"I don't think that's necessary," said Jara. "Nobody's going to believe that Quell had anything to do with Margaret's death, will they? Even the drudges can't be that dumb."
Horvil nuked the video display with a gesture. "Let's find out," he said. A block of text appeared in the upper right corner of the window:
ZEITGEIST 29a
Another fine Billy Sterno program
Subject: Was Quell involved in Margaret Surina's death?
Boxes of words exploded on the screen like popcorn. Words clustering together, forming associations, merging. Pacific Islands. Unconnectible. Andra Pradesh. Words spawning new meta-concepts, branching off into new avenues. Murder: Fiefco,p economics. MultiReal.
Finally the frenetic activity began to subside. A graph superimposed itself atop the linguistic graffiti and began spontaneously populating itself with data.
Was Quell involved in Margaret Surina's death?
1 1 % Yes
18% LeaningYes
52% Not Sure
12% Leaning No
7% No
The numbers wobbled up and down in ever-narrowing increments as the program gauged the currents of thought traversing the Data Sea. And then two small photographs blinked into existence next to the words Leaning Yes: Sen Sivv Sor and John Ridglee.
The atmosphere in the room grew gloomier by the second as the numbers quickly began to skew toward the affirmative answers. Jara finally shut the thing off when the numbers for Leaning Yes reached 40%.
Only Robby Robby seemed not to care. "These Zeitgeist numbers are totally meaningless, kids," he said, picking at his virtual mane with an equally virtual comb. "Ignore 'em. Take it from a professional."
Horvil pursed his lips with skepticism. "Zeitgeist has always been pretty accurate for me."
"Oh, I'm sure the numbers are accurate," said the channeler cryptically. "But they're still meaningless. What does Natch think?"
Jara frowned. "Where is Natch? Is he still in Andra Pradesh?"
"He multied over there," said Merri. "Vigal, didn't you follow him over to the multi facility?"
The neural programmer clapped a hand to his forehead. "You're right, I did. I had to make a quick stop in Omaha." He peered around the room, as if he expected the entrepreneur to materialize there at any moment. "Natch was standing right next to me when I opened my connection, but he definitely wasn't there when I closed it. I never even thought to look."
Jara gave a sidelong glance at Robby, wishing he wasn't around for this conversation but knowing there was nothing she could do about it now. She cast her mind out to the Data Sea. "Looks like some drudges saw him at the Thassel Complex earlier, but he managed to give them all the slip. How the heck does he do that?"
"One of these days," mumbled Horvil, "Natch is just going to disappear for good right under our noses, and we won't be able to do anything about it."
Vigal made an exhausted sigh. "He might prefer it that way."
20
The redwoods mocked him as the tube train hurtled through their midst, back and forth, back and forth without ceasing. Natch wondered how much human agency was actually required to run a tube route. Would this train still be plowing the dark between the trees a hundred thousand years after humanity had gone permanently fallow? Would some alien civilization stumble on this planet millions of years from now and find nothing but self-repairing trains caught in endless loops, transporting no one, serving nothing?
Natch focused on the curmudgeonly face staring back at him from the window. The letters beneath the man's chin instantly solidified into Prussian blocks of gray, obscuring Natch's view of the sequoias.
THE TRUTH WILL OUT
by Sen Siw Sor
Am I the only one who remembers that the death of Margaret Surina also means the end of the Surinas?
Yes, readers, that venerable line of scientists, visionaries, and freethinkers founded by Sheldon Surina and continued by Prengal and Marcus has now seen its terminus with Margaret's death.There are other more distant relations still living at Andra Pradesh, but only Margaret could claim direct descent from all three of those great scientific pioneers.
The functionaries who will rise to fill the void in the Surina organizations are hardly worthy of the name.Jayze and Suheil Surina, the two most likely candidates, started tussling over the family riches as soon as Margaret disappeared to the top of the Revelation Spire. Suheil has spent ten years administering the Enterprise Facility-a cozy bit of nepotism if ever I've seen one-while Jayze has wasted decades meddling in local Indian politics. It's doubtful that either one of them could spell MultiReal, much less program it.
