The Unincorporated Man Read online

  Then he heard the pages turn again.

  His eyes wandered gently toward the sound. There, sitting cross-legged a few feet from his bed, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in the world. She was reading a book. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  She is beautiful, he thought, but the most beautiful? He began to doubt. She’s so beautiful because you were never meant to see anyone ever again—much less a woman.

  Justin began to shift his body subtly. He could feel his heart pounding. He felt warm. Fear. This must be fear, he reasoned. And not that he could prove it, but somehow the bed seemed to have responded to the fluctuation in his temperature. It was a few degrees cooler now.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cord.” A voice from the past. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “How long?” Justin echoed in response.

  “Two months at the most. You’ll want to make arrangements.”

  “Yes, of course, Doctor. You needn’t worry. All necessary arrangements have already been made.”

  Justin was now no longer afraid. In fact, quite the opposite. Triumph seemed to pulse through his veins as he began to experience a sense of elation far beyond anything he had ever imagined. He remembered everything. But what stood head and shoulders above the cascade of sounds and imagery now refilling his mind was one very salient and inimitable fact—he had won. His death had been revoked.

  Son of a bitch. He grinned. It worked.

  Neela realized she was nervous. This was not the first time this had happened. Her oldest revive had been a five-year case that she got only because the specialist on call had gotten into a traffic accident, and the procedure had already started. Her career to date was made up of reanimating bodies in suspension measured in months, never years. And now she was the sole revivalist on record for a man with well over three hundred of them. For all she knew, this person was alive when the Beatles were touring. He may even have visited the World Trade Center or seen Mecca before those world-altering disasters. She had a million questions.

  For the first time in her short career she took a body-suppression drug, at one time recommended but now almost never used by those in her profession. The thinking went that the last thing you wanted to happen during a revive was to shock the patient with a loud sneeze or, worse, a disagreeable odor. In theory it was correct, but in fact most of the revives Neela oversaw got up as if they’d taken a long nap. The only thing that would frighten these people was a serious drop in their portfolios or a losing season of a favorite team. Hardly seemed worth the side effects of the drug against an almost nonexistent risk. But this was different. Not only in this case could the initial theory be correct, but certainly this day was going to be written about, commented on, and listened to for the rest of her considerable life and beyond. And this record was not going to have her hiccupping, sneezing, or, perhaps, doing something decidedly worse for all eternity.

  It took all of her control not to stare at him. He had soft, wavy brown hair, a few wisdom lines across his well-exposed forehead that curved into gentle arcs, and a well-proportioned face finished elegantly with a strong masculine jawline. She estimated him to be well over six feet tall. She wasn’t sure if her fascination was based on the very novelty of who he was and what he represented or the fact that he was, even from her admittedly feigned objective viewpoint, quite handsome. The former theory would have to suffice, since the idea of any sort of attraction was anathema not only to Neela but also to present-day society. When a patient first awoke they were considered vulnerable. It was as simple as that. Any thoughts of physical attraction were to be quickly dispelled, and then followed ideally by a healthy dose of shame. It hadn’t always been that way. However, as a result of earlier abuses—sexual and otherwise—by a few miscreants in the fledgling cryonics movement, a meme had been put in place that rather effectively tarred an abuser of a suspendee on the same level as that of a sexual deviant. As far as memes went it was excessive but rather efficient in giving safe harbor to those returning from their long, sleepy journeys. And so, well before Neela’s life cycle began, the only acceptable relationship between a patient and a reanimationist was professional—no exceptions whatsoever.

  As she looked over at her patient she wanted to pummel him with questions and be shocked and amazed by the answers. But it was vital that she be nothing but a neutral presence until he chose to notice her. Had this been one of her run-of-the-mill revives she wouldn’t have worried a bit. The patient would have received a full briefing well in advance on how to handle being suspended and revived. And even had it been an emergency suspension there would have been nothing to fear. Suspension had become so standardized a procedure that most were aware of what to expect—barring any unforeseen circumstances, of course. In fact, her generation was so comfortable with the concept of revival that immediate interaction had become more the norm than the exception.

