"I design autopoietic software structures," Cadey says. "Self-making and
maintaining business tools for INDAs, mostly. We should have a lot to talk
about comes the time--but you don't have many details yet, do you?"
"None," Jonathan says. "I have no idea what I've sworn myself to."
"Hits us all that way at first," Cadey says. "You've heard of the Omphalos
concept?"
"Yes, of course," Jonathan says cautiously. He's been interested in longevity
and freezing down, even warm sleep, for several years now, though he's never
told Chloe.
"We have five of them in the works so far, two in Russia, one in Pakistan,
one in Southern China, and one in Green Idaho." Cadey's eyes twinkle. "The
public knows nothing, really."
Marcus finds the two of them beside the bar. "Jamal spilling secrets already?"
he asks, smiling.
"He's earned some answers," Cadey says, and pours himself another glass of
wine.
/ SLANT 219
five minutes. Beate's coming home and she wants us out of here. We Spock
her, poor woman." Marcus smiles with almost malicious enjoyment.
Cadey resumes. "The Omphaloses are not tombs, not at all. Each can hold
ten thousand live individuals for cold or warm sleep
Very comfortably,
with all the amenities."
"Continuous pleasant dreams--education--even keeping track of the outside
world, though that might be depressing," Marcus says. "A little bit of
heaven before we get to work in a new world."
"Space travel?" Jonathan asks, dissembling behind a dumb question.
"No-ooo," Cadey says, with an uncertain grin. "We stay right on Earth.
We'll have over a hundred of them built by the end of this decade--the
funding is already in place, and we're purchasing land all the time. Room for
a million subscribers. Ten thousand of us have already volunteered to take the
plunge, around the world."
"In Green Idaho?" Jonathan asks. He glances at Marcus.
"That's the first and the largest. It's almost finished. The land is in my
name, but its communal," Marcus says. "We're all together in this."
"In what?" Jonathan asks.
"I'll explain tomorrow," Marcus says. "We're going to fly there this afternoon
and have a tour." He takes Jonathan by the shoulder. "Excuse us,
Jamal."
"Certainly," Cadey says, and hastens away with a casual bow.
Marcus prims his lips in sympathy. "You have another day of compassionate
leave, right?"
"Yes," Jonathan says.
"And Chloe--she's okay where she is, right?"
Jonathan nods. "She doesn't want to see me."
"How about your kids?"
"They're in school . . . They have club meetings. I should be there when
they get home, of course, at six or seven."
"We'll be back by early evening. You, me, Jamal, and two others you haven't
met yet."
"I think that will work."
"Of course it will." Marcus grips Jonathan's shoulder tightly and breathes
a residue of fine scotch into his face. "Jamal has a tendency to spill things
prematurely, but let me up the ante a little. I happen to know you've looked
into longevity. Privately, just out of curiosity of course..."
Jonathan is so empty and open that this intrusion evokes no other reaction
than a small tingle.
"What Jamal was describing... Jonathan, all of us, we're going to live
forever. In a world of our own making. We don't have to conquer nations, we
don't have to drop bombs ... We just have to sit and wait."
Jonathan stares at Marcus as if he is demented. "What?"
The man in Martin's office this day is broad-shouldered, handsome in a stolid
way. His walk as he entered was efficient, yet almost mincing, his legs a little
short for such a powerful body; everything else about him is self-assured, pos
itive, relaxed yet alert. He wears a pale brown longsuit in a slightly old-
fashioned cut, and his eyes are roughly the same color as the suit: pale brown,
penetrating but not insinuating. He blends very well into most professional
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Burke. My name is Philip Hench." He
pulls up his right shirtsleeve to reveal a federal tattoo. It sparkles green and
red in spaced dots on his forearm. "Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Martin stares at him, having murmured the necessary polite responses to
the introduction.
"You were at Northwest Inc's offices yesterday when they had a dataflow
intrusion."
"Yes."
.,
"I'm curious why you were there, Mr. Burke."
"Miz Carrilund, Dana Carrilund, asked me to advise them on a problem
unrelated to the, ah, intrusion."
"Did you speak with her after the intrusion?"
"No. She's been very busy."
"What did you do after the intrusion yesterday?"
"I was escorted out of the building. They obviously have other problems
to deal with. I returned to my office, and then went home in the
evening."
Hench nods, sympathetic. "Some of my colleagues in Free Data are working
on that intrusion. But I'm here on another case. You were visited yesterday by
Terence Crest."
Martin is slow to answer. "Yes," he says finally.
