Geosynchron (7 page)

S and N. S and N.

He is still watching the brand on his arm as he sits with Serr Vigal
in one of the hive's wood-paneled dens twenty-four hours later. His
guardian is complaining about the quality of the tea. Natch can see
that there's something troubling the neural programmer, that Vigal
can't quite slip the story of the bureau into that mental file of verified
fact. He suspects something. Why should I care? Natch tells himself. I'm
not a truthteller. I don't always have to tell the truth, do I?

Don't think.

He opens his eyes. Enough of this. Sitting here in this chair,
staring at the pockmarks on the dome, waiting for Petrucio and Frederic to torture or dispose of him-enough of it. To die of his own volition? Maybe. To die on a twisted whim of the Patels? Something bilious rises up in his stomach at the thought.

Natch stands. He looks down and wonders why the ropes that were
binding his legs are now gathered at his feet. Did one of the Patels do
this? And if so, how?

But there will be time for questions later. Right now, Natch is
starving. He takes a wobbly step forward, then another. Decides to
head for the door at the far end of the dome. Natch takes six more
steps. He hears the whistle of the wind from somewhere above, looks
up, and sees-

Silence. Gloom. Darkness.

But this is a darkness of Natch's own making. He's purposefully
dialed the lights down, preferring to see his office as it would appear
were there no human eyes to see it. Of course, without a human pres ence, the entire room would be neatly compressed into a few cubic
meters of collapsed wall with the furniture clamped down in place. A
petty distinction, but an irritating impediment in Natch's mind.

Stop wasting time. Do what you came here to do.

He walks up to his workbench and waves his hand. Before he's even
finished the gesture, the space above the workbench's surface is no longer
empty. Now there's a transparent bubble, barely visible in the darkness,
and inside that bubble hovers a holographic pyramid. The pyramid is
colored a sickly green, the color of mucous, and looks like it's been
pierced dozens of times with long needles that stick out of the sides.

The bio/logic program has no identifying label, but Natch's contact has told him exactly what it is. He has spent countless days swimming through dark and dangerous trenches in the Data Sea looking for
this code, and now that he's found it he's spent countless nights hammering away at the spikes on his workbench. It must be the perfect,
untraceable, anonymous communication machine. The ability to spray
the whole world with convincing forgeries at stunning speed. Yes, his
plan relies more on social engineering than on bio/logic engineering,
but a few slack connections could expose him to ruin and put number
one on Primo's forever out of his reach.

Yes, number one on Primo's. That is what this code will accomplish for him. It's the token that will gain him admittance to a larger
realm. It's the talisman that will place him above the Patel Brothers
and Lucas Sentinel and Bolliwar Tuban and Pierre Loget and all the
rest of the imbeciles he's been jousting with for a few years now.

He looks at the spiked green pyramid and hears Horvil's meek
protestations from the previous day. What if we spark too much panic? I
mean, we're all connected, and so we're all vulnerable. There could be another
black code attack on the Vault any day now. Everyone knows that. The Council
might really be gearing up for another assault. What if we cause too much
panic? There might be a rush on the Vault. People might stop trading. The
whole financial system could collapse.

Natch had laughed at the engineer in response, but he knows that
it's a serious possibility. What are markets but contained panic and
quantified disaster? What keeps the whole thing functioning but
confidence?

He thinks of Captain Bolbund deluging him with his rancid
poetry. Of Brone taunting him with defeat. Of the bullies in the hive
pouncing on him and beating him close to unconsciousness. Of all the
stings and jabs he's felt over the past few years during his ascent up the
Primo's charts.

Too late.

Natch closes his eyes and launches the program.

He opens his eyes to find himself lying facedown on the floor of the
Patels' dungeon. One arm and one leg are throbbing crazily, out of
control. He's ready to be anywhere else but here. Something about this
place unsteadies his nerve.

Natch takes a deep breath, pushes himself up to his knees, then
clambers to his feet. He takes one step, then another, then another,
then-

Don't think.

Silence. Gloom. Darkness.

Walking in circles around the chair, staring at the spindly table,
now occupied by an empty plate and an empty glass.

Silence. Gloom. Darkness.

Natch tries to open his eyes, but they sting with smoke. The smell
of creosote fills his nostrils. He reaches up, rubs his eyelids brusquely
with his forearm, waves the smoke away. His fingertips touch flame
and he yanks them back. He looks down at his fingers and is surprised
to see a spreading smudge of blackness where the fire has burned him.
Remember what the proctor said, he tells himself. No OCHREs out here in
the wilderness.

The boy holding the torch looks astonished to see him. It's one of
Brone's friends, a stick-thin boy who spent much of the previous night making obsequious comments to support Brone's plan for getting the
camp through the winter. And now all he can do is stare dumbly in
terror at the bear rampaging through the trees a few meters away,
blood on its claws.

Natch yanks the torch from the astonished boy's hand and runs.

Runs not away from the bear but towards it. Fear must be confronted. Adversity must be tackled, not fled from. But you must have
a plan, and Natch has one.

Don't think.

Silence. Gloom. Darkness.

