The Unincorporated Man (51 page)

Now
, Justin said to himself. The links, which lay flaccid, forming a U shape above his head, were now pulled tight, forming a straight line from end to end. Justin strained his expression. He pulled again, but harder. Each time he’d let the links go flaccid, and then attack, pulling at them even harder—at least in appearance—with each tug. Finally, he gave a muscle-rippling convulsion as the links, and along with them the G, the C, and the I, shattered above his head, raining into the crowd as metal shards, thus becoming the ultimate throws in the history of Mardi Gras.

Sean Doogle was enraptured. All of his rage and anger was transformed instantly into a kind of peace. He knew what he had to do. That it would involve risk and pain and death—to others, and possibly to him—meant nothing at all. His path was clear. He had never been so happy in his life, nor felt so dangerous. He gave the signal his cohorts had so desperately been waiting for. As one they began to shout, “One free man! One free man! One free man!”

Like a brush fire purposely set on a hot, windy day, the drunken, boisterous crowd was soon caught up in shouting the mantra of the planted inciters. And, much to Sean’s pleasure and well-laid plans, that mantra was now being recorded and transmitted systemwide. His vision of Justin as the poster boy of his revolution had come to fruition. The “one free man!” mantra was now a cancerous seed planted amid the billions of “lost” souls watching from their holodisplays and DijAssists. And in doing so, they were fulfilling its planters’ expressed desire—to kill its plodding and tyrannical host, the incorporation movement.

Hektor turned off the holodisplay and methodically stubbed out his cigar, watching as the last wisps of smoke made their slow and steady ascent into oblivion. A slow, simmering torrent of anger pushed its way through every capillary of his body, until at last the rage consumed him. If Cord wanted to break the chains of the system that had rescued him (and all humanity, for that matter!), then so be it. If it was shattered chains he wanted, it was shattered chains he’d get. And society, so enamored of Justin’s vision of the past, needed a visceral example of what that past was really like. They would have to be reminded of the terrorism, anarchy, and fear that had once been a daily part of Justin’s world.

In the dark, quiet office that had become his home away from home and with the dull and constant sound of human traffic surrounding him, Hektor Sambianco pulled his DijAssist from his pocket and twirled it casually in his hand. Someone had to die. And, Hektor knew, it would be that one death that would unleash a madman capable of reminding the present world just how dangerous the past had once been.

“Iago.”

“Yes, Hektor?”

“Prepare an untraceable interplanetary transmission for the head of security—Neptune GCI.”

“Recording,” answered iago.

“There will be an ‘accident,’ ” said Hektor, without a trace of emotion.

“Name?”

“Elizabeth Reynolds.”

This was it. Neela was finally getting her Moon vacation. Only instead of having it foisted on her for the price of silence, as had been Hektor Sambianco’s wont, she was now heading up the silver highway of her own accord—with her own money. That she was doing it in secret with her lover made the trip even more exquisite.

In the beginning years of Justin’s cryonic entombment the Moon had decreased in stature. The world was too busy imploding to look much beyond its own atmosphere. Plus, space exploration was a government-controlled monopoly run by soon-to-be bankrupt governments. So the Moon remained a floating rock, not much different from the one Neil Armstrong first set foot upon years ago. As humans went about rising from the rubble of the Grand Collapse the Moon remained virtually ignored, continuing its lonely elliptical vigil of its troubled blue cousin. With the eventual rise of the incorporation movement and a major influx of cash and entrepreneurship, a fledgling orbital industry emerged. The Moon became a way station for scientists and industrialists, eventually succumbing to a huge land grab once the space-based industries took off. The ice and mineral compounds found in the Moon’s recesses proved a fertile ground for the fledgling nanotechnology sector and its hordes of micro-sized assemblers and replicators. In no time at all great corridors spanning thousands of miles were dug deep into the orbiting boulder’s thick underbelly. “Inner” cities emerged to house the families of those who chose to make the Moon their home. On the surface large buildings massed in craters and were covered over by thin yet powerful protective membranes.

But it was only when the asteroid belt became economically viable—some one hundred years after the Grand Collapse—that the Moon finally took off. It went from being a sometime destination to an oft-used port. In fact, it was the preferred port of call for the growing population of the asteroid belt that over the course of those hundred years had weaned itself almost entirely from the Earth’s gravitational pull. The Moon’s
th-gravity environment was a far better “neutral” ground to meet on for those wishing to do business with their Terran cousins. In the span of a decade, conference centers, luxury hotels, restaurants, and entertainment complexes devoured the space once occupied by the industrial giants. For the industrialists it was a win-win situation. They sold at a profit and moved out into deeper space, taking over the moons of the Earth’s sister planets.

By the time Justin was taking his first “second” breaths, the Moon had been transformed into a veritable floating Las Vegas, happily swallowing the percentages of all those who’d ever dreamed of taking a vacation in orbit. If Mardi Gras started in New Orleans, it ended, for those who could afford it, in the Moon’s luxurious environs. And it was into this mecca of debauchery and merchandising that the winged Neela and her famous lover made their separate ways.

