Infoquake Part 6

Natch shrugged. He would not be lured into one of these pedantic Vigalish dialogues today. "Things are different now. The economy is exploding, and there's too much opportunity out there to waste time on an apprenticeship. Two years ago-"

The neural programmer shushed him with a raised hand. His face bore a pained expression. "I hear that nonsense from the drudges every day. I'm surprised that you, of all people, don't know propaganda when you read it. But it's not just you-your hivemates, the proctors, Brone, Horvil-everyone is falling for this drivel." Vigal wrung his hands as if trying to cleanse them of a foul and noxious liquid.

Natch searched his mental catalog of conversations with the neural programmer, but this outburst of emotion from Vigal was unprecedented. Natch never imagined that Vigal had given much thought to his education, much less had any pa.s.sionate convictions about it.

"Krone believes he is ready to start his own business," Vigal con tinued firmly. "Let him. He is a vicious person headed for a vacuous career, and he will be sorry he turned down a few extra years of study without the pressures of the marketplace. But you, Natch, you're better than that. You are not ready to run your own company. If you jump into the fiefcorp world too quickly, you will regret it."

Natch reeled back, stunned, and sat on the edge of a stone planter. He had never received a reprimand from Serr Vigal, and now it stung like a jolt from Brone's static electricity program. "So, what would you have me do?" he spat out bitterly.

"Natch, I can't have you do anything," said Vigal. Already his concentration was beginning to dissipate, to fade into everyday melancholy. "Once you return from initiation, you'll be old enough to make your own choices. You can subscribe to your own L-PRACGs, pledge to whatever creeds you choose. You can solicit capitalmen for funds and start your own fiefcorp, if you want. But ... if I could wish anything for you, it would be that you would take an apprenticeship somewhere close ... somewhere I can keep an eye on you." His face turned an embarra.s.sed red.

So that's what this is all about, thought Natch. He hadn't expected a sermon from his legal guardian-in fact, he hadn't expected Vigal to show up today at all. But now that the sermon had become a referendum on his parenting skills, things were starting to make sense.

Serr Vigal exhaled deeply and stretched his arms out behind his back, as if he had just removed a heavy weight from his back. Natch realized his guardian had been rehearsing this speech for some time. "I can see the look in your face," said his guardian softly. "I've seen your scores on the bio/logics exams, Natch. Best in your cla.s.s."

"Second best," the boy whispered venomously. Brone's smug face leered at him from the corners of his mind.

"It doesn't matter. The point is, I know you are expecting lots of offers from the capitalmen. No, you don't have to tell me about your meetings-I already know. I'm not asking you to make any decisions right now. We'll talk about it again in twelve months. All I ask for now is that you keep your eyes and ears open, and consider the idea of taking an apprenticeship-any apprenticeship-after initiation. And be careful out there."

The boy frowned and kicked at the moss growing between the flagstones. "You don't have to baby me. I know how to take care of myself."

"Yes," sighed Vigal under his breath, "and sometimes I am afraid that is all you know."

Natch was used to prowling the hallways of the Proud Eagle alone at night. He had learned to move in total silence, not out of any fear of punishment, but so he could concentrate on the staccato language of settling floorboards and restless insects. The kinds of noises only heard in places built prior to the invention of self-compressing buildings.

On the night before initiation, the halls were packed. Teenagers roamed from room to room in blatant violation of curfew, saying tearful goodbyes, pledging their undying love, settling old scores. Natch saw at least a dozen couples sneak behind closed doors for one last romp on the Sigh. Nervous giggles abounded. He took a furtive glance down the hallway to the proctors' wing. They were following the time-honored tradition of looking the other way and getting drunk.

Over the past week, Natch had been studiously reading the drudge forecasts of the bio/logic market. This year, the demand for fresh programming talent had reached a critical ma.s.s. The Meme Cooperative's rules forbid fiefcorps and memecorps from signing on apprentices or providing start-up capital before graduation from the hive. But Len Borda's post-Plunge economy was churning out opportunity much quicker than warm bodies, and so many companies were willing to risk the Cooperative's tepid penalties.

Natch had studied the laws of supply and demand. What better time to raise money for a fiefcorp than the night before initiation?

Downstairs, he stretched out on a sofa in the atrium to await the arrival of the capitalman Figaro Fi. It was the fifth late-night rendezvous Natch had arranged this week with the power brokers in the fiefcorp world, and the most important yet. The rich and eccentric Fi had bankrolled some of the most spectacular successes on Primo's. Lucas Sentinel and the Deuteron Fiefcorp both owed their laurels to Figaro's generous a.s.sistance, as did the Patel Brothers, the rising young stars of the bio/logic scene. Natch was surprised to get a meeting with the capitalman at all, and readily agreed to his conditions-a meeting in the middle of the night, when Figaro was halfway through his working day in Beijing. Natch explained that the network was offlimits to students so late. He took it as a good omen that Fi agreed to multi to Omaha instead.

