Geosynchron Page 5
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.
5
No way forward.
"You wanted a day or two to think things over. Fucking fabulous." Feet shuffle against the floor, a foot idly kicks at the wall. "If we'd got in touch with Magan Kai Lee when we said we would, everything would be fine right now. We'd be up to our asses in Vault credits. Well! Look what's happened now." Another kick.
"So ... two squadrons? Are you sure about that, Frederic?"
"Am I sure? Of course not. This is the Defense and Wellness Council. They don't go broadcasting their plans all over the Data Sea. But why else would they be doing reconnaissance missions way the fuck out here?"
The sound of nervous foot tapping. "I suppose the real question is whether those squadrons belong to Borda, or whether they belong to Lee."
"Guess again."
Silence.
"One of each?"
More silence.
"Shit. What do we do?"
"You know exactly what I want to do, 'Trucio."
An exasperated sigh. "You're not going to bring that up again, are you?"
"Why not? There's still time to pull this thing out of the fire. If we can hand MultiReal-D over to Magan before Borda's thugs get here, we can still fulfill the contract."
"So then let's do that."
"Don't be naive, 'Trucio. Nobody's going to give us shit unless we can prove it works. The contract specifically says working prototype, remember?"
"Of course it works. Natch is still sitting in the chair, isn't he?"
"I'm talking about in the real world. Solid weapons. Real steel."
"It worked in Old Chicago. That was real."
"How do you know? Come on, 'Trucio, we have no idea what happened out there in Old Chicago. What the fuck was he doing wandering those streets in the first place? Who was it tried to murder him? Some diss throwing stones? Bullshit."
Pacing. Tense, thoughtful silence. "There's too much at stake. What if the program breaks down and he winds up dead? Then what do we do?"
"Don't tell me anybody's going to mourn for that motherfucker."
"That's not the point. I'm not going to risk killing him just to fulfill a contract. I don't care how much we're getting paid, Frederic, even in your L-PRACG murder is illegal."
An angry snort. Something thrown against a wall. "It'd make our lives much easier if he was dead. It would get the Council off our backs."
"Oh, really, would it now?" A derisive snort. "Are you about to go in there and cut his throat?"
"What makes you think I wouldn't?"
"Use your head, idiot. You can't kill him. Didn't it ever occur to you that if he dies, the MultiReal databases disappear for good and there's no getting them back? Then who's going to pay us, Frederic?"
A wet razzing sound. "You're being ridiculous. We know this works. I just spent nine months of my life working on this stupid MultiReal-D program. I'm not gonna let it all go down the drain without a fight. Somebody's gonna have to put his neck on the line to test this thing. Why not him?"
"Forget it. The answer's no, and that's final."
Furious stomping around, the sound of things smashing. "In two hours, we're going to have the fucking Autonomous Revolt happening right outside our door. Borda and Lee are going to blow this place to pieces trying to find Natch. All because you're afraid of getting your hands dirty."
"Just give me twenty minutes, Frederic. I'll think of something."
The chamber is dark. Natch is tied to the chair once again, and this time he's bound tight enough that he can't even wiggle an arm free. Any attempt at escape from this accursed chamber would be futile anyway. Spider, web, helpless fly.
Natch thinks: if he died here today, if he were never found or heard from again, what would he leave behind?
The list is not an encouraging one. The MultiReal databases-to which he has only had time to contribute the merest fraction of code. His fiefcorp-which has been handed to Jara and will likely be dismantled by the end of the year. His bio/logic programs and RODsscattered now among a dozen different fiefcorps and diluted beyond recognition. His modest possessions-which will remain sequestered in the dark crevices of his compressed apartment until the building management finally liquidates them. His record of defiance against the Defense and Wellness Council these past few months-soon to be engulfed by the vast bureaucratic ocean of official government business where it will be forgotten. The few personal relationships he has maintained over his lifetime-each sullied and denigrated by his own hand.
Brone told him some of the same things back in Old Chicago. Don't try to blame me for this state of affairs. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself. You've done a much better job isolating yourself than I could have ever done. I daresay even those few you label your friends will give up on you soon enough. He remembers the words, but not the conversation they came from. When did Brone confront him in such pointed terms?
He tries to summon in his mind the evening before the Shortest Initiation, the last evening in the hive. The night where he discovered that Brone had bested him. He had a meeting, he thinks. But with whom? And for what purpose? He probes that alcove of his memory, but the shelves are empty. Somehow he knows that this is not a moment of stress-induced amnesia, not a mere temporary misconnection in the neural circuitry. That night is gone. Scoured clean.
Natch feels a brief moment of panic. The night before the Shortest Initiation, gone. Whatever happened in Old Chicago, gone.
He knows he was ambushed on the streets of Shenandoah, a few months ago. He remembers talking about it. He can still feel the black code worming its way inside him. But when he tries to summon an image of his attackers-shadowy figures in black robes, Thasselians, disciples of Brone-there is nothing.
