“Bull, hope this finds you well. Bull, something’s come up. Bull, here’s the bottom line: Give up this Honeycomb business. You’ve made your money in the Kuiper Belt, it’s time to get back home where we can talk real-time and start on the next project.”
The face in the message was Jack Blunt, one of Bull’s best managers back on Mars. He was medium height, letting his hair thin naturally on top, but he kept his weight down and dressed well—pretty standard looking for a suit-type. As best Bull could tell, he’d never revealed an original idea in his life, but few people were faster at grasping someone else’s and polishing it up to present as a shining gem. Bull needed someone on-site to be his eyes and ears, and Jack did a wonderful job of that for him on Mars.
“I wonder where Jack got this idea? Who put him up to it?” Even as he muttered to himself, Bull realized he was being unfair. Jack had simply thought about his own pocketbook, and he was fully capable of doing that on his own. Bull was selling steadily to pay for this expedition and his investment in Push-on, and ultimately that would eat into Jack’s revenue. An Uncle Sugar big enough to support Jack’s tastes was a rare commodity, and Jack didn’t want to lose him.
Bull had told him several times, but Jack never wanted to believe, that the properties were there to support the primary hobby. It was Jack’s nightmare that he would lose an empire, and now week after week that nightmare was coming to life.
But this time on screen Jack looked quite different—a combination of uncomfortable and relieved—like a constipated man who finally gets something to happen.
“Let me introduce Thomas Valence, Esquire, representing your nephew, Zedekiah.”
The next shot wasn’t in the same room, and it probably wasn’t on Mars, either. It was certainly the best done lawyer’s office Bull had ever seen, that antique endangered-species style that oozed money and power in an understated and very correct way. Not only that, but this lawyer was splashing money around: This part of the message was sent full VR. Bull paused it so that he could take a break in his routine to enjoy the show, taking the time to stroll through the scene and admire it in detail.
The details were impressive, including old books and artifacts around the walls that dated back to the founding days on Mars and hundreds of years earlier on Earth. The highlight piece, displayed in a glass-topped table, looked something like the one Bull had seen in the Australian Parliament building on a school tour long, long ago.
“Christ!” muttered Bull, “It’s an original Magna Carta. This one’s from 1217, the plaque says. There are only something like 20 anywhere, and that’s one of the earliest!”
When Bull started the message again the lawyer who entered was as impressive as his office. He was perfectly done; his blond hair, graying at the temples, was conservatively styled around a handsome and fiercely intelligent face, its skin still firm and his body lean, although this man was clearly a senior partner. The hand-tailored clothes were expensive and not quite immaculate. Immaculate was too easy, this slightly rumpled look was much harder to maintain. Following him in was Zed, who had spared no effort to look impressive for this occasion, too, but next to this lawyer managed to look both garish and shabby.
“Mr. Bomorov,” the lawyer said, “Tom Valence, here. I’m sorry I’m not getting the opportunity to meet a man of your accomplishments in person. Perhaps at a later date.
“I represent your nephew, your heir, concerning your fiduciary responsibility to him and to yourself.
“Firstly, he is concerned that some mental infirmity is causing you to do him and yourself harm by irreparably damaging your estate through this costly expedition you’re undertaking with little chance of success. He believes this is grossly out of character given your previously prudent approach to your holdings.
“Secondly, if you are as sane as I hope you are, you need to be aware that taking money from my client’s future income stream without his consent is causing him severe mental distress, a form of relative abuse. In that case: Sir, how could you do this to your nephew, who loves you dearly?!”
“Yeah!” chimed in Zed meaninglessly.
The lawyer’s tone now turned sinister and stormy. “Or it may be that I am in fact not communicating with Mr. John ‘Bull’ Bomorov but with an impostor draining his estate for illicit personal gain!
“I have formally expressed my client’s concerns through the motion attached hereto. Judge Green has issued a preliminary injunction, valid in all nations signatory to the World Civil Court, freezing your financial assets until your sanity and identity are determined and your undoubted right to present enjoyment of your assets is weighed against my client’s rights under the Citizens’ Protections Act of 2130.
“You or your legal representative will of course wish to make every effort toward confirming your identity and sound mind as soon as possible and to establish your own rights under the Act.”
The lawyer turned to Zed, who tried his best to sound sincere in saying, “Yeah, Uncle. Please come back, we love you dearly and we miss you … I, I want to be sure you’re OK!”
The message cut back to Jack. “What can I say, boss? I’ve got our lawyers looking into this, but they won’t have anything to report for a couple days. Let me know what you need.”
Bull sat there, and sat some more. “Christ, I didn’t realize I was that rich,” he finally yelled to the bulkheads. “My goddamn nephew has found a high-priced bloodsucker and he’s making a play for my money!”
Throughout the next days bad news poured in, a lot of bad news. This suit should have been a nuisance suit settled out of court, at most a 10% blip on his operations, and that blip should have come only after weeks of discovery, claims, and counterclaims. But the element of relative abuse was an emerging global cause, and courts in countries not bound by Judge Green’s injunction had taken notice. Much of Bull’s modestly complex web of finances had already been revealed while his lawyers fought discovery motions for the rest. Fully 60% of his Earth holdings were frozen.
“There are things on this list I didn’t even know you owned,” commented Lester Walsh, Bull’s chief lawyer. “We’ve protested and counterclaimed, of course, but this assault was well planned. I don’t think the opening Japanese assaults in World War Two were as well planned. Eureka, California, isn't exactly the heart of the Solar System, but not only is it young Zedekiah’s undoubted place of residence, it turns out you have an investment in the area. So it doesn’t look like a venue carefully chosen to favor this suit.”
The lawyer leaned close to the screen. “But off the record, Bull, that’s exactly what it is. Something over a century ago, Eureka was having a hard time adapting to the decline of mining and timbering. They successfully hooked to tourism and related alternate industries, such as healthcare, cannabis cultivation, and an artist colony in which, coincidentally or not, you’ve recently invested. That economy bred a potent mix of free thinkers, environmentalists, and one-worlders to fuel a rights-oriented mindset that is thriving there now. The recent Citizens’ Protections Act fits right in with that.
“We’re trying to find out who’s the mastermind behind this. This seems clearly beyond Zed’s areas of competence, and Valence is usually aggressive but not innovative. Whoever is advising those two haven’t revealed themselves yet. But all this research takes time, and, painful as it is for me to admit this, we’re behind the curve on this one.”
Lester leaned back, apparently on the record again. “Bull, this has all the earmarks of getting expensive for you, very expensive, and I’d advise you to turn back immediately. If you’re around, we can do some damage control. If not …” He shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got for now.”
Bull paced. He thought about going out and inspecting the cargo hold, but held off. His mood wasn’t a good one for that. He needed to hit something, and hit it hard, so he headed for the exercise room, got into his suit, and called up Higuchi for some sumo wrestling.
Bull usually played even with his opponents—he won half and lost half no matter how hard he went at them. But this time as he entered the dirt ring and bowed, he said, “Simon says: Higuchi-san, play at last session’s level,” and the exercise room complied. Bull’s rage propelled him to five straight victories, then three losses as he tired. In the ninth round he came out early—punching, kicking, and screaming in rage. Higuchi, serene as always, snaked a hand through all Bull’s flailing and ran him out of the ring with a simple throat hold.
Exhausted, battered, and bruised, Bull slept easily that night, but the sleep was full of uneasy dreams.