At three minutes after midnight, when the ruckus from the upper floors had settled to a low rumble, a multi projection materialized in the atrium.

The person who had coined the phrase Don't judge a book by its cover might have had someone like Figaro Fi in mind. The great capitalman stood almost a head shorter than any of the proctors on staff-shorter, even, than many of the boys-and he was almost as wide as he was tall. His robe, of vivid gold, silver, and copper, made a bold proclamation of idiosyncrasy. Each stubby finger was adorned with a ring; some boasted three or four. Figaro endured the boy's respectful bow and gave a feeble nod in return.

Natch looked the capitalman straight in the eye. "I invited you here tonight," he said, "because I'm interested in your money."

Fi appraised him coolly, like a rancher surveying his lands. "Is that so?" His voice was a low rasp, rich with irony.

"If you're not prepared to open your Vault account, then you'd better cut your multi connection right now and not waste any more of my time. Otherwise, follow me." And with that, Natch wheeled around and headed down the hallway.

Natch did not look back until he had reached one of the plush dens that the Proud Eagle had set up for entertaining guests. It was the kind of dusky room that might have once been lined with leather books. Natch wasn't sure whether or not the capitalman would still be there when he turned around, and he barely managed to restrain a grin of triumph when he saw that the little man had indeed followed him.

Figaro Fi planted himself in one of the overstuffed chairs. "You've got b.a.l.l.s, and I like that," said the capitalman sardonically. He pulled a beefy cigar from his coat pocket and chomped on one end. "Go ahead," he grunted.

Natch launched into the presentation he had already given a hundred times in his own mind. It was short and to the point. There were holographs of Natch's programming work, a brief list of the accolades he had won in academic compet.i.tions, and the outlines of a fiefcorp marketing strategy. When he finished, he made no attempt at idle chitchat, but rather waited patiently for a reaction from his audience.

Figaro wore an almost lecherous grin. "I like this," he said. "You've been planning this whole thing for weeks, haven't you? Waiting until the last minute. The little scene in the hallway out there. Clever, boy, clever! "

Natch stood politely with his hands clasped behind his back and said nothing.

"Of course, you know what I came here to see," continued Fi. He apparently had no intention of lighting his cigar-a pointless act in multis.p.a.ce anyway preferring instead to swing it between two fingers for emphasis. "You know I'm not here to see your test scores again. I'm not here to see you perform your programming tricks like some monkey or hear your little prepared speech about how you can benefit society." The capitalman leaned back and let out a hearty laugh, as if he had just told an extraordinary joke. The gold sequins on his belly jingled sympathetically.

"I'm really here to see how you comport yourself," continued Figaro. "To see if you really have that killer instinct I've heard so much about. So tell me, Natch, what makes you think I'm going to put up a single credit tonight?"

"Because if you don't," replied the boy, "someone else will."

"And you think I'm going to ruin my good name with the Meme Cooperative by giving fiefcorp money to a hive boy before initiation?"

"Oh, please. You have enough money to pay them off ten times over."

"True, true." Figaro seemed quite satisfied with himself, and Natch wondered if he was about to dispense a few nuggets of gossip about what it was like to live a life of privilege. Parties with the lunar land tyc.o.o.ns, programmers catering to your every whim, teleportation on command.

But the capitalman was on a different tack. He wedged the cigar back between his molars and gave Natch a sly look. "I'm surprised you even asked me here today," said Fi. "If you'd really done your homework, you would know that I like to spread my investments around. It's not like me to risk my neck for two boys from the same hive."

Natch instantly felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. There was only one other boy at the Proud Eagle who could have possibly caught the attention of someone with Figaro Fi's clout. In his mind's eye, Natch saw the last horrible smirk Brone had given him earlier that evening. Horvil's not the only one that's going to be feelingpain. He clenched his fists behind his back until his fingernails carved b.l.o.o.d.y crescent moons into his palms.

"So why did you come here?" the boy snarled.

Figaro broke into a full-fledged smile. "Because it amuses me, of course."

Wild thoughts scurried through Natch's head, baring their claws with fiendish fury. If Figaro had been sitting here in the flesh, Natch might well have buried his fingers in the fat man's throat by now. He could feel the growling in his gut and summoned an antacid program, but it did nothing. The visions pranced around his mind. Brone's smug face and Adonic figure, sipping fancy wine in a lunar villa. Brone sitting at the head of a very long conference table lined with adoring apprentices. Brone laughing at Natch's expense.

