Geosynchron

by David Louis Edelman

  "What's changed?" said Jara.

  "Magan."

  Jara shook her head. "Maybe I'm just stupid. What does Magan have to do with the Islands? Why does his rebellion change anything out here?"

  Chandler flicked his tongue over his lips and scratched once more at his stubble as he gathered his thoughts. The Islanders have two armies camped offshore ready to invade, thought Jara impatiently, and their parliamentary representative here is so relaxed he's almost embalmed.

  "Sun Tzu," said the Islander after a moment, shifting conversational tracks. "The Art of War. Any of you read it?"

  The fiefcorp master had a brief flashback to the hive. Interminable lessons, boring ancient texts. "I've read pieces of it."

  "Not a word," said Ben.

  "Read the whole thing at least five times," put in Robby cheerfully, still scanning the horizon with the telescopic spectacles.

  "Then you know, Mr. Robby, that Sun Tzu's main principle still applies. Know thy enemy. Difference is that today, you need to know a lot more about the enemy than you used to. You need to know where they are, how they're armed, how they're defended." Chandler ticked these items off on the wrinkled fingers of his right hand. "How do you get that information on a battlefield? In ancient times you could track your opponent via satellite, but we've got so many ways of faking out satellites nowadays that they're next to useless for military purposes. Same thing with remote cameras, spy drones, long-distance electro magnetic scans. For every surveillance technology there's a more effective countersurveillance technology-except for one."

  "Multi," said Jara.

  Bali Chandler laughed. "Businesswoman and battlefield tactician too, huh?"

  "Hardly. But I've seen a thousand war dramas in my day."

  "Ah, dramas! All right, you've seen the dramas. Tell me how you use multi on the battlefield."

  Jara knew that writers and directors often employed pretzel logic in the scripting of their dramas, but some scenarios were common enough that she figured there had to be some underlying truth to them. She described her vision of how modern battle was conducted, as informed by the dramas of Jeannie Q. Christina and Bill Rixx. Before the first shots were fired, you sent a barrage of multi projections into enemy territory-hundreds, sometimes thousands of them-to scope out the opposing camp. As your multi projections streamed out past the line of battle, multi disruptor cannons were gunning full-bore at the enemy's incoming projections. If you deployed your multi forces effectively, enough would get through to give an adequate picture of the enemy's defenses.

  "Terrific!" said the Islander with a comic burst of applause. "A little sensationalized, but basically accurate. So tell me what would happen if you could totally block incoming multi projections from crossing into your camp?"

  "You'd have a huge advantage, I guess," said Jara.

  Benyamin sliced his hand through the air in objection. "Maybe you don't understand the politics of the multi network," he said. "The network administrators, they've always refused to cooperate with the Council. It's like a cardinal rule. We won't have our technology politicized, they say. The network is the network, and not even the high executive himself gets special treatment. "

  Chandler nodded. "Ah, but you're forgetting something. There's one place where the network administrators have agreed to block multi connections. There's one place where they do give special treatment."

  "What place is that?"

  The Islander extended his open palm over the edge of the railing.

  "So the Council isn't trying to take over the Islands at all," said Jara.

  The four of them had decamped back to the tranquil lounge with the painting of the musketed soldiers. Jara finally poured herself that tumbler of rum she had been craving and sat down at one end of the conference table. Chandler sat down at the other, while Benyamin and Robby took seats along the sides. Jara felt like doing nothing but retreating back to the tube and sending Horvil a Confidential Whisper, but clearly the briefing was not over.

  "Take over the Islands?" replied Chandler. "No. Wouldn't be any point. Len Borda and Magan Kai Lee are quietly building up their forces on the perimeter for another reason. They want to use the Islands as a base to attack each other."

  "I can see some of the benefits to putting your army behind the unconnectible curtain," said Jara. "But isn't there a significant downside as well? Aren't they going to have a heck of a time running bio/logic weapons systems back here?"

  "A few," the Islander admitted. "But it's negligible compared to what they'd gain."

  Benyamin suddenly looked ill. "So they're both going to ... invade?"

