bBook Author's Pixie

 

 

Jik Dain Bedlip

     Four dining areas reached out from the kitchen. Tonight, only the favorite, with its view of the Ngoro-Ngoro gorge and the Laetoli savannah beyond, contained tables, lights, and people. Sculpted within a buttress of lava, the room burbled with conversation, serious and amused, underlaid with the clink and clatter of dining. Each of twelve tables hosted ten diners in a setting that enabled them to eat and talk, but also enjoy the darkened plain as beams from four moons stroked it.
     Gazing out those expansive windows, Dain admired the wide, golden swaths of light, brightening and softening, as the moons shifted overhead. He appreciated the mutating pockets of shadow, now deep, now mottled, now pallid. He hated the muddy boundaries between.
     "Jik Dain," said Gissing from her virtual place halfway down Dain's table. "How will my restaurant tacticians recognize members of other combines also friendly to our cause?"
     Dain broke his reverie, turned, and surveyed the oblong table. On both sides, executives of Le Coeur de la Patrie appeared in this shifting meeting/will-be-seen. These last ten wore variations of the uniform for the evening: high-collared long coats of linen-white, matching floor-length trousers or skirts, and tie-less shirts in assorted lush colors. They were apparently finishing their cheese course while they discussed, even argued, their petty and personal aspects of Operation Heart Transplant, yet always, always kept part of their attention on him — just like the one-hundred ten before them, one table at a time, as orchestrated by the dining area's automata during the succession of courses. Physically, the ten sat together at one table in the four ranks of three, but virtually, as holographic images, they shared conversation with Dain, alone at his table set apart in the dark.
      Their obeisance nettled him. Why can't they obey without fawning? Don't they have any pride?
     Dain summoned patience and tried to answer Gissing as if he hadn't heard, and answered, this question at least eleven times already this evening. "Messages, regardless of transport within Byukan-Hamil channels, will remain encrypted with Le Coeur keys. If you don't see our glyph, the sender is not one of us. Physically, we will also wear the glyph." He touched the stylized heart pinned to his left lapel and included the others at the table with a gesture. "Before this evening is complete, you all will be wearing this symbol." He fixed Gissing with a direct look. "Good question!"
     The woman sat back, blinking her appreciation. The rest of the meeting returned to their conversations.
     Fondly, Dain recalled days gone by as he, Lugar, and Thy, as Le Coeur's chief executives, nurtured these same people, planning meetings virtual and physical, scampering through them. Focus, push, and move on, coaxing their recruits, scattered over a continent, toward a single goal, bringing them around and forming them up into an executive structure, instilling cohesion and dedication, tapping into all their minds, refining and implementing the best ideas.
     He yearned for the future, moments away now, when the three of them would stand before this organization and invoke it. Rhetoric would echo from the lava walls. Loyalty and fervor would fill the hearts and minds of every person here. At the end, they would issue forth into the world as conquerors. And he, Jik Dain Bedlip, would lead them out of the shadows of secrecy into a blaze of power.
      The banquet de rigueur in between seemed interminable.
     Overall, though, the dinner had progressed nicely. Conversation throughout the room had been lively, good-spirited. The food, drawn from many of the cultures represented on Popovich, and by extension, in Le Coeur, had smelled wonderful, savory, inviting. The courses had flowed well, complementing, contrasting, as one impromptu team of members after another performed in the kitchen. Dain, of course, had eaten nothing; he'd downloaded a full bottle of chyme just three days ago.
     Dain's llevar interrupted his musing this time. The device gnawed delicately at a nerve within his shoulder, like a spider exploring a meal, and cued him for the next course. Released at last!
     Promptly, Dain addressed his guests: "Excuse me. Time for dessert." The last course before the speeches, the only one he could spend alone. He snapped out the words, "Meeting adjourned."
     Every other person and place setting vanished. For them, the congruence of physical, logical, and virtual reality was restored, over there in the lighted ranks of tables.
     Over here, separated in all aspects of reality, Dain had commanded that advantage throughout the banquet. Physical separation, emphasized by the dark that now washed over the table. Logical separation, monitored by alarm barriers of coordinated photons, enforced, if necessary, by hidden barriers of metal and web. Virtual separation, compromised by the expectations of the led upon the leader, now reclaimed because he demanded solitude during dessert. Joy, part relief, part anticipation, flowed over him.
     Deep in shadow, safe, truly alone, Dain surveyed the dining area. He knew every face in the hall, underlit as it was by veiled lamps. He noted Lugar and Thy, at separate tables, physically engaged with the cadre. Most of them were quiet now, waiting as the Entremets Team passed among them, removing cheese plates, replacing them with the next course. The rest, unable to discipline themselves completely, murmured quietly in cozy tête-á-tête. They pleased him, despite their shortsightedness. He smiled, a faint pulling of muscles, and turned his face and thoughts away.
     Dain knew exactly how he was going to use his isolation. He would celebrate this moment of realization with his alters, re-united — though never integrated. For the first time, he poised ready to reclaim his life. He had navigated the dungeons of Byukan-Hamil and pilfered enough keys of power. He had formed Le Coeur to storm the bastions of Continent Popovich once he navigated the Em-Deh's ubiquitous enforcement of Pattern Languages and unlocked the policyware gates. He had assembled forces equal to the task of reforming the world that had shattered him so long ago.
     First, the Network of Learning had ripped him from his snug childhood home, then other patterns — Scattered Work, Old People Everywhere, University as a Marketplace, Children in the City, Something Roughly in the Middle — had flung him, helpless, confused, over the cliffs of Passage onto the rocks of adulthood. He had survived as a loose network of stunted personalities. He didn't know how many other people adapted as he did, how many limped through in some other manner, how many succumbed to the pressures, but few deserved such suffering. Since it was built into the world, he would change that world, so that others new to life would not face such overwhelming challenges. And then he could rest, finally together, but never whole.
