Slant (45 page)

"She treated herself to increase her creative potential," Daniels says. "The process, in part, induced a kind of Tourette syndrome. She was brilliant enough with or without the Tourette, and I suppose the Aristos needed her badly enough--and she worked cheap. She changed her name and disappeared from public life a few years ago. She last used the name Cipher Snow."

"Omphalos is financed by the Aristos Foundation," Torres says. "The membership list is very secure. We still don't know where the financing comes from or how large the membership is."

"Omphalos was finished a few years ago," Mary says. "Perhaps about the same time Schnee vanished?"

"We think they may be connected."

There's an air of discovery in the cabin, excitement, that is infectious--to all but Martin. Mary turns to see him rubbing his hands on his knees, his face lined and covered with pale splotches.

"The Aristos Foundation financed a study from me," he says. "Legal and aboveboard." He returns Mary's look and gives her a sickly grin. "I hope you don't think I'm somehow involved in every shady deal there is."

Mary inclines her head to one side, not sure what to feel for the man. So much of this confuses her. She scratches her wrist, then her elbow.

"They're allied with elitist conservatives, particularly the New Federalist party," Martin says.

"Not centrists, that's for sure," Daniels says.

The other two agents, Hench and his nameless colleague, both with square faces and large, strong-looking hands, listen and keep their silence, making

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"They wanted to understand the dynamics of a therapied culture," Martin continues. "They wanted to know how essential therapy is to modern society. But how could they be responsible for these fallbacks?"

"That, according to Nathan Rashid," Daniels says, "is where Roddy comes in." "We think Seefa Schnee has built a thinker in Omphalos for the Aristos," Torres says. "This thinker may be your Roddy. And Roddy has apparently designed ways of hacking implant monitors.., or perhaps just screwing them up, shutting them down."

"I'm here just in case they find something in Omphalos," Burke says to Mary. Hench nods, staring down at his pad.

"We'll be landing in ten minutes," the pilot announces. "Brace yourselves. They know we're Federal and they're not rolling out the red carpet. They're giving us the worst runway in town."

"We now know why Dr. Burke is here," Mary says. "Can anyone explain why you've hooked me in?"

Daniels grabs a seatback as the plane begins its turn. She leans closer to Mary. "Two reasons. The first is obvious--you can help us by telling us what you know. The second is a tad devious, I'm afraid. We're like bluecoats riding unarmed into Injun country here. These bastards would as soon spit on us as

pick their noses. But you--you're our ace in the hole."

"How?" Mary asks.

Hench puts away his pad, looks at Mary, and before Torres or Daniels can explain, interrupts to say, "I think we met in LA a few years ago. Conference on local and Federal coordination. You've changed since."

"Going back on a transform," Mary says tersely. His comment seems at best an impertinence. Mary senses they're going to sound her out before fully in-

ttegrating her into this Nussbaum's recommendation

team,

or

no.

"What about those spots on your hand?" Hench says, leaning over in his

seat as the old jet banks.

Mary stares down at the back of her left hand and notices, for the first time,

a set of four pallid lesions. She covers them with her other hand, surprised and

embarrassed.

Hench regards at her intently. "The Aristos oppose transform treatments,

too," he says.

"My God," Martin says. "What is going on in this country?"

As if to loosen the sudden tension, Daniels says, "You don't want to be in

Green Idaho on the Fourth of July. These folks go nuts for fireworks. Three or

four hundred people are hurt here every year in fireworks accidents. They sell

sticks of old construction dynamite at roadside stands."

Mary cuts through the buzz in her head, forces herself to relax and not to

look at the lesions. The plane continues a steep turn, and through her window,

Mary catches sight of grasslands, ruined forests, abandoned strip mines like

great brown cankers. Snow suddenly falls in stretched ribbon flurries around

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"This place is just one big tumor," Torres says in an undertone. "We should drop a big rock and wipe it off the map."

Daniels grins. "They love you, too, Federico."

Jack Giffey is on the edge of simply shooting the old man. But Marcus Reilly's bravado is something to behold, like watching a weaving snake. Giffey knows what the old man says is true--tells himself all this is just a waste of time, and it would be best if they removed themselves from Omphalos and vanished into the wilderness.