  But for this revive Neela had done her homework. Since she hadn’t expected Hektor to waltz in and almost waltz away with her patient, she had begun her research immediately. So when she did get the call from Mosh, she was ready. She’d sorted through her old college notes, as well as the university archives, looking for the information she’d need, paramount of which was Ettinger’s seminal work developed over three centuries earlier to deal with patients for whom revival was a shock. After reading and reviewing hundreds of pages, one theme seemed to emerge: Patients had to reintegrate at their own pace. Too much proaction on the part of the revivalist risked setting into motion all manner of psychotic trauma—too little and the patient might have permanent abandonment trauma. The mind reborn was as vulnerable and helpless as that of a newborn child. And until it had a chance to acclimate to its new reality, great care would have to be taken. On this, all the founding experts had agreed, and so, too, did the experts of her day. But until this find, now her find, it had all been theoretical.

  So she waited and read her “book,” whose exterior was quite authentic, down to the creaking sound a bound volume would make. It was the interior that was different—a cleverly concealed, encased holodisplay. Neela’s support team in the wings was also simultaneously viewing on their linked displays the various readouts emitting from the book. The players included the room specialists who were not privy to the actual goings-on, a standby resuscitation team, and, of course, Mosh and his associated staff. Of all the players only Mosh, Dr. Wang, Neela, and Hektor knew the subject’s recent history. The information on the display gave the patient’s vitals, eye movements, and, to some extent, thoughts. Neela could tell by the brain scan what emotions the patient was feeling and to what extent they were being felt. The display also contained her vitals. For any number of reasons, her stats were just as important as his. This reawakening would be a delicate dance between two strangers from two worlds, and any major fluctuations in either of them could lead to a disaster.

  Though Justin’s feelings were now running amok, he was making a conscious effort to suppress them. Every fiber in his body yearned to grab the woman he saw, give her a great big hug, and scream with joy at the top of his lungs. He had a million questions, but by virtue of personal experience and business savvy, he had learned that self-answered questions always added leverage. And he didn’t yet know what type of leverage he was going to need.

  Time for answers.

  Justin again scanned the room, but this time more methodically. He was looking for anything that would give him an inkling about the type of world he’d willed himself into.

  The readings Neela was getting were positive. Very positive. The patient’s endorphin response was through the roof, as expected. All areas of the brain associated with contentment were hot, and his heartbeat was rapid, also as expected. This was indeed a happy man. She noticed, too, that her joy levels were up as well—not an uncommon reaction. After all, the best revivalists were naturally sympathetic, and to some extent even empathetic, having been suspended themselves as part of their training.

  Then somethi
ng strange happened.

  What the . . .? Neela kept her face and reactions perfectly normal, but her brain was working overtime trying to figure out the anomaly.

  The patient’s readings had leveled out almost as if someone had turned off her display. Too fast, she thought. Her eyes glanced subtly to the through-view wall, wondering if her staff was experiencing the malfunction as well.

  For a moment she thought that perhaps the software had failed her. But then she glanced at her own readings. Normal. Which is to say, exactly as would be expected for an individual feeling concern. No, it wasn’t the software; it must be the man himself, and according to the holodisplay the patient’s state was categorized as “calm and alert.” But how? In all her years of study, encompassing hundreds of patients, she’d never seen anyone control an emotional response with such brutal efficiency. Who is this guy?

  Justin was now keenly aware of his surroundings. He started with the bed. Whatever it is I’m resting on is somehow aware of my physiological condition and is able to respond. Fascinating. He shifted his body only to feel the bed conform to his movement and help him into the most comfortable position. OK, he thought, the technology clearly kicks ass. Of course it kicks ass, you idiot, he realized a moment later, you’re alive. And even that important fact spoke volumes about the society he’d awakened to. But he’d hopefully have time for that. Gather physical facts now, he chided himself, evaluate later.

