Slant (16 page)

"I don't understand," Yvonne says.

"Honey, like I said, I'm not nice and what's bottled up inside me isn't nice either. I just don't believe in leaving well enough alone. There are some things I'd like to do, but I don't tell them to others."

Yvonne regards him with that same appraising stare she used in the Bullpen. She is jotting up her biological pluses and minuses. She likes this bit of confession; it ties in with her need for rootlessness right now. She's deciding her next step. Giffey looks down at the table. He doesn't like the way an attractive woman--one with any features in her favor--must speck out a sexual situation with some sort of internal calculator, how she has to weigh and balance and draw deep conclusions. He has met very few women without this trait, this set of skills. It's sort of an insult, and it's one of the things that sets women apart from men in his book. Men are more like puppies--sloppy and sometimes cruel puppies, but right up front with their needs.

Her counselors would be proud of her. She's looking sbr some sort of quality. But if she chooses me--she's got it all wrong.

Yvonne's expression changes. She's made her decision, but he can't tell what it is. She spears a bite of walleye and lifts it, deftly swings the fork, pokes it into her mouth. "This fish is real good tonight," she says.

"It is," he agrees.

?* TRIBUTARY FEED

LITVID NOTE: The 1994 film Aerosol you have just seen reveals much about the time. In the late twentieth, a VIRUS*a4622ais an insidious and incurable presence,

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tion carried hundreds of types of these tiny genetic hitchhikers. Children caught CHICKEN POX$a46*89a, a non-lethal but highly irritating malady that could recur later in life as the painful SHINGLESS% Many adults as well as children sprouted sores on lips or moist tissues caused by a herpetic axon creeper, simplex or zoster; blood-to-blood or semen contact carried the dreaded AIDS*12477392 virus, which spawned the oscillating sexual conservatism of early twenty-one. Viruses shaped and distorted social attitudes about nearly everything and everybody... The transformation of the word "virus" during early twenty-one is a marvel. Today, a virus is no longer virulent, but omnipresent--one of the little servants of a larger, more intelligent nature. Viruses in human medicine are a template or tool of major medical treatment. Children proudly say they have a tailored virus that will gradually remove genetic mistakes; viruses are used in nano transformations, and extended viruses or phage hunters police our tissues, killing the bacteriological diseases which have proven to be far more insidious and persistent, though not unbeatable. (Ironically, it was discovered in 2023 that bacteria are responsible for the production of many viruses, which they use to target opposing bacterial populations or to weaken prey hosts.., a kind of microbiological super-warfare that still fascinates students of evolution and transspecies culture.) Also in the late twentieth, with the advent of popular computers, dataflow evolvons were unleashed by pasty, sweating young intellectuals as a kind of game, and were called viruses. They were quickly and efficiently countered, though several such outbreaks caused severe economic disruption. One prominent computer HACKER.5" or CRACKER*2a" was kidnapped from Los Angeles in 2006 and removed to Singapore, where the death penalty was imposed and carried out, after extensive torture...

Jonathan sits in the autobus, chin in hand, a little darked by the conversation (or lack of such) with Chloe. There are days when he wonders where their marriage is headed, other days when he accepts the changes with a pragmatic air that could almost be called happiness; but tonight, he feels the institution stretching to confine him. That, and he hates having to shout at his children. They evoke such primal reactions--love without boundaries, helpless pain at their own pains, and then, whenever he senses Hiram acting beneath his abilities, a flare of fear for his son, fear that he will end up disaffected and useless, a broken and breaking failure. He knows he should lighten up, that Hiram is sharp and capable and will grow out of these awkward doldrums, but the fear remains. Chloe hates his voice when he shouts... But he is the father, and if he does nothing, contributes nothing, what will happen?

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is surrounded by some unseen distant place, telepresenting. She holds her arms out and makes small conversational gestures, silent, though her lips move.

He looks away. Lack of contact; disembodied presence. He likes none of it. Chloe does not understand, but Jonathan wants more touch, more contact, in his life and work, not less.

