Slant

by Eikeltje

  Carrilund does not immediately know what to make of this.

  "Never mind," he adds, waving that off.

  "No, I understand," she says. "That's the side we're on, Mr. Burke."

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  6

  Jack Giffey is working his way through a case of the shakes.

  He lies in bed in the small room he took in the early hours of the morning

  in a motel at the corner of Elk and Copper, across town; the covers are pulled

  152

  GREG BEAR

  A good family man would not do that.

  That inside voice comes out of nowhere. It means nothing; but its cold

  surprise brings on a sudden, almost leaden calm, and his thoughts become as

  shiny and smooth as doped silicon. That voice is a bit of dream, he hears a more

  familiar voice, his own voice, say. Ignore that man behind the curtain.

  "What the hell," Giffey says in the room's quiet.

  But the sensation passes. Giffey closes his eyes, now that the shaking has

  stopped and the voices are no longer dueling, to savor a bit of undifferentiated

  muzz, scattered passings of memory and dream. Then, with a few deep breaths,

  he is past recriminations and on to making today's schedule.

  There is little time to waste. He will meet with the rest of the team, and

  with the team's leader, at one in the afternoon. And by six tomorrow evening,

  they should be inside ...

  There is of course so much that could go wrong. But Giffey thinks the

  builders of Omphalos, like most pharaohs, have an inherent arrogance. The

  appearance of power is power, to them, especially in a world which they regard

  with so much contempt. Arrogance swells within the armor until many chinks

  appear.

  He dresses, eats in the small, quiet, rundown hotel cafe, keeping his eyes

  to himself, and gathers his stuff from the room before checking out.

  Today is cold and clear. Tomorrow, a weather front is moving in. Snow is

  predicted by seventeen tomorrow evening. They might be able to take advantage

  of that, as well.

  4ehe warehouse on the east end of town is at least seventy years old, a steel-

  am and corrugated sheet-steel relic that's probably cold as a freezer inside.

  Giffey approaches the office entrance on foot, bag in hand. He comes from

  nowhere, as if bearing no identity, his past forgotten; everything begins here.

  His mind is clear and his thoughts focused. He rings the ancient electric

  buzzer.

  Thirty seconds later, the door opens, and he looks into the face of a woman

  he has never met before. She is pale-skinned, brown hair cut in a medium frizz,

  brown eyes suspicious. She wears a checked shirt and army green pants and a

  thick bronze bracelet hangs loose around one wrist.

  "Who are you?" she asks from behind the door.

  "Giffey," he says. "Jack Gify."

  She stands back and pulis the door open. It creaks. Inside, the office is small

  and dusty. An ancient space heater cracks and snaps against one wall; the air

  feels blastingly hot and dry compared to the chill outside. A battered metal

  desk hunkers in one corner and a putty-colored filing cabinet leans next to the

  ^ :-. -.;. ,.oW,i,. h.a been scrubbed spotlessly clean in the op

  /

  SLANT 153

  it. Beside the sink is a white refrigerator and a microwave oven on a portable

  workbench.

  "I'm Hally Preston," the woman says. "I'm a friend of Mr. Hale."

  Giffey does not know that name, probably false. He wonders if the reference

  is to Nathan Hale.

  With tight slacks and a jacket and her hair cut close and combed to one

  side, Preston is more than a little mannish. Her face is lean and neutral, her

  lips prim. "Let's meet the others," she says, and opens the next door. Giffey

  passes through into the warehouse proper.

  The warehouse is filled with scraps of old airplanes, like the broken husks

  of giant dragonflies. A few disconsolate salvage arbeiters stand beside the heaps

  of scrap, but none of them seem to be in working order.

  Preston takes him on a short walk between walls of scrap. In the center of

  the pile, a small space has been cleared, just enough for a couch, four battered

  chairs, and a free-standing repeater whiteboard. Five men are here, three sitting

  and two standing: one of them is Jenner, the young ex-Army man.

  He looks up and waves. "The stuff's here," he announces proudly to Giffey.

  "It's all delivered. I checked it out and it seems fine." His scalp ripples like a

  tired caterpillar. Otherwise he seems at ease and pleased with himself.

  Giffey's breath clouds in front of him. He knows two of the others from photos.

  Preston introduces him. "Jack Giffey," she says to the five.

  One of the sitters, a blocky, black-haired man with a short neatly sculpted

  beard, stands and steps forward. He offers his hand. "I'm Hale," he says. Giffey

  knows him as Terkes. He looks British somehow, maybe Irish, but Hale/Terkes

  is a weapons expert from Ukraine, a naturalized citizen for twenty years, whose

  accent is pure middle American, New Received Broadcast. He has been involved

  in wire and fibe fraud, running industrial nano and pre-build slurry to

  Hispaniola, selling hellcrowns to Selectors in Southcoast. In short, Hale is an

  occasional bad'un but chubbily innocent, clean and scrubbed, cheerful.

  "I'm Kim Lou Park," says an Oriental man, whom Giffey knows as Evan

  Chung. Park/Chung has no past; he is as blank in all records as a newborn

  babe. What little Giffey knows about him is contradictory. He wears a long

  mustache and his hair is cut in a short bowl with a f}inge down his neck.

  Park believes that he recruited Giffey in St. Louis last spring. In fact, Park

  is way down the chain of origination. They met only twice there. Still, Park

  is savvy; he undoubtedly knows more about the rest of them than they do

  themselves, but he knows very little about Gifiy... Very little that is true.

  "Mr. Giffey and Mr. Jenner are our materials procurement people," Park

  says. "Mr. Giffey is also our main source for knowledge about the target."

  Giffey looks at the two men he does not know, and Preston walks around

  him. "Mr. Pent and Mr. Pickwenn," she says. "Architectural experts, specializing

  in breaking in or, if necessary, breaking out." She produces the faintest

  154

  GREG BEAR

  bored expressions. Pent is dark brown, Polynesian blood, and has almost no

  hair. Pickwenn is ghostly pale, with large lemur eyes and thin, elegan
t fingers.

  "We've worked together for ten years," Pickwenn says softly. Pent nods

  agreement. They do not offer to shake hands; Giffey is just as glad. Pickwenn's

  grip looks to be cold and damp.

  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

  erained 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 white

  board 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 sup

  / SLANT 155

  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 Raph-kind

  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 Giffev is malin,. n f,r ir' ....... I,

  156

  GREG BEAR

  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 spider-mesh

  nanotube--in some places, three feet thick, all stress-dispersal. Internal

  e

  teel 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--nano-tubes,

  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

  trigger alarms, and these five--the biggest and most luxurious--are under the

  /

  SLANT 157

  "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 lockup

  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