He is tearing through the woods with the bear in pursuit, ignoring
the branches slashing at his face. He must reach the clearing he knows.
A place he has spent many hours in quiet introspection, trying to pinpoint his future. If he can only reach that spot, he will be safe, and so
will the camp. Behind him, the savage roar. The smoke of the torch
still seeping into his eyes. Claws grappling at his back, nearly catching
on the stray threads of his shirt.

He reaches the slight hill leading to the clearing. Footsteps in the
snow leading up in that direction. Natch catches a glimpse of a distinctive green shirt he has seen many times over the past few months.
Brone.

The bottom of the hill. Two paths. The path up leads to the
clearing he knows so well, leads to his own safety, leads to Brone. The
other path leads farther off into the woods, leads to his plan dashed,
leads to risk and an uncertain outcome.

Natch pauses. Looks both directions. Throws a foot towards the
lower path.

Silence. Gloom. Darkness.

Brone is explaining to him the power of Possibilities 2.0. The
ability to be in two places at once and to live two lives at once. No
more regretted choices!

With infinite possibilities at your disposal-with all those realities ripe for the plucking-why stop at just outputting one? ... Our minds have more than
enough processing power to run several tracks of consciousness at the same time.
Consciousness is itself little more than a parlor trick, a low-bandwidth illusion. We've known this since ancient times. Yet we've never been able to duplicate it, until now...

Just imagine it! Two roads diverge in a wood. Why choose between them
when you can take both? You can spawn separate multi projections to travel
than and give each one a separate consciousness to experience them. Who's to say
you can't choose two different jobs, two different companions, two different
Vault accounts? And if one of these lives leads to bad consequences-well, then
wipe it out! MultiReal can erase your memories, Natch, and the memories of
those around you!

Brone throws two coins in the air in different directions. Natch
activates Possibilities 2.0 and leaps after both coins at once.

Darkness.

His foot strikes white tile and his knee twists. Where are Petrucio
and Frederic? How much time has elapsed? Why has he not left this
place?

Natch gazes all around, sees the door on the wall of the dome that
the Patels both disappeared into. That is where he must go. He can't
say what will happen after that, or if there will be anything after that.
But he cannot sit here in the darkness any longer.

Don't think.

There is a high-pitched whistling sound. Startled, Natch looks up.

A murderous metal blade like the business end of a guillotine.
Lowered lightning-quick on an extended metal rod and aimed directly
for his neck. Swinging towards him too fast for the dodging instinct.

Silence.

He ducks, and the bear's claws go swishing over his head. Death
forestalled by another few seconds.

Natch vaults to his feet once again. He is pointed deeper into the
woods, towards a life where the bear disappears into the wilderness, a life where Brone carries his eye and arm intact with him back to camp,
where he puts that arm over Natch's shoulders and says Thanks, man,
you saved my ass, where Natch's quick thinking is commended and his
respect among the boys regained. Or maybe a life where the bear
catches up to Natch and mauls him instead, a life where he becomes a
martyr for the camp, his sins forgotten, nobody honoring him more
than Brone, who vows to live up to the selfless example Natch has set
for him, who turns down the apprenticeship offer of Figaro Fi and
founds a charitable institution aimed at helping those less fortunate
than himself. Or maybe a life where Natch carries the scars that were
destined to be Brone's, the lost eye and the lost arm, a life where he
broods over the futility of his feud with the other boy, of his relentless
and aimless ambition, a life where he retreats into the memecorp sector
under his mentor Serr Vigal's tutelage and becomes an expert on the
capillaries that run into the brain-

Each future a single footstep away.

He shifts and heads up the hill.

Don't think.

There is no explanation that can encompass it. One instant there
are two paths. The next there is a path taken and a path abandoned,
and as for that split-second of decision, no amount of science can penetrate it. The choice has not been made, then the choice has been made.
The world proceeds on its track through time leaving only inadequate
explication in its wake.

Brone, huddled at the top of the hill, looks up in shock as Natch
and then the bear come streaking in his direction.

Natch stumbles and falls on the white tile.

Silence. Gloom. Darkness.

He knows these are no ordinary bonds that keep him ensnared in
this chamber. Only the neural legerdemain of Margaret Surina's MultiReal program can effect such conditions. How and why he cannot say.
All he knows is that MultiReal is no longer responding to his com mands, and despite the fact that the Patels no longer have access to it,
the program seems to be at their disposal.

He can go nowhere. He can do nothing.

Once the world was laid out before Natch like glittering jewels in
a display case, there for the plucking. Now his universe has been
reduced to a circle about ten meters in diameter beyond which he
cannot cross. Outside that circle there is nothing. Friends who have
scorned him, a guardian who has abandoned him, enemies who have
entrapped him, a government and a public that despise him. The programs he has created will dissipate into the endless currents of the Data
Sea until his name only exists in the deep strata of the changelogs. The
history of his accomplishments will wither. His name will be forgotten.

But there is no outside agency he can blame. The path to this
impotent circle is one he has charted himself, second by second, day by
day, decision by decision.

No way forward.

No way forward.

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