In the three weeks since Natch's MultiReal demonstration at Andra Pradesh, the Fefcorp master has disappeared from the public eye.

This morning, we found out why. Because Borda, in his supreme wisdom, has already decided to renege on his a.s.surances of safety, and to seize MultiReal from its rightful owners without provocation.

What else can we conclude from the dazzling display of stupidity executed by one of Borda's lieutenant executives, Magan Kai Lee, this morning? You al saw it right here, dear readers. If not for an anonymous tip-off to the drudge community early this morning, the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp might have already been dissolved by now. And its fiefcorp master might be rotting away in some orbital Council prison.

It's astounding the lengths some wil go to in order to preserve the vaunted status quo.

Which is whyNatch had read enough. He banished the potpourri of Data Sea ramblings from the window and let the redwoods show through once more.

Yes, Natch's clever Minds.p.a.ce tricks had enabled him to reverse the tide of public opinion, if only for a day or two. Even the staunch governmentalist Mah Lo Vertiginous was grudgingly admitting that the Council had blundered today.

Borda and Lee would not dare pul another stunt like that anytime soon.

Natch caught his reflection in the window. So why are you stil sitting on a tube train heading in the wrong direction? he asked himself. Why didn't you get off at the last stop and make your way home?

He conjured a picture of the city of Shenandoah in his head. Home. But when he saw those undulating streets and shifting buildings, al he could think about was the mercenary precision of the black-robed figures who had ambushed him there. He could stil feel the pinp.r.i.c.ks of their black code darts and the icy rush of poisonous OCHREs suffusing his bloodstream. The void, the nothingness.

Natch stumbled upon an unexpected realization: he was afraid.

You find yourself capable of strange things when you run out of choices, Margaret Surina had told him last month.

Now Natch understood what the bodhisattva meant. For three weeks, he had been fleeing from the Council, catching the occasional update from Horvil or Serr Vigal over ConfidentialWhisper, taking quick glimpses at the evolving Possibilities program whenever he found a rented Minds.p.a.ce workbench he could trust. n.o.body had heard a syl able from Margaret in al that time. Nor had the Patel Brothers stirred from their lair to stop Lucas Sentinel and Bol iwar Tuban from thrashing them in the Primo's ratings.

And what about Brone? Natch blacked out the window and displayed the message he had received the other day in smal , precise lettering.

Why is the vaunted master of the Surina/Natch MultiReal Fiefcorp running away? What does he think he wil gain by fleeing from tube train to tube train? Does he think his enemies are just going to up and disappear?

How long before he realizes he needs additional al ies to complete the MultiReal programming and bring the program to market? When wil he final y accept the helping hand that an old enemy has held out to him? When wil his need for funding, equipment, privacy, and security outweigh the irrational hatred he carries around his neck?

There was no trace of a sender or signature. Natch supposed he could use some arcane tools of the trade to track down the message's origin, but of course there was only one person who could have sent it.

A snippet of dream floated through Natch's head: a bear, screams, the b.l.o.o.d.y stump of an arm. Where was Brone? What was he doing? Certainly after al that had happened during the Shortest Initiation, after al the machinations Brone had gone through to put Natch in his debt, he wasn't planning to just sit on the sidelines. After al , he was the head of a major creed organization, the Tha.s.selians, with vast stockpiles of credits and half a mil ion anonymous devotees at his disposal. Opportunities for mischief were plentiful.

It was a time of suspended animation, of delayed choices. And now Natch's ruse against Magan Kai Lee had set things in motion once again.

You've faced chal enges before, Natch told himself. Brone, Captain Bolbund, the ROD coders, Figaro Fi, the Patels. What's different? What are you so afraid of now?

It was the black code swimming through his veins. Somehow it had aged him in a way that none of his adversaries had managed to do before. He could practical y feel it tinkering away inside of him, deconstructing his innards, disa.s.sembling his mind. Every day, Natch sensed that he was losing a smal piece of this inner turf to the encroaching void, to the winter, to the nothingness.

The nothingness was coming to claim him. And Natch knew that al the battles he had fought before were merely the opening skirmishes of a much larger campaign against this nothingness. It was a campaign he could not afford to lose.

4.

Magan spent the next four hours on three different hoverbirds, watching time and s.p.a.ce drift by the window.

"Towards Perfection, Lieutenant Lee," chirped a voice from the c.o.c.kpit as Magan stepped aboard the last hoverbird. Obviously the pilot had been too absorbed in the complex trigonometry of s.p.a.ce flight preparation to catch the news.

"Anything I can get you before we lift off? Commissary's got a nice batch of weedtea, straight from-"

Magan cut her off. "Nothing, Panja, thank you."

"How about-"

"To DWCR, please."

Panja quieted down. She had flown Magan to DWCR hundreds of times in the past few years-only a smal number of pilots had clearance to fly thereso she had learned to read his emotions wel . Something must have gone terribly wrong.

Magan took a seat in the back row of the hoverbird and strapped on his harness. The pilot conducted the ship's mechanical tests without a word, then set them on their way. Magan watched the clouds approach and fel into a light sleep until the ship alerted him that they were making the final approach into DWCR.