     In that same manner, he intended to experience the beginning of the end to those drastic patterns that had nearly destroyed him.
     Dain pushed his chair back and slumped slightly, easing the commanding posture he had held throughout the successive will-sees. He closed his eyes and dipped into a trance, like sliding one arm into the sleeve of a coat. He stretched that psychic arm, up along the imaginary stoop with its grainy and solid treads, grasped the brass doorknob, and opened the door. Come join the party, he invited his alter egos and tugged on their web of connection.
     Little Jikki emerged first, slowly, tentatively. Dain hugged the boy and showed him to his jumpseat, which hovered right beside Dain's center of perception. Then, earnest Bedlip, virile JDB, demented JDainB, and even the wraith walked down the steps into Dain's mind. He spread his arms in welcome and indicated other jumpseats arrayed around him. JDB preferred to stand.
     Dain settled his mind like his body and before relaxing totally, tweaked his perceptions and allowed sensations to flow through to every one of his alters. He felt positively complete.
      =Aren't we all coming out?= Jikki asked quietly.
     Dain glanced around and noticed an unused jumpseat. He whisked it away. = We're all here. JDB's not sitting, that's all. Enjoy the ceremony. Listen to the speeches. Cherish this, the last moments of quiet before the final campaign in our war for liberation.= He smiled and settled in once more.
     A moment later, a member of the Entremets Team appeared beside Dain and offered a flute of crystal layered with thick puddings. Alternating gold and brown, the dessert tempted his body. Then, on top, meant as a reward for his soul as well, glittered an glyph of Le Coeur de la Patrie. Dain nodded his thanks and waved the dish away.
     =Not so fast!= JDB snarled. =I'll eat that!=
     Dain could see that the Entremets Team was gathering along the inner dark wall, their backs to the kitchen enclosure, their heads and shoulders lit by the overhead lights reserved for these types of moments. He knew his duty to them, had planned to conduct it from the dark — and was more than glad to pass it on. Then you lead the ceremony as well, he said.
      =So I shall.=
     JDB flowed forward, so fast Dain felt abrupt pressure. All senses faded, but for once, did not blank out. Dain found himself seated behind JDB at the center of perception. Jikki rode his jumpseat quietly on one side, and on the other, an empty place — Again? Dain vaporized it. When he focused forward, he could see the dessert flute, a blur sitting on a fuzzy table. He tolerated the gesture, though his stomach would thrash later with the unaccustomed food.
     JDB sat them up straight and subvocalized a command. Light broke over them from above. JDB chanted, "Attention, attention, attention."
     The room fell silent.
      "Assister á!" he directed.
     They all, including JDB, lifted spoons and tasted the thick confections set before them. JDB radiated pleasures: bittersweet chocolate, butterscotch, chunks of hazelnut. Then they applauded. The team under the spotlights smiled. A few in the crowd whistled. Team members bowed, then dispersed to their own tables. Everyone returned attention to desserts and conversations.
     =Who are all these people?= Jikki said, excitement pinching his voice.
     Bedlip answered, =Each one reports in some way to the Byukan-Hamil Consortium.= He appeared proud, even wistful.
     Dain said, What is that? It is like noting that birds ply the air. There is more to these people. I chose them —
     =With some help from Lugar and Thy,= JDB inserted.
     =More thinking than doing,= the wraith croaked, describing the executives before them. Dain — and JDB — let him continue. =More service than manufacturing, more administering than grappling day-to-day with customers and satisfying them.=
      =Condiments,= JDB muttered. =More taste than substance.=
     =But,= Bedlip interrupted. =But every one of them is still reaching up. He poises to leap higher, to take more power when we re-order society, when Operation Heart Transplant rips out the old hierarchy and installs a new one!=
     Hungry, Dain agreed. Eager to work, eager to improve. Easier to understand and control.
      JDainB giggled. JDB joined him with a belly laugh.
     =Do you think to fool us, Dain?= JDB said. =We know why you took these out of all the ambitious zhee-tely on this continent. They are our kith in darkness, and we theirs.=
     I know nothing of such secrets, Dain protested. An unspoken, unwritten, and strictly enforced rule of Le Coeur forbade implicit and explicit discussion of the foul recesses of each other's life. And definitely, they allowed no expression of such urges in the Inn or associated with any of Le Coeur's public or private events.
     =We do!= JDB crowed while JDainB chorused wordless agreement.
     Suddenly their vision jumped about the room, focusing on one face after another, each lingering and merging into a disjointed mosaic of deadly sins. =Only a sample,= JDB said.
     Pricked, even embarassed by JDB's presumption, Dain reached for the center of perception. The web of connection trapped him, holding him down. He saw now that JDainB rode JDB's muscular back, his deranged form adding mass and force. Together, they shifted the tricky balance between Dain and his alters. Together, they could banish Dain to oblivion, a senseless nook of their brain where he would be cut off from everything but knowing that JDB was leading Le Coeur into unpremeditated disaster.
     JDainB leered. =A mere whiff of their fetid games.= He flapped a crooked hand in triumph.
     =Politics without principle,= JDB announced and showed them a cascade of images that starred the highlighted faces. They saw strategists who courted other strategists while their tacticians and combines floundered in overwork and unguided decisions; yet rewards failed to pass below the tight circle of managers' noses fixed firmly in managers' assholes.
     JDB had never agreed with Dain's jackal approach to their mutual goal of reshaping the world; like a lion, without artifice, without strategy, he preferred frontal attack. Now, on the eve of retribution, of vindication, of revenge, JDB struck for dominance in a psychic coup d'etat.