  "Invade?" Chandler snorted with good humor. "Invasions are a last resort, my friend. You start with persuasion, then you move on to leverage. After that comes bribery, then deception, and then force." The Islander let out a cackle that might have been the most disturbing thing Jara had heard the entire conversation. "Listen, the three of you are arriving on the tail end of all this. We've been dealing with the Council for two months now. Manila's literally crawling with spies and diplomats trying to persuade the parliament to let in one side or the other. I'm telling you, it's been fun times here in Manila."

  Jara downed the rest of her rum in a single gulp.

  "So who's winning?" said Robby.

  "Glad you asked." The Islander reached under the lip of the table, which Jara suddenly noticed was filled with multiple sets of recessed buttons. He tapped a few of the buttons, causing a holographic pie chart to appear over the table. "There's forty-eight districts in the Free Republic. And right now, here's the tally, as close as we can make it out...." Bali Chandler gestured at the pie chart, which the fiefcorpers read with grim concentration.

  Magan Kai Lee -9 Len Borda 8 Resistance4 Undecided 27

  "`Resistance'?" said Benyamin.

  "We fight all comers," said Chandler, putting his fists up in sarcastic imitation of a boxer's stance.

  Jara shivered involuntarily. Knowing Quell, she did not doubt the bravery or tenacity of the Islanders. But knowing Len Borda, she wouldn't lay great odds on the Free Republic surviving an armed confrontation with both of the Council's two feuding executives. They'd be crushed as if they'd come between the hammer and the anvil.

  The fiefcorp master rubbed her temples and looked longingly at the wet bar again. "What you're saying is that it's anyone's guess what the parliament is going to decide."

  Chandler shook his head. "No. What I'm saying is that the stage is set for a certain charismatic young representative to make his big debut." He splayed his hands in the air as if framing a scene for an imaginary camera. "Our man steps into the spotlight. He declares his heritage and his ownership of MultiReal. He releases a compelling manifesto and sways the balance of the parliament to vote his way."

  "Wait a second, back up," snapped Benyamin. "Ownership of MultiR-"

  The realization seemed to slap each of the fiefcorpers in the face simultaneously. Josiah Surina, son and heir of Margaret Surina, Islander representative, statesman, and now-thanks to the recent testimony of his father in a courtroom in Andra Pradesh-legal owner of MultiReal technology. By working to put MultiReal in the hands of the Surina family, Quell had really put it into his own.

  "That sly bastard!" said Robby with a chuckle. "That sly, sly bastard!"

  Jara could suddenly see the logic behind so much that had gone on in the past two weeks. Quell, trying to keep the secret of his son's identity concealed from Len Borda as long as possible. Magan Kai Lee, moving whatever levers he needed to move behind the scenes to ensure that the Surina family won its court case. "So Quell believes the Islanders should side with Magan Kai Lee," said Jara.

  "I suppose," replied Chandler, reaching under the table to dispel the pie chart back to holographic limbo. "Though I'm not sure that Josiah feels the same way. I assume that's the counsel Quell wanted you to provide. Helping convince him of the right path to take. Oh, and let me add one more wrinkle."

  "What's that?" asked Robby.


  "I said that you arrived at the tail end of all this. Well, I meant it. Len Borda's tired of talking and playing spy games. He realizes that his chances of getting what he wants through negotiation are slim and getting slimmer. So our scouts say that he's preparing for an invasion. In the next forty-eight hours."

  The room suddenly seemed to get a lot darker. Jara remembered her conversation with Horvil where he said the Pacific Islands could be a war zone in a week's time. It had felt like hyperbole then, but now it looked like events might prove him right, two days earlier than he had predicted.

  18

  A life lived on perimeters. A life in between things.

  Neither connectible nor unconnectible, neither resident of the Pacific Islands nor resident of Andra Pradesh. More than a lover to Margaret Surina, yet not her legally bonded companion. Not a fulltime parent to Josiah, in order to help Margaret complete her Phoenix Project-but not a full-fledged partner on the Phoenix Project either, in order to spend time in Manila raising his son.

