Multireal

by David Louis Edelman

  22

  Somewhere between the office door and the front atrium, Natch changed from cunning wolf to savage coyote. He strode through the hallway with head tilted forward like a battering ram as Jara struggled to keep up. He nearly ran over an old woman wearing the royal purple of Creed Elan and didn't react at all when a household domestic attempted to scold him for it.

  They passed bedrooms, anterooms, and entertaining rooms beyond count, intersecting hallways that led to other wings of the house, puzzled servants, a multi chamber that could easily hold ten. Purple and red leapt out from every surface.

  "So what's this going to accomplish?" asked the analyst.

  "It's going to get Berilla off our backs," replied Natch.

  "Is she on our backs? Berilla hasn't really bothered us since we arrived. I don't think she even knows you're here."

  "She will."

  Jara decided to just shut up and tag along for the ride. Natch knew what he was doing, didn't he? He always knew what he was doing, whereas Jara had never really done anything but flounder from circumstance to circumstance. She resolved to be patient. If Natch needed her assistance, he would let her know.

  The hallway finally ended with a regal set of double doors that any member of the peerage would be proud to sit behind. Natch made no move to knock or announce himself first; instead, he firmly gripped the doors' brass handles and yanked.

  "What on Earth ..." came a high-pitched voice. The entrepreneur stepped through the doors, and the voice suddenly halted.

  Berilla sat at a mahogany desk in the center of a cavernous room. Strange bric-a-brac cluttered the walls: beam and gunpowder weapons dating back to the Autonomous Revolt. The dedication plaque from an old hoverbird that had been decommissioned decades ago. An ancient replica of an even more ancient dartboard. A painting of a fox hunt being executed by pale white godlings in stiff tweed. Jara absorbed all this in awe, wondering what was authentic and what just clever mimicry.

  The woman at the desk actually bore a much closer resemblance to her nephew Horvil than to her son. The same olive complexion and ebony hair, the same pear-shaped figure. But where Horvil's face had a permanent smile buried beneath his jowls, Berilla's face seemed to be entombed in a state of permanent disapproval.

  "I see your manners haven't changed," Berilla sighed to Natch. She flipped her hand to extinguish a row of memos floating over the desk.

  "Neither has your house," replied Natch without losing a beat. He took a seat unbidden in one of the sequined straight-backed chairs facing Berilla's desk. "You've kept the place just the way Wellington left it. Or was that Cromwell?"

  "Are those supposed to be insults?" said Berilla, eyes drooping ponderously.

  Natch shrugged.

  Family matriarch and entrepreneur held a duel of blistering stares for over a minute without speaking. Jara wondered if she should bow and introduce herself, but since Berilla seemed to have no interest in her, she simply took the other chair and crossed her legs. The only sound in the room was the low tick-tock emanating from the rococo clock on the desk.

  Berilla grew tired of their mental tug-of-war first. "So you've rudely pushed your way into my house without an invitation," she said finally. "I don't know how you managed to sneak past the household security and all those people out there, but I suppose it must be important. So what can I do for you, Natch?"

  The entrepreneur touched his fingertips together in front of his face. "You can tell me why you halted production on my assembly line," he said.

  "You mean my assembly line."

  "Whatever. I paid good money for a programming floor. I expect to see results."

  Jara tried to send Natch a Confidential Whisper, but he would not accept her requests. "They don't have access to the program anymore," she interjected, keeping her voice as low as possible. "We cut them off a few hours ago."

  Berilla completely ignored her. "I didn't `halt' anything, Natch. I simply instructed my people to work backward. The new floor supervisor was given strict orders to roll back every single connection we've made to your code. But don't worry-you'll be reimbursed for every credit you've spent, with interest. My accountants keep meticulous records."

  "I don't give a fuck about the money. I care about the programming."

  A part of Berilla was clearly hopping with joy. "Suit yourself."

  Natch clawed at the arms of his chair as if psyching himself up to rip it to pieces. He worked at one for a moment, muscles knotted with exertion. "Don't you realize that anything you do to hurt me hurts Horvil and Ben too?" he said.

