Part 15 (1/2)

And so the agents of the World Economic Oversight Board streamed across the Data Sea, where things were not so simple. Bil ions of pro grams sailed out there, many with aims in direct contradiction to those of the World Economic Oversight Board.

But the Board's agents were government troops on a sacrosanct mission. At every crossroads, priority credentials were presented and emergency overrides were given. In most cases, lesser programs stood down and gave the Board's emissaries the right of way. But there were countless holdouts and instances of stubborn resistance. Maverick programs eager to waylay the centralized government. Rebels. Spies. Proxies of monomaniacal selfinterest. And at every juncture, the Board's emissaries had to decide where to fight and where to make exception. Where to cal reinforcements. Where to brutal y stamp out dissent.

The Board's edicts were quickly implemented across informational s.p.a.ce. Banking programs that had been aggressively raising interest rates and trading shares were overridden by the implacable agents of the Vault. Transactions were actual y reversed in a few isolated locations; other strategic crossroads were lined with transactional roadblocks to slow down the rate of exchange.

Al was proceeding according to the administrator's plans. And then something unexpected happened: delays.

The trouble began on the Vault. They were only smal delays at first, microscopic stutters in the fluid dialogue of economics-a picosecond of blank time where action did not meet with reaction. Soon there were phantom authorizations arising from nonexistent accounts and credits moving to places where logic dictated they could not go. In the deeper waters of the Data Sea outside of the Vault's shoals, such things could be dealt with. Messages could be recal ed; contingency plans could be executed; holds could be placed. But the world of the Vault was a world without creative alternatives, a world where a must fol ow b without fail.

Delays s...o...b..l ed into an avalanche of inefficiency.

Bio/logic systems that depended on a smoothly functioning financial engine queried the Vault for payment and received no response. The appointed digital guardians of hearts and lungs were suddenly stranded, unable to obtain authorizations for their services. Without payment, dependent subroutines could not be invoked; third-party functions would not accept commands. One by one, the strands on the network of the bio/logic system began to fray.

The Prime Committee in its bureaucratic wisdom had long ago considered this possibility and pa.s.sed legislation to deal with it. This legislation required every critical bio/logic system to have multiple redundancies, so that no failure of communication (or lack of credits) would ever stop a beating heart. So the bio/logic programs turned to governmental y mandated backup routines hardwired into the very OCHREs themselves. Routines that had not undergone the same rigorous real-world trials as the bio/logic programs themselves.

Routines that had not received the same level of intense scrutiny from Primo's and the drudges. Routines that, despite the best Dr. Plugenpatch screening and verification, did not always function as advertised.

Routines that could fail when put to the test.

A boy in Sao Paulo was engaged in a vigorous game of pelota with his comrades.

Suddenly he experienced a ma.s.sive embolism and col apsed.

Within ten minutes, the infoquake had claimed a thousand lives.

19.

The drudges edged as close to the tube tracks as they dared. One woman leaned her head out too far and tripped-or was pushed by a rival-directly into the path of the oncoming train. She stumbled, turned to face the juggernaut bearing down upon her, and let out a piercing shriek. The train car barreled forward without slowing. Half a second later, the multi network's automatic pain overrides cut the woman's connection.

Laughter tril ed through the crowd.

”Animals,” groaned Horvil from inside the train. He pul ed his forehead off the window and used his s.h.i.+rtsleeve to wipe the oily smudge he had left there. ”Barbarians. Philistines ...”

”Drudges,” concluded Benyamin from across the aisle.

As the tube slid to a quiet stop, Jara rose from her chair at the head of the car and surveyed her fel ow fiefcorpers. Ben was slumped in his seat, picking sul enly at a rough edge on the armrest. Merri had been red-eyed and misty for most of the past hour. Serr Vigal was kneading his temples like a man trying to remember some vital piece of information he had forgotten twenty years ago. And Horvil, with his hair sprouting in twelve different directions like an ebony spider plant, simply looked confused.

I hope this wasn't a colossal mistake, thought Jara with a grimace. But with Natch incommunicado, the drudges closing in on the Tha.s.sel Complex, and infoquakes happening left and right, we couldn't just stay there forever.

The a.n.a.lyst puffed up her chest and spoke. ”Okay, we need to pul ourselves together.

We've gotta act like a fiefcorp here. Ben, stop that sneering.”

Benyamin threw her a sour-apple look. ”Do you real y need me here for this stupid little pantomime?” he groused. ”You want everyone to see us walking to my mother's estate. Fine, I understand that. But I don't need to walk there with you. My body's already at the estate. Al I need to do is cut my multi connection.”

