Slant (25 page)

it. Beside the sink is a white refrigerator and a microwave oven on a portable workbench. "I'm Hally Preston," the woman says. "I'm a friend of Mr. Hale." Giffey does not know that name, probably false. He wonders if the reference is to Nathan Hale. With tight slacks and a jacket and her hair cut close and combed to one side, Preston is more than a little mannish. Her face is lean and neutral, her lips prim. "Let's meet the others," she says, and opens the next door. Giffey passes through into the warehouse proper. The warehouse is filled with scraps of old airplanes, like the broken husks of giant dragonflies. A few disconsolate salvage arbeiters stand beside the heaps of scrap, but none of them seem to be in working order. Preston takes him on a short walk between walls of scrap. In the center of the pile, a small space has been cleared, just enough for a couch, four battered chairs, and a free-standing repeater whiteboard. Five men are here, three sitting and two standing: one of them is Jenner, the young ex-Army man. He looks up and waves. "The stuff's here," he announces proudly to Giffey. "It's all delivered. I checked it out and it seems fine." His scalp ripples like a tired caterpillar. Otherwise he seems at ease and pleased with himself. Giffey's breath clouds in front of him. He knows two of the others from photos. Preston introduces him. "Jack Giffey," she says to the five. One of the sitters, a blocky, black-haired man with a short neatly sculpted beard, stands and steps forward. He offers his hand. "I'm Hale," he says. Giffey knows him as Terkes. He looks British somehow, maybe Irish, but Hale/Terkes is a weapons expert from Ukraine, a naturalized citizen for twenty years, whose accent is pure middle American, New Received Broadcast. He has been involved in wire and fibe fraud, running industrial nano and pre-build slurry to Hispaniola, selling hellcrowns to Selectors in Southcoast. In short, Hale is an occasional bad'un but chubbily innocent, clean and scrubbed, cheerful. "I'm Kim Lou Park," says an Oriental man, whom Giffey knows as Evan Chung. Park/Chung has no past; he is as blank in all records as a newborn babe. What little Giffey knows about him is contradictory. He wears a long mustache and his hair is cut in a short bowl with a f}inge down his neck. Park believes that he recruited Giffey in St. Louis last spring. In fact, Park is way down the chain of origination. They met only twice there. Still, Park is savvy; he undoubtedly knows more about the rest of them than they do themselves, but he knows very little about Gifiy... Very little that is true. "Mr. Giffey and Mr. Jenner are our materials procurement people," Park says. "Mr. Giffey is also our main source for knowledge about the target." Giffey looks at the two men he does not know, and Preston walks around him. "Mr. Pent and Mr. Pickwenn," she says. "Architectural experts, specializing in breaking in or, if necessary, breaking out." She produces the faintest

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bored expressions. Pent is dark brown, Polynesian blood, and has almost no hair. Pickwenn is ghostly pale, with large lemur eyes and thin, elegant fingers. "We've worked together for ten years," Pickwenn says softly. Pent nods agreement. They do not offer to shake hands; Giffey is just as glad. Pickwenn's grip looks to be cold and damp. Hale steps forward and the others face him. No one glances around. All eyes are on Hale. "All right, we're here," Hale says. "All together for the first time. This is our team. Here's what's new, what we have to do." Hale has the rhythmic, accented delivery of a preacher or a good singer. His voice is bass velvet. "I've made the right connections. We're getting into Omphalos as a group of potential customers. We're going to walk right in the side door, not the tourist door, but the VIP entrance. Hally." Preston steps forward. "We're scheduled to show up in a limo tomorrow morning at fifteen hundred. You're a bunch of eccentric rich folks traveling under assumed identities. Robert Hale has worked this out in some detail." Robert, Giffey thinks. Maybe he's never even heard of Nathan Hale. "Mr. Giffey, we took a big delivery yesterday," Hale says. "Mr. Jenner arrived with it. We spent a fair amount of change. It's in the back half of the warehouse. I assume it's what we planned on, and I'd like you to tell us what we need to know." "Yes, sir," Giffey says. "I can look it over and see what shape it's in." "It's okay," Jenner says, smiling reassurance. "I'm sure it is. I'm overly cautious, is all," Giffey says, smiling back. Jenner does not take this as an affront; he respects overly cautious superiors. The Army erained him that way. "I'd like you to brief us in more detail about the Omphalos interior," Hale

says. "We've given everybody the stuff you sent last week, but I assume you

withheld a few key bits. Overly cautious."

Giffey nods and smiles again.

Hale enjoys being the center of attention. He walks in front of the white board like a general, arms folded behind his back. "We have an appointment

with a remote sales rep named Lacey Ray. She won't be there in person--there

aren't any people in Omphalos, it's all automatic, right?"

Giffey agrees.

"We have identity codes and recommendations. It's minimum risk until

we get inside. Then I assume we're wide open to whatever Omphalos has to

offer. Well, Mr. Giffey, what does it have to offer?"