  "I don't see it that way at all." The matriarch leaned back and crossed one ham-sized thigh over the other. If she minded Natch's mauling of her chair, she did not show it. "You're the one who's hurting Horvil and Benyamin. Every mistake you make puts them that much closer to giving up this ridiculous game of theirs." Berilla's frown deepened. "Playing at fiefcorps like children playing with toy soldiers. It's ridiculous."

  Jara tried once more to insert herself into the conversation. "That's not fair," she said. "Nobody's forcing anyone to work for this fiefcorp. Horvil and Ben are adults. They understand the risks."

  This caught Berilla's attention. She turned that froglike face toward the analyst. "Do they?"

  "Of course they do," said Natch icily. "They're not risking anything that I'm not willing to risk myself."

  The matriarch gave an exaggerated blink of amusement. "I don't know why I even bother arguing with you, Natch," she said. "You're risking-what exactly is it that you're risking? Your family? Your inheritance? Your ties to the community? No. You have none of these things. Excuse me for being so blunt, Natch-but you have nothing to lose. Horvil and Benyamin do.

  "What does your business offer them?" she continued, steamrolling right over Jara's nascent protest. "Money? They have money. Prestige? Experience? Exposure? They can get all that working for Marulana at Creed Elan. They can get that working for me. They can get that working for tens of thousands of businesses out there that don't treat them like-like raw meat." She sat back, clearly satisfied with herself, and started straightening the desktop paraphernalia that didn't really need straightening: an antique letter opener, a quill pen jutting out of some hideous pot of ink, a plastic egg that looked like some kind of ancient computer appendage.

  Natch kept robotically still during Berilla's little diatribe. "You don't understand," he rasped. "What you're offering them are jobs. What I'm offering them is a chance to change the world."

  "I understand more than you think," scoffed Berilla, looking suddenly old and tired. "MultiReal might change the world-but do you know what you're changing it to?"

  In response, the entrepreneur rose again and strode to the center of the faux bearskin rug that covered most of the floor. His face was sullen and pensive. "What," he said slowly, "do you want?"

  Jara felt like she should ask Natch that question himself. She was starting to grow restless with this little meeting. What the fiefcorp had to gain by haranguing Berilla-and why Jara should be a part of it-she couldn't fathom.

  Berilla let out a high-pitched cackle that ricocheted up the walls to the distant ceiling. "What do I want? What do I want? Natch, are you listening to anything I'm saying? Look around you! I already have everything I could possibly want. My main concern is making sure nobody throws it all away."

  The entrepreneur stewed in place for a moment with his eyes wandering up and down the wall of knickknacks. His hands clenched and unclenched behind his back. "Everybody wants something, or they'd have no reason to get out of bed in the morning," said Natch after a moment. "Even you. You want stability. You want protection. For yourself and for your family."

  Berilla let out a loud sigh. "What's your point?"

  "My point is this: If anything were to happen to Horvil and Benyamin, you would be quite upset."

  Jara could feel the bottom drop out of her stomach. She raised her hand and dropped it, unsure of what to say. Was Natch actually threatening his own
apprentices? The matriarch's brow furrowed, and her chin rocked slowly back and forth as she caught the distress in the analyst's face.

  And it was in that moment that Jara understood why she was here. What she had mistaken for desperate emotion on the entrepreneur's part was just a carefully choreographed act. Of course it was a carefully choreographed act-wasn't it always? But not only had Natch scripted his own part to the letter, he had scripted Jara's as well. He had specifically brought Jara to this meeting because he knew she would recoil from his suggestion. The fearful look in her eyes would prove to Berilla that Natch was serious. That he was perfectly capable of committing ruthless deeds.

  "I don't see what you're insinuating," said Berilla, growing more disturbed by the second. "Don't try to scare me into thinking you'd actually hurt them. You don't have it in you."

