Multireal (42 page)

"There's something I need to discuss with you, Jara," said Serr Vigal.

The analyst gave him a curious look. She had booked the whole
fiefcorp on a hoverbird leaving for Andra Pradesh in less than an hour.
They needed to get moving if they intended to make it to Margaret's
funeral. But Vigal had prepped for more than a day trip. He had put
on a semiformal robe and groomed his sparse hair and speckled goatee
into respectability. Jara would have suspected he was heading off to a
fund-raising pitch if his memecorp hadn't effectively been put in suspended animation by the Council's legal onslaught.

"Can we-can we talk about this in your office?" Vigal mumbled.

Jara winced. Just yesterday it was my study, and already it's become my
office? They needed to get out of this miserable mansion before they
started planting roots here. Thank goodness everyone would be going
home shortly after the funeral. She led the neural programmer down the
hallway to the study. Jara refused to sit down until Vigal had done so.

"What's up?" said the analyst in a halfhearted attempt at being
chipper.

The neural programmer frowned, opened his mouth several times
to start a sentence, then stopped. "I can't just abandon him, Jara," he
said finally. "I've got to go to him."

Jara didn't need to ask who Serr Vigal was referring to. "Okay ..."

"He needs my help. He can't do this alone." The neural programmer wiggled his fingers in the air, as if shaking off a particularly
nasty spiderweb. "Everyone's working against him. The Council. The
drudges. The Patels. Even ... you. He needs someone on his side."

"I'm not against Natch. I've-"

Vigal waved Jara's objections aside. "Well, if you're not working
against him, you're certainly not working for him either." He waited for a rebuttal, but she had none to give. The neural programmer didn't
appear to be upset or even surprised. "I owe it to his mother, Jara. I
promised him I would always be there. And so I need to go."

Jara scooted her chair closer and put one hand on his quivering
shoulder. "Vigal, of course you need to go. I understand. Did you think
I'd try to stop you?"

"Well, after you tried cutting off his access to MultiReal ... I
wasn't so sure. I hate to just abandon the company like this ... but I
can't very well help the fiefcorp and Natch at the same time. If there's
a conflict of interest, my loyalties lie with-well, they lie with Natch."
He exhaled a long, ragged breath. "I'm on your side, Jara. I'm on the
fiefcorp's side. You just need to know that I'm on Natch's side first."

She couldn't imagine why the neural programmer was making
such a big production of this declaration of loyalty. To be honest, Jara
wasn't quite sure how Serr Vigal fit in to a post-Natch fiefcorp anyway.
No doubt his intellect was prodigious, but it was of the unpredictable,
scattershot variety, and Horvil more than filled that niche. Perhaps a
sabbatical for Vigal from the fiefcorp would prove to be the best thing
for everyone. In fact, it would probably make explaining Natch's
departure to the public a little easier.

They both nodded and stared at the floor for a minute, then rose
from their seats as a unit. An entirely new list of to-do items sprouted
up in Jara's mental itinerary. She needed to solidify Vigal's extended
leave of absence with a short agreement of some kind. She needed to
prepare a statement for the press. For process' preservation, when had
everything become so complicated?

"So how are you going to get in touch with him?" Jara asked. "He
hasn't started answering his messages, has he?"

The neural programmer shook his head. "I don't want to approach
him at the funeral, that's for sure. I suppose I'll just go over to his
apartment after it's over. If he won't let me in, I'll start hitting him
with messages until he finally opens one."

"And ... what kind of help do you think you can give him?"

Serr Vigal shrugged, looking suddenly distracted and despondent.
"I really don't know. Whatever help he needs."

They were interrupted by a loud and insistent knock. Five times,
then another five in quick succession. Jara gestured at the door, and in
spilled Merri, looking bleary-eyed and unrested.

"I think you need to see this," she blurted out.

