Infoquake

by David Louis Edelman

  This was all a diversion anyway, a way to pass the time until they could squeeze some information from Natch about what was going on. He had promised to explain everything in a fiefcorp meeting at seven o'clock. But by the time eight-thirty rolled around with no sign of Natch, the three apprentices decided their fiefcorp master wasn't coming. The same thing had been going on for a week. Horvil tried to get in touch with Serr Vigal, but the neural programmer had predictably prived himself to incoming communication, probably off fundraising. So Horvil and Jara spent the next few hours in Jara's apartment listening to Merri explain what little she knew about the Phoenix Project. The three tossed improbable theories back and forth, and got nowhere. Eventually, Merri decided to cut her connection so she could spend some time tending to her companion Bonneth, who was bed-ridden with another one of her crippling fevers.

  Jara was ready to kick Horvil out and get some sleep, when she felt an incoming multi request.

  Natch appeared in the room, looking as bothered and beautiful as always. He was already pacing the length of the room before he had completely emerged from the haze of multivoid. "Horv, I'm going to need you to interview some new engineers and programmers," he said, as if they had been discussing the topic for hours.

  "Are we expanding?" asked Horvil.

  "What does it look like?"

  Horvil shot a glib look at Jara. "How many do we need?"

  "I don't know," replied Natch without missing a beat. "Two. Five. Ten if they're stupid."

  The engineer stood with arms akimbo and sucked in his stomach as if girding for battle. "I hear and obey, brave commander," he said, and vanished.

  Natch swiveled on the ball of his left foot and stopped directly in front of Jara. The analyst felt the familiar hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach as the entrepreneur locked eyes with her. Sapphires, she thought. "And you," said Natch in a feathery voice. "Why don't you tag along with Merri. She's meeting with Robby Robby to get him up to speed on how we do things around here."

  Jara gulped. "Who's Robby Robby?"

  "Our new channeling partner. He's a bit of a character, but he's got a staff that could sell you the clothes on your back while you're still wearing them."

  The analyst nodded. Her own clothes seemed uncomfortably tight and constricting at the moment. "All right, I'll do that." Then, seeing that Natch was about to cut his multi connection, asked: "So what do you think-violets or daisies?" She tilted her head towards the holographic arch that the fiefcorp master had plowed straight through several times now.

  Natch turned and studied the flower arrangement for a moment. "I'd say daisies," he announced, and then severed his multi projection without another word.

  Jara cancelled the violets and ordered daisies instead.

  Natch's thought processes had always been a mystery to Jara, but she soon began to wonder if he was losing his grip on reality. That night, he went on a titanic shopping spree. Natch bought everyone in the fiefcorp a new workbench with expanded MindSpace capabilities and the fanciest set of bio/logic programming bars on the market. He let Horvil loose on the Data Sea to pick out the best code optimization routines and analysis algorithms. He set up a permanent account at the Surina Enterprise Facility so he could commandeer an office or a conference room at a moment's notice.

  Where he got the money for all this, nobody knew. Jara was intimately familiar with the fiefcorp's Vault accounts, and she knew they couldn't withstand this kind of pummeling. True, the jump to number one on Primo's had provided them a good financial cushion. But Natch's reckless spending would soon put them into bankruptcy.

  Somehow this prospect cheered Jara up.

  So instead of protesting, Jara did as she was told. Over the next few days, she accompanied Merri to several meetings with the channeler Robby Robby. If anything, the man was even more insipid than Natch's description. He dressed in whatever ludicrous fashion the high society brats were wearing at the time-this week it was kimono pants and open-collared silk shirts-and went through programmable accents like other people went through socks. The cost of these silly peccadilloes went on the tab of the Natch Personal Programming Fiefcorp, of course.