     Scrambling to parry, Dain surged and the images morphed. Each strategist glowed with power that flowed outward in the form of people and matériel. They made things happen.
     =Wealth without work.= JDB picked new faces, settled them on obese sea-gulls, lounging among the ruins of expensive meals and downing exquisite liqueurs. They murmured reports into llevars and dumped them into the Mirnaya Direvnya before moving on to hassle more hard-working combines.
     But JDB's lack of finesse weakened his grasp on the world inside and outside their brain. Dain the adult, not JDB the vehement, emerged out of Bedlip's adolescent successes and failures. Dain, as host personality, had led them to this verge of mutual triumph.
     Buying time, Dain reworked the sea-gull scenes into images of eagles, keen-eyed carriers of consistency, reporters of inside knowledge.
     =Commerce without morality.= In a forest of facts, a product tactician highlighted certain trees, sickly with unfavorable results, or warped with unexpected side effects, or stunted by lack of performance. Following docilely behind, statisticians applied encryption to the marked trees and turned them invisible or shuffled them together until they appeared healthy.
     Even as these images settled into focus — JDB allied with JDainB? — Dain overwrote them with a collage of happy customers, ordering more. Was JDB desperate? Or subtle?
     =Ah!= JDB had learned finesse at last.
     I must steal, then, from JDB. I will be — bold? focused? harsh? swift? strong? tough?
     JDB pressed his advantage. =Pleasure without conscience.= In garish chambers, men and women, one, two, or more at a time —
     Dain boldly washed the attack away.
     =Education without character.= Teachers shriveled students with spitting insults and calculated rebuffs. Training classes squinted at fuzzy graphics and misspelled lists while the instructor chanted from a secret text.
     Dain faltered. The sin struck too close to home. But Le Coeur contains no such ogres.
     =How na‹ve,= JDB retorted and pushed on. =Science without humanity.=
     Dain rallied. As he reached out, sudden strength flowed through him. He normalized each face as JDB highlighted it.
      =Worship without sacrifi — .=
     In a rush, abrupt, sourceless, Dain understood how to foil JDB. Surging with new insight, he blanketed their overlapping minds with a different kind of peepshow. They all saw JDB, wearing their face, as he coaxed a child out of the sanctuary of her fears and into a cheery alcove stacked with pastries and bubbly drinks through a door that would never open for that child again.
     JDainB twitched — revulsion? delight? no matter — and broke his grip on JDB. Dain struck. He clutched that part of his web of connection and yanked. The twisted form of JDainB flicked up and away. Dain flexed a hand and JDainB imploded, banished once more to his own skimpy, unkempt, lonely mind.
     Dain jumped, sliding his consciousness out through the neural paths of their body, lancing his psychic focus into the center of perception, and exploding out into physical reality again. All senses burst in upon him and he consumed them eagerly.
     Ecstatic, he reached within one more time, hauling on the web. JDB, already staggering, slammed backwards. Then Dain planted him like a stake and glowered into his twitching eyes.
     =Where else would we go?= Dain asked. andersprech(Who else would have us? Who else could stand even a hint of that? Who else couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't judge us — even if they did know our secret?)
     =Time!= Not JDB, but another alter.
     Dain jumped with panic. He focused outward again and looked across the dining area. Most of the executives had finished dessert. Some of them peeked over at him, nervous, even impatient. His llevar twanged an insistent alert; his shoulder ached in aftermath.
     Time to charge out of this darkness into the light! He turned away from JDB. =Thanks,= he murmured to whoever had alerted him, settled into his center of perception, stirred his body with a deep breath, then stood up. He cued the can-hear permanently set up with the other chief executives.
     "Ready?" he asked them quietly and heard Lugar and Thy agree.
     Dain ordered lights. A spotlight showered its glare upon him. The room quieted. Everyone in it turned to him.
     =You left me out here for a speech?= JDB quarreled.
     =This moment begins a new life for all of us,= Dain snapped.
     =Nothing I don't already know.=
      =Listen and learn, JDB.=
     The tactical leadership of Le Coeur de la Patrie awaited him, but Dain stole another split second. He reached back and caressed the wraith, and the distress and sorrow of those years spilled forth to weight the words of his prologue.


     Dain swept a hand toward the windows and gazed into the profound darkness beyond them. "I see a land filled with idleness and despair." He spoke quietly, yet reached every ear in the room. "I see a people plagued with doubt, deprived of opportunity, suffering under the disregard of the very strategic leaders entrusted to care for them."
     Slowly, he turned back to his audience. "We in this room know their despair. We understand the depths of their loss. Indeed, we feel the full scourge of these times on Continent Popovich, for we, unlike them, know that Our Founders taught us better than this."
     These words, oft-repeated within Le Coeur, excited Dain. Out there, around those tables, he knew, people burned with them. He saw heads stirring as some tried to swallow lumps in their throats. Others raised eyes shiny with pride and nostalgia. The rest waited, bodies still, minds afire.
     "Our Founders laid down patterns to guide our society, but left it to us to apply those patterns to our lives.
     "We have failed them."
     Heads lifted. Shoulders trembled. Chairs creaked. Small individual movements, yet as a group, the vanguard of Le Coeur seethed. As expected.
     "Our Founders also taught us that in all adversity lies opportunity. We gather this evening because we choose to seize this opportunity."
     Dain raised a hand to focus their attention. "Like this:
     "Le Coeur de la Patrie offers a proposal to the Continent Popovich! We propose to deliver this land out of bondage, to liberate you — and ourselves. We propose to clean out the bureaucracy that fetters all of our spirits and clogs our minds and chains our bodies into a framework that violates the very meaning of our society. We propose to redefine the Pattern Language of Popovich as Our Founders intended it to be, and re-establish life as a joyous, freely competitive, and uplifting enterprise.
