you think was responsible for the black code, Natch?' he asked finally. 'The Patels?'
'Petrucio says he doesn't know about any black code,' replied Natch. 'And even though I've never trusted him before, there's something different about him lately. He really did pledge to Creed Objective. He was telling the truth about that much at least. Maybe Frederic ordered the black code attack-although if it was Frederic, he did it behind Petrucio's back.'
'So if not the Patels, who then? One of your other competitors?'
'Like who? Bolliwar Tuban, or the Serlys, or Billy Sterno? They don't have that kind of imagination. Pierre Loget has the expertise to put together a piece of black code that powerful, but it would never occur to him. And Lucas Sentinel is afraid of his own shadow. The Meme Cooperative scares him silly, let alone the Council.'
'What about your old hivemate? Have you considered whether he might have been involved?'
'Krone.' The word came out like a sneer. 'Well, he certainly has the motive. And he has all those Creed Thassel resources at his disposal. But I stood in the same room with him for an hour, Vigal, and I came out in one piece. If Brone wanted me dead, Len Borda wouldn't have scared him off-he would've pulled the trigger and gotten his revenge on me regardless.'
'Gorda then.'
Natch rose impatiently from the chaise and began to tread around the room, doing his best to avoid the Oriental knickknacks stacked in every corner. 'That's my worst fear. Hasn't everything turned out his way? After sixteen years of failed negotiations with Margaret, he's finally gotten his foot in the door. But if shooting me full of black code was Borda's way of getting me under his thumb, he went to some pretty extraordinary lengths to pull off the bluff. If Borda knew I wasn't in any danger, why did he order a legion of Council troops to swarm all over the Surina compound and make all those threats? It just doesn't make sense.'
'Perhaps his henchman Lee ordered the attack without Borda's knowledge.'
'Maybe. Magan Kai Lee is a weasel. Who knows what that man is capable of.'
Vigal caressed his goatee thoughtfully. Natch could see a grand topic of conversation sequestered behind that furrowed brow, waiting for the right moment to spring. 'I know this might sound absurd,' said the neural programmer, 'but have you considered the possibility that Margaret Surina was behind this?'
Natch halted mid-pace and gave Vigal a look as if the caffeine had addled his brain. 'Margaret? Why? She brought me into this whole mess in the first place.'
'I don't know.' The neural programmer finished his tea down to the dregs and set the empty cup on a side table. 'I really can't think of a motive. But she certainly has the ability to create that kind of black code-and plenty of people at her disposal to marshal a strike team. And let us not forget that you've been conducting all these fiefcorp meetings at the Enterprise Facility. She could very easily have put you under surveillance.'
Natch shook his head. 'Margaret can't be too happy about my making a deal with Len Borda so quickly, but I'm not sure she even knows about it yet.' Brone's words echoed in his mind: Certainly you must know by now that Margaret isn't dealing in good faith with you. What happens when Margaret Surina grows tired of you, as she surely will? Natch thought back to that conversation and barely stopped himself from kicking over Vigal's ceramic tea service in anger. 'I wonder what Margaret's going to do. I can't believe she's just going to sit up in that tower and forget about MultiReal.'
'Yet, that appears to be what she is doing.'
The two remained silent for a few minutes, lost in thought. Natch moved to the window to watch the pre- dawn lights from Omaha's gambling quarter. Behind him, he could hear the neural programmer delicately crack his knuckles in preparation for a strenuous lecture.
'Natch, do you remember what that capitalman once told you about the natural wants of the universe?' the neural programmer burst out suddenly.
'Figaro Fi,' Natch replied. 'Everything that asshole said is permanently stuck in my head. The universe just won't stay still. It wants to move; even its smallest particles want to be in motion.'
'Have you ever thought,' said Vigal hesitantly, 'about whether the universe wants you to succeed?'
The laughter came bubbling out of Natch like a hot spring. 'What a silly thing to say! Do you think the Demons of the Aether are out to get me?'
'Demons of the Aether?'
'You know, those old stories about bio/logic programs that come alive ... and turn on their masters!' The fiefcorp master raised his hands in mock horror as he pantomimed the old dramas, the trite serials that used to exploit fears of the Autonomous Revolt. 'So you think I was attacked by ghosts in Shenandoah. Is that it, Vigal?'
His old mentor smiled good-naturedly and rolled his eyes. 'No, no, no, I didn't mean it that way. The Data Sea isn't conjuring up evil robots to interfere with your sales demos. There's a depressingly human explanation behind that black code incident, even if we haven't been able to figure out what it is.'
'So what do you mean?'
Vigal ducked his head shyly and plowed on, his eyes glued to the carpet. 'I mean that the world runs by natural laws, Natch. Just as there are laws of physics and thermodynamics and gravity, there are laws of social dynamics too. Laws of humanity. Figaro Fi was right: the universe does push and pull you in certain directions, but that doesn't mean it wants you to succeed. For thousands of years, we've been telling tales about the dangers that befall people who accomplish too much. Why? Because those tales have an underlying truth: power unbalances the natural energy of the world.
'Stop chuckling! I'm quite serious. You follow the bio/logic markets, don't you? You see this happen every day. A business triumphs over its rivals and gets stronger. Others become jealous and resentful. Eventually, the company's enemies conspire together to bring it down, or it rots from within. It's the same thing that happens with animals ... plants ... trees. Why? Because there's some mystical force guiding our actions? No, because too much power concentrated in one place creates stasis. And stasis is anathema to a universe that desires constant motion and change.'
Natch grimaced and tugged at his hair, but there was more annoyance than anger in his voice. 'Vigal, you can be so frustrating sometimes!' he protested. 'All this nonsense about what the universe wants-you're worse than all the creed bodhisattvas put together! Why do you have to make some kind of-of fairy tale out of this whole thing? I'm just a businessman trying to sell some programs. That's all.'
The neural programmer gave a self-deprecating shake of the head. 'All right, you want more down-to-earth advice? Sheldon Surina once said, Practice should not precede theory. Savor your moment of triumph and don't do anything rash.'
'If I never did anything rash, I'd still be coding RODs.'
'All I'm saying is that Margaret worked on MultiReal for sixteen years without bringing it to market. She must have had her reasons. You've had control of the program for less than a week and you're ready to sell it to everyone from here to Furtoid.'
'That's called capitalism, Vigal. What do you want me to do? If I don't keep moving, someone else will just snap up MultiReal and do the same thing.'
All at once, Serr Vigal looked weary and old. He shrank deeper into his chair as if trying to will himself into the seams of the fabric. 'I think you're too young to understand this. The natural wants of the universe do not work in our favor, Natch. Autumn always follows summer. Everything dies. You may be on top of the world now, but you cannot stay there forever. The world is not kind to conquerors.'
The fiefcorp master stood at the window, facing the sunset with a gladiator's belligerent stare. He could feel faint echoes of death emanating from the black code inside him. But during the past twentyfour hours, he had found a new confidence flowering beside the dread, a confidence fertilized by desire and sprouted from fear. He had seriously expected to be dead by now, and the fact that he was still living and breathing and staring out Vigal's window gave him hope.
'Don't worry about me, Vigal,' he said. 'I can handle everything the world throws at me. Just watch.'
35
Night came to London. For Jara, it was not a falling but a terrible rising, a mute upsurge of blackness that
