/
SLANT 213
Marcus Reilly answers his own front door and reacts with surprise to Jonathan's
appearance on his doorstep. "Why, Jonathan, I thought you were less than
convinced."
"I had to think about it," Jonathan says.
"You're on compassionate leave, I understand," Marcus says as they step
into the foyer. The house is huge, bigger than Jonathan had expected,
and is situated on five acres of prime Medina waterfront overlooking Lake
Washington.
"Chloe's in the hospital," Jonathan says, and no more. Marcus probably
knows all about it, knows all about everything. Jonathan does not want to talk
about Chloe or indeed his family or any part of his messed-up life.
"We're in the back study," Marcus says. "The center of our little recruiting
group. We had work to do whether you showed up or not, but I'm glad you're
here."
"Wouldn't miss it," Jonathan says.
Marcus confronts him in the hall by the massive living room. Jonathan
stares in mingled shock and admiration at a wall frieze above the long white
couch: a pack of man-sized prehistoric monsters, dinosaurs. Their black fossil
bones poke from the wall as if it were a veil of fog, and the animals seem ready
to leap on whomever is in the room. For a moment, he almost misses what
Marcus is saying.
"There's an edge in your voice, Jonathan."
"Ah--it's been a rough night, Marcus."
Marcus gestures to the back of the house. "Back in the study," he says.
"They're very sensitive, like a pack of wolves. They can sense any kind of
hesitance and believe me, they'll pounce on it."
Jonathan nods solemnly and visualizes a pack of fully fleshed dinosaurs in
the study, dressed in longsuits and smoking pipes, waiting for him. He doesn't
care. Anything would be better than what he faces now.
"We have a lot at stake here. Even though I've vouched for you, they're
men of independent judgment."
"All men?" Jonathan asks.
"All men in this group," Marcus answers.
"Good," Jonathan says. Marcus half turns to continue their walk and Jonathan
touches his arm. "I'm sorry, Marcus. I'm together on this. It's the rest
of my life that's a shambles..."
"Well, maybe we can do something about that. Give a fellow some purpose.''
Jonathan smiles and hitches his shoulders forward, makes as if to roll up
his sleeves. "Ready," he says.
The walk seems to stretch forever, past room after room of cases packed
with beautifully bound art books and rare literature, glass cabinets filled with
ceramic figurines, high-back leather chairs; the carpet is white wool, not meta
214
GREG BEAR
bolic yet clean as can be and enormously expensive. The walls are period pale
wood, ash or birch from the twentieth century, when the house was made.
There is no vid or Yox in evidence; even Jonathan has allowed a vid room in
their house.
"It's big," Jonathan says as they approach a large oaken door. Outside, sun
has emerged again and yellow warmth glows through French doors in an exercise
room to their right.
"Twelve thousand square feet. Built by one of the Medina software moguls
in the late nineties. A fiowtech classic. He had the dinosaurs installed. They're
real fossils, not casts. Peculiar taste, but I like 'em."
"They're charming," Jonathan says.
Marcus opens the door. The room is blue with cigar and pipe smoke. It
smells herbaceous, like a fire in an exotic jungle. Tobacco of this high quality
is very expensive, however; Jonathan estimates there's about a thousand dollars'
worth of smoke in the study. Jonathan does not smoke himself, though he has
no objections to it. With cancer a worry of the past, a number of vices have
resumed their place in upper-class American life.
Five men sit or stand in the haze. They stop talking and stare at Jonathan
expectantly. The room is small, only twenty feet on a side, and filled with
bookshelves, is a less fancy selection of real books: tattered popular novels, and
what used to be called hardbacks, in casual disarray. Jonathan's grandfather
would have felt comfortable here.
Against one wall, an open shelf supports a collection of antique calculators,
"laptop" computers less powerful than a modern dattoo, and early chemical
film cameras, of the sort called autofocus.
The shortest
in the
is brown-skinned and about
man
room
Jonathan's
age.
He has a round, funny face with large staring eyes and a quick smile. He's
dressed in exercise togs; they all are.
Only two of them are currently smoking, though the ashtrays are filled with
the wasted long butts of cigars. RRziaL Jonathan thinks.
