Infoquake

by David Louis Edelman

  Natch skipped ahead to the section that detailed Margaret's business interests:

  Surina has been the subject of gossip and speculation over the past twenty years since she founded the memecorp that bears her name. To date, the company has released no products and purportedly receives 100% of its funding from Creed Surina. Partisans of the Surinas believe the memecorp is at work on another technological breakthrough on par with such previous family accomplishments as bio/logics and teleportation. Surina supporters have even given this undefined new technology a name: "The Phoenix Project." Detractors, however, suspect that no such project exists and that Margaret Surina is instead using her memecorp to funnel money into libertarian and pro-Islander political causes.

  Natch leaned forward and tried to cajole InfoGather into providing him more about this mysterious Phoenix Project, but no tangible details were forthcoming. Pundits on the Data Sea had been scrutinizing Margaret's every move for years now, gossiping about every new visitor to her compound in Andra Pradesh in ancient India, seeking evidence of some iibertechnology that might or might not exist. So far, they had come up empty.

  The pressure on her must be enormous, Natch reflected. At Margaret's age, Sheldon Surina had already written his seminal paper, Towards the Science of BiolLogics and a New Direction for Humanity, the work that jolted the world out of its post-Revolt stupor and signaled the beginning of a new age. Sheldon's grandson Prengal Surina had already published the Universal Law of Physics at this stage of his life. Even Margaret's father, the poor doomed Marcus, had become a worldwide icon and pioneer of teleportation by the time he was fifty. The public was growing restless. What would Margaret's contribution to the world of science be?

  The entrepreneur remembered his days of infamy following the Shortest Initiation and grimaced. Why does she need to make any contribution? he thought. What if she just wants to be left alone?

  Natch studied the image of Margaret Surina carefully. The photog rapher appeared to have taken Margaret by surprise; she seemed frozen in the act of turning towards the camera. But there were no surprises written in those unnaturally large blue eyes. Margaret's eyes showed a woman in complete control of her surroundings, a woman capable of swallowing life's surprises whole without the least bit of discomfort. Natch finally had to admit to himself that this woman had him intrigued.

  And could this Phoenix Project be that thing just beyond the horizon that he had been waiting for his entire career? Was that why the very words tugged at his soul like a magnet?

  He sent a terse reply to Margaret's invitation:

  I would be honored to accept your invitation and make your acquaintance.

  Towards Perfection,

  Natch, Master of the Natch Personal Programming Fiefcorp

  The city of Andra Pradesh had few municipal building codes. Tenement high-rises and office buildings hobnobbed with parks and shopping areas and even farmland, all jumbled together without regard to style or function. Andra Pradesh was a city that had rolled down from a mountaintop and sprouted haphazardly out of the wreckage.

  On that mountaintop were the Surinas.

  Natch saw the massive Surina compound as soon as he stepped off the tube. Even a kilometer away, it dominated the skyline. He could easily make out the austere buildings of the Gandhi University of Andra Pradesh where Sheldon Surina had taught and the absurd towers of the Surina family's private residence. Somewhere below his level of sight were the administrative offices of Creed Surina, the Surina Enterprise Facility, and the Surina Center for Historic Appreciation. Above them all, a lone spire jutted obscenely into the clouds from the middle of the compound. Natch had heard somewhere that this was the tallest man-made structure built since the Reawakening. Down in the city below, dozens of buildings competed for the right to claim second place.

  The tube could have deposited Natch right at the gates of the Surina compound, but he wanted the full effect of approaching it from a distance. I've already wasted several hours on the tube, he thought. Why not a few more minutes on foot?

  Natch hustled through the crowded streets and tried to keep his mind blank. The people of Andra Pradesh rushed about at a frenetic pace as if galvanized by the presence of the Surinas in their midst. Conversations were louder, clothing more vivid. People of all colors, classes and creeds seemed to blend in here, much like the buildings that surrounded them. L-PRACG security guards, street performers, vendors of exotic fruits and vegetables, businesspeople, assembly-line programmers, hoverbird traders and cargo haulers, rambunctious children: here in Andra Pradesh, distinctions blurred.