     "We propose to bring the Heart of Our Country back to life!"
     Dain heard his words and savored them as ideal in content, emotion, and delivery. The crowd heard his words and confirmed his judgment. They cheered. They cried. They chanted, "Heart of Our Country!"
     I have unified their hearts and made them aware of it. Now to focus their minds on the future as well.
     "Zhee-tely," Dain said quietly. He let the word seep out through the celebration, praising yet calming it. After a moment of quiet, he went on, "This evening commemorates a solemn and long-anticipated occasion. The eve of our vindication, the succor to our concerns, the beginning of a new era for our beloved continent."
      They sat, silent and immobile, as though muted by the challenge and promise of the future.
     "We have all labored over our plan for Operation Heart Transplant." Some of the audience relaxed for this familiar territory. "We have honed its concepts and schedule, which we focused on the three perspectives that encompass any organization, be it combine, consortium, or community." Dain saw smiles of recognition creep onto faces. "Those perspectives are Business, People, and Technology.
     "We've always felt comfortable about starting the Operation with our comprehensive approach to Business issues, handled by Le Coeur's Persuasion Combine, led by me. And we've known how to complete the Operation with a strong application of the appropriate Technology, administered by our Power Combine, led by Sous Thy.
     "However, we've never found leverage in the People venue that would enable us to merge everything into a single, viable Operation. I'm happy to say that the problem has now been solved, as Ges Lugar, Tactician for the Propaganda Combine, will tell you in a few moments.
     "But first—" Dain halted and raised a finger. He whispered to his llevar to disperse the wards around his table. He reached out to Bedlip for inspiration and tone. He broke his pose by clasping his hands at the small of his back, then wandered out from behind his table. The gathering shifted to follow him and in so doing, relaxed even more, as he intended.
     "As tactician for Le Coeur's Persuasion Combine —" Dain took on his first smile "— I have already started delivery of our liberation services. In fact, you might say that Har Norma Byukan herself put me to work on it."
      His audience settled down for the story.
     "Three days ago, she rewarded my years in Byukan-Hamil Direvnya — long, grueling years, mind you —" They chuckled. "She offered to me — no, I must say it this way: she ordered me to take from her the authority and responsibility, that is, the power, to wrest control of this continent from her incompetent grasp." Some laughed at the irony.
     "With that imprimatur, I have already taken charge of more than eighty-two percent of the essential combines — your combines and others — in every region of Popovich. The rest will come my way in the next few days." He pointed a finger. "Gissing, as of yesterday morning, who is your boss?"
     Startled, Gissing blurted, "You!" She sniggered.
     Dain took a step and pointed again. "As of two days ago, mid-afternoon, who is your boss?"
     The barrel-chested man boomed out, "You!"
     Finishing out the oratorical triad, Dain leveled his finger again and raised his eyebrows. A whole table chorused, "You!"
     Dain swept his arm over all their heads. "Within Byukan-Hamil, I now manage all of you; no longer will Har Norma and the other Partners impede our work.
     "Within Le Coeur de la Patrie, along with Ges Lugar and Sous Thy, I lead you; together, we will manage the greatest consortium on the continent." Let them think I mean Byukan-Hamil. I don't, but I leave it to Lugar to make that clear.
     "Victory is ours!"
     Applause and cheers swelled around him and washed across the room. Dain waited, smiling, until they subsided. Then, he reached slowly into the air in front of him. "First, we dominate Direvnya Ganj Dareh." He snapped his hand closed, then raised the fist. "Next, we rule Continent Popovich!"
      Approval surged through the crowd once more ... and abated.
     "Down to Business," he said in a more casual tone. "We in Persuasion will set the stage for the other combines of Le Coeur de la Patrie. We will do that by degrading service. Since we control everything that goes into and out of Ganj Dareh and everything that goes on within Ganj Dareh, we will soon make life in that direvnya miserable. And a miserable Collective is bound to hire new people to care for their health and welfare, a new anshin combine — us!"
     Dain moved out among the tables. "Let me introduce you to the key players in this phase of our plan." He brushed by chairs, leaving a wake of turning heads. "Zhee-tely, these are the people whom you and I support from now on. These are our front-line tacticians in the most important competition of our lives, the contest to win back our continent."
     He stopped and spread his arms over one particular table. "Our tacticians in Ganj Dareh!" Clapping awoke like the hesitant rain that leads a storm, then faded as Dain stepped closer.
     He started at one end of the table and laid a hand on a shoulder. "I give you Gus Kubizek. The people of Ganj Dareh, like everyone else on this planet, buy their durable goods through the Mirnaya Direvnya, but somebody has to deliver them. Kubizek's combine takes care of that critical step in Ganj Dareh for all Popovich products — that's sixty-eight percent of all deliveries — and he has achieved tactical influence over all intercontinental parcels, as well.
     "From now on, Kubizek assures us, all deliveries in Ganj Dareh will be slow. What took a day will take three. Two days will become five. Instead of ninety-nine percent success, they will degrade to seventy-three percent. Customer service will change from a delight of immediate resolution to an agony of waiting, repetition, and stupidity."
     Dain shrugged dramatically. "So, how often do people get deliveries? Some do, some don't." He held up a finger. "But everyone rides the gong-gong qi-che. In Popovich's patterns, Collectives associate all forms of transportation, so Kubizek takes care of the minibuses as well. The delays there cannot be as dramatic. You'll wait an extra day for a package, but let your bus be six-hundred seconds late and you'll cry for an investigation. We'll be managing to maximize aggravation, not instigate contract cancellation. Right, Kubizek?
