Slant

by Eikeltje

  and nods succinctly, as if that's all the information they need for now.

  Daniels gives Mary a quick conspiratorial grin, then sobers.

  Inside the terminal, they pass through an archway made of interlaced deer

  antlers. The ticketing area and passenger lounge resemble an old-style hunting

  lodge, complete with a fierce blaze in a huge stone fireplace. Airport personnel,

  mostly young women, watch from behind their log counters. There are no

  other passengers.

  Mary sees three men, two more young women, and a stout, strong-looking

  older woman standing near the fireplace, warming themselves. The older

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  woman in the center, with a squat face and short gray hair, Mary recognizes

  from news vids: Andrea Jackson Kemper, the president of Green Idaho.

  Kemper advances with her entourage over the carpeted floor and stares at

  the new arrivals with angry gray eyes. "I'd like to know what you're doing

  here," she says. Before they can answer, she adds, "I've been told there's already

  a federal undercover man in Moscow. That violates our treaty. My office, and

  the sheriff, are supposed to be informed of any federal entry." Kemper's gaze

  falls on Mary and she examines her quickly from head to foot, like some

  peculiar animal.

  "We're not aware of any other agents," Torres says stiffly.

  Mary guesses that Hench is aware, however.

  "I'm sure you aren't," Kemper says acidly.

  A young, strong-looking blond man wearing a black denim longsuit steps

  forward. "A high-ranking senator on Federal Oversight and Security Data sent

  us confirmation this afternoon. He also tells us you've been flying in to Idaho

  to meet with citizens from outside the state. That sounds damned suspicious

  tO US."

  Kemper holds up her hand to forestall any further discussion. Then, half-audibly,

  she says, "Some elected representatives in your frigging government

  still believe in liberty. Some still have a sense of honor."

  "Excuse me, Madam President." The sheriff steps in. "We have a big problem

  here. There's a disturbance at Omphalos, and my guess is," as he stares at

  the agents and Mary, "some of you know why. We'd like you to come with

  us to that location and render assistance."

  "We have no jurisdiction as active agents here--" Daniels begins, but the

  president shakes her head and raises an admonitory finger.

  "Word gets out," the sheriff says, "and we'll have armed hotheads crawling

  from behind every rock and tree. It'll be a flee-for-all and a lot of people will

  get hurt."

  "We want this taken care of quickly and quietly," Kemper says. "I don't

  care about the goddamned building. Someone's been pouring bribes into every

  office below mine for years to get the damned thing built. They've ignored

  me, so I say the hell with Omphalos. But help us get this under control and

  then get all your people out of here, and I do mean all of them, before our

  defense forces get wind of it."

  The president stares at Burke, and then she looks at Mary again, more

  particularly at her uniform. "You're a city cop, aren't you?"

  "Mary Choy, fourth rank, Seattle Public Defense," Mary says.

  "You've certainly got yourself in bad company," the president tells her. The

  blond aide tells Kemper that Mary has an entry permit okayed by their office

  and the county sheriff. Kemper shakes her head. "Honey, if these Federals were

  the only ones here, I'd boot them out so goddamned fast they'd need to set

  their watches back a day. But my daddy was a Seattle city cop. You're a sight,

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  but you're a hell of a lot more welcome than these folks." Kemper sniffs. "You

  keep an eye on them, honey. They'd as soon bite your ass as pick their noses."

  She stalks away, followed by her aides.

  Daniels and Torres exchange looks. "Thank you," Daniels says to Mary in

  an undertone.

  Torres is clearly miffed. "Someone in Washington has got some real explaining

  to do," he mutters.

  Two deputies escort them to a county all-terrain vehicle parked by the curb,

  in a taxi zone. The president's ATV, mud-brown and armored like a tank,

  pulls away from the same zone and vanishes in a drifting curtain of snow.

  The interior of the AT is a tight fit for the ten of them, and Mary sits on

  a hard bench at the rear, every bump rattling her teeth like castanets.

  In Green Idaho, the roads have a lot of bumps.

  The man named Jack Giffey has been fading in and out. The reversal of all

  their plans, no real surprise, acts like a cold spray of water, waking someone

  else who seems to be trying to climb into his head and take over the driver's

  seat, and Giffey can't put up much fight. His fabric is pretty threadbare.

  He wonders for a moment if he's suffering from Jenner's malady, but he's

  never had therapy--not to his knowledge. He does not think he should be

  4ulnerable to whatever the old man or Omphalos has unleashed.

