Multireal

by David Louis Edelman

  "Doubt it," grunted Frederic. "We got plenty of protection from the Meme Cooperative."

  "But do you have protection against an army with white robes and dartguns?"

  The younger Patel's protest withered and died on his lips.

  Petrucio gave his bottle of ChaiQuoke a dexterous double-squeeze, causing it to form the shape of an arrow. He held it before him and aimed the tip at Jara's nose. "So answer me one question," he said slyly. "What do you think Natch would do if the tables were turned?"

  "For process' preservation," snapped Jara, her patience a brittle vessel with deepening cracks. "Do I even need to answer that? He wouldn't help you, not in a million years." She took a deep breath and decided to just take that perilous leap before she lost her nerve. "But Natch isn't in charge of the fiefcorp anymore, 'Trucio. I am. Natch has left the company for good. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm not him."

  Neither Patel appeared particularly surprised at Jara's declaration. In fact, something about her statement struck Frederic as humorous. His nose emitted a shrill whistle of amusement. "I think I'm starting to like this woman," he said.

  "Good," said Jara, turning to face the younger, fleshier Patel. "Because I have something to ask you too. I want you to stand up for Horvil in front of the Bio/Logic Engineering Board next week. I want your help clearing his name and getting his credentials restored."

  Frederic seemed much more amenable to this suggestion. "Now what they did to Horvil, that's a real shame," he said, chin balanced on one hand. "Everyone knows Horvil does good work. He was framed, plain and simple. If he wasn't working for that asshole-"

  "He's not," Jara retorted. "Let me say this one more time. Horvil doesn't work for Natch. He works for me." She furrowed her brow and clasped her fingers together on the table, careful not to make it seem like a gesture of supplication. She fired up Earnest Xpression 35 and dialed it to a low setting. "Listen. Both of you. I'm not asking you to give up your business. All I'm asking is that, as a personal favor to me, you go to Melbourne in person and make a couple of quick statements. Merri has integrity; I've never seen her lie, the charges against her are obviously untrue. Horvil's one of the best biollogic engineers in the business; he was framed. It'll take you a few hours, and I'll pay for the hoverbird fare. We'll both get good publicity out of it.

  "Come on, Frederic ... Petrucio ... I don't know what kind of arrangement you made with the Defense and Wellness Council. But this is a brand-new world. Margaret's gone. Natch is out of the picture. I'm running the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp now. It's just our two companies in the MultiReal space, and we don't have to play by the old rules anymore. Sixty billion potential customers. We don't need to go at each other with guns blazing all the time."

  The Patels sat quietly for a few minutes, engaged in an urgent ConfidentialWhisper discussion. Frederic's finger pounding grew in intensity, while Petrucio gripped the ends of his mustache with great ferocity. Finally she could see the two come to some sort of consensus. Jara looked into Petrucio's eyes and tried to parse his thoughts. Was he gearing up to employ the patented pretzel logic of the Creed Objective truthteller, twisting some minor fabrication until it resembled truth?

  "I'm sorry, Jara," the elder Patel said finally. "We can't do it." There was no artifice in his expression; he really did look sorry, and Frederic did too to a lesser extent.

  The analyst summoned her most desperate stare and concentrated on the ChaiQuoke bottle for a moment. "You don't understand how badly we need this," she said.

  "I understand," said Petrucio. "I'm sympathetic. I really am. But we can't just do something like this as a personal favor."

  Jara ruminated on this for a minute, her legs twitching with irritation. "What if I put something else on the table?"

  Frederic grabbed the ChaiQuoke bottle and choked it until it popped into a liquid boomerang. "This better be good," he grumbled.

  "You remember the Equitable Choice Cycle Model we announced for the MultiReal exposition? Limited choice cycles for everyone?"

  "Yesss," said Petrucio hesitantly.

  "We'll put it into effect the day we release the product, for a trial period of six months. Everyone gets the same limited number of choice cycles per month. That way, whenever one of our customers gets into a MultiReal-versus-MultiReal conflict with one of your customers ... ours won't be able to shell out an infinite number of choice cycles to win."

  The mustached brothers blanched, their mouths agape. "How many choice cycles are we talking about here?" asked Petrucio.