  Quell, man of edges.

  And now, Quell sat in the in-between place once again, this time in a very literal sense. He was a prisoner aboard one of Len Borda's Defense and Wellness Council hoverbirds, scuttling along the unconnectible curtain outside Manila. Four officers wearing the white robe and yellow star surrounded him, two armed with dartguns and two armed with the connectible equivalent of a shock baton. Quell's wrists were bound, but otherwise he was quite comfortable.

  He had told Jara that Magan Kai Lee would bail him out. Yet if there was one thing Quell knew about Magan, he knew that Magan was not a man of sentiment. Quell had fancied himself an important asset to the rebellion, but looked at through the concentrating prism of logic, the case was not so strong. The longer he sat here staring at the ocean, the more hopeless his case became.

  Magan did not need him. The lieutenant executive might have used Quell to press his case to Josiah, but Quell was confident that Jara could do just as good a job. Truth be told, Josiah was far more likely to heed her counsel than heed his father's.

  Borda did not need him either. The high executive might also have used Quell as a bargaining chip to get his armies behind the unconnectible curtain, but Borda would soon see the futility of that idea. Jara's first recommendation to Josiah would undoubtedly be to not let Quell's capture color his reasoning.

  So why would anyone confront this cadre of Borda's troops to free a worthless fool of an Islander whose life had never been his own? Magan had already freed him from Borda's clutches once at great risk; he had given Quell his freedom and promised assistance in recapturing legal rights to MultiReal in exchange for the Islander's assistance getting Magan's armies behind the curtain. The lieutenant executive wasn't likely to come up with another such bargain. Which meant that Quell would probably sit in a succession of hoverbirds staring at dartgun barrels until the situation in the Council resolved itself. Either that, or he would shortly be on his way back to orbital prison and the ever-present danger of broken thumbs.

  And who would be the worse for it?

  Quell tried to remember when his identity started to slip away. He supposed it began when he was a student at the Gandhi University all those years ago, the day he met Margaret and confronted her about her speech before Creed Surina.

  Quell had been seventeen years old, and Margaret sixteen. She had stood up before an audience of creed sycophants and lectured them about how the universe compelled humanity to scientific discovery, how it invited exploration of its mysteries. No philosopher, philanthropist, or prophet has done as much to improve our lot in life as the scientist, she had said. My father once told me that when you turn your back on scientific progress, you turn your back on human suffering. The world was still newly embroiled in the Economic Plunge, and rioting in Melbourne had just rocked the very foundations of the centralized government. People were hungry for the ambition and audacity of the Surinas.

  Margaret's speech before the Creed Surina devotees had left Quell feeling restive and belligerent. He had walked up to the podium after the speech was over and the devotees had all slithered away. Only Margaret's ever-present retinue of handlers had remained.

  So you think I'm a masochist? Quell had snapped by way of greeting.

  The young lecturer had turned to focus her attention on the Islander. She was a small woman, thin as a stalk of wheat. Her almondcolored skin and sizable nose betrayed her Surina heritage. So I think you're ... what? she had replied, confused. Apparently in high society Andra Pradesh, what began with an H.

  Your speech, Quell had said. "When you turn your back on scientific progress, you turn your back on human suffering. " If you really believe that, you must believe the Islanders are masochists. Why else would we refuse to run biollogic programs twenty-four hours a day? Why else would we wear these? He had pointed to his government-issue connectible collar, which was even thicker and more unwieldy in those days. It must be because we like sickness and pain. We must like human suffering.

  Something had surfaced from beneath those ocean blue eyes. Curiosity. Of course I don't believe that, Margaret had replied. All of us are looking for a way to deflect our own suffering.

  Quell had taken the words in and imprinted them on his memory. What's that supposed to mean?

  It means that if you liked disease, you wouldn't be using biollogic programs to control your asthma, now would you?