"And will it amuse you if I go to the Meme Cooperative and tell them you're giving money to a hive boy?" hissed Natch. The words came out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. He let them vent. "Not just any hive boy-a spoiled rich one whose parents probably paid you off. Or what if I go to the drudges? CAPITALMAN ADMITS TO BRIBING MEME COOPERATIVE OFFICIALS-that sounds like a good headline for Sen Sivv Sor."

Figaro Fi did not seem angry or surprised at Natch's sudden outburst. If anything, he became more serene, which enraged the boy even further. "So now you're threatening me," said the capitalman matter- of-factly.

Years later, Natch would cringe when he thought of that evening, and wonder how he had fallen for such obvious bait. But caught in the moment, he found himself hurling all his adolescent rage at the capitalman until he hardly knew what he was saying. "It's your choice. You can invest in him and I'll turn you in to the Meme Cooperative and the Defense and Wellness Council. I'll tell the drudges. You'll be sorry you ever came here. Or you can invest in me."

The little capitalman actually seemed to be enjoying the boy's discomfort. His face bore the look of a mischievous child poking a frog with a stick. "All right, all right, sit down, boy," he said abruptly. His chubby hand delivered backhanded slaps through the air in Natch's direction. "You can keep your threats to yourself."

"And why's that?"

"Because you have nothing on me. Yes, I already decided to give your friend funding. But I'm not foolish enough to do it before he returns from initiation."

Natch could feel nausea swelling inside him and beating a tattoo on the inside of his skull. He wondered if this was what it felt like to throw up. In a daze, he reached for the armchair behind him and collapsed into the waiting cushion.

"The recruiters all told me about you," said Figaro Fi, plopping his virtual feet onto an ottoman. "Brilliant but narrow-minded, they said. Volatile. Unstable. But I just had to see it myself. Those bio/logics scores of yours were too good to ignore.

"Now here's the good news, Natch. I like you. You've got that same look in your eyes that I did forty years ago. Hungry! Vicious! Uncompromising! And by the way, much better scores than I ever got, even in economics.

"No, I haven't changed my mind. I'm not giving you a single credit from my Vault account. But I'm going to give you something even more valuable.

"I'm going to tell you why."

The pudgy capitalman pulled his feet off the ottoman. He leaned forward intently and stuck his elbows on his knees until he had nearly curled himself up like a pill bug.

"Listen: all of us in the bio/logics industry, all the capitalmen, the programmers, the channelers, the drudges, the fiefcorpers and memecorpers and engineers and a.n.a.lysts ... we're slaves, Natch. We're all slaves to want.

"Want. It drives the world! It moves mountains, it swallows cultures!

"You see it, don't you, Natch? Want is everywhere. It's in people. It's in programming. In politics. In nature. The universe just won't stay still. It wants to move; even its smallest particles want to be in motion. Take bio/logics. Aren't bio/logic programs in a natural state of incompleteness? We release version 1.0 of a program, and inevitably it is imperfect. Version 1.0s want a version 2.0, don't they? They practically beg for it. You toil for months on version 2.0, and you've still barely tapped into its bottomless reservoir of want. Version 2.0 wants a version 3, version 3.0 wants a version 4, and so on and on and on and on and on-forever!"

The antacid program wasn't helping. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Natch realized he would not follow through on his implied threat to Figaro. He would not spend his last few hours at the Proud Eagle shuttling desperately between second-rate capitalmen and seeking illegal handouts. If only this interview could be over. If only I could shrivel up inside my sh.e.l.l like a snail and never see Figaro Fi or Brone or Vigal again.

But the capitalman continued on mercilessly. "You ever heard that story about the Bodhisattva of Creed Objectivv and Lucco Primo? The Bodhisattva asks Primo what the key to success is. Primo says, Three things. Ability, energy, and direction. You have the ability, Natch, and you definitely have the energy-maybe more ability and energy than I've ever seen.

"But where's your direction? I don't need forty-five minutes to see you haven't got any. You have endless wants, Natch! But want without purpose destroys a person. Those who can't master their wants are loose cannons. They bring companies down. They ruin lives. They may flare brightly for a while, oh yes! But in the end, Natch, loose cannons fail. They lose money.

"Now your friend Brone-"

"Please don't call him that," Natch croaked.

"Your friend Brone is a real sharp programmer, but I've seen better. He's got a way with people, and he's a handsome kid, which never hurts. But he's got one thing you don't. He knows exactly where he's going, and what he's doing.