The city lights hanging over the old asphalt side streets leading to St. Mark's Cathedral reflect in the windows and illuminate the faces of his fellow passengers. Jonathan's mind flips through the familiar catalog of the highlights of his relationship with Chloe. Her youthful beauty, her vigorous enthusiasm as they sneak through the rituals of both their families to make love in bathrooms, hallways, in the backs of empty autobuses, in graveyards on summer evenings; their mutual maturation and mutual astonishment that, in fact, they would survive past the age of thirty, despite entanglements with complex intoxicants and all the other pitfalls of their generation; the one hiatus in their life together (that he knows about, he thinks with a sudden sourness), before they were married, when a man (four years older! A veritable ancient of thirty-seven) charmed Chloe into an abortive affair that left her desperate to secure her relationship with Jonathan.

And then marriage. The arrival of the children; Chloe's acquiescence in the face of motherhood and contemporary fashion to forego career and concentrate on the infants, each comfortably born ex utero, as the women in even the most conservative families were demanding at the time. Her first flush of maternal instinct treatments, to which she overreacts, turning her into a protective tigress who hardly lets Jonathan touch Penelope; the traumatic adjustments to a second child, all of which they survive, and their marriage survives, and throughout which their interest in each other continues virtually unabated.

Jonathan adores her; perhaps because of their initial troubles, he thinks Chloe is the most desirable woman on Earth.

But in the last few years, Chloe has gone internal. Jonathan can't point to any particular behavior, but to a sum of behaviors and attitudes vhich can just as easily be described as me/lowing or coming of age, finally or the inevitable settling down of the passions, or just as easily, she's lost interest.

His reflection stares back at him from the autobus window, a thin face, forehead high, black hair receding nicely, accenting his small narrow nose and deepset black eyes and his lips which, he thinks, are still boyish and do not look at all resolute. He does not think he has changed or aged so drastically that he is no longer attractive, but hejels that way. He often wonders whether transform surgery--mild, of course; his social station and employers would tolerate nothing more--could rekindle Chloe's interest, or whether they should step into even more experimental territory and encourage each other to take occasionals. Many do, particularly among the class of women who have given up careers.

The autobus slows and his seat vibrates faintly to let him know this is his

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rush of wind. Thick clouds blow over the tall steeple and the roofs of nearby mansions and multis. The nearest tower is three miles south and west, across the 5; he can see it through rifts in the cloud deck from where he stands, its flanks glowing with faint blue lines and red marker sheets like square eyes in the darkness. His overcoat blows around his legs as he walks up a concrete ramp to the main entrance. St. Mark's has not been renovated since the late twentieth and is looking a little dark, a little old, though still dignified and of course traditional; just the place for the Stoics to have their monthly meetings. All terribly dull and advantageous, head to head, and he seldom looks forward to them. Chloe seems even more stiff on such evenings; perhaps she secretly nurses resentment, imagines herself in the feed, riding the current of business, part of the great river of Corridor commerce... Which is of course a laugh. Jonathan hasn't been awarded significant advancement in years. The economic squall of 2049 has frozen most lobe-sods, even management, at status revalue ever since. Inside the cloakroom, he hands his overcoat to a church daughter, graying and round-faced and smiling, and strolls with hands in pockets into the nave. The tall stained glass windows glow with phosphorescence painted on the outer surfaces, a cool night-ocean light that is strangely soothing. Jonathan walks down the aisle toward the center, a large gray granite baptismal font on a stone pedestal. The arms of the transept lead off into gloom, empty of conversing Stoics, who gather at the center, in the aisles and near the font. He sees a few he knows, some fresh-faced recruits a decade younger than he, and then the gray

pate of Marcus Reilly, his sponsor. Marcus seldom has much to say to Jonathan these days; his interests are not in Jonathan's line of work, which is nutritional design and supply. Marcus--Jonathan tries to remember--is increasing his already impressive holdings in cold ore extraction in Utah and squeezing a few last tons of paydirt out of Green Idaho. But Marcus spots him in the aisle, holds up his hand, smiles brightly. He's going to end this present conversation gracefully, his gestures say, and join Jonathan in a few moments. Jonathan stands with hands folded. Marcus is one of the few men of his acquaintance who can make him sweat, and also make him wait with hands folded. "Jonathan! How are you?" Marcus asks expansively, creeping between the pews and holding out his hand. They shake and Jonathan accepts the upward curled fingers with the opposite of his own downward curl. Marcus tugs on the join vigorously, smiling. "How's Chloe? The children?" "All well. And Beate?"

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spends all her time driving chemical futures and screwing up the market. But she's having fun. And you, dear Jonathan--still frozen?"

Jonathan nods ruefully. Marcus knows something important about everybody.

"No prospects for a thaw?"

