David Edelman - Infoquake

"I hear some of your hivemates are starting their own fiefcorps after initiation," said Vigal abruptly.

Natch nodded. "A few of them."

"Your friend Brone among them, I suppose."

A flurry of emotions washed through Natch's mind as he considered the visage of his hated rival. The two had spent most of their childhood warily circling one another like fencers, always testing and probing for weaknesses. Over the past year, Natch's competition with Brone had turned into full-scale war. "Krone is not my friend," he said through gritted teeth.

Natch's malice passed right over Vigal's head. "What about Horvil?"

"He doesn't know."

"And you? After the hive, after initiation, what then?"

There was a pause. "I've had ... a few meetings."

Vigal exhaled softly and pretended to study a hanging grapevine. "I see."

Another period of silence followed. Serr Vigal seemed to be marshaling the courage to say something. Meanwhile, Natch could see through the hothouse windows that the commotion in the hive building was dying down. Families were giving their sons and daughters one last virtual embrace before cutting their multi connections. Natch and his fellows would be on their way to initiation in just eighteen hours.

"Listen, Natch," said his guardian finally. "I'd like to give you some advice before you head out to initiation. It's just ... I'm not very good at this kind of thing. As you know, raising a child wasn't something I planned. It sort of fell in my lap by accident.... And now, after all this time, I'm not sure how to begin...." Vigal stopped and collected his thoughts, aware he had not exactly gotten off to an auspicious beginning. "Natch, I have tried to give you the education your mother would have wanted you to have. She believed her hive did not adequately prepare her for the world. And now I wonder if the same thing will prove to be the case with you, here at the Proud Eagle."

"That's ridiculous," snapped Natch, instantly on the defensive. "Everybody knows that this is one of the best hives in the world."

"And how does one measure that?"

"Well, the capitalmen seem to think so. Do you know how many programmers from last year's class got funding for their own fiefcorps?"

"Too many, if you ask me."

Natch shrugged. He would not be lured into one of these pedantic Vigalish dialogues today. "Things are different now. The economy is exploding, and there's too much opportunity out there to waste time on an apprenticeship. Two years ago-"

The neural programmer shushed him with a raised hand. His face bore a pained expression. "I hear that nonsense from the drudges every day. I'm surprised that you, of all people, don't know propaganda when you read it. But it's not just you-your hivemates, the proctors, Brone, Horvil-everyone is falling for this drivel." Vigal wrung his hands as if trying to cleanse them of a foul and noxious liquid.

Natch searched his mental catalog of conversations with the neural programmer, but this outburst of emotion from Vigal was unprecedented. Natch never imagined that Vigal had given much thought to his education, much less had any passionate convictions about it.

"Krone believes he is ready to start his own business," Vigal con tinued firmly. "Let him. He is a vicious person headed for a vacuous career, and he will be sorry he turned down a few extra years of study without the pressures of the marketplace. But you, Natch, you're better than that. You are not ready to run your own company. If you jump into the fiefcorp world too quickly, you will regret it."

Natch reeled back, stunned, and sat on the edge of a stone planter. He had never received a reprimand from Serr Vigal, and now it stung like a jolt from Brone's static electricity program. "So, what would you have me do?" he spat out bitterly.

"Natch, I can't have you do anything," said Vigal. Already his concentration was beginning to dissipate, to fade into everyday melancholy. "Once you return from initiation, you'll be old enough to make your own choices. You can subscribe to your own L-PRACGs, pledge to whatever creeds you choose. You can solicit capitalmen for funds and start your own fiefcorp, if you want. But ... if I could wish anything for you, it would be that you would take an apprenticeship somewhere close ... somewhere I can keep an eye on you." His face turned an embarrassed red.

So that's what this is all about, thought Natch. He hadn't expected a sermon from his legal guardian-in fact, he hadn't expected Vigal to show up today at all. But now that the sermon had become a referendum on his parenting skills, things were starting to make sense.

Serr Vigal exhaled deeply and stretched his arms out behind his back, as if he had just removed a heavy weight from his back. Natch realized his guardian had been rehearsing this speech for some time. "I can see the look in your face," said his guardian softly. "I've seen your scores on the bio/logics exams, Natch. Best in your class."

"Second best," the boy whispered venomously. Brone's smug face leered at him from the corners of his mind.

"It doesn't matter. The point is, I know you are expecting lots of offers from the capitalmen. No, you don't have to tell me about your meetings-I already know. I'm not asking you to make any decisions right now. We'll talk about it again in twelve months. All I ask for now is that you keep your eyes and ears open, and consider the idea of taking an apprenticeship-any apprenticeship-after initiation. And be careful out there."

The boy frowned and kicked at the moss growing between the flagstones. "You don't have to baby me. I know how to take care of myself."

"Yes," sighed Vigal under his breath, "and sometimes I am afraid that is all you know."

Natch was used to prowling the hallways of the Proud Eagle alone at night. He had learned to move in total silence, not out of any fear of punishment, but so he could concentrate on the staccato language of settling floorboards and restless insects. The kinds of noises only heard in places built prior to the invention of self-compressing buildings.

On the night before initiation, the halls were packed. Teenagers roamed from room to room in blatant violation of curfew, saying tearful goodbyes, pledging their undying love, settling old scores. Natch saw at least a dozen couples sneak behind closed doors for one last romp on the Sigh. Nervous giggles abounded. He took a furtive glance down the hallway to the proctors' wing. They were following the time-honored tradition of looking the other way and getting drunk.

Over the past week, Natch had been studiously reading the drudge forecasts of the bio/logic market. This year, the demand for fresh programming talent had reached a critical mass. The Meme Cooperative's rules forbid fiefcorps and memecorps from signing on apprentices or providing start-up capital before graduation from the hive. But Len Borda's post-Plunge economy was churning out opportunity much quicker than warm bodies, and so many companies were willing to risk the Cooperative's tepid penalties.

Natch had studied the laws of supply and demand. What better time to raise money for a fiefcorp than the night before initiation?

Downstairs, he stretched out on a sofa in the atrium to await the arrival of the capitalman Figaro Fi. It was the fifth late-night rendezvous Natch had arranged this week with the power brokers in the fiefcorp world, and the most important yet. The rich and eccentric Fi had bankrolled some of the most spectacular successes on Primo's. Lucas Sentinel and the Deuteron Fiefcorp both owed their laurels to Figaro's generous assistance, as did the Patel Brothers, the rising young stars of the bio/logic scene. Natch was surprised to get a meeting with the capitalman at all, and readily agreed to his conditions-a meeting in the middle of the night, when Figaro was halfway through his working day in Beijing. Natch explained that the network was offlimits to students so late. He took it as a good omen that Fi agreed to multi to Omaha instead.