Multireal

by David Louis Edelman

  The young apprentice refused to give up. "They could get core access from Margaret."

  "Sure," said Horvil, picking at a loose thread on his jacket. "But think of it this way. There're two people in the world with the master key to MultiReal. One of them's holed up in a tower with five thousand armed guards, and one of them's just hanging out in an apartment building. Who would you go after?"

  "This is all beside the point," continued Jara. "Without Natch's cooperation-or Margaret's-Borda wouldn't even be able to find the code. You can't just trace subaether transmissions. He'd have to search every qubit on the Data Sea with pattern recognition algorithms. Even using the fastest computational engine in existence, that'd take ..

  Arithmetic fluttered behind Horvil's closed eyelids as he yanked the string on his jacket free. "Two thousand one hundred twenty-nine years. No, wait. Maybe four hundred eighty-eight years. Or ..."

  Jara raised her eyebrows and extended an open palm in the engineer's direction. "A long time, at any rate."

  "But if the Council couldn't find MultiReal, then nobody could find it," protested Ben. "It would just float on the Sea forever with all the other useless crap. If Len Borda's trying to get rid of MultiReal, wouldn't that suit him just fine? Get rid of Natch and Margaret, and then nobody has core access."

  "Yes, but what if Borda wants to keep MultiReal for himself?" said Jara.

  Benyamin leaned forward on the sofa and ran one hand through his inky black hair. "I must be missing something," he said. "This doesn't make any sense. If Borda can't take MultiReal away, and he can't kill Natch, then all he can do is threaten, right? What are we so worried about?"

  Horvil put a hand on the young apprentice's shoulder. "Do I really need to spell it out for you, Ben?" he asked in a throaty whisper.

  All conversation came to a halt. Bio/logics could do much to shield the human body from pain, but in the wrong hands it could also be used to cause pain. Over the years, unscrupulous groups had devised OCHREs that injected painful toxins directly into muscle and bone, nightmare SeeNaRees that tapped into their victims' darkest fears, and programs that directly stimulated the pain centers of the brain. Who could say which of these techniques the Council used?

  Natch stopped midpace in front of the window, silhouetted by the Shenandoah morning. "The Patel Brothers are giving another demo this Sunday."

  The rest of the company blinked in surprise. Nobody had noticed that Natch hadn't said anything for several minutes. Merri gulped uneasily and gave Horvil a sidelong glance. "I was going to mention that," she said. "How did you know, Natch? The Patels haven't even announced it yet."

  "Well, how did you know?" asked Horvil.

  "Robby Robby," replied the channel manager. "It's his business to know what's happening in the sales world. And it's my business to know what he knows."

  Natch could feel the stares of his fellow fiefcorpers, but he paid them no mind. His eyes were locked on that pulsing square labeled Tuesday, December 6, hovering menacingly near Jara's fingers like an accusation. How was it possible for three weeks to slip through his fingers and vanish without a trace? Already those days on the tube were becoming ghostly, indistinct, something from a dream. Jara was right: three weeks was an eternity in bio/logics. What unspeakable malice had the black code inside him unleashed during those three weeks?

  "Natch ... ?" Vigal prodded gently.

  The fiefcorp master blinked hard, trying to get his mind back into balance. He focused on the holographic calendar. How did he know about the Patel Brothers' demo? The same way he had known about Magan Kai Lee's failed incursion into his apartment building. Some might label it intuition or foresight, but to Natch it was simply algebra; all you needed to do was to churn through the variables and eliminate the cruft, and you would inevitably arrive at the solution. Couldn't they see the reddish aura surrounding that square labeled January I? Couldn't they tell the Patel Brothers were giving a demo that day just by looking at it?

  "So what did Robby find out about this demo?" Natch asked Merri. "Any indication what they're doing?"

  "Not really. Just vague rumors. They've booked an auditorium at the Thassel Complex, but it's not one of the larger-capacity halls. We're guessing it's an industry-only event. Robby thinks he can get one of us in without too much trouble."

  "I'll go," said Jara.

  The fiefcorp master nodded and began to pace once more. "So how do we respond?"

