Multireal

by David Louis Edelman

  But Natch is not here today for a Preparation ceremony. This is a funeral.

  Today the sky over the Surina compound is cold and empty. A hundred creed banners undulate in the breeze on icy flagpoles. Zhunx's slow dirge "Mourning for the Forgotten" wends its way through every ear. The courtyard is packed so tightly that not a square meter of travertine is visible. Natch can't adjust his suit coat without butting into someone else.

  Around him, he sees delegations from every creed he has ever heard of and many he has not: Objectivv, Elan, Conscientious, Surina, Dao, Enlighten, Bushido, Tzu, Autonomous. They are dressed in full creed regalia and standing side by side in an unprecedented display of solidarity. Two squat Africans Natch doesn't recognize wear the three parallel lines of Creed Thassel.

  Government officials from every band on the political spectrum dot the courtyard as well. Natch takes note of the masters of the Vault, the keepers of the multi system, the judges, the L-PRACG officials, men and women in the garb of the Prime Committee and the Congress of L-PRACGs. Magan Kai Lee and Rey Gonerev are there representing the Defense and Wellness Council. Magan appears to have recovered completely from Quell's blow at the top of the Revelation Spire. Their faces have been scoured free of emotion, but security must be on their minds, as they've surrounded themselves with governmentalists. Len Borda is nowhere to be found.

  Programmers, drudges, capitalmen, actors, philanthropists, healers. Lucas Sentinel, Prosteev Serly, Bolliwar Tuban, Frederic and Petrucio Patel. There are many Islanders, and some of them are in tears.

  The blue-green uniforms of Surina compound security, augmented by private forces from Objectivv, Elan, and Dao. They're amped, clearly expecting trouble and ready for it if it comes.

  The litter arrives to the monotonous drumbeat of Zhunx.

  It's an ornately carved casket, gold with pearl inlay and the prominent fathers of the Surina dynasty in bas-relief. Sheldon Surina, magisterial and imperious, gazes directly into the eyes of the mourners. Prengal Surina has his nose buried in a book and a telescope held aloft in one hand. Marcus Surina stands in repose, shirtless like a Greek god, as if posing for the sculptor of this very casket. Dozens of other Surinas, great and small, are stacked in the open spaces as if holding the lid of the casket on their outstretched arms. Clearly this receptacle was a long time in the making, and Natch wonders how long and under what circumstances it was prepared.

  Margaret Surina lies in the cushioned interior. She is dead but not at rest. Her once-raven black hair has now reached its final accommodation with the invading grayness.

  The litter bearers reach the center of the courtyard and lay the casket on a raised platform. There is wailing and weeping from some, grim silence from others. Natch assumes the detached man immediately to the left of the platform must be Suheil Surina, while the glowering woman to the right could only be Jayze Surina. Their enmity for one another penetrates even through the fog of mourning; their indifference to the dead woman before them is harder to detect.

  All stand and wait for a presence, a person of gravitas worthy of honoring the last daughter of the Surinas.

  That person emerges from the gates of the Surina residences, following the path recently cleared by the pallbearers. He is a short man by Western standards, an African with a nose like a miniature fist. His skin is black enough that the folds on his black-and-white-swirled robe might be a form of camouflage, while his kink-curled hair is white enough to match. The crude metal scepter in his hand marks him as the bodhisattva of Creed Objectivv.

  The bodhisattva makes his way to the platform containing the coffin. All present give him a wide and respectful berth. He bestows a beatific smile on the assembly and clears his throat to speak.

  The world is clouded, but never more so than today. Today our tongues are confused, and we stand on queer geography. We are here to mourn this woman, Margaret Surina. This woman, this beacon. Seeker of truth, inventor of miracles. But today we are here to mourn something more. We mourn the Surinas, whose direct line ended a few days ago. The Surinas brought us not only science but enlightenment. Their coming heralded the dawn of a new age. Where do we go from here? To soar or to fall? Will their passing signal an end to the Reawakening? Will the human spirit slumber once more, or will it rise to glorious deeds?

