Infoquake Part 12

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 ident.i.ty 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 cla.s.sic 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 a.s.sume 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 ma.s.sive 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 s.p.a.ce. "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 ill.u.s.trate 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 att.i.tude, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 c.u.min 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 partic.i.p.ation 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 for politics."

Margaret's face toyed momentarily with outrage, ventured into amus.e.m.e.nt, and finally settled on weary fort.i.tude. 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 sc.r.a.ps 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.

"Of course, by the late 320s, things were already turning around. High Executive Borda had started handing out enormous defense contracts to the fiefcorps, hoping the credits would funnel down to the ma.s.ses. For ten years, the Council gave subsidies to just about anyone who asked-including me."

Natch's eyes were beginning to glaze over. According to the legends, Sheldon Surina had also been fond of historical digressions. Did I take the tube halfway across the globe and lose an entire day in Minds.p.a.ce for a civics lesson? "So Len Borda gave you money."

"Yes," she continued. "I approached the Council with blueprints for a new set of memory enhancement programs. Programs to drastically extend the potential of the human brain, based on the technology my father left behind at his death. I painted Borda a picture of Council officers with total recall and soldiers who could memorize the tiniest details of a battlefield. He was impressed."

The fiefcorp master frowned. "I don't understand," he interrupted. "Why did you of all people need Council credits?"

Margaret gave a wry smile, and her face clouded up momentarily with a far-off look. Then she stood, shook off the gloom, and fetched two tiny cups of Turkish coffee from the access panel in the wall. "Natch, my father might have been a scientific visionary, but he was never a prudent businessman." She deposited one of the cups on the table in front of Natch. "Yes, he made breakthroughs in teleportation technology, but he never figured out a way to pay for them. Let us just say that TeleCo was not the only organization Marcus Surina left on the brink of bankruptcy when he died."

Natch sipped the bittersweet brew from the delftware cup and thought about his mother holed up in the towers of Old Chicago. He felt a brief surge of anger, but batted it away. "So Borda anted up," he said.

"Yes. The Surina Perfection Memecorp received one of the largest appropriations of the entire Economic Plunge. You see, it was a winwin situation. We desperately needed financial stability, and the public desperately needed confidence in the future, in their governments. And who could provide a better hope for tomorrow than the Surinas?" Natch listened carefully but could find no trace of irony in her voice. "So everyone got what they wanted. We got the funding we needed to turn ourselves around. Borda got a shining example of prosperity to show off. And the economy recovered.

"Which leads us to today.

"We have not been idle all this time. After trying its hand at a variety of projects, the Surina Perfection Memecorp has spent the last sixteen years in research and development. And now Len Borda is about to find out exactly what he paid for all these years ago." The bodhisattva's voice crackled slightly at the end of her sentence. An expression of fear? Of regret?

"The Phoenix Project," Natch said.

Margaret rolled her eyes and gave a knowing look to the Islander, who responded with a smile rich in irony. "I despise that name. Some drudge coined the term. It wasn't supposed to be so secretive. We really did start out with memory enhancers. We never intended to provoke a twenty-year guessing game on the Data Sea."

"Okay," said Natch, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "So what's this big invention then? Not memory enhancers, I take it."

"No. Not really. It's a bio/logic program. But much more than just a bio/logic program."

"You're going to have to be more specific than that."

Margaret remained maddeningly calm. She blew on her coffee and watched the wisps of steam disperse around the room. Her eyes were a lake of measureless depth. "I can't. Not yet."

The mounting tension was too much for Natch. He let out an irritated puff and threw his hands in the air. "So we're back to the original question. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to license my technology," said Margaret.

n.o.body spoke for several moments. Natch bounced his gaze back and forth between Margaret and her silent companion, wondering if somehow the Patel Brothers were behind this, if they had conned Margaret into diverting him here while they solidified their number one position on Primo's. The Islander looked Natch up and down as if taking detailed measurements.

"Let me get this straight," said Natch. "You're asking me to license some new product without telling me what it is? And if that's not enough, the Defense and Wellness Council is willing to kill you to keep the whole project quiet? Well, forget it. I don't want anything to do with this. What makes you think I want Len Borda coming after me?"

The bodhisattva's demeanor softened, though whether it was an expression of sympathy or merely a change of tactics Natch could not tell. "Let me ask you a question, Natch. What's the quickest way to neutralize a poison?"

Natch thought for a moment. "Dilute it," he said.

"Precisely. Dump any poison into a large enough ocean, and its effects are nullified."

"Okay, I see what you're driving at."

"The Defense and Wellness Council sees my technology as a poison. My technology, Natch-my life's work, which I've spent sixteen years building." Margaret abruptly looped a bony finger through the handle of the coffee cup and raised it into the air. "But pour this poison into the largest ocean of all-the Data Sea-and it becomes part of the ocean itself. It becomes inert. More importantly, once you release the poison, it cannot be bottled up again. " She raised the cup to her lips and drank it to the dregs in one angry gulp.

Natch was beginning to get the impression he was not here for a business opportunity so much as an audition. He remembered all the scenes he had set up throughout the years: his confrontations with Brone, his challenges to Captain Bolbund, his ascent to the top of Primo's. Margaret Surina had prepared a script, and she had a part for him to play.