"What did Mr. Crest want?"
"I don't give out information--"
"Crest wasn't a patient. Was he?"
"No, but I extend the right of privacy to anyone who enters that door,
including you, Mr. Hench."
"Good," Hench says, unconcerned. "He was having problems. His conscience
was bothering him. Did he tell you why, Mr. Burke?"
"As I said, I'd rather not discuss it."
"Did he talk about the Aristos?"
/ SLANT 221
"He belonged to a group called the Aristos," Hench continues, not waiting
for Martin's answer.
"I did not know that," Martin says.
"He didn't mention them?"
"No," Martin says.
"Did he talk about your therapy devices, Mr. Burke? Did he warn you about
something?"
Martin feels stiff. His neck gives him a twinge. "No warnings, no threats.
He's a well-known man, Mr. Hench."
"Yes. A billionaire." Hench pushes out his lips. His face is surprisingly
flexible, and for a brief moment, he resembles a chimp. The transformation is
unexpected and makes Martin's neck even more tense.
"Rich folks aren't anybody's friends, really," Hench says. "Too much power,
too much freedom, yet far too many restrictions. It distorts them."
"'The rich, they are not like you and I,' "Martin quotes.
"'They have more money,'" Hench finishes the quote. "Fitzgerald and
Hemingway, as I recall. Crest was divorced just recently, quietly, in private,
but under real pressure."
"I assume this is official," Martin says, and clears his throat.
"Yes, and nothing to do with you, personally. You're not in trouble with
my agency, Mr. Burke, though in the next few minutes, if you're any kind of
decent man at all, you're going to feel a little sick to your stomach. Are you
free for the rest of the day?"
"No. I have appointments."
"Cancel them," Hench says, casually rubbing thumb and forefinger to
gether,
as if rolling an insect to death. "We're going to have a brief chat, and
then I'm going to introduce you to some friends. We'll need your help, Mr.
Burke. We need you to join us on a short trip out of state. You'll be compensated
for lost time at your standard professional rates, minus citizen obligation
percentage, and of course all expenses will be taken care of."
Hench looks at Martin steadily, seriously, his flexible face stolid once more
and a little tired.
"I'm not sure how this sort of thing is done," Martin says. "I assume you
"Nope," Hench says. "Make your arrangements, and then we'll need about
five minutes, in complete privacy, to have a little briefing."
"No choice?"
"I'll leave it up to you. After you hear me out."
Martin's instincts tell him he had best follow Hench's suggestions. He calls
up the outer office and gives Arnold and Kim the rest of the day off. The
INDA will call all his patients and reschedule their sessions.
"All clear, Mr. Hench," Martin says smoothly. "I'm listening."
Hench leans forward, elbows resting on splayed knees, hands folded in front
2,2
GEO E.4'
"We'll see," Martin says.
"Crest is dead. Suicide."
The agent goes on with his story. Martin does not believe any of it.
At first.
Then, he feels sick to his stomach, sick at heart, even irrationally guilty.
Once again he has walked through the lion's cage, this time without even
knowing.
He nods, agrees, acquiesces. Anything to get it over with.
"Sorry about this, Mr. Burke," Hench says.
"If you weren't sitting there, all manly and competent, I'd cry my eyes out,"
Martin says, tilting his head to one side and squinting off through the windows.
"Very decent of you, sir. Me, I just want to start strangling people."
3
Mary and Nussbaum stand before the city stat board, watching the city's lines
and graphs exhibit more ragged behavior. Mary has had to wait while Nussbaum
took a briefing from the Chief of Public Defense on adapting defender
readiness teams for what might prove to be a daunting crisis.
Nussbaum is very quiet. He does not want her to be here; silently, his look
tells her, What now? Can't you handle it?
4
"Crest met with undercover Federals in Boise three weeks ago," Mary begins
n a low voice. "Before going to Green Idaho."
Nussbaum's face loosens in surprise. "In my office," he says. They walk
through the staff room into his cubicle. Nussbaum sits behind his desk, using
it as a shield.
Mary Choy ports her pad's contents to Nussbaum's and he looks it over, his
face getting a little grayer, a little older. The office is quiet and cold, the staff
room outside the glass partition is lightly populated, it's late and nobody's
going to bother them. "Where did you get this?"
"Please don't ask. I decided to call in a favor from my time in LA. My house
manager has been reprogrammed and my records exported. Crest's personal
vid records were erased. Fibeside got a report from Worker's Inc Northwest
that their personnel center files have been hacked."