     The man waved a hand in acknowledgment.
     "By the way, Kubizek, if your people in Ganj Dareh don't like being rude to their fellow zhee-tely, Ges Lugar can supply you with some people who won't mind at all."
     Dain emphasized that suggestion with a pat, then moved along to tap three heads in a row. "Gor Ritter. Arl Lueger. Jul Streicher. Their combines control utilities: Electricity. Water. Em-Deh. You all know what aggravates you when utilities fail: brief, intermittent interruptions, long failures of unknown duration, no response from service providers. Such inconveniences will multiply across Ganj Dareh with increasing severity — except for Em-Deh."
     Lifting his gaze, Dain dropped his bantering tone. "Ladies and gentlemen, we do not fool with the Mirnaya Direvnya. Understand this: nothing spreads rumors and discontent faster than an active meeting/will-be-heard; and Ganj Dareh takes their will-hear very seriously. Besides, we do not want to alert the Mirnaya-Direvnya's global combine by tampering with their beloved procedures. Although some interruptions would make people more nervous, eh, Streicher?"
     He scanned the crowd. Every eye focused on him. He said, "Too bad each residence generates its own electricity, so we can only affect people in factories, markets, and so on." Now he grinned. "And too bad each residence and business composts its own sewage; we could really do something with that, couldn't we?" Chuckles and guffaws greeted that suggestion.
     Still grinning, Dain gestured at the last person on this side of the table. "Gott Feder, salvage. What can be more irritating than committing some resource back to the Collective, and the people whose job it is to cart the trash away won't come and get it? Ganj Dareh will have a good chance to find that out, thanks to Feder here."
     Dain pointed across the table. "Ton Drexler, Arl Harrer, Ern Stroehm. They feed Ganj Dareh, through markets, restaurants, and gong-shi-tang, respectively. Food can be so temperamental, can't it, guys? Ganj Dareh will be short on staples, long on rotten produce. Hot servers will be cool and cold ones warm. And the staff? Well, 'cranky' only begins to describe it."
     Another gesture brought a new face to their attention. "Trik Eckart, construction. No building will go up or come down very fast. No road, conduit, or path will make progress. And since we built them, we run them, eh? On-going operations and maintenance of all public and private facilities will degrade. New detours will spring up, and old detours will become slower and messier.
     "And finally, we have Em Ilmaur, who performs as strategist for all recreation combines in our target city. Recreation is a very important outlet for people out of work, under pressure, and otherwise depressed. Only the Ganj-Dareh Collective won't get much release from their sports from now on, will they, Ilmaur?" Dain looked to his audience once more. "I'll leave the details to your imagination — and Ilmaur's."
     Finished, Dain walked away from the table, then whirled to spread his arms over it again. "I present the Team who will prepare Direvnya Ganj Dareh for conquest!"
     Cheers erupted, then settled into a steady chant of "Heart of the Country."
     Dain slowly drew a deep breath. Pleased, aroused, he acknowledged the crowd's enthusiasm, then waved them into quiet. One last point to make and he could yield the floor to Lugar.
     "What have I forgotten?" Dain said. "What essential service is not represented at this table?"
      "Anshin!" a gruff voice barked.
     "Correct, Ulrich." Dain directed attention to that speaker's table. "I introduce the Chiefs of Anshin Services for every Prime Direvnya on Continent Popovich — except Ganj Dareh." Enthusiastic applause burred through the room.
     Ulrich lurched to his feet. A walrus of a man, with drooping auburn mustachios and ponderous belly straining his lilac shirt, he wavered a little — Dain had warned him about drinking too much ethanol — as he blared his rehearsed line: "Ganj Dareh's Anshin Chief — one Doyle Phoebe Heejanus — does not belong to Le Coeur."
      Someone hissed; three others joined in.
     "It's adequate." Dain raised his hands to calm the contrived protests. "She gives us a target, for it will be Heejanus whom the people of Ganj Dareh blame for their troubles. It will be Heejanus' combine that fails them. And it will be Heejanus and her people who get fired by the Ganj-Dareh Collective for failure to perform. Then we take over."
     Dain paused, allowing for shouts. Instead, silence reigned. Le Coeur's cadre realized that success lay within reach. Dain strode back toward his table, breathing deeply and savoring the scent of conviction and commitment.
     When he spoke again, he whispered in honor of these emotions. "Business sets the stage, but we must control the People of Ganj Dareh before we can dominate them. How will we do that? I present Ges Lugar Sailie, Tactician for the Propaganda Combine."
     Dain sat down. His spotlight shut off. He leaned anxiously forward to watch his partner perform the speech they had rehearsed so many times yesterday.
     Lugar rose at his place near the room's center. In his own limelight, his fine blond-white hair shone above his tanned face.
     Applause pattered across Dain's mind. Jikki's rapid tapping, Bedlip's ardent beating of palms, the wraith's drumming of hands on thighs, even JDB's plodding clap, clap, clap, distracted by a touch of congratulations on his left side, but no one really there. Basking in his alters' praise, relaxing in his center of perception, Dain let Lugar's words sink in.
     "Commissioned with seducing the minds of the continent," the Propaganda Tactician said, "our combine faces considerable challenges—"
     "Like stuffing a virtual ballot box!" a hearty voice called from behind Lugar.
     Another zhee-tel spoke up: "How does someone taint the atmosphere of the Mirnaya Direvnya so its occupants see rose instead of pink?"
     Lugar swayed with the gibes, his eyes bright, his smile unmoving. Into the slack, he riposted sardonically, "It seems our first hurdles lie within Le Coeur itself. Tell me, Ulrich, what newstator clips the ether for you? Or does your wife tell you what to think? Not that you're ever home."
