Slant

by Greg Bear

  Hale steps forward and the others face him. No one glances around. All eyes are on Hale.

  “All right, we’re here,” Hale says. “All together for the first time. This is our team. Here’s what’s new, what we have to do.” Hale has the rhythmic, accented delivery of a preacher or a good singer. His voice is bass velvet.

  “I’ve made the right connections. We’re getting into Omphalos as a group of potential customers. We’re going to walk right in the side door, not the tourist door, but the VIP entrance. Hally.”

  Preston steps forward. “We’re scheduled to show up in a limo tomorrow morning at fifteen hundred. You’re a bunch of eccentric rich folks traveling under assumed identities. Robert Hale has worked this out in some detail.”

  Robert, Giffey thinks. Maybe he’s never even heard of Nathan Hale.

  “Mr. Giffey, we took a big delivery yesterday,” Hale says. “Mr. Jenner arrived with it. We spent a fair amount of change. It’s in the back half of the warehouse. I assume it’s what we planned on, and I’d like you to tell us what we need to know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Giffey says. “I can look it over and see what shape it’s in.”

  “It’s okay,” Jenner says, smiling reassurance.

  “I’m sure it is. I’m overly cautious, is all,” Giffey says, smiling back. Jenner does not take this as an affront; he respects overly cautious superiors. The Army trained him that way.

  “I’d like you to brief us in more detail about the Omphalos interior,” Hale says. “We’ve given everybody the, stuff you sent last week, but I assume you withheld a few key bits. Overly cautious.”

  Giffey nods and smiles again.

  Hale enjoys being the center of attention. He walks in front of the whiteboard like a general, arms folded behind his back. “We have an appointment with a remote sales rep named Lacey Ray. She won’t be there in person—there aren’t any people in Omphalos, it’s all automatic, right?”

  Giffey agrees.

  “We have identity codes and recommendations. It’s minimum risk until we get inside. Then I assume we’re wide open to whatever Omphalos has to offer. Well, Mr. Giffey, what does it have to offer?”

  Hale is feeling his oats, but Giffey doesn’t think he’ll like what he has to say. “Four, maybe five warbeiters, and probably a thinker to run them through their paces.” He sits on a folding metal chair. What he has just told them is not strictly confirmed—he knows only that orders went out to extralegal suppliers for just these instruments of defense, Whether they were ever delivered is anybody’s guess.

  Hale takes this calmly for about three seconds, and then he swears under his breath. “Warbeiters?”

  “Insect or Ferret class. I’m not sure about the thinker, but it’s my guess.” My hope.

  “You know how to deactivate them?”

  “I do,” Giffey says. “With our equipment, I’m offering sixty to eighty percent confidence.”

  Hale swears once more. “You could have told us this earlier.”

  “Why?” Giffey asks. “They’re just machines, albeit clever ones. I can’t tell you how they’re programmed or if they’re authorized to kill. They might just lick us like lap dogs.”

  Hale frowns and a deep cleft forms between his brows. “Where would the builders get warbeiters?”

  “Where does anybody get anything?” Giffey asks sharply. “We’ve managed something far more radical in the way of illegal weapons. The heirs of Raphkind left a lot of wedges in a lot of government doors. Even military doors.”

  “Christ, it’s only a fucking tomb,” Hale mutters. His bravado isn’t very thick, and he’s not very good at concealing his concern. So despite the theatrical front, he’s not much of a general after all. “Why bring in the dogs of hell to guard it?”

  “I’d hate to think this puts you off,” Giffey says. He’s not sure he likes or trusts this man.

  “No,” Hale says thoughtfully. “You think they’re set to not kill?”

  “It’s distinctly possible,” Giffey says. “As you say, it’s only a tomb. Besides, warbeiters are just machines,” Giffey repeats. “Frankly, we’ll have the means to take them out.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Hale says, and by implication lays any failure on Giffey’s shoulders.

  “You ever hear of Nathan Hale?” Giffey asks.

  Hale thinks for a moment, as if he just might. “No,” he finally says. “He design these Insects and Ferrets?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Hally Preston says. “Patriot way back.”

  Giffey gives her a big smile. “Here’s more of what I know about Omphalos,” he says. He walks up to the whiteboard, uncaps a black marker, and begins to sketch.

  “There are at least forty levels from basement to attic,” he says. “It’s a big place, and it may not even be finished yet. They’re still bringing in architectural nano. Shipments are irregular. They might be having financial problems—maybe not enough customers. That might explain why they’re reaching out to folks they don’t know too much about.”

  Hale inclines in agreement. Pent and Pickwenn draw in their chairs. Jenner folds his arms and fixes on the sketch Giffey is making: so far, it’s not much more than a side view, a right triangle.

  “This side entrance, the VIP entrance as you call it, is also a service entrance. Tourists pay money, so the builders don’t want to interrupt the flow on those days when they get their truckloads of whatever they’re bringing in.”

