Slant (35 page)

'!' :' "You may have to give up your connections, all of your old friendships."

Even in his present condition, this is getting spooky; what are they going

to ask him to do, shoot his relatives? But Jonathan believes he can still back

out. They haven't asked him the ultimate question. He truly does not know Cow he will answer. "It won't come instantly, this new world. It might take decades. We need

all of your personal assets and connections in this present world, this imperfect

world, to make it happen. But in the end.., the Earth will be cleansed, re newed, rebooted as it were, with a new polish and a youthful gleam. We will

give the human race a new chance to shine forth in the universe."

This hits something deep in Jonathan. For years, he has felt inadequate to

deal with all the little frustrations of a world going wrong; the world has even

pushed its tumors of corruption into his family, through his wife. It wants to

break him. He owes it no allegiance.

"All right," Jonathan says.

"We can't give you any more details until you say you will join us," Marcus

concludes. "You know me. You know I'm no monster, that we won't call for

genocide or all-out war, that our methods will be subtle and long-term. Think

of it as a biological and political necessity. Think of it as just giving yourself

a little advantage by being part of the change, for once in your life, instead of

standing outside, looking in..."

/ SLANT 217

"We don't need any fancy language from you, not now. You will swear an oath today and sign a contract at some point, just to make things formal. I will ask you the question, and if you answer yes, you are in. You can't back out. If you do, you will be killed." This jolts Jonathan, though he has expected it. Two days ago, he would have backed away from this small room and its intent group of men, he would have checked with his remaining sense of self and decided this solemn craziness was much too much for a family man with any sense; but he is still empty inside. His self is too knocked-over to respond. "I'm ready," Jonathan says. This will do it; this will give him a purpose. This will bring him back. "Are you with us? That's the question, Jonathan. Think it over before you decide." Jonathan closes his eyes, opens them, holds up one hand as if to ask for a drink of water, but the glass is right beside him, sitting on the carpet by the chair. He reaches to pick it up, drinks, replaces the glass. "I'm with you," he says. The tension in the room should break, he thinks, but it does not. The air is thick with more than fading tobacco smoke. The other men stand. "We've all taken the oath," the brown man says. "Administer the oath, Marcus." Marcus pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolds the paper with a soft crackling sound and reads Jonathan the requirements, step by step. The document restates what he has already heard in lawyer's language rather than rampant ideals, and it does not give any more details about what they are going to do to make this new world. Jonathan feels a little sick. It's too late to back out. He rises. "We're all of diverse beliefs and we don't think you have to swear on any ancient book to make a pact for the rest of your life," Marcus says. "Amen to that," says the round-faced darker man, and the others smile briefly. "Swear allegiance to the group, to the means deployed by the group and the ends sought by us all, on your life and deepest self, on all you value and hold dear, to forfeit all these things should you violate this oath or back away from our common goals." "I swear allegiance to the group..." "To the means deployed by the group and the ends sought by us all." "To the means deployed by the group and the ends sought by us all." "On all you value and hold dear." "On all I value and hold dear. I will . ." "To forfeit all these things should you violate the oath or back away from its goals." "I swear to forfeit all these things should I violate the oath or back away

218 GREG BEAR

"Good," Marcus says. "You're now a man with real purpose in life." "Thank you," Jonathan says. He feels faint. Marcus supports him. The others smile broadly and gather around, offering him their hands. They are brothers. He shakes hands one by one, but his face feels cold and his whole body is sweating.

"Back off, guys," Marcus says gently. "This was tough on all of us. He needs some room to breathe."

"Thank you," Jonathan says. But inside, Oh, God, I don't j%l any better.

They have drinks in the dining room, Marcus serving from behind a small wet bar, dispensing excellent (so he says) single malt scotch and fine New Zealand and French wines. The men are all laughing and cracking jokes; the tension is broken. They tell their names to Jonathan and he loses all of the names within minutes, except for the short brown man with the amused face, whose name is Cadey, Jamal Cadey. He is not usually so forgetful. He is just very stretched.

Cadey takes him aside. "That went rather well," he says to Jonathan. "Marcus tells us you have a special business degree in micromechanics. But he wasn't any more specific than that--and that could be anything from protein synthesis to full-blown nano."

"Mostly food synthesis research. Feeding nano and people. That's what my company does," Jonathan says. Right now, any of these men could ask him the size of his prick and he'd tell with hardly a blink.

He does not feel alive; but then, neither is he dead. This lack of any inner

uality bothers him like a missing tooth.

He wonders if this is how Chloe feels.

