Geosynchron

by David Louis Edelman

  All this drama was only a prelude to the imminent arrival of Natch.

  The entrepreneur's shuttle from 49th Heaven was expected to touch down any minute. Horvil, Serr Vigal, and Richard Taylor were said to be with him. Jara herself was anxious to see Horvil again, but almost everyone else in the room seemed to have some grievance with Natch that needed settling.

  The door opened an hour later to reveal Natch, along with Vigal and Taylor and a handful of Islander security personnel in olive green uniforms. The world at large did not know that Natch had returned, and Magan was sparing no effort to keep it that way. Some in this very room had only found out a couple hours ago. The last thing they needed was a pack of predatory drudges dogging the entrepreneur's every movement.

  Jara was amused to see everyone slowly gravitate in Natch's direction without trying to appear too anxious. She herself only had eyes for the plump engineer whom she had not seen in two weeks. Horvil quickly spotted her, edged around Frederic Patel without making eye contact, stopped for a quick hug from Benyamin, and then was at her side. The two of them scooted out into the hallway without being noticed, where they shared a tired and not particularly passionate kiss.

  "Remind me never to do that again," said Horvil with a groan.

  "49th Heaven?"

  "Oh no, I'd do 49th Heaven again. Fascinating place. I'm talking about traveling with Vigal and Richard Taylor."

  Jara smiled, tried to comb the engineer's ruffled hair with her fingers. "So did Taylor ever deliver his message?"

  "He did," replied Horvil with a shrug. "No idea what he said to Natch. Neither of 'em will tell me. Whatever the message was, looks like Natch did take it seriously. He's been acting pretty subdued ever since."

  "Hmm."

  When Jara made it back into the chamber a few minutes laterwithout Horvil, who absconded to her hotel room for some muchneeded sleep-Natch was still the center of attention. He was making his way around the room, spending two to three minutes with everyone as if running through items on a checklist. Jara took the opportunity to study the entrepreneur as he stood holding a terse conversation with Khann Frejohr.

  The last Jara had seen Natch, he was a scarecrow of a human being: gaunt, trembling from head to toe, eyes blackened and perpetually focused on nothingness. He was no longer that creature. But nor had he returned to the brilliant arrogance and insolent command of his fiefcorp days. Natch seemed in the process of metamorphosing into a different person altogether. His eyes were in that hazy half-colored state that eyes got right after you changed entries in your personal preferences database. His hair was similarly sandy blond at the roots and blackened up above. This new Natch was intense but quiet, thoughtful but humorless. Jara found it baffling that she had had such an unrelenting sexual obsession with this man for months. Not that he wasn't still physically attractive, but his focus seemed so ... ethereal ... that carnal emotions hardly seemed to apply.

  He approached Jara. "Jara," he said in greeting, with a slight incline of his head.

  "Natch," replied the fiefcorp master, tipping her head in kind.

  "I've been hearing good words from Petrucio about your work with the fiefcorp since I left," said Natch.

  "From Petrucio? Really?" Jara couldn't help but be perplexed, though she couldn't see any reason why the entrepreneur would lie about something like this. She cast a glance around to see the expression on Petrucio's face, but he had already left and taken Frederic with him.

  "He was very impressed with the way you handled the negotiations about the MultiReal choice cycles. And from what he said, he thought you acquitted yourself well at the trial in Andra Pradesh."

  Jara nodded. What kind of conversation was this? What did Petrucio Patel have to do with all that had gone on between them? The years of manipulation, the thousands of hours of late-night engineering and analysis, her furious denunciation of him in Berilla's office, the quibbling over choice cycle schemas in the MultiReal program from afar. It all seemed like ancient history, but that didn't mean she couldn't still feel the sting.

  "I thought I should let you know," said Natch, his eyes never wavering from hers, "that I have no intention of rejoining or interfering with the fiefcorp. As far as I'm concerned, you're the fiefcorp master now, free and clear. And if you need any help from me to make that transition fully legal in the eyes of the Meme Cooperative, let me know."

