Hektor pored through the newly garnered records and formulated a plan of attack. He had to hand it to Special Operations. They'd kept tabs on all the important and potentially important people in the system, and their file on prospective troublemakers was interesting. Hektor figured to start small. If he could find one of these on-edge, unpsyche audited troublemakers within Justin's new party and push them just enough to fall off the edge-perhaps even manipulate them into doing something outrageous in the name of the divestiture movement-then Hektor would be able to put the blame squarely on Justin's doorstep. This would give him the consensus to attack Justin directly. Of course, he'd need to be the DepDir by then, but Hektor was confident that that would soon come to fruition or, conversely, that he'd be so far from the seat of power that he wouldn't care. His first activation would be one Sean Doogle-rated, according to the files, as nominally unstable. As a rule Hektor wouldn't dare involve himself in the affairs of a family as powerful as the Doogles, but Sean was technically under the wide wings of Justin, pretty much disowned, and the publicity of the name would help rivet the public on any newsworthy actions Doogle might, with a little connivance from Hektor, be able to affect. And with the Doogle character Hektor knew exactly what button to press-the file made that perfectly clear. It was sad about the human collateral involved, but as far as Hektor was concerned, it was a small price to pay.

At first glance Sean Doogle didn't seem like a world shaker. He appeared young and in good health. But this was not remarkable in the world he had grown up in. His fashion was way out of date, as he sported pants and a jacket made up entirely of patches, a fad that was twenty years dead and showed no sign of returning, except among Sean's more fervent followers. His hair was long, and he had a couple of extra pounds lingering about his waistline. He'd only have a nanofat flush when it got to be a problem, and then would go back to eating too much, but in the corporate world being overweight wasn't a real problem either. Real obesity was as dead as taxes and cancer. But it wasn't just his looks that threw people off. It was his ancestry. The Doogle family had been wealthy and powerful for generations. No one in Sean's immediate family tree failed to have majority assured by their twenty-first birthday.

And Sean was no exception. His life had been well charted. He'd attend the best schools, take the most exclusive grand tours of the solar system, and network with the most select social set. It was also true that Sean wouldn't have to work hard or contribute much to society, but his ancestors had done all that so that he wouldn't have to. After sixty or so years he'd think about settling down, getting married to a woman of the same acceptable background, and digging in for a life of luxury that most of the rest of society could only have dreamed about. Yes, Sean Doogle's life was meant to be one of safety, wealth, interest, and ease.

This is what would have happened but for two small problems. One was that Sean was very intelligent and withdrawn from an early age. This was only a small handicap, and his avatar would have directed him toward similar people in his social strata. It is indeed likely that he, via his meddling avatar, would have "found" a woman who was also withdrawn and shy, and they would've had a happy, eccentric life together, perhaps as husband and wife college professors, or even botanists, with their own island to play with. But the second event in Sean's young life proved to be far more problematic and not as easy to solve.

Sean fell in love.

It was the most dangerous and cruelest sort. Love at first sight. From the moment he saw the raven-haired laughing girl he knew she was the one he was going to marry. He, of course, knew nothing about her, but that didn't stand in his way. After all, Sean was used to getting what he wanted. He spent so much time daydreaming about her, as only withdrawn fourteen-year-old boys could do, that a week went by before he worked up the courage to find out who she was.

He was delighted to find out that her father worked for the family. In fact, he'd just been hired as the head of the stables. In a reversal of the cliche from the ancient romance novels, the young, rich, shy boy soon fell in love with the stableman's daughter. Her name was Elizabeth Reynolds, and she was, at least from what Sean could tell, fearless with the horses under her charge, and almost equally wild and free. Not free in the corporate sense; she was, after all, a penny, having been born into a family of 25 percenters, but certainly free in every other respect. Like her father she excelled at training, and since this was something that machines and drones were not able to do as well as humans, it was one of those specialty areas humans had not been displaced from.

Sean, who until then would have been hard-pressed to tell you where the stables were, developed a passion for horse riding. Every day he'd be seen going down to the stables, and every day he'd work hard to improve his form. After a while he became a fair enough rider, and was even allowed to help with the care of the horses-something Elizabeth's father would not have allowed unless Sean had earned it. It was, ironically, one of the things he was proudest of in his early life. He'd earned earned the right to clean up stables and to care for and groom horses. No one had handed it to him on a silver platter. But the real reward, of course, was Elizabeth. Every day with Elizabeth. the right to clean up stables and to care for and groom horses. No one had handed it to him on a silver platter. But the real reward, of course, was Elizabeth. Every day with Elizabeth.