      Ulrich returned a moist and rude rasp filtered through his thick mustache.
     "We all know how real the Mirnaya Direvnya is," Lugar went on. "As Jik Dain has mentioned, we shall not spend our time there, even if we knew how to touch each resident on his or her virtual sojourns, which we don't." His hand dismissed the concern. "We will make our message felt through zhuhndí itself, through Ganj Dareh's physical life, that other reality — and its safety.
     "Right now, the zhee-tely of Ganj Dareh, in their role as Collective, are concerned with selecting a combine that will ensure their public safety for the next year. Byukan-Hamil, not just Doyle Phoebe Heejanus, must lose that contract, you know."
     Lugar paused, and his audience rewarded his pose. Those outside his combine, those who had not studied the issue, had never heard — or even thought — such a thing, and they set up a bustle of confusion.
     Dain smiled grimly. They didn't understand me before. They did not connect Heejanus' loss with Byukan-Hamil's. Go on, Lugar, lead them.
     Lugar held out both hands for quiet. He got it.
     "I know, I know," he continued. "If there is any apostasy on our continent, that is it." He shook his head as though perplexed. "But that prediction does two things for us.
     "First and more importantly, it resets our minds. For Byukan-Hamil is no longer our lifeblood, our raison d'être. We have led a schizoid existence, forced to live in a sour atmosphere as the consortium corrupts the core in every life on this continent. Now, we can begin to breathe the fresh air of our own direction, our own knowledge, our own consortium!"
     A rustle took over the room, like birds climbing into the air.
     "Secondly, that statement of apostasy outlines our challenge. We must implant that essential change — that rebellion against Byukan-Hamil — in enough Ganj Dareh minds so they will vote to terminate the current anshin contract before the competitive selection. And we have just twenty-six days to do it.
     "Note that BH's competitor, this Gatogrebok spin-off, loses as well because we preempt the selection."
     Lugar seemed pleased with the finesse, but his audience didn't care. They shrugged off the smile he spread around, so he moved on.
     "How do we accomplish this upheaval?" Lugar gestured to the west and the rugged mountain range that hemmed in the Laetoli Valley. "Our approach was given to us by Har Norma herself. She wants to flood Ganj Dareh with strangers, to saturate that Collective with change. We will ride our enemy's brainstorm to victory!
     "As we sit here, trains rumble on every track on the continent. Every unemployed and underemployed adult and their families swarm into Ganj Dareh. How many nights have we lamented those swollen numbers right here in this room?" He dropped his eyes and shook his head in commiseration and murmured, "Many, many people, just like us, but out-of-work through no fault of their own." He looked out over the crowd again.
     "Look to your left," he said. Most of his listeners did so. "Imagine a stranger. Look to your right." More heads turned. "Suppose you didn't know that person either. Does it make you uncomfortable?"
     Lugar let this pause drag on. Dain studied face after face, as they took on puzzlement, even impatience. Now, Lugar, go!
     Lugar threw up his hands. "Of course not!" He broke away from his place, stormed down an aisle. The spotlight moved with him. All other lights died. "You're content. You sit among comrades. At home, you and family are secure. All your basic wants are taken care of by your combine; if you lost your job, the Collective would care for you. Your neighbors look like you, probably even think like you.
     "You have no reason to resent other cultures, segregated as they are by neighborhoods, but a natural part of your community. In fact, you welcome them, if nothing else, for their cuisine.
     "That's how Yeibichai works! So many of our fundamental patterns exist to give you this feeling of comfort and trust — and constant interface with other ways of thinking. Why?"
     Lugar stood by the windows now. With the night behind him, its dark suffusing the room, he presided over them all. Dain bowed his head to receive Lugar's good words.
     "Our Founders valued competition as a mill to improve the human race. That belief pervades our society, our philosophy. And what is competition without differences? A grindstone without grit. Nothing changes, nothing progresses. Hence, our diversity patterns.
     "Of course, you say. What else? you ask." Lugar pulled that grin that emphasized his skull. "You're wrong. Humans by nature hate diversity. We are genetically wired to reject the outsider, wherever we find it, at home or abroad. Think of the words we use: stranger, alien, gaijin, foreigner, contalli, ger, newcomer, all loaded with emotion to warn us against The Other.
     "In fact, I argue that xenophobia made us human. The brainpower required to keep track of family — sister, brother, cousins of every kind — so we know who to kill and who not to, is enormous. With it, we conquered Gë and we challenge the stars.
     "We have always fought wars, on a greater and greater scale until it threatened our entire race. Just seventy-five Gë years ago, Our Founders fled such wars and took refuge on Yeibichai. That's why there are so many provisions promoting and enabling diversity in our Pattern Language."
     Dain understood the need for this rhetoric, to ensure that everyone in the room kept pace, arrived at the same point of philosophy at the same time. Still, Le Coeur already understood humanity's inherent bigotry better than anybody else on the planet. He sensed their psychic scars inflicted by it. He recognized their comradery as they retreated from it. Regardless of JDB's ranting images, he didn't know what brought the intolerance on — and didn't care. Neither did the other chief executives. Only the resulting fellowship mattered. He waited for Lugar to launch the next paragraph of his speech, a grand demand for commitment from his audience.
     Instead, the blond man, his cheeks suddenly flushed, pursed his lips and lowered his voice. "You of all people know what I mean. You're comfortable with the classic kind of diversity — race, creed, color, religion, gender — but you also know the bigot lying in everyone's heart.
     "You've all been there: a free-flowing, enjoyable conversation with friends. They're all telling stories. You want to join in, tell them what you did with your evening or how your last seduction went, but the words jam in your throat. Images pour through your mind: their faces broken with disgust, their bodies contorted by rejection, their future evasions, even condemnations. So you keep quiet.
