Multireal (12 page)

Magan made a disdainful frown, clearly signaling to the Blade that
she had crossed the line. Whether he was genuinely irritated, or if this
was just part of their good cop/bad cop routine, Jara couldn't tell.

Rey Gonerev was just getting started. She marched up and down the
row of Council officers, introducing each in turn. More than one seemed
to be quivering slightly at the Blade's presence, or Magan's, or both.
"Clarissa here has been itemizing every Vault credit Natch has spent over
the last ten years," said Gonerev. "Refaru Gil Motivan is collecting every
word he's ever spoken in public and every scrap of text he's ever posted
on the Data Sea. William Teg has been keeping tabs on Serr Vigal, while
Larakolia is in charge of analyzing your company's programs...."

The flush in Jara's skin quickly turned to nausea. Police intimidation: it was a ritual as old as time, invented by the ancients with their
primitive firearms and consecrated in a million crime dramas ever
since. Jara felt like she could recite every line before it was uttered, but
the familiarity did not stop her knees from shaking.

She didn't even hear what nefarious deeds the last few were up to.
"Why are you showing me this?" she said quietly when the Council solicitor had finished her little presentation. "Am I supposed to be scared that
you're following Natch around? Don't you think he already knows that?"

Magan gave the row of officers an almost imperceptible nod. One by one, the team disintegrated into the multivoid until just four members of the Council remained-Papizon, Ridgello, Rey Gonerev, and
Magan Kai Lee.

"I'm showing you this to deliver a message," said Magan. His
demeanor was almost polite, his hands folded on the table like an ordinary plebeian at teatime. "MultiReal is the Defense and Wellness
Council's top priority. As long as Natch refuses to cooperate with us,
the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp is my top priority."

"I don't understand why you're hassling us," Jara said, pinching her
temples in an effort to stanch the ache. "You want access to MultiReal?
Go talk to Frederic and Petrucio Patel. I'm sure they'd be happy to sell
you all the access you need."

Magan shook his head. "You know that the Patel Brothers are only
licensees, Jara. Limited access. I suppose we could learn a lot from
someone with master engineering privileges, like your friend Horvil.
But what good would that do when Natch could lock us out of the program without notice? No, I'm afraid only Natch and Margaret Surina
can give us what we need."

"Listen, I don't know who you think you're dealing with, but
Natch is more than capable of st-"

"No," said Magan, cutting her off without raising his voice. "Don't
be naive. Your fiefcorp master is canny and resourceful-I'll give him
that. He caught us off guard the other day. But there are only seven of
you. The Defense and Wellness Council has millions of officers at our
beck and call. We have unlimited resources. We will bury Natch. "

"And those foolish enough to stand with him," added Gonerev.
Unlike Magan, she appeared to be enjoying herself.

Again the slight disapproving grimace from the lieutenant executive. "Len Borda's agents are tailing Natch day and night," he said.
"We are exploring every transaction your fiefcorp has ever done, every
piece of code you've ever launched onto the Data Sea. This MultiReal
exposition you are so diligently preparing for will not happen."

The analyst slouched down in her chair, wishing she could slip
between the cracks and disappear unnoticed. After everything Magan
had revealed, why should it be a surprise that the Council knew about
the MultiReal exposition? But it hadn't even been twenty-four hours
since Natch came up with the idea, and as far as Jara knew, nobody had
said a word about it to anyone outside the fiefcorp yet.

Jara looked to the steaming mugs on the table for relief. The
drizzle had found its way under the awning to the side of her face, but
it hadn't done much damage to the nitro yet. She reached for the closer
mug and took a quick gulp, hoping that her beverage wasn't poisoned.
They ordered my nitro just the way I like it, Jara thought with a shudder.
Extra dark, extra bitters.

The Blade came close and crouched down until she was almost
whispering in Jara's ear. Jara could have gotten lost in those long
braids of ebony hair. "You don't think Natch is the only one Papizon
and Ridgello are following, do you?" said Gonerev.

Commander Papizon merely stood there, squinting at the rain.
Ridgello might have been a carven effigy.

She knew from watching the dramas that this was the point when
she was supposed to crack. But somehow the thought of Council goons
tailing her on the street helped Jara rally her courage. "This little act
of yours is getting old," snapped the analyst. "If you were really so confident you could bury Natch, you wouldn't be sitting here playing these
little games. You'd just go ahead and do it."

Again the insignificant raising of the lips on Magan's face. "And if you
were so confident in Natch, you wouldn't be sitting here listening to us."

Jara said nothing. Rey Gonerev retreated to stand beside Papizon,
her task done.

Magan rose from his seat and turned in profile to face the advancing clouds. Jara knew that even a lieutenant executive of the Defense
and Wellness Council was not exempt from the dictates of the weather,
but he seemed strangely untouched by the rain.

"What do you want from me?" asked Jara.

"I've studied your record very carefully," said the Council lieutenant. "I've seen the people you've worked for over the years; I've seen
the quality and integrity of your work. You can't possibly be pleased
with the direction Natch is steering this fiefcorp. Dirty tricks, sabotage, rumor, innuendo-this isn't you, Jara. I know what you really
want: you want out of this miserable apprenticeship. You want to wipe
the slate clean and strike out on your own.

"The Defense and Wellness Council can give you this.