  Natch feels the words bounce off him like rubber. He cannot move or speak.

  Standing before him is Margaret Surina, and she is alive.

  She's ghostly, almost insubstantial. She floats through the bodies in the crowd and comes to rest a meter away, occupying nearly the same space as a fat man who wears the Plugenpatch uniform. Her hair is slightly darker than the corpse on the platform, but her eyes are as luminous as they ever were. She is staring at Natch; she is trying to speak. No words come from her mouth.

  Natch closes his eyes and flees.

  He feels himself sinking into the travertine. Sinking through it. Passing down through the rock and soil of the mountain, the flesh of the Earth. There are civilizations down there in the rock, civilizations completely oblivious to the travails of the Surinas and Andra Pradesh, volcanic races of the almost-was and never-were. Natch passes through them.

  Farther, farther down.

  He emerges in an endless subterranean network of pipes. Pipes that form the core of the world. They are just tall enough for a man to stand in. Natch stands there in a crossroads, a nexus of pipes that extend in a million directions. Somehow he knows, he sees that these tunnels extend throughout the Earth. They extend into every city and every home, into the orbital colonies, through time and space, in universes alternate and improbable. And down here in the nexus, there is a hatch for each tunnel, clearly labeled with the names of every man, woman, and child who has ever, or will ever, live.

  Spiderlike creatures scramble in the shadows. They have the hands and heads of men, which they use to dig, dig, dig. Always digging. They are constantly at work building these tunnels in a never-ending construction project. Natch hears them snickering at him.

  He picks a hatch at random and draws it open, if only to escape the infernal laughter. The tube sucks at him like a pseudopod, and he flies through the roots of the world. Hours it seems he is flying. Then finally, an ending. A door. Natch opens the door.

  It's a gathering. An L-PRACG building outside of Vladivostok, a center of civic activity and urban planning. There are raised voices. A memo floats in the air above the floor, its sentences underscored and highlighted by many different hands. The L-PRACG administrator stands and raises her fist in defiance, shouting the official government slogan over and over until the assembled lawmakers join her. A resolution is proposed calling for the immediate resignation of Len Borda from the Defense and Wellness Council; it passes unanimously.

  Natch dives down and secures the hatch behind him. He travels many kilometers to another door (he hears the spiders' laughter) and opens that.

  The financial exchange in Beijing. A man in a crisp gray suit sitting at a desk and examining a long string of facts and figures. There are distressing rumors, conflicting reports. The analysis programs and pattern-recognition algorithms he employs advise caution. He consults with his human partners, and they agree as well. And if the memo really is a forgery? he asks. It doesn't matter, answers his partner. We get paid to safeguard our clients' money, not to play politics. If you think the company's headed for a fall tomorrow, it's headed for a fall tomorrow. The man in the gray suit nods, sighs. Sells off a cornerstone of the portfolio with a wave of his hand.

  Yet another door.

  Transportation workers for TubeCo, underpaid, underutilized, their jobs insecure. Multi has become ubiquitous and taken away their livelihood. They stand in a tube train depot, yelling their displeasure at the labor boss who stands atop a parked tube car above them. Is Len Borda going to seize the tube or isn't he? one yells. What's that mean for our jobs? shouts another. The man atop the tube car makes placating gestures, urges calm. Calm? says the workers' resident agitator. Fuck calm! Y
ou've got assurances from the company-but what if they're wrong? We could have a government takeover in a matter of days. If you're not going to do something about it-we will. Moving as one, a large chunk of the uniformed workers marches out of the building.

  An uneasy Defense and Wellness Council officer, patrolling the streets in the orbital colony of Allowell. A pack of private security guards following. Jeering. A tense confrontation in an alleyway. Darts fired-

  Laughter.