"How?" Nussbaum asks. "They're supposed to be foolproof."
"I don't know," Mary says. "Back to Crest. He met with the Federals in a
data-secure outpost set up to coordinate surveillance in Green Idaho. Nobody
can tell me what they talked about. I have Alice Grale under protective cus-
/
S L A N T 223
She's saved this for last and it has the desired effect on Nussbaum. He sits
straight up in his chair. "Why?"
"She was almost killed at a party last night. She plugged into a Yox with
a man named Minstrel. New interface, full spinal, beta but not radical
work... A party promotion. Someone didn't show up and she substituted as
a favor for a colleague. A paid favor."
"Was it porn?"
Mary blinks. This is stunningly irrelevant. "I don't know. The program, a
Yox, was switched or scrambled, nobody knows by who or what. They reacted
as if strapped into hellcrowns, and the man named Minstrel died. Someone at
the party pulled off Grale's interface before it could kill her, but she spent at
least twenty seconds--"
"Yeah," Nussbaum interrupts. His distaste is apparent; hellcrowning, however
it is done, makes any public defender feel sick in the pit of the stomach.
"Comm and homicide teams from Eastside are investigating the death. I've
linked it with the Crest investigation.., in its extended form. I think someone
wanted to kill her in case Crest said anything indiscreet while they were alone."
Nussbaum runs his ringer over the flat surface of his pad. "I thought you
were going to do this on your own."
"You want to know, sir."
"The hell I do. It doesn't make my life any easier." Nussbaum stands. "I'm
taking this to Federal, but I have to go through the state bureau. Are you
flying to Green Idaho?"
"Yes," Mary says. "In about an hour."
"I may have to pull you back if Federal takes it over."
"Yes, sir."
"Where's Alice Grale now?"
"She's staying in my apt. I've cut off all the apt's fibe links and put two of
your fifth-ranks in there to guard her."
"You're not keeping her in police custody, because we can't shut down our
ribes. You think someone's going to hack through to get her?"
"It's very possible, sir."
"What sort of someone?"
"Very clever and very persistent."
"Impossibly clever. These systems are not supposed to be breakable, even
by God:" He bumps his desktop with the heel of his hand. "This someone
thinks Crest told Alice Grale something important."
Mary inclines.
Nussbaum's direct gaze is startling: clear gray eyes, sharp and intelligent,
in an otherwise weary and not very attractive face. Any PD must be a kind of
artist, specking humanity in its most basic and primal nature. The strain on
ideals and personal illusions can be shattering. "Did she do anything else to
deserve this? Make some enemies, make somebody jealous?"
224
GREG BEAR
"Nice clean girl, hm? She just spread her legs at the wrong time. An occupational
hazard, I suppose. I'll ask Federal to search for all instances of
peculiar hackers. But what in hell does this have to do with Workers Inc?"
"Maybe nothing, sir."
"Keep in close touch, Choy."
"Yes, sir."
Nussbaum looks away and asks his pad to put a live touch through to the
sig of Federal Emergency Notification.
PR
Conservative elitists rule much of modern religion, making it a
branch of the Entertainment State. So sayeth the evangelistic moneychanger
in the dataflow temple: Money can buy peace and salvation! Good
works count for nothing against an ever-growing pile of status.
Conservatism is not about tradition and morality, hasn't been for many decades
It is about money and the putative biological and spiritual superiority of the wealthy.
The honor and glory of the past, as always, are just symbols--and as such they
can be (and some say should be) bought and sold on the open market.
Kiss of X, Alive Contains a Lie
Jonathan stands in the cleaning bubble as the purposeful billows of foam clear
from the swanjet. The private charter airplane gleams white and gray and dull
silver, with tiny red stripes on its forward vertical stabilizer. The plane is an
ingenious deltoid with a central bulge of passenger compartment smoothly
curving to razor wing tips. Along the upper and lower wing surfaces, tens of
thousands of tiny nano-controlled bumps hint at its radical design. The bumps
can form tiny vanes or dips in the wing's surface to control the coefficient of
friction of air passing over and under the wing, adjusting the lift on each wing
without ailerons. The single low vertical stabilizer is shoved forward nearly to
the nose, rising from the pilot's compartment, just behind the windscreen, the
leading edge curving back and then sharply forward. It gives these aircraft
their characteristic shape and name: swans. Swans came into general service
/
S L A N T 225
For the time being, Jonathan is alone in the bubble. He's waiting for Marcus
to return with their fellow passengers. He looks up through the membrane at