The stakes: not fiefcorp shares, not Primo's ratings, not increased revenue-but possibly the continued survival of civilization itself.
You wanted responsibility, Jara reminded herself. You wanted a place in the game. Well, this is the game.
The elevator carrying Jara, Petrucio, Merri, Benyamin, Robby, Rey Gonerev, and the Council tactical systems expert came to a halt at the top floor of the Tio Van Jarmack building in Manila's City Center. They stepped off the elevator and walked down a short corridor lined with armed Defense and Wellness Council officers. Every door along the way had been barricaded shut with thick metal plates. Jara frowned. It was odd enough to walk down a hallway and have Council officers saluting her as she passed; the fact that she was comforted by their presence made the experience positively surreal.
"This room should have everything you need," said Gonerev as they walked through the double doors at the end of the hallway.
Robby Robby whistled. Jara didn't know what function the room normally served, but Magan's people had managed to turn it into a state-of-the-art war room in less than twenty-four hours. The two long walls of the rectangular room were covered floor to ceiling with viewscreens. There was a sturdy-looking oak conference table, a number of both upright and reclining chairs, a covered balcony overlooking the City Center for that occasional ten-minute break, a darkened alcove with a cot for longer stretches of rest, and a counter arrayed with fresh fruit, power snacks, and three different brands of nitro. Jara thought that last part was a nice touch.
"Looks like it's got much more than we need," said Petrucio, heading over to the counter to grab an apple. "In fact, I think I might move in here."
Gonerev smiled. "I'm sure you'll be clamoring to get out after a few hours. So everyone take a seat, and Larakolia will run you through the tactical systems." The fiefcorpers all found seats, Jara stopping at the counter to fetch a cup of nitro on the way.
The tactical systems expert Larakolia epitomized the term lifer: a small, thin woman, efficient and humorless, her skin a sandpaper color that could let her credibly pass for almost any race. Jara was fairly certain this was one of the goons Magan Kai Lee had introduced in the courtyard of the London nitro bar that drizzly December day. But Larakolia didn't volunteer any previous acquaintance with Jara, and the fiefcorp master wasn't quite sure how to ask.
The Council tactician walked up to the wall and stood in front of the bank of viewscreens. "First, you'll have full access to the heads-up displays on each of the team's battle suits," said Larakolia, waving her hand briskly. One of the viewscreens morphed from a smooth black to a pockmarked gray. "I suggest you keep this view up on both walls at all times."
Robby squinted. "Why's it all gray like that? Is something broken?"
The woman was obviously used to dumb questions. "The display shows you the view from Natch's vantage point. Right now he's in surgery, so all you're seeing is the suit hanging on the wall."
"Oh." The channeler blushed, then grinned.
Larakolia stepped away from the wall and pointed at a different section of viewscreen. "But you're not constrained to the suit user's perspective. Each battle suit has twenty-four cameras embedded in the mesh. The resulting composite image effectively gives you a full threehundred-and-sixty-degree view." She waved three fingers on her right hand slightly, causing the camera angle to pan away from the wall and show the interior of an ordinary-looking supply closet. "In fact, you've got more than three hundred and sixty degrees." With another wave of her fingers, Larakolia sent the view tilting upward to the corrugated ceiling and then down to the tiled floor.
"Doesn't the Council have any cameras inside the building?" asked Petrucio.
"Not a one," replied the Council tactician. "We have some exterior views of the Complex and some aerial reconnaissance. But it's not likely to be much help once Natch makes it indoors."
"Don't forget that the Kordez Thassel Complex was built by libertarian extremists," said Rey Gonerev, who had been standing next to the balcony and gazing out onto the city. "The architects of that building did everything in their power to make it inaccessible to the Council. We're fairly certain they even falsified the blueprints on file with the Twin Cities L-PRACG."
"Do we have access to those blueprints?" asked Jara.
Larakolia nodded. "You do. You also have access to the video surveillance that Merri and Petrucio conducted during their recent visit."
"And the personnel files I asked for?"