Sean's new passion was of some concern to his parents, but it was assumed that he'd grow out of it. After all, a boy of Sean's class could and did start enjoying intercourse with a great many different men and women from a wide variety of classes and places. But this was not the case with Sean. He was truly in love. And in an age when a boy of Sean's years was hard-pressed to still be a virgin, he'd managed to stay one, waiting for the day to consummate the act with his one true love.

For a while Elizabeth was flattered by the attention. To be so completely loved by a boy who would grow up to be a wealthy man was not without its attractions. But what for Sean was a complete and all-consuming love was for Elizabeth a childhood romance. As she grew older she grew away from the young man who was still infatuated with her. She did care for him, and didn't want to see him hurt, but the love he'd professed for her was not now, nor ever going to be, reciprocated. Had Elizabeth been a more mercenary sort-only interested in "the three Ms" of money, majority, and matrimony-her life would have been set. But that wasn't Elizabeth.

As soon as an opportunity arose to leave, she grabbed it. It seemed she'd been awarded an internship with TerraCo, an interplanetary terraforming corporation. The internship had been arranged quietly by Sean's parents with Elizabeth's father's approval (without either of the teenagers' knowledge). But for Elizabeth it wouldn't have mattered. It was a great opportunity for adventure. In a little lie that would have repercussions far beyond what she ever could have imagined, Elizabeth broke the news to Sean. Rather than hurt him by saying she wanted wanted to leave, she told him she to leave, she told him she had had to. The easy patsy for her desire to not hurt him was the incorporation movement itself. Elizabeth told him that she had to go because she didn't own a majority of herself. Of course, Sean offered to buy her majority on the spot, but she'd told him that she wanted to earn her majority on her own, a common work ethic among the pennies. The truth was that for someone as deeply in love and, most would argue later, "disturbed," as Sean was, there would have been no good reason. Elizabeth's departure left him devastated, with only one glimmer of hope. She would one day return. to. The easy patsy for her desire to not hurt him was the incorporation movement itself. Elizabeth told him that she had to go because she didn't own a majority of herself. Of course, Sean offered to buy her majority on the spot, but she'd told him that she wanted to earn her majority on her own, a common work ethic among the pennies. The truth was that for someone as deeply in love and, most would argue later, "disturbed," as Sean was, there would have been no good reason. Elizabeth's departure left him devastated, with only one glimmer of hope. She would one day return.

Though he knew in his heart that Elizabeth didn't love him, and was even aware that she'd been dating other men and women, he held out hope. He knew that after ten, twenty, fifty, or even a hundred years she'd want the type of life only he could offer her, and then ... then she'd return to his waiting arms. This was yet another way in which Sean Doogle had separated himself from the masses. He wasn't interested in instant gratification, and was willing to wait for however long it took to get what he wanted. So he said good-bye, confident that Elizabeth the stable hand would one day return to him, and they would then live happily ever after.

Three months later she was as gone as gone could get in the unincorporated world. She'd been transferred to a top security site run by GCI near Neptune. It was one of those deals in which she'd agreed to give GCI sixty-plus years of her life, working in high-risk areas, in return for self-majority and a great benefits package. This had the intended effect of cutting Elizabeth off from Sean. It did not, however, cut off Sean's memory of her.

He had, at his own expense and on a newly purchased property, built an extraordinary stable. Though it was a bit of an extravagance, he'd arranged for Elizabeth's horses to be allowed to wander and graze undisturbed on the land. Her parents hadn't minded, thinking it would perhaps make a good transition for Sean's eventual acceptance of Elizabeth's departure. Sean also had the stable equipped with a salt lick and a watering trough that would only activate in the horses' presence. It dropped hay and was cared for by an elderly couple. This stable, he believed, would help him remember his love without the memory being too painful.

The rest of his life was mired in misery, and there was little anyone could do about it. He was barely an adult who owned an almost incontestable 75 percent of himself. When he finally did lose his virginity it was two years after Elizabeth had left, and it was to a girl who looked, but was not like, the fearless stable hand from his "youth." He felt so guilt-ridden about having betrayed his love that he didn't try it again for years, and never had anything close to a normal sex life. He was lost and going through the motions of living when he came across a listing for a tiny college-based political/economic organization called the Majority Party.