     "They just refuse to understand your pleasures, don't they? Your escapes that help you manage reality. They won't even try; they just reject you — just because you like chewing or sniffing or smoking or injecting chemicals.
     "Or you like cheating on your royalty to the Collective.
     "Or you like pocketing a small percentage of every transaction your combine makes, or fondling little boys or girls, or selecting a vendor based on his presents, not his presentations, or dismissing charges against violators so you can blackmail them, or orgasms caused by pain or intensified by strangulation."
     Lugar paused, his blue eyes probing his audience. He had broken the rule, not specifically, but openly. Were his accusations correct? Dain squirmed, inferred it in everyone else there, yet as he looked out, he saw only stern confirmation of Lugar's words. In the grimness of their faces, the set of their bodies, they acknowledged his point.
     Narrow-eyed, Lugar declared, "That's why you're all here! You've been the victims of bigotry! You know it lies out there, ready to surface.
     "In Ganj Dareh, we have to overcome three generations who have pretended to be free of bigotry. We have to unwrap the human id and bare its natural wiring. We are going to use the worst parts of the human mind to gain our ends.
     "Do you have a problem with that?"
      "No!" A crash of allegiance, like crockery hurled into a fireplace.
     Dain sat up hard. Memories of JDB's and JDainB's accusations gusted through his mind — or was it their actual gloating, muffled by discretion and dungeon? Waves of chagrin followed. He had ignored — or denied — a rudimentary truth about Le Coeur, about his primary mechanism to achieve the power he craved. Had he ever known this, then siphoned it off to his alters? Or had they, filling the roles he had allocated to them, intercepted the knowledge, displaced him at times at the center of perception, even more times than he realized from seconds lost out of his life?
     He gasped, then grateful he sat alone, he hunched over to hide further reaction. That vision of JDB he had used to regain control, the pictures of a child amid pastries — that was real! He hadn't known its source; he'd seized it as a weapon and struck. He hadn't explored its implications; he'd profitted by its success and resumed his role in his brain and the banquet. Now he knew what JDB did with his time in charge of this body. He had thought his bond with Le Coeur came from the rarity of his fragmented personality; now he knew he and they shared depravity. But how did he know? Now of all times?
     Lugar's continuing words seeped into Dain's awareness. "At this point, allow me to introduce the Propaganda Combine."
     Reminded of a higher priority, Dain swam up through his confusion, broke its surface, rose above it. Doubts trickled over him as thoughts saying he had to resolve this crisis, work through its implications, and emerge as a synthesis. But habit rescued him, as it always did, by dispersing the doubts. He always dealt with emotional disturbances by stuffing them into a bag and sealing it shut. He did it again.
      Freed, he concentrated on Lugar's speech.
     "No, don't look around. None of the combine are here except me." The Propaganda tactician swept his hand around and back until it took their eyes out into the night again. "The rest are out there, riding trains, spreading out to their appointed direvnya, including Ganj Dareh, traveling now to get ready for Operation Heart Transplant.
     "Who are these people?" Lugar laughed. "Your years of supporting the Tlaxtli League — one-thousand, seven-hundred, sixty-four teams of forty-two ollomani each — have been rewarded. All that Geld, donated from your personal funds, but more often, appropriated from your combines' budgets, pays off now.
     "I have personally selected one-thousand, two-hundred, fifty-two rabblerousers from the league. Enroute to Ganj Dareh as we speak. The rest will form the enforcement squads of the Power Combine."
     Dain remembered the ollomani as they thronged over a tlaxtli arena. Disciplined, finely conditioned, loyal. Critical to Le Coeur's success. More than adequate for the role.
     "Picture the members of my combine. Clever: in their games, they studied other players and defined their tactics from what they saw. Confident: they have learned how to win battles with their minds as well as their bodies. Ruthless: always on teams, yet never the same one, each knows that success comes with the help of others, but never depends on it.
     "We shall bring the bite back to differences. We shall plumb human depths and arouse hate for The Other. We shall overcome generations devoted to the acceptance of diversity and turn these neighbors into enemies."
     Lugar drew a long, shuddering breath, then wandered slowly down an aisle between tables, the only lighted head in the room. Dain watched the glitter of glyphs, a starfield of devotion as the audience turned to follow. He admired the performance and its effect — and his joy in imminent success lifted toward the elation of victory.
     Quietly, Lugar spoke again: "We need some time to adapt to our new approach. Our Persuasion Combine —" he nodded smugly at Dain "— will take that time to begin the disruption of the Ganj-Dareh Collective. Gradually, their peaceful, trustworthy lives will fall apart — at the same time that thousands of strangers pour into their city.
     "And these newcomers, these guest workers — Die Gastarbeiter, as Har Norma would call them, since she invited them to Ganj Dareh — these humans are already stretched to the ends of their endurance by their non-productive lives."
     Lugar stopped behind his seat. He held up his hand again, at the end of a long arm, its large fingers spread like talons. "We will have the Home Team, the Ganj-Dareh Collective." He lifted his other hand, fingers crooked with threat, high over his head. "We will have the Visiting Team, Die Gastarbeiter. Mix in our Propaganda Combine, pushing, calling names, burning sacred places, insulting favorite teams, making injury and insult an everyday occurrence, proving that aliens are real.
     "The Home Team will fear to step outside their homes." His left hand trembled. "They will hate the sight of strangers."
     Lugar shook his right hand. "The Visiting Team, helpless, homeless, will form gangs to protect themselves.
      "No one will stand together. Even the anshin won't be safe to walk the paths of Ganj Dareh."
