FICTIONS: Copyright
Matthew Tighe
Smith stuck his head around the corner of the cubicle. “Where the hell is Zac? I need him to sign off on this invoice.”
Jensen looked up, but after a moment his gaze skittered away to the left. He shook his head, looking slightly uneasy. “Haven’t you heard?”
Smith felt his stomach do a slow loop. His throat went dry. He could guess what he hadn’t heard, but he asked anyway.
“What?”
Jensen shrugged. “He’s done. Disenfranchised. Someone trademarked him.”
Smith felt sick. It happened less frequently now, but hardly a week went by when you didn’t at least hear of it. Mostly people had some insurance. Only fools and the unlucky didn’t have a plan.
“He didn’t have any leverage?”
Jensen shrugged. “A couple of meek little copyrights and one out-of-date patent, apparently. He’d been saving up to trademark himself.” Jensen’s eyes settled back on Smith’s face momentarily. “You’re the lucky one. How long has the Smith name been trademarked to your family?”
Smith forewent the answer, waving his hand in farewell as he withdrew. He thought of Zac. He had barely known him and now he was a nameless, anonymous nobody. The courts would strip him of everything to pay whoever held his trademark. You saw the results on every street; a growing army of drifting, scavenging hopeless cases. Some had borrowed too heavily, gotten in too deep chasing the elusive safety of a strong trademark or copyright. Some, like Zac, had lost even the legal right to use their own names. Dimly, Smith remembered a time when none of it had really mattered. Copyright law had been the realm of businesses and the entertainment industry, not the cornerstone of everyday survival. Nowadays, you had to have a plan. You had to have leverage. His mind drifted to the trademark he had applied for the previous week. It was a long shot. It had taken him six years to save the money, and he knew the application would most likely be dismissed. But you had to have a plan, even if it was more hope than substance. Smith felt depressed.
He looked back at the invoice he was holding. Someone around the office should be able to approve it. He walked on, looking for someone in middle management.
* * *
It was two days before Smith thought of Zac again. He always felt a dim flash of surprise and annoyance as he stepped out of his drab, grey office into the garish street. Every spare inch of space, every section of wall, pavement, road and car panel was covered by colour, garishly displayed adverts. Some blinked, some flashed, while others regaled you with written witticisms. Buy me! everything screamed. A wall advert behind him suddenly started doing just that, a squawking, tinny voice activated by his approach. Irritated, he shuffled on until it fell silent. It would have seemed overwhelming, but Smith knew that on slightly closer inspection most of the space was dedicated to the survivors of the first copyright and trademark wars.
Smith stepped to the curb, raising his hand for a cab and feeling awkward in the pose, as he always did. A voice spoke from behind him.
“Spare change, sir?”
It was the catchcry of the disenfranchised, the nameless, the homeless, the ones who had not had enough protection. Smith turned, wondering idly why no one had bothered to copyright the phrase. One look at the man standing behind him was enough to answer that question, however. It would’ve been pointless. People like this had nothing else that could be taken from them. The man stood with his hand out, a hopeful look on his thin, sallow face. He was new at this, then. The cleaner patches where the guy had torn the trademarked labels from his shirt and jacket were still evident. Smith guessed that if he couldn’t afford food there was no way he could afford the weekly fees associated with wearing name brand clothes. Feeling uncomfortable, he fished in his pocket and handed over some change, resisting a sudden urge to apologise for not having more to give.
The guy smiled briefly, but made no move to leave. “Thanks, Smith.”
Smith, startled, looked again. “Zac?”
The man shook his head, his face going carefully blank. “No.”
Smith felt flustered. “Oh, of course.” He stood for a moment, awkward. “So, how are you?” Even as he said it he felt incredibly stupid. He opened his mouth to apologize, but his ex-office mate was already answering.
“Its not too bad, you know. So far. Most people will give you something. The hardest thing is squeezing out a good spot for yourself. Some of the long timer’s are a bit territorial.” He smiled again,looking incredibly sad as he did so. After a moment, the smile died, and he started to move away. He spoke again as he did, letting his gaze drift away from Smith. “I’m not looking forward to winter, though.”
* * *
Sitting in his cab, Smith felt perfectly horrible. He wanted to invite Zac to his home, even just for a meal, but it was pointless. The guy probably still owed oodles of money to his name holder. Giving him any real help would be aiding a criminal, and there were plenty of warnings against doing so. Even giving a disenfranchised spare change was against about a dozen of the newer copyright laws, although no one really cared if you did . There still seemed to be some decency left. So far, Smith whispered, an eerie echo of his old office companion’s words.
* * *
A thick yellow envelope from the Trademark, Copyright and Patent Office and Infringement Bureau was waiting in the mail slot when Smith got to his building. He carried it up to his sparsely furnished apartment and sat it on the counter. Smith looked at it as he poured a scotch, drank it, and made another. He had a shower, cooked and ate a tasteless, severely processed frozen dinner, poured another drink, drank it, and sat down on the lounge to open the envelope. After a moment, he got up and brought the bottle back with him.
