Multireal (11 page)

Horvil gazed unblinkingly at the window. "Where are you going
to get the other team?" he said. "You wanna invite the Patel Brothers?"

"No. We pick them at random. We pick all the players at random,
both teams."

"We could hold some kind of public lottery," said Merri, her eyes
glinting. "Then we could announce the winners at a big publicity
event."

"I think this could work," put in Quell, rubbing his chin with his
bear's paw. "Instead of holding MultiReal up on a stage, we give the audience a taste of it. So they'll know what it's really like to use the program. Makes it that much harder for Borda to take away."

"Aren't we beating this baseball thing to death?" said Jara. "People
are going to think the only thing MultiReal's good for is hitting home
runs."

Natch, unconcerned: "Then let's make it soccer. Or jai alai. Doesn't
matter." He turned to face the rest of the fiefcorp and straightened his
spine like a drill sergeant. "Listen, I know it feels like we have eons to
put this together. But we've used up the element of novelty. People
have been talking nonstop about MultiReal for a month now, and we
can't just repeat what we did last time."

The analyst flipped dark curls of hair from her eyes, the better to
face down a looming challenge. "I'm up to the task," she said. "But it's
not me you have to worry about. Most of this is going to fall on
Horvil's shoulders."

"Me and Quell, we've been pounding out all kinds of changes to the
code in MindSpace," said the engineer with an insouciant air. "Possibilities is humming. It's like we turned some kind of corner. But stilldoesn't mean it's gonna be easy. We have a lot of loose ends to tie up
before we can sic this thing on five hundred million people again."

Natch: "So can you get the job done?"

Horvil's voice did not leak the smallest droplet of doubt. "Yeah,
we'll get it done," he said. Quell gave a reinforcing nod of confidence.
"Provided that Ben's assembly-line goons do their job."

"No worries," said Benyamin. "Greth Tar Griveth has the programming floor standing on notice."

"And I'll start working the sales channels with Robby Robby," put
in Merri, standing up and brushing off her blouse.

Serr Vigal sat on the sofa, beaming quietly. His role in the fiefcorp
was strictly an advisory one, but no one doubted that he would make
himself available as needed.

Natch's pacing slowed as he surveyed the group arrayed before him. He could scarcely believe that a month ago, the Surina/Natch
MultiReal Fiefcorp had been fumbling, awkward, and ready to quit.
Now they had caught the same intoxicating scent of victory that
Natch had been following since his first meeting with Margaret
Surina. This was no hodgepodge of runners-up and also-rans Natch
had assembled; this was a first-rate team.

The entrepreneur tried to conjure some words of inspiration, but
for some reason the linguistic centers of his brain felt tangled and
knotted. "All right," said the fiefcorp master, twirling one hand in the
air. "Let's get to work."

8

Jara pledged to waste no more time with Geronimo until the MultiReal exposition was over, at the earliest. There was too much to do.
But she might as well have spent the next morning dabbling on the
Sigh, for all she accomplished.

She began the day arguing with Merri over details of the MultiReal
exposition. They agreed to have the lottery winners play soccer instead
of baseball, but Merri insisted there should be twenty-three lottery
winners instead of twenty-two.

"That's uneven," Jara complained. "Somebody's going to get an
extra player."

"Yes, but think of the symbolism," said Merri. "One for each
member of the Prime Committee. We could even choose one player
from each Committee bailiwick."

Jara summoned a holographic bar chart that displayed the Committee bailiwicks in bright blues and purples. Across the Atlantic,
Merri's window would be showing the same thing. "That means putting a bunch of central government employees on the field," she
protested. Jara pointed to the column labeled MEME COOPERATIVE (3)
and set it aglow. "Do you really want three Meme Cooperative officials
nosing around backstage at our exposition?"

"That could be part of the gimmick. It's perfect, Jara! The Congress of L-PRACGs has twelve seats on the Committee, right? And all
the other government and business interests put together have eleven.
We can bill the game as `the people versus the government."'

"And the extra player?"

"I don't know. Maybe we can just rotate goalies. We'll figure something out."

But Jara was skeptical, and they decided to put off making any decisions until they had spoken with Natch at the afternoon fiefcorp
meeting. This sounds like one of his ideas, thought the analyst. He'll definitely take Merri's side, and that's just going to cause trouble.

Frustrated, still itching with unscratchable desire, Jara decided to
cut the conversation short and step out of her apartment for a change.
Her next-door neighbors blinked in surprise when she passed them in
the hallway, having given her up for dead weeks ago.

Jara emerged from the tenement into a glum, drizzly London afternoon. So much for modern technology, she thought. For thousands of years,
the British Isles had been under the capricious grip of nature, and
London had constantly wallowed in rain. Now, after two centuries of
unparalleled technological progress, the weather was determined by
the Environmental Control Board, the regional L-PRACGs, and a
patchwork of smaller agencies-and still the city wallowed in rain.

