The Unincorporated Man (29 page)

“Could I ask you a… personal question?” asked Thaddeus.

“First of all, Dr. Gill… Thaddeus, you don’t have to ask me that question… ever again. Just ask. Second of all, of course.”

“You must try not to take offense,” he said, prepping her for the second part of his question. Too late, he saw. “Exactly how much ‘trust’ have you established with Mr. Cord?” His implication was obvious. Neela began to bridle.

“Please forgive me, Neela, but I saw something on the video of the assault that concerned me. Correct me if I’m wrong here, please. It’s just the way you looked at him, spoke to him, that’s all. If I suspect it, others will, too.”

Neela counted to five and let out a deep breath. “To answer your question,” she said, with no small amount of fortitude, “I did not gain his trust
that
way.”

Thaddeus watched and listened but still wasn’t satisfied. Some itches needed to be scratched, others eliminated outright. Until he was satisfied that he’d been incorrect in his assumption, he’d push a little further.

“We’re colleagues in this, Neela,” he implored. “What you say to me here will be just as confidential as if Justin—or any patient for that matter—had said it.”

Neela weighed her answer. Even if the silence incriminated her, what she was considering revealing were words and thoughts that no one in their right mind would dream of uttering. “She seemed like such a nice girl,” she imagined her neighbors saying. “Always a kind word… I never would have believed…” All such thoughts ran through her head as she decided whether or not to speak the unspeakable. But in the end she realized she needed to talk to someone—anyone—about what she was experiencing, if only to help her sort through and expunge it from her system. She was tired. Tired of feeling dirty—tired of being confused. Who better to confess to than the reanimation specialist par excellence, Thaddeus Gillette?

“I did not develop trust like
that
,” she repeated, answering in a whispered tone—conciliatory. “But may Damsah forgive me for saying this… I… I wanted to.”

Her shoulders sagged at the confession.

Thaddeus said nothing—ever attentive.

“I can’t believe I am saying this,” she continued, pursing her lips tightly, almost as if they were expelling bile. “It goes against everything I was taught and believe. If someone had told me I would feel that way about a patient of mine…
of mine
, I would have issued a challenge right then and there. If I’d found out about another reanimationist who felt what I’m feeling now, I would’ve had nothing but contempt for them. But try as I might, Thaddeus, I look at him sometimes… the way he says something, I swear sometimes it’s how he smells… and my thoughts are not professional, not professional at all.”

She put her glass down on the table and put her head in her hands, hunched over, fingers forming lines through her scalp.

“What’s wrong with me?” she pleaded, staring down at the coffee table.

Dr. Gillette got up from his seat, sat down beside her on the couch, and gently patted her shoulder. She looked up and locked her eyes onto his, desperately waiting for salvation.

“Yours is a problem of great concern, I must admit. But,” he said, offering her a glimmer of hope, “not as unexpected as you would imagine.”

“How so?”

“Three reasons, my dear,” he answered, sliding a little farther back, re-creating an acceptable space between them on the couch. “First, you’re very young and new at your job to have to face a challenge of this magnitude. I reviewed your record. Because you had such a great skill and inclination for this work you were made a primary at a very young age. You should have been sent to a major facility, where you would have been assigned to a team as a secondary having little contact with clients. Had you joined me, and I can assure you I would’ve been glad to get you, you would not have been a primary until you were at least well into your fifties.”

“So being sent to Boulder was a compliment?”

“You weren’t sent. More like ‘plucked.’ Didn’t you find it strange that the colleague you were paired with was middle-aged—early seventies, if I recall?”

She nodded in the affirmative.

“My guess is that this director of yours, Mr. McKenzie, knew exactly what he was doing when he snatched you from the university and made you a primary, albeit at a small facility and at a very young age.”

Neela mulled it over. It had a certain amount of logic to it, and Lord knows she was more than happy to take any validation she could get, given her present state of decrepitude.

“Two,” continued Thaddeus, “there has never been a patient like our Mr. Cord—ever.”

Neela said nothing. Eyes steadfast.