  Horvil did some mental extrapolation of his own, then dropped his face dramatically into the palms of his hands. "Shit," he said, nose poking through his thick fingers, "you're not gonna put us through all that crap again, are you, Natch? Another demo in less than seventy-two hours?"

  Natch shook his head, and the rest of the fiefcorpers released their breath simultaneously. "There's no point," he said. "The demo at Andra Pradesh showed everyone that we're the standard bearers in this business now. If we scramble to beat Frederic and Petrucio to the punch again, it'll just look like we're being defensive. Better for us to schedule something on our own timetable. Take a little time to get this one right."

  Jara gave a curt nod of agreement. "So, when?" She swept her hand across the calendar, causing entire rows of dates to ripple smoothly off the surface. Her fingers drifted down toward February in a transparent effort to bring Natch's attention to a later date.

  Natch studied the chunks of time floating in the middle of the room and rubbed his chin. To Natch, each day had a unique flavor that he could roll on his tongue like wine. Few recognized the distinctions between weekdays and weekends anymore, and nobody but lawyers and accountants observed the new year. But there were a few days that seemed disturbingly rancid, for reasons he couldn't discern. January 15 stood out as a particularly bad day, and the whole following week tasted as bitter as ash.

  "January 8," he said at length. "A week from Sunday."

  More relieved sighs. Given what the fiefcorp had gone through for the last demo, eleven days felt like a century.

  "It's too bloody quiet in here," came a gruff voice from the doorway. "Let's hear some more noise."

  Quell strode in, his breath stinking of saffron and bay leaves. The Islander looked as if he could have curled the rest of the fiefcorp with one massive biceps. The thin copper collar around his neck feeding him the sights and sounds of the virtual world seemed more uncomfortable than ever.

  "You're missing all the excitement," said Horvil to his fellow engineer. "It's demo time again."

  "Fun," said the Islander, voice doused with sarcasm. "I can't wait." He walked over to Natch and enacted his peculiar Islander custom of clasping hands and shaking.

  Natch stood before the window for a moment with his hands behind his back. Staring. "No, not a demo," he said. "An exposition."

  Benyamin let out a skeptical phfft. "What's the difference?"

  "A demo is a preview. An exposition is a celebration." The fiefcorp master's statement was greeted by a confused silence. He stepped back and spread his arms toward the window as if unveiling a marquee. "Picture this: a field of grass, a huge crowd. Two teams playing baseball, every single player using MultiReal."

  Horvil gazed unblinkingly at the window. "Where are you going to get the other team?" he said. "You wanna invite the Patel Brothers?"

  "No. We pick them at random. We pick all the players at random, both teams."

  "We could hold some kind of public lottery," said Merri, her eyes glinting. "Then we could announce the winners at a big publicity event."

  "I think this could work," put in Quell, rubbing his chin with his bear's paw. "Instead of holding MultiReal up on a stage, we give the audience a taste of it. So they'll know what it's really like to use the program. Makes it that much harder for Borda to take away."

  "Aren't we beating this baseball thing to death?" said Jara. "People are going to think the only thing MultiReal's good for is hitting home runs."

  Natch, unconcerned: "Then let's make it soccer. Or jai alai. Doesn't matter." He turned to f
ace the rest of the fiefcorp and straightened his spine like a drill sergeant. "Listen, I know it feels like we have eons to put this together. But we've used up the element of novelty. People have been talking nonstop about MultiReal for a month now, and we can't just repeat what we did last time."

  The analyst flipped dark curls of hair from her eyes, the better to face down a looming challenge. "I'm up to the task," she said. "But it's not me you have to worry about. Most of this is going to fall on Horvil's shoulders."

  "Me and Quell, we've been pounding out all kinds of changes to the code in MindSpace," said the engineer with an insouciant air. "Possibilities is humming. It's like we turned some kind of corner. But stilldoesn't mean it's gonna be easy. We have a lot of loose ends to tie up before we can sic this thing on five hundred million people again."

  Natch: "So can you get the job done?"

  Horvil's voice did not leak the smallest droplet of doubt. "Yeah, we'll get it done," he said. Quell gave a reinforcing nod of confidence. "Provided that Ben's assembly-line goons do their job."

  "No worries," said Benyamin. "Greth Tar Griveth has the programming floor standing on notice."