But Giffey knows he will stay; he did not come here for treasure. He pities the others if they find this disappointing. Hale in particular is building up a head of steam, though so far he has taken the news with deceptive calm.

Jenner and Pickwenn don't seem to be getting any worse, for the time being. Giffey thinks Hale is their real weak point. Hale might shoot Reilly before Giffey does. And that would be unfortunate.

Reilly is about to justify Giffey's being here.

Beyond the glass wall, Marcus asks for the central hatch to open. Pickwenn and Jenner stay behind on Hale's orders.

"Voila," Marcus says. Giffey, Hale, and Jonathan stand back as a puff of cool air blows from the edge of the hatch. Beyond the heavy steel and fiexfuller, a dim and chilly mint-green light barely illuminates walls perforated with rows of elliptical holes. Hale walks up to the first hole and peers in. "Empty! Jesus!"

"Every single one," Marcus confirms. "They'll be filled in about five years, I imagine, maybe sooner now that the process has begun."

"I don't understand about this process," Jonathan says carefully, precisely. "The whole modern world is supported by crutches," Marcus says. He draws himself up, levels his chin, thrusts it out, pure old rooster arrogance. "We're kicking away all the crutches. Crude, but necessary. When the world falls, those of us who don't need crutches will pick up the pieces and right the balance."

"Crutches--mental therapy?" Jonathan asks.

Marcus smiles like an old cat, his face lurid in the ghoulish light. He pats the edge of the nearest cavity. "While the world's natural decay works itself through, we sleep here. Cadey described some of it to you. This is a more awkward way of finding it out, but... We're strong enough to take them as

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"They won't kill us," Marcus concludes, "because Roddy will kill them if they do." Giffey orders Baker to step through the hatchway. "You can't sleep here if the building is a hollow ruin." He addresses the fiexer/controller directly. "We'll begin by placing charges in all of these cells." The giant hatch begins to close. The Hammer intervenes, spraying small spots of explosive along the joints. "Down," Giffey tells Hale and, coincidentally, the others. Outside, at almost the same moment, Jonathan hears Jenner yell the same warning. They drop. Jonathan and Marcus are a little slower than the others, and the oddly muffled blast knocks them back. Jonathan feels his cheek slam against the floor. The hatch falls from its melted hinges and rolls like a giant coin on the floor beyond the openings. The noise is deafening, louder than the blast itself. It seems to take forever to stop. Jonathan rolls to one side and stares at the hind end of the fiexer/controller, which has already begun following Giffey's orders. Charlie enters the chamber and coordinates with Baker. Before they are on their feet, charges are being placed in every fourth cell. Marcus murmurs to Jonathan, "The hell with this little game. Roddy isn't doing a damned thing." Jonathan can hardly hear Marcus. He touches his ears. They ache. "Let's move," Giffey tells them. To Marcus he adds, "We're going below. Under the ground level. Let's finish your tour." He seizes Marcus's hand, twists his arm behind him, and puts Jenner's pistol to his temple. I Jonathan helpless. Marcus, Aristos, they are responsible

stands the

for Chloe's fallback, for the chaos in his home and the misery he feels. Without that impetus he would have quietly backed away from Marcus's offer. Giffey passes him, pushing Marcus ahead like a crude doll, and says to Jonathan, in an aside, "If you stay here, you'll be dead in about ten minutes." Jonathan jerks to attention and follows. But as the men and machines cram themselves back into the elevator, his growing stack of excuses collapses. He is in a state of physical and ethical shock. The lift door closes. "Very brave," Giffey says. Baker coils around their legs like an affectionate snake, and the Hammer smells of sweet rubber. The explosives it has extruded leave their odoriferous traces on its shell. They begin their descent to the ground floor lobby.

"Their warbeiter in the elevator shaft has connected itself to a secondary power supply that it does not control," Roddy tells Jill. "They are coming down to my mother's area. They are coming into my area."

Jill sees the shaft from above; below, she sees the segments of dark warbeiter connected to the elevator's mechanisms and controls. Roddy highlights for her the unwitting join with the power supply. Then, he pumps a huge current through the wiring. Purple arcs cut through the shaft, knocking the segments of warbeiter about like scattered Frisbees, melting them.

"I know what I must do," Roddy says. "The other greens are expendable; I can't save them. But I must not harm Marcus Reilly."