  "Hurt?" Natch smiled. "Who said anything about hurting anyone?" He began a slow walk around the bearskin rug, arms folded across his chest. "Let's not be melodramatic, Berilla. We're talking about protection here protection from the Defense and Wellness Council." He came to a stop directly in front of the woman and laid his palms flat on the desktop. Jara could see a debate in Berilla's mind about whether to call household security. "The Council already found enough evidence to get Horvil's and Ben's business licenses suspended. But if they found out what your son and your nephew were really doing for me ... Well, they wouldn't stop at just a fine or a suspension. Oh, no. They'd haul Ben and Horvil off to an orbital prison. A Council orbital prison."

  A muddy speck of doubt clouded the icy green of Berilla's eyes. "This is absurd," she said. "You don't have anything on Horvil and Benyamin. Even you couldn't have that bad of an influence on them."

  "No?" Natch gave the slightest of nods toward the window, causing the placid British gardens to be replaced by the blocky letters of a memo. Jara squinted to read the type and then gasped.

  It was an anonymous message addressed directly to the Defense and Wellness Council. But this was much more than just a message; it was practically a confession. A lengthy list of all the illegal and unethical actions that Horvil and Benyamin had participated in during their apprenticeships to Natch. Ben's list had to be grossly exaggerated, considering he had only been with the fiefcorp for a few weeks now. But Horvil's list appeared to be spot-on. Jara recognized everything from the engineer's ruses that had helped the company steal customers from Captain Bolbund to his role in the black code scare that allowed them to conquer Primo's. There were also a number of accusations Jara didn't recognize, accusations that explained inconsistencies that had been nagging her for years. How had the fiefcorp staved off Prosteev Serly's assault on their optical programs? Why had Lucas Sentinel failed to bid on a certain lucrative L-PRACG contract? Jara now knew.

  Whether anything on this list was actually enough to convict Horvil and Ben of a crime was uncertain. But it didn't really matter. If this memo found its way into a drudge's hands, it would have a much greater effect on Horvil's and Ben's careers than any Meme Cooperative hand slapping.

  Berilla read through the memo with mounting agitation and not a little sadness. A trickle of sweat worked its way down her neck. "Horvil's stood by you since you were a little boy," she protested. "He follows you around like a puppy, Natch. He lends you money. Have you really sunk that low?"

  "Only the one prepared to sacrifice anything can achieve everything," said Natch, quoting Kordez Thassel. "You said it yourself-I really have nothing to lose, do I? I might already be heading for a Council prison."

  "But-but-"

  "What can you do to stop me from sending out this memo? I'll tell you what you're going to do." The entrepreneur found his way back to the straight-backed chair and sat on it like a king taking his throne. "You're going to start production on that assembly-line floor again. You're going to undo every fucking change your team made to the MultiReal code. And then you're going to finish the job you started. In fact, you're going to put the entire floor on the project so they finish faster. And if I see the slightest bit of evidence you're holding out on me, Sen Sivv Sor and John Ridglee are going to see this memo within the hour. Do you understand me now?"

  Time shuddered to a halt. For a moment, Jara found herself admiring the deviousness, the sheer audacity, of Natch's plan. It was the ultimate bluff: mutually assured career destruction. If Natch went down in ignominy, then his apprentices would go down with him. Or at least so Berilla was supposed to believe. He wouldn't actually do something so Machiavellian, would he?

  Then Jara caught a glimpse of Natch's face, and she realized that he was utterly serious. He would sacrifice Horvil and Benyamin's careers-and quite possibly their liberty-to get what he wanted. And the prize if he succeeded: a top-notch assembly-line shop at his command, ready to finally complete the MultiReal coding. No small thing, considering that there was no other shop that would defy the Council's blacklist. If Berilla put the entire floor on the job, they might even get the job done in time for the MultiReal exposition.

  So Natch was now using blatant threats to get his way. But why allow Jara to hear them, unless he was implicitly threatening her career too?

  She could see the scene unfolding in her mind. Jara would sit quietly through the rest of the meeting and confront him later in private. Natch would blow her off at first, then finally capitulate. Of course I wouldn't have really sent out that memo, he would say, touching her shoulder to short-circuit her logical processes. Of course I was bluffing. But it was a bluff you needed to see. I needed to gauge your determination to deal with the hard realities of running a fie/corp. You have to be prepared to do these kinds of things, Jara-and I don't think you are.