Gone.
Something has been happening to his memory ever since he arrived in this place. It's not only the chronology of the present that's blurred and confused, it's the past as well. Long-settled events in Natch's mind, bedrock memories, are disappearing. He feels like he is sliding down a tightly coiling spiral into nothingness. His accomplishments, such as they were, have all been stripped away. His willpower has been effectively nullified within this nine-pace radius. And now, even his memories are slipping down into the void as well.
A slice of light appears on the far wall, with Natch's bound silhouette framed in the middle. The door behind him is opening.
Frederic Patel doesn't so much walk in front of Natch as he slinks, with hunched shoulders and a furtive expression of hatred on his face. He's clutching one or more objects to his chest, but Natch can't see what because they're hidden in shadow. He comes closer and cocks an ear to the domed ceiling as if listening for a pursuer. Natch can see one of the objects Frederic's holding: it's a sword.
A sword? Natch's mind reels. Yes, an actual Japanese katana, smooth and sheathed and yet still deadly.
"Awake?" says the boorish younger Patel brother in a hoarse whisper.
Natch says nothing, but he knows that Frederic can see his unblinking eyes just fine.
"Good." Frederic nods, kneeling in front of Natch and dropping the sword onto the tile from a distance of a dozen centimeters at most. The katana hits the tile with a soft, reverberant clang. "Would hate for you to die in your sleep."
And then, before Natch has time to even contemplate a response, Frederic makes a stabbing motion with his left hand. The entrepreneur feels a slight sting on his left forearm and catches a glimpse of a syringe, its plunger now deployed.
Natch glances over at the pinprick in his arm with its infinitesimal drop of already-scabbed-over blood. He should be inured to the idea of invasive black code flowing into his bio/logic systems by now-he is, after all, still playing host to Thasselian black code from his attack in Shenandoah, not to mention the mysterious program from Petrucio's dartrifle in the Tul Jabbor Complex and Margaret Surina's MultiReal back door. But he feels that frisson of impurity, that shiver of uncleanliness anyway. Foreign code. Unknown.
Frederic stands, then leans down to grab the sword. He unsheathes it and grins the grin that only sadists know.
Natch stares at the katana, wondering where Frederic could possibly have gotten hold of such a thing. Neither Patel brother is a collector of Japanese relics, as far as he knows. The jade green pattern running around the pommel of the sword looks much too ornate for a weapon of everyday use; not like there are samurai running around using edged weapons anyway. But this katana is clearly a museum piece, an expensive gift from some gracious capitalman.
He looks at the blade and thinks, He's really going to kill me.
It's a wholly unique sensation. For months, he's felt the undertow of the Null Current dragging at him at every turn: a relentless force that flows beneath everything human, like groundwater, a subterranean tide that tugs and pulls at all thought and emotion, that seeps through all the petty barricades of society without pause or consideration. It was there when Brone's minions shot him full of black code in that alleyway in Shenandoah. It was pulling at him when he escaped ten thousand deaths by Council dartgun at the Tul Jabbor Complex.
But now Natch knows that his death is here, standing right in front of him. It's an absurd death, one he could never have foreseenslain by a sword, in an anonymous dungeon, by Frederic Patel, of all people? He knows that Frederic despises him (and the feeling is mutual), but why the engineer should choose to decapitate him he doesn't know. And he will likely never know the reason. There will be no escape with the help of MultiReal miracles; Petrucio has ably demonstrated the Patels' baffling ability to nullify the program.
He thinks, I have thirty seconds left before I die.
No way forward.
Don't think. Don't struggle.
Patel hefts the sword in two heavily calloused hands and tries to get a proper grip. Natch knows virtually nothing about samurais or katanas beyond what he's seen in the dramas, and he's fairly certain that Frederic knows little more. He half expects that the edge of this gilded weapon will be too dull to actually cut through flesh. But as the engineer gingerly touches the blade to Natch's neck and makes the most delicate of testing cuts, Natch realizes that this is not the case. The sword is sharp enough to make expertise a luxury.
Frederic leans back for a swing. He bares his teeth and snarls.
Natch waits for the long-anticipated feeling of relief, of ending. The dead have no responsibilities, no anguish, no wanting. No confusion or uncertainty, because to die is to be utterly certain and unambiguous, for the first time, for the rest of eternity. Is this what he has been striving for? Simplicity, absolutism, peace?
Is it, or isn't it?
He hears the door open, followed by the sound of madly scrambling feet. "Frederic!" cries Petrucio Patel.
But it's too late. Frederic's muscles tense and the sword begins its death arc. His aim is true. Death is a second away. Unavoidable, beyond the reach of any wild probability. And as Natch sits here, trussed and helpless-as he watches the edge of the blade approachthe realization explodes from the depths of his consciousness.
He doesn't want to die.
He wants to live.