Slant

by Eikeltje

  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

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  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, organics, 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.

  e

  "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.

  /

  SLANT 159

  GODSTREAM I

  THE MULTIWAY CHRISTIAN NEWS FIBE

  NEWS BLAST: SATAN ON THE MARCH, Edition 216

  Hideous sex-selected abortions in India and China have led to the death of

  300,000,000 (that's three hundred million) unborn female children. Satan is

  laughing now! Tens of millions of Chinese and Indian men cannot find wives. Satan

  is ready for the next step! The governments of India and South China, and

  even of Northern Enclave China, have caved in to enormous public pressure and

  are forcing ten million adult men and boys a year to undergo sex change transformations,

  to become WOMEN! THE SIN OF MURDER BEGETS EVEN

  GREATER SIN!

  Meanwhile, the demand for that Hell-spawned and all-pervasive sin called

  Pornography (the night-sweats of Onan himself!) in India and China outstrips the

  rest of the world! Western-produced and now Eastern-produced pornographic

  material accounts for fully one third of ALL PURCHASES in India and China!

  Prostitution has always thrived in India, and now is rampant throughout Asia, but

  the perverse combination of robots and pornography has led to a TENFOLD INCREASE

  IN PROSTHETUTION, the use of robot sex surrogates! These prosthetutes,

  also known as whorebots and sexbeiters, are manufactured in Japan and

  Thailand. Satanic mechanical sex temptresses have been invading our shores

  and despoiling our youth for over twenty years!

  SODOM AND GOMORRAH WERE PIKERS! Can anyone deny that the end is

  near? BIBLICAL PROPHECY POINTS TO THE REAL ENDTIME! SATAN HOODWINKED

  US IN 2000 AND AGAIN IN 2048!

  JESUS IS RACING TOWARD US LIKE A FIERY LION, AN AVENGING COMET

  SOAKED IN GASOLINE!

  TAP THIS BU'ON TO MAKE AN INSTANT CONTRIBUTION FROM YOUR

  GOVERNMENT UNEMPLOYMENT FUND. ONLY THE GENEROUS WILL BE

  LAUGHING WHEN GOD'S WRATH SWALLOWS THE EARTH!

  COME TO GREEN IDAHO, GOD'S LAST FOOTPRINT ON EARTH!

  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 conver-

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  sations, 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 realizes, 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

  nows why."

  "I'm as healthy as a horse. It's my sou/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."

  He can say nothing to this. He tries to tell himself that she is not well, that

  the woman he loves and who mothered his children, the woman with whom

  he has slept in bed almost eight thousand times, and with whom he has made

  love at least two thousand times, would not use these words, this voice. Chloe

  has become someone else and this person will soon go away.

  "What is it?" she asks, breaking the silence of half a minute or more. "Why

  are you here?"

  "I hope you feel better soon." Jonathan looks around for some button to

  nuh. some cord to pull to call in human help, to keep him from saying

  /

  SLANT 161

  anything, but the words erupt. The room feels hot. "You had therapy after we

  met but you didn't tell me."

  "Why should I?" Chloe asks.

  '"Why did you need therapy?"

  "Because I kept wanting men, lots of men, and they kept hurting me,"

  Chloe says. "An excess of #esire. Why should I ever feel desire again?"

  He sees the chair and turns, sits before his knees go rubbery. Part of him

  wants to leave immediately and let the professionals treat her; another part is

  guilty for ever expecting anything from a mother, the mother of his chi/tire, for

  God's sake, and he knows he deserves this condign punishment.

  But this has nothing to do with what he says to her. "You've never liked

  to lose control," he says.

  "Look what it gets me." She gestures at the bed, the curtains.

  "I always thought we were partners, that we could be free with each other... I

  didn't know it was hurting you."

  She glances at him, pityingly, and to Jonathan that look embodies all the

  disapproving looks women have ever given him, from the disappointed anger

  of his mother to a girlfriend telling him he is not for her. Wrathscorn. Jonathan pulls his chair closer. She shifts on the bed.

  "Please listen," he says. "I'll go soon. Hiram and Penelope want to see you."

  "Oh, my God. Hiram. He saw what you were doing to me."

