Part 25 (1/2)

Al stand and wait for a presence, a person of gravitas worthy of honoring the last daughter of the Surinas.

That person emerges from the gates of the Surina residences, fol owing the path recently cleared by the pal bearers. He is a short man by Western standards, an African with a nose like a miniature fist. His skin is black enough that the folds on his black-and-white-swirled robe might be a form of camouflage, while his kink-curled hair is white enough to match. The crude metal scepter in his hand marks him as the bodhisattva of Creed Objectivv.

The bodhisattva makes his way to the platform containing the coffin. Al present give him a wide and respectful berth. He bestows a beatific smile on the a.s.sembly and clears his throat to speak.

The world is clouded, but never more so than today. Today our tongues are confused, and we stand on queer geography. We are here to mourn this woman, Margaret Surina. This woman, this beacon. Seeker of truth, inventor of miracles.

But today we are here to mourn something more. We mourn the Surinas, whose direct line ended a few days ago. The Surinas brought us not only science but enlightenment. Their coming heralded the dawn of a new age. Where do we go from here? To soar or to fal ? Wil their pa.s.sing signal an end to the Reawakening? Wil the human spirit slumber once more, or wil it rise to glorious deeds?

Natch feels the words bounce off him like rubber. He cannot move or speak.

Standing before him is Margaret Surina, and she is alive.

She's ghostly, almost insubstantial. She floats through the bodies in the crowd and comes to rest a meter away, occupying nearly the same s.p.a.ce as a fat man who wears the Plugenpatch uniform. Her hair is slightly darker than the corpse on the platform, but her eyes are as luminous as they ever were.

She is staring at Natch; she is trying to speak. No words come from her mouth.

Natch closes his eyes and flees.

He feels himself sinking into the travertine. Sinking through it. Pa.s.sing down through the rock and soil of the mountain, the flesh of the Earth. There are civilizations down there in the rock, civilizations completely oblivious to the travails of the Surinas and Andra Pradesh, volcanic races of the almost-was and never-were. Natch pa.s.ses through them.

Farther, farther down.

He emerges in an endless subterranean network of pipes. Pipes that form the core of the world. They are just tal enough for a man to stand in. Natch stands there in a crossroads, a nexus of pipes that extend in a mil ion directions.

Somehow he knows, he sees that these tunnels extend throughout the Earth. They extend into every city and every home, into the orbital colonies, through time and s.p.a.ce, in universes alternate and improbable. And down here in the nexus, there is a hatch for each tunnel, clearly labeled with the names of every man, woman, and child who has ever, or wil ever, live.

Spiderlike creatures scramble in the shadows. They have the hands and heads of men, which they use to dig, dig, dig. Always digging. They are constantly at work building these tunnels in a never-ending construction project. Natch hears them snickering at him.

He picks a hatch at random and draws it open, if only to escape the infernal laughter. The tube sucks at him like a pseudopod, and he flies through the roots of the world. Hours it seems he is flying. Then final y, an ending. A door. Natch opens the door.

It's a gathering. An L-PRACG building outside of Vladivostok, a center of civic activity and urban planning. There are raised voices. A memo floats in the air above the floor, its sentences underscored and highlighted by many different hands. The L-PRACG administrator stands and raises her fist in defiance, shouting the official government slogan over and over until the a.s.sembled lawmakers join her. A resolution is proposed cal ing for the immediate resignation of Len Borda from the Defense and Wel ness Council; it pa.s.ses unanimously.

Natch dives down and secures the hatch behind him. He travels many kilometers to another door (he hears the spiders' laughter) and opens that.

The financial exchange in Beijing. A man in a crisp gray suit sitting at a desk and examining a long string of facts and figures. There are distressing rumors, conflicting reports. The a.n.a.lysis programs and pattern-recognition algorithms he employs advise caution. He consults with his human partners, and they agree as wel . And if the memo real y is a forgery? he asks. It doesn't matter, answers his partner. We get paid to safeguard our clients' money, not to play politics. If you think the company's headed for a fal tomorrow, it's headed for a fal tomorrow. The man in the gray suit nods, sighs. Sel s off a cornerstone of the portfolio with a wave of his hand.

Yet another door.

Transportation workers for TubeCo, underpaid, underutilized, their jobs insecure. Multi has become ubiquitous and taken away their livelihood. They stand in a tube train depot, yel ing their displeasure at the labor boss who stands atop a parked tube car above them. Is Len Borda going to seize the tube or isn't he? one yel s. What's that mean for our jobs? shouts another. The man atop the tube car makes placating gestures, urges calm. Calm? says the workers' resident agitator. f.u.c.k calm! You've got a.s.surances from the company-but what if they're wrong? We could have a government takeover in a matter of days. If you're not going to do something about it-we wil . Moving as one, a large chunk of the uniformed workers marches out of the building.

An uneasy Defense and Wel ness Council officer, patrol ing the streets in the orbital colony of Al owel . A pack of private security guards fol owing.

Jeering. A tense confrontation in an al eyway. Darts firedLaughter.

Men and women in a station near Sao Paulo, donning the white robe and yel ow star in a panic. s.n.a.t.c.hing loaded dartguns and disruptors off the racks, along with canisters of black code needles. Positioning themselves on the balcony in a phalanx and aiming weapons at the approaching mobAn engineer on the underground transfer system lifting a metal wrench in the air, striking down at a hol ow pipe that plummets into the bowels of the Earth. He strikes again and again until the pipe cracks. The conveyors shudder to a halt; a cheer arises from his col eaguesThen Natch is back in the courtyard at Andra Pradesh.

