The Unincorporated Man (7 page)

“That’s right, Mosh,” she agreed, “I am. But it is a part of history. Correction. It’s a part of
our
history. And let’s be very clear on this. What I just described was at one time normal. In fact, you could be seen as a very decent, good, and ethical human being and still be a slave owner.”

“OK, Neela,” said Gil, “I realize you’re trying to draw an analogy, but I just don’t see it. There’s no comparison.”

“Sorry, Gil. I’m not finished.” Neela stood up and started pacing. “Let’s take our last three-hundred-year period and look at it another way. If we were to go three hundred years into the past starting from Justin’s era, we’d find men who thought being ruled by a king was perfectly normal, in fact divine, and that whites were superior to all other races. Now, imagine reviving someone from that era into Justin’s time period. How would they adjust?”

“That’s almost a nonstarter, Neela,” Mosh interjected. “I’m with Gil. There’s no comparison, culturally. Our world is far more similar to his. Our democratic values have remained relatively unchanged in the past three hundred years. If anything, he’ll see our world as a natural extension of his.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Neela said, sitting back down in her chair and gently leaning forward onto the table. “But now he’s in a world where people can, technically,
own
people. Not in the way we just discussed, but close enough that he’ll probably equate it with a loss of liberty. When he was alive the wounds of slavery were still raw enough that President Winfrey used a modified form of reparation as a platform toward her eventual election as president of the United States. Incorporation of the human individual will be the biggest change he’ll have to accept if he’s to successfully integrate into our society. I suspect it will be a challenge, and while I’m aware of your concerns, Gil, I’m also aware that everything we do in these first few weeks will have a huge impact on our patient’s future growth and eventual acceptance into society.”

Neela leaned back, surveying the crowd in front of her. She had their attention now. “So,” she continued, “you’ll forgive me if I put off your paperwork for another few weeks. OK, Gil?”

This got another chuckle from the group.

“Neela, one; Gil, zero,” snickered Mosh. “I think we’re all in agreement with Neela and will, until further notice, follow her lead with regard to acclimating Justin to our apparently uncivilized way of life.”

This got them laughing yet again, which was Mosh’s intention.

“That being said,” he continued, “there are a few other items on the agenda I’d like to go over.” He noticed Dr. Wang making some notes into her DijAssist.

“If I could have everyone’s complete attention, please.”

Dr. Wang looked up sheepishly.

Mosh continued. “I know that we’re all getting excited about our good fortune, and with it the expectation of a profitable future. It goes without saying that all involved with this great find will see significant jumps in their portfolios as a result. Yes, your value to society, and ergo your stocks, will rise as assuredly as our patient’s fame. But I want to caution you on two things. One,” he said, making sure to look everyone in the eye, “we must keep this work a secret for now. We’re in a very tenuous and critical juncture in our patient’s revival. If he fails, we fail.”

They all understood what he meant. They’d been handed perhaps one of the century’s greatest finds. And Justin’s success would be theirs as well. But if any one of them failed in their respective roles toward the patient’s successful reintegration, it would show up with dizzying speed in their respective portfolios.

“Second,” continued Mosh, “you must resist the urge to make any stock purchases of yourself or any person in this room.”

This was greeted with abject silence.

“What does one thing have to do with the other?” asked Dr. Wang. “We have a right to profit from this good fortune.”

“And if we don’t move now… ,” continued Gil.

“. . . you’ll lose your chance to buy self-stock at the cheaper rate,” finished Mosh. “Yes, I’m well aware of that fact. Which is why I took the liberty of buying two thousand options of each of you when you first came to work for me. It’s more than you’d ever be able to buy at your current salaries, and I’m willing to sell you those shares back at your current valuations—if, and only if, you keep this quiet for another two weeks.”

“We can’t keep it quiet, Mosh. Word’s already out,” said Neela.

“Yes, Neela,” he agreed, “word is out, but aside from the four of us and our good friends at GCI, very few know what was inside the unit, and if what was inside was successfully reanimated.”

“So then how will buying stock in ourselves now make any difference at all?” asked Gil.

