Multireal (7 page)

Some called the high executive arrogant, but that word seemed beside the point. After nearly sixty years running the world's military
and intelligence affairs, Borda needed no tone of intimidation. He
spoke with the timbre of a man who had been the final arbiter for so
long that he had forgotten any other reality.

Magan watched Len Borda move to the railing and run his hand
over the intricately carved wood. He seemed to be scanning the murky
horizon for a sign of the enemy, which would be the French, if memory
served. Why Borda devoted so much attention to this virtual playground, Magan could not fathom. He admitted that the SeeNaRee
programmers had a terrific eye for detail and historical accuracy. But
Borda was spending more time here than in the world of flesh and
blood lately, and that was not a good sign.

"Today is December twenty-seventh," said the lieutenant after a
long and uneasy silence.

Borda shrugged. "What of it?"

"The new year comes in four days. After what happened this
morning, do you really think you can gain control of MultiReal in four
days?"

One stony eyebrow lifted itself on Borda's forehead and then subsided, like a breaker on the SeeNaRee ocean. "Four days is a lifetime,"
he said. "I was willing to deal with Natch behind closed doors. He's
the one who decided to bring this fight into the public eye." Borda
scowled. "Let's see how he handles a full onslaught."

Magan clenched his fists into a tight ball behind his back, then
slowly forced himself to stop, take a breath, unwind. Could Len Borda
really be so foolish as to try the same thing again? Had his mind
become so entrenched that he could do nothing but continuously loop
through the same routine? "And what if this onslaught of yours fails?"

Borda was not nearly so successful at hiding his emotions, and he
didn't bother with PokerFace programs either. The gritted teeth and
the trembling jaw told Magan everything he needed to know.

The high executive was planning to break their agreement.

"Forget about the fiefcorp master for a moment," said Borda. "I
need your help with something else." The high executive waved his
hand and summoned a block of text to float against the gauzy gray sky.
Magan pushed the anger aside and read the letter with a growing
crease on his brow.

Congress of L-PRACGs

Office of the Speaker

Melbourne

In accordance with my duties as speaker, I am writing to inform the Defense
and Wellness Council that the Congress has officially opened an inquiry into
the causes of the computational anomalies known as "infoqual

Four such disruptions have occurred in the past month, leaving thousands
dead and wounded. According to the sworn testimony of Congressional
engineers, the severity of these disruptions is growing. It is my belief that
the Council's measures to limit bandwidth on the Data Sea are no longer
sufficient to contain this threat.

The Congress hereby charges all employees of the Defense and Wellness
Council to answer any forthcoming subpoenas promptly and with the
utmost discretion.

May you always move towards perfection,
Khann Frejohr, Speaker

"You assured me that Frejohr wouldn't be a problem," growled Borda.
"You told me this libertarian uprising of his would die on the vine."

Magan Kai Lee banished the text with a hard blink of the eyes and
stared glumly at the sea, which was barely visible through the thickening veil of fog. "So I thought, a month ago," he said.

"So you thought," replied Borda caustically. He bent to pick up a
small chunk of wood, a splinter that must have been torn from the rail
by French cannons. "Frejohr's only been in office for two weeks, and
already he's got the Congress of L-PRACGs holding hearings."

"They're meaningless," said Magan. "The Congress has no authority over us."

"No, but the Prime Committee does. And these infoquakes give
Frejohr the impetus to put ideas in their heads." Borda angrily threw
the painted wood chip off into the mist, where the sea swallowed it
without a sound.

"Papizon will find out what's causing the infoquakes," announced
Magan. "It's only a matter of time."

"How much time?"

"I don't know."

The high executive snorted his contempt. "Papizon is usually not
so vague."

Borda's pessimism was starting to grow tiresome. Magan thought
the time had come for a quick knife thrust. "Papizon usually doesn't
get distracted by your useless side projects."

Borda paced calmly across the deck of the ship. Magan noticed that
the Ionic column of the high executive's body was immune to the rules
of physics governing the rest of the SeeNaRee; instead of Borda
swaying with the tide, the sea itself appeared to be rotating around the
fulcrum of Borda.