  Jara soon discovered what made Robby Robby so valuable, however: He was completely unperturbed by the idea of selling a mystery product. "What do you think my channelers do every day?" he said, walking them through a room of baby-faced salespeople holding ConfidentialWhisper conversations from their desks. There were perhaps twenty in all, each impeccably dressed and relentlessly cheerful. "Selling isn't about the product you're offering, Lady Merri. It's about what the customer wants." Every time Robby Robby called her Lady Merri, Jara wanted to give him a swift kick in the knees. But though she was a Creed Objectivv devotee, Merri got along with the slick salesman just fine.

  Meanwhile, Horvil worked feverishly through the weekend to find capable engineering candidates who would fit Natch's high standards. He managed to round up a dozen applicants. All had the credentials to work in the top fiefcorps, and all were eager to sign on, which was no small accomplishment in such a tight labor market. But Natch found fault with every one of them. He even managed to send a top-flight engineer from the Deuteron Fiefcorp fleeing an interview in tears.

  Finally, an exasperated Horvil brought in his nineteen-year-old cousin Benyamin for an interview. Horvil meant it as something of a joke. Ben's only real-world experience was an apprenticeship managing a floor of assembly-line coders, and he was the youngest son of Horvil's dreaded Aunt Berilla to boot. But to everyone's surprise, Natch made the boy an apprenticeship offer on the spot. Benyamin readily accepted.

  "I don't get it," Jara told Horvil after he had relayed the story to her. "No offense, Horv, but Natch has been turning away everyone. How did Benyamin convince that bastard to hire a nineteen-year-old kid with no experience?"

  Horvil shrugged. "I dunno."

  "So how many hours was Natch grilling him?"

  "Less than one. Ben says that Natch listened to his pitch without saying a word, and then asked him just one question. You're not going to go crying to your mother the first time I keep you up three days in a row, are you?"

  The outside world did not come to a standstill while the fiefcorp beefed up its operations. In the midst of all the commotion, Pierre Loget released a bevy of upgrades on the Data Sea that sent his PulCorp rocketing to the top of Primo's. Billy Sterno and Lucas Sentinel quickly followed suit. For a couple of hours, the Patel Brothers sank as low as number four before they managed to pump a few more bio/logic programs into the system and reclaim the top spot.

  Natch mysteriously shrugged the whole thing off and seemed content to sit in fourth place for the time being. He spent all his time reading the latest news about the Prime Committee and the Defense and Wellness Council. Jara would multi over to his apartment to find him meditating to the libertarian ravings of politician Khann Frejohr. The craggy face of High Executive Borda stared back at her from every window. When the story broke about a battalion of Council officers bivouacking in China, Natch was glued to a map of the Orient for hours.

  Jara felt like a spectator in a game she didn't understand, played by titans on a board she could not see. At least the days were passing quickly now, bringing the elusive end of her apprenticeship contract closer all the time.

  On Monday morning, Jara awoke and slipped into her comfortable routine like an old shirt. She had barely fired up Doze-B-Gone 91c when she was assaulted by a screaming headline from Sen Sivv Sor:

  THE PHOENIX PROJECT UNVEILED

  Is This the Long-Awaited New Surina Technology, or Just a Publicity Stunt?

  John Ridglee's morning commentary quickly morphed to keep pace, sending his fawning profile of Pierre Loget to an out-of-the-way side column. Before long, the two drudges were engaged in a frenzied competition to see who could quote more unnamed industry sources offering the wildest speculation about the Phoenix Project.

  Within an hour, the entire world had shifted its focus to the upcomin
g 400th birthday celebration of Sheldon Surina. Curious onlookers from Earth to Luna to the farthest orbital colonies began tracking the comings and goings at the Surina compound, hoping to find clues to what Margaret had been up to for the past twenty years. Even those with little interest in bio/logics began streaming into Andra Pradesh to soak up the electric vibe in the air.

