Multireal

by David Louis Edelman

  The Prime Committee in its bureaucratic wisdom had long ago considered this possibility and passed legislation to deal with it. This legislation required every critical bio/logic system to have multiple redundancies, so that no failure of communication (or lack of credits) would ever stop a beating heart. So the bio/logic programs turned to governmentally mandated backup routines hardwired into the very OCHREs themselves. Routines that had not undergone the same rigorous real-world trials as the bio/logic programs themselves. Routines that had not received the same level of intense scrutiny from Primo's and the drudges. Routines that, despite the best Dr. Plugenpatch screening and verification, did not always function as advertised.

  Routines that could fail when put to the test.

  A boy in Sao Paulo was engaged in a vigorous game of pelota with his comrades. Suddenly he experienced a massive embolism and collapsed.

  Within ten minutes, the infoquake had claimed a thousand lives.

  19

  The drudges edged as close to the tube tracks as they dared. One woman leaned her head out too far and tripped-or was pushed by a rival-directly into the path of the oncoming train. She stumbled, turned to face the juggernaut bearing down upon her, and let out a piercing shriek. The train car barreled forward without slowing. Half a second later, the multi network's automatic pain overrides cut the woman's connection.

  Laughter trilled through the crowd.

  "Animals," groaned Horvil from inside the train. He pulled his forehead off the window and used his shirtsleeve to wipe the oily smudge he had left there. "Barbarians. Philistines ..."

  "Drudges," concluded Benyamin from across the aisle.

  As the tube slid to a quiet stop, Jara rose from her chair at the head of the car and surveyed her fellow fiefcorpers. Ben was slumped in his seat, picking sullenly at a rough edge on the armrest. Merri had been red-eyed and misty for most of the past hour. Serr Vigal was kneading his temples like a man trying to remember some vital piece of information he had forgotten twenty years ago. And Horvil, with his hair sprouting in twelve different directions like an ebony spider plant, simply looked confused.

  I hope this wasn't a colossal mistake, thought Jara with a grimace. But with Natch incommunicado, the drudges closing in on the Thassel Complex, and infoquakes happening left and right, we couldn't just stay there forever.

  The analyst puffed up her chest and spoke. "Okay, we need to pull ourselves together. We've gotta act like a fiefcorp here. Ben, stop that sneering."

  Benyamin threw her a sour-apple look. "Do you really need me here for this stupid little pantomime?" he groused. "You want everyone to see us walking to my mother's estate. Fine, I understand that. But I don't need to walk there with you. My body's already at the estate. All I need to do is cut my multi connection."

  "You look at that platform, and you tell me," replied Jara. She gestured out the window at the crowd of drudges eyeing the tube car like a giant flock of vultures. A flock of agitated vultures. "We all have to put in an appearance, Ben, even if it's just a quick appearance. Otherwise these people are going to crucify us. And what they say over the next twenty-four hours could very well affect your career-all of our careers-for at least a decade."

  The young apprentice buried his chin in his chest and shook his black hair until it covered his forehead, mop-style. "I don't care what Magan Kai Lee says," he muttered. "You don't run this company."

  For ten seconds, nobody took a breath.

  Inside, Jara was trembling. She could hardly blame Benyamin for being suspicious. Everyone else in the fiefcorp was tangled in some government web, while Jara alone remained unblemished and untouched. And yet she was the one standing here giving orders. How could Jara explain that she didn't know any more than they did? How could she convince them she had made no deal with Magan Kai Lee, and this predicament had descended upon her as quickly and unexpectedly as it had upon them?

  Merri leaned forward and put a consoling hand on the young apprentice's shoulder. "Benyamin," she said, "let's just ... get indoors, get to a safe place. We can talk about this later."

  Ben thought a moment, nodded, then stood.

  Jara tried to give Merri a silent look of thanks, but the channel manager would not meet her gaze. Even Horvil was keeping his eyes glued to the floor. I'm on your side! she felt like screaming. I'm one of you! Instead, Jara locked her spine and activated the look of distress she had purchased twenty minutes ago off the Data Sea. Then she walked through the doors of the tube car.