"I design autopoietic software structures," Cadey says. "Self-making and maintaining business tools for INDAs, mostly. We should have a lot to talk

about comes the time--but you don't have many details yet, do you?" "None," Jonathan says. "I have no idea what I've sworn myself to."

"Hits us all that way at first," Cadey says. "You've heard of the Omphalos concept?"

"Yes, of course," Jonathan says cautiously. He's been interested in longevity and freezing down, even warm sleep, for several years now, though he's never told Chloe.

"We have five of them in the works so far, two in Russia, one in Pakistan, one in Southern China, and one in Green Idaho." Cadey's eyes twinkle. "The public knows nothing, really."

Marcus finds the two of them beside the bar. "Jamal spilling secrets already?" he asks, smiling.

"He's earned some answers," Cadey says, and pours himself another glass of wine.

/ SLANT 219

five minutes. Beate's coming home and she wants us out of here. We Spock her, poor woman." Marcus smiles with almost malicious enjoyment.

Cadey resumes. "The Omphaloses are not tombs, not at all. Each can hold

ten thousand live individuals for cold or warm sleep Very comfortably,

with all the amenities."

"Continuous pleasant dreams--education--even keeping track of the outside world, though that might be depressing," Marcus says. "A little bit of heaven before we get to work in a new world."

"Space travel?" Jonathan asks, dissembling behind a dumb question. "No-ooo," Cadey says, with an uncertain grin. "We stay right on Earth. We'll have over a hundred of them built by the end of this decade--the funding is already in place, and we're purchasing land all the time. Room for a million subscribers. Ten thousand of us have already volunteered to take the plunge, around the world."

"In Green Idaho?" Jonathan asks. He glances at Marcus.

"That's the first and the largest. It's almost finished. The land is in my

name, but its communal," Marcus says. "We're all together in this."

"In what?" Jonathan asks.

"I'll explain tomorrow," Marcus says. "We're going to fly there this afternoon and have a tour." He takes Jonathan by the shoulder. "Excuse us, Jamal."

"Certainly," Cadey says, and hastens away with a casual bow.

Marcus prims his lips in sympathy. "You have another day of compassionate leave, right?"

"Yes," Jonathan says.

"And Chloe--she's okay where she is, right?" Jonathan nods. "She doesn't want to see me." "How about your kids?"

"They're in school . . . They have club meetings. I should be there when they get home, of course, at six or seven."

"We'll be back by early evening. You, me, Jamal, and two others you haven't met yet."

"I think that will work."

"Of course it will." Marcus grips Jonathan's shoulder tightly and breathes a residue of fine scotch into his face. "Jamal has a tendency to spill things prematurely, but let me up the ante a little. I happen to know you've looked into longevity. Privately, just out of curiosity of course..."

Jonathan is so empty and open that this intrusion evokes no other reaction than a small tingle.

"What Jamal was describing... Jonathan, all of us, we're going to live forever. In a world of our own making. We don't have to conquer nations, we don't have to drop bombs ... We just have to sit and wait."

Jonathan stares at Marcus as if he is demented. "What?"

The man in Martin's office this day is broad-shouldered, handsome in a stolid

way. His walk as he entered was efficient, yet almost mincing, his legs a little

short for such a powerful body; everything else about him is self-assured, pos itive, relaxed yet alert. He wears a pale brown longsuit in a slightly old-

fashioned cut, and his eyes are roughly the same color as the suit: pale brown,

penetrating but not insinuating. He blends very well into most professional

crowds, Martin guesses.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Burke. My name is Philip Hench." He

pulls up his right shirtsleeve to reveal a federal tattoo. It sparkles green and

red in spaced dots on his forearm. "Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Martin stares at him, having murmured the necessary polite responses to

the introduction.

"You were at Northwest Inc's offices yesterday when they had a dataflow

intrusion."

"Yes."

., "I'm curious why you were there, Mr. Burke."

"Miz Carrilund, Dana Carrilund, asked me to advise them on a problem

unrelated to the, ah, intrusion."

"Did you speak with her after the intrusion?"

"No. She's been very busy." "What did you do after the intrusion yesterday?" "I was escorted out of the building. They obviously have other problems to deal with. I returned to my office, and then went home in the evening." Hench nods, sympathetic. "Some of my colleagues in Free Data are working on that intrusion. But I'm here on another case. You were visited yesterday by Terence Crest." Martin is slow to answer. "Yes," he says finally. "What did Mr. Crest want?" "I don't give out information--" "Crest wasn't a patient. Was he?" "No, but I extend the right of privacy to anyone who enters that door, including you, Mr. Hench." "Good," Hench says, unconcerned. "He was having problems. His conscience was bothering him. Did he tell you why, Mr. Burke?" "As I said, I'd rather not discuss it." "Did he talk about the Aristos?"