The envelope held what he had hoped. What he hadn’t really dared to hope for, actually, although he knew his application had technically been in order. He had suspected it was an approval when he had seen how thick the envelope was, although it seemed too good to be true. Most of the envelope was filled with the mind-numbingly boring rules and stipulations that came with any approval, rules that all children had drilled in to them when they started school. The only really important part was the covering letter, headed by the Trademark, Copyright and Patent Office and Infringement Bureau’s all important approval seal. Smith sat back, smiling, slightly dazed . Approval! No rejection, no stern warning letter about wasting government time. He ran a hand through his hair, and noticed he was shaking.
* * *
Smith tossed and turned in bed for several hours before drifting into a fitful sleep. Skewed memories rose up in his mind, taking on fragments of meaning. He saw himself looking for Zac in the office. He turned from Jensen to find the corridor stretching out into the distance, cubicle after cubicle marching along beside him. Each desk was occupied. Each person seemed identical, pallid faces lit by ghostly computer screens, all unaware of his passing. Monotonous typing merged with the shuffle of his feet. After hours, or perhaps only seconds of walking, Smith stopped at a work station identical to those on either side. A shabbily dressed man sat at the desk, face turned to a glowing computer screen. Smith opened his mouth and spoke, although he had no idea of what he was going to say.
“I’m not looking forward to winter, either.”
The man turned from his computer and looked up at Smith The man had no face. Smooth, unmarked skin replaced his eyes, nose, mouth. Smith stumbled backwards, holding up his hands. The man laughed, then spoke, although Smith did not know how he could.
“Haven’t you heard? Winter is already here.”
* * *
Smith woke early, feeling groggy and dull. A cold shower failed to revive him, and neither did his routine two cups of instant, no-name coffee. He stared at the thick envelope on the bench as he nursed his third cup.You had to have a plan, everyone said so. But what did you do your plans exceeded your wildest expectations? And what could you do when winter was coming, when it was really already here for so many?
Except for himself, Smith thought. No one could touch him now, or ever. In the game of copyrighting and trademarking, he had just been dealt the ultimate trump card. But how did you play the ultimate card? Slowly, Smith made himself a fourth cup of coffee, sipped at it, and then tipped it down the sink. He grabbed the scotch bottle , poured a large glassful, and reached for the phone. If he was going to do this, he couldn’t do it from work. He would have to call in sick for the day.
His phone book supplied him with the number of a good copyright solicitor, one he couldn’t have afforded yesterday. The phone call was brief. Smith told the solicitor what he wanted, and half an hour later the solicitor was banging on his front door. The argument lasted for a long time, but in the end Smith got what he wanted. He held the ultimate trump card, and the fee for carrying out his requests was far too large for any true lawyer to pass up. The solicitor left, looking pale, and Smith holed up for the day, waiting.
* * *
Zac was sitting in his cubicle, looking mildly astounded. Smith watched from a distance. Some people stopped to stare, agog at the re-appearance. Some hurried by, looking startled and on the edge of panic. Smith watched Zac arrange and re-arrange the pens on his desk, then tried to go back to his own work. It was almost an hour later before the gossip filtered through to him, by way of a pale and shocked looking Jensen.
“Smith, have you heard?”
Smith looked up. “Heard what? That Zac is back?”
Jensen shook his head almost violently, paused, nodded, then merely looked confused, his brow furrowing. “Yes. I mean no. Well, no, not just that.” Smith waited, not saying anything. Jensen’s brow cleared. “It’s in all the papers. It’s on the television too. Special broadcasts. They say it’s going to change everything!” Jensen paused, waiting for a response, but Smith couldn’t give him one. His tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth. He found he was holding his breath.
Jensen gave him an exasperated look, and then continued in a rush. “Someone’s trademarked the trademark and copyright symbols! They’re holding everyone to ransom. No more enforcing personal trademarks or copyrights. Its going to set everything back fifty years!”
Smith found his voice. “Who?” He asked, trying to sound curious rather than nervous. He didn’t think he succeeded, but Jensen was already shaking his head, oblivious.
“No one knows. It’s all anonymous. But it’s going to cost a lot of people a lot of money.” Jensen looked somewhat wistfully down at Smith. “Who would throw away something like that? The best trademark idea ever! What a fool!” Jensen walked off, still shaking his head.
Smith watched Jensen go, and smiled. What he said was true. Everyone had to have a plan. Everyone had to have leverage. Until today.
—/—
Copyright © Matthew Tighe 2008
About this story:
I moved to one of Australia’s large cities a couple of years ago, and I spent a lot of my time feeling frustrated. Frustrated with the suits, and the conversations, and the one-up-man-ship. I wanted to say something about where that sort of attitude, taken to extremes, might lead us, but I didn’t think it was all bleak. One person may or may not make a difference, but if you look, you keep finding people who are trying.
Matt Tighe works as a researcher at a university. Whenever he gets a chance, he writes. It’s much harder than he ever thought, and much more fun as well. His stories have appeared in Ripples, Antipodean SF, and Flashspec Volume 2, and he hopes they will appear in many other places before he is done.