  And nearly collided with John Ridglee, who was hovering outside like a bird of prey.

  "The last heir of Sheldon Surina is dead," said the drudge without even a Towards Perfection. "Four hundred years of noble scientific tradition is gone. Another devastating infoquake. Why choose today of all days to conduct a hostile takeover of your company, Jara?"

  The analyst almost dropped her bereaved expression on the spot. "Uh-sorry, John," she said to Ridglee's hypnotically bobbing left eyebrow. "No comment." Then she walked into the crowd, hoping the others would follow.

  But John Ridglee was only the first in a long line of drudges on the London tube platform, each squawking a more outrageous question than the last. Most of the questions were predictable ("How do you feel about Margaret Surina's death?" "Where's Natch?"), some were easy to ignore ("Did you kill Margaret?" "Who's getting fired next?" "Who are you fucking these days?"), but many were simply incomprehensible ("Have we atoned for the sins of Tobi Jae Witt and her Autonomous Minds?" "Can you name three chemical components unique to moon plants?"). Regardless, the analyst managed to keep her cool and say nothing but a quiet "No comment" to her interrogators.

  Once Jara made it off the tube platform, she was in for another surprise: cheers. Standing on the opposite street corner was a crowd that straddled every major demographic. Men, women, old, young, Terran, colonist, rich, poor. Some of them bore a rising sun on their chests, insignia of Creed Libertas. "Don't be discouraged!" shouted a woman from the crowd. "Take heart!" cried another. Their words of support were so banal that they only added to the surrealism of the situation.

  Rabid drudges, crazed creed devotees, sullen fiefcorp apprentices ... Jara could only imagine the stack of messages she would find in her inbox when she stopped priving herself to the world. A flexible-glass bottle arced out of the sky and narrowly missed her head. She switched on Lucas Sentinel's Cocoon 33 and tuned it to a low setting that muted the noise but left her other senses intact.

  Horvil pinged her on ConfidentialWhisper. "There's a guy here says he's from the Diss L-PRACG Movement. They're worried that we're headed for another Economic Plunge. Should I-"

  "I don't care if he's Sheldon Surina," Jara said with mental teeth firmly gritted. "Don't say a fucking word to anyone."

  The throng began to disperse as the fiefcorpers made their way toward the palatial estates lining the western bank of the Thames. The rabid libertarians stayed with them for a few blocks, but quickly lost interest after the drudge onslaught tapered off. Jara started to wonder if they had run this whole gauntlet for nothing, when she rounded the last corner and saw a fresh crowd camped at the gates to Berilla's estate. She allowed herself a sigh of relief.

  The gates creaked open just wide enough to admit Horvil, Benyamin, Merri, and Vigal. Jara felt like she had wandered into an ancient painting as the others strode down a cobblestone path that looked like it had been built for automobile traffic, or even horse-drawn carriages. The path was lined with an exquisitely manicured hedge that served as boundary for a crisp and well-tended lawn. Jara's entire city block on the East End could have occupied that lawn, with room to spare. The house they were headed for stood an obscene distance back from the gates. It extended east to west in hand-laid brick like a Roman villa.

  Jara waited patiently for the others to make it inside the gates before turning to face the pack in apparent afterthought.

  "I'm really sorry," she said, her voice appropriately choked. "You've caught us all a bit unprepared. Gi
ve us-give us two or three hours, and someone will be back out here to deliver a statement, okay?" Then she gave a stiff bow and dashed up the walkway to join the rest of the fiefcorp.

  "Thanks, everybody," Jara broadcast to the others over ConfidentialWhisper. "Well done. That should do the trick."

  "Do what trick?" scowled Ben.

  Jara could hear Horvil's snort from several paces away. "Don't be an idiot, Ben."

  "But I don't see what-"

  "All five of us, sitting in your mother's estate in West London. Two hundred drudges camped at the gates waiting for us to make a statement. It's probably the safest place in the entire universe right now."

  Benyamin cut his multi connection as soon as the doors closed behind them.

