Slant

by Eikeltje

  strong and that's unusual in the group so far. Wisdom of our sort," he flicks

  a finger between them, "finds a home in older frames. It's a tough load for the

  young to bear."

  Jonathan has enough self-respect left that this melodramatic display gives

  him no option. He laughs and shakes his head. "My God, Marcus, you have

  rne going here,

  you?"

  don't

  Marcus smiles a little sadly, but his eyes are bright and focused. He is not

  drunk and he is not fooling. "This is an old restaurant and I know the paint

  on its walls. Nobody would dare bug this place, because people like me know

  whose lapels to grab and which ear to shout in. It's safe here, comfortable

  here."

  "You're not having me on?"

  "Not a bit," Marcus says. "You either say yes, you want to go to the next

  stage, you trust me this far, or you say no, and never speak of this to anyone,

  including Chloe. And you'll never be offered the chance again."

  The female waiter comes by and asks how they're doing. Marcus tells her

  they're doing fine, and asks for a second bowl of Lagavulin.

  "Stagnation, pitfalls; the rules are changing," Marcus says after she leaves.

  "That's what you have to look forward to. Yox makes the temps and the disaffected more ignorant and more aggressive, bottom-up management is on

  the sly spin again, pffft! The collective is in place, grunting piglets all, and

  those of us with managerial talent are soon out on our butts in the snow and

  /

  SLANT 113

  "Come on, Marcus, cheer me up," Jonathan says. He is not really prepared

  for this sort of nonsense, but as he looks at Marcus, and thinks of all he knows

  about this man, all the deals and sideshows he's rumored to be involved in,

  all the threads he rides straight into the statehouse and the most powerful

  executive caucuses, even into the Rim Council and the Southcoasr White

  House . . . It's hard to speck Marcus as a deluded old fool.

  "It's not a cheery subject," Marcus continues doggedly. "The therapied

  society rides around on too many crutches. It's crippled and corrupt. But the

  unknown is scary. The Stoics--they cling to class superiority and a sense that

  God will eventually clean out the gutters and the water will flow fresh and

  clear once more. It's not going to happen. We've made some major mistakes

  in learning how to dance, and now the floor is crowded with clumsy fools . . ."

  Marcus's phrasing strikes Jonathan as being too practiced, but undeniably

  persuasive. Still, Jonathan resists being drawn in too quickly. "I don't think

  things are so dark," Jonathan says.

  Marcus looks down at the table. The waiter brings another bowl of Scotch

  and asks Jonathan if he'd like more wine.

  "Coffee, please," Jonathan says.

  "Modcaff, regular, or de?" the waiter asks.

  "Regular," Jonathan says.

  "I'm not unlike you, Jonathan," Marcus says. "At your age, I thought I was

  living in the best of all possible worlds, taking into account a few pitfalls here

  and there. Beate loved me and I loved her, and we were building things together.

  But that was twenty years ago. We were heading toward the Raphkind

  showdown, and the so-called last hurrah of the super-conservatives. Raphkind

  killed us. Went overboard. May the bastard rot in hell. So now we have nambypamby

  New Federalists--a trendy name for a purely financial and expedient

  frame of mind. I'm one. I know you're one, as well. Are you proud of your

  creed?"

  "Within limits," Jonathan says. He suspects Marcus plays faithfully and

  slyly the tune of whoever's in power.

  "So what's in the future for you? Do you know that managers between the

  ages of forty and fifty suffer thymic disorders twice as often as temp employees?

  Society wears us down. We wear ourselves out. But if we turn ourselves over

  to the therapists, they adjust our neurons and glial cells, they stick microscopic

  monitors into us that are supposed to balance our neurotransmitters and reconstruct

  our judgment centers. They say we're as good as new. But you know

  what happens? We lose an edge . . . Therapied managers just don't cut it. The

  happy man lets down his guard. After a while, being happy becomes a kind

  of drug, and he avoids challenges because failure will make him unhappy. It's

  a fact. So more and more--we take our mental aches and pains and stay away

  from the therapists.