"If you have something to say," rasped the high executive, "then
say it."

Magan widened his stance, flaunting his lack of intimidation at
Borda's presence. "You're going about this MultiReal situation all
wrong," he said.

"Oh?"

"Natch thrives on anger. Every blow you strike against him only
makes him stronger. So send another strike force to Shenandoah, start
your onslaught. Not only will you fail to get control of MultiReal,
you'll have the Congress in full-scale rebellion. You'll have people on
the streets shouting their support for Natch and Margaret Surina."

Borda's face remained impassive, but the sea began tossing steep breakers against the ship, as if trying to send Magan plummeting overboard. The fog thickened, further obscuring Magan's mental compass.
But the lieutenant executive had done plenty of time on Council naval
vessels and knew how to react to the choleric moods of the sea. He kept
his feet.

"You forget I've been through this before," said Borda in a voice
like molten rock. "I know how to deal with entrepreneurs. And with
Surinas." His words were punctuated by the crackle of cannon fire from
the enemy juggernaut still hidden somewhere off in the chop.

Magan recalled the iconic video footage that had swept across the
Data Sea almost fifty years ago, footage that could still be found just
about anywhere you looked. The smoking hulk of a shuttle half-buried
in the sands of Furtoid. A charred and mangled hand arching out of the
wreckage.

But then there was the other footage, the secret footage squirreled
away in the depths of the Defense and Wellness Council archives.
Marcus Surina, having miraculously survived the blast, blackened,
gasping, eking out the last fifteen minutes of his life on a Council
stretcher with Council dartguns aimed at his head and Council hoverbirds whirring in the background. Denied access to the soothing balms
of the Dr. Plugenpatch databases, lest someone discover he had not
perished instantly in the wreckage. Cursing Len Borda to the very end.

"He should have compromised," muttered the high executive,
gripping tightly onto the railing. Whether he was speaking to Magan
or to himself was unclear. "He didn't have to come to such an end. But
these Surinas, they're all the same. Too full of pride, too nearsighted to
see what's right in front of their noses. I tell you, it must be something
in the curry." He leaned on the railing and peered out to the sea, but
his attention was not on anything visible there. The British sloop
began to pick up speed, causing the few remaining hairs on Borda's
head to flap in the wind.

Magan stood his ground, icy silent, and made no reply.

"It was a choice I had to make!" yelled Len Borda suddenly, snapping his fingers and wheeling on his lieutenant executive. "What
should I have done? Let Surina hand out teleportation to every man,
woman, and child? Assassins zapping onto the floor of the Prime Committee! People teleporting into walls! Millions dead! Would you have
that blood on your hands?" The high executive aimed one finger
straight at Magan's chest. His voice was a thunderbolt, a primal and
electric force of nature. "Consequences? Yes! There were consequences,
Magan. Strong actions always have them. A new TeleCo board willing
to listen to reason. A board smart enough to apply the appropriate safeguards. It was a necessary change. And if such a change required a-a
market adjustment ... then ..."

Len Borda slipped into a troubled silence, which Magan Kai Lee
made no effort to fill. The high executive was not blind. He had seen
the millions wandering the streets for years with nothing but worthless TeleCo stock to their name. He had seen teleportation technology
crawl back into the marketplace a stunted and crippled thing, too
expensive for the masses to afford, too unreliable for the moneyed to
trust.

And now Len Borda stood on the prow of his SeeNaRee ship, not
just the most powerful man in the world, not just the master of the
Council's invincible armies-but an old man with a fractured mind, a
man who had sacrificed some crucial chunk of his mortality fifty years
ago in a shuttle explosion on Furtoid.

Short-term plans, long-term problems.

Magan Kai Lee pressed his advantage. "You made a mistake," he
said. "I can't allow you to make the same mistake again."

The high executive's voice was a croak. "And what say do you have
in the matter?"

