Geosynchron by David Louis Edelman Page B

"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,