“Indeed,” continued Thaddeus, “he makes our most impressive, intriguing clients seem about as interesting as a shoe. This of course leads to reason number three.”

As if to give the point more austerity, he put the empty glass that he’d been absentmindedly holding down on the table and cleared his throat.

“Justin is not from our world. The greatest safety net a reanimationist has is that their patient is a willing partner in society’s psychological barriers; knows in his heart of hearts a reanimationist/patient relationship is wrong—no,
evil
. Thousands of subtle cues over a lifetime of learning build that all-important wall of separation between our patients and us.”

Neela nodded, allowing the doctor’s words to act as a salve.

“But,” he continued, “Justin does not come from our era. He doesn’t render any cues of caution and disgust for the simple reason that he doesn’t feel them. From the vids I’ve seen of you both during your few weeks together, I would have to say that he feels quite the opposite. In fact, I would venture to say that he’s strongly attracted to you.”

“Yes, we’ve discussed it. And,” she said, rising to her own defense, “I told him in no uncertain terms, ‘No.’ ”

“And good that you did,” he answered. “So, given everything I’ve just said, what you’ve revealed to me today and the feelings you’re currently struggling with are, though on the surface deviant in nature, actually somewhat normal.

“Well,” he added, correcting himself, “as normal as this situation allows. Think about it, Neela. A fascinating, powerful, and remarkable man is expressing subtle but near constant interest in you. It would be
unnatural
if it didn’t invite a mutual feeling.”

Thaddeus saw that his explanations had hit their intended mark. Neela looked visibly relieved. Lest she hang her hat on redemption for too long, Thaddeus swung the counterpunch.

“But mark my words, Neela,
it must not be allowed to turn into anything
. We must not only protect you, we must protect our client—especially from himself.”

Putting words into action, he began to immediately scan the room for telltale signs of a woman’s presence.

None. That was good.

Still, he felt compelled to ask.

“Do you live here?”

“Of course not,” retorted Neela, bridling once more. “He rented an apartment for me next door.”

“Good, but not good enough. Will you take my advice in this matter?”

“Of course, Dr. Gill… Thaddeus. What do you want me to do?”

“First, you must move out of the apartment. I will take it over. You’ll get a place at least three kilometers away. But the farther the better.”

“But we spend so much time together, and I…”

“Of course,” he said, cutting her off, “I will maintain a guest room in my/your apartment here. If you happen to spend far more of your nights there than at your own place, then that is what will be.”

Neela seemed satisfied with the compromise. “Won’t people think that you and I might be, well, you know?”

“I hope they do,” he answered, smiling brightly. “If they’re looking at us they hopefully won’t be looking at you, or, more specifically, you and Justin. This will be of great use to our client, though he may not know it. And, I must admit that if people thought I could attract as charming a lover as you, it would not hurt my reputation, or love life, either.”

It was uttered so disarmingly and with such innocence, Neela realized that it was not a come-on, and took it for the compliment it was meant to be. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad arrangement after all.

“What is the second thing you need me to do, Thaddeus?”

“Quit.”

“But…”

“Fear not, my dear,” he interrupted, putting his finger up. “You will no longer be working for Justin. Assuming that he agrees, your contract will be transferred to me, and I will officially hire you as a member of my staff. I’ll make sure to put in a clause that you’ll receive your full salary and independent publishing rights, but we must put some legal distance between you and Mr. Cord. I’m sure he’ll understand the necessity of that.”

Neela looked around the room, not for the last time, but at least with a look that was meant to rid her of any silly notions of taking up residence with her derelict fantasies.

“Agreed,” she answered. “I’ll explain it to him tonight after dinner.”

“Excellent. Now, if you can help me with understanding our Mr. Cord, there is something that I cannot quite figure out.”

She was relieved. It was only a matter of time, and the ever-present ear of the gentlemanly Thaddeus Gillette, that assured her that her “natural” feelings toward Justin would dissipate, and with them her feelings of guilt and shame.

“It’ll be nice to get down to our real business,” she answered. “How can I help?”

