late evening here in Andra Pradesh. Assuming that Margaret's apprentice arrived with the MultiReal program by Saturday at noon, that would leave them approximately eight days. Eight days to learn a brand-new technology that promised to revolutionize the world; to adjust to the parameters of a new company structure; to go through the entire product conceptualization and development cycle; and to perfect that product for release to billions of voracious consumers. Jara felt like crying. For such a huge project, eight weeks or even eight months would have seemed too short a time.
'And what about the Council?' piped in Benyamin.
'What about them?' replied Merri.
'Well, if Len Borda was prepared to murder the richest woman in the world to get his hands on MultiReal ... what makes you think he'll hesitate to come after us?'
Jara quietly tallied up in her head all the Council officers she had seen wandering around this week, prowling the narrow sidestreets of Andra Pradesh, the avenues of Shenandoah, the cobblestone paths in front of her London apartment. She usually paid them little heed, the soldiers in white robes. Keepers of the peace, minions of High Executive Borda and his Javertian obsession with public safety. To be on the run from such a ubiquitous enemy-it was simply unthinkable.
Natch was grinning that feral grin of his. His eyes had focused on an invisible spot in the middle of the room, a place where nobody else was looking. 'You still have a choice,' he said. 'Until midnight tonight Shenandoah time, you are all still apprentices of the Natch Personal Programming Fiefcorp. You can either jump on board the new company with both feet or bail out while you have the chance.'
Horvil let out a squeak. Natch swiveled his way. 'Gorda?' whimpered the engineer.
'Len Borda,' said Natch contemptuously, grinding his teeth as if chewing his words. 'The high executive might have scared Margaret out of her wits, but he's never dealt with me.'
25
The two men in the tube car were trying very hard to be nonchalant. Too hard. The taller one with the mole on his cheek completely avoided looking in Natch's direction, while the short, dark one swept his attention past the fiefcorp master at precise metronomic intervals. Neither of them took more than a token sip from his mug of nitro.
Natch expected better surveillance tactics from the Defense and Wellness Council.
The entrepreneur spent the dark hours bouncing between Cisco and Seattle staring at redwoods. He expected Jara's notice of resignation at any minute. But midnight Shenandoah time arrived with no message traffic of consequence, just the usual jumble of political propaganda and L-PRACG-sanctioned advertising. He gave one last glance at the Council spooks and allowed himself to fall into a light sleep.
Natch awoke at three in the morning to find the strange men gone. He wondered how long it had been since he had actually slept horizontally in a bed rather than vertically on a contoured tube seat. No matter. He still had plenty of time to make his way back east and prepare the fiefcorp's catalog of bio/logic programs for sale before Quell arrived with the MultiReal databases. Once the sale of their catalog hit the market, Natch would have boldly marched across the Rubicon; there would be no turning back. Had a general ever led his troops into battle with such nebulous weapons?
Then he stepped off the tube at Cisco station, only to be confronted by an image of his own face.
On the viewscreen, Natch recognized the three-meter-high photo from the media blitz following his ascent to number one on Primo's. He stood and watched his doppelganger tick off a few important points on his fingers to an unseen interviewer. His face showed that stern look of concentration he got while pacing and talking business.
Superimposed over the image:
Margaret Surina Enters into Partnership with Unscrupulous Fiefcorp Master; Future of Groundbreaking MultiReal Technology in Doubt (Read about it in this morning's John Ridglee Update)
Natch hustled through the tube station, an act he could have performed blindfolded by now. Five minutes later, he left the local line behind and boarded a larger express train that would take him across the continent to Shenandoah station. A young man with a purplestriped goatee elbowed his friend in the side at Natch's approach. The two gave him mute looks of disgust and vacated the cabin as soon as the fiefcorp master sat down.
Must be quite an article, he thought.
Natch projected the story onto the faux leather chair in front of him. Compared to Sen Sivv Sor's curmudgeonly countenance, Ridglee's was young and foppish, with left eyebrow so far aslant that it was almost in orbit. His commentary was similarly skewed. The article contained little news beyond that contained in the Surinas' press release, relying instead on a grab bag of fictional anecdotes and unattributed rumors. Yet the drudge had certainly done a thorough job of digging up the details of Natch's past. Everything was there: the Shortest Initiation, the confrontations with Captain Bolbund, the citations from the Meme Cooperative, the hardball tactics he had used over the years against the Patel Brothers.
The tube hurtled underground for the nearly two-hour trip across the continent. As daylight gave way to the tunnel's artificial glow, Natch watched his name take over the Data Sea.
Within twenty minutes, the delegates at the Congress of LPRACGs were already quarreling over his partnership with Margaret. The Sarinas are a public treasure! cried the Speaker on a viewscreen half a meter from Natch's head. Are we just going to sit back and let this man peddle their works all over the Data Sea like a common ROD? Dozens of glum representatives nodded in agreement.
The dour voice of Khann Frejohr broke in from the libertarian side of the chamber. It's just like the governmentalists to suggest it's our duty to interfere in the workings of a free marketplace...
Primo's began advertising a special supplement that promised to analyze Natch's professional career in depth.
At the first opportunity, Sen Sivv Sor weighed in on the crisis, denouncing the young fiefcorp master in ways Ridglee had only hinted at. All of the other major players in the biollogic industry are devotees of the creeds, even the despicable self-serving ones like Creed Thassel, wrote Sor. But I have looked Natch directly in the eye, dear readers, and saw no evidence that he possesses any morals or ethics at all.
On the viewscreen, the hooknosed Speaker was crazily waving her index finger around in the air. We have plenty of precedents for government intervention in the markets, Khann. Didn't the Prime Committee break up the OCHRE Corporation?
The libertarian snorted. That was two hundred fifty years ago, Madame Speaker. Besides which, the Committee was acting to disband a monopoly. Sounds like democratization to me.
Then how do you explain Dr. Plugenpatch's success? A quasi-governmental entity with open standards that has gloriously extended life expectancy ...
Natch leaned his head back and let out a deep-belly laugh. The fools, the fools! He was climbing the peaks of tall mountains, and down below the Powers That Be could do nothing but scramble around and bicker over the pebbles. He could see the paradise that awaited him at the top now: lunar estates, immutable wealth, the stewardship of an entire industry.
And what an industry it would be! Natch didn't know precisely the shape a MultiReal business would take-an egalitarian product sold to the masses? A technology channeled to the L-PRACGs? Military licenses to the Council and the Prime Committee? No matter what path the business took, it would inevitably lead him to the same glorious future.
Natch laughed again. Three more riders in the tube gave him peculiar looks and rose to find other seats.
Natch's good mood lasted through the morning, until Horvil began flinging panicked multi requests in his direction. Natch knew his old hivemate was in a panic; that was the only logical explanation for Horvil being awake and alert before noon.
'Drop everything,' said the engineer, materializing in Natch's foyer and lumbering his way towards the office. 'Drop everything, everything, everything.'
