Multireal (32 page)

"Now don't get too excited," said Natch with a laugh. For a second,
Jara could see half a decade slough off his face like a shed skin. She
remembered the day she had met him, in that tiny apartment in
Angelos. The raw purpose. The intensity of him. "I'm not just doing
this for your benefit. I'm also doing this because it's a good PR move
that'll improve my hand with Khann Frejohr.

"And don't forget that obeying the Meme Cooperative is the last
thing Magan Kai Lee expects me to do. It's going to drive him crazy
wondering what I'm up to. It'll divert his attention.

"Look at it this way. The Council wasn't just out to yank our business licenses. They were out to divide the fiefcorp. To pit us against
each other. So what's the smart move here? To confound their expectations by working together. And that's just what we're going to do."

Jara made a wary nod, unsure if she could trust this unfamiliar
emotion. She thought she had been through psychological trauma, but
Natch must have gone through ten times as much for him to make such a mental adjustment. The analyst exhaled sharply. Margaret
Surina had said that MultiReal would change the world, but Jara had
never expected that change so close to home.

"I just can't believe you'd give up MultiReal that easily," she said.

Natch grinned, and suddenly the wolf had returned. "The Meme
Cooperative said I had to give you core access. They never said I needed
to give up mine. Now come on, let's get to work. And that starts in
Berilla's office."

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.