The Council tactician waved at a blank section of viewscreen, causing the list of forty-six Thasselian devotees to cascade from the top of the screen in a font that was legible across the room. Larakolia pointed at one of the names at random, causing a holographic cube to pop out from the viewscreen with the photo of a hideously ugly bald man hugging the left margin.
HENRY PULTROON
Age: 43
Last Known Position and Employer: Bio/logic Analyst, the Deuteron Fefcorp
Home City: Omaha
Larakolia continued drilling down through the data, causing box after box to accordion out into the room. With every flick of her finger, a whole new layer of personal information about the Thasselian was revealed: complete work history, photographs, background, known relationships, likes and dislikes, even the name of his ex-companion's dog. Jara shuddered. She remembered when Rey Gonerev had hinted that the Council knew about Jara's dalliances on the Sigh with that mentally challenged Natch lookalike. She didn't want anyone outside her immediate family having ready access to those kinds of details about her. Especially not the Defense and Wellness Council.
Rey Gonerev seemed to sense the fiefcorp master's discomfort. Perhaps she too was remembering the intrusive research the Council had done on Jara. "We don't usually have this much information about private citizens," said the solicitor. "But you wanted all the information we could come up with in forty-eight hours. So we've had oppo research teams working around the clock since Magan's council adjourned."
Benyamin had leaned forward to call up Pierre Loget's name and was now busy scrutinizing the programmer's intimate relationship history. "As interesting as this is," he said, "what good is it going to do us?"
Jara took a long sip of nitro. "I'll tell you in a minute. Larakolia, why don't you go ahead and finish the demo."
The tactician spent the next twenty minutes walking the fiefcorpers through a blizzard of features and functions, most of which they weren't going to need. They would get two-way encrypted communication with Natch's team, which the system would automatically transcribe, analyze, and index; they would be able to continually monitor everyone's vital signs; they would be able to load black code directly into the team's guns and bio/logic systems from here via the battle suits, which would be convenient if the entrepreneur found himself in a firefight. But if that were to happen, it would be a moot point, because surely Brone would be aware of Natch's presence and the entire mission would be for naught.
Then I guess we need to make sure that doesn't happen, thought the fiefcorp master.
When Larakolia finished the tactical systems run-through, Benyamin led the fiefcorpers in a polite round of applause. Rey Gonerev clapped briefly then turned to the balcony, preoccupied with thoughts of her own.
Jara stood. "Now back to your question about the personnel files, Ben," she said, walking over to a blank section of viewscreen on the opposite wall. "Can you call up those blueprints of the Thassel Complex for me, Larakolia?" The Council tactician dutifully summoned the architectural diagrams of the building and projected them in the space Jara indicated. Seen from above, the Complex resembled some mutant breed of lobster. The fiefcorp master made a gesture toward the blueprint and caused another diagram to superimpose itself on top of the mutant lobster, this one full of diminutive red, blue, and purple squares. "The Oneon-One Motivation Network," said Jara. "Anyone heard of it?"
Petrucio Patel leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache, intrigued. "Targeted advertising," he said. "Frederic and I, we've used
them a few times."
"Not just targeted advertising," put in Robby. "Ultratargeted advertising. Down to the individual, down to the time of day, down even to the expression on your face." The very idea seemed to make the channeler salivate.
Jara nodded in Robby's direction. "Correct. And their viewscreens are in practically every corridor of the Kordez Thassel Complex, running twenty-four hours a day. We might not be able to get cameras into the building-but we can get advertising onto any viewscreen we want. It's all perfectly legal and above board. The Thasselians are hardcore libertarians-as long as we're the highest bidder, we can literally take over all the advertising in the building."
Merri, unsure about the whole idea: "And what are we going to ... advertise?"
"Whatever we need to. Whatever it takes." Jara walked over to Robby Robby, put a hand on his shoulder. "You're a licensed channeler, Robby. You must have access to large banks of advertising."
"Sure do," beamed Robby. "Millions of commercials, teasers, promos, banners, tie-ins ... you name the product, there's an advertisement for it somewhere on the Data Sea in search of a viewscreen."