  Horvil and Jara camped on opposite sofas in the engineer's apartment and watched Surina mania overtake the Data Sea. L-PRACG politicians stood up in open sessions to spout platitudes about the impact of another breakthrough Surina technology. One after another, the creeds released statements spelling out their positions on scientific innovation. The Islanders raised their obligatory protest about technology being thrust upon them against their will; the orbital colonies raised their obligatory protest about technology not reaching them quickly enough. The bio/logics markets careened up and down as investors decided the end was near or the best was yet to come. Even the revered Bodhisattva of Creed Objectivv emerged from seclusion to make some inscrutable pronouncement about the state of Universal Truth in the wake of the Surinas' accomplishments.

  "I don't get it," Jara said, throwing her hands up in confusion.

  "You've been saying that a lot lately."

  "Yes, but think about it for a minute, Horv. People have been talking about this stupid Phoenix Project for years now. Natch was just throwing around rumors about it a few days ago. Why is everybody so interested now? What's changed?"

  Horvil bounced his arm off a stack of dirty laundry on the couch, trampoline-like. "It's called public relations. The Surinas are masters at it."

  "You think all this hubbub comes from a few leaks to the drudges?"

  "That's exactly what I think."

  "But-"

  "Come on, Jara. Don't you remember what happened a month ago? We've seen firsthand how this shit happens."

  The analyst twirled a few stray locks of curly hair, trying to mask her sudden embarrassment. Horvil was right. They had personal expe rience with the capriciousness of the public imagination, and with the ways a few, choice power brokers could channel the energies of sixty billion people to their cause.

  Horvil fixed her with a narrow-eyed stare. "What's wrong?" he said.

  "If what Merri says about us licensing the Phoenix Project is true, then all this publicity is going to be really good for business."

  "But?"

  "But once Natch gets in the spotlight, who's to say someone's not going to hijack all this attention and turn it against him?"

  Serr Vigal settled back into his chaise longue, mumbling something about how creaky his joints got in erratic gravity and how glad he was to be back from his latest visit to Patronell for memecorp funding. But Natch was distracted, not listening. "Tomorrow will be a momentous day," said the neural programmer, in an effort to catch his protege's attention.

  "Tomorrow, I finally get to find out what this Phoenix Project is," said Natch. "It had better be worth all the trouble."

  "Margaret still won't tell you?"

  "No. I haven't heard a word from her in days. She's totally prived herself to the world. I can't even get her to sit down with me to iron out the details of this contract addendum." Natch shook his head glumly. "I just hope Len Borda gives her the chance to explain herself."

  "Why, has he been making more threats?"

  The entrepreneur swiveled around and gave his mentor a puzzled expression. "Threats? Haven't you been paying attention to the news? Borda's got several legions of Council troops heading for Andra Pradesh right now. That's not a threat. It's a bloody declaration of war."

  A cloud of hoverbirds darkened the sky over Andra Pradesh late Tuesday afternoon. The troops disembarked in the fields west of the city instead of at the commercial hoverbird facility, and before long an army of white was marching towards the Surina compound. Several thousand Defense and Wellness Council officers moved with perfect synchronization through the streets of Andra Pradesh. A few curious vendors hung around to gawk, but most quickly packed up their wares and fled before the advancing army. The soldiers in white trudged on. There would be no looting on High Executive Borda's watch.

  The Surina security forces stood their ground at the base of the mountain, looking scared, outgunned and hopelessly outnumbered. The chief of security positioned himself directly in front of the compound gates, trying to present a model of dignity to the green-andblue troops behind him. The Council had not made such a display of force in several years, at least not in a connectible city. One would have to look back to the Melbourne riots during the Economic Plunge to find an incident of actual large-scale combat.

  The Defense and Wellness Council troops reached the base of the mountain and came to a halt. Their ranks were neatly bisected by the shadow of the Revelation Spire. Is there any force in the solar system capable of opposing them? the security chief asked himself.

  The legion's commanding officer stepped out from her formation and strode calmly up to the chief of Surina security. The chief took stock of the woman's white robe and yellow star, the smock she wore over her shoulders as a mark of office, the gray boots which seemed impervious to the monsoon season's mud. Holstered at her right side was a two-handed dartgun. The Surina security chief wondered what bio/logic code sat on the tips of those darts, waiting for a fresh blood stream to infiltrate.