  Jara wanted to ask him whether he felt the need to apologize for his behavior over all those years. She wanted to ask what exactly he had been up to on 49th Heaven-the vague stories she had heard about battling black code gangs seemed unlikely, bordering on absurd. She wanted to ask exactly what had happened to him in Old Chicago, what his relationship with Brone was, why and how the MultiReal program had ended up in the bodhisattva's hands. She wanted to ask what kind of message a stranger from the Pharisee Territories could possibly have for him that would keep his interest.

  But she did none of those things. Instead, she asked, "So what will you do after all this is over with?"

  Natch shrugged. "I'll do whatever I have to do," he said. And then, with a curt bow, he was gone.

  30

  Magan Kai Lee was in a reflective mood.

  He stood next to the Islander conference table and scrutinized the mural on the wall with a critical eye, wondering who had painted it and, equally as important, who had commissioned it. On first glance, one could mistake the work for a straightforward piece of propaganda or patriotism. The members of the Band of Twelve, standing selfimportantly in the midst of the City Center, stretching their arms out to the skies as they espoused the ideals of the Free Republic.

  But Magan knew something about art from his teenage days in the gullies and gutters of Beijing, the old sections of the city that had once been ravaged by the Autonomous Minds. Close inspection revealed that several members of the Band had expressions of covert cynicism on their faces, while others seemed to be concealing bulky objects in their pockets. Weapons? Treepaper documents? Magan supposed someone more schooled in the history of the Pacific Islands would recognize the iconography. Nevertheless, the painting gave him an impression of lingering skepticism and creeping doubt in the principles of the Islanders.

  It was not so different from the feeling of unease coming from the group assembled before him around the massive oak conference table. My own Band of Eighteen, thought Magan.

  Seated closest to him were his most trusted aides, the two who had stood by him even under heavy dart fire on the floor of the Tul Jabbor Complex. On Magan's immediate right was the Blade, Chief Solicitor Rey Gonerev, her manner businesslike and her hair done up in elaborate braids. Seated to Magan's left was his chief engineer, Papizon, oddly aloof and untouched by the hectic events of the past few months.

  Down the left side of the table were Merri, still sullen about the violation of her truthtelling oath; Benyamin, keen and alert and ever ready to act the skeptic; the engineer Horvil, whose sunny disposition more than counterbalanced his cousin's dourness; the fiefcorp master Jara, laser-focused as always; the channeler Robby Robby, not quite as serious but just as focused; the Pharisee Richard Taylor, clearly bewildered and out of his element; and the venerable, if unassuming, neural programmer Serr Vigal.

  On the right side of the table sat Frederic Patel, still raw from some apparent grievance with his brother; Petrucio Patel, too preoccupied with his failed mission to pay Frederic much heed; Speaker of the Congress of L-PRACGs Khann Frejohr, looking uncharacteristically subdued himself; the Islander Quell, his demeanor a strange mixture of grimness at the situation and joy at being reunited with family; his son Josiah, looking every bit the statesman and Surina his mother was; Bali Chandler, always the free spirit, even in crisis; and General Cheronna, taciturn commander of the Islander forces, looking just as discomfited as the Pharisee but for different reasons.

  At the opposite end of the table from Magan sat Natch, unnervingly calm and distant.

  Here sat the main actors in the MultiReal dra
ma that had unfolded over the past few months. The ones largely responsible for the dangerous situation the world now faced, and fate willing, the ones who would see it through to the other side.

  Magan turned away from the mural to the group assembled at the table.

  "When Len Borda took office at the turn of the century," said the lieutenant executive, "he inherited a group of advisors known as the Inner Council. According to tradition, these men and women would stay on to help the new high executive during his first months in office. A way to provide continuity between administrations. It's said that the Inner Council provided crucial support to High Executive Borda in those early days.