  The light was the most obvious change he was aware of. It came from no discernible source yet was everywhere. The room was simply lit. The more he tried to find a light source, the more his brain hurt, so he dropped it. They have sourceless light—move on. He smelled coffee but saw no coffeepot. If he were relying on his smell alone he would have bet his fortune that a percolator was in the room. They have scent simulators and are smart enough . . . no—sensitive enough—to use them in this situation. This was a good start. Not only had he been reanimated, but it was now apparent that the people who had done the re-animation had gone to great effort to make him comfortable. So, he reasoned, not necessarily an inhospitable society. Good. Now he turned to the woman. She was, while not the most beautiful woman in the world, still quite attractive.

  Her pose, crossed legs and casual indifference, suggested comfort. But that was it, wasn’t it? A pose . . . for his benefit alone. Because this woman clearly was not comfortable. Justin had become an expert on reading body language, and hers was tense.

  She’s waiting for me. Fine. Patience. She can wait.

  Now he noticed the book in her hands. He tried to make out the title. He focused his eyes. The Tempest, by William Shakespeare. He smiled. How appropriate, and, of course, logical. Not knowing exactly how old I am, she went with a classic. He chuckled to himself. She has access to technology that can raise the dead, provide completely sourceless light, and physiologically adaptive furniture, and is sitting here holding in her hands what is most likely a relic of my millennium. “A” for effort.

  And the more he thought about it, the more reassured he became. He clearly had some value to someone just by being alive. And to Justin it mattered not whether it was an intrinsic value that this society placed on human life, or perhaps the “freak show value” of his circumstance. He was alive, and someone very much wanted him to remain so. Either way it gave him some standing. Having assessed as much as he could within his immediate vicinity, he realized it was time to interact with the woman.

  Neela was keeping tabs on her patient. He was in some sort of evaluation mode, and it was pretty obvious from where his eyes and muscles were moving that he was analyzing his environment. What she didn’t understand was why this seemed to be causing him irritation. The light was specifically set to not cause any . . .

  Idiot, Neela chastised herself. They didn’t have sourceless light three hundred years ago. I should have set up a light emitter.

  But no sooner had the self-flagellation begun than she felt his eyes bearing directly down on her. Instinctively she forced her feelings aside in an attempt to appear relaxed. It was unbearable. She yearned for the release of speech. Perhaps he’d lost his ability to speak, she reasoned. No, the prerevive indicators would have flagged that. But the indicators weren’t always right, were they? Software was software, and its many malfunctions had been a part of the technological lore for eons. He’d talk when he was good and ready, and she’d just have to wait patiently until he did.

  “How long?” Justin asked, surprised at the sound of a voice he’d lived his whole life with but which now somehow felt new.

  “I assume you mean how long have you been suspended?” Neela asked.

  “Yes. How long?”

  “By our estimates, about three hundred years. With some more information we could give you an exact date.”

  “Maybe later.”

  The enormity of Justin’s accomplishment was just starting to sink in, but so was the enormity of the loss.

  “Is there anyone left alive from my time?”

  “None that we’re aware of. Though you yourself came as a surprise—so it’s not inconceivable,” she answered, wishing to instill some hope.

  “But highly unlikely, correct?”

  “That is correct.” Neela began to realize that this was a man who was not going to need much of a soft pillow. She would disregard most of her primary plans and move to adopt a more straightforward approach.

  “But how is that possible?” Justin continued. “At the time of my suspension there were at least two active cryonic-suspension organizations with memberships in the thousands and suspensions in the hundreds. You’re telling me that in the past three hundred years not a single one of those suspendees made it?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, Mr.—”

  “For now, you can call me Justin.”

  “For now?” Neela was curious. “Is Justin not your real name?”

  “It is for now,” he answered.