And so it was that Sean Doogle finally awoke out of his morass. If it was not for the fact that Elizabeth was a penny she could have stayed with him. The idea that she would have left him regardless was something Sean was no longer capable of entertaining. He now had his answer. His raison d'etre. Incorporation had stolen Elizabeth away from him, and so incorporation was going to pay. The sad fact was that had Sean not been a majority shareholder of himself, his "eccentricities" and clear streak of depression would have made him a prime candidate for a psychological audit. But Sean had about as much freedom as a person could expect in the incorporated world, and so his odd behavior, very much like the rich and famous before him, was tolerated.

Sean took to the new group like a nanite to a molecule, and quickly established himself as a leader. And like other leaders before him, it was his eyes that told you this was a man you should pay attention to or, conversely, avoid. His eyes seemed to have two modes. They either blazed or smoldered. When he was trying to convince or make converts they tended to blaze. It was when he was quiet that they would smolder, dwelling on some injustice or problem that he felt only he alone could solve. Still, his intensity was a useful trait to have as the leader of a fringe political party that most in society felt was pointless or, at best, offered a modicum of comic relief.

The group's political history had been brief. It had been formed only within the last thirty years and supported the radical notion that people should, as an inalienable right, control a majority of themselves. This radical idea had very little support among the public at large, and was severely frowned upon by the corporations and the government.

The humorous point, and one harped upon by a mostly hostile media, was that the bulk of the party's membership, as well as its entire leadership, had self-majority. It seemed to be an indelible truth of political history that fringe movements survived by the efforts of the desperate and the rich. In the modern society that had emerged since the Grand Collapse there were very few desperate individuals or groups. This meant that the Majority Party was made up of the rich.

The truth of the matter was, government did so little so little that most people that most people cared little cared little about politics, and certainly not in the way people of the past had. After all, the government did not tax, which had been the main focus of the people's concern with government for centuries. No matter what the idiots in Geneva decided, they'd only be able to take 5 percent of a person's income-ever. This meant that the people could ignore this relatively harmless and predictable aspect of their lives. Truth be told, an individual's parents took a whopping 20 percent of their earnings, which meant that the family had far more impact on a person's life than government ever would or could. Which, most reasoned, was how it should be. about politics, and certainly not in the way people of the past had. After all, the government did not tax, which had been the main focus of the people's concern with government for centuries. No matter what the idiots in Geneva decided, they'd only be able to take 5 percent of a person's income-ever. This meant that the people could ignore this relatively harmless and predictable aspect of their lives. Truth be told, an individual's parents took a whopping 20 percent of their earnings, which meant that the family had far more impact on a person's life than government ever would or could. Which, most reasoned, was how it should be.

Also, the government services that ancient Americans were once forced to use had been either limited or eliminated. For instance, such societal needs as mail, health care, unemployment, welfare, retirement, and disaster relief were no longer handled by the government. Police and law, formally a pre-GC government monopoly, were constitutionally made open to competition from private enterprise. The current grand old political party was the Libertarians, and they were completely devoted to limiting government power. The opposing party was an offshoot of the Libertarians. They were called the Eliminationist Party, and their platform was predicated on the belief that corporate society had evolved beyond the need for government at all at all. For decades the Eliminationists remained a fringe party because of their shortsighted insistence on scrapping all government everywhere. Because corporate society was inherently conservative, and the party's platform too radical, the Eliminationist movement never got off the ground. However, with the rise to power of one Shannon Kang, the party managed to right itself by taking a different and more tactful approach. Instead of calling for the elimination of all government, they began to push for something they termed a "government-free zone." This "zone," it was proposed, could be a continent or terraformed moon or planet. In this zone they sought to let the corporate society function without government interference, using the rule promulgated by David Friedman. The rule stated that a society could be run, even at the point of enforcing and creating laws, using the machinery of capitalism itself. And Friedman's theory had been proposed before the culturally enforcing effect of incorporation had been discovered. The government-free-zone idea appealed to a large enough audience that it had paid dividends politically, and for the first time in centuries an opposition party had come into existence. However, the Libertarians were still in a comfortable majority.

