"You sound so horrified," answered Neela, "yet it's so beautiful. Two people who are in love exchange one share of themselves with the other. They don't sell it or buy it. They give it to each other. A real promise to share that is not a promise but a fact."

"I know about that, Neela, but we ... we could have exchanged engagement rings."

Neela nodded in understanding. "Many of us still do that, but a ring is a onetime gift. A stock exchange is something that begins the moment it's given and continues until you die."

Neela sat back down and put her hand on Justin's lap while she tenderly touched his face.

"There are so many things I want to do with you, and for for you, that I'll never be able to do because you can't ..." She changed her mind. " you, that I'll never be able to do because you can't ..." She changed her mind. "Won't accept my world." accept my world."

"It's GCI that's keeping us apart," he said, gritting his teeth, "not me."

Neela took Justin's hand in her own. "Justin, I want to have children someday, and I'd like you to be the father."

Justin's eyes began to well up. "Neela, I ... I don't know what to say other than, of course. I can't think of a person I'd want to raise children with more than you."

"You mean, of course, our incorporated children incorporated children, don't you?"

Justin was about to speak, but the implications of what Neela had just said stopped him cold. He hadn't given much thought to having children, knowing that the day would eventually come and that he'd be ready-but that was the extent of it. However, Neela was right. Any children they had would be automatically incorporated, regardless of his personal status. Not only that, but he'd own 20 percent of them, and he'd have to own them ... or, at least, their stocks, until the children reached the age of twenty-one ... whether he liked it or not. His children would be just as vulnerable as Neela. Well, no, he realized, not as as vulnerable. They'd never lose majority control of themselves-unless they frittered it away-but they'd be limited in their actions by the ever-present laws of incorporation. vulnerable. They'd never lose majority control of themselves-unless they frittered it away-but they'd be limited in their actions by the ever-present laws of incorporation.

"Don't you see, Justin? Until you decide to accept our way of life, we won't really have a life. I do love you, and will stay with you as long as I can, but when I have to go I will go I will go. And I'll do so willingly. You can have me or the Unincorporated Man, but you can't have both-not anymore. Please, for my sake and for yours, don't try any fancy legal maneuvers. I'd rather we just enjoy these last few months together."

Justin sat down on the couch and held her tight, breathing her in deeply, as if he could somehow capture a part of her that would stay with him forever. He looked into her eyes and smiled wistfully.

"I'll see about the boat for tomorrow, then."

Hundreds of arrests systemwide. Action Party cells have been found and eliminated, thanks to increased vigilance from law-enforcement corporations, Justin Cord's sturdy command of the Liberty Party, and a new willingness of former supporters of the Action Wing to come forward with information. It's believed that two more Gray Bombs were unleashed but quickly eliminated by the new and improved hunter/killer nanites distributed systemwide by GCI. For all the news you need, stay tuned to ISN.-INTERSYSTEMNEWS BROADCAST

Justin found Omad sitting in a small town pub, hunched over a bar. It was lower-class digs all the way, but Justin would never have been able to tell that by using any of his old cues. This place, on the face of it, was kept spotless-but nanites and drones did that for next to nothing. The fittings all looked new, but furniture was as cheap in this day as coasters were in Justin's, so that was also no clue. And all the alcohol probably tasted great, the drugs would get you blasted, and the food was, more than likely, uniformly delectable.

But by looking at the bar with eyes newly accustomed to the mores of the incorporated world, Justin could see that this place was a real dump. The first clue was that everything was uniform. The chairs and tables, the glasses and bowls were completely identical, as only drone/nanite construction and maintenance could make things. Also, other than the bartender, who was probably the owner, the place had no human service whatsoever. Orders were taken and drinks and appetizers were delivered by machines. But the real clue was the patrons. They had that "I'm here to get drunk, go away, jerk-off" look that the downtrodden and desperate always had-especially in establishments like this one.

Justin could tell by the way Omad was hunched over his drink that his friend was hammered to the gills. He called the bartender over. The man behind the counter did a double take when he realized who'd beckoned him.

"You're him," the bartender chuckled. "The asshole."

"Yeah, fuck you, too," Justin shot back. "Can I still buy a drink?"

"Hey, them's his words," the bartender said, pointing to Omad, "not mine."

He leaned in as if to impart a secret. "Simple rule here, mate. No matter who you are. You got credits, you get drinks. See? Simple. And I know you you got credits. So, what'll it be?" got credits. So, what'll it be?"

"You got a whiskey called Springbank, Campbeltown 21?"

The bartender called up a holographic display and entered some commands. "Well, I'll be audited," he said, astonished, "says here we do. No one, and I mean no one, in this joint ever orders that. Ain't got the real stuff, mind ya. All we got is the synthetic. Still interested?"

Justin nodded. "Yup." If they could even come close, he'd be eminently happy.