  “OK, Justin,” Neela continued. If that’s how he wants to play it, then fine. “My name is Neela, and you’re correct. The cryonics movement of three hundred years ago, while tiny, was in fact persistent. And had the backlash not occurred, the incremental growth of those organizations would most likely have allowed a good number of suspendees to have made it to this time.”

  “Backlash?”

  “Yes. Both of the organizations you referred to were destroyed, including all the patients.”

  “How?”

  “One by a legal maneuver, the other by fire. The state government seized the one based in Michigan after it was revealed that most of the suspendees had died via assisted suicide. Apparently that was a political hot potato at the time, and the revelation forced a governmental inquiry and an eventual subpoena that resulted in the destruction of the facility’s patients via court-mandated autopsies. I believe they used a tax law to seize the suspended patients, and they ordered full autopsies to check for foul play. After it was all done they apologized to the facilities’ caretakers and returned the property, but by then . . .”

  “. . . by then it wouldn’t have mattered,” Justin said, finishing her thought. The whole point of suspension was not so much to freeze the body as it was to freeze the brain held within it. After all, it was the brain that truly determined “self,” and it was the brain that held all the resident memories. A body left to defrost for too long would lead to ischemia of the brain or, more precisely, brain rot. And with that rot went any chance of memory retrieval. In essence, permanent death.

  “And the one in Arizona?” asked Justin.

  “That one was attacked by a mob and destroyed while the police looked on.”

  Justin furrowed his brow. “That seems a strong reaction against a group of people frozen in metal cylinders.”

  Neela nodded. “I would say it goes beyond strong, Justin. But given the circumstances at the time, understandable.”

  “Please explain.”

  Neela would have preferred he rested a bit before she loaded him up w
ith information, but she could also understand his need for immediate satiation—his need to find a center from which to begin.

  “The country,” she answered, “was in the midst of what has since become known as the Grand Collapse. Cryonic suspension was seen not only as an eccentric pursuit, but also as an area of exclusivity for the rich. That alone probably wouldn’t have been enough to cause the wanton destruction visited on the Arizona facility. However, the cryo-suspension of a serial pedophile and child murderer was. You see, the courts had ruled that once this criminal was officially declared dead, his contract with the Arizona institute for cryo-suspension should be honored. And keep in mind that he was put to death in a way perfectly conducive to the cryonic process—morphine overdose. But two hundred and fifty years ago medical nanotechnology was beginning to bear fruit, and the mere possibility that this creep might one day walk again—via the new technology—was enough to send an already enraged, unemployed mob on the warpath. The facility was burned to the ground while the police stood by and watched. The leader of the mob was interviewed years later, and when asked why he’d destroyed the facility, didn’t say a word about the molester. What he did say has reverberated to this day as the ultimate cry of selfishness and despair: ‘If we can’t have a future, why should they?’” Neela checked to see that Justin was still with her. He was. “Does that make sense to you?” she asked.

  “I’m the man who buried myself in a mountain against that very possibility,” he answered, “so, sadly, yes—it does.” He then sighed, choosing to remain silent. He needed time to absorb what he’d just heard.

  He’d remembered reading a report in high school about immigrants who’d come to America in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. At first he wasn’t sure why this memory came to him unbidden so clearly after all of these years. But he recalled his teacher trying to explain to him what it must have been like to be an immigrant, abandoning everything to go live in a new land far from home and family. At the time he’d listened but didn’t understand. His was a world that had been connected technologically and wirelessly from the highest mountain to the most remote Amazonian village. You didn’t have to “miss” anyone if you didn’t want to, as long as you had the means to connect. But now Justin was beginning to understand what those early immigrants must have felt. They’d abandoned everything in the hopes of something better. But unlike those early immigrants, Justin had no way of reconnecting with his home. Not even the slightest chance of ever returning. He was an exile—unique among mankind in that his exile was not enforced by bars or distance or law, but rather by the unbending reality of time itself.