"Exactly! So here's how this is going to work. We watch on the heads-up display as Natch walks down a corridor in the Thassel Complex. One of Brone's henchmen in the black robes approaches. We quickly identify who it is using the Council's data banks and conduct a spot analysis to determine what's likely to draw their attention. Then we act as a third-party broker for the One-on-One Motivation Network. We make a winning bid for the viewscreen space and slot in our advertisement. The whole process should only take about ten seconds. The ad blares at top volume right as the Thasselian passes ... he turns to look at the ad ... and Natch slips past unnoticed."
Robby Robby and Petrucio both appeared quite optimistic about the prospects for Jara's little scheme, and Merri seemed noncommittal. But as was his wont, Benyamin was staring at the blueprints of the Kordez Thassel Complex with overt skepticism. "Do you really think they're all going to fall for something like that?" he said.
"Look, we don't need to actually persuade these people of anything," said Jara. "All we have to do is catch their attention. Just long enough for them to turn around and stare at a screen for five or ten seconds while Natch sneaks past. Don't forget there will be plenty of other people around to distract the Thasselians too. He'll be disguised somewhat-not good enough to pass a bio/logic scan, but maybe good enough to deflect attention for a few seconds. There will be the rest of the special cps team. Natch won't be able to use MultiReal to get past those guards-remember, flipping through choice cycles is exhausting, and he needs to save his strength. Still, I think the chances of this working are rather good."
"But-"
Petrucio came to Jara's defense. "You're thinking of this as traditional marketing, Benyamin. It's more like Pavlovian response. We don't need to appeal to their reason; we just need to appeal to their instincts. Find the thing that invokes that innate response to turn and gape for just a few seconds."
"Like what?"
At that moment, one of the viewscreens on the opposite side of the room burst to life. Creed Elan, the world's preeminent society of charity and goodwill, is looking for a chief engineer! announced a stentorian voice. Help us solve the world's ills, one biollogic programming bar at a time! Everyone turned to stare briefly at the stock footage of figures in purple-andmaroon robes wandering across an assembly-line programming floorbut Jara felt vindicated that it was Benyamin whose attention strayed the longest. He had only been distracted for half a dozen seconds at most, but by the time he turned back to face Jara, she had slipped behind him and stood at the opposite side of the room.
Robby, Petrucio, Merri, and Rey Gonerev exploded in laughter. Even the straight-faced Larakolia couldn't resist a smirk. Benyamin blushed crimson for a few seconds before joining in the laughter himself. "Okay, fine, you've made your point," he said. "But was that really a fair demonstration? You knew I'd be distracted by that. My mother actually worked on that ad, and I think Horvil applied for the position."
"Well, then," replied Jara, grinning, "we'd better start studying these forty-six profiles until we know these Thasselians that well. Don't think we have to be high-minded here-anything that will grab their attention will work, and I mean anything. Explicit sex. Extreme gross-out. Use their names, use their mothers' names, I don't care. So long as it turns their heads."
Richard Taylor accompanies Natch to the surgery. "Not out of any sense of worry or personal concern," the Pharisee is quick to explain as they walk through Magan Kai Lee's encampment in Manila's warehouse district on their way to the medical building. "Not that you should take that to mean that I'm not concerned! Because of course I am. But no, I must admit that I've decided to come along because I really don't have anything else to do."
"Where are Horvil and Vigal?"
"They're busy-terribly busy. Working with the big Islander and the short programmer on the black code to use against Brone." Taylor purses his lips and scratches at his beard as if an idea has just come to him. Suddenly he leans back his head and bellows out a long, hearty laugh. Council officers turn to stare, and Natch instinctively ducks his head, still not used to the concept of men and women in white robes and yellow stars being on his side. "Well, such is what they told me anyway," continues Taylor. "Perhaps they were merely looking for an excuse.... If you'd like an excuse as well, Natch, I won't take it personally. I suppose I can always go for another stroll around the City Center."
"No, no, it's okay." Natch isn't lying. He actually finds the Phar isee's naivete somewhat endearing, and his loquacious mannerisms help distract Natch from the question that keeps prodding the back of his mind.