  “Do we know more about the owners?” Preston asks.

  “Not much more than before. A partnership club that calls itself the Omphalos Group, membership worldwide. Capitalization unknown, rules unknown. Structured like an investment insurance web.”

  “Pyramid scheme,” Pickwenn says softly.

  “Yeah,” Giffey says. “There’s some connection with a syndic or social club that’s been politically active in the past fifteen years, the Aristos, and they in turn have connections with the New Federalists. Membership in the Aristos seems to be based on being naturals—untherapied—and on financial or other contributions. The same may be true for the Omphalos Group. I presume if we meet their standards, they’ll let us know.”

  “I’m out,” Jenner says cheerfully. “Just a mental mutt, I guess.”

  Hale grunts. “Makes me feel better about relieving them of their ill-gotten gains.”

  “They’re not poor,” Giffey says. “This one Omphalos cost about eight billion dollars, and there are five others under construction all over the world. This is the first and the closest to completion.”

  “Construction?” Pent asks.

  “For the ages,” Giffey says. “The outer curtain and some interior walls are carbon nanotube-reinforced concrete with a surface of deposited reflex bead ceramic. One hundred percent reflectivity for all radiation. There’s some gold detail work for decoration, but it’s not functional. Frame is deposited spidermesh nanotube—in some places, three feet thick, all stress-dispersal. Internal steel frames support flexfuller and concrete slabs, everything shock-mounted, with four separate mountings for each level. The whole building is shock-mounted on hypertense flexfuller. I’ve heard that all the carbon fibers—nanotubes, linked fullerenes, etc.—are tuned for conductivity and that the entire skin is sensitive. The frame can also be tuned and used for data storage.”

  Pickwenn and Pent absorb this thoughtfully. “Stronger than the pyramids of Egypt,” Pent says.

  “So—how many bodies?” Hale asks.

  “I learned at the beginning that there are about a hundred in storage so far, ninety corpsicles and five real corpses and five in warm sleep. My information hasn’t gotten any better.”

  “Rich folks?” Hale asks.

  “Presumably. Qualified members, at least.”

  Hale grunts again. “Let’s get back to the structure.”

  “Gladly.” Giffey sketches in three shafts. “We have seven elevators or lifts. Five of them may or may not be of any use to us. I presume we’re going to trigg
er alarms, and these five—the biggest and most luxurious—are under the building’s control.”

  “The thinker,” Preston says.

  “We’ll assume that for now. But there are two shafts set up as separate emergency elevators. They have their own power supplies—fuel cells—and are isolated from any outside control, even the building’s control, to avoid lock-up in an emergency. Standard for any large dataflow building. These emergency elevators are our access to the lower levels of the building, but the closest is fifty yards from the VIP and service garage entrance.”

  “We’ll need something to carry our ill-gotten gains,” Hale says.

  “Right. That’s been taken into account.” Giffey draws in this path from the side view, then sketches an elevation and shows the twists and turns on the main floor. “The emergency elevators’ main exit is below ground level. They’re designed to drop passengers off at a tunnel under Republic Avenue, with an exit half a mile away. That will be our escape route. I asked for a large secured vehicle.” Giffey stabs the marker on the exit on his crude map. “That’s where it should be parked.”

  “We’re all going in?” Jenner asks, looking around.

  “Except for Mr. Park,” Preston says. “He’ll drive the truck.”

  Jenner grins. “I’m ready,” he says, stretching out his arms. Giffey watches the young man’s scalp, then jerks his gaze away. Pickwenn and Pent walk up to the board and examine the sketch.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have complete plans, would you?” Pickwenn asks, moistening his dark lips with a pale pink tip of tongue.

  “Sorry, no,” Giffey says. “We presume the hibernacula are above the fifth floor.”

  “And the emergency elevators go to those levels as well?” Pent asks.

  “One may,” Giffey says. “If it doesn’t, we’ll have to commandeer a main elevator.”

  “How do we do that?” Pickwenn asks dubiously. “Your… thinker is in charge of them, and presumably will know about us by then.”

  “Let’s look at the stuff,” Jenner suggests. “Mr. Giffey, these folks aren’t familiar with what we can do. They’ll settle down once we tell them.”

  “Good idea,” Hale says. “It just looks like a lot of barrels and boxes now.”

  In the back of the warehouse, they gather around a pallet five feet on each side, deposited on the concrete floor in an empty corner. The pallet is wrapped in reflective plastic, anonymous, unmarked. A few tears in the plastic reveal Jenner’s earlier investigation of the contents.

  “Tear it open,” Giffey tells Jenner. The young man deftly slips a knife from his pocket and sets to work. He slices the tough plastic and pulls it away, revealing four drumlike wax-lined metal canisters of military grade nano, and two canisters of WEPPON—Weapons and Equipment Programming Package, Ordnance Nano. Military complete paste.