  "And I'll start working the sales channels with Robby Robby," put in Merri, standing up and brushing off her blouse.

  Serr Vigal sat on the sofa, beaming quietly. His role in the fiefcorp was strictly an advisory one, but no one doubted that he would make himself available as needed.

  Natch's pacing slowed as he surveyed the group arrayed before him. He could scarcely believe that a month ago, the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp had been fumbling, awkward, and ready to quit. Now they had caught the same intoxicating scent of victory that Natch had been following since his first meeting with Margaret Surina. This was no hodgepodge of runners-up and also-rans Natch had assembled; this was a first-rate team.

  The entrepreneur tried to conjure some words of inspiration, but for some reason the linguistic centers of his brain felt tangled and knotted. "All right," said the fiefcorp master, twirling one hand in the air. "Let's get to work."

  8

  Jara pledged to waste no more time with Geronimo until the MultiReal exposition was over, at the earliest. There was too much to do. But she might as well have spent the next morning dabbling on the Sigh, for all she accomplished.

  She began the day arguing with Merri over details of the MultiReal exposition. They agreed to have the lottery winners play soccer instead of baseball, but Merri insisted there should be twenty-three lottery winners instead of twenty-two.

  "That's uneven," Jara complained. "Somebody's going to get an extra player."

  "Yes, but think of the symbolism," said Merri. "One for each member of the Prime Committee. We could even choose one player from each Committee bailiwick."

  Jara summoned a holographic bar chart that displayed the Committee bailiwicks in bright blues and purples. Across the Atlantic, Merri's window would be showing the same thing. "That means putting a bunch of central government employees on the field," she protested. Jara pointed to the column labeled MEME COOPERATIVE (3) and set it aglow. "Do you really want three Meme Cooperative officials nosing around backstage at our exposition?"

  "That could be part of the gimmick. It's perfect, Jara! The Congress of L-PRACGs has twelve seats on the Committee, right? And all the other government and business interests put together have eleven. We can bill the game as `the people versus the government."'

  "And the extra player?"

  "I don't know. Maybe we can just rotate goalies. We'll figure something out."

  But Jara was skeptical, and they decided to put off making any decisions until they had spoken with Natch at the afternoon fiefcorp meeting. This sounds like one of his ideas, thought the analyst. He'll definitely take Merri's side, and that's just going to cause trouble.

  Frustrated, still itching with unscratchable desire, Jara decided to cut the conversation short and step out of her apartment for a change. Her next-door neighbors blinked in surprise when she passed them in the hallway, having given her up for dead weeks ago.

  Jara emerged from the tenement into a glum, drizzly London afternoon. So much for modern technology, she thought. For thousands of years, the British Isles had been under the capricious grip of nature, and London had constantly wallowed in rain. Now, after two centuries of unparalleled technological progress, the weather was determined by the Environmental Control Board, the regional L-PRACGs, and a patchwork of smaller agencies-and still the city wallowed in rain.

  The fiefcorp analyst made her way north, where the cobblestone turned to splotchy asphalt. She passed the farmers' market and the baseball stadium. Twenty minutes later, she found her destination: a small nitro bar nestled among the shops of New Downing. A familiar site, part haven and part hideaway. Jara could practically feel the warm nitro lathering her tongue as she walked in the door.

  But as soon as she made it inside, she stopped short. The man standing in her path may have been wearing a loose green caftan instead of a white robe and yellow star, yet there was no mistaking Magan Kai Lee.

  Jara could feel her animal instincts kick in. She made a quick pirouette, looking for the glint of Council dartguns, but all she could see was the quotidian assortment of nitro junkies and chintz-patterned sofas.

  Jara had watched the video of Magan's failed raid on Natch's apart ment at least a dozen times. She had gotten used to seeing him as a startled animal buffeted by a hailstorm of drudge questions. Now, standing in the nitro bar, the lieutenant executive was serene and confident, like a man who was either armed to the teeth or twice as large as everyone else in the room. But Magan bore no weapon that Jara could see, and even she topped his slight frame by a few centimeters.

  "Towards Perfection, Jara," said Magan.

  The analyst scowled. "What the fuck do you want?"