"Not so far. Managers can't write their own ticket any more."

"Don't I know it. To tell the truth, Beate's the force in our credit balance any more. She drives more weather into our account.., good weather, I mean. Calm seas. Makes her too independent, I think. Doesn't need me any more. But that's changing. Can we talk after?"

"Sure." Jonathan says. There is always, in meetings between sponsor and client, an air of informality and equality, belied by the stains under his arm. Marcus could remove Jonathan from any position in the Corridor in a few minutes, with a few simple stabs on his pad... Patria potestas.

But Marcus has of course never done that. Perhaps it is Jonathan's own insecurity that even makes him think of the possibility. When something is not right at home, all the universe ti/ts.

But then, what is it that is not right at home?

"Grand!" Marcus says. "Do you know anything about this fellow, Torino?" "No, sir," Jonathan says.

"I hear it was Luke's idea to bring him in. Shake all of us up with some stimulating big-picture stuff."

"Sounds interesting," Jonathan says. Chao Luke, tall and monkish in his formal black Stoic's robe, is arranging a podium near the central font. A small, elfish-looking man in slacks and a sweater, very nineties, stands beside Chao, calmly ineffectual. This must be Torino. And the lecture--he pulls up the note on his pad calendar--is about Autopoiesis and the Grand Scheme. He looks around the transept and nave. A number of men are setting up equipment near the walls: banks of small projectors that will play out over the crowd, reflective screens to catch large displays. Like most presentations before the Stoics, the tech will be distinctly early twentieth--no plugs, no fibe hooks between pads, all in the spirit of community, not dataflow immersion.

Chao takes the podium and asks the Stoics to sit. The men and women arrange themselves in the pews before the podium and the fount as Chao smiles out over them. "We'll bring the February meeting of the Stoics, Seattle chapter, to order now."

Jonathan sits on the hard wood. Churches seem not to believe in comfort, the perpetual strain of hardroot American asceticism which he does not actually oppose, but which still leaves him buttsore by the end of these meetings.

He glances at Torino as the notes are read and motions proposed, seconded, and voted upon. The speaker stares up at the dome. His face is childlike, head small, hair dark and tousled. Torino. Torino.

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in scientific circles for his work in bacterial communities. Jonathan does not have time to follow all these threads through the ribes, but he watches Torino with more interest. What is it like to be famous--even a little famous? To have people want to listen to your words, to sit respectfully and await your wisdom? Again the suspicion of his own weakness and inferiority, like the little bite of a spider tangled in his underwear. Jonathan wishes Chloe would have shown him more warmth this evening, helped him face up to Marcus with self-assurance. Now it is Torino's turn to speak. Chao introduces him--his full name is Jerome Torino--and steps aside. The small man grips the sides of the podium with both hands, and the pickup adjusts to his stature like a metal snake. He clears his throat. "It's cold and windy out there. Not good weather for public speaking." Jonathan smiles politely, as do most of the Stoics around him. Weak intro. He does not feel positively toward this famous person who dresses so informally. "Tonight I hope to pull aside some curtains and dispel a few misconceptions that haunt our culture, our philosophy, our politics," Torino says. His small hands swing wide, as if embracing the audience, the church. His eyes are bright and close together. With a beard he could be a little monkey, Jonathan thinks. 'I'll have the help of some.., what used to be called media. Everything is media nowadays, so that word is out of use, like saying 'heat' at the heart of the sun. Because of your charter, I've been challenged to avoid the more sop

histicated effects I've been known to use to get my points across." He clears is throat again. Jonathan prepares to be bored. He shifts in his seat. The woman beside him, a discreet eighteen inches to his left, glances at him. He feels like a little boy cautioned to keep still. "We'll begin with words, words only. Imagine you're in a library and walking through stacks of books. Let's say you're in the Library of Congress, walking in a pressure suit through the helium-filled chambers, between miles of shelves, just staring at the millions upon billions of publications, periodicals, books, cubes..." Jonathan hopes for a little visual interest soon. His mind goes back to Chloe. I feel so weak without her support. Why can't she support me strongly, give me her// UNDIVIDED ATTENTION.///no, not that, but at least leave me J3eling she really values me. "Every single one of those books begins, of course, with an act of sex. Are you offended by the old sexual words? Then use the euphemisms. Men and women, getting together--" Christ, is everything sex? Jonathan squirms again, and the woman looks at