  "I have no idea. What number makes sense?"

  Jara, Frederic, and Petrucio all stared at the wall for several seconds.

  "Well, I guess we'll have to pick one," said Jara. "It has to be a fairly big number-enough that you could use it all day doing any number of things without noticing the limitation. It would only come into play when you're involved in a MultiReal conflict."

  Frederic leaned back and grabbed a number out of the air. "A hundred thousand?"

  "A hundred thousand choice cycles per day?"

  "Yeah."

  "Too many. How about fifty thousand?" put in Petrucio.

  Jara extended her hands out to her sides. "Sounds good to me. Except ..." She paused and tapped her foot in thought. "If I'm going to put your products on a parity with mine, I'm going to need your full cooperation in getting the whole fiefcorp's business licenses back. That means testifying in front of the Meme Cooperative, Creed Objectivv, the Engineering Board, L-PRACG courts-whatever it takes."

  Another urgent ConfidentialWhisper conversation between the Patel brothers ensued. Fifteen seconds later, Petrucio gave a strenuous nod. "You've got a deal," he said, his voice hoarse with repressed excitement.

  "Good, it's settled," said Jara. She smiled and stood up from her seat. "I'll draw up a quick contract and have Horvil put it into effect as soon as it's signed."

  Jara almost broke out into a cheer herself. No reason to tell the Patels that she had already made this decision days ago. She would have set Possibilities to limited choice cycles for all no matter how the negotiations went today. Jara felt properly devious and Natchlike. She had convinced the Patel Brothers to help her bring the fiefcorp back to full legality, and she had given up nothing for it. Moreover, the Patels seemed pleased too. Win-win.

  The analyst brushed off her robe and prepared to cut her multi connection. Her next stop: an independent assembly-line programming shop that had given her every indication that they were willing to take on the fiefcorp's business.

  "One more thing," said Jara to the Patels as an afterthought. "You don't mind keeping that information about Natch under your hat for a few more days, do you?"

  Horvil and Serr Vigal were both enthusiastic about the deal.

  "Nobody should have that kind of power," said the engineer, lounging on the couch in what Jara had come to call her study. "Now everybody'll be on an equal footing."

  "I agree," nodded Vigal. "And-call me crazy-but I think Natch would agree too. Eventually."

  Jara stood at the window and watched the dwindling group of drudges keeping vigil at the gates. All but a few had given up on catching a glimpse of Natch emerging from the front doors. Everyone else had left to prepare for Margaret Surina's funeral in Andra Pradesh tomorrow morning. Jara had given the fiefcorp notice that they were all expected to attend as well.

  And where was Natch? Would he show up at the funeral? And if so, what was he planning? Now she knew what the Defense and Wellness Council must have been feeling for the past several weeks. Natch was out there, he was relentless, and he was beyond anyone's control. Who's to say that he couldn't use that back door of his to sabotage her agreement with the Patel Brothers?

  The analyst felt a sudden shiver take over her spine. It seemed to originate from some primordial portion of her brain, some center of animal instinct locked off from higher reasoning. "Horv," she said, "you remember that trick you did with DockManage 35? Tying up the system so Natch couldn't la
unch Possibilities onto the Data Sea at a moment's notice?"

  "Yep," said the engineer.

  "Can you do the same thing to the mechanism that controls the choice cycles?"

  Horvil gazed at the floor for a moment as his mind receded into the alternate dimension of mathematics. "Well, not exactly ... but there are other ways to accomplish the same thing. I think I could keep Natch from disabling the daily choice cycle limit in a hurry. It wouldn't be a permanent fix, but it should slow him down."

  Jara nodded. "Then do it," she said. "And do it quickly."

  27

  "There's something I need to discuss with you, Jara," said Serr Vigal.

  The analyst gave him a curious look. She had booked the whole fiefcorp on a hoverbird leaving for Andra Pradesh in less than an hour. They needed to get moving if they intended to make it to Margaret's funeral. But Vigal had prepped for more than a day trip. He had put on a semiformal robe and groomed his sparse hair and speckled goatee into respectability. Jara would have suspected he was heading off to a fund-raising pitch if his memecorp hadn't effectively been put in suspended animation by the Council's legal onslaught.