"I've seen it all before. You'll get to the top quicker than Brone, but then you'll just get pulled down by some other kid who's hungrier and angrier than you are. That's just the way it works."

Figaro arose, looking well pleased with his little sermon. He put the chewed cigar in his coat pocket, leaving Natch to wonder why he had drawn it out in the first place. Just before cutting his multi connection, he turned back to the boy with an arched eyebrow.

"Now, about that story with Lucco Primo.... A couple years later, this drudge asks Primo, So what's the most important element of success? Ability, energy, or direction? Primo sits back and thinks about it for a minute. Direction, he tells the drudge. Ability and energy you can buy. "

Figaro started chortling obscenely and prepared to cut his multi connection.

"Good luck at initiation," said Fi. "You're going to need it."

Some of the boys heard their initiation would take place in the South Pacific, on the edge of Islander territory. There were hundreds of islands in the area that remained pristine and untouched by modern technology. Other boys countered that an island wasn't remote enough. No, they would be shuttled off to some orbital colony specially designed for this purpose, or maybe one of the lawless quadrants of Mars.

Horvil decided (based on no evidence whatsoever) they were headed to the bottom of the ocean to live in one of the bubble colonies that the real estate developers tried to revive every twenty years or so. "I knew I should have studied up on hydroponics," he fretted to Natch as they filed out of the hive for the last time. "And I'm a terrible swimmer. Can't even hold my breath for a minute. You'll take care of me, right, Natch? You won't let me drown, will you?"

Natch hadn't spoken a word all morning. He found it pointless to speculate about their destination. Countless initiation compounds littered the civilized world, from Earth to Luna to the asteroid belt, and he never heard that any one was better than another. Besides, Natch knew from long and painful experience that isolation has no geographic boundaries. Even if the proctors arranged to shuttle them out to the remotest orbital colony-like one of those experimental stations beyond Jupiter-that still wouldn't erase the shame he had suffered last night with Figaro Fi. And Brone would still be there with his insufferable smirk and the knowledge that he had bested Natch.

Horvil and Natch marched solemnly with the rest of the boys towards the sleek hoverbird that would carry them to their destination. The Falcon 4730 was the standard workhorse of the aeros.p.a.ce industry, used for everything from cross-city transportation to inter-continental cargo hops. This craft could get them anywhere on Earth, or maybe even to a low-hanging orbital colony-but not underwater, Horvil was relieved to note.

Sixty-four boys boarded the hoverbird and settled into their seats with little conversation. Some pressed their faces up against the gla.s.s for a last wistful look at the beehive-shaped building they called home. The hive windows were lined with the small noses of children curious for a glimpse at their future.

"Goodbye, f.u.c.ked-up childhood," sighed Horvil, waving manically at the children. "h.e.l.lo, f.u.c.ked-up adulthood!"

Natch wasn't listening. He was thinking about Figaro Fi's accusation: Where is your direction? The boy winced at the irony as the hoverbird levitated over the courtyard and winged away towards the unknown. Wherever Natch was going, he was headed there fast.

From liftoff to touchdown, the trip took only a few hours. They were not headed to some remote orbital colony after all, but to a nature preserve southwest of the Twin Cities. The initiation compound sat on a few hundred square kilometers of undeveloped country, completely walled off from the outside world. The hoverbird landed on a makeshift platform atop a dusty, windswept hill.

Natch saw the dust and instinctively reached out with his mind for a sinus-clearing program. He discovered that there was nothing to reach for.

They had been cut off from the Data Sea.

Most of the other boys had already realized this fact. They disembarked with grim looks on their faces, shouldering their packs and wondering what would happen next. The lone proctor who accompanied them on the hoverbird trudged behind a large boulder that served as a podium and began to speak. His words had the air of a speech honed and refined over many years of repet.i.tion.

"Two billion people died in the Autonomous Revolt," thundered the proctor, thumping his fist on the boulder. "Two billion! Approximately one-fifth of the world's population at the time. Entire cities and cultures and ethnicities wiped out forever."

He paused for dramatic effect. None of the boys so much as breathed.

"Why? They died because they had forgotten about this." The proctor swept his arm expansively at their surroundings. A thousand trees waved in the breeze like some rapturous congregation, while a small encampment down the hill served as the lone Doubting Thomas on the horizon.

"What you see around you is nature as your ancestors once lived it," continued the proctor. "Your ancestors did not have access to the Data Sea. They could not activate bio/logic programs to keep themselves warm in the winter, or fetch ten different weather forecasts with a thought. They did not have OCHRE machines working inside their bodies to shield them from injury and disease. Your ancestors learned to live this way during a hundred thousand years of trial and error.