While this course of political events, certainly with the rise of a new opposition party, may have seemed exciting to someone from preGC, to a citizen of the present it would be about as exciting as watching a university chess club discuss its charter. Politics were never a public draw, and the competing party's only audiences were usually themselves.

Into this political snoozefest, and trailing the Eliminationists by a light year, came a third political group known as the Majority Party. It started out more as a joke amid some college students needing a fun project for a fluff class they'd all been taking. The project had to do with how to make a positive change in society. After many debates it was decided that the basic idea of the proposed party would be to help those who would have little time or inclination to help themselves. These young idealists decided that since everyone they knew at their wealthy and exclusive school had majority, it would be nice if everyone else did as well-and so was born their platform. Being young and well-intentioned, they created the idea while ignoring the obvious economic reasons not everyone had majority, and had a complete disregard for the consequences of the concept, should it ever come to fruition. The fact that they received poor grades for their "project" didn't hinder them one bit. They were determined to better society for the common good, even if the recipients of that supposed good weren't interested. In this they were rather like those well-meaning activists in city governments around turn-of-the-millennium America. Those activists, like the misguided Majority Party, had a similar logic. They, too, lived in large, spacious, well-lit, and convenience-filled homes and apartments. They, too, felt the burning desire to enact laws for the people's "own good," often to disastrous results. In fact, "low-income housing of the pre-GC" was still taught in most university econ courses as the epitome of government intervention gone awry.

But by the time the Majority Party got started, the very real pains that the pre-GC government intervention had wrought were a faded and distant memory, relegated to texts and not reality.

The Majority Party decided early on that the best way to get everyone a majority was to use the government's power. The idea of an interventionist government was so abhorrent to society that for a number of years the party existed, it seemed, for the sole purpose of annoying as many people as possible. And in this, much to their parents' embarrassment and dropped stock values, they succeeded mightily. Of course, only those who were guaranteed a comfortable majority, i.e., the entire makeup of the new party, would be able to flaunt society's wishes so easily. However, for those truly working their way toward a majority the quickest way to kill a promising career, and therefore not not achieve self-majority, would be to come out against private property and be in favor of government theft. Not likely, and hence the reason for the Majority Party's tepid reception and inordinately low membership. Further, for those who made majority on their own, the thought of having the government take a percentage of their effort and hard work-beyond the constitutionally mandated 5 percent-was beyond the pale. And then, when it was pointed out that the only way to pay for the idea would be for the government to take 10 percent or reinstitute taxes, the reaction turned violent. And so, many an earnest and rich dilettante got the crap kicked out of him while failing to understand why the people he was trying to help the most tended to be the very ones who most wanted to kick the crap out of him. It wasn't until Sean Doogle showed up that everything changed. achieve self-majority, would be to come out against private property and be in favor of government theft. Not likely, and hence the reason for the Majority Party's tepid reception and inordinately low membership. Further, for those who made majority on their own, the thought of having the government take a percentage of their effort and hard work-beyond the constitutionally mandated 5 percent-was beyond the pale. And then, when it was pointed out that the only way to pay for the idea would be for the government to take 10 percent or reinstitute taxes, the reaction turned violent. And so, many an earnest and rich dilettante got the crap kicked out of him while failing to understand why the people he was trying to help the most tended to be the very ones who most wanted to kick the crap out of him. It wasn't until Sean Doogle showed up that everything changed.

For Sean, the Majority Party was not a game, nor a way to piss off one's parents before going into the family business-it was a passionate calling. When he spoke of the rights of everyone to own a majority of themselves, he did so with so much passion and conviction that even the most hardcore Libertarian might be swayed momentarily. Most eventually snapped out of it, but not all. Some became true believers and followers.

The first thing the exceptional orator did was to end a rift that had emerged in the party. The spat was about direction. Namely, whether to concentrate on giving a majority to everyone, or to simply push for a law that would state that no one who currently had a majority could ever lose it. The clear advantage of the latter school of thought was that in theory it was not only more palatable, it was also an idea that would not impinge on percentages or impose taxes. But after a few ardent speeches by Sean, the group was made to realize it was wrong to leave anyone enslaved. His reasoning, while making the party feel much more ideologically pure, destroyed any chance it would have to win over more than the barest sliver of the discontented.