The bodhisattva of Creed Objectivv is long gone now, and the litter carrying the dead woman has been taken to the ceremonial grave inside the Revelation Spire. The crowd is surging in every direction at once; the blue-and-green Surina security officers are on the move. A brawl has broken out somewhere, and the group of Islanders is at the center of it. A trio of white hoverbirds can be seen in the distance, heading this way.

Stones. There is a mob gathered outside the Center for Historic Appreciation, and they are throwing stones at the representatives of the Defense and Wel ness Council. The Council contingent forms a tight phalanx and shoves its way toward the gates of the city.

Natch stifles a smile and runs for cover.

4.

MADNESS.

AND FREEDOM.

28.

January 12,Year 360 of the Reawakening Natch, I wil try to make this message relatively brief, though you must be aware such a feat is beyond my means. Plan accordingly. One might suppose that during the course of a rigorous education in brain stem programming and engineering, a certain prestigious Lunar university might have endeavored to teach its pupils how to write-but alas, they did not.

However, I digress. (You smile knowingly. Perhaps fear of my digressions is what's caused you to ignore my messages for the past few days.

Perhaps you wil ignore this one as wel . Al I can do is press on and a.s.sume that I am reaching you on some level.) Let me get my typical sententious blather out of the way first.

Natch, you have won many victories in your life. Digging yourself out of the troubles at initiation and climbing to number one on the Primo's bio/logic investment guide was quite an achievement. Arranging the transition of MultiReal from Margaret's fefcorp to yours was another. Surely the popular outcry during the past few days over this disputed Defense and Wel ness Council memo counts as a third.

(Yes, despite what the drudges have cal ed the largest spontaneous outbreak of public protest since the Melbourne riots” [John Ridglee, January I I], this unrest certainly does not seem spontaneous to me. It has not escaped my attention that the major events of this crisis-the street protests in Beijing, the government walkouts in Cape Town, the formal statements of dissent by the creeds and the L-PRACGs-were coordinated very closely with the drudge news cycles. Your new friend Khann Frejohr denied any involvement, of course, but his denial arrived just in time to make Sen Siw Sors evening report. Yet the most incriminatory piece of evidence is the fact that the tube line between Cisco and Seattle through the redwoods remains operational, despite an ongoing TubeCo operators'

strike in North America. Quod erat demonstrandum.) So you have won another victory. The Prime Committee has cal ed for a special session to resolve the question of MultiReal and promises to debate the issue for as long as it takes”They have issued subpoenas to you, the Council, and the Congress.The public, at least, seems wil ing to put its ire on hold for a few days and submit to the judgment of the Committee.

But like al your victories, Natch, this one brings you no resolution. It only qualifies you for a more intricate chal enge.

I hardly need tel you the Defense and Wel ness Council should not be underestimated in any circ.u.mstance, and especial y not when they have been backed into a cornerYou have already met Len Borda's chief solicitor, Rey Gonerev, but I'm afraid you have never seen her in front of an audience. I had the misfortune of witnessing a public hearing on orbital colony subsidies several months ago in which Gonerev proceeded to slash her opponent's sensible and practical arguments to shreds.There is a reason the drudges cal her the Blade.The Prime Committee wil al ow Borda to choose someone to provide an opening statement for the governmentalist position, and I have no doubt that Rey Gonerev is the one whom the high executive wil cal .

Now I don't mean to sound defeatist-I have every confidence in your ability to sway a crowd-but you must be aware that you are fighting an uphil battle to regain control of this technology. In fact, matters may be more precarious than everThe Prime Committee is effectively the final court of appeal, beyond which there are no more legal avenues to which you can turn.

Moreover, I'm sure you know that the governmentalists stil hold a substantial majority on the Committee, and governmentalists rarely contravene the word of High Executive Borda.

So it's an uphil battle, you tel yourself. It's always been an uphil battle, from the very beginning.

But there is no such thing as an ordinary battle for you.You tend to wrap your feelings of self-worth into your battles, Natch. I've observed you doing this ever since you were a child, and perhaps if I had been better schooled in the art of parenting I might have done something about it when I stil could.You believe that the outcome of this fight for MultiReal wil determine the success or failure of your entire life just as you believed the same thing about your quest to achieve number one on Primo's, and your fight to win in the ROD coding market, and so on.

I know I risk sounding like a tedious public service announcement from Creed Conscientious when I say this, but I wil say it anyway: you are not the work you do in life.

I shal repeat this and isolate it in a separate paragraph, like a professor emphasizing an important point before final exams.YOU ARE NOTTHE WORKYOU DO IN LIFE.

We do not often get to declare victories, Natch, and most of them do not remain victories for very long. Ultimately when you reach my age you realize that victories are temporary, and in al the years of human history there is one final battle which n.o.body has ever won.Time has a way o f changing the terms of your victories over the years, until you begin to wonder precisely what it was you fought for so viciously, so uncompromisingly. You begin to see that victory and defeat are but alternate reflections from the same prism.You see that the measure of a person real y might be the integrity with which he fought his battles and not their ultimate dispensation, just like your elders have been tel ing you al along.