are carrying identified male passengers--ail but one. And that limo refuses to
identify without court order.
That is the one, Mary knows instinctively: an expensive, agency-brokered
call-in.
Nussbaum shudders. "Christ," he shouts at the med. "Leave the poor bastard
alone! He's dead!"
"I can't confirm that by myself, sir," the arbeiter responds. Mary heads for
the hall.
Human paramedics rush through the hall and look left, then right, into the
90
GREG BEAR
as they run past her. Their own arbeiters are equally aggressive; the tracks and wheels grate and squeal against the floor.
Nussbaum joins her in the middle room before the lift. "There's a broken
tab from an ampoule of hyper-caff beside his hand," Nussbaum says. "I can't
find the ampoule but it's either under him or it's rolled somewhere."
"What was his connection to the psynthe deaths?" Mary asks.
"He had investments in an entertainment group employing p. synthes. He
knew the two men the manager had loaned the house to, as former business
partners. It was a long shot, but I thought maybe he could tell us something
about them. Doesn't seem right that he would just kill himself. Maybe it's
coincidence."
"With a projected confession?" Mary asks. "And why wear optical makeup?"
"He didn't want the hooker to ID him." Nussbaum holds his hands out,
baffled.
The chief attending physician finds them by the lift. She strips away her
skin-tight gloves and shakes her head. "Unrecoverable," she says. "It's uncut
hyper-caff, about ten milligrams." She holds up the ampoule. "Injected into
his left wrist. He's wiped his memory and any chance of restarting neural
activity. His body's still going, but just barely."
Hyper-caff is the strongest jolt of all, ten thousand times more potent than
caffeine. Usually doses are no higher than a tenth of a microgram. A few
micrograms can turn a dullard into a chess master--but at a price of weeks in
bed. Some high-level managers indulge in it for critical competitive planning
sessions, then take long vacations in stress-free climes.
"Was he a corp manager?" the doctor asks.
i
"Even better than that," Nussbaum says. "He's famous. A multi-llionaire."
"And we scared him?" Mary asks, dismayed.
Nussbaum pinches his nose and shuts his eyes. "Why even agree to talk to
us? Too easy."
The physician listens intently. Nussbaum gives her a disapproving glare.
"Haven't you got work to do?"
She smiles sweetly. "He's dead," she says. "It's more interesting out here."
"Any chance this is homicide?" Nussbaum grumbles.
"Someone could have forced the drug on him, but it takes effect in seconds,
and in that close, it kills in a couple of minutes."
"We'll need her, then," Nussbaum says to Mary. "Material witness."
"Right," Mary says. She enters the lift. As the light glows, Nussbaum gives
her a thumbs-up, and the door closes.
/ SLANT 91
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14
At seven-fifteen, Jack Giffey has been standing on the corner of Constitution
and Divinity for twenty minutes. He claps his hands together to keep them
warm; he is not wearing gloves, and his coat is light, the night is cold, and
the wind is rising. At fifty, he feels too old for this sort of thing, but he will
He doesn't even know her last name.
A few percentage points difference in the genome; the best laid plans of
men and monkeys gang aft very a-gley.
He looks south and then west, up the nearly empty streets. The students
have retreated to their hostels for the evening, or to the relative safety of the
mountain lodges for tomorrow's skiing. A snowstorm is on the way. Skiing
and hunting keep the republic alive today; those, and paper for fine books.
The last mining and timber harvesting petered out about ten years ago, leaving
much of Green Idaho a barren, scarred wasteland.
Giffey tracks back to the idea of book paper. It nags at him. He remembers
the last mass market books when he was a boy, paperbacks they were called,
for sale in public bookstores. He has a small box of old books in his attic back
in Montana, in the small house he bought three years ago; they belonged to
his mother and father, and were given to him by the federal agents who cleaned
up the mess.
Funny, though; he can't remember actually reading any of those books.
"Jack!"
He's caught by surprise and spins around. Yvonne is walking quickly along
Divinity, a mockfur collar on her long black coat blowing up through her hair
and around her ears. She looks as if a dark halo surrounds her head.