     He rammed his hands together, fingers meshing painfully. "The fabric of society will scorch and tear." He brought his locked hands down slowly. "No one will be able to mend it, especially not Chief Heejanus, especially not with the kind of help she'll receive from our table of Anshin Chiefs, especially not with our rabblerousers tugging at it constantly.
     "Soon, the Ganj-Dareh Collective, from the safety of their homes, will rush to vote — not for the BH incumbents who betrayed them to outsiders — not for those incompetent fools from Gatogrebok. The Ganj-Dareh Collective, in desperation, will terminate their anshin combine, the only people who stand between them and chaos.
     "At that moment, our Power Combine —" he bowed in Thy's direction "— will take over the roads and paths and buildings in the name of public safety. Grateful, the Ganj-Dareh Collective will award us the breached contract, and life will go miraculously back to normal, except that Le Coeur de la Patrie — we — will control it."
     Recognizing the end of Lugar's speech, Dain whispered, "Well done, Lugar." Simple words of reward for an exquisite feeling of completion, of destiny, of relief.
     Across the way, Lugar inclined his head in acknowledgment.
      "My turn!" Thy crowed over the link.
     Thy had disdained rehearsal yesterday. Dain could only hope she would be effective in both scaring and reassuring these executives. They had to know that Le Coeur marshalled the brute power to win — as last resort. Both Dain and Lugar agreed that Thy's combine should never do more than secure their victory. If Persuasion and Propaganda succeeded, the Power Combine would merely walk the paths of Ganj Dareh — without the need for weapons.
     Dain had driven violence from his personality, but he could never dismiss its usefulness, so he kept JDB around. So, too, Thy and her shocktroops. In the end, to keep Thy from spoiling their prize, he would have to let JDB provide a quick, violent solution to the argument. In the meantime, he had to foster them both.
     Lights flooded the room.
     Dain clenched his eyes, then ducked them into his hands. A moment later, he peeked out between his fingers. At the tables, some people cringed; most froze. Le Coeur de la Patrie, vulnerable as a gazelle caught by a hunter's searchlight. Dain shuddered, knowing Thy wanted exactly this effect.
     Squinting, Dain lowered his hands. The dining area had lost its cozy shadows; the audience sat beneath stark vaults of gleaming lava, their curves long and low. Lugar had dropped from sight, though Dain found him easily, slouched in his chair. Instead, Thy stalked among tables where people sat suddenly exposed to this simply dressed warrior.
     Squat, dark, powerful, Thy didn't make her gender obvious, but her presence was. "Tonight, men and women move," she growled. "Leave all parts of Popovich. Gather in secret rendezvous far from Ganj Dareh. They will provide our means for securing control over society.
     "For now, they walk, to avoid detection." She marched on toward the outer wall, as though illustrating her point. "Soon, they will ride, deploying in secret, in private train coaches, to surround Ganj Dareh." She dropped onto a seat by a stone pillar separating two broad windows. "They talk — like me." She laughed, and the group, with some hesitation, joined her.
     Dain's heart thudded, from Thy's dramatic buildup, from anticipation. His mind and body heeded the call and brightened with excitement.
     "They listen," Thy said and bent forward, one hand to an ear, the other between her legs. "In time, they scare people, hurt them. To seal our victory. After that—"
     Thy leaped from her chair. Her hand flew upward. Flame erupted toward the ceiling. A loud bang shook the room. Time stood still.
     In a moment, hearts still ran fast. Eyes blinked at after-images. Ears rang. The executives of Le Coeur all stared at Thy.
     She posed for them, right leg jutted forward, knee cocked. Left leg lagged behind in a flair that took the eye up along her body to the raised arm — and the gleaming, crisp, hard weapon enfolded in her pudgy hand. A kinetic weapon, slug-thrower, explosive propellant. Outlawed across the planet. Thy had committed their first act of treason.
     Thy grinned, a wide, scary grin that threatened to split her face. She lowered the weapon, then cradled it. "We bring down anyone who opposes us, even anshin, even Byukan-Hamil. Then they vote for new anshin — and vote and vote — until they get it right." She collapsed the grin back into a grim, narrow-eyed expression that solidified her whole body.
     Dain's pulse pounded. He felt, tasted, smelled, beheld, listened, savored the moment with every sense he controlled. He gave Thy credit for that.
     Le Coeur required Thy's energy, driven by her ingrained violence, to convert its inertia from standing to rolling. They needed her fanatic drive and expertise to train its shock troops to leverage the overthrow of the continent's establishment. But they would never need its consummation in the bodies of the continent's people. Never!
     The show wasn't over. Time for the epilogue. Dain allowed another moment for everyone to stare in fascination at Thy's bastion of determination and menace, then spoke without rising. "Once we've established a presence in Ganj Dareh, we'll take on other direvnya and combines across the continent. We will call for mergers, and you, the rest of Le Coeur de la Patrie, will flock to join us, bringing the essential combines to our new consortium." He paused. "Won't you?"
     The room erupted. Men and women leapt to their feet, sent their voices echoing through the broad chamber. Restraint abandoned, released on a new world of their own making, they happily swarmed about the tables.
     Triumphant, Dain turned to his internal audience. Jikki bounced in his jumpseat, his whole face open with delight. Bedlip leaned forward, tears in his young eyes. The wraith radiated contentment, his normally blurred features settled for once in an unlined, hopeful countenance. Then, before moving on to JDB, Dain noticed an empty jumpseat riding sedately at the end of the row; queasy doubt came with the sight. Why did this keep happening?
     Dain impatiently pushed the concern aside and descended on JDB. =What do you say now?= he crowed. =What do you say?=
     =Anacol!=
     Nodding faintly, his mind rocking with satisfaction, Dain stowed his alters back in their niches and stood up alone to join his true comrades in celebration.