“It’s the smoking gun, Gil,” answered Mosh. “Profit Sniffs get leads all the time. If they followed up on every ‘find’ they heard about they’d be out of business in a week. What they look for is the smoke, not the gun.”

Neela finished his thought. “And our run on the facility and ourselves would be the smoke.”

Mosh nodded. “Exactly.”

“So what if the Profit Sniffs find out now?” asked Dr. Wang. “As long as we’ve got our shares secured we can go along for the ride. And I think you’ll agree it should be a profitable one.”

“Yes,” said Mosh, “but you’re all forgetting one very important thing.”

Dr. Wang looked at Mosh a little quizzically. “And that would be?”

“The patient,” Neela answered in Mosh’s stead.

“But,” said Gil, “you yourself said he was doing fine, Neela.”

“For someone who’s been through what he’s been through, yeah, I’d say he is. But this isn’t a standard revive. If we’re all to profit, he’s going to have to integrate effectively. I very much doubt you or I will fare well in the media circus that’s about to engulf our little backwoods enclave, much less our recently revived patient. Mosh’s offer is the best for everyone. I suggest we go with it.”

They all nodded in agreement.

“OK, Mosh,” Dr. Wang said, whipping out her DijAssist. “Talk to me about the options.”

“A second if you would, Dr. Wang?” interrupted Neela. “I still have one last question.”

“Yes?”answered Mosh.

“Has anyone seen Hektor?”

Justin felt great. He’d always lived life on his own terms, and now he’d done the same with his death. And though he knew he was probably being monitored, he couldn’t help but walk around his room with an idiot grin on his face. In fact, the last memory he ever had of feeling this good was when he emerged, at the ripe old age of fourteen, from the back seat of a 1967 Ford Fairmont with one Jenny O’Donnell. She’d managed to teach him, in the course of one evening, everything there was to know about the opposite sex—or at least everything a fourteen-year-old thought he should know. Yes, he was feeling good. He was even looking good. He stared at himself in the mirror for a full hour. This was not the cancer-stricken body he’d been suspended with. It was his body, no doubt, just a lot younger and healthier. Justin figured it for thirty-five to forty years of age. He wasn’t surprised. Even in his era, the father of nanotechnology, Eric Drexler, had posited that once man controlled cells at a molecular level, the idea of replacing aging skin cells with newer, more vibrant ones was just a matter of time. Well then, time had certainly been kind to him. But for the fact that all he wanted to do now was eat, he probably would have already been out doing things and going places. He had more energy than he knew what to do with. And while he knew he should probably be planning and mapping out his next conversation with his handler, as he thought of Neela, right now he just couldn’t help himself. He paced back and forth impatiently, waiting for breakfast to arrive.

He heard a short, gentle tone coming from the direction of the door.

That had better be my food,
he thought.

“Come in,” he called out.

A handsome man with strong Latino features entered the room. He was tall, with thick black hair, a sturdy physique, and what might have been construed as an overly confident gait. Though Justin was not familiar with the styles of this generation, he could swear that the suit the man was wearing was expensive. It somehow
smelled
expensive.

“Justin?” The man extended his hand. Instinctively, Justin put his hand out as well, but was surprised to find that the man hadn’t extended his the few inches farther that would have allowed them to make contact.

How odd,
Justin thought.

The man’s arm was close to his body and his hand was extended almost like that of a toy soldier. It was as if he were going through the motions of a handshake without ever having done the deed. It didn’t end there, though. Once their hands did meet—by Justin’s overextension of his arm—the man didn’t grasp Justin’s hand. He just let it lie there, moving it up and down only when Justin did.
He’s never shaken hands before,
thought Justin,
but I’ll give him points for trying.
Probably one of many new social courtesies he’d have to relearn. But still a good sign. They were making every effort to make him feel comfortable in their world by attempting to mimic some aspects of his.

“And you would be?” asked Justin.

“Hektor,” he answered warmly. “Hektor Sambianco.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Sambianco?”

“Please, call me Hektor.” The silence was broken by Justin’s growling stomach.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Justin, “but I haven’t eaten in three hundred years and I’m bit peckish. I actually thought you were the
food,
as it were.”