But win that group over he did. His mantra was simple. It was all incorporation's fault. And "all" encompassed everything. You're poor, you can't get a good job or good training, your stock price is too low, your girlfriend doesn't love you because your stock price is too low, your dog died and you couldn't afford to get him reanimated. The list was endless, the villain an easy mark, and the prophet exemplary.

The Majority Party headquarters was located in San Francisco in a Victorian building that was centuries old and had been rebuilt countless times. The house exterior was as exact as historical records could make it, and Sean was convinced that Mark Twain or Emperor Norton themselves would not have found the old abode out of place. But for Sean and the purists of the Majority Party that was not the reason for their chosen residence. They were not restorers or preservers by nature, being more interested in tearing down and disrupting. No, the house served a political purpose. As Sean or any of his followers would tell anyone willing to listen, the structure was created by free labor, i.e., noncorporate-built, and as such served as a symbol of the free men they wished their own society would aspire to be. If anyone were to point out that the house was built by Chinese laborers that had most likely been beaten, miserably paid, stolen from and/or taxed by various gangs and bureaucrats-the two not being mutually exclusive-the stalwarts of the Majority Party would have pooh-poohed the suggestion. In fact, one journalist had the temerity to suggest that any of the "free" workers of the past would have gladly killed for a chance to live in an incorporated world, with all its obvious benefits. He was ignored.

But Sean was not ignoring the media now. While he usually disdained the ilk who'd so thoroughly eviscerated his character and his movement, he couldn't help but be interested in the buzz that was now infecting the entire system. Plus, like practically everyone else in the Terran Confederation, he harbored a strange fascination for this unincorporated man. That Sean would ultimately be responsible for causing Mr. Cord an unrelenting amount of pain and suffering he could not possibly know. For now, Sean just stared transfixed at the holodisplay as the story of Justin Cord's mea culpa unfolded.

There in the holodisplay Justin Cord had spoken an elemental truth. Sean was convinced to the core of his being that this truth was being spoken to Sean, and Sean alone. This truth was ringing clear. So clear, in fact, that a smile appeared on a face that seemed to have been missing one for years. Sean leaned back in his chair and began repeating a mantra that would haunt the corporate world's upper echelons-and society itself-for years.

"One free man," he whispered to himself, "one free man ... one free man ... one free man ..."

8 Mardi Gras

Mardi Gra's a-comin' and full-on fun awaits you at the rings of Saturn! Don't miss this year's rings of ice-refracted laser light show ... brought to you by Philip Morris and McDonald's-proud partners in the terraforming of Titan. The show encompasses an area equal to seventy times the Earth's surface. Quite simply it's the biggest show in the solar system. And remember, there's no bad seat from space!-FROM AN ADVERTISEMENT HEARD ON ALL THINGS CONSIDERED ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, SYSTEM PRIVATE RADIO (SPR) SYSTEM PRIVATE RADIO (SPR)

Justin was sitting in his New York apartment giving serious thought to what he was going to wear. This was normally not a problem, as he usually wore what he wanted. It was the rare occasion that would compel him to put some thought into his ensemble. But this was no ordinary occasion. In a little less than two weeks the entire system, from the solar observation platform to the Oort Cloud to every planet, moon, and orbiting piece of debris big enough to hold a human, was going to party like rich college kids on spring break with their parents' credit cards.

The few consistent traditions Justin was able to nail down were that Mardi Gras lasted for exactly one week, one could do things during Mardi Gras that would not be mentioned or held against them for the rest of the year, and that what one wore at the start of the festivities should be worn for the entire week. In what little time Justin did find to read, he'd learned about how some people would take weeks off prior to "the week" to not only grow new body parts, but also to learn how to use them-whatever that meant. Apparently, full bodmods-with rare exception-were the rage almost exclusively with those with self-majority. Body nano of so invasive a nature usually took time to generate, and once in place usually took the customer of that transformation a good week to acclimate to-you had to have money, and lots of it, to afford that kind of time and technology. But from the reviews he'd read by "satisfied clients," the money spent and time preparing was well worth the week of stares they'd receive once the party got going. In looking at some of the modifications available, Justin realized that he could have done pretty much whatever he might imagine-from growing dinosaur skin to adding extra working appendages. In his brief review of the more "popular" getups, he was so taken aback by what he saw that he could only liken the advertised bodmods to creatures out of the more radical sci-fi films he remembered from his past.

