Part 18 (1/2)

Somewhere between the office door and the front atrium, Natch changed from cunning wolf to savage coyote. He strode through the hal way with head tilted forward like a battering ram as Jara struggled to keep up. He nearly ran over an old woman wearing the royal purple of Creed Elan and didn't react at al when a household domestic attempted to scold him for it.

They pa.s.sed bedrooms, anterooms, and entertaining rooms beyond count, intersecting hal ways that led to other wings of the house, puzzled servants, a multi chamber that could easily hold ten. Purple and red leapt out from every surface.

”So what's this going to accomplish?” asked the a.n.a.lyst.

”It's going to get Beril a off our backs,” replied Natch.

”Is she on our backs? Beril a hasn't real y bothered us since we arrived. I don't think she even knows you're here.”

”She wil .”

Jara decided to just shut up and tag along for the ride. Natch knew what he was doing, didn't he? He always knew what he was doing, whereas Jara had never real y done anything but flounder from circ.u.mstance to circ.u.mstance. She resolved to be patient. If Natch needed her a.s.sistance, he would let her know.

The hal way final y ended with a regal set of double doors that any member of the peerage would be proud to sit behind. Natch made no move to knock or announce himself first; instead, he firmly gripped the doors' bra.s.s handles and yanked.

”What on Earth ...” came a high-pitched voice. The entrepreneur stepped through the doors, and the voice suddenly halted.

Beril a sat at a mahogany desk in the center of a cavernous room. Strange bric-a-brac cluttered the wal s: beam and gunpowder weapons dating back to the Autonomous Revolt. The dedication plaque from an old hoverbird that had been decommissioned decades ago. An ancient replica of an even more ancient dartboard. A painting of a fox hunt being executed by pale white G.o.dlings in stiff tweed. Jara absorbed al this in awe, wondering what was authentic and what just clever mimicry.

The woman at the desk actual y bore a much closer resemblance to her nephew Horvil than to her son. The same olive complexion and ebony hair, the same pear-shaped figure. But where Horvil's face had a permanent smile buried beneath his jowls, Beril a's face seemed to be entombed in a state of permanent disapproval.

”I see your manners haven't changed,” Beril a sighed to Natch. She flipped her hand to extinguish a row of memos floating over the desk.

”Neither has your house,” replied Natch without losing a beat. He took a seat unbidden in one of the sequined straight-backed chairs facing Beril a's desk. ”You've kept the place just the way Wel ington left it. Or was that Cromwel ?”

”Are those supposed to be insults?” said Beril a, eyes drooping ponderously.

Natch shrugged.

Family matriarch and entrepreneur held a duel of blistering stares for over a minute without speaking. Jara wondered if she should bow and introduce herself, but since Beril a seemed to have no interest in her, she simply took the other chair and crossed her legs. The only sound in the room was the low tick-tock emanating from the rococo clock on the desk.

Beril a grew tired of their mental tug-of-war first. ”So you've rudely pushed your way into my house without an invitation,” she said final y. ”I don't know how you managed to sneak past the household security and al those people out there, but I suppose it must be important. So what can I do for you, Natch?”

The entrepreneur touched his fingertips together in front of his face. ”You can tel me why you halted production on my a.s.sembly line,” he said.

”You mean my a.s.sembly line.”

”Whatever. I paid good money for a programming floor. I expect to see results.”

Jara tried to send Natch a Confidential Whisper, but he would not accept her requests.

”They don't have access to the program anymore,” she interjected, keeping her voice as low as possible. ”We cut them off a few hours ago.”

Beril a completely ignored her. ”I didn't 'halt' anything, Natch. I simply instructed my people to work backward. The new floor supervisor was given strict orders to rol back every single connection we've made to your code. But don't worry-you'l be reimbursed for every credit you've spent, with interest. My accountants keep meticulous records.”

”I don't give a f.u.c.k about the money. I care about the programming.”

A part of Beril a was clearly hopping with joy. ”Suit yourself.”

Natch clawed at the arms of his chair as if psyching himself up to rip it to pieces. He worked at one for a moment, muscles knotted with exertion.