  Jara stood in the marbled atrium with the rest of the fiefcorp, simultaneously afraid to sit still and afraid to move. Just yesterday, the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp had been headed for a triumphal exposition before billions of potential customers. Now the fiefcorp was-what? Under new management? On hiatus? Defunct?

  Moments later, Ben emerged in the flesh from a side hallway and led the group to a large parlor in the house's west wing. Jara kept waiting for the infamous Aunt Berilla or one of her factotums to burst out of some antechamber, but not so much as a liveried attendant came to greet them. Horvil or Benyamin must have told Berilla they were coming. Either she didn't care enough about their presence to raise a fuss or she cared too much to give them the satisfaction.

  The group stood in the parlor and stared at the carefully preserved trappings of an earlier age. Cherrywood furniture, stately purple curtains. Nobody said anything. Finally Jara stepped forward.

  "Listen," she said, her voice low and husky. "I know ... I know this is all very confusing. It's confusing to me too. I have no idea what's going on. I don't know what's happening with Natch or Margaret or the leadership of the fiefcorp or your contracts or-or anything. But here's what I suggest." She took a breath. "Let's just pretend that every thing's normal right now. Until we have more information, let's just all ... do the best we can." She trailed off lamely, hearing the razzes from Natch's imaginary audience in her head.

  Hesitant nods from the rest of the fiefcorp. A shrug or two.

  Within minutes, they were turning the stuffy parlor into a bona fide war room. Benyamin cleared the drapes off the windows and replaced them with Data Sea news feeds. Horvil converted an antediluvian rolltop desk into a bio/logic workbench with the press of a button. Jara and Merri went around picking up crystal knickknacks, while Vigal found enough seating to form a makeshift conference area.

  "Someone get ahold of Robby Robby," said Jara when everyone had settled down. "Let's start working on that statement for the drudges. Merri?"

  The channel manager crumpled onto a delicate chair next to the sideboard. "Sure," she replied in a hoarse whisper. "What are we going to say?"

  Jara could feel her mind shift onto an express track. "Start with this: `The Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp joins the entire world in expressing its sorrow at the passing of Margaret Surina. Margaret's brilliance, wisdom, and compassion set an example for all to follow."'

  "That's good shit," put in Horvil.

  "Okay." Merri nodded. "I can work with that."

  "The drudges are going to want more detail," said Serr Vigal, reclining on a plaid sofa so stiff it might never have actually contained a human being before. "They're going to ask about the dispensation of Margaret's shares, the work she left behind, what happens to MultiReal, that sort of thing."

  Jara shrugged. "It doesn't matter. All we can tell them is what we know, right? And we don't really know anything. So let's just keep it brief and bland."

  "I'll do the best I can," said Merri, climbing slowly to her feet like one of the walking dead.

  Jara gave her a perplexed look. The channel manager was not the type to bemoan her fate or engage in clumsy theatrics. "Don't worry," said Jara. "Robby can help you massage the wording. That's what we're paying him for. Take as long as you need-we've got to keep that crowd out there for a few hours, at least. Maybe longer."

  The analyst swiveled around to face Horvil, who had already managed to unpack half of his bio/logic programming bars on an antique cherrywood hutch. "Horv, I need you to scour the dock for me. Make sure Natch didn't actually follow through on those threats and release Possibilities when we weren't looking."

  The engineer blinked rapidly with his eyeballs tilted rafterward. "Nope."

  "Good. Then why don't you do everything you can to unprepare that program for launch. Wipe the fore and aft tables, the pricing structure, everything. Put up as many barriers as you can to stop Natch from pulling that again. We don't want him just throwing MultiReal out to sixty billion people on a whim."

  "Natch won't like that," said Benyamin with a grimace.

  "No, he probably won't," replied Jara. "But look at it this way. We're not doing anything he can't undo later. We just need to ... slow him down a bit."

  "Why? If his license is suspended, he can't launch a bio/logic program on the Data Sea anyway. Or, at least, he can't charge for it."

  Jara was growing very frustrated very quickly with Benyamin's contrarian attitude. "Not officially he can't," she said. "Not legally. But when has the law ever stopped Natch from doing anything?"

