Multireal (40 page)

The libertarians shuffled back into the living room and began
holding quiet discussions about how to respond to the inevitable
drudge onslaught. Natch obliged them by plastering the memo on the
windows to analyze. They were muttering to themselves, dissatisfied
but willing to make do. After all, they were getting what they
wanted-confrontation with the Defense and Wellness Council on a
level playing field. All that was required was a little bit of clever dissembling to the drudges, and nobody would be the wiser. Natch knew
they would see things his way eventually. Already he could hear one of
the tycoons saying that Len Borda probably did have a memo just like
this one in his files anyway.

Khann Frejohr took Natch aside, back into the office. "So let's say
you get the Prime Committee to intervene and call a special sessionwhat then?" said the speaker bitterly. "You think you can persuade them to overrule Len Borda? He's had the Committee in his pocket for
twenty years."

"I don't know. One step at a time."

"And what happens if they overrule you instead? What if after all
this they decide to seize MultiReal and put it in the Council's hands
anyway? What then?"

Natch frowned and stared intently at the space where the black
code had been floating just moments earlier. "Then I'll make them vote
my way," he said. "I've got MultiReal, remember?"

26

Jara surveyed the list of the fiefcorp's high-priority issues. She had
inscribed each item on a virtual block and used the blocks to form a
giant skeletal structure on Berilla's couch. It looked disconcertingly
like a vulture.

The analyst reached out and caressed a block near the vulture's feet.
RETURN HOME, it read.

I'm tired of this fucking room, she thought, casting spiteful glances at
the rococo furniture in the study. I'm tired of Berilla. I'm tired of hanging
out in the hallways with all the servants staring at us. She tuned the
window to the front gates and the small pack of drudges still holding
camp there. Just keep Len Borda out of here until Margaret's funeral, she
thought. Just two more days. And then we can all go home. She pinched the
corner of the block between her index finger and thumb, then dragged
it down to the base of the structure, upgrading it to priority one. The
remaining blocks silently cascaded into new positions.

Jara arose from the couch and forced herself to make one more trip
to the great room. Nobody in the fiefcorp was quite ready to abandon
ship-not yet-but the failed press conference had certainly sprung
new leaks in their confidence. Merri was going out of her way to avoid
everyone; Benyamin's glower could be sensed from rooms away; Horvil
seemed more distant and distractible than ever; and Serr Vigal was
reduced to drifting about like an empty bottle on a windless sea.

Horvil was the only one in the great room. He was idling on a sofa,
reading Primo's reports with programming bar in hand. Jara suddenly
realized that she had never thought to ask where everyone else had
been camping these past few nights. Horvil and Ben already had rooms
in the estate, of course, but what about Merri and Vigal? She supposed
they must have claimed a spare nook somewhere.

"So how bad is it?" Jara asked, settling on the chair with the fleurde-lis motif carved into its back. "Where are we on Primo's?"

Horvil let his eyebrows float slowly northward. "Last time I
checked? Two hundred thirty-something."

"Two hundred thirty-!" Jara couldn't even finish her exclamation.

"Primo's moves fast," said the engineer, his face displaying total
unconcern. "We haven't launched anything since ... since ... well, I
don't know when. Back before we took on MultiReal, I guess. The surprising thing is that we still rank at all. We sold all the products that
got us to number one. So we should be off the charts altogether." He
twirled his programming bar in the air like a majorette and whistled.

Jara took a minute to study the engineer. Horvil was persevering
under exceedingly difficult conditions, and he was doing it with a
smile on his face. If anything, he seemed more grounded now than
before this whole MultiReal crisis started. Who else could claim that?
Certainly not Natch. Certainly not Jara.

"So what are the other fiefcorps up to?" said Jara after a moment.

"Well, you know Pierre Loget and Billy Sterno have gone AWOL,
and the Patels aren't paying much attention to the ratings either.
Counting Natch, that makes four of the Primo's top ten suddenly
gone. People are sensing this is the time to make a move. It's a land
grab out there."

"Loget and Sterno ... where are they?"

Horvil threw his hands up high, almost sending his programming
bar into the ceiling. "Ridglee thinks they're on Patronell. Or Allowell.
Can't remember which."

"Well, that's Ridglee. He probably thinks we're on Allowell. I
wonder what they're up to."

Benyamin happened to be returning from the kitchen at that
moment, sandwich in hand. "It doesn't really matter what those guys
are up to," he said. "The question is, what's Natch up to?"

Jara nodded. It was the big variable in her calculations, the unknown that could torpedo all her plans. They could be performing
miracles here in London, but that would all come to naught if Natch
was working at cross-purposes--or, perfection postponed, actually sabotaging them. Robby Robby had promised to alert the fiefcorpers if he
heard anything, and Horvil had put some feelers out to his engineering
contacts. So far, nothing. The best they could tell, the entrepreneur
remained sequestered at his Shenandoah apartment, accessing MultiReal from time to time but not modifying it.