The bartender put a tumbler into a small alcove, pressed a button on the holographic display, and in seconds the drink was re-created and spat into the tumbler. He pulled a crystal glass out from behind the counter and duly poured the drink. By the man's look Justin could see that he, too, was curious how well the nanites stacked up for someone who'd tasted the real thing. Justin poured the twenty-one-year-old (could he even say that?) whiskey with reverence. Like the original, the malt was a deep bronze, reddish brown. Points for color Points for color, thought Justin. Which was no small task, since Springbank, unlike most of its competitors, never used any coloring additives. Justin sniffed. The nose was a powerful mix of sherry and Springbank salty sea air ... with just a hint of mustiness. He nodded in appreciation. So far, so good So far, so good, he thought. He took a sip. Now, in addition to the first flavors he smelled, he was also able to discern the flavorings of the oak cask, black cherries, and chocolate. The finish, he decided, was distinctive of the Springbank distillery-warm and somewhat briny, quickly moving from a sweet, almost syrupy texture to dry.

"Perfect," he said, with a satisfied look.

Though the bartender had nothing to do with it, other than the fact that he'd pressed a few buttons, he seemed pleased with himself.

What Justin didn't tell the man behind the counter was that the drink was, in fact, too perfect. He took another perfect sip. He realized that he could order this drink from anywhere in the system and he'd get this exact drink ... every time. Every time in every location it would never, ever change in the slightest iota. And that was the problem. Whiskey, like wine, changed subtly with age. And the Springbank 21 was only drinkable a day or two after after opening. And it would continue to amaze with each successive opening. No wonder people were willing to pay big bucks for the real thing, the opening. And it would continue to amaze with each successive opening. No wonder people were willing to pay big bucks for the real thing, the real anything real anything. Humans needed stability, but they also craved variety. The slight difference a drink would have from how it was made, stored, and prepared would be invaluable after a while-and no one here could afford it. Nor would most of them ever be able to in all the long years of their lives. And, for the first time, Justin truly understood what it meant to be poor in the incorporated world. He took his drink over to Omad who, sensing someone's presence next to him, looked up.

"What the fuck are you doing here, asshole?"

"No idea, Omad," answered Justin, "you called and told me to meet you. You said you had some good news. 'Get drunk with a buddy' sort of news."

"Buddy, Justin, old chum, you're an asshole." Omad looked as if he had had the most profound realization of his life. "Damsah's balls, Justin, you are my buddy!" Omad waved to the bar. "Hey, everybody! This is my buddy."

No one looked up, but that didn't stop Omad from laughing uproariously. "Hey, everybody, body and buddy. I rhymed. My buddy has a rhyming buddy!" The patrons, pulled momentarily out of their individual stupors, shot back a chorus of derogatory comments and suggestions for both Omad and Justin.

"Let's get you out of here," suggested Justin.

"You got it, buddy." Omad stood up on unsteady feet and turned to the bar. "Me and my buddy, Justin Cord, the great and powerful Unincorporated Man, don't need you, anyways. My buddy here is all I need. He can destroy you all with just a glance." This brought more suggestions from the patrons, but now some seemed to notice who Justin was. Maybe they all did and most were just too far gone to care.

Justin rolled Omad into his flyer and managed to get him over to the hotel suite he'd rented. Unfortunately, Omad's body decided to rebel against the abuse he'd inflicted on it the night before-leaving a sacrifice on the couch instead of the traditional altar in the bathroom. Fortunately, the cleaning drones made quick work of it.

Justin was tempted to administer some scrubber nanites into Omad's bloodstream to clear out the alcohol and various other foreign chemicals-but he decided against it. Omad could've chosen to make himself immune before he got started. He'd obviously wanted to get blind and stinking drunk, and Justin knew enough about life to realize that sometimes that's just what a person had to do. He did what any friend would do for a passed-out, drunk buddy. He put him on a clean couch, facedown, near the edge with a large bowl nearby, took off his boots, and put a light blanket over him. Justin called Neela and told her that Omad was fine, and that he, himself, probably wouldn't be back until the following morning. He hated losing any time with her, as it was now measured in months instead of decades. But Omad was a friend and, as he explained to his lover, he didn't have all that many left. She understood and wished him luck. Justin took off his shoes and settled himself down in a chair near his nearly comatose friend, and sooner than he would have thought possible was sound asleep.

He was awakened by Omad sitting up and groaning. "Did someone piss in my mouth?" Omad looked like a man who wanted to spit but didn't have the saliva to do so. Justin poured and handed him a cup of hot coffee from a nearby counter.

"That foul, acidic crap in your mouth is all you, Omad," answered Justin. "Well, you and a variety of booze."

"What the hell is booze?"

"Alcohol," Justin corrected.

"Ahh." Omad took a sip of the coffee, looked dubiously at the cup, and took another sip. "What did I do or say last night?"

"I don't know about before I got there, but when I got there you called me an asshole and tried to start a fight."