So what should the Council do with the man who has uprooted this great tree of wisdom?
It's no secret whom I'm talking about. I'm talking about the man with the audacity to hijack MultiReal right out from under Margaret's nose. The man accused of violating no less than one hundred twenty Meme Cooperative rules and regulations.The man who may have just ordered a hit on his erstwhile partner in the MultiReal business.
A premature judgment? Certainly. As the standard disclaimer for my column states, I'm no officer of the law, and I wouldn't presume to issue a final verdict before all the facts are in.All I can do is look at the evidence in the public eye.
But isn't it peculiar that Margaret was murdered right before the Meme Cooperative suspended Natch from the fefcorp she founded? Isn't it peculiar that the Islander Quell-a man on Natch's payroll-was dragged out of the Revelation Spire by Len Borda's officers? Isn't it peculiar that Natch himself left the bodhisattva's side only hours before her body was discovered, and isn't it peculiar that he may have been the last one to see her alive?
I repeat: what should the Council do with this man?
Natch waved his hand and sent the drudge's words back to the netherworld of yellow journalism. He shouldn't have been surprised. The unholy trinity of Sen Sivv Sor, John Ridglee, and Mah Lo Vertiginous had long ago set aside all political differences to declare their hatred for Natch. Why should a worldwide tragedy change anything?
Nor should Natch have been surprised by the Council's reaction to the accusations against him exploding across the Data Sea like miniature starbursts: nothing. No statements, no admissions, no denials. Magan Kai Lee could dispel most of these accusations by revealing that Natch had been on a Council hoverbird at the time of Margaret's death, but instead he chose to drop out of public view. Nobody had seen or heard from High Executive Borda in days. Even Chief Solicitor Rey Gonerev was maintaining complete radio silence, a remarkable achievement considering the amount of attention she normally received from the drudges.
The entrepreneur thought back to Quell's words atop that Spire, moments before his arrest. Do you really think Borda would hesitate to murder a Surina? Then you don't know your history.
Natch summoned the famous video of that burnt and twisted shuttle wreckage on Furtoid. Marcus Surina and all the progenitors of the stillborn teleportation industry had been in that shuttle. Now the vehicle looked like a brummagem sculpture, like a steaming turd left by some enormous metal beast. The camera panned over the wreckage in silence, and then lurched suddenly. Jutting from the bottom of the frame was a bloody severed hand....
Had Len Borda ordered the death of Marcus Surina? Had the high executive set in motion the Economic Plunge that sent Natch's mother to the streets of Old Chicago? Was there any way to prove such a thing after almost fifty years?
And even if Borda had murdered Marcus Surina, did that necessarily mean he had murdered Margaret too?
Natch shook his head. These questions were too big for him; let politicians like Khann Frejohr tackle such matters. All Natch needed to know was who had planted MultiReal and black code in his skull and how to get his license back from the Meme Cooperative.
That fucking weasel Magan Kai Lee, he growled to himself. The lieutenant executive had found a way to neatly slice Natch off at the knees. It all looked so easy in hindsight. Take away Natch's license to sell bio/logic progra
ms on the Data Sea, and you took away his ability to profit from MultiReal through any legitimate channel. Oh, there were plenty of Lunar tycoons outside the aegis of the Meme Cooperative who might stick him on their payroll, plenty of back avenues to making money he could explore. But Magan had judged him correctly. He knew that Natch wouldn't let go of MultiReal on any terms other than his own. And scavenging the dark corners of the marketplace for scraps, with the Council dogging his every move-that was tantamount to giving up.
Then there was the problem of Jara. Magan had put all the leverage in Jara's hands. If Natch obeyed the Meme Cooperative's order and granted her core access to MultiReal, she would have just as much control over the program as he did. Natch wasn't sure if she had the legal right to sell it off or give it away. But she would have the power to simply move the databases somewhere else on the Data Sea where nobody else would ever, ever find them. And yet, what alternatives did Natch have? He could always defy the Meme Cooperative's order, but then he would have to go on the run from the Council again, a prospect he dreaded.