  But the worst part was not Natch's callousness or his scheming nature; it was not the fact that he was manipulating her. Those things were givens. The worst part was that Natch already knew she would capitulate. She would fret and she would yell, but in the end she would accept his explanations and do nothing to intervene. Not only that, but she would actually assist him in perpetrating his plots, and she would make excuses for him to Horvil and Ben. Wasn't that what she always did? Jara had unwittingly acted out that scene too many times to count.

  Natch had reduced Jara to her essence, and that essence was cowardice.

  As she sat there in Berilla's office, half a decade of seductive touches and gruff admonitions abruptly came together to form a sinister picture in her mind. How could she have believed that Natch was starting to respect her? On the contrary, Jara had become nothing more than a crass calculation to him. So confident was Natch of his dominance that he could rely on her to ignore his threats to Horvil and Ben. He could hand over core access to MultiReal without worrying that she would betray him. He could depend on her to simply submit to his whimseven when Jara would suffer for them.

  Jara rose from her seat, veins throbbing with fury at Natch, at herself.

  "I've had enough of this," said the analyst. She waved her hand at the window and banished the display into digital limbo. "You're not going to send that memo anywhere."

  Berilla snapped her head around as if noticing Jara's presence for the first time. Natch plastered a creepy grin on his face, but it had the look of an artificial emotion constructed with bio/logic programming. He fired a ConfidentialWhisper in her direction; now it was her turn to ignore his requests.

  "Jara," said the entrepreneur, standing up straight and slipping into salesman mode. "Why don't-"

  "No," she interrupted. "Don't start. You really think I'm going to sit here and listen to you make threats against your own apprentices? Against Horvil, after all he's done for you?"

  "Why don't we talk about this back in-"

  "No, we'll talk about it now. You want threats? I'll give you threats. You don't have anything on us that we don't have on you. Erase that memo, or I give the drudges a full report of all your dirty tricks."

  The entrepreneur smirked. "Didn't the Blade already do that?" More Confidential Whisper requests, more denials.

&n
bsp; Jara knew her bravado would not last long. Already she could see Natch reconfiguring his strategy, adjusting to circumstances. She needed to end this quickly and decisively. Jara felt a bluff of her own come bubbling to the front of her consciousness. "Erase that memo, or I'll end this whole thing right here and now. You know I'm sick of this whole business. I'll give Magan Kai Lee what he wants. I'll give him core access to MultiReal. I'm sure he'll pay handsomely for it."

  All at once, Natch's carefully polished veneer shattered. He stormed to the far side of the room, his face caught up in a snarl. "You think you know how to run a business, Jara? You think you can stand up to the Council? Open your eyes!" He flailed his hands around in the air as if he might smash one of Berilla's precious artifacts at any moment. "You're going to give them core access to MultiReal? That's exactly what Magan Kai Lee wants! That's exactly why he put you in this position-so the Defense and Wellness Council can plow right through you and take MultiReal away. Can't you see anything? Are you fucking blind?"

  Jara did not flinch. "You're not running this fiefcorp any longer," she said, carefully enunciating each syllable. "I am. And I'm not going to let you drive it into the ground. I'm not going to let you trash five years of my life on some meaningless crusade." She took a deep breath. "The arrangement is off. Get the fuck out of here. We don't want you here anymore."

  Berilla's jaw gaped open as she recoiled in her seat. Her hand grasped the ink pen as if its quill were a magical talisman of protection.

  Natch paced frenetically around the room in an ever-tightening spiral. "Useless!" he cried out of nowhere. He turned and jabbed a finger at the doorway and the fiefcorpers somewhere down the hall. "You're useless. You're all useless. I knew I shouldn't have bothered to come here. I won't let you hand my business over to the Council. They won't take MultiReal away from me. Margaret chose me. Me. She said I'm the guardian and the keeper. So do whatever you want. I don't care. From now on, I'm doing what I have to do, and I'm doing it alone."

  Then Natch whirled on his heels and strode back out the double doors. The sound of some fragile knickknack shattering echoed through the west wing of the house, and then he was gone.