"Sorry I'm late. Bill needed some stuff shipped up to the mills and I had
92 GREG BEAR
"I thought we'd eat at the Briar, up on Peace Street," Giffey says. Yvonne
nods briskly; her face is flushed with the cold. She is very pretty and she looks
very young. Something goes a little acid in the pit of his stomach, thinking
of hanging around with someone so young. He hopes she can keep up her end
of the conversation. He may be thinking of her body, but his own body has
not yet made up its mind about this whole thing, and he'll need a little
intellectual diversion in the meantime.
Truth is, he's irritated to be kept waiting. If she only knew who it was she
was keeping out in the cold, and what he was planning to do...
She takes his arm and actually snuggles in close, as innocent and friendly
as you please. She's caught that little abruptness in his tone, he thinks, and is
making amends.
"The Briar is nice," she says, "but there's another place about three blocks
from here called Blakely's. It's more established and the food is better, and it
doesn't cost any more. Besides, it's got more atmosphere."
"All right," he says. "Let's go there."
Blakely's is small and mock-rustic, but at least there are no stuffed deer
heads on the walls. An ornate sign near the bar asks that all citizens turn over
firearms to the barkeep. It's meant to be funny. Jack is carrying a gun now
but he usually doesn't wear firearms, even in Green Idaho; if somebody is going
to shoot you, modern weapons are so smart and extreme that you have to plan
hours in advance to get a drop on your killers. Might as well let justice take
them down, because you won't.
Yvonne catches the waiter's eye and looks at Jack as if he might like to
handle getting the table, but that's okay. Jack lets her do it, and when they
e
sit, he orders a bourbon and water and she asks for a beer.
Then she looks him straight in the eye, very serious, and asks, "What in
hell have I got to say that you'd find amusing?"
Giffey snorts and takes a sip from the glass of water. Then he laughs.
"Christ,
Yvonne, I haven't even got my game plan in order, and you want straight
answers."
Yvonne watches with darting eyes as the waiter drops off their drinks. After
the waiter leaves, she says, "You're here because you want to take me someplace
and screw my brains out, don't you?"
Giffey gapes, then laughs again, a genuinely appreciative guffaw. And I
thought this might be a bore. "A man's mind is an open book to a pretty woman,"
he says. "I will not deny some parts of my anatomy look upon you with favor."
Then he draws himself up in the chair. "I'm flattered you even think I could--"
"The hell you say. You're no grandpa, Jack, and I'm no little girl looking
for the cozy image of her daddy."
"Good," Giffey manages.
"I would like to talk, though. I need your opinion on some things. I think
there's a chance you're more than half-smart. You might even know a thing
/
SLANT 93
"All right," Giffey says. "Shoot." He plays with the glass of bourbon but does
not drink from it right away. He certainly does not want to look like a lush.
"Am I wasting my time? With my boyfriend, I mean, and doing all this
menial shit?"
"You could do better."
"You mean, in the sex lottery, I'm not playing all my numbers?"
Yvonne is very intense and Jack is dismayed he can so completely misjudge
a person. On the other hand, he's delighted. Warm bed with young flesh seems
out of the question, but the evening's going to be a hoot.
"I think you'd better explain this sex lottery thing to me."
"You know. Evolution and women, and how we're supposed to choose supportive
men who'll stick around to raise our youngsters so we can pass our
genes along. Because you can go out and get a hundred women knocked up,
but we only have a few chances to spread our genes around. The whole Darwin
thing."
The waiter brings their appetizers and Yvonne removes her coat and hands
it to him, something she might have done earlier. But if Giffey had reacted
badly or said nothing at all to this opening salvo, she might have just stalked
out of the Blakely and gone home.
He's still in the game.
"Last I heard," he says, "Darwin was sort of on the outs. But I only know
what I read."
"I've been with my boyfriend for six years. He's spent half that time up in
the woods working, or looking for supplies and work. That's what foragers do,
I accept that. But I feel stretched and dried like a moose skin. Is that just me,
acting stupid?"
"Sounds faithful, as if you're a pretty good person," Giffey says, and means
it. He wishes his women had been so steadfast.
Yvonne slugs back a third of her beer. Giffey takes his first sip of the
bourbon. It's not the best. "I do not understand all this," she says. "If I were
in Southcoast, with my skills and education, I'd be disaffected... The only
work I could get would be in sex or maybe entertainment. You know. The
Yox. That's a bad word around here." Her face goes slack, and she looks away,
across the room, at nothing. "You know what I found out last week?"