  "Just to talk," said the lieutenant, sweeping one hand toward the side door with a magnanimous gesture.

  Jara regarded the doorway with suspicion. "Talk," she said. "Right. How do I know you're not going to plug me with black code out there?"

  The corners of Magan's lips rose a millimeter or two. A smile. "Surely if I can plug you with black code out there," he said, "I could do it in here just as easily."

  Jara sighed, acknowledging the point. She had a passing familiarity with the waitstaff here, but she couldn't imagine any of them sticking their necks out for her. The initial shock of seeing Magan was wearing off, and she knew she needed to get out of there, fast. Run, you fool, she told herself. Contact your L-PRACG security. Send a ConfidentialWhisper to Natch. Go.

  But she did none of these things. Instead, she followed Magan out the side door.

  There was no sudden barrage of black code darts, no ambush, nothing but the London drizzle. Jara exhaled in relief as Magan Kai Lee led her around the back of the building to a partially roofed courtyard decked with wrought-iron tables and chairs. The analyst had spent many weary afternoons out here nursing a chaff or nitro with her loose circle of friends. But now, whether because of the rain or the Defense and Wellness Council, the courtyard was empty. Magan took a seat at an unassuming table set with a pair of steaming nitro mugs. Jara followed suit.

  "All right, so here we are," said the analyst. "Now what do you want?"

  "I want to introduce you to some people," said Magan simply.

  "What people?"

  "The people who have been following Natch around and scouring your fiefcorp's records."

  Jara could feel her shoulder blades clench and her jaw tighten, the primitive reflexes of fear and flight. She quickly activated a pair of bio/logic programs to soothe her nerves as a line of Defense and Wellness Council officers marched into the courtyard from the alleyway. There were thirteen in all, each bearing a demeanor that could only be described as nonchalant.

  "Allow me to introduce you to Commanders Papizon and Ridgello," said Magan. He indicated a tall flamingo of a man whose eyes did not quite line up, and a hulking blond mercenary who might even
be a match for Quell in hand-to-hand combat. "Papizon and Ridgello are in charge of the security detail that has been following Natch's every move for the past forty-eight hours."

  Papizon bowed awkwardly in Jara's direction, as if performing the act for the first time. Ridgello made an obscure gesture with one hand, causing seven more phantoms to step out of the shadows. Two or three looked vaguely familiar, faces Jara had seen in passing in Shenandoah and not given a second thought. Ridgello waited for her to get a good, long look. Then he signaled again, and the spooks melted back into the mist.

  Jara reached somewhere deep inside herself for a bravado she did not feel. She tilted her head at the remaining Council officers. "So I guess these idiots must be the ones scouring the fiefcorp records," she said.

  A lithe woman with dark mahogany skin stepped forward in response and gave a perfunctory bow. "You might recognize the woman I have put in charge of this team," said Lieutenant Executive Lee.

  Jara let out a gasp before she could stop herself. "The Blade."

  "See, Magan, she does follow the Council drudge gossip," said Rey Gonerev, seeming well pleased. Her voice was a wasp's sting. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Jara. I've read so much about you in the Council files that I feel like I know you ... intimately." The slant on the word was unmistakable.

  Jara felt a flush rising from her toes and diffusing across her entire body. She had heard rumors about sketchy channels on the Sigh selling customer data, but never quite believed them. How much did the Council know? And how much had they seen? There was nothing illegal about her frolics with Geronimo, of course, but the fact that someone might actually know about them felt as intrusive as any molestation.

  Magan made a disdainful frown, clearly signaling to the Blade that she had crossed the line. Whether he was genuinely irritated, or if this was just part of their good cop/bad cop routine, Jara couldn't tell.

  Rey Gonerev was just getting started. She marched up and down the row of Council officers, introducing each in turn. More than one seemed to be quivering slightly at the Blade's presence, or Magan's, or both. "Clarissa here has been itemizing every Vault credit Natch has spent over the last ten years," said Gonerev. "Refaru Gil Motivan is collecting every word he's ever spoken in public and every scrap of text he's ever posted on the Data Sea. William Teg has been keeping tabs on Serr Vigal, while Larakolia is in charge of analyzing your company's programs...."