  So who is the father of two that keeps putting his foot on the brakes and

  jerking the wheel away from Jack Giffey? He's been seeing the faces of two

  teenage boys and a woman, a split-level old house in Port-au-Prince. This guy

  lives in Hispaniola and doesn't seem to have much to do--his occupation and

  much of his life is still a marshy blank. Thinking and remembering about this

  more primary and convincing fellow gives Giffey the shivers and makes his

  head hurt, as if a little soldering iron is being shoved up through his spine

  into the base of his brain. It makes his eyes vibrate.

  The situation right here and now is plenty complicated without distractions.

  For a few minutes, Giffey is strong enough to take over, issuing orders to

  Jenner to reconnoiter the lounge. He returns the young man's fiechette pistol.

  Jenner clamps his mouth shut with a visible effort and does what he is told,

  evoking a sudden chilly respect and affection from Giffey, but Hale is getting

  to be a problem.

  Hale is still babbling about getting out of the building.

  Giffey bends down over the bodies and surmises that Pent was killed by

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  Cadey probably did not die from his bites: he has a flechette burrow in the

  center of his chest, and a little pool of blood under him. Pent apparently shot

  the small brown man before he died.

  Hale shouts, "We should bust out through the garage and get the hell out

  of here!"

  Briefly, Giffey gives up the reins again to the uncomprehending father of

  two, and stares at Hale with wide eyes. Then good old brave, ever-competent

  Jack returns, replays what Hale has said, glances at Marcus and Jonathan, and

  shakes his head.

  "My God... Jamal," Marcus is saying, touching the small brown man's

  dead, puffy face.

  Jonathan has his eyes on Giffey, and Giffey catches his calm, observant

  expression. He wonders if maybe this quiet and heretofore compliant hostage

  has more in him than he first thought.

  He's a family man. Sometimes they do surprising things.

  "I'm a family man, too," Giffey tells Hale, who stops in mid-harangue to

  stare in shock. "Do you know who I really am?"

  Hal
e gapes, hands swinging by his side. "Fuck, no," Hale says. "Do you?"

  "Just so," Giffey says, nodding. "Now listen. If Jenner comes back and says

  it's clear, maybe we can get out of here that way. But first, we really do need

  to get below." He lies to Hale: "Where do you think they'd keep the real

  stuff? It's more likely to be secure below ground, don't you think?"

  "Fuck no I don't think. It goes completely against the plans you provided,"

  Hale reminds him, punching his finger into Giffey's chest. "The plans show

  the vaults in the higher levels, above ground, each vault with its own private

  cache."

  "Somebody lied," Giffey guesses. He pats Hale's shoulder. "If we leave now,

  aren't we just the proper little losers?"

  Hale doesn't fathom this. "I don't fucking care," he shouts at Giffey. Suddenly

  his eyes widen. "Christ. The lounge. Where is Hally?" Distracted, he

  starts to wander toward the arched entrance of the hall leading back to the

  lounge. Jenner returns through the arch, bumps into Hale, and then shoves

  past, and Hale loses yet another head of steam, stopping suddenly with legs

  splayed and fists clenched.

  "They're all dead . . . muh fih shi." Jenner points. "Miz Preston, the other

  woman, the.., all of them, all swollen--bitten. There are ants in the room.

  On the floor. Big black ones. I think I saw more wasps." He tosses his head

  to keep from shouting nonsense.

  Giffey stares at Jenner intently, weighing this report against the young

  man's behavior.

  Jonathan swims through the nightmare with a steady stroke now. Everything

  is getting more highly colored and intense.

  "Hostages?" Giffey asks.

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  muhfuh Bitch!" He grabs himself by the nose and twists until he cries out and

  his eyes water. "Sorry. Looks like Hally shot them before she died." He turns

  to Hale, curious how he will react. "She's swollen, big. Ready to burst. All

  swollen."

  Hale's face prunes in agony. He gives a shuddering groan and bends over.

  Coughing into his fist, he straightens, asks, "Is a way clear? For us to get out?"

  "I'm not going back there," Jenner says firmly. "They're ... muh mufshit

  shit goddamn shit fuck nih nihhh niggh fuh fuh. . . Bitch! They're all dead."

  Giffey shakes his shoulders and jerks his arms as if loosening up. "Let's get

  this freak show moving, old man," he says to Marcus, jerking him to his feet.

  "You're the sacred cow here. I'm staying close to you. We all are."

  Jonathan helps Marcus rise.

  "Ants?" Marcus asks Jenner plaintively, his hand out to the young man,

  fingers waggling in query. "You mean, machines.., little machines?"

  "No. Bugs. A wasp, too. I saw some, dead, around the bodies," Jenner says,

  nodding sure confirmation.

  "Did you see our little cats, the little beetles, the other warbeiters?" Giffey

  asks Jenner.

  "No. They weren't there."

  Jonathan feels Marcus's grip tighten on his hand. The old man was not

  expecting this. Marcus stares up into Jonathan's eyes. He looks lost, bewildered.