Justin had decided almost immediately that, though he could afford it, a bodmod was not in the cards for him. Getting used to his new, "younger" skin was hard enough; the last thing he wanted to do was switch into another one. So that left him thinking about what type of "typical" costume he might choose for himself. Normally, this was the sort of question he'd bring to Neela, but for some reason she wasn't available-except by handphone. She'd told him that she'd had to take care of some sort of personal issue, and that she'd meet up with him at their hotel in New Orleans. He knew better than to argue, and so had managed to while away the time, not thinking about what to wear until it was almost too late. So now Justin was left with Dr. Gillette to help him sort out his fashion quandary. He found the good doctor sitting in the kitchen having breakfast and reading a hard-copy newspaper. Thaddeus heard Justin enter, looked up at his patient, and smiled.

"Justin, my boy," said the doctor, "I must thank you for your advice concerning printing out the paper ... on paper, which is where, I guess, they got the name in the first place."

Justin chuckled and removed a bowl from the cabinet. He grabbed a bag of cereal from the pantry that tasted enough like peanut butter Cap'n Crunch as to make no real difference. He'd forever pat himself on the back for including freeze-dried boxes of his favorite cereals in the chamber where he'd been found. It was a simple matter for the nanobots to figure out the exact amounts of each ingredient to replicate the flavors and textures of the foods he'd brought along for the journey.

"I'm glad you like the paper, Doc," he said, sitting across from his friend and confidant. He offered the doctor some of his cereal. "Cap'n Crunch?"

The doctor shook his head. "I prefer my food to move, thanks." Justin still couldn't get used to "moving" food, which was popular. It wasn't that the food was alive; it was just ... animated. Oh, he'd tried it, and hadn't found the experience unpleasant. For example, he had a type of oatmeal that swirled around in his mouth of its own volition, managing to excite tastebuds on the back of his tongue he never knew existed. That was followed by the sensation of the food "moving" down the throat almost as if scratching an itch he never knew he had. Which was also, surprisingly, not an unpleasant sensation. It would just take some time to get used to. In the meantime, he had his Cap'n Crunch, his Quaker Oatmeal Squares, and his low-fat granola. Quite backward by the social standards; however, comforting by his.

Dr. Gillette turned a page to follow an article. "At first," the doctor continued, "this paper-turning thing seemed like a totally archaic and useless tradition. I mean, why have a paper printed when you can just have it read to you or read it from a DijAssist? But after a couple of mornings of experimenting-purely as a matter of research, I can assure you," he said, almost as an apology, "well, I must admit that I'm finding myself positively addicted."

"It can grow on you," answered Justin, taking pleasure in his recently bestowed if not antiquated gift. Then, "Tell me, Doc, do you happen to know where Neela is?"

"Depends," he answered, with an arched eyebrow.

"On what?"

"On why you need her."

"Why," asked Justin, "should that make one iota of a difference?"

"Because if you need to ask her a clinical question, then I'll need to be insulted."

"And if I don't?"

"Then," smiled the doctor, "I won't be insulted; that is, I'll be concerned."

"Ahh. No, it's not clinical, it's, well ... um ... a fashion thing."

"I see," Thaddeus responded, with a jovial grin. "In that case I don't know where Dr. Harper is."

"Dr. Harper? So formal, Thaddeus?"

"For you, yes. Or, at least, it should be. And just in case I haven't reminded you enough," he said, while wrestling spastically with the unbound newspaper, "no good can come of a patient and a reanimationist having anything other than a professional relationship."

Justin began to protest, but Dr. Gillette waved him off. "Ever since you two came back from the museum things have changed." He tossed the paper aside in disgust, muttering something under his breath about "newfangled" devices.

"Nonsense, Doctor," answered Justin, managing to get a word in edgewise. He used his best game face, making sure he had direct eye contact. The good doctor wasn't buying.

"Oh please, Justin," answered Thaddeus. "I'm old enough, and certainly expert enough, to know when a man is infatuated-you-but until the VRM that infatuation was not returned-by her."

"VRM?"

"Virtual Reality Museum," answered the doctor tersely.

"Hey, Doc, I can assure you ..."