"But when humanity decided to ignore its heritage-to place its trust in living machines instead of in themselves-the race nearly perished. And because humanity had forgotten the lessons of its ancestors, billions more were doomed to starve in the horrible decades that followed.

"We must never forget our heritage again.

"And so, during the next year, you will become acquainted with nature in a way you never have before. You will experience pain and frustration and injury. The things you see as ent.i.tlements will become hard-earned luxuries. Because of this, some of you will decide that nature is your enemy. Others will see nature as an impersonal and uncaring force.

"But if you lose hope, remember this: Our bodies were built to sur vive the harshest punishments nature can give. Over a hundred thousand years, we conquered nature. So will you again.

"You have many advantages over your ancestors. You have generations of genetic engineering that has broadened your minds and strengthened your bodies. You have all the acc.u.mulated knowledge fifteen years of hive education has given you. You have your comrades. And when all else fails, you have the certainty that a hoverbird pilot will be back on this very spot in twelve months to take you back to civilization.

"So when someone asks why your parents sent you to initiation, why you spent a year of your life out in the woods instead of practicing your bio/logic programming skills, you tell them this: I came to initiation to fulfill my responsibility to humanity. I came here to ensure the continuation of the human race.

"The Proud Eagle wishes to thank you for your many years with us. When you emerge from this last test, you will no longer be hive boys. You will be young men.

"As Sheldon Surina liked to say, May you always move towards perfection. "

The proctor gave a polite bow to the a.s.sembled boys, who were too overwhelmed to do anything but respond in kind. Then he tramped onboard his vehicle and gave a nod to the hoverbird pilot. Within minutes, the ship was noiselessly whizzing southwards, back towards Cape Town.

Sixty-four boys stood at the top of the hill, looking sheepishly at one another and the encampment below. Then, moving as one, they began the hike towards their home for the next twelve months.

The accommodations were not as primitive as everyone had expected. Four rows of wood cabins lined four dusty streets, watched over by a large metal sign labeled CAMP 11. Of course, these houses didn't behave like the ones they were used to-they couldn't prepare food or obey mental commands or compress themselves to save s.p.a.ce-but they were a far cry from the hovels the boys had feared.

The initiates split off into groups of four and chose cabins. Brone and Natch drifted to opposite corners of the camp like enemy kings of chess. Horvil stayed by Natch.

The proctors had provided plenty of clothing, reasonably comfortable beds, and even a rudimentary form of indoor plumbing. Few of the boys had ever seen a real toilet before, and they spent hours flushing them in a symphony of adolescent glee. A scouting party quickly discovered large and well-tended gardens on the east side of the camp, with enough food for all. There were storage rooms stocked with old-fashioned pens and stacks of treepaper, gardening tools, parkas, and pocket knives. It seemed like the only hardship the boys would face out here was boredom.

For the first few weeks, it was all a wonderful adventure. The microscopic OCHREs clinging to their insides stopped working. Hair and pimples sprouted without provocation. Digestive systems resumed their ancient dance with food as if the past two hundred years of gastric engineering had never happened. The boys learned how to clean themselves in the nearby stream, how to groom themselves with knives and scissors, how to use spades to dig tubers from the rock-hard ground.

Everyone experienced at least one morning of disorientation when he groggily tried to summon the morning news or his favorite channel off the Jamm. But all in all, the boys did not have enough time to miss the civilized world. Their days were filled with ch.o.r.es that needed to be done by hand, without the aid of bio/logics or modern machinery. Often, they found themselves without the necessary tools to accomplish a task and had to improvise. All of this took time, and it was not unusual for a boy to look up from the field he had started weeding that morning, only to discover a setting sun.

"It's amazing that our ancestors got anything done," Horvil groused to Natch one night. They both lay prostrate on their beds, sweaty and exhausted from a day fending off gophers in the fields. "After gardening, bathing, grooming, s.h.i.tting and cleaning, I'm too tired to do anything else."

The pressure on the boys was most intense during the first month; they knew that any missteps now would have drastic repercussions come wintertime. The Twin Cities soil was hard and unforgiving, but the hive had provided efficient tools for prying into its skin and tending the perennial crops. Even more useful were the gardening manuals the proctors had left behind. The tips on plowing and crop rotation were nice, but the comments previous initiates had scribbled in the margins proved invaluable. Over the years, tenants of CAMP 11 had covered every blank centimeter of treepaper with hints about the best places to forage for wild game, what to do in case of rain, dirty stories, impenetrable in-jokes, and gossip many years gone stale. One book had a list on the inside cover t.i.tled THINGS WE f.u.c.kED UP (AND YOU SHOULDN'T).