  "Can we-can we talk about this in your office?" Vigal mumbled.

  Jara winced. Just yesterday it was my study, and already it's become my office? They needed to get out of this miserable mansion before they started planting roots here. Thank goodness everyone would be going home shortly after the funeral. She led the neural programmer down the hallway to the study. Jara refused to sit down until Vigal had done so.

  "What's up?" said the analyst in a halfhearted attempt at being chipper.

  The neural programmer frowned, opened his mouth several times to start a sentence, then stopped. "I can't just abandon him, Jara," he said finally. "I've got to go to him."

  Jara didn't need to ask who Serr Vigal was referring to. "Okay ..."

  "He needs my help. He can't do this alone." The neural programmer wiggled his fingers in the air, as if shaking off a particularly nasty spiderweb. "Everyone's working against him. The Council. The drudges. The Patels. Even ... you. He needs someone on his side."

  "I'm not against Natch. I've-"

  Vigal waved Jara's objections aside. "Well, if you're not working against him, you're certainly not working for him either." He waited for a rebuttal, but she had none to give. The neural programmer didn't appear to be upset or even surprised. "I owe it to his mother, Jara. I promised him I would always be there. And so I need to go."

  Jara scooted her chair closer and put one hand on his quivering shoulder. "Vigal, of course you need to go. I understand. Did you think I'd try to stop you?"

  "Well, after you tried cutting off his access to MultiReal ... I wasn't so sure. I hate to just abandon the company like this ... but I can't very well help the fiefcorp and Natch at the same time. If there's a conflict of interest, my loyalties lie with-well, they lie with Natch." He exhaled a long, ragged breath. "I'm on your side, Jara. I'm on the fiefcorp's side. You just need to know that I'm on Natch's side first."

  She couldn't imagine why the neural programmer was making such a big production of this declaration of loyalty. To be honest, Jara wasn't quite sure how Serr Vigal fit in to a post-Natch fiefcorp anyway. No doubt his intellect was prodigious, but it was of the unpredictable, scattershot variety, and Horvil more than filled that niche. Perhaps a sabbatical for Vigal from the fiefcorp would prove to be the best thing for everyone. In fact, it would probably make explaining Natch's departure to the public a little easier.

  They both nodded and stared at the floor for a minute, then rose from their seats as a unit. An entirely new list of to-do items sprouted up in Jara's mental itinerary. She needed to solidify Vigal's extended leave of absence with a short agreement of some kind. She needed to prepare a statement for the press. For process' preservation, when had everything become so complicated?

  "So how are you going to get in touch with him?" Jara asked. "He hasn't started answering his messages, has he?"

  The neural programmer shook his head. "I don't want to approach him at the funeral, that's for sure. I suppose I'll just go over to his apartment after it's over. If he won't let me in, I'll start hitting him with messages until he finally opens one."

  "And ... what kind of help do you think you can give him?"

  Serr Vigal shrugged, looking suddenly distracted and despondent. "I really don't know. Whatever help he needs."

  They were interrupted by a loud and insistent knock. Five times, then another five in quick succession. Jara gestured at the door, and in spilled Merri, looking bleary-eyed and unrested.

  "I think you need to see this," she blurted out.

  Something about the channel manager's comportment set off a small whirlwind of panic in Jara's head. She hustled out of the study with Vigal and Merri in tow, nearly sideswiping one of Berilla's dour servants in the process. A minute later, Jara was standing in the great room reading a drudge headline on the window set in a point size usually reserved for wars and celebrity deaths.

  WHAT DOES LEN BORDA HAVE IN STORE FORYOU?

  byV.T.Vel Osbiq

  The crease in Jara's forehead widened like the fault in an earthquake as she read the article. Vel Osbiq was not exactly a household name, but she bore enough credibility in libertarian circles to ensure that the article would spread. "This isn't good," Jara muttered. "This isn't good at all."

  Horvil materialized out of nowhere and poked his nose over Jara's shoulder. "What's not good?"

  A minute later, he too was absorbed in the article and silent as a tomb.