Do I really have it in me to kill Brone?
He believes that's where things are headed, all of Magan's talk about "incapacity" notwithstanding. Why else send this "special operative" in with Natch? If there was ever a time that Brone could have been persuaded to make a reasonable compromise with the Defense and Wellness Council, that time has passed. As long as MultiReal exists, Brone will not back down from his Revolution of Selfishness. Natch knows exactly what that's like; he has spent most of his life in that frame of mind. In fact, even after all that Brone has done to himeven though Brone has tried to kill him-Natch can't help feeling empathy for his old enemy.
"You are still concerned about the message from the Children Unshackled," says Richard Taylor, mistaking Natch's introspection for introspection about him.
"Uh, well, actually ..."
Actually, the entrepreneur has barely thought about Taylor's bizarre message since 49th Heaven. Despite the evidence that's been presented to him that the Autonomous Minds are still out there and taking an interest in his affairs, Natch still can't bring himself to believe it. All-knowing thinking machines, centuries old, outside of time and space? Absurd. Yet the only alternate explanations he can come up with for the presence of that block of wood from his childhood bureau-that Taylor has been able to read his mind, that Taylor is somehow a manifestation of his own subconscious, that the resemblance of the block of wood is just a monstrous coincidence-are even more ridiculous. But even if he does take the Autonomous Minds' message at face value ... what does it even mean? Warfare between the Surinas? A jump? A decision in the darkness? What are they even talking about?
Luckily, Natch never needs to explain any of this to the Pharisee, because at that moment they arrive at the prefab medical building and Natch is ushered inside, alone.
Magan's bio/logic surgeons are considerate, but they are also laconic. They lead Natch to a distressingly white room with yellow trim, as if it might be the very soul of the Defense and Wellness Council. They give him a few reassuring words, pat him on the back, and then strap him down to a gurney. Natch has barely been in the building for ten minutes when they wave a syringe before his eyes and plunge it into his forearm. Consciousness quickly slips away from his grasp.
If the surgery's successful, he thinks before the da
rkness takes him, I won't need to worry about dealing with Brone at all.
Blackness.
Flashing lights.
A chorus of chimes.
Natch awakens, not on the gurney, but sitting up strapped to a chair. He's instantly reminded of those horrific few days he spent as the Patels' prisoner in Sao Paulo. But before the horror can even register, he sees Magan's chief engineer, Papizon, leaning over and undoing the straps. They're still in the white-and-yellow operating room, but the surgeons have vanished.
Papizon has no interest in being tactful. "It didn't work."
"What does that mean?" says Natch, standing up and trying to get the circulation back in his arms and legs.
"Means the conduit's still inside you, untouched. Surgeons couldn't figure out how to remove it without killing you. Or worse, letting Brone know that we're trying to remove it." He giggles. "They said it's grown inside you like an old tree. Big long roots, so to speak. Gonna be next to impossible to get rid of it without digging out the scalpels and carving it out one OCHRE at a time."
Next to impossible to get rid of it. The words feel like a death sentence.
"There's good news though, too," continues Papizon. "The surgeons were able to install OCHRE intrusion repellents." The entrepreneur gives him a blank look. "In nontechnical terms ... Brone still has access to pull stuff out of your neural systems through the conduit. But if he tries to inject anything new in there, we can intercept it, zap it. So he can't kill you again just by looking at you. I'd say that's good news, wouldn't you?" Papizon stands up, hums a strange tune in an Oriental scale to himself. He's about to leave before he remembers: "In case you haven't figured it out, that means you're still gonna need to go to the Thassel Complex." And then, before he's made it out the door: "Well, aren't you coming?"
Natch is too disoriented to ask where they're going. The storkish Council engineer leads him through a series of corridors, past medical personnel in uniform, out into the daylight, then immediately into another prefab structure. This one appears to be an armory of some sort, as it's full of metal shelving and box after box of black code darts. There are grenades, carefully crated and labeled PULSE, DARK MIST, and COMBUSTION. Guns of all shapes and sizes hang on the walls, and everywhere he looks Natch can see a Council guard giving him a menacing stare.
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