  Finally, he reached the base of the mountain. A dozen guards stood before the gate wearing the green and blue uniforms of Creed Surina. Was it just a figment of Natch's imagination, or were they fingering the triggers of their dartguns with a little too much anxiety?

  After a few minutes of identity checking, the guards waved Natch through the gate. Two grim-faced women in uniform motioned for him to follow them up the steep mountainside road to a courtyard large enough for a small army procession. They found their way to the Center for Historic Appreciation, a squat pentagonal building in the classic Greek style. It was a scientific museum of sorts, full of haphazardly arranged curio tables and marble statues of the Surina dynasty laid out in solemn, self-important poses. There was even a statue of Margaret as a child sitting rapturously at the feet of her father.

  Security guards were everywhere, dartguns drawn and signaling to one another with choppy gestures that Natch could only assume was a form of battle language. The complex appeared to be devoid of visitors, however. Finally, the two guards led Natch down a long hallway and, without a word, deposited him at the door at its end. He opened the door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

  Natch immediately found himself on a floating platform in a massive library. There was no sign of the exterior hallway; the door he had come through stood by itself with no visible means of support.

  SeeNaRee, thought Natch with distaste.

  The hexagonal platform was merely one of a thousand identical platforms Natch could see stretching off in every direction, each connected to its neighbors by narrow walkways, like beads on a string. Bookshelves lined four walls of each platform. Thirty-two treepaper books of equal size and weight filled each shelf, as if they were just a small part of an unimaginably vast encyclopedia. Natch looked around in vain for some sign of his host, for any human presence at all. After a few minutes, impatient, he reached for one of the leather-bound volumes and flopped it open on the large conference table in the platform's center.

  FSLFJ WOPSF 0 SLJ!

  Thwlk po sdl wopi fndvl fdgf poipwytpw, Wtlkd woir z pod. Lsdkf wienhf sdflglsksgd sldkjf? Wogih spapapa slgihd. Qqq! Qqq!

  "Never read your Borges, did you?" came a voice behind him. Natch turned and found himself face-to-face with Margaret Surina.

  Marcus Surina's daughter had aged quite a bit since that anonymous InfoGather image he had seen the other day. Not even bio/logics could totally conceal the wrinkles on her forehead, the slight stoop of her shoulders, the tinge of gray that permeated her once coal-black hair. Only Margaret's eyes remained intense and unblemished, as if they would remain brightly lit long after the rest of the flesh had withered away.

  "Borges?" said Natch.

  "Jorge Luis Borges," replied Margaret. "This library is his creation."

  The name meant nothing to Natch, and a quick inquiry to the Meme Cooperative fiefcorp listings came up with no results. "Never heard of him," he said. "Is he a programmer?"

  A smile descended onto Margaret's face as if from a great height. "He was a writer. From antiquity, from before the Autonomous Revolt. He talked about an infinite library with books that contained every possible combination of words and letters. What you were reading was just one of its countless permutations." She had a grating habit of enunciating every syllable of every word, even those that typically stayed silent or piggybacked on a neighboring phoneme. Ev-e-ry poss- si-ble com-
bin-nay-shun. Count-less per-me-yu-tay-shuns.

  Natch shook his head in annoyance and slammed the book shut. He enjoyed intellectual puzzles, but had little patience for artists. "So why are we here?"

  "It's a new innovation that we recently installed in all the Surina conference rooms," said Margaret. "The room automatically gauges your mood and chooses an appropriate bit of SeeNaRee. We have thousands of varieties in our data banks, virtual environments for every occasion. This is a museum, after all." Vir-tu-al en-vi-run-ments for every occ-ay-zhun.

  Natch leaned over the railing and saw only stairs and platforms without end. "I wasn't thinking about any library," he sniffed.