"So who's this, Marcus?" the short man asks. There are two men ten or
fifteen years older than Jonathan, of Marcus's generation, though with the
healthy, exercised, hard faces of the studiously well-off. The remaining two are
tall and serious and younger than Jonathan, out of their social depth but game
enough and smart enough. Four of the five are Caucasian. The short man is
probably East Indian.
"This is Jonathan," Marcus says. "He's our candidate for this week."
They all murmur greetings. Then the five sit. Jonathan and Marcus remain
standing.
"Jonathan, do you recognize any of these men?"
"No, sir," Jonathan says.
"And do you recognize Jonathan?"
/ SLANT 215
"You've been given Jonathan's CV in a cleansed form, without particulars.
The group's personnel director has vetted the facts. Jonathan comes through
with even more purity than most of us."
The others laugh. Then the faces get somber. This is not funny. Marcus
pulls out a straight-backed wooden chair and Jonathan sits in it.
"Jonathan, we're all in deadly earnest here. I'm going to ask you some
questions, and if you answer the way I expect you will, I'll ask you one final
question. If you answer that with a yes, you're in and you can't ever leave...
Our group, I mean, not the house."
Nobody smiles this time.
"All right," Jonathan says. If somebody were to pull out a fiechette pistol
and ask him if he wants three of them in his chest, right now, he might answer
yes; he feels deeply sad and betrayed and so much love for Chloe that a chill
ache fills his body and paralyzes half his judgment. He can't think of anybody
in his family who would not be better off if he were removed from this life.
This is the modern equivalent of trying out for the French Foreign Legion, he thinks,
but then doubts the truth of it.
"Jonathan, is this world in good shape?"
Jonathan looks up over his shoulder at Marcus. Marcus points to the five:
face them.
"No," he says decisively.
"Does this world meet the standards you would set for a lively, interesting
kind of place, a good place to live?"
"No," he says more softly.
"What would you say to the possibility of living in a bet
ter place?"
"I'd like to know where it is."
"Would you go there if you could?"
"Yes," Jonathan says.
"We're making that world right now," Marcus says. "A place where pioneers
and reasonable men can raise their families in peace and security, without facing
the hideous, soul-destroying temptations of a society mad with its own lust."
Jonathan looks at the others nervously. The words soul-destroying and lust
stick in his head.
"Would you work very hard, and make some substantial sacrifices, if you
knew you could live in a better, moral, rational place?"
"Yes," Jonathan says in a whisper. A moral, rational place would not have
allowed Chloe to damage herself; she would be his alone, and he would never
have damaged her.
"I didn't hear that," one of the older men says.
"Yes," Jonathan speaks up, and clears his throat. The short darker man
pours a glass of water from a pitcher and hands it to him.
"What if the means of getting there were.., troublesome. What if you had
to leave much of what you cherish in this world behind, to get to this better
216
GREG BEAR
Jonathan feels like a fish on a griddle, all the juices broiled out of him. "I
don't have much here," he murmurs.
"This new world is not some airy-fairy dream," Marcus continues. "You
won't get there on a magic bus or by stepping through some secret garden
gate. We have to make this world ourselves.
"All the men and women in this new world will have undergone rigorous
filtering. They'll have proven themselves to be strong folks who know how to
work hard and get along with others. The basic old schoolroom virtues. Does
that describe you?"
"If his CV is correct," the second older man says, "then we all believe that
it does."
Jonathan is relieved not to have to answer. He feels no inner confidence and
does not know why the others should be confident of him. He keeps staring
ahead, though not directly at any of the faces. They remain focused on him
and his reactions.
"You may have to sacrifice everything, even your own limited sense of what
is right and wrong," Marcus says.
Jonathan looks at Marcus, puzzled.
"It's the old equation," Marcus says. "Usually formulated by madmen and
tyrants with no moral sense. We have the moral sense to formulate the equation
correctly."
"All right," Jonathan acquiesces.
'!' :'
"You may have to give up your connections, all of your old friendships."
Even in his present condition, this is getting spooky; what are they going
to ask him to do, shoot his relatives? But Jonathan believes he can still back
out. They haven't asked him the ultimate question. He truly does not know
Cow he will
answer.