  Patiently, Giffey begins to explain these tools. Pent and Pickwenn listen closely. Jenner nods enthusiastically. Giffey glances at Preston as he talks, watching her expression. Of all the people here, she seems the most intelligent, even the calmest; he wonders why Hale is in charge and she isn’t. Hale, after making an initial good impression, has dropped quite a bit in his estimation. Something about the man’s body language, his questions… Not enough probing questions.

  Preston is nervous, concerned. Good girl, Giffey thinks. This isn’t going to be a piece of cake. Most of us are probably never going to see that tunnel.

  Jenner pulls out a plastic probe, unscrews the cap of the first MGN canister, and dips the probe in. He proceeds to the second canister, querying the nano. A faint smell of yeast and iodine fills the room.

  Military grade nano is a living beast from another world. It tolerates our atmosphere, our world, but it’s always hungry.

  Giffey tries to remember who told him that, and when; but the memory doesn’t come quickly and soon he stops trying.

  “It’s perking and ready to go,” Jenner reports.

  “Lets go over it again,” Hale says. “What can this stuff work from?”

  Jenner gleefully obliges. He puts on an expert military tone, clipped, precise. “MGN is a living substance designed to thrive in a wartime environment, specifically, a high-tech battlefield. Supply it metal, flexfuller, organic, any plastics, anything but glass or gold. It absorbs nitrogen and CO2 from the air. Might be quite a suck if we’re low on organics” He folds his arms, self-impressed. “There’s a cafeteria unit in the building. It might be best to set it loose in there.”

  “Organics?” Preston says.

  Giffey had deliberately not covered this topic.

  “It’s designed to absorb and recycle battlefield casualties,” Giffey says quietly. “Mechanical and otherwise.”

  “Jesus,” says Kim Lou Park, grimacing.

  “We’ll set it on the pharaohs,” Jenner says, poking his, finger into the air.

  “We’ll treat them with kid gloves, actually,” Hale says. “They’re something we didn’t count on. We’ll be better off using them as shields and hostages.”

  That’s the first really intelligent thing Giffey has heard Hale say.

  “How will we unload the stuff?” Pickwenn asks.

  “We’re going right into the VIP garage, through the armor, through outside security, limo and all,” Hale says, smiling. “That’s the beauty of it. These folks aren’t as smart as we thought.”

  Giffey expresses no opinion on the matter. The setup does indeed seem sweet, much better than he had hoped.

  But all too clearly, he remembers the sweet deal of the night before.

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  7

  Jonathan walks into his wife’s hospital room. Pale blue cloth curtains in a circle around the bed ripple with a light breeze scented like a pine forest. There are five other patients in this bloc, but he can hear none of them; no conversations, no coughing or moaning. Chloe is silent as well. She has eaten breakfast and stares with grim determination at nothing.

  Her body is filled with a new set of monitors, these directed from outside rather than operating autonomously. They are trying to find an explanation for her condition. The probe receiver hangs from the ceiling on a narrow track, and a small cord leads from the receiver to a silver spot behind her left ear. This, he re
alizes, is a medical-grade plug. It could also be feeding her soothing impulses. Even with her eyes open, she might be asleep.

  He almost dreads the possibility she is awake. Walking into her room is like going before a judge. He has always been very sensitive about criticism, especially from Chloe; he has always been extremely careful not to do anything that might merit her anger.

  She does not seem to see him.

  “Hello,” he says softly. “How are you?”

  “Like shit,” she snaps and her face tightens, lines dragging the edges of her lips down. This makes her look much older.

  She looks like a female villain in an old Disney vid, hard, sexless, and bitterly angry.

  “I’ve talked to the doctor. She isn’t sure what happened.”

  “Isn’t she?” Chloe asks flatly.

  “Nobody is. There seems to be something going around.”

  “Good, Jonathan. Never blame yourself.”

  Jonathan halts his slow, cautious progress into the room one step from the side of Chloe’s bed. She is not well, he tells himself. There will be a lingering aura of her collapse. He will not let himself fall victim to her off-center affect.

  “A lot of people are becoming ill,” Jonathan says, his voice rough. “Nobody knows why.”

  “I’m as healthy as a horse. It’s my soul that has bootprints all over it.”

  “I know it hurts,” Jonathan says, barely a whisper. He starts to take that last step, to stand beside the bed, but she jerks her head and stares at him with the glassy eyes and wooden expression of a puppet. “God damn you,” she says flatly.

  Jonathan stops. His mouth goes soft and his tongue seems to fill the space behind his jaws, dry, and gummy. His eyes close to slits and he can barely see her beyond a light-beading film of tears.

  “You’ve been pushing me since we had Hiram and I’m sick because of it.”