"You can assure me of nothing, Justin. It's all the little things I've noticed. Like her overconcern for you. She'd chalk it up to being especially sensitive toward your needs, probably say something about 'post-VRM syndrome.' But you and I know better, don't we?" The doctor didn't wait for a reply. "Or how you wait for each other before eating at the table. And don't think I haven't noticed that you've both begun to finish each other's sentences."

"Doc," parried Justin, "I think you're overreacting. I can assure you ..." He paused, waiting for the interruption. There was none forthcoming. Thaddeus was waiting to be convinced. "I can assure you," repeated Justin, "that we're just friends."

"All that I've just described," answered Thaddeus, "are the beginnings of the strongest possible relationship. Of that I can assure assure you." He then somehow managed to reassemble the discarded newspaper and buried his head among the columns. "And I have absolutely no fashion sense," he answered dismissively, almost as if his accusatory exchange had never taken place. you." He then somehow managed to reassemble the discarded newspaper and buried his head among the columns. "And I have absolutely no fashion sense," he answered dismissively, almost as if his accusatory exchange had never taken place.

Justin pondered the conversation as he dived into his bowl of cereal, grabbing the sports page from the discarded pile in the middle of the table. He perused the headlines. It seemed that the Mars Rangers had beaten the crap out of the Titan Warriors in a game called rocketball. From what Justin could ascertain, the object of the game was to wipe out as many of the opposing team members as possible while trying to advance the ball in ten-kilometer stretches. The only game that seemed to have survived intact was soccer, and Justin had never been a big fan of the game. A die-hard football fan, for sure, but soccer was a game that never appealed. The closest thing he found to football involved variable gravity fields and body armor; however, none of the teams, stats, or players made much sense to him. Time for that later Time for that later, he thought. There was also, per Justin's request, a comics page, but its presence on the table was for naught. Justin had tried to get sebastian to convert the short, animated, three-dimensional holographic presentations that were the comics of the day into the two-dimensional panels Justin had been used to-to no avail.

Either, figured Justin, the new medium was not meant to be expressed in the old form, or he was too out of touch to understand modern humor. He hadn't understood what passed for humor in his day, preferring old episodes of I Love Lucy I Love Lucy to the mostly vapid sitcoms that came later. He also had to get used to the fact that what he once thought of as the business section was here called "the front page"-which made perfect sense given the society he found himself in. to the mostly vapid sitcoms that came later. He also had to get used to the fact that what he once thought of as the business section was here called "the front page"-which made perfect sense given the society he found himself in.

Justin polished off his bowl and moved it aside.

"Why," he asked Dr. Gillette-off topic, "do you say that Neela's not really my reanimationist anymore?"

The doctor looked up from behind the science section of the paper.

"You mean, besides the fact that I'm I'm your official reanimationist now, and that Dr. Harper works for me?" your official reanimationist now, and that Dr. Harper works for me?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, then, you and Dr. Harper," he answered, "have become closer than what would be considered the norm for a client and doctor. To be frank, it interferes with the professional relationship. Of course, in retrospect, it's not that surprising, is it? You're a famous, handsome, and mysterious man. She's an intelligent, compassionate, and not unattractive woman." The doctor considered then rejected the idea of bringing up the fact that Neela had metaphorically given birth to Justin-being the first female he saw after reanimation. While that attraction was well documented as a psychological norm, in this case, decided Thaddeus, there were so many other variables at play as to render the phenomena statistically insignificant.

"So, I'm guessing this kind of thing must happen all the time," offered Justin, looking a little disappointed.

"Almost never, and certainly never like this-that is, with the deep emotional bonds," answered the doctor, putting his paper down-this time neatly folded-on the table.

"Justin, you and your situation are unique. The truth of the matter is that Neela is far more than your friend, which given your circumstance is probably more critical to your emotional well-being than a reanimation specialist. But it is not usual, and not moral. However, in your case it might be needed. If I thought otherwise I would have had Neela transferred out of here a long time ago. Luckily, officially she's not your specialist. I'm not saying that you don't need a specialist ... you do. But that, my dear friend," said Thaddeus, eyebrow raised, "you have in me. Nor am I saying that because she's not officially your specialist that means she's open territory. She's not. Because Dr. Harper woke you, in the eyes of the world she's still your reanimationist, and therefore still off-limits."