Hale is feeling his oats, but Giffey doesn't think he'll like what he has to

say. "Four, maybe five warbeiters, and probably a thinker to run them through

their paces." He sits on a folding metal chair. What he has just told them is

not strictly confirmed--he knows only that orders went out to extralegal sup / SLANT 155

Hale takes this calmly for about three seconds, and then he swears under his breath. "Warbeiters?" "Insect or Ferret class. I'm not sure about the thinker, but it's my guess." My hope, "You know how to deactivate them?" "I do," Giffey says. "With our equipment, I'm offering sixty to eighty percent confidence." Hale swears once more. "You could have told us this earlier." "Why?" Giffey asks. "They're just machines, albeit clever ones. I can't tell you how they're programmed or if they're authorized to kill. They might just lick us like lap dogs." Hale frowns and a deep cleft forms between his brows. "Where would the builders get warbeiters?" "Where does anybody get anything?" Giffey asks sharply. "We've managed something far more radical in the way of illegal weapons. The heirs of Raph-kind left a lot of wedges in a lot of government doors. Even military doors." "Christ, it's only a fucking tomb," Hale mutters. His bravado isn't very thick, and he's not very good at concealing his concern. So despite the theatrical front, he's not much of a general after all. "Why bring in the dogs of hell to guard it?" "I'd hate to think this puts you off," Giffey says. He's not sure he likes or trusts this man. "No," Hale says thoughtfully. "You think they're set to not kill?" "It's distinctly possible," Giffey says. "As you say, it's only a tomb. Besides, warbeiters are just machines," Giffey repeats. "Frankly, we'll have the means to take them out." "I hope you're right," Hale says, and by implication lays any failure on Giffey's shoulders. "You ever hear of Nathan Hale?" Giffey asks. Hale thinks for a moment, as if he just might. "No," he finally says. "He design these Insects and Ferrets?" "I've heard of him," Hally Preston says. "Patriot way back." Giffey gives her a big smile. "Here's more of what I know about Omphalos," he says. He walks up to the whiteboard, uncaps a black marker, and begins to sketch. "There are at least forty levels from basement to attic," he says. "It's a big place, and it may not even be finished yet. They're still bringing in architectural nano. Shipments are irregular. They might be having financial problems-maybe not enough customers. That might explain why they're reaching out to folks they don't know too much about." Hale inclines in agreement. Pent and Pickwenn draw in their chairs. Jenner folds his arms and fixes on the sketch Giffev is malin,. n f,r ir' ....... I,

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Tourists pay money, so the builders don't want to interrupt the flow on those days when they get their truckloads of whatever they're bringing in." "Do we know more about the owners?" Preston asks. "Not much more than before. A partnership club that calls itself the Omphalos Group, membership worldwide. Capitalization unknown, rules unknown. Structured like an investment insurance web." "Pyramid scheme," Pickwenn says softly. "Yeah," Giffey says. "There's some connection with a syndic or social club that's been politically active in the past fifteen years, the Aristos, and they in turn have connections with the New Federalists. Membership in the Aristos seems to be based on being naturals--untherapied--and on financial or other contributions. The same may be true for the Omphalos Group. I presume if we meet their standards, they'll let us know." "I'm out," Jenner says cheerfully. "Just a mental mutt, I guess." Hale grunts. "Makes me feel better about relieving them of their ill-gotten gains." "They're not poor," Giffey says. "This one Omphalos cost about eight billion dollars, and there are five others under construction all over the world. This is the first and the closest to completion." "Construction?" Pent asks. "For the ages," Giffey says. "The outer curtain and some interior walls are carbon nanotube-reinforced concrete with a surface of deposited reflex bead ceramic. One hundred percent reflectivity for all radiation. There's some gold detail work for decoration, but it's not functional. Frame is deposited spider-mesh nanotube--in some places, three feet thick, all stress-dispersal. Internal e teel frames support flexfuller and concrete slabs, everything shock-mounted, with four separate mountings for each level. The whole building is shock-mounted on hypertense flexfuller. I've heard that all the carbon fibers--nano-tubes, linked fullerenes, etc.--are tuned for conductivity and that the entire skin is sensitive. The frame can also be tuned and used for data storage." Pickwenn and Pent absorb this thoughtfully. "Stronger than the pyramids of Egypt," Pent says. "So--how many bodies?" Hale asks. "I learned at the beginning that there are about a hundred in storage so far, ninety corpsicles and five real corpses and five in warm sleep. My information hasn't gotten any better." "Rich folks?" Hale asks. "Presumably. Qualified members, at least." Hale grunts again. "Let's get back to the structure." "Gladly." Giffey sketches in three shafts. "We have seven elevators or lifts. Five of them may or may not be of any use to us. I presume we're going to trigger alarms, and these five--the biggest and most luxurious--are under the

/ SLANT 157

"We'll assume that for now. But there are two shafts set up as separate emergency elevators. They have their own power supplies--fuel cells--and are isolated from any outside control, even the building's control, to avoid lockup in an emergency. Standard for any large dataflow building. These emergency elevators are our access to the lower levels of the building, but the closest is fifty yards from the VIP and service garage entrance." "We'll need something to carry our ill-gotten gains," Hale says. "Right. That's been taken into account." Giffey draws in this path from the side view, then sketches an elevation and shows the twists and turns on the main floor. "The emergency elevators' main exit is below ground level. They're designed to drop passengers off at a tunnel under Republic Avenue, with an exit half a mile away. That will be our escape route. I asked for a large secured vehicle." Giffey stabs the marker on the exit on his crude map. "That's where 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.