David Edelman - Infoquake

The tube could have deposited Natch right at the gates of the Surina compound, but he wanted the full effect of approaching it from a distance. I've already wasted several hours on the tube, he thought. Why not a few more minutes on foot?

Natch hustled through the crowded streets and tried to keep his mind blank. The people of Andra Pradesh rushed about at a frenetic pace as if galvanized by the presence of the Surinas in their midst. Conversations were louder, clothing more vivid. People of all colors, classes and creeds seemed to blend in here, much like the buildings that surrounded them. L-PRACG security guards, street performers, vendors of exotic fruits and vegetables, businesspeople, assembly-line programmers, hoverbird traders and cargo haulers, rambunctious children: here in Andra Pradesh, distinctions blurred.

Finally, he reached the base of the mountain. A dozen guards stood before the gate wearing the green and blue uniforms of Creed Surina. Was it just a figment of Natch's imagination, or were they fingering the triggers of their dartguns with a little too much anxiety?

After a few minutes of identity checking, the guards waved Natch through the gate. Two grim-faced women in uniform motioned for him to follow them up the steep mountainside road to a courtyard large enough for a small army procession. They found their way to the Center for Historic Appreciation, a squat pentagonal building in the classic Greek style. It was a scientific museum of sorts, full of haphazardly arranged curio tables and marble statues of the Surina dynasty laid out in solemn, self-important poses. There was even a statue of Margaret as a child sitting rapturously at the feet of her father.

Security guards were everywhere, dartguns drawn and signaling to one another with choppy gestures that Natch could only assume was a form of battle language. The complex appeared to be devoid of visitors, however. Finally, the two guards led Natch down a long hallway and, without a word, deposited him at the door at its end. He opened the door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

Natch immediately found himself on a floating platform in a massive library. There was no sign of the exterior hallway; the door he had come through stood by itself with no visible means of support.

SeeNaRee, thought Natch with distaste.

The hexagonal platform was merely one of a thousand identical platforms Natch could see stretching off in every direction, each connected to its neighbors by narrow walkways, like beads on a string. Bookshelves lined four walls of each platform. Thirty-two treepaper books of equal size and weight filled each shelf, as if they were just a small part of an unimaginably vast encyclopedia. Natch looked around in vain for some sign of his host, for any human presence at all. After a few minutes, impatient, he reached for one of the leather-bound volumes and flopped it open on the large conference table in the platform's center.

FSLFJ WOPSF 0 SLJ!

Thwlk po sdl wopi fndvl fdgf poipwytpw, Wtlkd woir z pod. Lsdkf wienhf sdflglsksgd sldkjf? Wogih spapapa slgihd. Qqq! Qqq!

"Never read your Borges, did you?" came a voice behind him. Natch turned and found himself face-to-face with Margaret Surina.

Marcus Surina's daughter had aged quite a bit since that anonymous InfoGather image he had seen the other day. Not even bio/logics could totally conceal the wrinkles on her forehead, the slight stoop of her shoulders, the tinge of gray that permeated her once coal-black hair. Only Margaret's eyes remained intense and unblemished, as if they would remain brightly lit long after the rest of the flesh had withered away.

"Borges?" said Natch.

"Jorge Luis Borges," replied Margaret. "This library is his creation."

The name meant nothing to Natch, and a quick inquiry to the Meme Cooperative fiefcorp listings came up with no results. "Never heard of him," he said. "Is he a programmer?"

A smile descended onto Margaret's face as if from a great height. "He was a writer. From antiquity, from before the Autonomous Revolt. He talked about an infinite library with books that contained every possible combination of words and letters. What you were reading was just one of its countless permutations." She had a grating habit of enunciating every syllable of every word, even those that typically stayed silent or piggybacked on a neighboring phoneme. Ev-e-ry poss- si-ble com-bin-nay-shun. Count-less per-me-yu-tay-shuns.

Natch shook his head in annoyance and slammed the book shut. He enjoyed intellectual puzzles, but had little patience for artists. "So why are we here?"

"It's a new innovation that we recently installed in all the Surina conference rooms," said Margaret. "The room automatically gauges your mood and chooses an appropriate bit of SeeNaRee. We have thousands of varieties in our data banks, virtual environments for every occasion. This is a museum, after all." Vir-tu-al en-vi-run-ments for every occ-ay-zhun.

Natch leaned over the railing and saw only stairs and platforms without end. "I wasn't thinking about any library," he sniffed.

Margaret gave a coy smile as if sharing an inside joke. "Ah, this is an ongoing complaint," she said. "People say that the program doesn't always pick the moods and emotions that they expect. The programmer says we are not always aware of what is going on in our subconscious mind. Personally, I find that to be a rather charming and unexpected benefit. However, if you prefer something more traditional ... With a flick of her wrist, the bodhisattva banished the library to oblivion, to be replaced by a featureless dining room with angular furniture.

Natch felt a surge of irritation rise inside of him, and quickly masked it with a PokerFace 83.4b program. Was Margaret trying to test the limits of his patience, or was this just more paranoia?

"Perhaps you would like a tour of the facilities before we dine," said the bodhisattva.

When they reached the end of the hallway, Natch realized that he and Margaret were not alone. He took a quick glimpse over his shoulder and discovered that they were being shadowed by an imposing hulk of a man with enormous biceps and a pale blonde ponytail slung over one shoulder.

"The atrium of the Surina Center for Historic Appreciation," said

Margaret as they walked into a vast domed space. "I don't know whether you got a chance to see it when you came in." The room was littered with bland statues celebrating the great pioneers of science: Aloretus Monk, Tobi Jae Witt, Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton. Sheldon Surina had a prominent place in the canon, of course, as did his protege and sometime rival Henry Osterman. "We try to ease visitors in to the deeper exhibits with something gentle on the eyes," she said, though there were no visitors around to illustrate her point. She motioned at the hallways behind each scientist, all clearly labeled with his or her respective achievement: Relativity Hall. Subaether Court. Gravity Way.

Natch gave a polite nod. The Surinas' inane tourist attractions did not interest him, not when he had to figure out the mystery of this towering figure with the blonde ponytail. The man stayed half a dozen paces behind them like a bodyguard might, and gestured to the sentries lurking at every corner using a hand weighed down with an excessive number of gold rings. But if he were part of the security staff, wouldn't he be wearing the standard green-and-blue Surina livery instead of loose tan breeches and an open-necked shirt?

Then the three of them stepped out of the Center for Historic Appreciation into the central courtyard, and Natch caught sight of a thin copper collar suspended around the man's neck. An Islander!

Natch wondered how he could have missed the other signs: the uneven muscles that sprouted from manual labor instead of electronic OCHRE stimulation, the ruddy complexion from too much time in the sun, the small scars running up and down his arms. Certainly, Margaret couldn't be depending on this man for physical protection. What good were those tree trunk-sized arms without bio/logics?