  "Don't," Jonathan says, pulling together all his control. "Listen, Chloe. This

  is important. No matter what you feel now, it's not real. You've had a thymic

  collapse. All your therapy gave way at once. I don't think I was responsible

  for that, but if I was, we have to make our decisions after you're out of the

  hospital, not now. You need time to rest and recuperate and let the doctors

  put things back in place. I'm told that won't take more than a week, but . . .

  the hospital is pretty busy now. The experts may not get to you for a few days.

  And I want only the best for you. If necessary, I'll take you out of here and

  find a specialist myself. The best." He swallows and tries to produce spit to

  wet his tongue, but it will not flow. "I won't come back if you don't want me

  to... until after you're feeling better."

  "I've just come awake, that's all."

  Jonathan takes a deep breath. He knows many things intellectually, that he

  should not feel anger for these words because they are not truly reflective of

  the real woman who is his wife. But he can't help thinking of a snail heaped

  high with salt. An earthworm drying in the summer sun. No love, no sex, cut

  away from the joys of this Earth; he is a dead man.

  She closes her eyes. "I need to rest," she says.

  He stands and turns and parts the curtain. In the passageway beyond,

  looking at the receding curves of blue curtains beneath the soft glow of the

  high ceiling, he can't breathe. He stands there making small choking

  noises until his throat clears and his eyes water. He sounds like a dog with

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  and stops his gasping.

  In the visitors' room, Hiram and Penelope are pale and serious and they sit

  with hands folded between their knees, as if posed for a photo. Hiram looks

  up at Jonathan.

  "She's not feeling very well. She's... saying some bitter things," Jonathan

  tells them.

  His children give him looks of total lack of comprehension. Perhaps they

  are being kind.

  "I'd like to see her," Penelope says. "We need to talk to her."

  "She's resting."

  "We'll wait, father," Penelope says, and looks away.

  Jonathan agrees. "I have to go now. I'll come back later."

  "All right," Penelope says.

  Hiram refuses to look at him.

  Jonathan kisses them on the tops of their heads and leaves. The hospital

  building seems airless, hermetic.

  In the open air, beneath the brilliant clouds and patches of blue sky, he

  feels no better. Jonathan requests an autobus and waits, stiff and aching, at

  the sheltered stop. He must walk carefully. He feels naked and vulnerable.

  His own sanity depends now on a plan to walk safely between close walls

  of thickly clustered nettles.

  PARADISO

  PLAYERS: 25,600

  GOALS: Gonzo, pLAY-DEFINED

  STATUS: You are currently in Space 2. Your avatar/face is MASK I. RECORDING.

  COMPANION: Name and status unknown. Also masked.

  YOU: I wish there was some way I could explain it to you.., a feeling of perfect

  peace, of belonging, of knowing where you are and what's expected of you.

  COMPANION: I wish I knew what that felt like.

  YOU: But you can! You can come join our Spiritual Therapy Group. We're having

  a chat multiway in fifteen minutes in Space 98.

  COMPANION: I've been through all of this before. I've been to chats with dozens

  of earnest people ganging
up on me, and I ask them tough questions, and they

  all fold and go home. You're just a bunch of self-deluding types, what can I say?

  / SLANT 163

  COMPANION: Sure. Does he talk inside of you? AH the time? Clear as a bell?

  Does he make sure you never do anything wrong?

  YOU: No, He doesn't talk inside me all of the time. He lets me make my own

  choices, and sometimes I choose wrong.

  COMPANION: Well, you don't sound as bad as those others. Are you male or

  female?

  YOU: Let's stick to the point here.

  COMPANION: Yeah, well the point is I'm open to god, I really am. I would love to

  have him talk to me and show me where I should be headed. But I'm sick of

  waiting. I hate this coy god shit where I have to play some unknown game just to

  have him talk to me. That's really cruel. I'm here; I need his help. I'm not being

  defiant or shutting myself out. I just don't hear anything!

  YOU: Perhaps you need to listen more carefully.

  COMPANION: I AM LISTENING! Why do you think I'm here? I keep coming back

  here for answers and going away and trying again, and god never talks to me!

  YOU: Perhaps He needs a sign from you. Some opening He can use to enter

  you.

  COMPANION: What, I should mend my ways just to have him talk to me? I need

  him to tell me how to mend my ways! I need guidance! It's getting worse every

  day, this pain. I thought it was over years ago but it isn't. I need him to help me!