Giffey believes he is about to learn.
"Up in the work cabins, up in Paul Bunyan land, they have Yox satlinks.
They pay a third of their salary and at night, they just wallow in it. I've never
even seen a Yox--not for more than an hour, I mean, and that was just a
karaoke sitcom. But this other stuff... Is that being unfaithful?"
"Men have their urges," Giffey says. He's becoming a little embarrassed.
"You could be happy he isn't calling in."
"Maybe," she says, and leans back. She's wearing a knit top with a glittering
silver and clearstone necklace, and he was right about her breasts--womanly
94
GRG BEAR
thinks, but her face is nice, even as she chews on a fingernail and looks away
with her eyes moist. She is really mad.
She leans forward, country earnest. "You know what some of the counselors
told us in school? The girls? They're not even supposed to believe this evolution
stuff. It's in the state constitution, don't teach it as fact, don't want to upset
the pious folks. But they used it to keep us in our places. They said, 'Good
men want their women choosy, and able to control themselves. You give in to
desire, which is mighty strong,' they allow that much, 'you give in to having
sex just because it sounds like fun, you'll end up with a lower grade of male,
a shitless sort feeding on the muddy bottom like a catfish who will leave you
soon as buy a new hat. Because high-grade men who'll stay aithful and help
you raise your kids, they're sensitive types, and they want a woman who only
gives herself to quality.'"
Giffey can't help but laugh out loud. Yvonne's eyes twinkle as she says this but
her face is still angry. The waiter comes back and asks what they want to eat.
"Get the pike," Yvonne suggests. "It's flown in, but it's good."
Giffey orders the walleye special. She doubles on that.
"I was raised that way. That's what I believe in my heart. And now my Bill
is up there with his buddies and they're doing karaoke orgies with women in
India or who knows the hell where. Well, sometimes it's too much."
"I don't put much faith in what people say about love," Giffey says. "No
body knows what they're talking about."
"You're saying we should just listen to what's inside us. But what if we're
all wrong inside?"
Giffey thinks the topic is getting a little stale. "I'm no wise man and I can't
tell you what to do," he says. "You have to live your own life."
e
"I'm talking to you," Yvonne says coolly. "You
you
to
me
said
wanted
hear
talk to you."
"I get a little embarrassed when someone just.., spills their heart out
on me."
"I tend to be up front. Bill always says so. Lately, though, I've been asking
myself some serious questions. About Bill, about what I want, about what my
dad wanted moving us here. I've been thinking about going to the Corridor
or Southcoast. Getting some real work, through a temp agency. Taking some
training and maybe even getting therapy to hone my personality."
"That's all a crock," Giffey says.
"Did you ever try it?" Yvonne asks.
"Don't need to eat the whole hog to know it's spoiled."
Yvonne laughs, then puts on her thoughtful look, and her eyes squint down
as if the Blakely's dim light is still too bright. "I deserve better," she says.
"Bill is a dead end. I'm smarter than he is and I don't care what other men
think about me or how I'm going to lead my life. My dad was wrong. All
these folks here--they're stupid. They don't want to dance in the big world
/ SLANT 95
Giffey can't argue with this. The outside world's a crock but Green Idaho
is the scum on the bottom of the crock. "I suppose that sums it up," he
murmurs, looking for the food.
"What happens to me if I leave here?" Yvonne asks. "I don't know much
about the outside. Bill has his Yox, but we don't have any ribes or satlinks in
our
apartment. He says we can't afford them. There's the library, but it's been
crowded lately--lots of people researching getting out, I guess. And so much
stuff has been yanked out of there--banned this, banned that. Christ, the
catalog is like Swiss cheese."
"I don't know anybody you'd want to talk to," Giffey says, "if that's what
you're hoping. Yvonne, I'm not a nice man and the people I know aren't nice,
either."
The waiter brings them their pike. It's drizzled in a walnut sauce with a
faint hint of maple syrup and some berries on the side. Giffey lifts his fork in
salute and takes a bite of the white flaky fish. "Not bad at all," he says.
"No, they do it real good here," Yvonne says. "What are you looking for?"
Giffey thinks this over and decides it would be polite to give some answer.
"A way to gully the hypocrites."
"I don't understand," Yvonne says.