

“For the amount of money I’m paying you,” answered Justin, “I would prefer a positive answer.”

“Very well, Mr. Cord. I’m
positive
I may be able to win this case.”

When he saw this failed to move his client, Manny sighed and continued.

“Justin,” he said, purposely using his client’s first name, “if any other firm gives you a more positive answer, they’re lying—unless of course they’ve managed to buy the judge. And even then, how could you trust the judge to stay bought?”

Justin nodded, content with the answer. He looked around the room only to see the rest of his menagerie peering surreptitiously into their avatars. He was pretty sure that they were getting all the information they could on one Manny Black. He also knew what they would find: that Manny was a graduate of New Oxford, with a specialty in corporate law. That he’d been a practicing lawyer for over forty-seven years and had had very few cases, most of which had been pro bono. That thanks to his well-off parents, he was the proud owner of a healthy majority of himself, which explained why he hadn’t been forced into more lucrative work. And finally, that he’d won a surprisingly large number of the few cases he’d gotten. Justin knew they wouldn’t have time to review Manny’s court record, but he was confident that they’d eventually see him for the superb lawyer that he was… probably lousy at everything else, figured Justin, but certainly a great lawyer.

“I’m sure you’re correct, Manny,” answered Justin, “so how should we proceed with my case?”

“Justin,” interrupted Neela, “I’m sure that Mr. Black is… um… adequate, but I honestly think you’re going to need better than a man who barely gets one case a year.”

“What I need, Neela, is Mr. Black,” replied Justin.

Neela was about to respond when Dr. Gillette broke in.

“Justin, I’m a bit confused. Why do you feel that Mr. Black could best represent you? Didn’t Mr. McKenzie suggest a reputable law firm for you to use?”

“Yes, Dr. Gillette,” answered Justin, “he did. Two, in fact. One was called Brockman and Beel and the other was Elder & Partners.” This brought respectable nods and sounds of approval from all the company, even Manny and Omad.

“There was only one small problem with both of them,” added Justin.

This is going to be good
, Omad thought.

“Incorporation myopia,” he answered.

The group looked befuddled.

“Look,” continued Justin, “I know you’re all worried about me and concerned about my future, but guess what? So am I. I need to figure what to make of myself in this world, and I can’t do it under the constant pressure of fame, incorporation, and the possibility of some nutcase with a neurolizer popping out from behind a wall.”

Neela and Dr. Gillette passed a concerned look between themselves.

“I can’t get rid of the fame, can hire security for the nut jobs, and can damn well do something about the incorporation.”

“But why do you need
him
?” Neela said, pointing with confusion to Manny, who had started to eat his pastrami sandwich.

“Because,” answered Justin, “he’s the only lawyer I contacted—and, believe me, I contacted plenty—who did not spend over half my time trying to convince me to settle.”

“But that’s what a good law firm is supposed to do,” pleaded Eleanor. “Show you the best options for your case.”

“Don’t you see? Don’t you
all
see?” exclaimed Justin. “Incorporation is
not
an option.”

“Not an option?” asked Omad, taken aback. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Justin sighed. “Omad, what if I told you that one of the law firms I contacted told me they could get GCI to settle for 10 percent?”

Omad jumped up. “Why, that would be amazing. I’d say congratulations! That’s what I’d say.”

“Not so fast, Omad. Eleanor, another law firm told me they could get GCI to settle for 8.5 percent, and they were willing to put it in writing.”

“Well, that’s marvelous, Justin. I’m with Omad. I’d say ‘congratulations’ as well.” She paused. “Justin, do you really think Mr. Black can do better than 8.5 percent?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” asked Justin—more accusatory than questioning. “For all of you, the whole damned solar system for that matter, the question has never been one of
will I incorporate?
but merely one of
when
and for what percentage. You can’t help it. Incorporation is so ingrained into all of your actions and associations that you can’t even conceive of a real relationship without it.”

“That’s not fair, Justin,” answered Eleanor. “We all understand your desire to get the best possible deal for yourself, but we’re also trying to be realistic.”

Justin took her hand in his. “I know you are, Eleanor. I know
all
of you are, and I value your advice and wisdom. You’ve all been great in helping me with everything, from avoiding the press to getting my financial affairs in order, to hiring proper security. But we don’t have a
real
relationship. At least not yet.” He released Eleanor’s hand.

He saw that his words had struck Neela. He also saw that she was doing a poor job of hiding it. But it was critical that this group of people understand where he was coming from.

“I’m a fluke, and one you can disengage from. Suppose,” he said, looking at Eleanor, “I wanted to marry your daughter. What has to happen, Eleanor?”

“That’s easy, Justin. You just have a credit check and the traditional exchange of sto…” Eleanor paused, a confused look on her face.

“I believe you were going to say ‘exchange of stock,’ correct?”