  Seeing Marcus lose the last of his cocksure confidence gives Jonathan

  peculiar satisfaction. We're all going to die and nobody's going to be on the top of the

  heap. It'll be over soon.

  Good.

  Hale looks as if he has had a spear pushed through his body. He half

  Crouches,

  hands braced against his knees. Giffey doubts he is going to be

  any

  more trouble.

  The building trembles and resounds. There's a sound like a chain of firecrackers

  set off in a concrete bunker high above them. The Hammer raises its

  snout and lifts its claws.

  "There," Giffey says. "Better late than never." He turns, grabs Marcus, then

  shoves him back to Jonathan. "Help carry the old man," he orders Jenner, and

  walks resolutely in the direction of the emergency elevator.

  "Who in this almighty dogshit world does he think he is?" Hale cries.

  Charlie the Hammer, Baker the flexer/controller, and the rest of the survivors,

  all but Hale, follow. Hale just can't seem to make up his mind where to

  be or what to do.

  Martin sits beside Mary Choy and keeps his hands clenched between his knees.

  Nobody is talking; they've entered downtown Moscow and the pyramid wedge

  is visible through the snow in the dusk. They turn right onto the newer

  concrete-paved street with its fresh coat of snow and he sees tire tracks all over,

  trucks and armored vehicles, men and women in parkas carrying rifles, assault

  weapons, flechettes, pistols, shotguns. A few private limos are parked across

  the street from the white and gold windowless wall of Omphalos, and standing

  beside the limos, men in longsuits with hastily thrown-on jackets and no

  weapons.

  "Advocates," Mary says. "Lots of them."

  Martin nods. "Out of state," he observes.

  "Jesus," a deputy says huskily. "We're too late--the whole town's here."

  And then they see why. At street level, a gaping hole has been cut in a

  broad, inset door. Higher up, near the tip of Omphalos, another wider hole

  has been blasted, and smoke is still rising in gray puffs from that breach.

  The president's armored vehicle crosses in front of them and swerves to a

  halt, blocking the road. Aides and guards pour out, forming a cordon. The

  men and women standing in loose knots below the wall shout and wave. Some

  lift their weapons high on one arm in a revolutionary salute.

  "Are they republic defense?" Martin asks.

  "Hell, no," says a deputy as he pushes the carrier's doors open. He shakes

  his head in professional disgust. "Just patriots out for a good look."

  Daniels, Torres, and the two stolid agents gather close to Martin and Mary.

  "Stay near the cars for cover," Daniels tells them.

  The president stands in the middle of the street, leaning back to take in

  the gleaming surface of the tall triangular wall. Clouds filled with snow are

  sliding over the pyramid's sharp golden point.

  The citizens are cheering and a few fire off weapons, until the deputies stalk

  forward, waving their hands and pleading for them to stop. "Goddammit, the

  president's here!"

  "Well, whoop-tee-doo," one burly male comments wryly, looking to his

  friends for some mob courage.

  "I'll erring shoot the next bastard who fires his weapon," the sheriff says,

  and gestures for his deputies to lock and load.

  The crowd backs away, some citizens making placating motions with their

  hands.

  Mary thinks the president of Green Idaho is a very brave woman.

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  dent's cordon. Mary hears them discuss bringing Dr. Burke into the building

  at any entry point; the sheriff shakes his head, and the discussion continues,

  getting more and more heated.

  Martin turns to Mary. "They want me to look for evidence inside the building.

  A laboratory, a research center."

  "What sort of research?"

  "Creating super-enzymes or pathogenic organisms capable of blocking implants,

  therapy monitors."

  Mary rubs her wrist; the red spots have become prominent bumps. She can

  feel welts itching on
her thighs and hips. "Not just mental therapy implants,"

  she says.

  Martin shakes his head. "I suppose not. A few days ago, I would have

  thought no private group could ever do such things. What's the point?"

  "Tearing down a society and culture you don't like," Mary suggests. "Getting

  back at history."

  "To what end? Were they planning to hide out in their tombs until... ?"

  He doesn't finish his question.

  Mary sees that Torres and the sheriff have finished their discussion, and the

  sheriff is reluctantly giving in. Daniels urges Martin forward, then looks at

  Choy.

  "I suppose this is your case, too," he says.

  Mary nods, her face drawn. She tries to smile but can't. Literally. She feels

  faintly ill, but she can still walk, can still carry out her duties. "Maybe it's

  become personal."

  "Yeah," Daniels says. "Nathan Rashid isn't here yet. I'll leave instructions

  for them to let him in, too, if he gets here in time."

  The take them the restless crowds the

  deputies

  through

  cold,