  They call us rabble-rousers.They call us troublemakers and rumormongers and other less savory names. But now we have tangible proof.

  We now have a memo from the lieutenant executive of the Defense and Wellness Council himself that tells us just how far they're willing to go. We now have proof how irrelevant the Prime Committee has become, and how much contempt Len Borda holds for it.

  Mass imprisonments! Seizure ofTubeCo and declaration of martial law! A seal on the border with the Islander territories, and a system of "permanent rationing" for the Jamm and the Sigh! And worst of all: a suggestion that "harsh methods" might be necessary to deal with the threat of the Surinas." This on the morning of Margaret Surina's funeral, less than a week after her murder. But don't take my word for it; go read the memo for yourself.

  Horvil zoomed in on the words "read the memo for yourself" and pulled up a holographic copy of the document in question, then slunk over to the couch to read it. Jara continued with Vel Osbiq's piece on the window.

  Does it matter that the Council is calling the memo a fraud? No. High Executive Borda's credibility is practically zero.

  Does it matter that the proposals in the memo are just that: proposals? No.The Council has demonstrated plenty of times that they will always sink to the lowest common denominator.

  Does it matter that the memo is of dubious origin? No. Consider this: if you wanted to leak classified memos from the leadership of the Defense and Wellness Council, would you risk sending them through normal channels? Or would you try to find the most anonymous way possible?

  What does matter is that the libertarians in the Congress of L-PRACGs are keeping mum. Khann Frejohrs office issued a one-sentence response calling for more study. The bodhisattva of Creed Libertas has scheduled a rally-

  Jara stepped away, reeling from a sudden rush of vertigo. This had the rank stench of one of Natch's media stunts. She risked a sidelong glance at the engineer on the couch, whose rapidly greening face was evidence enough that he had come to the same conclusion.

  "That shit is all over the Data Sea," said Ben, shuffling into the great room with his hands in his pockets. "The whole libertarian pop ulation is up in arms about this. There's already talk of a walkout at TubeCo."

  "I'm getting a headache," moaned Horvil, waving a hand through the poisonous memo floating before him.

  "Well, it looks like one good thing has come out of this," said Merri fr
om the side window. "It looks like the drudges have finally left the front gate. They've moved on."

  "Of course they've moved on," groused Ben. "There are going to be riots for them to cover in a few hours."

  Jara collapsed in place, with her back against the ancient rolltop desk. Somehow Natch had done it. He had connived Speaker Khann Frejohr into some rotten scheme to provoke public opinion against the Council. On the day of Margaret Surina's funeral, no less. Jara knew from bitter experience that Natch's public dramas were impeccably timed and that the appearance of this story today was no coincidence. What mad villainous deeds did Natch have in store for that funeral?

  She hadn't thought Natch had been idle for these past few days since the confrontation in Berilla's office. Of course she had assumed that Natch must be working up some sinister batch of nastiness behind the scenes. But the scope ... it defied belief. Jara had been tinkering with the mundane details of fiefcorpery, making fine adjustments to the dials of intercompany commerce. Natch, meanwhile, had been working on a truly Olympian scale, pulling giant levers that moved whole societies.

  "I think it would be wise for us to skip the funeral after all," she said, her voice weary. "Why don't you all gather your stuff, and let's get out of here before that TubeCo walkout hits. I'm ready to go home."

  Natch stands in the courtyard of the Surina complex and remembers his first Preparation ceremony.

  It's a farewell for one of the proctors at the Proud Eagle, a centenarian with a face inscrutable and wrinkled as a bunched blanket. Friends, family, students, acquaintances line up in the great hall to offer unabashed praise for a well-ordered life. Enemies make amends. Food of the starchy and calorific variety is served, along with copious quantities of alcohol. The sun sets; the man stands on unsteady feet. And in one last futile attempt to impose structure on a life subverted by the anarchy of facts, the honoree delivers a final speech. Roads taken and not, lessons learned, regrets. Loves and losses. All sit quietly during the Last Minute and listen to the meandering responses of wind and tree. Finally the man turns. Attendants from the Order of the Prepared lock elbows with the old proctor and escort him through the gates of that compound, never to return.