Something about the channel manager's comportment set off a
small whirlwind of panic in Jara's head. She hustled out of the study
with Vigal and Merri in tow, nearly sideswiping one of Berilla's dour
servants in the process. A minute later, Jara was standing in the great
room reading a drudge headline on the window set in a point size usually reserved for wars and celebrity deaths.

byV.T.Vel Osbiq

The crease in Jara's forehead widened like the fault in an earthquake as she read the article. Vel Osbiq was not exactly a household
name, but she bore enough credibility in libertarian circles to ensure
that the article would spread. "This isn't good," Jara muttered. "This
isn't good at all."

Horvil materialized out of nowhere and poked his nose over Jara's
shoulder. "What's not good?"

A minute later, he too was absorbed in the article and silent as a
tomb.

They call us rabble-rousers.They call us troublemakers and rumormongers and other less savory names. But now we have tangible proof.

We now have a memo from the lieutenant executive of the Defense and
Wellness Council himself that tells us just how far they're willing to go.
We now have proof how irrelevant the Prime Committee has become,
and how much contempt Len Borda holds for it.

Mass imprisonments! Seizure ofTubeCo and declaration of martial law! A
seal on the border with the Islander territories, and a system of "permanent rationing" for the Jamm and the Sigh! And worst of all: a suggestion
that "harsh methods" might be necessary to deal with the threat of the
Surinas." This on the morning of Margaret Surina's funeral, less than a
week after her murder. But don't take my word for it; go read the memo
for yourself.

Horvil zoomed in on the words "read the memo for yourself" and
pulled up a holographic copy of the document in question, then slunk
over to the couch to read it. Jara continued with Vel Osbiq's piece on
the window.

Does it matter that the Council is calling the memo a fraud? No. High
Executive Borda's credibility is practically zero.

Does it matter that the proposals in the memo are just that: proposals?
No.The Council has demonstrated plenty of times that they will always
sink to the lowest common denominator.

Does it matter that the memo is of dubious origin? No. Consider this: if
you wanted to leak classified memos from the leadership of the Defense
and Wellness Council, would you risk sending them through normal channels? Or would you try to find the most anonymous way possible?

What does matter is that the libertarians in the Congress of L-PRACGs
are keeping mum. Khann Frejohrs office issued a one-sentence response
calling for more study. The bodhisattva of Creed Libertas has scheduled
a rally-

Jara stepped away, reeling from a sudden rush of vertigo. This had
the rank stench of one of Natch's media stunts. She risked a sidelong
glance at the engineer on the couch, whose rapidly greening face was
evidence enough that he had come to the same conclusion.

"That shit is all over the Data Sea," said Ben, shuffling into the
great room with his hands in his pockets. "The whole libertarian pop ulation is up in arms about this. There's already talk of a walkout at
TubeCo."

"I'm getting a headache," moaned Horvil, waving a hand through
the poisonous memo floating before him.

"Well, it looks like one good thing has come out of this," said
Merri from the side window. "It looks like the drudges have finally left
the front gate. They've moved on."

"Of course they've moved on," groused Ben. "There are going to be
riots for them to cover in a few hours."

Jara collapsed in place, with her back against the ancient rolltop
desk. Somehow Natch had done it. He had connived Speaker Khann
Frejohr into some rotten scheme to provoke public opinion against the
Council. On the day of Margaret Surina's funeral, no less. Jara knew
from bitter experience that Natch's public dramas were impeccably
timed and that the appearance of this story today was no coincidence.
What mad villainous deeds did Natch have in store for that funeral?

She hadn't thought Natch had been idle for these past few days
since the confrontation in Berilla's office. Of course she had assumed
that Natch must be working up some sinister batch of nastiness
behind the scenes. But the scope ... it defied belief. Jara had been tinkering with the mundane details of fiefcorpery, making fine adjustments to the dials of intercompany commerce. Natch, meanwhile, had
been working on a truly Olympian scale, pulling giant levers that
moved whole societies.