To those in the know, DWCR was the Defense and Wel ness Council Root, Len Borda's center of operations-and those who could not define the acronym weren't aware of its existence anyway. But even most of those privileged enough to work at DWCR couldn't pinpoint it on a map. The location was highly cla.s.sified, and officers like Panja had to withstand a battery of loyalty tests before they were admitted to the inner circle.

Magan himself had spent several years stepping on a red multi tile without knowing exactly where he was being projected. But he never minded such obfuscation, even when it served to block something in his path. A system with a hidden solution remained a system with a solution, after al ; a welcome change from the centerless anarchy his life had been before enlisting in the Council twenty-five years ago. Magan knew that, with scrupulous planning, he could master any system that confronted him. He knew that time and chance were the only obstacles between him and the pinnacle of the Council hierarchy. Eventual y the secrets of DWCR would be his.

Nearly ten thousand Council employees were not so confident. Magan saw them huddled in their offices week after week wasting hours in useless conjecture. Some believed the Root sat in one of the many unexplored crevices of Luna.

Others favored the Pacific Islands or the Antarctic or the uninhabitable sectors of Furtoid as more likely candidates. But so far Len Borda's engineers had succeeded in keeping the Root impervious to any known positioning or tracing program, and prodigious sums of money were expended to ensure that the mystification would continue for years to come.

Nonetheless, Magan knew the secrecy could not last indefinitely. Secrets had a gravity of their own that sucked in the curious and the determined. Had the high executive planned for that contingency, or was he relying on the secrecy to last forever? The bodhisattva of Creed Bushido had the perfect aphorism to describe such closed-mindedness: Short-term plans, long-term problems.

In actuality, DWCR was a disk-shaped platter in orbit at the outermost reach of Earth's gravitational pul , only a slight rocket thrust away from either floating off into the aether or spiraling planetward to a fiery, cataclysmic doom.

Lieutenant Lee watched out the port window now as the platter slid into view. A single observation tower jutted from the bottom with priapic majesty, as if waiting for something to impale.

Panja docked the hoverbird without a sound, and Magan stepped through the airlock as soon as DWCR had given them the al -clear.

Generals and military planners filed curt nods with Magan as he strode the Root's maze of twisty little pa.s.sages, al alike. Without proper clearance, he could wander these shifting corridors of gunmetal gray for days. Someone had made an attempt to inject some color on the wal s, but the smattering of pretentious landscapes and portraits of executives past did little to lighten the atmosphere.

Magan made his way to the observation tower and kept his ears open for the hal way gossip. He heard rumors of military deployments, complaints about research budgets, details of appropriations bil s before the Prime Committee ... but not a single comment about the failed raid early this morning.

Magan frowned. The only thing worse than listening to officers chatter about the Council's failure was not hearing them chatter about it at al . He sighed as he reached the central elevator and cleared his mind.

The elevator did not head upward. Instead it dropped, leading Magan to a floor on the tip of the observation tower. Borda's private chambers.

When he emerged from the elevator, the Council lieutenant found himself standing on the deck of an ancient sloop-of-war. The ship swayed tipsily in the waves, sending the occasional spittle of SeeNaRee brine splashing on Magan's face.

Stil -smoking cannons on the deck spoke of a recent battle against some enemy hovering just out of sight in the fog.

Standing at the prow of the ship was High Executive Len Borda.

Borda listened to his lieutenant's version of events with rising ire, his back to the mast and his nose pointed out to sea. "b.l.o.o.d.y drudges," he said in a rumbling ba.s.so that not even the waves could drown out. "If I wanted their opinion, trust me, they'd know it."

Some cal ed the high executive arrogant, but that word seemed beside the point. After nearly sixty years running the world's military and intel igence 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 real y 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 wil ing 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 ful onslaught."

Magan clenched his fists into a tight bal behind his back, then slowly forced himself to stop, take a breath, unwind. Could Len Borda real y 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 Wel ness Council that the Congress has official y opened an inquiry into the causes of the computational anomalies known as "infoqual<>< p="">

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 al employees of the Defense and Wel ness Council to answer any forthcoming subpoenas promptly and with the utmost discretion.

May you always move towards perfection, Khann Frejohr, Speaker "You a.s.sured 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 caustical y. He bent to pick up a smal 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 swal owed it without a sound.

"Papizon wil 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 usual y not so vague."

Borda's pessimism was starting to grow tiresome. Magan thought the time had come for a quick knife thrust. "Papizon usual y 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 al 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 wil you fail to get control of MultiReal, you'l have the Congress in ful -scale rebel ion. You'l have people on the streets shouting their support for Natch and Margaret Surina."

Borda's face remained impa.s.sive, 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 compa.s.s. 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 stil hidden somewhere off in the chop.

Magan recal ed the iconic video footage that had swept across the Data Sea almost fifty years ago, footage that could stil 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 Wel ness 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 al the same.

Too ful of pride, too nearsighted to see what's right in front of their noses. I tel 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!" yel ed 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? a.s.sa.s.sins zapping onto the floor of the Prime Committee! People teleporting into wal s! Mil ions 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 wil ing 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 fil .

The high executive was not blind. He had seen the mil ions 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 ma.s.ses 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 al ow 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 al the repressed rage buried in his soul. "You gave me your word, Borda, and I intend to see that you keep it.

You wil announce your retirement from the Defense and Wel ness 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 a.s.sa.s.sin'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.