He once again shook off the stifling air, the slowly tightening constriction around his throat. "There's something you're not telling me," he said. "If you want to nullify the poison, go ahead and dump the specs on the Data Sea right now and get it over with. Why bother with the ha.s.sle of setting up a licensing agreement with a fiefcorp?"

The bodhisattva nodded pensively. "It's not that simple. This is a complex project. If this program fails to capture the public's imagination, then the Council can just swoop in and take control without a single protest. Besides, the Phoenix code is dangerous code, if it's not handled properly. If we just floated the specs out onto the Data Sea, who knows what could happen? I absolutely refuse to have blood on my hands." Margaret held her hands in front of her face and stared at them as if they were alien artifacts. "No, this situation has to be handled with the utmost precision. Which is why you're here, Natch.

"I need a licensee who can do two things. First, he needs to generate enough ripples on the Data Sea to make the Council stay its hand until I unveil the technology. And then he needs to quickly develop a workable prototype to show the world this technology is real."

"Wait a minute," cried Natch, slicing his hand through the air. "You've spent sixteen years building this f.u.c.king thing, and you don't even have a workable prototype?"

Margaret was unfazed. "I have many, but none I trust to act flawlessly in front of billions of people. The Council has forced my hand too early."

"All right, fine. So when are you unveiling the Phoenix Project?"

"The end of next week, at the cultural festival honoring Sheldon Surina's four hundredth birthday. Until then, all we need is a little bit of uncertainty. You're an outsider, Natch, and outsiders bring complications. Loose ends. The more Borda fears I have let others in on the Phoenix Project, the more he will hesitate to act."

Natch set his chin on his fist in consternation. He had learned many years ago never to get locked into a situation without an elaborate and many-layered plan for escape. Then he thought of Margaret's words: More money and more power than you can possibly imagine. What were money and power? Mere words, vowels and consonants, sc.r.a.pings of tongue on tooth. But what they represented: open doors. A way out. A way up.

"So why me?" he said at length.

"Because you are the best," replied Margaret without hesitation. "Because you are young and hungry. Because you work quickly and demand absolute perfection from your team. Because this enterprise requires someone with a flair for ... showmanship." She waved her hand and summoned a message in holographic letters on the table. "I need the person who can accomplish this."

Natch scanned the letters and promptly switched his PokerFace program back on.

PLEASE PROTECT YOUR HOLDINGS.

The Vault has detected a DNA-a.s.sisted decryption attack directed at your account. Your holdings have not been compromised, but it is advised that you periodically check the security of your Vault account. This advisory has been automatically routed to the custodian of records for your L-PRACG and, depending on your L-PRACG's policies, may also be forwarded to the Defense and Wellness Council.

Natch could have recited the words from memory, but he pretended to read them over two or three times. Obviously, blackmail was not her objective, or Natch would have been greeted at the compound gates by representatives of the Meme Cooperative. "It's a warning from the Vault," he said simply.

The bodhisattva let it go, banishing the missive into the aether. She seemed to be retreating into her sh.e.l.l. Again, Natch caught the hollow look of fear in Margaret's eyes, and the intimate concern radiating from the Islander standing in the doorway.

"You need to understand something," said Natch abruptly. "Investing in a new technology isn't cheap. I'll need to bring on new employees, conduct research. Buy more equipment. Train my people, find more channelers." He tallied up each item with his fingers while he spoke. "All that takes money. Just because my fiefcorp made number one on Primo's doesn't mean we're number one in sales. I don't have that many credits lying around-especially if you expect me to get involved in a new project that isn't going to bring in any money for a long time."

Margaret sighed. "If you are suggesting Surina investment," she said, "I can't funnel money to you through any of our regular channels-not quickly, at any rate. It's too risky, and we can't have anyone suspect that I've put you up to this. For now, you must be a completely independent third party in these negotiations." The bodhisattva glanced over her shoulder at the big man with the blonde ponytail standing in the doorway, and suddenly Natch wondered if he was there to keep others out or to keep Natch in. "There is an entirely different dance I have to perform here with all the different Surina organizations. Let us just say that some here do not appreciate radical moves."

"So you expect me to hit the ground running with no money, and put together a perfect prototype in a couple of weeks."

"Within a week, yes. But I'm not worried, Natch. If I had the slightest doubt you could find the money to do this, you wouldn't be here."

Natch shook his head and snorted in amus.e.m.e.nt. "I don't understand what you're trying to accomplish."

The descendant of Sheldon Surina leaned forward and touched her lips to her clasped fingers. "Things were not supposed to turn out this way," she said quietly. "You are the contingency plan."

Natch stood up, put his palms flat on the table, and leaned forward with a smoldering stare. "Let's get one thing clear," he hissed. "I am not your contingency plan. If I get involved in this, it'll be for my own reasons. Because you claim I can make a lot of money, and I believe you. If things get too dangerous-for me-or if I think the credits aren't worth the risk-then I'll pull out of this whole thing without a second thought and leave you stranded. I'll be a dead man before I get involved in a scheme like this to save your hide from the Defense and Wellness Council." He turned to face the burly Islander, as if to say, That goes for you too.

Margaret had no reaction. She was beyond affectation right now. "I will forward to you what little information I can at this point," she said in a hoa.r.s.e monotone.

The entrepreneur nodded and fired another quick glance at the Islander. The big man was smiling openly now. Whatever test he and Margaret had just administered, Natch had pa.s.sed it with panache.