“Of course,” Hektor said, still smiling. “It’s not a problem. Can I order you something?”

“No, thank you. It’s coming.”

“Ahh. Very good. Then I suggest we wrap this up before your meal arrives.”

“And the ‘this’ would be?”

“Why, your ability to pay, of course.”

“You’re talking about the bill, then?”

“A bill, yes, I understand. What an interesting way of putting it. Yes, we’re talking about the bill,” Hektor parroted back.

Justin relaxed. This was something he’d anticipated, and no matter what price they threw at him, he was pretty sure he’d have it covered. Certainly, with all he’d stashed away, some of it could be sold for cold hard cash… if that’s what they were using these days. But it seemed odd to him that they would bring it up this early in his acclimation period. After all, what was he now? Less than one day old? Had it been up to him he would have waited longer. But it wasn’t, and business was business. He could certainly relate to that. For all he knew he was in this century’s version of an HMO—and if that were the case, they were being remarkably patient.

“Not to worry, Hektor, I’ll make good on my debts. Just leave me the bill. It may take a little while to transfer my assets into money, but I’m good for it. And even if my obvious assets have depreciated, I should still have access to items of cultural value that I’m sure will suffice.”

Hektor looked surprised.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about paying for this now, Justin. That would be ludicrous. And we certainly understand that there’s a lot for you to do in the coming days. No, all we need from you is a thumbprint and signature right on this tablet that says, in effect, you’re ‘good for it’ I believe were the words you used.” Hektor then held out his DijAssist, pointing to where Justin should give a thumb imprint.

In Justin’s mind, Hektor’s request was reasonable. However, anytime anyone asked him to sign anything, red flags flew. Most of the time they were false alarms, but he could never be too sure… especially given his previous line of work.

“That sounds reasonable, Hektor. Mind if I take a look at your PDA?”

Hektor looked at him blankly. “PD… what?”

“The tablet in your hand that you want me to sign on.”

“Oh, my DijAssist. Sure. But, between you and me, why go through the headache? It’s mainly a whole bunch of legal mumbo jumbo. I’m sure that hasn’t changed in centuries, right?” Hektor let out a nervous laugh.

He’s hiding something,
Justin realized.

“Yes, you’re probably right, Hektor, but old habits die… hmmm, perhaps a bad choice of words. Old habits
sleep
hard, and reading mumbo jumbo happens to be one of mine, so if you don’t mind…” Justin extended his hand for the DijAssist.

Hektor handed it over, praying that Justin would skim over some texts and then thumbsign, satisfying his “read” of the document. He viewed with irritation Justin’s hapless attempt to control the unit, and then watched as Justin’s face went from curiosity to consternation.

What on Earth is a Standard Individual Incorporation?
thought Justin. He read for a few more seconds.
This can’t be right.

“Perhaps, Hektor,” Justin said, raising the DijAssist slightly, “you could leave this here with me and come back later… since you seem to be in such a hurry, that is.”

Hektor, who until now had purposely lowered his profile—slouching even—suddenly stood erect, to his full six-foot four-inch height.

“Justin,” he said, eyes narrowing—lifeless, “you don’t seem to understand. You are, for lack of a better word, an indigent. If we do not have the ability to collect payment we will be forced to resuspend you until other means of payment can be secured.”

Justin was taken aback. “And when would this ‘resuspension’ take place?” he asked, barely managing to recover and hoping to negotiate some wiggle room. The last thing he wanted after a three-century coma was another nap.

“Now seems to be as good a time as any,” answered Hektor coldly. He snapped his fingers and two thugs appeared in the doorway. They were dressed in starched white jumpsuits, and together formed an impenetrable wall of muscle—not that it mattered. Justin had neither the knowledge nor inclination to flee. Neither brute smiled, and both looked at Justin as if he was keeping them from something far more important than their imminent manhandling of his being.

“Wait a minute,” barked Justin to Hektor, as the thugs moved in. That seemed to stall the wall momentarily. “Dr. Harper said that I was the
only
one from my era. You’d really risk your job resuspending someone like me?”