”Don't you realize that anything you do to hurt me hurts Horvil and Ben too?” he said.

”I don't see it that way at al .” The matriarch leaned back and crossed one ham-sized thigh over the other. If she minded Natch's mauling of her chair, she did not show it. ”You're the one who's hurting Horvil and Benyamin. Every mistake you make puts them that much closer to giving up this ridiculous game of theirs.” Beril a's frown deepened. ”Playing at fiefcorps like children playing with toy soldiers. It's ridiculous.”

Jara tried once more to insert herself into the conversation. ”That's not fair,” she said.

”n.o.body's forcing anyone to work for this fiefcorp. Horvil and Ben are adults. They understand the risks.”

This caught Beril a's attention. She turned that froglike face toward the a.n.a.lyst. ”Do they?”

”Of course they do,” said Natch icily. ”They're not risking anything that I'm not wil ing to risk myself.”

The matriarch gave an exaggerated blink of amus.e.m.e.nt. ”I don't know why I even bother arguing with you, Natch,” she said. ”You're risking-what exactly is it that you're risking? Your family? Your inheritance? Your ties to the community? No. You have none of these things. Excuse me for being so blunt, Natch-but you have nothing to lose. Horvil and Benyamin do.

”What does your business offer them?” she continued, steamrol ing right over Jara's nascent protest. ”Money? They have money. Prestige?

Experience? Exposure? They can get al that working for Marulana at Creed Elan. They can get that working for me. They can get that working for tens of thousands of businesses out there that don't treat them like-like raw meat.” She sat back, clearly satisfied with herself, and started straightening the desktop paraphernalia that didn't real y need straightening: an antique letter opener, a quil pen jutting out of some hideous pot of ink, a plastic egg that looked like some kind of ancient computer appendage.

Natch kept robotical y stil during Beril a's little diatribe. ”You don't understand,” he rasped. ”What you're offering them are jobs. What I'm offering them is a chance to change the world.”

”I understand more than you think,” scoffed Beril a, looking suddenly old and tired.

”MultiReal might change the world-but do you know what you're changing it to?”

In response, the entrepreneur rose again and strode to the center of the faux bearskin rug that covered most of the floor. His face was sul en and pensive. ”What,” he said slowly, ”do you want?”

Jara felt like she should ask Natch that question himself. She was starting to grow restless with this little meeting. What the fiefcorp had to gain by haranguing Beril a-and why Jara should be a part of it-she couldn't fathom.

Beril a let out a high-pitched cackle that ricocheted up the wal s to the distant ceiling.

”What do I want? What do I want? Natch, are you listening to anything I'm saying? Look around you! I already have everything I could possibly want.

My main concern is making sure n.o.body throws it al away.”

The entrepreneur stewed in place for a moment with his eyes wandering up and down the wal of knickknacks. His hands clenched and unclenched behind his back. ”Everybody wants something, or they'd have no reason to get out of bed in the morning,” said Natch after a moment. ”Even you. You want stability. You want protection. For yourself and for your family.”

Beril a let out a loud sigh. ”What's your point?”

”My point is this: If anything were to happen to Horvil and Benyamin, you would be quite upset.”

Jara could feel the bottom drop out of her stomach. She raised her hand and dropped it, unsure of what to say. Was Natch actual y threatening his own apprentices? The matriarch's brow furrowed, and her chin rocked slowly back and forth as she caught the distress in the a.n.a.lyst's face.

And it was in that moment that Jara understood why she was here. What she had mistaken for desperate emotion on the entrepreneur's part was just a careful y ch.o.r.eographed act. Of course it was a careful y ch.o.r.eographed act-wasn't it always? But not only had Natch scripted his own part to the letter, he had scripted Jara's as wel . He had specifical y brought Jara to this meeting because he knew she would recoil from his suggestion. The fearful look in her eyes would prove to Beril a that Natch was serious. That he was perfectly capable of committing ruthless deeds.

”I don't see what you're insinuating,” said Beril a, growing more disturbed by the second.

”Don't try to scare me into thinking you'd actual y hurt them.

You don't have it in you.”