At a considerable sum Justin rented a private crater away from prying eyes and under an assumed name. Neela arrived surreptitiously a few hours later. What then followed was a blessed week of cavorting, eating like royalty, relishing each other’s company, and making love any chance they could get. And while their separate worlds seemed to finally be coming together, the one they’d only recently left behind was now almost imperceptibly beginning to come apart.

Sean Doogle had spent the week sitting joyfully in front of his holodisplay re-watching his famous evening’s events. He couldn’t get enough of it. During the days he’d begrudgingly spent time fulfilling his requisite duties: coordinating future rallies, signing documents—autographs, even! And, of course, receiving overdue accolades. But each and every night he’d sneak back into his hotel room and watch a vidacord of the rally—over and over again. The slow and steady buildup, the tension as Justin Cord faced the crowd, the moment of climax as Cord snapped his chains and rained the metallic shards down on the assembled masses, and then… then, the magic moment. When he, Sean Doogle, began his chant. How the crowd had joined in, swayed back and forth even. It was mesmerizing. Sean had pretty much wallpapered his entire small hotel room with hard-copy versions of narticles from that night’s event—
his
event. Sean’s “one free man” message had gotten out to billions. Billions! It was one of the few times in his life when he felt that he was truly worthy of what he’d accomplished.

His self-approbation was momentarily interrupted by a call from his avatar. It almost never called him, which gave him a start, because it had been programmed to alert him if it heard any news about Elizabeth. He’d always held out hope that one of those alerts would be news of his beloved’s return. In a way, it was.

It had been a freak accident, the
Neptune News
had reported, concerning the connecting of a GCI power supply to an atmospheric converter on one of Saturn’s outer moons. Somehow the fully charged storage gel released its energy all at once. GCI’s spokesperson spoke of Elizabeth’s death as not only permanent but also a tragic
economic
loss.

Sean’s world crashed. He couldn’t remember anything. It was as if his whole psyche shattered and only little bits and pieces of who he used to be returned to the surface. He sat staring blankly at the holodisplay for hours, refusing to answer the door, refusing any and all attempts by his unruly followers to contact him. Finally, in the slow and particular manner of a parasitoid wasp emerging from the destroyed innards of its insect host, Sean slipped away from his shell. He stood up and stared blankly out the window—resolved.

They had destroyed his world—now he’d destroy theirs.

It was instinct that saved Justin’s life on the second assassination attempt. He and Neela had decided beforehand to take separate flights out of the Moon to avoid any unnecessary publicity. For those who asked, Neela was on the Moon under the pretext of needing to be near her patient during his first-ever Mardi Gras. An arranged “professional” consultation meeting at the orport allowed them to say their good-byes. Then, in the
th gravity of their surroundings, they gently floated off to their respective docking ports. Neela watched for a moment as Justin descended to his private t.o.p. just a few platforms below hers, and then she made her way to her gate. Justin, upon landing at his platform, was funneled down a long open-air walkway to his private t.o.p.’s departure gate. He noticed that his terminal had a permiawall in front of it adorned with a velvet rope and an impenetrable door motif. There was also a human uniformed member of hotel security whose sole job was to make sure only the proper people were let into the first-class waiting chamber. The guard saw Justin, pushed a button on her pad, and waved him toward the permiawall. Justin, who still hadn’t gotten used to walking into walls, held out his arm from force of habit—a sort of testing of the waters. He half expected to have his arm come crashing back, but it never did. Still, it was that little habit that ended up saving his life. The moment he put his hand through the permiawall his arm dissolved, sending hot jets of pain instantly through his entire body and bubbles of warm red liquid in all shapes and sizes floating off into the thin air. Instinctively, Justin leaped away from the permiawall, screaming in agony.

Were it not for the security monitors, the exact sequence of events would have been harder to figure out. The guard had immediately pulled a small and very standard hand weapon from her jacket and had pointed it at Justin. She didn’t have a chance to fire because of the attack from above by an enraged, winged demoness. Neela, hearing the commotion and fearing the worst, dove from her platform and, using her wings and weight, had turned what would have been a leisurely descent into the shrieking plunge of a falcon snaring a hare on the run. With one hand she ripped at the shocked assassin’s throat and with the other clawed at her eyes. Somehow the killer managed to shove Neela with enough force to send her flying in the direction of Justin, who was now lying on the floor in agony between the two of them. Only Neela’s expert use of her wings as a brake saved her from falling off the platform. The assassin got to one wobbly knee and aimed her weapon. Justin, seeing her momentarily distracted, managed to kick her sharply on the shin. It was enough to throw the killer off and send her shot wide. The effort to regain her balance was all the time Neela needed to launch herself at the assassin, who was flung backward into the rigged permiawall. The scream that echoed through the spaceport was cut off by the evisceration of the assassin’s vocal cords along with the rest of her body.

When he recovered later, Justin remembered none of this, having lost far too much blood to stay conscious. The last image on the playback would be forever seared in his mind—Neela cradling him in her arms and wings like a tableau from some level of hell—strangely tender to look at, but terrifying as well.

Sean Doogle has disappeared. His last confirmed location was in New Orleans for the Mardi Gras celebration. Though he owns a substantial majority of himself, his parents, as the largest minority shareholders, asked for an asset location search in the hopes of finding their son. So far the effort has proved fruitless amid speculation Mr. Doogle may have removed his locator chip.