  The Islander had paused. He had thought of Margaret as a hypocrite because she mouthed words of support for pro-Islander policies in public while completely ignoring the actual Islanders studying at the university. But apparently Margaret had taken an interest after all. Quell's condition had hardly been a secret, but neither had it been obvious to a casual bystander, thanks to the OCHREs lining his brachial tubing and the bio/logic programs that directed them. So you admit your father was wrong, he had said. Just because we doubt science doesn't mean we embrace suffering.

  I admit nothing of the kind, Margaret had riposted, clearly starting to enjoy the duel. In fact, you've just proven his point. Software can fix your lungs today, but if your parents had embraced medical technology when you were conceived, you wouldn't have gotten asthma in the first place. A hive would have fixed your lungs during gestation. But because your mother chose to grow you in her belly, she allowed your asthma to happen. She turned her back on human suffering.

  Quell could recognize a deliberate provocation when he heard one, and he had struggled to keep his poise. Still, despite the vehemence of Margaret's words, her tone had not been confrontational at all, but rather upbeat, almost playful. You can fix a lot of things if you grow babies in vats, he had said. But at what cost? Pumping them full of OCHREs?

  The OCHREs are a lot easier to install during gestation. They can always be adjusted or deactivated later.

  Later? Later? The Islander had felt his voice rising in spite of himself. That's always the way it is with you connectibles. You put the burden on us to "adjust" to your technologies. Think about it from our point of view for once. You only give us two options: implant a complete OCHRE system in the womb and "adjust" later, or go back to doctors with clumsy steel tools. All or nothing. Listen. The Islanders don't want to spend half our lives upgrading software-but do you think we want to move backwards? After all these hundreds of years?

  There had been a long pause as Margaret had tried to find her footing after this tirade. Quell had realized in characteristically late fashion that he had pushed back too hard. He had peered over Margaret's shoulder only to see the Surina family handlers edging closer with deepening frowns, looking at him as if he were one of the large beetles that scurried on the walls in the summertime.

  The Islander had smiled and flipped his head back, causing long blond hair to cascade over one shoulder. He wasn't afraid of these people. You want to ditch them? he had asked, indicating the handlers with a lift of his eyebrows.

  Margaret had blinked as if the idea had never occurred to her. Ditch them?

&
nbsp; Yeah.

  And go where?

  Quell had shrugged. Don't know. You tell me.

  Something had sparked inside Margaret at that moment. Quell would later discover that the girl had barely spent an hour alone since the death of her father six years earlier. Privacy had been a casualty of Marcus's death, along with her independence. I'm game, Margaret had said with a grin. To Quell's surprise, she had grabbed one of his hands and they had taken off for the Revelation Spire.

  The Revelation Spire, the world's tallest building, a thin spike in the sky. The place had been closed to the public for six years, so Quell had had only vague ideas of what he would find behind those grand double doors. He had caught a glimpse of security officers dashing pellmell across the courtyard behind them as Margaret tugged him inside. The atrium had been filled with hundreds upon hundreds of boxes. Quell had followed Margaret to a side alcove, watched as she opened a secret door with a wave of her hand and leapt into the elevator leading to the top of the Spire. The door had slid shut behind them before the Surina goons had even made it through the building's entrance.

  Margaret had kissed him on the way up. It was a long way.

  Quell had been shocked by this sudden display of passion. He had not been blind to her charms, but he had seen no hint of reciprocation in her eyes. Amazing what you could learn to conceal when you were the richest girl in the world.

  If I ask you something, she had said, snuggling into the canopy of his arms, will you promise to tell me the truth?

  Sure.

  Am I beautiful?

  The Islander had suddenly realized his appeal to her. Not only had he exhibited no fear of Margaret's handlers, he had represented a world outside the bubble of Andra Pradesh. A secure anchor to a saner reality.

  Quell had decided to keep his promise. No, he had said. You're attractive. You're beguiling. You're sexy. You're fascinating. He had been surprised to discover that he meant all these things. But if you're asking whether you're beautiful in the classical sense ... no, you're not. Margaret had nodded. She had not been disappointed in his answer; on the contrary, she had seemed incredibly relieved to have the burden of beauty lifted from her shoulders. Why? Quell had said. What have your handlers been telling you?