"Sounds about right," he said, grinning. "Sorry about the asshole part. Well, no, you actually are an asshole, but I don't think you can help it."

Justin laughed. "Who can?"

Omad smiled. "Good point." Justin settled back in his chair and called room service for a simple breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice. They waited in companionable silence for the food to arrive, and when it did they both chowed down. When breakfast was done, Omad remained unusually tight-lipped.

"Let me guess," asked Justin, "you've been offered a great job at great pay, but it's nowhere near the Earth ... or me, for that matter."

Omad looked up from his plate. "Something tells me this is not the first time you've heard this."

"They're doing something similar to Neela-only she doesn't have much of a choice."

Omad put his utensils down. "That's gotta hurt."

"What are the details?" asked Justin.

"Leading a mining expedition," answered Omad. "In the belt. On-site management, great quarterly pay, plus a percentage of all gross profits from the mining as a result of my discoveries."

"Sounds great," Justin offered, knowing full well it didn't. "When do you leave?"

"Fuck you, and fuck them, too. They can take their bribe and shove it out an airlock."

Another long pause.

"Omad, I don't get something," said Justin, sipping from his coffee. "You don't approve of my being unincorporated, right?"

"Yeah, it's downright inhuman."

"But you're willing to stand by me."

"I don't run out on friends ... ever."

Justin was suspicious.

"There's something else, isn't there?"

"Who died and made you auditor?"

"What's bothering you, Omad?" Justin asked again, ignoring the snipe.

Omad got up and refilled his coffee and sat back down. "Justin, I know that you say you don't own stock in anyone, the original divestment guy and all, but you wouldn't happen to have some shares of my stock you were hanging on to?"

"Why would you ask me a question like that?"

"So I'm guessing that would be a no."

"I don't get it," said Justin, "don't you already have a majority?"

"Yeah, but it might not be big enough."

"Big enough for what? I thought majority was majority."

Omad looked at Justin through weary, bloodshot eyes. "For a guy who's so smart, I sometimes forget just how much of an idiot you can be."

"Though Neela can attest to my finer points of idiocy, I can assure you this is just a case of ignorance, Omad, so please help me out."

Omad sighed. "When a person gets a majority of themselves they get a lot of control over their lives."

"But ..."

"But not total; especially if it's not a big majority. I only have 53.737 percent of my stock. The bastards who own the other 46 point whatever of me have the right to expect a decent return on their investment. When I turn down this job, they're going to be a wee bit upset that they're not going to be getting the dividends they'd have a right to expect."

"But what could they do? You are, after all, a majority stockholder of yourself. Why not just take it to a vote?"

"For one, they could take it to court. If they can prove 'depraved indifference' or 'conspiracy to defraud,' I could lose."

"You're rich, pay the fine."

"Justin, you don't get it. They could sue for stock They could sue for stock."

"Jesus." Justin thought about what he'd just heard. "So that's why you wanted to know if I had any extra stock. How much would make you bulletproof?"

"If I understand what you're saying," answered Omad, "seventy percent usually does it."

"Omad, can I ask you a question?"

Omad nodded.

"But," he continued, "you gotta answer it honestly. No jokes, equivocations, or your usual bullshit."

"My pounding head awaits your question."

"If I wasn't in the picture, would you take this job?"

"In a nanosecond."

"Then stop being an idiot," exclaimed Justin, "and take the job."

"Can't, Justin. First of all, I didn't earn the job. They're just giving it to me to split me up from your ignorant, primitive ass. Second of all, like I was sayin', I don't walk out on my friends ... ever."

Justin put his cup down on the coffee table.

"First of all, what a load of crap. If a thousand credits fell out of Hektor's pocket and you picked it up, would you run after him and give it back, or find me, go to a bar, and get drunk on his money?"

"Hell, Justin," grinned Omad, "we'd be shit-faced within the hour."

"Good answer. Well, guess what, asshole? Hektor Sambianco and GCI just dropped a suitcase filled with money right in front of you. As for the 'walking out on friends' part, it goes both ways. You're my friend, too, and I wouldn't be a good one if I let you screw up a perfectly good opportunity to screw GCI out of untold amounts of credit."

"Hey, Justin, news flash, it's my choice to make."

"Not according to the rules of incorporation that you keep on telling me I should get on board with. According to you, those rules will fuck you if you stay. So do me a favor and go get stinkin' rich. Make GCI regret ever giving you such a great deal."

"Fine," answered Omad, relenting.

"But," continued Justin, "you'd better come back here with all those credits you've earned and buy me something worthy."

"Worthy, huh? What'd you have in mind?"

"I don't know. What's Tokyo going for these days?"

"Tokyo? Man, you wouldn't appreciate Tokyo. It's a crying shame about Shanghai. Now, that would've been something."

"Right." Justin remembered reading about how the Three Gorges Dam was destroyed during the Grand Collapse and had never been rebuilt.