Jara knew this charade could only last so long. Already Robby was
growing suspicious, and the drudges were making progressively wilder
accusations. Pretending that the fiefcorp was still working together in
harmony undermined Jara's whole effort to remake the company's
image. Sooner or later, they would have to admit publicly that Natch
had abandoned the fiefcorp, and they would have to concoct some plausible story to explain it.

Ben took an angry bite of his sandwich and ground it to a pulp
with his molars. "Do you think we should ... cut Natch off from the
MultiReal databases?"

Horvil gave his cousin a stunned look. "What would that accomplish?"

"It would keep him from doing something irretrievably stupid,
that's what."

"I'm not sure you appreciate-"

Jara cut him off. "It's a moot point," she said. "I've already tried."

Horvil simply stared at her.

The analyst sighed and kicked at a scrunched-up section of the
Persian rug caused by shifting furniture. "Don't give me that look,
Horv-I just wanted to see if we could lock him out. Turns out we
can't. The Data Sea says he shouldn't be able to access the program, but
he's getting in there anyway. I even tried moving the MultiReal databases to another location. Remember Horvil's calculation? The chances
of him finding those databases are practically nil-but it's not even
slowing him down. There's no explanation for it that I can think of."

Horvil grimaced. "I think I know the explanation."

"What?" said Jara, eyebrows arched.

The engineer explained to them about the rogue MultiReal code
lurking in Natch's neural system and Natch's futile attempts to
remove it. "That must be what the code is," he continued. "A back
door. A way of tying him to the databases and circumnavigating the
standard Data Sea access controls."

"How's that even possible?" objected Benyamin through bits of
lettuce and cheese.

"Well, who created MultiReal?"

"Margaret Surina."

"And who invented the Data Sea access controls?"

"Sheldon Surina. Or maybe it was Prengal. One of the Surinas, at
any rate."

Horvil extended an empty hand into the air as if to say, Case closed.

The question of what Natch was doing haunted Jara the rest of the
day and into the night. Had Natch managed to get his meeting with
Khann Frejohr? Was Natch cooking up some ruinous plan that would
destroy everything Jara was fighting for? He had already duped her too
many times to count. Despite everything she knew about Natch, she
had actually believed he had made a sacrifice by handing her core access
to MultiReal. He must have known already that it would make little
difference. What other deceptions did he have in store?

Anchored by doubt, Jara couldn't seem to launch herself in
motion. Meanwhile, the fiefcorpers spent hours drifting through the
estate, conducting aimless MultiReal experiments that had little
bearing on their business. That night, Natch visited Jara's dreams and
did a slow striptease for her, only to reveal the smooth, sexless torso of
a marionette underneath his clothes.

You can't keep this up, thought Jara. Go ahead and do something, for
fuck's sake.

So Jara yanked herself out of bed the next morning at an indus trious hour when the sun was just a faint red smudge in the east. She
fetched a bracing cup of nitro, sat back in her makeshift desk, and
spent an hour absorbing the drudge vibes from Sor, Ridglee, and Vertiginous. Something resembling the old electricity began to spark in
her fingertips. By the time Vigal came tottering past the door in search
of his morning tea, the analyst had already hurled a score of messages
onto the Data Sea and made half a dozen appointments.

Jara sat back and allowed herself a slight smile. The anonymous
ancient Britons on the wall regarded her with approval from beneath
their ridiculous epaulets and brass buttons. She stared back at them,
wondering who they were.

Only one more day until Margaret's funeral, Jara thought. After that,
those drudges will be gone, and Magan Kai Lee will be here looking for
answers. This fiefcorp has got to be ready.

The purple bottle had finger-sized grooves that would have been more
at home on the grip of a dartgun than on a commercial beverage sold
at sporting events.

"Go ahead, squeeze it," said Petrucio Patel with a mild grin.

Jara eyed the container skeptically as if it might jump up and bite
her. She squeezed, causing the bottle to give way under pressure and
coagulate into the jagged lightning-bolt symbol of ChaiQuoke. The
cloudy liquid inside bubbled like molten lava.

"Not just flexible glass," said Petrucio. "Ultra flexible glass.
Finally cheap enough to mass produce. Pretty impressive, eh?"

Jara managed a half-smile. "Sure, I guess."

"I tell you, we could all learn a thing or two from those ChaiQuoke
marketing people," said the programmer. He took the bottle from
Jara's hand and began enthusiastically molding it into a variety of
obscure and occasionally obscene shapes. "They really know how to invigorate a brand identity over there. Xi Xong got a look at their new
spring campaign and it's just brilliant, brilliant."

The analyst nodded, wondering how long she could keep up this
pantomime of politeness before she grabbed the ChaiQuoke bottle and
started bludgeoning Petrucio over the head with it. Here in this
meeting space within the bowels of the Kordez Thassel Complex, she
couldn't distract herself with the surroundings either. The curved
chrome walls and semireflective table might have been designed by
some government task force for unimaginative SeeNaRee. Jara found
herself casting sympathetic side glances at the boorish Frederic Patel,
who seemed just as exasperated with his brother's prattling but was
nowhere near as proficient at hiding it.