Thaddeus gave Neela a look of reassurance, and then plowed ahead, objectives to be met, work to be done.

“Why the violent reaction at the end of the press conference—the actual lunging for Hektor and needing to be restrained by, not one, but a handful of bodyguards? Doesn’t make sense given what I know about Mr. Cord… past and present.”

“My theory?” answered Neela. “Justin was attacked, and he attacked back.”

“Attacked, you say? It must be very primal.”

“It is. First understand that what you consider ‘freedom’ and what he considers ‘freedom’ are two almost diametrically opposing beliefs. Having said that, know that Justin considers himself a free man. It’s his whole identity. He would die, and I think even kill, to maintain that freedom.”

“And incorporation?”

“Tantamount to slavery. On the surface he seems curious and accepting of it, but deep down in his gut, when he hears ‘incorporation’ he
feels
‘slavery.’ ”

“So,” said Thaddeus, “Mr. Sambianco’s attempt to force incorporation via the courts was, in fact, an attack.”

“To Justin it would be as if someone was trying to put a chain around his neck or brand him with an old-fashioned cattle iron. I don’t think he realized just how strongly he felt about it until he lost control. Add to that the fact that they have a history.”

Neela went on to explain Hektor’s initial attempt to first trick and then force Justin into incorporating, and how her fortuitous timing had stymied his plans.

“Shameful, shameful. Not good. And, incidentally—it also means you’ve saved Justin twice,” muttered Gillette. “Explains a lot.”

Neela said nothing, but she realized just how bad this could be. Everyone was incorporated, and Justin had to come to some accommodation with that fact or be forever exiled from society. She was only now beginning to realize how his old-world definition of freedom wasn’t just semantic, it was intrinsic. He couldn’t live without it. Further, that Justin’s views of freedom weren’t just out of sync; they were dangerous. And so she swore to herself that she would do whatever it took to change the man, for better or for worse.

It was then that a call came through. Neela raised her hand to her ear and answered.

“What is it?” asked Thaddeus, seeing the blood drain from his newest hire’s face.

“Justin’s fallen off the Empire State Building.”

When Justin’s eyes fluttered back to life it was in a hospital surrounded by a coterie of doctors, police, and technicians. But there was only one face he was truly glad to see.

“You know I can’t keep waking you up,” Neela said, smiling down on him, rolling her eyes. “It’s starting to get a little boring.”

“Yes… yes, you can,” he replied, awkwardly lifting his hand up for her to take. She looked around uncomfortably, and then took it into hers. It would not be considered inappropriate, she reasoned. No one gave her a look. She allowed herself to admit it felt good.

When Justin was done answering the questions as well as having his own answered, he realized just how lucky he’d been. The weapon used to threaten him was called a neurolizer. It was designed specifically to cause permanent death by scrambling a person’s neural network connections, leaving the brain dead and, for all intents and purposes, the owner of that brain a vegetable; the man Justin had thrown over the side of the building had suffered a permanent death as a result of the fall. In short, there had been nothing left to reconstitute. Fortunately, there had been no bystanders to land on, as the area had been cleared once “the incident,” as it was being reported across the system, had come to the attention of those responsible for the ESC’s security; the man with the gun had been an immediate threat to Justin’s being and was eliminated without prejudice, a young lieutenant had informed him. And no, they couldn’t have just knocked him out. Not knowing what sorts of precautions or defenses the assailant may have taken resulted in a hard, fast decision that had not boded well for the recently obliterated Marcelius Henklebee, who had been unmarried and led an uneventful life—quiet sort. Who knew? The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders again. As for Justin, he was “one lucky sonavabitch, don’t ya know?” Seems they managed to get the floater field reactivated approximately forty feet from impact, slowing Justin’s descent appreciably enough to prevent him from becoming street pizza.

“Impact?” asked Justin.

The lieutenant nodded and smiled.

Neela was waiting for him as he checked out of the hospital and, with a police escort in tow, took him home. He needed it. His experience on the observation deck was not just being reported, it was being systemcast. Multiple recorders from the apartments and shops above the Empire State Building had seen and heard everything.