  "Oh, we want our employees therapied--we want them happy and creative

  114

  GREG BEAR

  We have a higher duty." Marcus glances at Jonathan. "You're not happy, are

  you?"

  Jonathan leans back against the cushion and holds out his hands, gives a

  little sigh. "I'm in between general contentment.., and deep unrest," he says.

  Marcus lifts his eyebrows. "Well put."

  "But I'm not desperately unhappy, Marcus."

  "Still, if an opportunity comes along, allowing great change and new opportunity,

  you'd go for it, wouldn't you?"

  So they are back to that.

  "That would depend on the opportunity."

  Marcus points his finger into the tabletop and thumps it several times. "The

  gold ring, Jonathan. Not the brass ring. Gold."

  Jonathan finishes the last drops of wine in his glass. Outside, the storm

  shows no signs of abating. "Have you offered this opportunity to anyone before

  me?"

  "Yes," Marcus says.

  "Many?"

  "Two. One accepted, one declined."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "In the last five years."

  Jonathan feels a twist, an almost physical churn in his chest. If he could

  just be rid of his present stagnation--breathe freely in a new phase of life,

  undo past mistakes and play out his better potentials...

  "If I say yes, can I turn back at a certain point later?"

  "No," Marcus says squarely. "It's yes or no. Here and now."

  "I have to put my trust in you."

  e

  That's the crux."

  What about my family? Would they be involved?"

  "They have to undergo the same inspection as you," Marcus says. "If they

  pass, they go."

  So Beate isn't going, Jonathan intuits.

  "What about their chance to choose?"

  "In our group," Marcus says, "the head of household bears the brunt."

  The emergency chime on Marcus's pad sounds and Marcus pulls it out,

  angling it away from Jonathan's eyes. It is a text message; Marcus reads it

  swiftly, his face a practiced blank, and puts the pad away.

  "Something's up," he says. He gives Jonathan a look that can be interpreted

  either as disappointment or a kind of apologetic sorrow. "Jonathan, I've never

  placed you anywhere but in the sly spin, have I?"

  "Never," Jonathan truthfully acknowledges. He cannot blame Marcus for

  his present situation.

  "What's just happened--what I've just learned--puts us deeply in need of

  someone like you. The opportunity is even better for you. You can move right

  /

  SLANT 115

  into a position of influence. I'll vouch for the fact that you're capable and you're

  ready."

  Jonathan does not feel comfortable leaping into the dark, and dragging

  Chl
oe after him . . .

  But he remembers her stiffness in his arms. Whenever he has touched her

  in the last month, she has seemed secretly annoyed. Her respect for him, her

  desire for him as a man, has faded, buffeted by the pressures of children and

  the stalling--he supposes--of his career.

  She is disappointed in her life. She is disappointed in him.

  A wild flare of anger and fear rises. Marcus is watching him. Marcus always

  seems to know the inner workings of his people; that's why his career has never

  faltered. He always keeps his teams together--and he always chooses his people

  well.

  "Are you in charge?" Jonathan asks.

  "No. But I'm close to the top, and those above me are the best. I've never

  seen better."

  Jonathan blinks and his left eye stings. It's been a long night. He wipes the

  corner of his eye with the knuckle of his forefinger, then stares at Marcus.

  "Say yes, and you'll have one last chance to back out--think it over for

  tonight and call me tomorrow evening. After that, after you've learned what

  we're up to, you're in. No backing out. Ever."

  He has been looking for a change, any change, to regain Chloe's respect, to

  win back her need for him. But everything he has considered seems ridiculous-moving

  to Europe, even China, starting over again. He can't let go of

  what they've already gained in the world. He believes Chloe values their security

  very highly, and would think even less of him if he jeopardized that.

  "The gold ring, Jonathan." Marcus fixes him with a patriarchal and steady

  gaze. "Never steered you wrong, Jonathan."

  "Better contacts, references?"

  Marcus smiles. "Best you've ever seen. Solidarity. Real support in tough

  times, and the times are going to get much tougher, believe me."

  "My family will get.., better contacts, better opportunities?"