  Margaret gave a coy smile as if sharing an inside joke. "Ah, this is an ongoing complaint," she said. "People say that the program doesn't always pick the moods and emotions that they expect. The programmer says we are not always aware of what is going on in our subconscious mind. Personally, I find that to be a rather charming and unexpected benefit. However, if you prefer something more traditional ... With a flick of her wrist, the bodhisattva banished the library to oblivion, to be replaced by a featureless dining room with angular furniture.

  Natch felt a surge of irritation rise inside of him, and quickly masked it with a PokerFace 83.4b program. Was Margaret trying to test the limits of his patience, or was this just more paranoia?

  "Perhaps you would like a tour of the facilities before we dine," said the bodhisattva.

  When they reached the end of the hallway, Natch realized that he and Margaret were not alone. He took a quick glimpse over his shoulder and discovered that they were being shadowed by an imposing hulk of a man with enormous biceps and a pale blonde ponytail slung over one shoulder.

  "The atrium of the Surina Center for Historic Appreciation," said

  Margaret as they walked into a vast domed space. "I don't know whether you got a chance to see it when you came in." The room was littered with bland statues celebrating the great pioneers of science: Aloretus Monk, Tobi Jae Witt, Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton. Sheldon Surina had a prominent place in the canon, of course, as did his protege and sometime rival Henry Osterman. "We try to ease visitors in to the deeper exhibits with something gentle on the eyes," she said, though there were no visitors around to illustrate her point. She motioned at the hallways behind each scientist, all clearly labeled with his or her respective achievement: Relativity Hall. Subaether Court. Gravity Way.

  Natch gave a polite nod. The Surinas' inane tourist attractions did not interest him, not when he had to figure out the mystery of this towering figure with the blonde ponytail. The man stayed half a dozen paces behind them like a bodyguard might, and gestured to the sentries lurking at every corner using a hand weighed down with an excessive number of gold rings. But if he were part of the security staff, wouldn't he be wearing the standard green-and-blue Surina livery instead of loose tan breeches and an open-necked shirt?

  Then the three of them stepped out of the Center for Historic Appreciation into the central courtyard, and Natch caught sight of a thin copper collar suspended around the man's neck. An Islander!

  Natch wondered how he could have missed the other signs: the uneven muscles that sprouted from manual labor instead of electronic OCHRE stimulation, the ruddy complexion from too much time in the sun, the small scars running up and down his arms. Certainly, Margaret couldn't be depending on this man for physical protection. What good were those tree trunk-sized arms without bio/logics?

  Who was this man and why was he staring so intently at Natch?

  The tour continued for most of the next hour. They made their way through the halls of the Gandhi University and saw the room where Sheldon Surina had lectured for most of his life. Natch peered through the windows of the Creed Surina auditorium and saw the pulpits where teachers and minor bodhisattvas preached the gospel of scientific innovation. He received cursory introductions to a few distant cousins of Margaret's who appeared to be the only civilians wandering the halls. After twenty more minutes of this, Natch grew increasingly bored. Either Margaret had not inherited her father's fabled magnetism, or she was storing up her energy for more important performances.

  The Islander, too, appeared to have lost interest in Margaret's spiel. Every time Natch turned around, he found the big man staring at him with two brawny arms tucked in his pockets like siloed missiles. The stare contained neither malice nor menace. If Natch had to choose a word to describe his attitude, it would be skeptical.

  A thought occurred to him. Was this whole lap around the Surina compound just an excuse for the Islander to check him out?

  As they made their way back to the Center for Historic Appreciation, Natch decided to subject the Islander to a test of his own. He focused all his attention on the Revelation Spire-as the tall protruding spike atop the Surina residence was called-and then pretended to lose his footing. The fiefcorp master would have bet his weight in gold that he would have crashed into Margaret before the Islander could stop him. But in the space of a heartbeat, the Islander lashed out from his rearguard position and gripped Natch firmly at the base of his ribcage. The entrepreneur could feel the rings on the big man's fingers digging into his flesh.

  Natch met the Islander's stare, and for a split-second he could see straight through the man's defenses. He saw a look of concern for Margaret's safety that went far beyond any expression a bodyguard would have displayed. This is personal for him, thought Natch. This man is no mercenary.