The fiefcorp analyst made her way north, where the cobblestone
turned to splotchy asphalt. She passed the farmers' market and the
baseball stadium. Twenty minutes later, she found her destination: a
small nitro bar nestled among the shops of New Downing. A familiar
site, part haven and part hideaway. Jara could practically feel the warm
nitro lathering her tongue as she walked in the door.

But as soon as she made it inside, she stopped short. The man
standing in her path may have been wearing a loose green caftan
instead of a white robe and yellow star, yet there was no mistaking
Magan Kai Lee.

Jara could feel her animal instincts kick in. She made a quick pirouette, looking for the glint of Council dartguns, but all she could see
was the quotidian assortment of nitro junkies and chintz-patterned
sofas.

Jara had watched the video of Magan's failed raid on Natch's apart ment at least a dozen times. She had gotten used to seeing him as a
startled animal buffeted by a hailstorm of drudge questions. Now,
standing in the nitro bar, the lieutenant executive was serene and confident, like a man who was either armed to the teeth or twice as large
as everyone else in the room. But Magan bore no weapon that Jara
could see, and even she topped his slight frame by a few centimeters.

"Towards Perfection, Jara," said Magan.

The analyst scowled. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Just to talk," said the lieutenant, sweeping one hand toward the
side door with a magnanimous gesture.

Jara regarded the doorway with suspicion. "Talk," she said. "Right.
How do I know you're not going to plug me with black code out there?"

The corners of Magan's lips rose a millimeter or two. A smile.
"Surely if I can plug you with black code out there," he said, "I could
do it in here just as easily."

Jara sighed, acknowledging the point. She had a passing familiarity with the waitstaff here, but she couldn't imagine any of them
sticking their necks out for her. The initial shock of seeing Magan was
wearing off, and she knew she needed to get out of there, fast. Run, you
fool, she told herself. Contact your L-PRACG security. Send a ConfidentialWhisper to Natch. Go.

But she did none of these things. Instead, she followed Magan out
the side door.

There was no sudden barrage of black code darts, no ambush,
nothing but the London drizzle. Jara exhaled in relief as Magan Kai
Lee led her around the back of the building to a partially roofed courtyard decked with wrought-iron tables and chairs. The analyst had
spent many weary afternoons out here nursing a chaff or nitro with her
loose circle of friends. But now, whether because of the rain or the
Defense and Wellness Council, the courtyard was empty. Magan took
a seat at an unassuming table set with a pair of steaming nitro mugs.
Jara followed suit.

"All right, so here we are," said the analyst. "Now what do you
want?"

"I want to introduce you to some people," said Magan simply.

"What people?"

"The people who have been following Natch around and scouring
your fiefcorp's records."

Jara could feel her shoulder blades clench and her jaw tighten, the
primitive reflexes of fear and flight. She quickly activated a pair of
bio/logic programs to soothe her nerves as a line of Defense and Wellness Council officers marched into the courtyard from the alleyway.
There were thirteen in all, each bearing a demeanor that could only be
described as nonchalant.

"Allow me to introduce you to Commanders Papizon and
Ridgello," said Magan. He indicated a tall flamingo of a man whose
eyes did not quite line up, and a hulking blond mercenary who might
even be a match for Quell in hand-to-hand combat. "Papizon and
Ridgello are in charge of the security detail that has been following
Natch's every move for the past forty-eight hours."

Papizon bowed awkwardly in Jara's direction, as if performing the
act for the first time. Ridgello made an obscure gesture with one hand,
causing seven more phantoms to step out of the shadows. Two or three
looked vaguely familiar, faces Jara had seen in passing in Shenandoah and
not given a second thought. Ridgello waited for her to get a good, long
look. Then he signaled again, and the spooks melted back into the mist.

Jara reached somewhere deep inside herself for a bravado she did not
feel. She tilted her head at the remaining Council officers. "So I guess
these idiots must be the ones scouring the fiefcorp records," she said.

A lithe woman with dark mahogany skin stepped forward in
response and gave a perfunctory bow. "You might recognize the woman
I have put in charge of this team," said Lieutenant Executive Lee.

Jara let out a gasp before she could stop herself. "The Blade."

"See, Magan, she does follow the Council drudge gossip," said Rey Gonerev, seeming well pleased. Her voice was a wasp's sting. "It's an
honor to finally meet you, Jara. I've read so much about you in the
Council files that I feel like I know you ... intimately." The slant on
the word was unmistakable.

Jara felt a flush rising from her toes and diffusing across her entire
body. She had heard rumors about sketchy channels on the Sigh selling
customer data, but never quite believed them. How much did the
Council know? And how much had they seen? There was nothing
illegal about her frolics with Geronimo, of course, but the fact that
someone might actually know about them felt as intrusive as any
molestation.