  "If they make the grade, Jonathan." Marcus nods. "You know their quality

  better than I."

  "Yes," Jonathan says.

  "I'm sure they will," Marcus murmurs, but looks away.

  "Yes."

  Marcus looks back sharply. "Is that your answer?"

  Jonathan blinks. He did not mean it as an answer, he thinks, not precisely

  an answer, not yet at least. But Marcus is growing restless. Marcus does not

  like prevarication and delay. Either you know your mind or you don't.

  "Yes," Jonathan says.

  Marcus smiles. He is genuinely relieved. "Welcome aboard."

  116

  GRG BAR

  They shake hands. Jonathan for a moment does not know who he is or what

  he is doing; there is such a pressure of withheld anger that he fears he might

  go home and beat someone--or more likely, kill himself.

  He is so in love with Chloe, so desperately in need of her, and she has given

  him so little of what he believes he deserves, despite all. The pent-up shock

  of this realization makes him a little dizzy.

  "Go home and rest," Marcus says. "This takes something out of all of us."

  "What's the next move?" Jonathan asks.

  'I'll get you together with some people. Patience," Marcus says. "I've waited

  four years so far to see this happen. We might have to wait ten more."

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  /

  SLANT 117

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  19

  Jack Giffey believes in being very gentle with women. (It's the women who

  have been cruel to him--a small dark voice tells him; but actually, he can't

  remember any cruel women--why is that?)

  He is gentle with Yvonne. She is surprisingly elegant in his bed, anticipatory

  and supple and enthusiastic without seeming a slut. She keeps her eyes

  on his eyes, she watches his motions with intense interest; it has been some

  time since he has felt the urgency of a younger woman, and even among her

  age group, Yvonne is a pistol, a classy pistol indeed. He feels very lucky, like

  a sacrificial victim given the pick of a town's beauties before his ritual comes

  to its inevitable end.

  Giffey does not enjoy tongue kisses, but oddly enough, he enjoys using his

  lips and tongue everywhere else. He read somewhere years ago about men of

  his type, the particular molecules they enjoyed and which spurred their own

  satisfactions, but that was chemistry not sex and he really does not care what

  the reasons are.

  Yvonne lets him know, without resorting to specifics, that few men of her

  acquaintance are so generous. Giffey feels proud and within an hour they have

  completely exhausted each other.

  "You are some lady," Giffey says as they lie back. The room is not expensive

  and does not have much in the way of comfo
rts, but he keeps a bottle of

  bourbon in the cupboard and there is ice in the small ancient enameled refrigerator,

  and he offers her a drink. He feels very mellow toward her and even a

  little protective.

  118

  GREG BEAR

  "I don't normally like liquor," Yvonne says. "But it seems right. Let's make

  it a toast--to you."

  "Thank you," Giffey says.

  While he is up getting the glasses poured, Yvonne sits up on the bed with

  the covers draped just over her knees, and he appreciates the flow of her breasts

  and the twin rolls of her bunched tummy. Giffy does not like tummies that

  are artificially taut. Yvonne has sufficient numbers of the lovely flaws of un-tampered

  nature to almost convince him that there is nothing he'd like better

  than to spend more days and of course nights with her, many more.

  "What do your friends call you? Do they call you Jack?" Yvonne asks,

  scratching her nose with a fingernail.

  "My best friends call me Giff," he says. "But very few people on this world

  ever call me Giff."

  "May I?"

  Giffey brings the glasses over, ice clunking within the pale brown bourbon.

  "What would Bill think if I let you call me Giff?" he says.

  Yvonne narrows her eyes. "I need you, this," she says. "It's none of his damn

  business."

  "Sorry I brought it up."

  "That's all right," Yvonne says, and gives him dispensation with a wave of

  her glass, then takes a sip.

  "I wish I could do more," Giffey says.

  "I'm not asking for more," she says.

  He feels his deep layer of occasional honesty rising to the surface. He knows

  he can't suppress it; he cares for this woman a little, and he will not deceive

  her. "What I mean is, you move me like no woman I've met in years."