  The young apprentice gave a grudging nod. Even he couldn't argue that point.

  Horvil stood behind the desk and called up Possibilities in MindSpace. Displayed on such an old workbench, the program looked positively minuscule. "You know, Pierre Loget has this great dock management routine I've always wanted to try," he said. "Lets you craft these sophisticated fore and aft tables, ties in with your accounting ... puts all kinds of access controls on everything. I bet DockManage 35'd tie Natch's hands for a few hours."

  "Go ahead," said Jara. "Ben, what's going on with your mother's assembly line? Are they still rolling back the MultiReal code?"

  Benyamin shook his head. "They pretty much stopped doing that when the infoquakes started."

  "Good. Let's cut off their access while we still can. Shouldn't be a big deal to just revert to the last functioning version before they started tinkering, should it?"

  "If MultiReal was a normal program, no, it wouldn't be a big deal," interjected Horvil. "If Margaret had built it with standard workbenches and standard bio/logic programming bars from start to finish, no. As things stand ... yes. It's going to be a real pain in the ass."

  Jara sighed. "See what you can figure out, Ben. Ask some questions, but keep it quiet. Let's see if we can bring everything back to normal in the next couple days."

  Serr Vigal leaned forward with his hands folded on his lap, looking small and fragile. "Is there something I can do to help?"

  The analyst blinked. It suddenly occurred to her that the neural programmer had his own company to deal with. He would have been on a shuttle heading for that cognitive processes conference right now if all this chaos hadn't happened. "Why don't you help me go through the news coverage," she said. "We need to know what's going on out there, and we can't rely on InfoGathers to convey all the subtleties." Vigal nodded.

  Jara stopped and took a look around. Aunt Berilla's sterile parlor had become a hive of activity, full of industrious hands and discreet conversations. That's good, thought the analyst. We need to keep busy. She moved next to Vigal on the sofa and began combing through Data Sea video feeds.

  It didn't take long to track down footage from Andra Pradesh. Drudges, videographers, and curiosity seekers by the hundreds were converging on the Surina compound. A privileged few had already been at the premises when the chaos began. As a result, there were hundreds of different viewpoints and conflicting spins to sort through.

  After a few minutes, they located a feed from a tourist group that had been locked in the Center for Historic Appreciation by anxious Council guards. Jara felt the tug of some indefinable emotion when she saw the monolithic scientist statues in the atrium and remembered her own
little epiphany there last month. Huddling scared at the feet of Sheldon Surina. Deciding to give the MultiReal demonstration in Natch's place, even if that meant confronting the Council. Horvil's unexpected declaration of affection. She cast a peripheral glance toward Horvil now, but the engineer had his nose buried in one of the rolltop desk's cubbyholes.

  The tourists were all focusing their attention on the empty courtyard out the window, but nothing seemed to be happening. A few officers of the Defense and Wellness Council strode by, weapons at the ready. Surina security was nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly the doors to the Revelation Spire burst open and spat out a gaggle of Council officers. They were dragging along some colossal figure who was shackled in their midst. For a moment, it looked like the man might actually be trying to walk on his own power. Then one of the white-robed officers bashed the back of the giant's knee with a rifle butt, hard, and he slumped down again.

  One of the observers zoomed in for a closer look.

  Jara gasped. It was Quell.

  Within moments, the gang of white-robed soldiers had muscled the Islander across the courtyard to their waiting hoverbirds. The view bobbed and weaved anxiously, searching in vain for an angle that would show what was happening. Minutes later, a trio of Council hoverbirds took flight and zipped away southward.

  Jara turned around and discovered that not only had the other fiefcorpers abandoned their individual projects and gathered behind her chair to watch the video, but a cotton-headed Robby Robby had multied in at some point and was shaking his head theatrically at Jara's elbow. She had completely forgotten he was coming here to help with the drudge statement. Had he heard about the business license situation yet? If so, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.

  "The drudges are going to want an explanation for Quell's arrest," said Serr Vigal in a barely audible whisper. "We'd better include something in the statement."