Natch summoned a mental picture of the analyst and studied it intently. Jara was nobody's pushover. But she was also hopelessly naive and eminently predictable. How long would she last as Magan Kai Lee's puppet before either he or Len Borda did away with her?
Once that happened, MultiReal would be in the hands of the Defense and Wellness Council. And after that-
The nothingness at the center of the universe.
Natch would not give up.
Borda, he's on some kind of crusade against my family and everything we've touched, Margaret had told him. But Natch, you need to know thishe can't take MultiReal away from you. He can't. I've made sure of that.
Why shouldn't he believe it?
Jara had the advantage. She had the authorities on her side through whatever misguided deal she thought she was making with the Council. She had the legal rights to MultiReal while the rest of the fiefcorpers' fates were tangled up in Meme Cooperative jurisprudence. She would even have public opinion on her side, at least in the beginning.
But what did any of that matter? Natch knew how to control people. He knew how to disassemble them and find their weak spots. Moreover, he possessed the ability to move the whole world, to put the bio/logics market in a panic with a few well-placed rumors and bits of black code, to change public opinion by cozying up to the drudges and the opinion makers. Who cared that the public suspected him of involvement in Margaret Surina's death? That was a temporary impression sown in panic and fed with unsubstantiated rumor. It would fade.
Natch knew what motivated Jara. He knew her better than the Council, no matter how long they had been following her and how many thousands of background documents they had uncovered.
He could handle Jara.
The entrepreneur nudged his eyelids open a fraction and took a surreptitious peek around the tube car. How long had he been sitting here debating himself with fists clenched? Time was a sieve. He looked at the three spies of the Defense and Wellness Council who had been following him since the Twin Cities-spies who stood out from the rest of the businesspeople, tourists, and layabouts like ants in a bowl of sugar. They gazed back at him and grinned cruelly.
Natch turned his attention back to the window, which had been recycling fiefcorp industry news for the past few hours. He could feel the black code inside him, a thousand vessels of doom just waiting to unload their toxic cargo on his OCHRE systems.
He could handle black code. He could handle the Defense and Wellness Council and the Meme Cooperative and the Patels, too. He could handle anything the world threw at him. The world might just depend on it.
2I
Horvil reclined on the bed with arms held high in a position of surrender. His parents had long ago relinquished their piece of the estate to Aunt Berilla and moved on to warmer climes-the controlled heat domes of Nova Ceti, to be specific. Yet here his old room sat, unchanged, like a mausoleum for his teenage years. The same battered chair with nailhead trim still hunkered near the door. The same hearty ficus plant still towered over the southwest corner of the room, an embarrassment of fecundity. And the windows were still broadcasting raucous advertisements for Yarn Trip's reunion concert in Beijing, even though the concert had come and gone eight years ago, and the band had long since broken up again, re-reunited, then split (theoretically) for good.
Horvil remembered the day of that concert. He had stomped out of the house after an argument with Berilla and rented his own apartment the very same afternoon. But every time he came back here, his aunt rewound the window decorations to that same frozen instant. As if one day, Horvil might thaw the moment and resume life in the manor like nothing had changed.
He sensed an incoming Confidential Whisper. Aunt Berilla.
"You can't avoid me forever, Horvil," she said, voice properly petulant.
"Well, I'm right down the hall," replied the engineer. "Come on over. We can listen to Yarn Trip together. I always forget-were you into their molten lava phase or their mocha grind phase?"
An audible frown. "You know I've got a meeting to prepare for."
"Really? Sure you're not just afraid to face the fiefcorp after what you did? I mean, shutting down the programming floor's one thing, but actually trying to roll back the changes-"
"This isn't about the fiefcorp. It's about you. Why haven't you followed up with Marulana already?"
The engineer harrumphed. "Don't think I'm gonna take the job, that's why."