Magan steeled his spine and summoned all the repressed rage
buried in his soul. "You gave me your word, Borda, and I intend to see
that you keep it. You will announce your retirement from the Defense and Wellness Council in four days, and turn this crisis over to me. As
we agreed two years ago." When I stood here in this office with a loaded gun
pressed to the back of your neck. When I swore to you that I would not be stung
by an assassin's dart like the other lieutenant executives before me. When you
convinced me that it would be better to take your seat as a chosen successor and
not a mutineer.

"You don't have the experience to handle this," scoffed Borda quietly. "Marcus Surina-"

"Marcus Surina was a buffoon. He hid behind his family name and
his reputation with the drudges. But this man, this Natch-he has no
family to lose. He has no reputation to uphold. This man will outthink
and outplot your armies until the end, Borda. No, there is only one
person capable of defeating Natch."

"And who is that?"

"Himself."

Len Borda slumped perceptibly and turned back to the sea, looking
old and careworn-but not before Magan caught the briefest shimmer
in the high executive's eye.

Magan felt a sudden nibble of doubt at his ankles. All his experience with Borda had taught him that the high executive was a creature
of passion rather than forethought, a short-term planner. But why then
did he occasionally see that knowing glimmer in Borda's eye? Was it
just the nostalgia of the grizzled veteran watching the young protege
come into his own? Or could it be that Borda's ardor was merely artifice? Was that how Borda had bested all his would-be supplanters over
the years?

The high executive stood for a long time without speaking. His
ship had returned to calm seas, but the fog around them had only
thickened. There was no sound but the soft, rhythmic lapping of oars
on seawater, the distant cry of a gull.

Finally, Borda spoke. "I would like to offer you a compromise."

Magan said nothing.

"New Year's Day is just a convenient symbol," continued Borda,
his voice disarmingly matter-of-fact. "We chose that day to protect the
markets, didn't we? To cushion the financial impact of the announcement. But the real financial impact won't come until the new year's
budget goes into effect on the fifteenth of January." The high executive
stood up straight, brushed something off his collar. "So I'll give you
two and a half weeks. Prove to me you can handle this crisis, Magan.
Bring MultiReal under the Council's control by the fifteenth, and I
will abide by our agreement."

Magan could feel his mind whirling like a difference engine, calculating odds, extrapolating possibilities. "And how do I know I can
trust your word this time?" How do I know I won't end up at the bottom of
a river, like the last lieutenant executive who tried to bargain with you for
succession?

"What choice do you have?" said Borda.

"Don't delude yourself," said Magan, his voice keen and deadly as
a razor. "This decision isn't yours to make, not anymore. You don't
think I'm the only one eager to plant a black code dart in your skull,
do you? The only reason you sit in the high executive's chair to this day
is because I allow it."

For the first time in the conversation, Len Borda smiled. It was a
horrid expression, the hungry grin of a carnivore. "Spare me the pity
of Magan Kai Lee," mocked the high executive. "I don't need it."

And then, without warning, the SeeNaRee dissolved away. Magan
found himself standing no longer on an ancient British sloop-of-war,
but in a modern office arranged with the strictest military discipline.
Two tables, a smattering of chairs, windows with a view of the globe
below. Standing in a semicircle around him were four Defense and
Wellness Council officers who had been hidden in the virtual mist.
Their dartguns were drawn and aimed at Magan. As the lieutenant
executive regarded them with a cool eye, he felt the barrel of another
dartgun press into the back of his neck.

"I give you until the fifteenth of January to take possession of
MultiReal," said Len Borda, his voice larded with triumph. "If you do,
we have an agreement. If you don't ..." The officer behind Magan
pressed the dartgun barrel deeper into his flesh.

Magan kept his face neutral, determined to show no trace of emotion or hesitation. "You're not giving me anything, Borda. The Council
will have control of MultiReal by the fifteenth, and you will relinquish
the high executive's chair-one way or the other."

He turned without being asked, and the officer with the dartgun
at his neck turned with him. Magan strode calmly to the elevator. Four
of the officers sheathed their weapons as he passed, but the one at his
back never let the nozzle of the dartgun stray from Magan's skin, even
as he accompanied the lieutenant executive onto the lift.