"The rumor on the Data Sea," said the next drudge, "is that this Islander murdered Margaret and tried to take MultiReal for himself."
Jara had put together a perfectly innocuous laugh this morning in MindSpace, and now she let it loose on the crowd. "That's ridiculous," she said. She gave Robby a sidelong rolling of the eyes, which Robby returned on cue. "Quell's been a trusted member of Margaret's staff for years. He knows most of the Surina security force by name."
The laugh failed to appease the audience. In fact, it only seemed to inflame them further. Drudges began to step up in rapid succession and shoot questions at her, one after another like machine gun fire.
"If this Islander is so trustworthy, why did the Council arrest him?"
"Wasn't he just covering for you so you could execute a hostile takeover of the company?"
"Natch was already implicated in the murders of his hivemates during initiation. Why wouldn't he do it again?"
"Why did the Meme Cooperative suspend everyone's business license at the fiefcorp but yours?"
"How do we know you didn't have anything to do with Margaret's death?"
"What's going to happen to MultiReal? Did you sell it to the Council?"
"If you don't have anything to hide, why are you taking money under the table from Creed Thassel?"
Jara gaped at the last question. The Thasselians? How had they gotten involved in all this? She thought back to the bizarre fundraising pitches Natch had undertaken last month when the fiefcorp was frantically trying to prepare for the unveiling of Margaret's thenmysterious Phoenix Project. Natch had made some elusive comments about borrowing money from an unnamed "third party," and Horvil later hinted that an old acquaintance from the hive had stepped forward with the cash. Jara had shrugged it off. Was Natch so desperate he would take funding from a discredited creed? And not just any creed, but a notoriously shady one with a secret membership roster?
The analyst flailed around in vain for an answer. She gave the subtlest of glances in Merri's direction, but the channel manager's mien was impenetrable. "I'm really not at liberty to discuss the company's finances right now," Jara replied lamely.
With a notoriously unethical creed as grease, the press conference began to slide down a dangerous slope toward the paranoid. The drudges began launching personal attacks on Natch's character, or personal attacks on Jara's character, or far-flung theories about MultiReal that bordered on the insane. It was all Jara could do to simply keep up with her canned responses. Someone even tried to pin the disappearances of Pierre Loget and Billy Sterno on Natch, to which Jara could only shake her head.
Just when it seemed like things couldn't get any worse and even Robby Robby was showing traces of unease, a misshapen lump of a man stepped to the front of the line. He had shifty eyes and an oily dab of mustache.
"A hundred and twenty violations of the Meme Cooperative bylaws!" squawked the man. "Isn't it convenient that in all the hullabaloo surrounding Margaret's death, everyone's forgotten about that?"
Jara stared at the drudge, certain she had seen him before. She lobbed his picture at the public directory, but his profile had been carefully scrubbed clean. Jara searched her memory and came up blank there too. "The Meme Cooperative gives out twenty thousand citations every year," she said. "If you read through the list, you'll see that ninety-five percent of them are politically motivated. Once Natch gets his day in front of the arbitration board, I'm sure he'll be vindicated for most of them."
"Most of them? Most of them?" The man emitted a squeal that might have passed for amusement and gave the woman behind him a conspiratorial elbow in the gut. Jara hoped the other drudges would hustle this odd person out of the queue so she could draw the conference to a close, but instead they were clearing a space for the man's grandstanding. "So what would you say if I told you I'm filing a whole new set of charges against the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp for breach of contract?"
Jara was starting to get a major headache. "Breach of whose contract?"
"I'm glad you asked," said the man with a queer smile. Then he turned his back to the stage and lifted his hands with a flourish, like a prophet signaling to his people that they had arrived at the Promised Land.
A small band began to march through the crowd from the back of the auditorium. Amused smiles percolated across the faces of the drudges. Jara counted eighteen people in the group that came to a halt behind the grandstander. It was as random a group as one could possibly assemble, and Jara didn't recognize any of them.
