Multireal by David Louis Edelman Page A

at his ankles. All his experience with Borda had taught him that the high executive was a creature
of passion rather than forethought, a short-term planner. But why then
did he occasionally see that knowing glimmer in Borda's eye? Was it
just the nostalgia of the grizzled veteran watching the young protege
come into his own? Or could it be that Borda's ardor was merely artifice? Was that how Borda had bested all his would-be supplanters over
the years?
    The high executive stood for a long time without speaking. His
ship had returned to calm seas, but the fog around them had only
thickened. There was no sound but the soft, rhythmic lapping of oars
on seawater, the distant cry of a gull.
    Finally, Borda spoke. "I would like to offer you a compromise."
    Magan said nothing.

    "New Year's Day is just a convenient symbol," continued Borda,
his voice disarmingly matter-of-fact. "We chose that day to protect the
markets, didn't we? To cushion the financial impact of the announcement. But the real financial impact won't come until the new year's
budget goes into effect on the fifteenth of January." The high executive
stood up straight, brushed something off his collar. "So I'll give you
two and a half weeks. Prove to me you can handle this crisis, Magan.
Bring MultiReal under the Council's control by the fifteenth, and I
will abide by our agreement."
    Magan could feel his mind whirling like a difference engine, calculating odds, extrapolating possibilities. "And how do I know I can
trust your word this time?" How do I know I won't end up at the bottom of
a river, like the last lieutenant executive who tried to bargain with you for
succession?
    "What choice do you have?" said Borda.
    "Don't delude yourself," said Magan, his voice keen and deadly as
a razor. "This decision isn't yours to make, not anymore. You don't
think I'm the only one eager to plant a black code dart in your skull,
do you? The only reason you sit in the high executive's chair to this day
is because I allow it."
    For the first time in the conversation, Len Borda smiled. It was a
horrid expression, the hungry grin of a carnivore. "Spare me the pity
of Magan Kai Lee," mocked the high executive. "I don't need it."
    And then, without warning, the SeeNaRee dissolved away. Magan
found himself standing no longer on an ancient British sloop-of-war,
but in a modern office arranged with the strictest military discipline.
Two tables, a smattering of chairs, windows with a view of the globe
below. Standing in a semicircle around him were four Defense and
Wellness Council officers who had been hidden in the virtual mist.
Their dartguns were drawn and aimed at Magan. As the lieutenant
executive regarded them with a cool eye, he felt the barrel of another
dartgun press into the back of his neck.

    "I give you until the fifteenth of January to take possession of
MultiReal," said Len Borda, his voice larded with triumph. "If you do,
we have an agreement. If you don't ..." The officer behind Magan
pressed the dartgun barrel deeper into his flesh.
    Magan kept his face neutral, determined to show no trace of emotion or hesitation. "You're not giving me anything, Borda. The Council
will have control of MultiReal by the fifteenth, and you will relinquish
the high executive's chair-one way or the other."
    He turned without being asked, and the officer with the dartgun
at his neck turned with him. Magan strode calmly to the elevator. Four
of the officers sheathed their weapons as he passed, but the one at his
back never let the nozzle of the dartgun stray from Magan's skin, even
as he accompanied the lieutenant executive onto the lift.
    When the doors closed and the elevator began its ascent to the
main level, Magan fired off a secure Confidential Whisper to the man
at his back. "Keep that dartgun right where it is until I'm off the elevator," he commanded. "Then send someone to find Papizon and Rey
Gonerev. Tell them I need to see them."
    Ridgello