  The husky Islander set Natch back on his feet as he would a toy soldier. For the first time, Natch noticed that the man was about the same age as Margaret. The Islander let a sly grin creep into his countenance. He saw right through Natch's ploy, but instead of being angry, he seemed to appreciate Natch's resourcefulness.

  Margaret did not even notice the interruption. The two men exchanged no words as they followed her into the Center for Historic Appreciation and back to the library room, now decorated with a single functional dining table.

  Natch made awkward small talk with Margaret as they grazed on authentic Indian cuisine. Curry and cumin danced on the end of his tongue, and he soon found himself settling into a mellow post-vindaloo stupor. Natch was ready to concede to Vigal that his suspicions had been unfounded, that Margaret really just wanted his participation in this upcoming 400th birthday celebration for Sheldon Surina. The Islander popped in and out of the room several times, eating nothing. Natch was no closer to figuring out the man's place in Margaret's retinue, but this was a mystery he could solve another time. For now, Natch wanted desperately to draw the dinner to a close and get back to Shenandoah, where his bio/logic programming bars were waiting.

  And then, after the dishes quietly slid into a compartment in a back wall, Margaret leaned forward and pressed her fingertips together. "You are probably wondering why I invited you here," she said.

  Natch nodded.

  "You are here," said Margaret, "because Len Borda is planning to have me killed next week."

  The atmosphere became deathly quiet as Natch tried to think of something pertinent to say. Margaret's eyes suddenly glared at him like spotlights. The Islander stood by the door with the intensity of a coiled snake, looking as if he might pounce at any moment. That explains why all those guards are roaming around with itchy trigger fingers.

  "So the Defense and Wellness Council is trying to kill you," said Natch, affecting nonchalance. "What does that have to do with me?"

  Margaret drummed her fingers together. "Sheldon Surina used to say that we are all connected in a fundamental-"

  "Don't patronize me," Natch snapped. The bodhisattva gave an exaggerated blink of shock, and couldn't resist a sidelong glance at the equally perplexed Islander standing in the doorway. Natch pressed on. "So Len Borda is going to kill you. That's wonderful. Why should I care? If you're so worried, go send a message to Sen Sivv Sor or John Ridglee. I'm sure they'd love to spread the news all over the Data Sea. But me-I've got a business to think about. I don't have time fo
r politics."

  Margaret's face toyed momentarily with outrage, ventured into amusement, and finally settled on weary fortitude. She laid her palms flat on the table and leaned forward. "They tell me that the only things you care about are money and power," she said. "Well then ... let me translate this into language you can understand. I am about to present you with an opportunity for more money and more power than you can possibly imagine. Number one on Primo's is a child's fantasy by comparison. You can either hear me out, or leave now and go back to fighting for scraps on Primo's. It is your choice."

  Natch could have chosen to be insulted at the way this woman had casually belittled everything he had fought for since the Shortest Initiation. Sharp retorts hovered on the tip of his tongue. But then Natch remembered how easily he had fallen for the bait that the capitalman Figaro Fl had laid out for him all those years ago. I won't be manipulated, he repeated to himself over and over like a mantra. Natch looked at the Islander, who stood, amused, struggling to suppress his laughter. He knew, at least, that Natch had proven his point: Margaret's wealth and pedigree would not intimidate him. So instead of shouting, the fiefcorp master activated a relaxation program called OceanBreez 38 and waited a few seconds for the bio/logic code to suffuse his body with calm.

  "I'm listening," he said at length.

  The bodhisattva spread out her hands in a gesture of peace. "Let us start at the beginning," she began. "I am guessing that you were born sometime in the 320s ..."

  "331," said Natch.

  Margaret nodded. "331, then. You know what kind of position the economy was in at that time. My father's death and the collapse of TeleCo left the bio/logics industry in ruins and millions of programmers in the diss. The Economic Plunge of the 310s, they called it, though it lasted longer than that. People in the orbital colonies were starving for the first time since the Autonomous Revolt. Not a good period for business. Not a good period for anybody.