"What are you doing up there?" came a frantic ConfidentialWhisper from Benyamin. "Call security before this guy hijacks the whole press conference!"
Jara fidgeted and turned to look at an equally perplexed Robby Robby. What could she do?
"I give you Natch's latest victims!" brayed the lumpy man. "I give you the victims of the crass pyramid scheme called the MultiReal exposition lottery! Eighteen suffering souls who entered into a Faustian bargain with your boss Natch! Eighteen souls promised a chance at fame and fortune, under legal contract, mind you. A legal contract that was broken without a second glance by your scheming, manipulative fiefcorp master!"
That was when Jara finally placed him.
Captain Bolbund.
Something rancid and congealed in Jara's gut made an effort to creep back into her throat. It had been years since Natch's little altercation with Captain Bolbund in the ROD coding business, years since she had endured his putrid poetry. The last Jara remembered, Bolbund's business license had been suspended for impersonating a Meme Cooperative official. And yet here he stood, flaring his nostrils and stirring mischief. How long had this bottom feeder been festering in his anger, waiting for an opportunity at revenge? Was the list of Natch's enemies truly endless?
"Justice for the MultiReal exposition lottery winners!" thundered Bolbund, swinging his fist back and forth in an attempt to wrench the words into a rhythmic chant. "Justice for the MultiReal exposition lottery winners! Justice! Justice!"
Vigal openly buried his face in his hands, and Merri looked like she had been turned to stone. Robby and Frizitz were making clipped gestures to the channelers in the crowd, but what kind of message they were trying to send was unclear.
Jara made a few stumbling attempts at imposing order, but the genie would not be forced back into the bottle. Objectivv security officers rushed forward to apprehend the miscreant, but now he was darting through the crowd like a fat gremlin. Laughter spurted out of the drudges at the obscene spectacle. Someone even stuck a foot in front of the Objectivv officers, sending them crashing to the floor like a row of black-and-white-swirled dominoes.
The analyst rubbed her temples in frustration. A nightmare.
Jara wanted to bury her face in the soft refuge of her mother's belly. Berilla's couch made a poor substitute. The microfibers on the pillows wouldn't even absorb her tears, but left them to dribble down to the crook of the couch instead.
Someone tapped on the door. "Come in," said Jara softly.
The door slid open and admitted Horvil. He took in the analyst's misery and parked himself backward on a spindly chair. "You look upset," said the engineer, once again demonstrating his penchant for either stating the obvious or blundering right past it.
"I am upset," replied Jara. "I can't believe our own contest winners are suing us. On top of everything else going on right now."
Horvil made a sour face. "Bolbund," he said. "Never thought I'd see that idiot again. Don't worry about it. The whole exposition is yesterday's news. Those lottery winners'll just disappear into the woodwork, you'll see. If nothing else, that lawsuit's put more drudges at the front gates. There must be six hundred people out there now."
Jara craned her neck toward the window, but the couch's armrest blocked her view. "I should have listened to Ben," she said after a moment's reflection. "I shouldn't even have held that fucking press conference. You don't think I made things worse ... do you?"
"All I know is that you stood up and di
d something," said Horvil. "Somebody needed to."
The headache that had begun during the press conference had now captured Jara's frontal lobes. She felt a masochistic urge to just let it rampage for a while. "Listen, Horvil, I ... There's something I think you should know."
Horvil sniffed and shrugged at the same time. "If you're going to tell me about Natch's little threat to ruin my career, don't bother. Aunt Berilla already told me. It's not really anything to get upset over. I know he didn't mean it."
"Didn't mean it?" The pain lanced through the back of Jara's neck as she sat up abruptly. "How can you say that?"
"Hey, I'm not the one who just stood up and told a million drudges what an ethical businessman Natch is."
"That's for the good of the company. It's different."