  Men and women in a station near Sao Paulo, donning the white robe and yellow star in a panic. Snatching loaded dartguns and disruptors off the racks, along with canisters of black code needles. Positioning themselves on the balcony in a phalanx and aiming weapons at the approaching mob-

  An engineer on the underground transfer system lifting a metal wrench in the air, striking down at a hollow pipe that plummets into the bowels of the Earth. He strikes again and again until the pipe cracks. The conveyors shudder to a halt; a cheer arises from his colleagues-

  Then Natch is back in the courtyard at Andra Pradesh.

  The bodhisattva of Creed Objectivv is long gone now, and the litter carrying the dead woman has been taken to the ceremonial grave inside the Revelation Spire. The crowd is surging in every direction at once; the blue-and-green Surina security officers are on the move. A brawl has broken out somewhere, and the group of Islanders is at the center of it. A trio of white hoverbirds can be seen in the distance, heading this way.

  Stones. There is a mob gathered outside the Center for Historic Appreciation, and they are throwing stones at the representatives of the Defense and Wellness Council. The Council contingent forms a tight phalanx and shoves its way toward the gates of the city.

  Natch stifles a smile and runs for cover.

  4

  MADNESS

  AND FREEDOM

  28

  January 12,Year 360 of the Reawakening

  Natch,

  I will try to make this message relatively brief, though you must be aware such a feat is beyond my means. Plan accordingly. One might suppose that during the course of a rigorous education in brain stem programming and engineering, a certain prestigious Lunar university might have endeavored to teach its pupils how to write-but alas, they did not.

  However, I digress. (You smile knowingly. Perhaps fear of my digressions is what's caused you to ignore my messages for the past few days. Perhaps you will ignore this one as well. All I can do is press on and assume that I am reaching you on some level.)

  Let me get my typical sententious blather out of the way first.

  Natch, you have won many victories in your life. Digging yourself out of the troubles at initiation and climbing to number one on the Primo's bio/logic investment guide was quite an achievement. Arranging the transition of MultiReal from Margaret's fefcorp to yours was another. Surely the popular outcry during the past few days over this disputed Defense and Wellness Council memo counts as a third.

  (Yes, despite what the drudges have called the largest spontaneous outbreak of public protest since the Melbourne riots" [John Ridglee, January I I], this unrest certainly does not seem spontaneous to me. It has not escaped my attention that the major events of this crisis-the street protests in Beijing, the government walkouts in Cape Town, the formal statements of dissent by the creeds and the L-PRACGs-were coordinated very closely with the drudge news cycles. Your new friend Khann Frejohr denied any involvement, of course, but his denial arrived just in time to make Sen Siw Sors evening report. Yet the most incriminatory piece of evidence is the fact that the tube line between Cisco and Seattle through the redwoods remains operational, despite an ongoing TubeCo operators' strike in North America. Quod erat demonstrandum.)

  So you have won another victory. The Prime Committee has called for a special session to resolve the question of MultiReal and promises to debate the issue for as long as it takes"They have issued subpoenas to you, the Council, and the Congress.The public, at least, seems willing to put its ire on hold for a few days and submit to the judgment of the Committee.

  But like all your victories, Natch, this one brings you no resolution. It only qualifies you for a more intricate challenge.

  I hardly need tell you the Defense and Wellness Council should not be underestimated in any circumstance, and especially not when they have been backed into a cornerYou have already met Len Borda's chief solicitor, Rey Gonerev, but I'm afraid you have never seen her in front of an audience. I had the misfortune of witnessing a public hearing on orbital colony subsidies several months ago in which Gonerev proceeded to slash her opponent's sensible and practical arguments to shreds.There is a reason the drudges call her the Blade.The Prime Committee will allow Borda to choose someone to provide an opening statement for the governmentalist position, and I have no doubt that Rey Gonerev is the one whom the high executive will call.