"It won't come instantly, this new world. It might take decades. We need
all of your personal assets and connections in this present world, this imperfect
world, to make it happen. But in the end.., the Earth will be cleansed, re
newed, rebooted as it were, with a new polish and a youthful gleam. We will
give the human race a new chance to shine forth in the universe."
This hits something deep in Jonathan. For years, he has felt inadequate to
deal with all the little frustrations of a world going wrong; the world has even
pushed its tumors of corruption into his family, through his wife. It wants to
break him. He owes it no allegiance.
"All right," Jonathan says.
"We can't give you any more details until you say you will join us," Marcus
concludes. "You know me. You know I'm no monster, that we won't call for
genocide or all-out war, that our methods will be subtle and long-term. Think
of it as a biological and political necessity. Think of it as just giving yourself
a little advantage by being part of the change, for once in your life, instead of
standing outside, looking in..."
/
SLANT 217
"We don't need any fancy language from you, not now. You will swear an
oath today and sign a contract at some point, just to make things formal. I
will ask you the question, and if you answer yes, you are in. You can't back
out. If you do, you will be killed."
This jolts Jonathan, though he has expected it. Two days ago, he would
have backed away from this small room and its intent group of men, he would
have checked with his remaining sense of self and decided this solemn craziness
was much too much for a family man with any sense; but he is still empty
inside. His self is too knocked-over to respond.
"I'm ready," Jonathan says. This will do it; this will give him a purpose.
This will bring him back.
"Are you with us? That's the question, Jonathan. Think it over before you
decide."
Jonathan closes his eyes, opens them, holds up one hand as if to ask for a
drink of water, but the glass is right beside him, sitting on the carpet by the
chair. He reaches to pick it up, drinks, replaces the glass.
"I'm with you," he says.
The tension in the room should break, he thinks, but it does not. The air
is thick with more than fading tobacco smoke. The other men stand.
"We've all taken the oath," the brown man says. "Administer the oath,
Marcus."
Marcus pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolds the paper with
a soft crackling sound and reads Jonathan the requirements, step by step. The
document restates what he has already heard in lawyer's language rather than
rampant ideals, and it does not give any more details about what they are
going to do to make this new world. Jonathan feels a little sick. It's too late
to back out. He rises.
"We're all of diverse beliefs and we don't think you have to swear on any
ancient book to make a pact for the rest of your life," Marcus says.
"Amen to that," says the round-faced darker man, and the others smile
briefly.
"Swear allegiance to the group, to the means deployed by the group and
the ends sought by us all, on your life and deepest self, on all you value and
hold dear, to forfeit all these things should you violate this oath or back away
from our common goals."
"I swear allegiance to the group..."
"To the means deployed by the group and the ends sought by us all."
"To the means deployed by the group and the ends sought by us all."
"On all you value and hold dear."
"On all I value and hold dear. I will . ."
"To forfeit all these things should you violate the oath or back away from
its goals."
"I swear to forfeit all these things should I violate the oath or back away
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GREG BEAR
"Good," Marcus says. "You're now a man with real purpose in life."
"Thank you," Jonathan says. He feels faint. Marcus supports him. The others
smile broadly and gather around, offering him their hands. They are brothers.
He shakes hands one by one, but his face feels cold and his whole body is
sweating.
"Back off, guys," Marcus says gently. "This was tough on all of us. He needs
some room to breathe."
"Thank you," Jonathan says.
But inside, Oh, God, I don't j%l any better.
They have drinks in the dining room, Marcus serving from behind a small
wet bar, dispensing excellent (so he says) single malt scotch and fine New
Zealand and French wines. The men are all laughing and cracking jokes;
the tension is broken. They tell their names to Jonathan and he loses all of
the names within minutes, except for the short brown man with the
amused face, whose name is Cadey, Jamal Cadey. He is not usually so forgetful.
He is just very stretched.
Cadey takes him aside. "That went rather well," he says to Jonathan. "Marcus
tells us you have a special business degree in micromechanics. But he wasn't
any more specific than that--and that could be anything from protein synthesis
to full-blown nano."
"Mostly food synthesis research. Feeding nano and people. That's what my
company does," Jonathan says. Right now, any of these men could ask him
the size of his prick and he'd tell with hardly a blink.
He does not feel alive; but then, neither is he dead. This lack of any inner
uality bothers him like a missing tooth.
He wonders if this is how Chloe feels.