  The chief's own darts were programmed to kill. With Margaret Surina's explicit authorization.

  "Towards Perfection," announced the Defense and Wellness Council officer as she flashed a quick hologram of her public profile. Commander Tanis, it read, 242nd Brigade. Volunteering directory profiles was one of the few meaningless gestures Borda had made to public relations over the years. "I have been ordered by High Executive Len Borda to secure the Surina compound and the city of Andra Pradesh." Her tone of voice indicated that the occupation was a foregone conclusion.

  The security chief stayed put. "Please convey our thanks to the high executive, but Her Eminence the Bodhisattva of Creed Surina needs no additional protection."

  "Nevertheless," replied Tanis icily, "the Council has been charged by the Creeds Coalition to protect its interests here, and protect them we will."

  This was a new development. The Surina official scratched his bald pate in puzzlement. "You're here to protect the Creeds Coalition's interests? From what? We are a creed."

  Commander Tanis did not hesitate a heartbeat. "Large public gatherings bring a high risk of damage and destruction." Tanis held out her hand, palm up, and displayed a holographic message in the air. "Bodhisattvas of several major creeds have asked the high executive to protect the common cultural heritage of the creeds here at the Surina compound." The security chief examined the letter, confirmed that it stated precisely what the Council woman said, and noted dejectedly that it did indeed bear an authentic signature from the secretary of the Creeds Coalition. But he nearly erupted with laughter when he saw what "common cultural heritage" Borda presumed to be protecting.

  A representation of Isaac Newton, on permanent loan from Creed Elan ... A bronzed effigy of Tobi Jae Witt, owned jointly by Creeds Bushido and Dao ... A sculpture of Albert Einstein that Creed Conscientious had lent to the Surinas while their new administrative facility was under construction.

  The scientist statues in the Surina Center for Historic Appreciation.

  This couldn't really be happening, could it? Len Borda couldn't be so brazen as to march into the Surina compound with such a minuscule figleaf of an excuse, could he? The security chief gazed past Tanis at the row upon row of motionless Council officers, and saw not a single smile or good-natured smirk. Politics, thought the security chief bitterly. How many times have I complained to Margaret that she isn't keeping up good relations with the other creeds? And what did the Council offer those other bodhisattvas to make them roll over so easily?

  The security chief cast a sidelong glance at the inadequate forces under his command. Inexperienced boys and girls, really. The teeth of the
green-and-blue soldier beside him were chattering uncontrollably.

  "Stand down," said the commander of the Surina security forces with a sigh.

  Tanis nodded and signaled her officers to enter the gates. The security chief watched gloomily as the white armada sailed through the gates and up the path towards the courtyard. None of them, he noticed, were headed for the Center for Historic Appreciation.

  Natch thought he was still enveloped in the haze of multivoid when his field of vision turned white. Then he realized that his transmission to Andra Pradesh had gone through after all, and the white glare was the sun's reflection off a Council officer's steely dartgun.

  The main courtyard was crawling with figures in white robes where Natch had expected blue and green. The few Surina employees in view were milling about aimlessly, trying to maintain the facade that they were still in charge. Yet the Council troops showed no sign of interfering. Their only agenda at this point, it appeared, was to stand with dart-rifles drawn and act menacing. If they intended to stop people from watching Margaret's presentation, they could do little from the courtyard; even the thickest Council thug had to know that standard crowd control procedures for an event like this would confine all multi projections to inside the auditorium.

  Natch scooted quickly along the fence, hoping to make it unnoticed to the Center for Historic Appreciation. But he was not destined for such luck. Two officers immediately zeroed in and corralled him into a corner. As they scrutinized him, Natch waited for the officers to say something-didn't the Council troops in the dramas always say your identification, please or state your name and business?-but they kept eerily silent. He supposed they could gather all the information they needed by feeding his image through the jaws of their vast intelligence databases. Speech was superfluous.

  "There you are," growled a voice. "Leave this one alone. He's with me."