Horvil nodded and slumped his chin down onto his folded arms. "Natch is stressed out, Jara. He's losing it. Have you noticed all that twitching, all those strange looks? I've-I've never seen him this bad before. That black code is tearing him up. He's running out of options. He wouldn't have made that threat to Aunt Berilla unless he had no other choice."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this," said Jara, aghast. "You're making excuses for him. Of course he had other choices."
"Really?" Horvil asked. "If someone put a gun to your head and said it's either you or Natch-what would you do?" The engineer rose and walked to the window, where he stood in plump silhouette against the moonlight. Jara could see that the drudges were definitely there, camped right outside the gates. She was glad she could see out the windows but they couldn't see in. "Natch didn't walk out just because of me, did he?" asked the engineer.
Jara shook her head. "No, it's much more complicated than that. You want to know the real reason Natch left?" She took a breath. "It's because of me," she said. "It's because of what I'm doing to the company."
Horvil pursed his lips skeptically. "What do you mean?"
"Listen, Horv ... I haven't heard anything from Magan Kai Lee or Rey Gonerev since that meeting at the Kordez Thassel Complex. Not a single word. Why do you think that is?"
"Well, there's a lot going on right now," said Horvil. "Infoquakes popping up all over the place, Margaret's death. I hear that the Islanders are stepping up their border raids-"
"No, come on. That doesn't explain anything. Lee has more than enough people to deal with all that.... You want to know what I think? I think the Council's leaving me alone because I'm doing exactly what they want. Why did Magan Kai Lee arrange all this in the first place, Horv? Why did he give me control of MultiReal, and what was he preparing to do at the Thassel Complex?
"Natch knows exactly why. Magan Kai Lee put the program in my hands because he knows I'm easy to manipulate. I won't be able to take the pressure, and sooner or later I'll give in. I'll hand MultiReal right over to the Council. That's why Natch left when I told him to leave.
"So the question now is, who can destroy the fiefcorp faster-me or Natch?"
24
Natch's left hand was twitching.
He tried to convince himself that the spasms were just a paranoid delusion, the product of an overactive imagination. And for the past few days, that strategy had worked. The very act of asserting his will against the jittering allowed Natch to take control of it, and he began to wonder what other problems he might conquer with this method.
His victory was brief. By Friday, the twitches had returned with reinforcements. Now his hand fluttered even when he walked or carried something heavy like a satchel of bio/logic programming bars, and no act of will could stop it.
Black code, thought Natch miserably.
There was no other feasible explanation. The hammer and anvil of Dr. Plugenpatch and the OCHRE system had stamped out all but the most obscure neurological dysfunctions over the past hundred yearsand those few that still resisted the powers of science were at least diagnosable. No, only human programming code could wreak such havoc.
Natch stayed indoors on Friday and watched the day waft by in slow motion. He spent hours in front of the mirror trying to figure out a way to hide his clenched fist behind his lapels, Napoleon-style. It wouldn't fool anybody in the long term, but it might be sufficient for short bursts of public exposure.
He received several messages from Serr Vigal and spent long minutes debating whether he should answer or even open them. Jara's betrayal he could deal with, but the prospect of Vigal's disapproval flared in his mind like a salted wound. It felt like the culmination of a long dialogue of failure and disappointment they had been conducting for the past twenty-five years. In the end, Natch filed Vigal's messages away unopened.
Numb to the world and unable to concentrate, he tuned in to Jara's press conference. He started flashing back to the confrontation in Berilla's office the other day. The huge mistake he had made giving Jara core access to MultiReal, thinking that would mollify her. A horror show of images echoed through his skull without context or explanation; not even the reappearance of Captain Bolbund on the viewscreen could rouse him from his stupor. He snapped back to sentience some hours later in a darkened apartment, wondering what he had missed.
Natch looked in the mirror at the quivering mess he had become. What would Brone say if he saw you like this? he thought.
Khann Frejohr wanted to hold the meeting at the Congress of LPRACGs, but Natch wouldn't budge. "I'm not going to Melbourne," he told Frejohr's executive assistant over ConfidentialWhisper. "No way. The speaker will just have to come to Shenandoah."