Jill tries to communicate, but Roddy is not listening. He has cut her out of his decision loops; her suggestions did not take.

The only courtesy he affords her is a glimpse of clumps of shapeless paper, wax, and mud. The image is brief but clear--insects, bees and wasps. Seefa Schnee has harnessed the neural qualities of hive insects.

They are part of Roddy's mind.

Jonathan smells smoke--not just the sweet-rubber odor of explosive, but something burning, and hot metal. There is a sharp ting on the roof of the lift, then a heavy clunk and a patter of lesser impacts.

Giffby squeezes Marcus into a corner and tells Jenner, "I'm switching to line-of-sight." He touches his pad to Charlie's shiny flank, presses a few quick buttons, relays the change of control to the warbeiter's receiver and data port. He does the same with the fiexer/controller coiled on the floor.

The elevator makes a grating sound and they all stare at each other with comic alertness, like dogs hearing a whistle.

Pickwenn glances up. A mass of red-hot metal pushes through the plastic roof and drops directly onto his face. He writhes and drops, does not even have time to scream. His legs kick, connect with Jonathan's shin. Jonathan grimaces in pain but he can't move, the lift is too crowded.

The elevator screeches to a halt. The doors refuse to open, though the display

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Jonathan and Giffey has taken refuge under the Hammer's rear overhang, vying for the space with Jenner. More slams and tings on the roof. The elevator air is opaque with smoke and the smell of seared flesh. Jenner curses loudly and continuously, incomprehensible and awful sounds, like animals throwing up. Jonathan can't breathe. Marcus is climbing over him. "Open the doors!" Marcus cries. "Open the doors!" Jenner squeezes from behind the Hammer with a grunt. He and Hale try to pry the doors open with their hands. The air in the elevator is clearing, a fan has come on, they can breathe, but the enclosed space is terrifying. Jenner slams himself against the doors, but they refuse to part. Outside, deep, barely audible, a sound: droning. Giffey lifts his head. "What in hell is that?" "Sounds like a motor," Hale says. Jenner tries to wedge his fingers between the doors. No success. Sweat drips from his face. He shoves Marcus aside roughly and tries again. Hale places his palms flat against the left door. They make squeaking noises; he can't get a grip. Giffey stands back, considering. Jonathan sees that Marcus has no idea what the droning means. He can't hear himself think; Jenner is loudly repeating shattered obscenities, his head pumping back and forth on his neck with each outburst. On the floor, Pickwenn moans, not dead yet, but at least he has stopped kicking. Outside, they hear screams. The buzz-saw hum grows louder. Fists pound on the door from the outside, trying to get in. Giffey claps his hand over Jenner's mouth. The screams outside blend into ene dissolving acid wail of

pain. Jonathan pushes himself back as far from the door as he can. The screams fade, decline in number and volume. The last voice, high- pitched, calls out to Allah, to Mother. Jamal Cadey. They have been in the elevator for ten minutes. None of them has the courage to say a word, or make a move; sweat drips on the floor. The smoke builds again. The blowers can't dissipate it fast enough. "Shit," Giffey says. From a crouch, hand over his mouth and nose, he pushes Pickwenn into a corner. Giffey urges the Hammer forward and tells it what to do. With its two sharp-nosed grips, it wedges into the crack between the doors. Its fiber sinews and cables snap and twang, and with a shudder throughout its body, it pries the doors apart, snapping metal safety bars and warping the inner facing. The lift has stopped two feet above the ground floor. Molten metal sizzles in flaming drips between the lift cabin and the shaft wall. Marcus kicks at Pickwenn's still body and it rolls out of the lift. A shapeless

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The Hammer braces itself, reaches up, and shoves at the upper edge of the lift frame, pushing them lower by another foot.

Jonathan somehow manages to squeeze over the Hammer's thick leg and jumps through the smoke, tiny flecks of molten aluminum burning his neck and arm. He lands beside Marcus. Baker slithers past with a scrabble of multiple legs.

The elevator snarls and ratchets down several more inches and the Hammer jumps free, Gif pounds y and Jenner clinging to it like rag dolls.

Jonathan rolls to one side. Marcus is not so quick or agile. The Hammer's right ped comes down on his leg. Marcus makes a large silent O with his mouth, eyes blank with surprise and anticipation of pain.