  "Then Marcus Surina died, and the economy went into freefall. Len Borda proposed stimulating the economy through massive military spending. The Inner Council strongly disagreed. Angered by their insubordination, the high executive dissolved the Inner Council.

  "This pattern has continued throughout the current administration. Conformity of thought valued over dissenting opinion. Loyalty to narrow political interest instead of loyalty to principle.

  "So let this conference today be symbolic of the diversity of opinion that I will bring back to the Defense and Wellness Council, if I'm fortunate enough to prevail in my struggle. Consensus through rational discussion; opposing viewpoints given full and open recognition; no one ever castigated for speaking honestly.

  "I've brought you all here today because I need your advice. I need your wisdom. Final decisions on the actions of the Council rest with me and me alone, but I would prefer them to be informed decisions. In this room, you may speak your mind freely and without fear.

  "Let us begin."

  Seventeen voices murmured their assent.

  Rey Gonerev began with a summary of the rebellion against Len Borda.

  "We have made some progress in the past few weeks," said the Blade. "Thanks to the smart diplomacy of the Islanders and the smart consulting work of Jara's company, we now have a base here in Manila behind the unconnectible curtain. Since the publication of Josiah's manifesto on the Data Sea, Borda has been hemorrhaging public support. Morale among his troops is down, the governmentalist drudges are laying low, and even the Congress of L-PRACGs has thrown its support behind Magan."

  "To be clear," interrupted Khann Frejohr, insinuating his arm onto the table to catch Gonerev's attention, "the Congress doesn't officially support anything. I was able to push through that statement about addressing grievances, and I've come here at Magan's request. But just because I distrust Borda's intentions doesn't mean I've signed on to Magan's."

  "So noted," said Gonerev with a sidelong glance of surprise at Magan. "But the fact that you're here with us in the Pacific Islandsand the fact that the public knows you're here-that weighs heavily in our favor. As far as the drudges are concerned, your presence here is as good as an endorsement."

  Frejohr did not look pleased by her assertion, but he did not dispute it either.

  "I'm afraid that's where the good news ends," continued the Blade. "Len Borda's troops may have low morale-but they've got us outnumbered nearly three to one. If we assume that Magan has many supporters in the ranks who are afraid to declare open rebellion, we're still badly outnumbered. Even if we include the Islander troops under General Cheronna's command, that makes up some ground-but not nearly enough."

  "And you should not include us in your ranks," put in Cheronna tersely. "The Islander parliament has allowed you a military base. They have not approved any joint military actions."

  Gonerev gave a solemn nod, acknowledging the point. "That leads me to the governmental front," she said. "As the general mentioned, Representative Triggendala is holding up any military alliance between Magan and the Free Republic through parliamentary procedures. She's organizing protests across the Islands, and some of them are proving to be quite heated.

  "As for the connectible government-well, you all heard Speaker Frejohr's statement about where the Congress stands. But at least they're lending Magan some small amount of public support. The Prime Committee has completely rebuffed our efforts to present arti- Iles of impeachment against Len Borda for the scene at the Tul Jabbor Complex. There's too much confusion about what actually happened there and why. The libertarian side of the Committee has been making noises about a motion of support similar to the one that the Congress passed, but we don't think they have the votes.

  "So we're badly outnumbered ... we have inferior equipment ... we have little in the way of government support ... and to top things off, Borda has the Defense and Wellness Council Root. An orbital fortress that is, for all intents and purposes, impregnable."

  "Isn't DWCR invisible to the multi network too?" asked Cheronna. "Couldn't Borda use his fortress the same way you're using the Islands-as a base to send out multi projections?"

  "No," said Magan. "DWCR is not invisible to the network. It's just well concealed. Regardless, there aren't enough outgoing multi streams on the Root to allow Borda to send out an effective virtual force from there."