"Do we want something from you in return? Of course. We want
your cooperation. The more cooperation we get from you, the fewer
public resources we have to waste, the quicker we can move on, and the
easier it will be for Natch."

Magan turned and focused the full intensity of his glare on the fiefcorp
analyst. It was not an unkind look, but rather a look full of hidden trapdoors and secret caches of information. In many ways, Lieutenant Executive Lee was Natch's antithesis: a man of hyperrationality, a man who
scrupulously choreographed everything that happened in his presence.

"Jara, I can compensate you for any shares you lose. Not only that,
but I can set you up with your own company. A proper company, one run
in accordance with the laws of the Meme Cooperative. A company that
can earn the number one slot on Primo's honestly, through hard work.

"Natch won't survive this, Jara. You can't change that. What you
can change is whether you go down with him."

With that, Lieutenant Executive Magan Kai Lee gave a bow and
strode off into the fog. He seemed small enough to be swept away by
the rainstorm. Rey Gonerev, Ridgello, and Papizon followed seconds
later, leaving Jara sitting alone in the courtyard with a mug of tepid
nitro. It was only after several minutes of doleful reflection that Jara
realized Magan had not actually asked her to do ... anything.

9

Soccer was mainly an indoor sport in the Mid-Atlantic, especially
during the wintertime. The regional L-PRACGs had a longstanding
deal with the Environmental Control Board to accept the bulk of the
season's snowfall in exchange for mild spring rains, and none of the
politicians were willing to jeopardize that just to play soccer outdoors.

Still, finding an indoor field to use for practice and demonstration
was more difficult than Natch had anticipated. The eastern seaboard
was awash in soccer stadiums large and small and all sizes in between,
but few of them had a secure MindSpace workbench on the premises.
As luck would have it, Natch found one a short tube ride away in
Harper. He strode on to the field with Quell, Horvil, and Benyamin
close behind. Then he stood for a moment in the center of the field,
hearing the roar of a crowd that was still nine days in the future. Excited
fans, stupefied drudges, indignant Patels: he could hear them all.

Quell, meanwhile, was busy removing the tight metal collar from
around his neck, which Natch supposed was only prudent for a game
of soccer. He wondered if he should keep an eye out for any Council
officers who might cite the Islander for failing to wear the uncomfortable contraption while in connectible territory. But Quell seemed
unconcerned. He pinned a small, coin-shaped device to his lapel.
Natch remembered seeing the device once before-a functional
replacement for the connectible collar, almost certainly illegal. Natch
shrugged. They were all here in the flesh this morning, so there were
no multi projections for the Islander to miss. Besides, why should
Natch care if Quell chose to skirt stupid laws?

The Islander grabbed a ball from the cart and crouched in front of
the Harper Bulldogs' net like a professional goalie. "Okay, Benyamin,"
he said. "Since you got the short end of the stick last time we tried this, I'll let you be on the winning side." He tossed the ball underhanded at
the younger apprentice, who had positioned himself for a penalty kick.
"Possibilities loaded up?"

"Yeah," said Ben, a wicked gleam in his eye. "All ready to go."

"Then let's see what you've got."

The two fiefcorpers squared off for a moment. Ben spun the ball in
his hands like a gyroscope while Quell gave him a fierce stare. Then
suddenly, Benyamin let the black-and-white sphere drop and lashed
out with his right foot. The ball rocketed through Quell's arms and hit
the net with a solid whuff.

"Good shot!" shouted Horvil from a bench on the sidelines.

Quell, undeterred, flipped his long pale ponytail over one shoulder
and tossed the ball back onto the field.

Natch stood at midfield watching like a dispassionate referee as
Benyamin nailed shot after shot through the Islander's hands. Inept
kicks, clumsy kicks, sophomoric head butts, all sailed effortlessly into
the goal despite Quell's best efforts. Ben flushed with satisfaction. The
Islander seemed to be enjoying himself too, in spite of the humiliation.

After a dozen such plays, the Islander finally tucked the ball in the
crook of his elbow and stepped out from the net. "So that's pretty
much the same demonstration we did before," said Quell. "A collaborative MultiReal process. Benyamin activates the Possibilities program, and we keep replaying the scene over and over again in our heads
until Ben finds a scenario that's acceptable. He closes the choice cycle,
outputs that `reality' to his motor system, and it happens." Quell
touched a massive finger to his temple. "The alternate memories up
here get erased instantly, and the guy who isn't using MultiReal-in
this case, me-never even realizes what's happening. Now here's where
things start getting interesting."

The Islander threw the globe back to Benyamin. Ben palmed the
soccer ball in his hands and prepared to score yet another goal. He
pulled back his foot, let the ball slip through his fingers-

And then both Quell and Benyamin slumped to the ground,
exhausted. Ben barely had the strength to keep his head from slamming into the grass. Meanwhile, the ball rebounded off Ben's shin and
went rolling toward the sidelines.

"What happened?" said Natch.

"That time," said Quell, panting, "we were both using MultiReal."

Horvil's eyes did a full clockwise circuit as he sifted through the data
points. "Okay, so you've got two MultiReal users working at crosspurposes," he said. "Benyamin keeps creating scenarios where he scores
a goal. But as soon as he does, Quell takes that scenario and runs it over
and over again until he blocks the kick. You get ..." The engineer's jaw
rocked back and forth in confusion as he tried to reconcile the equations
in his head with the bizarre performance he had just witnessed.