  Now I don't mean to sound defeatist-I have every confidence in your ability to sway a crowd-but you must be aware that you are fighting an uphill battle to regain control of this technology. In fact, matters may be more precarious than everThe Prime Committee is effectively the final court of appeal, beyond which there are no more legal avenues to which you can turn. Moreover, I'm sure you know that the governmentalists still hold a substantial majority on the Committee, and governmentalists rarely contravene the word of High Executive Borda.

  So it's an uphill battle, you tell yourself. It's always been an uphill battle, from the very beginning.

  But there is no such thing as an ordinary battle for you.You tend to wrap your feelings of self-worth into your battles, Natch. I've observed you doing this ever since you were a child, and perhaps if I had been better schooled in the art of parenting I might have done something about it when I still could.You believe that the outcome of this fight for MultiReal will determine the success or failure of your entire life just as you believed the same thing about your quest to achieve number one on Primo's, and your fight to win in the ROD coding market, and so on.

  I know I risk sounding like a tedious public service announcement from Creed Conscientious when I say this, but I will say it anyway: you are not the work you do in life.

  I shall repeat this and isolate it in a separate paragraph, like a professor emphasizing an important point before final exams.YOU ARE NOTTHE WORKYOU DO IN LIFE.

  We do not often get to declare victories, Natch, and most of them do not remain victories for very long. Ultimately when you reach my age you realize that victories are temporary, and in all the years of human history there is one final battle which nobody has ever won.Time has a way of changing the terms of your victories over the years, until you begin to wonder precisely what it was you fought for so viciously, so uncompromisingly. You begin to see that victory and defeat are but alternate reflections from the same prism.You see that the measure of a person really might be the integrity with which he fought his battles and not their ultimate dispensation, just like your elders have been telling you all along.

  That old book of the Pharisees expresses it best: seasons come and seasons go, but the Earth remains forever. (Obviously Ecclesiastes had never heard of Hubble's law or gravitational singularities, but you get the picture.)

  Again, I digress. (Cf. paragraph 2, above.) Let us move on to more practical matters.

  I have spent many long hours pondering the challenge you face in swaying the Prime Committee, and I have concluded that what you need is a trusted voice. The Council will seek to put your face on the libertarian cause. They will highlight your admittedly uncompromising nature, your personal foibles, and your shortcomings; a vote for MultiReal is a vote for Natch, they'll say.You need the Committee to see your situation not as a conflict of brash personalities, but as an ideological struggle. You need someone to present the libertarian position on MultiReal in a measured, persuasive, and objective way.

  It seems to me the ideal person to put forth such an argument to the Prime Committee is Speaker Khann Frejohr. And so-I hope you are not upset with me-I appr
oached his office intending to convince him to speak on your behalf. Unfortunately, the speaker refused to see me, and his senior aides informed me that Frejohr would not make such a speech under any terms. I don't know what sort of disagreement you have with the speaker that would cause him to lie low in this conflict (his office laughably claims a desire to "maintain impartiality"), but he has indeed made that decision. Frejohr had assigned a midlevel Congressional solicitor to make the libertarians' opening statement. I made it my duty to observe the man in court, and the most charitable conclusion I can come to is that Khann Frejohr is not invested in your success.

  So I offered to deliver the libertarian opening statement before the Prime Committee instead.The speakers office agreed.

  You gasp.You frown. I admit that I am no politician, and my speeches have been the butt of many jokes around the fefcorp. It's true that I have no experience swaying government officials for their vote, and yet I do have decades (and decades) of experience swaying government officials for something even more precious and inseparable: their money.

  My reputation has shown some tarnishing lately, as have all of ours in the fefcorp. But I submit to you that I am still one of the world's preeminent authorities on brain stem programming and a much sought-after expert on neurotechnological issues. I have been stockpiling this reputation for many, many years, and at my age one begins to wonder exactly what one is stockpiling such a thing for. So now I offer this reputation to you in the hopes that it might be of some service.

  You will, of course, get the opportunity to make your case before the Prime Committee in person. Nothing I do or say in my opening statement will change that. All I can hope to do is to make your task somewhat easier.