  Khann Frejohr leaned forward and addressed the lieutenant executive. Of all the questioning faces around the table, his seemed the most dubious and the most impatient. "The rebellion appears to be gaining ground, but you admit that you're in no shape to take on Len Borda right now," he said. "So why are we here? Time is on your side, Magan. You're well protected from preemptive attack behind the curtain. Public opinion is slowly turning in your favor, and you're still getting new defectors every day. As soon as word gets out that you're in possession of MultiReal, that trickle should turn into a flood. Why not wait and let things play out for a few more weeks? Why the urgency of this meeting?"

  "There lies our other, and possibly more serious, dilemma," replied the lieutenant executive somberly. "Rey?"

  The Blade slid one hand under the table and began tapping on the recessed row of buttons there. Seconds later, the holograph of a taciturn individual appeared over the middle of the table. A younger man with prematurely graying hair, a stern expression on his face, and eyes of mismatched color. Magan could see Natch's face darken across the table.

  "The bodhisattva of Creed Thassel," said Gonerev. `Krone. Once a promising young programmer and disciple of the capitalman Figaro Fi. Fi helped him gain his fortune, which he used to buy his way into the leadership of the creed and build up its membership.

  "And now he has core access to MultiReal.

  `Krone appears to have gained access to the program when Natch was in Old Chicago. He's using a clever piece of black code which he implanted in Natch during an attack in Shenandoah. For the past six weeks, he and his Thasselian devotees have been working frantically on the MultiReal databases right under Natch's nose. We believe that Brone is preparing to release an enhanced version of MultiReal called Possibilities 2.0 on the Data Sea any day now.

  "Dealing with the standard Possibilities 1.0 out on the Data Sea was worrisome enough. But if Papizon's projections are correct, the consequences of having Possibilities 2.0 loose on the Data Sea will be catastrophic."

  The Blade gestured to Papizon. The engineer's fingers danced beneath the tabletop along the row of recessed buttons, replacing the photo of Brone with a chart that showed a sharply rising curve. "Projected number of people downloading and activating Possibilities 2.0," said Papizon, running his index finger up and down the y-axis. "Elapsed time from launch on the Data Sea," he continued, indicating the digits on the x-axis. "Critical mass-the point at which the program overwhelms the computational system and starts causing massive infoquakes." Papizon pointed to an ominous blue line slicing across the entire diagram about a third of the way up. "As you can see," he con cluded, "that's not a very high bar to jump. And there are a lotta people who are going to keep activating after that point."

  "So we'll have six days to curb the spread of MultiReal after Brone releases it?" said Benyamin, squinting at the chart. "Guess that explains the urgency."

  "Ohhhh no," replied Papizon with a child's singsong dread. "Th
ose numbers running across the bottom aren't days. Those are hours."

  Stunned silence.

  Rey Gonerev picked up the conversation in a low tone, her demeanor grave. "Because of all the publicity about MultiReal, the latest polling numbers show the program with a name recognition in the mid-ninetieth percentile. Almost every single person from here to Furtoid is aware of it. The percentage of people who are actually planning to download the program is significantly lower. But even if we assume an extremely low adoption rate-say, five percent-that's still close to three billion people.

  "And if Natch's assumptions about Brone's Revolution of Selfishness are correct, then there's no reason why everyone who's curious won't give MultiReal a try. Natch proposed a price tag of eighty thousand Vault credits a few months ago, which would have slowed the adoption rate considerably. But Brone intends to release the program for free, with complete and unrestricted access to the underlying MindSpace code.

  "If even five percent of those who've heard about MultiReal decide to activate it, and if the centralized government manages to block as much as ninety-five percent of the program's distribution on the Data Sea-which I can tell you, is quite beyond our abilities-that's still one hundred and forty million people. A hundred forty million people creating multiple realities. Given the most optimistic scenario we can project, we reach that blue line in ten hours rather than six."

  Papizon dutifully snapped his fingers, flattening the exponential growth curve on the chart by an insignificant degree.

  "So what happens when we reach that blue line?" asked Petrucio Patel, trying unsuccessfully to smooth the worry lines on his forehead.