"I think it would be wise for us to skip the funeral after all," she
said, her voice weary. "Why don't you all gather your stuff, and let's
get out of here before that TubeCo walkout hits. I'm ready to go home."

Natch stands in the courtyard of the Surina complex and remembers
his first Preparation ceremony.

It's a farewell for one of the proctors at the Proud Eagle, a centenarian with a face inscrutable and wrinkled as a bunched blanket.
Friends, family, students, acquaintances line up in the great hall to
offer unabashed praise for a well-ordered life. Enemies make amends.
Food of the starchy and calorific variety is served, along with copious
quantities of alcohol. The sun sets; the man stands on unsteady feet.
And in one last futile attempt to impose structure on a life subverted
by the anarchy of facts, the honoree delivers a final speech. Roads taken
and not, lessons learned, regrets. Loves and losses. All sit quietly
during the Last Minute and listen to the meandering responses of wind
and tree. Finally the man turns. Attendants from the Order of the Prepared lock elbows with the old proctor and escort him through the
gates of that compound, never to return.

But Natch is not here today for a Preparation ceremony. This is a
funeral.

Today the sky over the Surina compound is cold and empty. A hundred creed banners undulate in the breeze on icy flagpoles. Zhunx's
slow dirge "Mourning for the Forgotten" wends its way through every
ear. The courtyard is packed so tightly that not a square meter of
travertine is visible. Natch can't adjust his suit coat without butting
into someone else.

Around him, he sees delegations from every creed he has ever heard
of and many he has not: Objectivv, Elan, Conscientious, Surina, Dao,
Enlighten, Bushido, Tzu, Autonomous. They are dressed in full creed
regalia and standing side by side in an unprecedented display of solidarity. Two squat Africans Natch doesn't recognize wear the three parallel lines of Creed Thassel.

Government officials from every band on the political spectrum
dot the courtyard as well. Natch takes note of the masters of the Vault,
the keepers of the multi system, the judges, the L-PRACG officials,
men and women in the garb of the Prime Committee and the Congress
of L-PRACGs. Magan Kai Lee and Rey Gonerev are there representing the Defense and Wellness Council. Magan appears to have recovered
completely from Quell's blow at the top of the Revelation Spire. Their
faces have been scoured free of emotion, but security must be on their
minds, as they've surrounded themselves with governmentalists. Len
Borda is nowhere to be found.

Programmers, drudges, capitalmen, actors, philanthropists, healers.
Lucas Sentinel, Prosteev Serly, Bolliwar Tuban, Frederic and Petrucio
Patel. There are many Islanders, and some of them are in tears.

The blue-green uniforms of Surina compound security, augmented
by private forces from Objectivv, Elan, and Dao. They're amped,
clearly expecting trouble and ready for it if it comes.

The litter arrives to the monotonous drumbeat of Zhunx.

It's an ornately carved casket, gold with pearl inlay and the prominent fathers of the Surina dynasty in bas-relief. Sheldon Surina, magisterial and imperious, gazes directly into the eyes of the mourners.
Prengal Surina has his nose buried in a book and a telescope held aloft
in one hand. Marcus Surina stands in repose, shirtless like a Greek god,
as if posing for the sculptor of this very casket. Dozens of other Surinas,
great and small, are stacked in the open spaces as if holding the lid of
the casket on their outstretched arms. Clearly this receptacle was a
long time in the making, and Natch wonders how long and under
what circumstances it was prepared.

Margaret Surina lies in the cushioned interior. She is dead but not
at rest. Her once-raven black hair has now reached its final accommodation with the invading grayness.

The litter bearers reach the center of the courtyard and lay the
casket on a raised platform. There is wailing and weeping from some,
grim silence from others. Natch assumes the detached man immediately to the left of the platform must be Suheil Surina, while the glowering woman to the right could only be Jayze Surina. Their enmity for
one another penetrates even through the fog of mourning; their indifference to the dead woman before them is harder to detect.