"But this isn't some dull bureaucratic position. Chief engineer for Creed Elan, Horvil! A position of responsibility. A job of consequence, for process' preservation! You'd have a staff. You'd have a budget and the best equipment. And you wouldn't have to put up with him."
"Not that again. I don't want to hear it."
He could feel Berilla's frustration from all the way across the mansion. She abruptly changed course. "Listen, Horvil, you tell those people they're welcome to stay for a few more hours until everything blows over. But I won't have drudges camped at my gates forever! I will not have my household disrupted like this. Do you hear me?"
Horvil prived himself to Aunt Berilla's communications without a word. Then he closed his eyes, turned to face the wall, and played Yarn Trip's turbulent "Shitscape Symphony" on his internal sound system. Twice. Loud.
Jara found a study down the hall and appropriated it as a temporary office. The room looked like it might have lain untouched for several generations, or perhaps been transported here intact from antiquity through some subversion of time and space. There were a lot of rooms like that in the mansion. Jara looked at the treepaper books sitting on the shelves and shook her head at the ancient names filigreed on their spines. Coleridge, Toynbee, Kipling.
She lay down on the couch, draped one arm over her forehead, and cried for a good ten minutes.
What had happened to her career? How had she devolved from such a bright and promising student to a pariah in her own fiefcorp? Jara tried to retrace the winding path that had led her to this moment-the affair with the proctor, the years with Lucas Sentinel, the obsession with Natch, the dalliances with Geronimo-but it all seemed sickening and improbable.
You can't even say the faefcorp situation is all Natch's fault, Jara told herself. You're to blame almost as much as he is. You participated in Natch's lies and schemes for three years without saying anything. You even spread false black code rumors when Natch asked you to. Magan Kai Lee threatened the company right to your face, and you didn't do a thing about it.
Jara felt a sudden urge to contact Geronimo again, but the urge came from a place far removed from lust. Then she pictured Rey Gonerev, reading a bureaucratic report about Jara's Sigh activities with a knowing smirk on her face. I've read so much about you in the Council files that I feel like I know you ... intimately, the Blade had told her. So Jara restrained herself.
A knock sounded on the door, and in came Benyamin.
"I looked into the situation with the assembl
y-line floor," said the young apprentice, "and it's not good."
Jara felt like rolling over and telling Ben to go away. "Not good how?"
"Greth Tar Griveth-that woman who blackmailed me-she made a big mess." Benyamin flopped his arms aimlessly like limp dough, unable to muster the energy for a more emphatic gesture. "Turns out she was taking that money and using it to bribe some of her people. I don't know if Magan Kai Lee put her up to this or what. But Greth's people have been sabotaging the MultiReal code. Throwing in little surprises of their own."
Exhaustion had taken Jara's senses, and she couldn't quite get her mind to spark. "How bad is it?"
"Well, Greth only had limited access to the code in the first place. There's only so much damage she could do. But add the rollback on top of it, and you've got ... Well, you've got a big mess."
"Does MultiReal still work?"
"Sure, it works just fine, for your basic one-on-one interactions. But we won't be able to do that twenty-three-way soccer game anytime soon."
Jara ran her hands through her hair and yanked hard at the roots in frustration. "And what does your mother think of all this? Is she ever going to come out of her office and talk to us? Come to think of it-why hasn't she kicked us out of her house yet?"
"I-I don't know."
The analyst lay quietly for a moment. A ray of sunshine poked through a slat in the blinds and jabbed her in the eye, prompting her to turn onto her right side and bury her nose in the couch's crook. She had no doubt that Horvil could weed through all the changes and restore MultiReal to full functionality. But with the program's creator dead and its chief engineer headed for some orbital prison, how much time would that take? Weeks? Months? He wouldn't even be able to use an assembly-line floor to do the heavy lifting.
"So are you going to do anything about it?" asked Benyamin, his voice suddenly querulous.
Jara shook her head. "I don't know, Ben. I don't know if there's anything else I can do. Let me mull this over for a while, okay?"
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