/ SLANT 221

"He belonged to a group called the Aristos," Hench continues, not waiting for Martin's answer. "I did not know that," Martin says. "He didn't mention them?" "No," Martin says. "Did he talk about your therapy devices, Mr. Burke? Did he warn you about something?" Martin feels stiff. His neck gives him a twinge. "No warnings, no threats. He's a well-known man, Mr. Hench." "Yes. A billionaire." Hench pushes out his lips. His face is surprisingly flexible, and for a brief moment, he resembles a chimp. The transformation is unexpected and makes Martin's neck even more tense. "Rich folks aren't anybody's friends, really," Hench says. "Too much power, too much freedom, yet far too many restrictions. It distorts them." "'The rich, they are not like you and I,' "Martin quotes. "'They have more money,'" Hench finishes the quote. "Fitzgerald and Hemingway, as I recall. Crest was divorced just recently, quietly, in private, but under real pressure." "I assume this is official," Martin says, and clears his throat. "Yes, and nothing to do with you, personally. You're not in trouble with my agency, Mr. Burke, though in the next few minutes, if you're any kind of decent man at all, you're going to feel a little sick to your stomach. Are you free for the rest of the day?" "No. I have appointments." "Cancel them," Hench says, casually rubbing thumb and forefinger together, as if rolling an insect to death. "We're going to have a brief chat, and then I'm going to introduce you to some friends. We'll need your help, Mr. Burke. We need you to join us on a short trip out of state. You'll be compensated for lost time at your standard professional rates, minus citizen obligation percentage, and of course all expenses will be taken care of." Hench looks at Martin steadily, seriously, his flexible face stolid once more and a little tired. "I'm not sure how this sort of thing is done," Martin says. "I assume you have court orders, paper or sig?" "Nope," Hench says. "Make your arrangements, and then we'll need about five minutes, in complete privacy, to have a little briefing." "No choice?" "I'll leave it up to you. After you hear me out." Martin's instincts tell him he had best follow Hench's suggestions. He calls up the outer office and gives Arnold and Kim the rest of the day off. The INDA will call all his patients and reschedule their sessions. "All clear, Mr. Hench," Martin says smoothly. "I'm listening." Hench leans forward, elbows resting on splayed knees, hands folded in front

2,2 GEO E.4'

"We'll see," Martin says. "Crest is dead. Suicide." The agent goes on with his story. Martin does not believe any of it. At first. Then, he feels sick to his stomach, sick at heart, even irrationally guilty. Once again he has walked through the lion's cage, this time without even knowing. He nods, agrees, acquiesces. Anything to get it over with. "Sorry about this, Mr. Burke," Hench says. "If you weren't sitting there, all manly and competent, I'd cry my eyes out," Martin says, tilting his head to one side and squinting off through the windows. "Very decent of you, sir. Me, I just want to start strangling people."

3

Mary and Nussbaum stand before the city stat board, watching the city's lines and graphs exhibit more ragged behavior. Mary has had to wait while Nussbaum took a briefing from the Chief of Public Defense on adapting defender readiness teams for what might prove to be a daunting crisis. Nussbaum is very quiet. He does not want her to be here; silently, his look tells her, What now? Can't you handle it? 4 "Crest met with undercover Federals in Boise three weeks ago," Mary begins n a low voice. "Before going to Green Idaho." Nussbaum's face loosens in surprise. "In my office," he says. They walk through the staff room into his cubicle. Nussbaum sits behind his desk, using it as a shield. Mary Choy ports her pad's contents to Nussbaum's and he looks it over, his face getting a little grayer, a little older. The office is quiet and cold, the staff room outside the glass partition is lightly populated, it's late and nobody's going to bother them. "Where did you get this?" "Please don't ask. I decided to call in a favor from my time in LA. My house manager has been reprogrammed and my records exported. Crest's personal vid records were erased. Fibeside got a report from Worker's Inc Northwest that their personnel center files have been hacked." "How?" Nussbaum asks. "They're supposed to be foolproof." "I don't know," Mary says. "Back to Crest. He met with the Federals in a data-secure outpost set up to coordinate surveillance in Green Idaho. Nobody can tell me what they talked about. I have Alice Grale under protective cus-