"Perhaps you don't understand the protocol," said the assistant. "You don't just petition the speaker of the Congress of L-PRACGs for an audience and then insist that he come to you...."
"Then tell him to find an office that's not right down the street from the Defense and Wellness Council."
The assistant emitted a strangled noise of exasperation. "If it's safety you're worried about ... don't you think you'd be better off at a heavily guarded compound in Melbourne than at some apartment building in Shenandoah?"
"No," grunted Natch. "I know how to defend myself here."
There was an annoyed silence from the flunky's end of the connection as he went to consult a higher echelon of public servant. Natch realized he was being unreasonable; he also knew that he could ill afford the Congress's wrath on top of the Council's. But these were not times for mindlessly hewing to social niceties. With the shadow of the infoquake hanging over them all-five thousand people had died in the wake of the last one-Natch felt there was no paranoia too great.
Besides which, Frejohr needed him. The libertarian caucus had fallen into a peculiar schizophrenia after Margaret's death, veering between unfocused indignation at Len Borda one moment and mawkish nostalgia for the Surinas the next. Meanwhile, the markets were engaged in a mad dance of their own as second-tier fiefcorps began sabotaging each other left and right. The drudges were in a frenzy. And the number of Creed Libertas devotees had literally doubled again in the past forty-eight hours. Frejohr needed to take a strong stand in the MultiReal crisis, and he knew it. Natch might not have legal claim to the program at the moment, but he was still its public face.
The flunky returned to declare that the speaker would come to Shenandoah after all. In multi. Ordinarily, conducting an important meeting in multi would be considered an insult, but Natch knew there was no point harping about it now. These days he took his triumphs where he could.
Frejohr's security detail arrived late Saturday and spent an hour combing through the apartment with bulky metal instruments that looked like panpipes. They posted sentries in the hallway and on several neighboring balconies. One of the guards cast a suspicious look at Natch's clenched hand, and the entrepreneur was forced to hold the shaking lump of flesh out to prove he had nothing to hide.
Ten minutes later, Speaker Khann Frejohr materialized in Natch's foyer. The two exchanged polite bows.
"Let's just skip the Perfections," said the Congressional leader in a voice both gravelly and hypnotic. "I congratulate you o
n getting to number one on Primo's. You congratulate me on getting elected to the speaker's chair. Okay? Done."
"Fine with me," Natch shrugged. A promising start.
He sized up Len Borda's nemesis as they headed for opposite couches in the living room. Frejohr was older and shorter than the images on the Data Sea suggested, but he had a rough-edged charisma that contrasted well with Borda's stony diffidence. A man of the people, a leader even ... but a violent revolutionary? It hardly seemed possible. Natch wondered what kind of displacements had occurred in Frejohr's mind since the Melbourne riots forty years ago. Was he still as hot-tempered and uncompromising as he had once been? Or had decades of government service mellowed him?
"The Council took my business away," Natch began, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "They threw a bunch of trumped-up charges at the Meme Cooperative and convinced them to suspend my license. And now MultiReal's in the hands of my-"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Frejohr with a wave of his hand. Although he had only just sat down on Natch's sofa, he already looked like he owned it. "I follow the news, believe it or not, so I'm fully aware of what's going on. And?"
"And?"
"Look, Natch," said the speaker with an air of impatience. "You know I've got no love for the Defense and Wellness Council. I'm sympathetic to what you're going through, believe me. But I'm not sure the Congress has any business getting involved. It's a big world, and the high executive has a million tentacles." He raised his bushy unified eyebrow in the direction of the window, indicating either the Council officers on the street or the Council hoverbirds in the sky or perhaps the totality of human space from here to Furtoid. "You can't just expect the Congress to intervene every time Len Borda forces someone's company out of business," continued the speaker. "We'd never get anything done. We have to pick our battles carefully."
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