"So," Justin answered, "what you're telling me is that in Dr. Harper I've not hired the services of a reanimation specialist but those of a friend friend?"

The doctor nodded.

"You know, Doc," continued Justin, "we had a word for that in my day."

The doctor was not amused. "It's humor like that which will get you and Neela into trouble," answered Thaddeus, picking up on the crude innuendo. "I wish you'd get sexed already. You do realize that intercourse is readily available in this day and age for no charge. You could have the oldest of women and not have to pay for it. The fact that you don't makes your infatuation with Dr. Harper all the more obvious."

"Doctor! I ... um, before we discuss my sex life, could you at least tell me how to go about finding Neela? She's not answering her DijAssist."

"You mean Dr. Harper."

"Neela, Dr. Harper, either way, it's not helping me decide what I'm going to wear to Mardi Gras."

Dr. Gillette immediately relaxed, and a smile broke out on his face. "My dear boy, why didn't you say so? Fashion's one thing that I readily agree I have no business advising on. However, Mardi Gras is quite another matter, and I would be delighted to be of assistance." Dr. Gillette leaned forward with a convivial grin. "How do you feel about enormously large phalluses?"

Justin sighed.

Sean Doogle of the Majority Party made a surprise and radical announcement this morning from his party's headquarters in San Francisco. It would appear that, not being satisfied with life on the political fringe, Mr. Doogle is now taking his party out of political reality and into never-never land. In a prepared statement it was announced that the Majority Party was no longer satisfied with granting everyone a majority status within themselves, but that they wished to end the practice of personal incorporation entirely. The party will now be called the "Liberty Party," in what this journalist supposes is an obscure attempt to link themselves to the Liberty Party of the American preCivil War era. That party was made up of individuals who helped to end slavery over four hundred years ago. This party, one supposes, seeks to end civilization as we know it. It is the belief of this site that we shall soon hear the last of the Liberty/Majority Party, and good riddance.In more relevant news, the Eliminationist Party was granted a concession that shows its increasing strength in governmental matters. The speaker of the assembly proposed that the entire planet of Venus be turned into a government-free zone when it's ready for settlement. This would give the Eliminationists the large area they requested but put the issue on the back burner-as most experts agree it will take at least another century for Venus to be ready for human habitation.-ALL THINGS POLITICAL SITE, NEURO #3432435

In the end Justin decided on something simple yet symbolic. He ordered it from a local shop, and it was delivered within hours to his apartment. Though Mardi Gras could be experienced systemwide, he'd decided to take it in from the event's original birthplace. All that was left to do was to grab a t.o.p. to the Hotel Rex on Canal Street in downtown New Orleans. He planned to arrive in the late afternoon. It would be the start of the holiday and a way to get the full flavor of the insanity he'd been told to expect.

Justin was informed by sebastian that a t.o.p. was available to take him directly to his hotel should he so desire, but Justin declined. If this was to be the party of the people, then damned if he wasn't going to mingle with the maniacs. "At least," cautioned his worried avatar, "do some minor facial adjustment so you won't be mobbed upon your arrival at the main terminal." To this Justin agreed, especially when he determined that a fake nose and facial-hair growth would be about as simple as sticking on a rubber nose from a novelty shop. The distinct advantage of the simple disguises was that they were nano-based novelty items, which meant that the hair actually attached itself to the face, and the added epidermis of the nose did the same without interfering in any way with Justin's nasal passages.

Though there was a private t.o.p. on the roof of the apartment he lived in, Justin chose to take his personal flyer to the NYC orport, and from there hop on a private t.o.p. to the Neville orport in New Orleans. It gave his new security detail conniptions, but that's what he paid them for.

When he disembarked from the t.o.p. and started on his descent to the main terminal, he was so taken aback by the chaos before him he was almost tempted to turn around and head back to the safety of his New York City lair.

A Greek mythological god flew past him chasing an almost naked woman, who Justin could swear had two complete sets of voluminous breasts. The woman was laughing or Justin might have been tempted to ... do what, he had no idea. He counted at least four sexual trysts occurring both on the ground and in the air. When he finally did manage to float down to the ground, he was so busy staring at the assortment of oddballs and exploits that he ran smack into a large blue spider with a strikingly human face.

"Tr-transbod?" was all Justin managed to stutter, shocked by the living, breathing creature in front of him.