”You look at that platform, and you tel me,” replied Jara. She gestured out the window at the crowd of drudges eyeing the tube car like a giant flock of vultures. A flock of agitated vultures. ”We al have to put in an appearance, Ben, even if it's just a quick appearance. Otherwise these people are going to crucify us. And what they say over the next twenty-four hours could very wel affect your career-al of our careers-for at least a decade.”

The young apprentice buried his chin in his chest and shook his black hair until it covered his forehead, mop-style. ”I don't care what Magan Kai Lee says,” he muttered. ”You don't run this company.”

For ten seconds, n.o.body took a breath.

Inside, Jara was trembling. She could hardly blame Benyamin for being suspicious.

Everyone else in the fiefcorp was tangled in some government web, while Jara alone remained unblemished and untouched. And yet she was the one standing here giving orders. How could Jara explain that she didn't know any more than they did? How could she convince them she had made no deal with Magan Kai Lee, and this predicament had descended upon her as quickly and unexpectedly as it had upon them?

Merri leaned forward and put a consoling hand on the young apprentice's shoulder.

”Benyamin,” she said, ”let's just ... get indoors, get to a safe place.

We can talk about this later.”

Ben thought a moment, nodded, then stood.

Jara tried to give Merri a silent look of thanks, but the channel manager would not meet her gaze. Even Horvil was keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

I'm on your side! she felt like screaming. I'm one of you! Instead, Jara locked her spine and activated the look of distress she had purchased twenty minutes ago off the Data Sea. Then she walked through the doors of the tube car.

And nearly col ided with John Ridglee, who was hovering outside like a bird of prey.

”The last heir of Sheldon Surina is dead,” said the drudge without even a Towards Perfection. ”Four hundred years of n.o.ble scientific tradition is gone.

Another devastating infoquake. Why choose today of al days to conduct a hostile takeover of your company, Jara?”

The a.n.a.lyst almost dropped her bereaved expression on the spot. ”Uh-sorry, John,” she said to Ridglee's hypnotical y bobbing left eyebrow. ”No comment.” Then she walked into the crowd, hoping the others would fol ow.

But John Ridglee was only the first in a long line of drudges on the London tube platform, each squawking a more outrageous question than the last.

Most of the questions were predictable (”How do you feel about Margaret Surina's death?” ”Where's Natch?”), some were easy to ignore (”Did you kil Margaret?” ”Who's getting fired next?” ”Who are you f.u.c.king these days?”), but many were simply incomprehensible (”Have we atoned for the sins of Tobi Jae Witt and her Autonomous Minds?” ”Can you name three chemical components unique to moon plants?”). Regardless, the a.n.a.lyst managed to keep her cool and say nothing but a quiet ”No comment” to her interrogators.

Once Jara made it off the tube platform, she was in for another surprise: cheers. Standing on the opposite street corner was a crowd that straddled every major demographic. Men, women, old, young, Terran, colonist, rich, poor. Some of them bore a rising sun on their chests, insignia of Creed Libertas. ”Don't be discouraged!” shouted a woman from the crowd. ”Take heart!” cried another. Their words of support were so ba.n.a.l that they only added to the surrealism of the situation.

Rabid drudges, crazed creed devotees, sul en fiefcorp apprentices ... Jara could only imagine the stack of messages she would find in her inbox when she stopped priving herself to the world. A flexible-gla.s.s bottle arced out of the sky and narrowly missed her head. She switched on Lucas Sentinel's Coc.o.o.n 33 and tuned it to a low setting that muted the noise but left her other senses intact.

Horvil pinged her on ConfidentialWhisper. ”There's a guy here says he's from the Diss L-PRACG Movement. They're worried that we're headed for another Economic Plunge. Should I-”

”I don't care if he's Sheldon Surina,” Jara said with mental teeth firmly gritted. ”Don't say a f.u.c.king word to anyone.”

The throng began to disperse as the fiefcorpers made their way toward the palatial estates lining the western bank of the Thames. The rabid libertarians stayed with them for a few blocks, but quickly lost interest after the drudge onslaught tapered off. Jara started to wonder if they had run this whole gauntlet for nothing, when she rounded the last corner and saw a fresh crowd camped at the gates to Beril a's estate. She al owed herself a sigh of relief.

The gates creaked open just wide enough to admit Horvil, Benyamin, Merri, and Vigal.

Jara felt like she had wandered into an ancient painting as the others strode down a cobblestone path that looked like it had been built for automobile traffic, or even horse-drawn carriages. The path was lined with an exquisitely manicured hedge that served as boundary for a crisp and wel -tended lawn.

Jara's entire city block on the East End could have occupied that lawn, with room to spare. The house they were headed for stood an obscene distance back from the gates. It extended east to west in hand-laid brick like a Roman vil a.

Jara waited patiently for the others to make it inside the gates before turning to face the pack in apparent afterthought.